Selection From a Long-Form Story

[Here's a little treat for everyone: a section from a book I'll be releasing on Amazon when it's finished. There's another selection from this story you might want to read first here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/intro-to-project-18196844 ]

One night Clayton woke from deep, vivid dreams to find himself once again surprised at his weak, pudgy body, as well as at Garrus' big arm draped over him. Filled with anxiety, desperate to be alone with the 

faded images of his subconscious and the tightness in his chest, he cautiously slid himself out from Garrus' grasp and gently eased himself off the bed. He quietly padded into the unfamiliar-seeming living room of his one-bedroom apartment and sat down on the couch.

That night he'd dreamt he was big again, on the football field, still in his Goliaths uniform but playing in the NFL, for the Seahawks first, the Broncos later on in dreamy inconsistency. He could smell the field, still.

It had to be harder for him, he figured, than the others Garrus had transformed. Garrus was constantly reminding him what he used to be, evidence that things weren't the way they always had been. He envied the others, their ability to think this life was the real one, but that night Clayton realized he could put that knowledge to use. That night he opened a black and white composition notebook and started to jot down everything he knew about strength training.

It was hard. Even without his memories fading in and out, he still struggled with the fact that all he'd done for a decade and a half was follow instructions from his coaches, even in the weight room, but he knew enough that he could turn a tubby little pile of play-dough into a meathead, he was sure of that.

In the weeks that had passed since Garrus had transformed him, the assurances that everything would be returned to the way it was once Clayton had sufficiently carried out the supernatural man's wishes seemed less and less certain. Despite his powerlessness against obeying the large dark-haired man, Clayton found his trust in Garrus' promise had grown flimsy at best. It was sickening to imagine, but he'd have to have a backup plan if this was the way life would be from now on.

When Garrus bellowed for him to get back into the bedroom, Clayton slid the notebook underneath a couch cushion and slowly marched back to his sexual captor--were they boyfriends, Clayton wondered for a moment, horrified--but he knew he could get back to it.

Later that week he headed into Campus Nutrition and put a sizable dent in his dad's credit card picking up "Maxx X-Treem 2.0" preworkout, Hypersize Prohormone precursors, and Huginexx Mass Gainer ("Sure you need that last one?" Asked the salt-and-pepper haired guy in the tank top as he rang him up at the counter; Clayton's cheeks burned red and he stared at the ground, pretending he didn't hear). He shoved it all in his brand new gym bag along with his newly purchased sneakers, shorts and dry-fit t-shirt. Then he marched over to Granite State Fitness, the gym he'd mocked for years in the past as "Home of the popped-collar fratbros doing curls and crunches," inferior in every way to the Goliaths' Strength and Conditioning room, where the 120s were getting light and he'd barked at his strength coach to pick up heavier chains.

Clayton eagerly filled out the dozen or so forms (pausing to think when answering questions like "height," "weight" and "fitness background"), ready to get started, when the blonde girl signing him up, Maxine (who he remembered from his old life; uptight sorority bitch who "didn't date football guys" and dumped his offered drink on his head in front of all of his football buddies) informed him of the fitness assessment required of every new client.

"It's nothing strenuous," she said gently, looking down at him with a patronizing hand on his shoulder. "It's just to show you the facility and help you establish some realistic goals. You'll be working with one of our trainers, Trent."

The name struck a chord with Clayton; he knew a Trent, didn't he? Recognition had barely coalesced when an impossibly wide shadow fell over him from behind. Clayton timidly rotated to stare up at a gigantic man with a Mohawk who provoked goosebumps on every edge of his skin.

Trent Rollins had been Clayton's roommate during freshman football camp. The guy was easily as thick as he was, a half-inch taller (though Clayton denied it) and was the only new recruit whose squat and bench numbers had him nervous. Clayton had been relieved when the big guy was cut for failing a drug test. The two remained friends, Trent breaking powerlifting records while Clayton garnered interest from the NFL. They lifted together in the offseason and banged seven of the same girls.

The last time Clayton had seen his buddy Trent he'd been practically eye-to-eye with him. He'd playfully shoved him around, in fact, and he had been shoved back. Now, Trent seemed nearly double 

Clayton's size. Trent's tight Mohawk sat on a head that looked tiny on a nonexistant neck, swallowed up by gargantuan traps. The man expemplified thickness, with beefy arms that stuck out on a wide, dense, inflexible body and two legs the size of federal mailboxes. Years on a heavy dosage of growth hormones had given Trent a heavy brow and thick jowls as well as sausage-sized fingers.

