Tuck Needs a Loan Part 2

[Read part 1 of this story here!]

The client’s waiting at the boarded up old place off the highway that used to be a titty bar, right where I told him to be. He’s a homely little rail thin guy, in his 30s I think but I bet he still got carded. I bet he probably stopped growing at about age 8 and watched as all his friends grew up big and strong in high school. I remember how that felt, back before I got the luckiest break any underfed weakling ever got in life. Lucky for this guy I feel like sharing that luck with those less fortunate.

He introduces himself with a shaky hand: Berg. It looks like he cut his mullet himself. He has a hint of a southern accent as he asked me, “Are you Tuck?” I just grin back. I nod for him to get in. I can see him eyeing me up, reconsidering the whole thing once he saw that despite my tattoos I was just as skinny as he was.

“The fuck you waiting for?” I say when he hesitates too long. “Fortune favors the bold, Mr. Berg.” He tosses a backpack in the back seat.

“It’s just Berg,” he says. He hands me a brown paper sack, so wrinkly that it’s obvious he’s been wringing it anxiously while he waited. “How much is in here?”

“Half up front, you said, right?” he says as he buckles his seatbelt and takes in every filthy detail of thios beat-up car. I always drive a shitbox to appointments so I can maintain a low profile. I’ll ditch it when we were done, score a new one easily. I rarely even spend money on cars anymore. I just take what I need, get rid of it when I’m done. For the past few years that’s been my life motto. Let me tell you, there is no freer way to live.

The sack’s heavy. I peek inside. My price for old Bergy was $25,000; half up front, half when the job was complete. A quick eyeball tells me there’ss at least ten grand in the bag. I’ll count it later. I don’t care where he got the money. Whatever story he’s got would bore the rings right off my nipples.

“You excited Berg?”

“Yeah,” he says unconvincingly. If he isn’t, it’s because he doesn’t believe it’s really going to happen. Most of my clients think they’re tossing money at some role-playing fantasy, but ol’ Tuck is the real deal. I can’t wait to prove it to the little guy.

(Lately I call everyone “little guy”--when you change as much as I do, it’s easy to forget who’s bigger and who’s scrawny as shit. Thing is, I’ve got balls the size of the fucking moon so as far as I’m concerned, everyone was a little nothing to me.)

I tell Berg we’re gonna gas up and get some energy drinks, then we’re on our way. He’s already peeping at our target’s Instagram on his phone. I always get a charge out of my clients’ anticipation, that excitement of what they’re finally about to taste. I remember my first taste. It’s still great when I get what I want, don’t get me wrong, but nothing will ever beat that first time I reached out and made some big neanderthal my bitch.

We luck out at the gas station: while Berg’s inside grabbing six Bangs, a Porsche with two juiced up assholes pull up to the opposite pump. I was going to wait until I got to the gym until I got into “beast mode” but with these two puffed up douchebags right there for the taking, how could I resist?

I figure out after not too long that they’re not actually a gay couple. The guy in the car, with the big shoulders and the deep V-neck, is having an argument with his girlfriend on the phone. The other, whose ass was so wide and thick that it deserved a license plate, actually had a man-bun. Normally I scoff at those things but this dude is so built, it looks good on him.

I like that both guys are pretty much stuffed into their shirts and jeans. As Man-Bun pumps gas, he tells his beefy buddy in the car to hang the phone up. “Tell that bitch to fuck off. We’re gonna drown in pussy tonight bro,” he says to his buddy, who puts a thick hand over the phone. These guys are radiating masculinity and strength so strong it’s coming off them in big thick clouds. I take a deep breath and I swear I can smell it. I literally have to wipe some drool off my chin. They’re fucking perfect.

There are no onlookers, but if someone had seen it would have looked instantaneous. To me, I feel all these invisible tentacles uncoil from my body, reaching through the air, passing through the gas pumps like they’re not even there, pouncing on my two little victims like the snacks that they are.

All of a sudden Man-Bun was half his size, pants around his ankles, letting go of the gas pump which just got a whole lot heavier. In the car his buddy drops his phone, swimming in his shirt. He lifts up his arms and the sleeves just sag. A second ago his big guns were stretching them to the limit. God I love this shit.

Meanwhile, my body just balloons out. Luckily I was wearing pretty baggy sweatpants but my tanktop just bursts into shreds. The sweats are all skin-tight now, of course; I’ll need new threads, and while I could just shove Man-Bun to the ground and take his, I’m pretty sure it would still be a tight squeeze. I took size from both of those studs, so now I’m bigger than either of them ever dreamt of being. I take a look at myself in the car window, give a nice flex. My bicep has such a nice peak I could lick it without even raising my arm much. I can easily look right over the pumps now; I’m guessing I’m about 6’5”, maybe 280. (For a guy who’s always changing size, I’ve gotten really good at estimating how big I am in the past couple years.) 

