Extreme Muscle Growth - Tumblr Posts

Progress Pic

Kristopher lumbers heavily through the gym to find the best light for his latest progress photo. His untenable quads rolling past each other taking extra care to not trip himself up with his globular calves as his hips scream out from over-extension. One leg alone weighing more than a seasoned bodybuilder it's a slow, calculated waddle.

The quest for enough light to adequately show off his massive form ironically leads him to the cardio area where he would never be found otherwise. Being triple, perhaps even quadruple the weight limit of the machines being one reason he skips this portion of the gym, the myth of cardio stifling gains another, while the most relevant reason being that simply existing for him is a cardiovascular workout.

His body is a shining paradox, at once being so full of strength while also being nearly incapacitated. The power of his bulk crippled by space and the sheer energy it takes to keep it alive. It's the product of a severe addiction left unchecked. He's given everything to fuel his growth... time... money... family... independence... humility... and any other feature of a normal life.

Moving past the aisle of stationary bikes, he threatens to topple them over with one of his arms swinging wildly out to keep his fragile balance. Resting high at a perfect 90 degree angle atop his flared overgrown lats locked nearly in place in the crevice between them and his ballooned pecs.

Finding his way to his favorite spot he prepares for the photo to be taken by one of his harem of muscle-obsessed boy toys. They assist him with the day-to-day needs of a musclebound monster. Dressing him in his typical sparse attire of posing trunks as it's surprisingly hard to find clothing that fits around his misshapen body without either being too tight and binding up in his folds of muscle or so big that they're a circus tent mess. They bathe him, feed him, act as spotters when he's moving, and of course service his very respectable rod (at least as it would be considered on a normal man's body).

Carefully maneuvering his biceps out of their temporary prison, just barely hooking them around his pecs, he turns them up readying for a front double bicep. Raising them up, muscle fights against muscle. Delts, traps, and pecs exploding completely encasing his head. His ham-hock forearms almost immediately colliding with his planetary biceps that peak higher than he can reach.

Mustering all his remaining strength he takes a deep breath and sucks in his cinder block abs completing the pose. From the side, his vacuum still over twice as thick as the last Mr. O at rest. His freakish mass would send any rational gym-goers mind reeling, that is if they can even recognize him as a human at a glance. Of all the questions they could think up, why would anyone do this to themselves? how? what is the endgame? there's only one answer and thought that rings true repeating over and over in his head... MORE.

Nick’s appearance was a turning point for the sport. His obscene body the product of a gamble with a man and a vile filled with an experimental concoction that promised to triple his mass just moments before he planned to step on the stage at an already eye-popping 250lbs.

Despite his freakish mass, like many bodybuilders, his insatiable hunger for more could not be satisfied. It had all sounded so insane. Regardless, the only insanity left was his hulking body. The judges and bodybuilding world at large couldn’t have possibly been prepared for the spectacle they were about to see. All save for one issue, how to get through the hotel room door.

X Men

I know what you're thinking, no not those X-men... but it wouldn't be out of line to call them mutants...

Let's take a step back first though. All the way back to the 1990's, what the bodybuilding world at large would become known as the beginning of the "Mass Monsters." Pushed by advancements in science and knowledge of the human body, the sport of bodybuilding started its slow progression of pushing the bodies of those who participate further and further.

There were of course landmarks along the way. Like the first time Ronnie Coleman stepped on stage at a mind-boggling 300lbs of conditioned muscle, but overall the changes went only passively noticed, like the enlarging sizes of your fast food combo meal. A super-heavyweight of the early 00's wouldn't look out of place in what is considered Men's Physique these days.

Even so, the increased weight classes were not enough up keep up with the bodybuilder's inflating physiques, so new classes needed to be added to keep up. First came ultra-heavyweight, for men 450lbs+, followed by the lovingly named mass monster class for men 600lbs+, harkening back in name to the trend that started it all.

A spectator of the sport back in the day would be astonished to see these men and the figures that make up their physiques. At the highest level, arms larger around than the quads of former Mr. Olympias, quads larger around than their chests, chests... well you get my drift. These men were impressive sure, but that came at a cost that was becoming more and more apparent to the athletes and audience alike. That cost was mobility.