Clayton's knees wobbled as he took in the gargantuan man's size, as those sausage-sized fingers curled around his own stubby little hamhocks in an awkward handshake. "Nice to meet you," the giant rumbled, and Clayton wondered about all the times he'd encountered "average"-sized men when he was his old self; is this how they must have felt, meeting someone like him?

The next hour had been straight out of Clayton's nightmares. With five-pound donuts on either side of the bar, it was all Clayton could do to keep the bar halfway extended in mid-air as his wobbly elbows threatened to give out on him. Trent's exasperation became evident as sweat poured from Clayton's gasping face while he struggled to curl pink plastic five-pound Dumbbells. At one point, during a bodyweight lunge, Clayton's terrible sense of balance (a shocking difference from the natural athleticism he'd possessed his entire life) caused him to tumble sideways. His whole body jiggled when he hit the ground and he yelped so high it sounded like a woman. The worst came when Trent barked at him while he struggled to squat the empty bar: his whole body straining, overwhelmed with frustration and chilled by Trent's deep baritone shouts, Clayton suddenly felt a shocking sense of warmth running down his leg. He'd peed himself. He could no longer ignore the whispers and pointing of the other gym-goers, laughing at his spectacle.

At that point Trent one-handed the bar from his back and told him to hit the shower. "I'm gonna put you on the Beginner Plus program," Trent grumbled. "Don't want you dying or pissing yourself again."

Shame burned from Clayton's face as he plodded to the showers, struggling to hold back tears. Once he'd showered and changed back into street clothes, he stared sadly at the heavy duffel bag, packed with the instruments for his return to strength. He considered lugging it home, then just turned and left it. His eyes never lifted from the ground as he trudged home. Worse than the embarrassment and feeling of defeat was the background noise of his thoughts: the smell of Trent, the gravity his massive body had, the curvature of his huge ass, the look of his bulge in his compression shorts even though Clayton had struggled not to look. Beyond the self-loathing Trent's impatient growling had given him, Clayton felt a quiet arousal he couldn't ignore, one that was growing in intensity with every second.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Garrus sneered when Clayton walked back into their--his!--apartment. "Listen to me," he muttered, narrowing his purple eyes, "I've even begun speaking like you meat-sacks without even trying. I've been here too long."

Clayton looked up at the man who'd been his tormentor. He surprised himself when he burst into tears and buried his face in Garrus' warm, hard chest. "Good lord!" The demon shouted as Clayton's arms latched on with the miniscule strength they had left after their grueling gym punishment. Garrus flexed out of Clayton's weak embrace and shoved him to the ground.

Clayton was shocked out of his sobbing when Garrus' hand slapped his head sideways. His hand went to the warm sting on his cheek.

"What is wrong with you, imbecile?" Garrus demanded. "Get ahold of yourself."

Clayton dragged himself to his feet and then walked into the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click and sitting on the toilet for several minutes, every moment expecting Garrus to barge in demanding sexual favors. It would've been almost comforting, but Garrus actually let him be. Slowly Clayton stripped down, turned the shower on until the room was hazed with warm fog, and eased his sore, exhausted body into the stream.

This was his life now, he thought. He knew Garrus would never turn him back, no matter what he did; still, he was unable to refuse the demon's demands. He was haunted by the idea of Trent barging in, filling the shower with his massive bull body, smacking Clayton across the face with his big swinging dick.

A month ago he'd been preparing for a life of wealth and fame, achieving his dreams at the top level of his sport. Now he was hoping to give a blow job before dinner.

He started when the door swung open, the safe blanket of humid air suddenly rushing out. Garrus yanked the shower curtain aside. Clayton braced himself for another strike, but it never came. He looked up to see Garrus looking uncertain--he looked... Sad. Clayton had never imagined the demon was capable of that.

"I'm sorry for what I just did to you," Garrus said in a voice nearly inaudible over the running water.

"It's okay," Clayton replied meekly. He felt exposed, his wet nudity on display, but Garrus was looking down, his brow furrowed, not focused on his tubby frame at all.