Man-Bun and his friend don’t even notice the muscle monster that sprouted out of the tatted-up runt who was there before. They’re too busy freaking out about what happened to them. Man-Bun pulls up his pants, lets them fall again, and yanks them up. Poor dum-dum is having a hard time figuring out what happened or what he should do. I get a glimpse of his little dick, though, like a fucking acorn. A quick adjustment of my own package tells me about how much he and his buddy used to have down there: quite a lot, from the heft down there. Funniest part of the whole thing: his buddy just starts screaming in his phone for his girl to help them, but now his voice matches his half-pint body. His girl doesn’t believe it’s him and just hangs up.

I’m bored of those two little fucks almost immediately and I’m all filled up (both the car and me, in fact) so I just get back in the driver’s seat. It’s a tight squeeze now. I roll the window down to give these big shoulders some breathing room. The whole car tilts to the left.

Berg notices the guys on the other side of the pump first and pauses to listen to their little squeaky rants. When he opens the passenger door and gets a look at me, the six cans slip right through his arm. He just stands there, eyes wide, letting them roll away.

“For chrissakes, either pick those up or go get me some more,” I bark. My voice hits like a bass drum and Berg actually jumps at the sound of it. Shaking, he picks up all six cans and gets in, clearly nervous to be anywhere near me. That’s another thing about men I can smell: their fear. I think my radar is tuned to strength and weakness, and after one look at my gigantic new body Berg knows just where he falls on that scale.

“T-Tuck?”

“Who the fuck else would it be?” I say a little too forcefully; he jumps again and a couple cans hit the floor of the car. Fucking pathetic. “Was I unclear in any way when I described what would be happening today?”

“But don’t you…” He looks around, notices the two guys who, together, probably still don’t weigh as much as one of my big quads, and starts to work it out. “Did you just… take all that… from them?”

I wink at him--all the response I have the patience to give, to be honest--and start to pull out.

“Are you just gonna leave them like that?” he says as he watches my two victims disappear in the distance. Honestly, for a second I actually pictured fucking around with them. If I had all night I probably would have bitch-slapped the two, made them lick my biceps or my sack or something, but this was a job. I could get off later.

(And before you go freaking out, yeah, I’m into dudes. I’m not sure if it’s the result of absorbing all this muscle and brawn over and over or if I’ve always been a little bi and repeatedly turning into a musclegod that makes strong men weak just brought it out of me. I’m still into chicks, don’t get me wrong, but nothing makes my spine shiver like the idea of dominating a dude. And it comes so easily to me now! I just can’t help myself.)

On the way, Berg keeps looking between me and the mirror in the passenger side visor. He’s studying his face, then studying the mass of my triceps, then studying his teeth, then studying the ludicrous sweep of my quad.

“So can you…” He takes a swallow of his Bang before he continues. “Can you get rid of this scar too? And my eye?” There’s a twisted mess of purple crawling up his neck to his ear. I can’t imagine what was nasty enough to cause that but I’d guess it was something very stupid and very redneck. His right eye, every so often, goes off on its own before he blinks it back into sync with the other. Probably kicked by a donkey? Plus his ears stick straight off his head and he’s missing a front tooth. Sadly (for him, because I truly don’t give a fuck), there’s nothing I can do about any of that.

“No can do,” I say to him. “I can’t cure ugly, buddy. But here’s the good news: when you’re huge, it doesn’t fucking matter how ugly you are. Muscle gives orders, my friend, and having the most muscle means you get whatever the fuck you want.” I’m so fired up by that idea that I flex my torso to punctuate each word. Fuck, my skin is shrink-wrapped to all of this muscle. Every gesture is a massive ripple of rock-hard, veiny muscles. I’m guessing little Berg has never seen anything like me in person. I wonder if he’s ready to stare his hero in the face and take everything from him.

The target’s name is Derek. I’ve known about him for awhile. He first caught my attention when he got his pro card at Nationals three years ago. I keep myself well informed about the biggest bodybuilders on the scene: who’s an absolute monster, and who’s on his way. Derek went from impressive 20 year old to swollen freak in no time. If you ask me, when guys abuse gear so heavily when they’re so young, they tend to have really short careers. (Although, to be honest, I’m the reason a lot of these guys’ careers get cut short.) Derek’s just a blown-up meatpile now, nice pillowy offseason muscle. Last he posted on Instagram he’s tipping the scales at well over 300. God, that number just gives me shivers.