The harsh truth is that bodybuilding has never had a great reputation when it comes to health. The open secret of steroids, in combination with a market full of unregulated supplements ensured to increase your gains had created an attitude of trying whatever possible to get you to your goal. Shake in a healthy pinch of the social media reality filter and you end up where we are today. Young people pushing better judgement aside to get as big or bigger than their online idols in what some may consider a depraved focus. The multi-million dollar bodybuilding industry and greedy "coaches" ready to take advantage of their flawed judgement backing them up.

That's how you get a group of men in ages ranging from their mid-twenties to late thirties shuffling their mind-blowing physiques onto stage for the aforementioned mass monster category. Their procession onstage is slower than some of the previous classes due to the focus and constant calculations required to move their godly muscles out of the way of one another to produce the needed forward momentum. The poses for this category are light, mainly due to the fact that the expansive size of most of the competitor's muscles left them unable to complete many of those classic poses.

The impracticality of the bodies these men had built started to get some in the community to think twice about the charted course of the sport. Sure they look absolutely astounding onstage, but once they waddle off, they don't immediately drop down to a more manageable weight, in fact quite the opposite. They live their daily lives in these 600lb+ bodies. Bodies that can't perform basic daily tasks unassisted like washing, dressing, or eating, something nearly constantly required. Bodies that can't see over their own bloated mass leaving them clumsy and prone to colliding with people or anything else in their way. Bodies living in a world not made for them, furniture and doors too small, cars that make them feel like they're packed in like a can of sardines. Despite these obvious challenges, many of them just see this as a badge of honor rather than a detriment. A clear sign that they have ascended past normalcy, into the upper echelon of what humanity can produce.

One of those men was Brad.

Brad had a meteoric rise in the bodybuilding world. Influenced by his collection of massive bodybuilders from current and past eras, he stepped onto stage at 21 to compete in his first show at just under 300lbs, a weight which these days is basically the bare minimum of what you need to get your foot in the door, even in the lower classes. He came out of absolutely nowhere and cleaned up, earning his first title.

From there, his career and mass skyrocketed. Making his way up the subsequent weight classes, pulling down titles in an effortless manner, all the way up to his show today. He was the youngest person ever to compete in the mass monster class at 24 years old. Just like any other time, him and his now 647lb physique cleaned up, waddling home with the highest title possible in his beloved sport.

People of course asked him what's next, having completed his fevered race to win it all. A question which from the outside seemed to spark an inner turmoil. Most people who take home the title naturally become the face of the sport over the following year, going into media overdrive to further the sport. Brad however fell off the face of the earth. Weeks went by, then months and his social media was dark. No appearances for interviews or guest posing at other competitions as is usual. People started to speculate that something horrible happened to him, potentially even that he died. He wouldn't be the first mass monster to succumb to that fate and he for sure wouldn't be the last, if so. Blurry photos supposedly of him working out at random gyms like people tracking Sasquatch did little to dispel the rumors.

When next year's Olympia rolled around and Brad didn't resurface even then, people solidified their dire assumptions. Just another casualty to the sport that puts more above all else. Over the following few years people started to forget about him as other guys bubbled up to the top. That was until a post went out across his dead socials, just weeks before Olympia 2041. It simply and cryptically read "I'm back and I've got something BIG to show you..."

The officials at the show confirmed that he did reach out to confirm the legitimacy of the post, adding that he will be competing in a new category which will be announced live at the climax of the show. Bodybuilding media was on fire speculating on what kind of package Brad was going to triumphantly return to present, knowing the trajectory he was on when he fell off the face of the earth. Some saying he could break 1,000lbs, while others guessing more conservative. There technically wasn't a limit to the mass monster class as it was becoming clear that we may be reaching a new plateau of development, the largest competitors just managing to touch the low 700's even with the most insane training regiments, so the speculation ran rampant.