"No, it's not," Garrus snapped. His upper body clenched, fists balled. "It's... I've never felt... Sorry. I'm incapable off remorse. That's what you things do. Your entire being is riddled with those weaknesses, contradictory impulses and persistent, self-induced internal traumas. It's practically the definition of your existence."

Clayton remained still, unsure of what to say, totally baffled.

"I need to be done with this--all of this. I need to get far from your plane of existence. It seems I've become entangled in all of this. This is no longer about vengeance. I just need to be far, far away."

Clayton's heart skipped as he gained the courage to turn the shower off. He shivered in the cold air as his wet body dripped into the tub. "What... What do you need from me?" He asked timidly.

"I need you to find me more victims," Garrus demanded. "More masculinity. The process of stealing it is far too draining lately. I need to find it in the largest quantities possible. I don't care about hurting the Jeb any longer." Garrus slid a fuzzy blue towel off the rack. He held it open and Clayton walked into it, barely able to trust the gesture as Garrus wrapped it around him and held it tight. Clayton seemed to melt in the embrace.

"I have someone for you..." He said as they left the bathroom together. He glanced at the clock: Granite State Fitness would be closing in an hour. Back when they'd been friends, Trent had mentioned that he had keys to the gym, how he'd get his own workout in when the place was closed and he had it all to himself.

"You'd better have several 'someones' for me," Garrus insisted. "You realize, of course, once I've drained them, you won't remember who they used to be? Reality will curve around the change, and you with it."

"I don't care," Clayton said, gritting his teeth. Wrapped in his bathrobe, he'd pried open a family-size box of cinnamon pop tarts and had unwrapped a foil package, consuming each frosted square in four even bites, treating the sadness of his day. He heard his phone buzzing from his desk across the room. Garrus snatched it up, swiping across the screen. After a few moments of focused reading, his eyes lit up.

"Well," he said, tossing the phone onto Clayton's paunch. "It seems that maybe we'll have time to work in a little vengeance after all. I think we can multitask a two-pronged goal, can't we?"

Confused, Clayton grabbed his phone with crumby fingers. He slowly read the Facebook message, from Jeb: "You may or may not remember me, but you may have realized that your life isn't supposed to be the way it is. The good news is you're not alone, and I'm here to help."

After he finished he looked up at Garrus, who was sneering. "He wants us to all meet up," Clayton said. "He says he may have a plan."

Garrus nodded, eyes terrifyingly wide.

"Should... Should I ignore him?" Clayton asked.

"No, you'll be meeting up with him. I'd like to know exactly what his little 'plan' is. You may be throwing a few kinks into the works, as well."

Clayton's stomach tensed at the idea of facing Jeb, of facing other former Goliaths in their new forms. His little dick shot to attention, surprisingly. He adjusted his robe to cover his tiny stiffness. "Should I message him back?" Clayton asked.

"Not yet," Garrus said. "First, I have some manhood to steal. Lead the way, butterball."

Less than an hour later, Clayton found himself standing isn't Granite State Fitness. He looked around, confused--what were they doing there? It was like the memory of their arrival was there, but evaporated as soon as his mind grasped it.

Garrus stood next to him on shaky legs, a soft blue light glowing from his fingers which clutched a small marble shining brightly, just like the one Garrus had pulled from Clayton's chest what felt like a lifetime before.

"Very nice," Garrus said weakly, coughing into his elbow as he withheld his mystical prize. "What a freakishly unnatural brute he used to be!" Next to Garrus, staring around bewildered (looking much more confused than Clayton felt) was a little runt with a huge Mohawk on his head. The guy wore tiny skinny jeans and had several piercings in his gaunt face. His bony, compact frame shook, his big birdeyes darting around wildly.

"What the... What did you just do?" He shrieked, high as a soprano. "What am I doing here?"

"It doesn't look like you belong here; you look like you could barely lift a toilet seat," Garrus said, giving the little pipsqueak a shove. Even though the demon seemed more feeble than usual, he had enough strength to send the scrawny little guy tumbling onto his bony ass. In a mad scramble, the tiny little guy sprinted out the front door. "Off to a life spent jotting aggressive verses in a journal while living in fear of even medium-sized teenagers," Garrus said.

"I... I'm confused..." Clayton said, although something about the situation gave him a vague feeling of satisfaction.

"Don't worry about it." Garrus put hand on Clayton's shoulder for support. "Take me home. I need rest, and several blowjobs. And we have some planning to do."