It’s amazing the way these musclebound freaks work: their bodies just want to be huge. Sure, they pump their asses full of chemicals but a guy like Berg could juice himself until his eyes exploded and work out three times a day and he’d never get as big as these superheavies do. They’re the first guys in middle school to sprout muscles, they hit the weights hard and early and look like full grown Adonis’ by their 18th birthdays. By their 21st birthdays they have to special order all of their clothes. It’s fascinating the way genetics are handed out so unevenly.

I’m sure you’re wondering: “Hey Tuck, if you drain so many of these bodybuilders of all their size, why aren’t you as big as the Good Year blimp by now?” Unfortunate side-effect of my abilities: I can’t hold on to the mass forever. Without draining anybody else, I’ll lose half the size I have now in about a week. In two weeks I’ll look like one of those Crossfit-guys. In less than a month I’ll be back to my can’t-gain-an-ounce old self. I guess my body just metabolizes it somehow, because the size doesn’t go back to the guys I took it from unless I willingly give it back. That’s the only reason I’ll ever return that muscle to its owner: a guy like Derek can keep growing more and more size for me to borrow. If I hold on to it, it’s gone forever.

(Once I checked back with a guy I shriveled up real good and left that way. You should have seen how furiously the guy was working out, but he could still barely handle the little dumbbells, struggled to bench the empty bar, and chugged so much weight-gainer I started to feel bloated just watching him. Once I’ve sucked a guy dry, he’s like that for good. Man-Bun and his buddy were going to live out their lives terrified of anyone over a hundred pounds. And as far as I’m concerned, fuck them.)

Derek works out at a place called Atlas gym. I’d already cased the place a few times to figure out his routine. Today’s Derek’s arms day, and he always trains late. The owner of the gym leaves him the keys. It’s the perfect situation for what we have planned.

The little beauty at the front desk can’t keep her eyes off my muscles so I make sure to do as much “absentminded” flexing as I can. She’s blushing, absolutely sweating all this meat and size, but before I go in, she says, “You know… I can’t really let you work out without a shirt on.”

No biggie. I shrug my big shoulders and look at the stringer tanks on sale behind her. “Which one do you think I’d look best in?” She picks a nice navy blue one.

“On the house,” she says. Man, if this girl had run into me two years ago I would absolutely take her to the back room and fuck her inside out, but I really can’t keep it up for a soft squishy lady anymore. Go figure.

We barely get into the gym--a big spacious warehouse, half packed with new equipment, the other half a grimey old-school free-weights style floor--before Berg’s jaw hits the floor. He clutches his backpack like a teddy bear and his eyes wander apart. I follow his cockeyed gaze to see big Derek doing hammer curls with 80s.

Let me just pause for a second: at the moment, I’m absolutely massive. I’m probably too big for most planes, definitely would sink a rowboat, can’t do ziplines or white-water rafting and the XXXL tank top I just got for free barely stretches across my big torso. If you were to take my big musclefreak body and put a hose up my ass, blowing out my cut muscles until they were just massive smooth mounds of muscle, you would have Derek. No doubt, the guy was rock-fucking solid. I guarantee that boy had quite a lot of Tren in his diet.

But he’s like a muscular marshmallow man, bloated out to extremes just to test the limits of his ability to pack on mass. I bet he gets winded climbing stairs. I bet just getting those massive quads around each other to walk a straight line is an effort. Honestly, I’d love to just sink my hands into his massive lats as deep as they’d go and have him flex them hard as granite. I’m obviously tenting my skin-tight sweats and there’s a wet-spot on the front. And as confident as I was in my ability to pull this off, I was not going to make my first impression with a precum stain. I grab Berg and yank him to the bathroom. Little shit is so easy to shove around it almost infuriates me. I forget sometimes that some people just get stuck in the measly little size they’re in.

“What’s in the bag?” I ask as I start going through lockers, finding nothing.

“Clothes to grow into,” Berg says. “I figured, you know, this isn’t going to cut it anymore, so…”

I chuckle at the little guy. “Trust me, buddy. When you’re as big as I’m going to make you, you’re just going to take that big monster’s clothes right off his body.” Now it was Berg’s turn to leak precum. “What you got in here?”

The camo shorts he brought would be nowhere near big enough to accommodate him after the change (it’s clear this dude has only ever seen bodybuilders on Instagram and not in the mindblowingly-huge-pile-of-flesh) but I can just about squeeze into them. A few steps out the door and my big glutes bust through the ass. No big deal. If little lady up front says anything, I’ll just have her give me something else to wear. 

“It’s cool if you watch but keep your distance while we’re out there,” I tell Berg. He does as commanded, hanging back and grabbing mismatched dumbbells from a rack without paying much attention. I just strut my massive self up to the rack Derek’s working from and snag the 70s. I bust out 25 hammer curls as a warm-up and barely work a sweat. Clearly I’ve caught big Derek’s attention; he’s used to being far and away the biggest guy here, and doesn’t often stand next to anybody in his size class.