It was almost unfair to all the other competitors that year as everyone seemed to rush through the ceremony and judging almost as a formality while awaiting the big reveal. Even what should have been impressive wins, like Chadwick Johnson topping the scales at a record-breaking 718lbs, were almost ignored. Just as the medal was placed over his thick neck/traps before it even fully landed within the deep crevice between his pecs, the stage lights went dark and he, along with the others, were shooed offstage.

The only lights left illuminating the auditorium were the ones backstage, meant to silhouette the competitors as they made their way out from the doorway center stage. Above the stage, the video screen clicked on and displayed a large white X. Fog billowed out of the doorway as a figure slowly moved in from the side. As it moved into place it blocked the lights, shrouding the crowd in darkness again like a lunar eclipse.

A faint whirring could be heard as it became clear the figure was moving forward now, small shards of light making it out behind it confirming the movement. The announcer started "Ladies and gentlemen... the moment we've all been waiting for... welcome back to the stage Brad Jackson... the first official member of the new "X" weight class." At the word X, the lights shot back on.

No one was prepared for what they saw. The crowd, officials, everyone were completely silent as they all tried to process what they were seeing. It was Brad alright, but he had obviously been hard at work during his absence.

His body was absolute insanity. Muscles exploding in every possible direction coming into finer focus as the source of the whirring, a motorized platform that would not look out of place in a warehouse, moving around heavy pallets of equipment, finished its slow crawl to the front of the stage. This was of course due to the fact that his hypertrophied muscles, though filled with raw power, had left Brad completely immobilized. A fact you could easily glean at first glance. They pressed up against each other wildly simply leaving no space for movement and giving his body the X shape the weight class came to be associated with.

He was covered in a glimmering sheen that accentuated his musculature, regardless of that fact that he needed no help looking impressive. It could easily be mistaken for posing oil, but in reality was something else, sweat. His body sweat 24/7, the consequence of having so much thermal mass, one of the many drawbacks of pushing your body to nearly a ton. He was dressed in a pair a bright red posers, the garment being utilized in name only as it was obvious there was no posing to be had today. We'd have confirmation shortly that nothing of the fact would even be required for this new class of bodybuilder, much to do with the fact that men who reach this size physically cannot.

It was hard not to feverishly dart around Brad's body trying to make sense of everything. Quads wider than they were tall pressed together so firmly that no man, much less Brad himself, could separate them. Along with his calves, they splayed his legs so far out that his feet couldn't get closer than 6ft apart, making walking nigh impossible. That's even if he could negotiate them around each other.

Above, his cinder block abs were flanked by lats wider than a cargo van. His midsection bloated not just from muscle, but from his distended stomach and intestines as they worked to process the constant stream of nutrients needed to maintain and grow his body, being overworked just as much as his muscles. His pecs puffed out wildly and sagged above the top row of abdominals, rock hard nips pointing down to the floor. To the sides of them, his arms jutted out, resting high on his lats, pressed for space behind his wide pecs and above by his boulder-like delts.

Forearms wider than a normal man's chest pressed up against biceps and triceps that vastly outweighed that same man's entire body. Finally leading down to Brad's face, locked in place in a sea of bunched up delts, traps, and pecs. The lower half of his face and what's left of what could be called his neck obscured by the latter.

Honing in on his face, lost in a sea of overblown muscle mass, was a sobering realization for some of the crowd. A realization of how far we've pushed these men. Turning them into a slab of meat only meant for others to enjoy. Stripping them of all humanity and locking them away behind a pair of eyes looking on longingly from behind a wall of their own creation. Brad and the X Men to come were a divisive moment in the sport, with many sharing these thoughts, while the others viewing this as the pinnacle of the sport. The ultimate expression of the art of bodybuilding.

Let's be honest though, even if you're in camp downerville, it takes only a second to realize that it wasn't their fault, neither the community at large, nor the science that brought us to this point. The reality was that these men would have gotten here themselves anyway. It takes a special person to embody the dedication and sacrifice required to achieve what Brad had and those people will seize any opportunity possible for more. If it wasn't obscured by his pecs, you wouldn't have seen a solemn face, you'd have seen him beaming with happiness and pride at what he had done to himself.