“How many more sets you got with those?” I ask with a nod toward the huge dumbbells in his hands.

He shrugs--fuck, I just wanna lick those big pillowy shoulders--and puts them back. He grabs 90s.

With the 80s I do a set of 20, enough to get my big arms nice and swollen. (I’ve found that the more guys I steal size from at once, the more functional my strength becomes. I once stripped a whole gymnastics team down to nothing and ended up strong enough to flip cars.)

I’ve definitely got his attention now. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“I’m Tuck,” I say. I introduced myself to him two weeks ago. Of course, I was about 160 pounds lighter and a foot shorter at the time. No way is this big dumb musclehead going to put together who I was. To be honest, he probably looked at me as an irritation when he saw my old skinny body and forgot who he was immediately. He doesn’t even introduce himself back. He’s probably just used to people knowing who he was. Big boy was going to learn a lesson.

I can see Derek’s got quite a hog in his trunks too. He keeps readjusting it between sets. I’m excited to see how it looks on Berg. Derek drops the 90s and I snatch them up, match the intensity of his set but crank out 5 more reps. He notices, of course, but doesn’t say anything. He heads over to the barbells and starts doing a drop set just to get some blood in those big babies--and does he ever. They swell up like meat zeppelins. They’re so pumped he pretty much holds them straight out as he waddles around. I’m not sure if it’s the end of his workout or he’s tired of me showing him up, but he heads to the locker room. I give Berg a nod and the little guy springs into action.

The bathroom’s hazy with shower steam when we walk in. I strip down immediately. I wonder if Berg knows he’s licking his lips when he sees me fully naked. I give him a light cuff on the face (although I think it’s a lot harder than I meant it to be) to snap him out of it. “Get undressed,” I whisper. He clearly doesn’t want to (why would you when you were standing at a perfectly sculpted musclebeast like myself?) but I yank his shirt off his body. He fumbles with his pants and shoes but finally stumbles behind me as we walk into the shower.

Derek in the shower is as breathtaking a sight as I’d hoped. His whole body is one plump muscle. He looks like a ripened fruit, bulging with masculinity on all sides, and that big hose dangling between his legs looks even bigger with those roid-shriveled nuts on either side of it. He’s clearly perturbed that we’re there. Just you wait, big boy. I walk right up to the shower head next to him, pump some soap from the wall dispenser onto my hand and get good and lathered up. Berg keeps his distance, taking his stance at a shower head across the room. Idiot is going to miss half the show from facing the wrong way, but there’s no casual way for me to tell him to get the fuck next to me. His loss.

“You compete?” Derek asks me finally. I love the way he’s careful not to look down. I swing my hips a little, get my own big half-hard hose swinging, trying to tempt his gaze downward, but he doesn’t buckle. Motherfucker is probably as straight as an arrow. Guys like that are so confident in their hetero status. That is, until they run into me.

“To be honest? It’s never much of a competition when I’m around.” I flex an arm and hold it up to him to see how he reacts. He rolls his eyes and smirks at me. “What, you think you’ve got better?”

“I’m not gonna have a posedown when I”m buck naked in the shower,” he says. I like his voice. I wonder when his voice got so deep, how old he was when people started falling in line at the sound of his voice. I can’t wait to take it from him.

“Yeah, I knew you’d back down,” I say. Dumb peabrain musclehead just falls for my trap.

“Hey, fuck you, dude!” he says. He walks right up to me. We’re pec-to-pec, dick-to-dick. I’m looking up at him, eclipsed by his mass, but the feel of him against me is electric. Dummy was just putting his head in the lion’s mouth. He gives me a flex, I flex back, and we compare. Of course he’s bigger.

Until I let go. It’s a constant effort to keep my power contained. It’s like a hungry beast I hide in my chest, desperate to break free all the time. It’s only with serious concentration that I’m able to keep it restrained. When I let it free, let it feed, the relief is intoxicating.

A second ago he was pressed up against me and now he’s just gone. It looks like Derek just vanished in the steam, but as I waft away the foggy humidity I see him there, barely recognizable except for his baby-blue eyes and his short crew cut. His eyeline is at my navel now, built like a scrawny chicken. His full hard roundness is gone, replaced by sharp corners, just a ribcage and spindly arms. If he turned sideways he might just disappear entirely. He’s looking up at me with real terror in his eyes; he still thinks he’s big, so he must think I’m the size of the goddamned moon. But after watching a hundred big meatballoons shrink into scrawny wimps I’m bored of their reactions. They’re all the same questions, some variation on, “What happened? Did you do this?” And my favorite: “This isn’t possible!” My real interest is in my buddy Berg.

Berg’s now so big he would have to use two shower heads to rinse himself clean. He’s patting down his newfound bulk, inspecting every inch of himself. There sure are a lot of inches! I reach up to spin him around, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t shrug me off with ease. Now that I’m naked and next to his massive, ghostly white body, I can see that he’s a little bigger than Derek was before, meaning I drained the big guy all the way down to E and fed it entirely into Berg’s bloated up physique.

His lazy-eye is going wild as he takes a look at his massive knew cock with a gap-toothed grin. “For fuck’s sake!” he says and it’s like the roar of a truck. I give him a thump on the chest. It makes a nice thud sound, a pleasant tactile sensation, but he’s definitely big as a mac truck now. Not that I’d let him, but if he wanted to he could probably shove me to the ground easily. Just the idea has me dick springing to attention. I want his titanic legs up over my shoulders, plowing away at the twin muscleballoons he has for glutes.

But that’s not strictly part of the deal, of course. Client gets first dibs as to what he wants to do, and Berg can’t take his eyes off his massive new body long enough to pay any attention to mine. “Berg, check out what happened to your big hero!” I say gesturing to the little pipsqueak backed up against the wall at the sight of us massive beasts in all our bulging nude glory.

“Holy shit!” Berg says and he stomps forward a little clumsily (it’s hard to walk on legs as big as sides of beef when you first get them; gotta roll them around each other, something it takes practice to get used to). “You got fucking small!”

Derek’s sticking to the usual script: “You can’t do this! Turn me back!” Blah blah blah. I want to slap him with my cock just to make him shut up, but Berg’s already walking out of the shower.

“FUCKING LOOK AT ME!” he roars when he’s in the locker room lights, filling up the mirror. He looks like he might start generating his own gravity soon. He keeps thumping his pecs while he flexes him and I kind of wish he never stops. “I’m the biggest man in the fucking world!”

“So what do you want to do first?” I ask. “Want to see how much that body can lift?”

“No,” he says, still pawing at himself uncontrollably. “I want to go to a bar. Right fucking now.”

“You sure you don’t want to bench 5 plates or anything?” But Berg can’t pull himself away from his own humongous image. “Okay, fine. You can’t go naked, as much as I’d love to see it, so grab Derek’s shit from his bag.”

Speaking of the devil, I almost miss that scrawny little shit sneaking past us because Berg’s 300+ pounds of muscle is almost completely blocking the mirror. At the last second I notice him and yank all 80 pounds of him right off the ground. I have to watch my own strength, of course; I’d never actually killed a guy and I wasn’t in the mood to do it today. I just yank him up by his throat, watch his spindly little legs kicking in the air as I just start doing curls with him. He “struggles” against my grip but it’s so weak I have to start laughing at him.

“Here’s the thing, you skinny little nobody,” I tell my little captive. “You ever want to be big again? You better play your cards absolutely perfectly today. You’re gonna stick close to my friend Berg here and get a front-row seat for whatever he decides to do with all that muscle that used to be yours. Got it? You draw any attention to what’s going on, disobey either of us even a little bit, and you’ll be smaller than your competitor’s shits for the rest of your life. You got it?”

I ease up my grip so the little guy can breathe. When the red fades from his face, he nods, so I drop him to the ground. “Get dressed in Berg’s old clothes.”

“Tuck,” Berg booms. “I dunno if these clothes are big enough. Look at them!” Sure enough, Berg is stretching Derek’s cut-off and shorts to the limit. Honestly, I can’t complain, but I’m not sure they’ll last too long out in public. Then again, I’m not sure I care.

“You look fuckin’ amazing!” I say. I take a look at Derek, who’s wearing Berg’s old outfit (which looks pretty baggy on him). “Looking good, you fucking runt. And by the way, if you notice the crotch is a little sticky, just remember he made that precum thinking about you. How’s that make you feel?” I seriously get drunk on the way these little guys cringe as they have to deal with a helplessness they’ve never felt in their entire lives.

Berg still looks like timid despite all his bulk, so I take charge. “Get his keys out of his bag. You want to go to a bar? We’ll go to one.” With a shove that knocks little Derek to the ground I say, “Walk straight out those doors. Don’t say a fucking word to that little bitch up front. Walk straight to your car. Got it?” The little guy nods with tears in his eyes. Luckily he follows directions well.

Little Derek has to take about four steps just to match one of our long strides. He’s winded by the time we get to the parking lot. I take great joy in shoving Derek away from the driver’s seat. “Get in the back, you fucking midget! This is Berg’s car now.” As soon as Berg’s behind the wheel of Derek’s truck, I can tell he’s starting to get use to his new perspective. Windows down, the breeze blows his mullet around. He licks his lips and looks in the rearview.