Back onstage, the platform started to rotate. The sudden movement almost threw off Brad's fragile balance, but he managed to keep it together. During the turn the audience briefly took in the thickness of his body. From the side, his core was wider than Ronnie at his prime straight on, pecs extending far out over his midsection, planetary glutes pushing out below his cushy lats. Completing its turn, the absence of what could be seen of his head from the front made it difficult to register what you were looking at as a human body. It was more of a collection of bloated mountain ranges from top to bottom covered only slightly by the back of the posers sucked tightly between his cheeks.

The platform completed its 360 as a microphone lowered down from the stage rafters to meet Brad's face in the cavern of his own muscles. The announcer came back on "Welcome back to the stage Brad, it's a big honor to be the first in this new class of competitors, what do you have to say?" Brad responded in short simple sentences muffled by pecs directly in front of his mouth "Next year..." "BIGGER."

His stomach let out a ferocious growl signaling that the show was over. He'd been off his feeding tube far too long and his body was absolutely ravished. The platform wheeled him offstage leaving the crowd to process what they just saw. Brad, only in his late twenties by now, had pushed his body so far that it was barely functional, a captive to his own muscles, and yet he still wanted more. What did this mean for his future? The future of bodybuilding? Heck, the future of humanity in general? But most of all, why did it make them all so aroused?

Brad was the first of the X Men, but he wouldn't be the last. The cat was out the bag and soon enough he'd have others on his tail. But if there was one thing you could always count on with Brad Jackson, against all odds and limits of the human body, the next time you saw him he'd be even bigger.

Full Potential

WARNING: This one is pretty dark. If you’re not into that, you may just want to stick to the morph.

Jax stood there and took in the sight of his latest creation. He was constantly in awe of his size and the fact that there was more of it every day. 'The biggest one yet' he internally remarked to himself. He was for sure a far cry from the 100lb twink he picked up at the bar all those months ago.

It was not just by chance that they crossed paths that fateful night. Jax was there with a purpose. To find a man just like him. A man that he can help. He watched him dancing alone in the corner, clothed only in a tight pair of metallic undies and a mesh crop top. His skinny lithe body gyrated with the music lost in his own world.

Jax sat at the bar, casually sipping his drink as he waited for the dancer's eyes to lock onto him. He was impressively built, his tight clothing doing nothing to hide his bulging mass especially his pecs and abs as they popped out of his black t-shirt. He knew once he caught a glance of him that it'd be a done deal. It always does with men like him.

A few drinks later and the dancer is on his way home with Jax for a one night stand. Unbeknownst to his soon-to-be lover, he wasn't just any ordinary man, a fact that would be revealed as they neared his home. What a home it was. Simply put, Jax was loaded. He was a tech billionaire wunderkind. The kind that was already retired in his early 30s. He led what he thought of as the perfect life. Anything he ever wanted he had due to his endless resources and unlike some of his celebrity colleagues of the industry, outside of certain circles he was relatively unknown. A perfect mix for him to pursue his true life's work. Helping men like dancer boi reach their full potential. And to Jax full potential meant one thing, mass and a lot of it.

He could tell his passenger was getting nervous as they pulled up to the opulent circle drive in front of his home. He should be. His life was about to change whether he liked it or not. He was about to push himself in ways he never wanted nor thought possible. Jax and the regime he has been perfecting would make sure of it. Just as his vast fortune would ensure that he was able to keep pushing the bounds of science, legality, and humanity.

Attached to the sprawling complex he called his home was a highly advanced private gym outfitted with every piece of exercise tech you could think of and even some that have never been seen before. Products of his dedicated research and development team like electromagnetically active weights that not only far surpassed the limits of weights provided by standard metals but also adjusted based on feedback gathered from individual using them. Combined with a controlled diet and hypodermic assistance, they allowed for explosive growth.

It was a utopia for any man wanting to put on some serious mass, but not for dancer boi. His face dropped when Jax opened the door. The reveal of the sprawling gym not meeting his expectations of seeing Jax's opulent bedroom, the smell of stale sweat causing him to recoil slightly. Jax looks on a chuckles. It always starts like this with them. That's why he's here, to help them dig down and understand their primal manly needs, something he has come to accomplish with a little light brainwashing... okay heavy brainwashing.