“Too cold back there?” he asks. Derek looks back and forth at us, not sure if he’s supposed to respond. Then Berg slams on the brakes and little Derek smashes against the seat in front of him. “Put your seat belt on you little shit! What, do I have to get a car seat for you?”

“Nicely done,” I say to him. He’s taking to this quite nicely, and I’ll be fully hard within minutes if he keeps up this abuse of the former superheavyweight freak.

I didn’t ask what kind of bar he was headed to--it’s the client’s choice, after all--but I’m happy to see he heads toward a gay club called Gearworks. Most of the guys in line are beefy bear types. I can’t wait to see how they react to my newly built mass monster when I unleash him on that place. As we unbuckle our belts, big Berg puts a hand on my shoulder. I hate to admit it, but he pretty roughly forces me back into my seat, and it would take some serious effort on my part to push back. I try not to let my discomfort show.

“Listen, Tuck, is it okay if… I mean, honestly, you know I’m grateful for this opportunity and all, but…” He looks me up and down and I know what he’s getting at.

He wants to be the only muscleguy in there. Sure, he would still be the biggest, but if I joined him I would halve the attention he got, if I didn’t outright steal it all by seeming like the more “attainable” of the two of us. I don’t like it, but I’m a good businessman and I stand by the rules I set out in the beginning: client’s choice.

“You got it, buddy,” I tell him, leaning back in the car. “It’s all you in there.”

“Not quite,” he growls, turning around. “I want you to come in there with me. I want you to see what I’m gonna do with all the muscle I stole from you.” Poor little Dereks’ eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

“You heard the man,” I say, “and you know firsthand what all that size and strength can do when it gets grumpy. Here’s the rules: you let Berg here out of your sight for one second and I leave you that size for good. You behave, you might wake up in your old body tomorrow. Understood?”

“You want me to… go into… a gay bar?” Derek stammers meekly. I want to slap him but, crouching in the back seat, he’s just out of my reach.

“And you‘d better look like you’re having a great fucking time, too,” I say with a shake of my big fist.

“Don’t worry, nobody’s gonna even notice you’re there,” Berg says as he hops out of the truck. Every eye in the line is on him as he struts up to it looking like Mr. Olympia and the Michelin Man had a gigantic son with a huge cock. Like an idiot, Berg goes to the end of the line, basking in the hoots and catcalls of the burly men in attendance. Poor guy just isn’t used to being the biggest guy in the room. He hasn’t learned yet that if you want something, you just flex your guns and take it. Luckily the bouncer, a humongous black guy, motions for him to come to the front of the line and lets him in. Berg, that little slut, gets real close to the bouncer as he passes. Berg grabs the guy’s hand and pulls it around to his ass, making it bounce once the palm makes contact. The bouncer grabs a handful and pulls Berg right into a kiss.

And I have to admit, I’m a little jealous.

The best part, though, was when little Derek ran up to the front, trying to keep up with Berg. Of course he got stiff-armed as soon as he got to the front. The black behemoth motioned for the back of the line. Derek walks back there, crestfallen, no doubt wondering if this counts as letting Berg out of his sight. I let him stew in his anxiety, especially when he ends up between thickly built bears twice his size in line. His fear gets me hard. It makes me horny.

Fuck, I gotta fuck.

Only thing is, I’m not into hair or bellies. I’ve sucked a couple NFL linemen dry before, leaving them looking like pudgy little trolls, but when it comes to sex I like my men gigantic, bulging, and smooth as a chicken breast.

Luckily a young blonde guy, built like a physique model with wide shoulders and a ridiculously narrow waist, struts out of the bar before long. He’s a little tipsy and arm-in-arm with a burly Italian hunk, but I just yank off my tank top and hop out of the trunk. “Can I borrow your man for a little bit?” I say to the Italian, who’s drooling as much as my blonde beefcake as I approach bouncing my pecs. I get just as many woofs from the line as Berg did, lucky for him (I admit to my flaws, and a wounded ego makes me a very cranky man).

“I’ll… be right back,” the blonde says, shoving his date away and practically leaping into my arms. He’s small, but lean as fuck, every bit of him rippling. I want to run my tongue along his eight-pack, lick up and down his obliques, suffocate him in my deep musclepits. He’ll do in a pinch.

“Can I watch?” the Italian guy says in a voice far more feminine than I expected.

“No, you can wait your fucking turn,” I say firmly, and the Italian guy knows not to fuck with a guy my size. I drag my little blonde underwear model into an alley beside the building and he goes to work on me, ravaging every inch of my body. He buries his nose in my bicep and I flex it for him. He puts his tongue between my pecs and I squeeze so hard I trap it there. He moans into my lats and I trap him between my arm and my wide fucking wings. Little prettyboy barely knows what hit him.

Soon I’ve got him wrapped around me, his pants down, my big dick arching right up into that perky rock-hard little ass. He’s tight as hell when I plunge in, and the moan he lets out comes right from his soul.

It’s good, but after a few minutes I realize this isn’t going to cut it. My little blonde beauty needs some size. With my eyes closed, I reach out, sensing the next biggest source: the bouncer. Suddenly my angel-faced blonde quadruples in size. I can still hold him up, of course, but I drop him to the ground fold him in half before drilling him deeper than he’s ever been before. While he’s getting the fuck of his life, he’s also blown away by the fact that he’s now closer to 300 pounds than he is 200, all of it exquisitely carved muscle. If his big juicy pecs were any bigger they would give him black eyes every time I thrust into him. When I cum, his big hose sprays all over his gargantuan body. When it’s all over, I collapse into him, a big cushion of hard pulsing flesh, and give lick a mouthful of cum off his chest before embracing him in a deep kiss.

“I’m… fucking… huge…” he says in his newly baritone voice as he stumbles out of the alley with me, our loads dripping from his freakish musculature. “Jesus Christ, I could win Mr. Olympia tomorrow!” He’s flexing his newfound bulk, crunching up every inch before inspecting in and chuckling with delight.

I admit, I got a little carried away with myself as soon I see the mayhem that’s ensuing outside the gearworks: the bouncer, now a scrawny little fella, is getting shoved aside by the grumpy bears in line as they push past him to get inside. I see the Italian guy, smoking a cigarette and nursing his hurt feelings as he waits for his man to come back to him, and I know what would happen if I left things as they were: the blonde would dump the Italian and whore his way through Palm Springs or something. With the spell of my horniness lifted, I reach out and snatch the stolen size from the blonde mountain and shift it back to the bouncer.

Big again (but also pantsless) the big bouncer starts grabbing guys two at a time and slamming them into the ground as his monster dick swings between his legs. My blonde is devastated to be back to his old body (one he proudly peacocked around in just thirty minutes before).

I’m so wrapped up in the ensuing nonsense that it takes me a bit to notice the squeaky shrill little voice screaming at me, “He’s leaving! He’s leaving! You gotta stop him!”

It’s Derek, covered with sweat and, for some reason, glitter now. He’s so small and scrawny, shaking his fragile limbs so wildly, that my first instinct is to squash him like the annoying insect he is now. But then I realize what he’s talking about: behind me, Berg’s back in the truck. He’s got company, and he’s about to leave without us.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I say. Two guys are crammed into the passenger seat, pawing hungrily at Berg’s mass. By their crewcuts, their broad muscular backs and their little beer guts I can tell they’re military guys. There’s one in the back, two, cupping Berg’s melon pecs with one hand and jerking off with the other. They all look out of sorts with this meat balloon of a man, but I’m sure they were the first guys to hit on Berg, and the hottest guys who he’d ever taken home in his life. Rookie mentality. The whole truck stinks of booze, of course.

“Hey Tuck!” Berg says, wide-eyed and innocent like he wasn’t just about to ditch me there. “Guys, this is my friend Tuck!”

“So fuckin’ hot,” grunts one of the guys in the passenger seat--and of course he’s right, but this is a goddamned business deal, not a free-for-all orgy.

“You still owe me,” I say, crossing my arms. All three of the military guys squirm at the sight of my squeezed together chest.

Berg froze, a note of panic sobering him up a little. “I know, it’s just…” He actually revs, the engine, the little shit. “It’s just… I left it at the gym! Can I… Give it to you when I’m done?”

It’s my fault, of course. It happens sometimes. I let my dick do the talking and things spin a little out of control. But I slap a big hand down on the door and glare into Berg’s eyes. Despite the fact that he’s clearly bigger than me, my intensity makes him cower like a frightened buddy. “Deal’s forfeit if I don’t get my money,” I bark.

Berg looks at his three drunk marines, at me, then back at the men fawning all over him. Then he does a stupid thing.

Berg slams on the gas. The truck peels out. The sloppy marines are thrown to the backs of their seats as Berg gets away.

He doesn’t get far. I reach out, furious, and let the invisible tentacles go to town on everyone in that truck.

It might be the most amount of mass I’ve ever drained in one pull. A drop of salty blood drools from my nose to my lips as I feel the power hit me. Luckily, at the last minute, I’m able to split what I pulled. The mass divides between me and Derek. I guess I’ll never know what would have happened if I had sucked it all in myself.

Derek’s built like he was when he won nationals, a big and ripped 230 probably. He’s weepy with gratitude as he paws over the bulging meat of his body. Then I look down at myself.

Holy shit: I think I’m over 9 feet tall. I stand up to my full height and Derek looks child-sized next to me. I’m totally naked, my clothes in tatters on the ground, and I’m so shredded I’m like a walking anatomy chart. The ground literally shakes with every one of my steps. Just for shits and giggles I reach out and grab a car in the lot, hosting the back end up like it was nothing. I can’t resist: I hoist the car over my head and hurl it.

It doesn’t hit the truck, but when it smashes down, Berg’s wise enough to hit the brakes. “Holy shit,” I say, and my voice rumbles from somewhere deep in my chest. An idea suddenly strikes me: I want to walk into a bodybuilding competition, grab two superheavyweights like they’re rag dolls, snap off their posers and force them to fuck. Hell, if the sight of my god-like body isn’t enough to get them hard, I’ll just lick the little shits’ cocks until they were good and hard and do all the thrusting myself. I could take the two biggest guys and make them my musclebound lap dogs, eating out of dog dishes, snuggling up next to me in my gigantic bed, licking my cock when I order them to…

Fuck. I have to get ahold of myself.

In the truck I find the three military guys stripped down to five-foot tall weaklings. No doubt they’ll get discharged if I leave them like this. All that booze in these smaller bodies made them pass right now. Berg’s back to the size he was when I met him that day, and while he’s still conscious, he’s not holding up great against the greater effects of the booze in his bloodstream either.

“Back. Fucking. Seat.” I order. Berg doesn’t hesitate, clumsily vacating the driver’s seat. I direct Derek to hop in. He has to adjust it (last time he drove his truck he was a few inches taller and about sixty pounds heavier) but I can tell he’s relieved to at least be embracing largeness once again.

I hop in the bed of the truck, enjoying the sound of the metal crunching under my weight. It’s gonna torch gas to get back to Atlas gym with me in tow, but I don’t give a fuck. Every time I take a breath I feel my chest inflate with whale-sized lungs. Every inch of me pulsates with raw power. How the fuck can I ever go back to being small again?

It’s that last thought that sticks with me on the way back. Once we’re back to Atlas Gym, once I’ve shaken Berg awake and he’s delivered the other half of my money, I take a look at these pathetic bugs, barely even “men” when next to me, and realize… I can’t keep all this. It will fade eventually anyway, and the longer I hold on to it, the harder it will be to accept ever being smaller.

That’s the thing about size: these bodybuilder freaks crave it, they desperately pile on mindblowing amounts of mass, but it’s never enough. And what do they do when it goes away? I’m happier with my situation, slipping in and out of muscle as it suits me.

But what to do with this ludicrous amount of muscles? Berg sure is hell is staying his pipsqueaky self. He’s lucky I don’t shrink him even smaller (what would even happen if I doubletapped someone I’d already drained dry, I wonder?). I give some size back to the military guys, watching their unconscious bodies inflate with muscles again.

The rest I give to Derek. In a blink our sizes swap again, and I’m staring at the bloated out turtle-shell abs of a 450 pound man. Derek stands like a living statue now, limbs so massive he’s nearly immobile with his own size. And that dick--no idea how he’s ever going to cram it into posing trunks now. He waddles stiffly back into Atlas Gym, gives me a thumbs up before squatting down to squeeze through the doors, and heads back to the squat rack, no doubt to break world records with ease.

The marines, now broad and beefy again, all stir, barely able to believe their bleary eyes as they see through the glass doors the biggest man that’s ever lived (who wasn’t me, that is) tossing around 150 pound dumbbells like they were cupcakes.

“Get a fucking cab home,” I order. They’re all bigger than me but hell, I’ve got balls bigger than the moon and they can tell by the tone of my voice. They’ll wake the next day thinking most of the previous night was a dream.

Berg actually follows me back to my car. Does he actually expect a ride home?

“T-Tuck?” he stammers, once again his timid little self. “You think if… If I save up again, you think you could let me be big again?”

I really want to be mad at him, but he just got swept up in his size the way I did. Muscles are a powerful thing. They sap your brain and do most of the thinking. I’ve never met a man alive who can handle having them.

“Next time it’ll be 100 grand,” I say. “You show up with that in cash, up front, and I’ll let you take a spin in another big guy. But you misbehave once…” I draw a line across my throat. He nods.

I must be going soft because I actually let him get in my car. He stares longingly into Atlas Gym. Derek’s curling barbells like they’re dumbbells now. I imagine it will be difficult for him to keep training with normal equipment. I wonder what’s going to happen the first time he steps out on stage.

“Out of curiosity, who do you want to take on next?” I ask.

He licks his lips. I see he’s shaking as he pulls up Halfthor Bjornsson’s instagram. My cock jumps as I try to picture Berg with all that pilfered size, as well as what big Halfthor would look like once I let all the air out of him. It suddenly dawns on me that there’s a couple of strongmen I’d like to drain as well.