His company had specialized in VR tech, so it was an easy enough proposition. Strapped in the specialized system, he flooded the dancer's mind with images of bodybuilders intermixed with his own physique, combined with stimuli and experimental drugs to seal in the effect. With the mental beating complete, dancer boi took to the workouts and the needle like wildfire. Jax chocked the ease of conditioning and his progress up to either his feeble mind or the potential that he was already secretly primed for growth. His process was so effective that it was hard to tell.

The boi barely even registered anything the first few weeks. By the time he did, he had already put on some serious mass, looking like a jacked fitness model. The mental work done to him left him in no position to put up a fuss, but honestly looking at himself in the mirror now he didn't have a reason to. In fact, he actually kinda liked it, the fullness, the power, but most of all he liked the satisfaction of seeing his captor satisfied in his progress. He felt deeply compelled to keep him satisfied. His devotion and the cocktail of drugs constantly rushing through his system kept results coming that made sure of that.

Just shy of two years later and we're back to where we started, with Jax looking on at his ultimate creation. His body was a work of art and a scientific miracle. He stands there sweating, panting, and red after his most recent workout.

He chuckles as he thinks of what his subject's former self would think of him now if he saw what he would become. He'd surely run away in tears. His boyish face perched on top of his insanely muscled body looked almost out of place, though even it had morphed some with the transformation. He has a dull look on it as he waits for Jax to instruct him on what to do next, both ignoring the elephant (trunk) in the room of his raging hard-on, as is common almost constantly as a side effect of the testosterone and drugs coursing through his veins.

"Flex" Jax commands.

With that he raises his arms first into an explosive double-bi, his muscles vibrating as he pushes his already tired body to the limit to put on the most impressive pose possible for Jax. Moving to a front lat spread, Jax saunters up and takes advantage of the limited field of view he has over his pecs in this pose to sneakily grab his throbbing member and begin stroking. A deep, short moan emanating from above the crest of his chest.

He continues his poses careful not to disturb Jax as he pumps away lest he upset him or put a stop to the euphoria he was feeling. He stops and holds on a vacuum, knowing it's Jax's favorite. As he reaches climax, his breathing gets short and his muscles tense up even more, changing from marble, to granite, to diamond. Sensing he is close, Jax increases his speed and he swings his head back in response as far as his traps would let him. Edging closer, closer, and closer until... *POP*

...The pop however did not come from his cock. No that was rapidly deflating in Jax's hand. The pop came from up higher, deep from within his wall of pecs. It was his heart. All of it simply being too much for it to handle, the mass, the drugs, the workout, and not to mention the hand-job. His limp member is pulled out of Jax's loosened grip as his body begins its fall to the floor. Landing with an earth shattering thud as the weights all around rattle in response.

Jax looks over the ludicrous body he had created, at the man he had just killed. A man that he never even bothered to learn the name of. Past his pecs, he can see his calm face, beaming with happiness, as it always will be. 'Tsk, he was the biggest one yet, it's really a shame,' being his immediate thought. Without a second even beginning to enter his mind, he turns away and walks to the door, wasting no time in heading out to find his next man to help. His staff will ensure the bloated body is gone before he returns, just like they always have, just like they had mere hours before dancer boi arrived, and just like they would next time.

So tell me. Do you need some help reaching your full potential?

He didn't even think to look closely at the supplement sent to him in the mail, assuming it was latest formula from his sponsor, the aesthetic douchebro always eager to make a buck off his half naked body.

With every gulp, his body swelled out drastically. His sculpted physique rounding out with muscle, his tiny waist a casualty to his developing gut, a consequence of his heavy steroid use since his teens. Not to be left out, his face takes on a wider, rougher, brutish figure. Screw aesthetic, his body now is a pinnacle of muscle for the sake of muscle.

He throws the empty shaker in the direction of his gym bag, letting out a guttural ahh in satisfaction while he does. He's ready to ravish the gym like only a young stud with more roids coursing through his veins than the rest of the gym goers combined can.

As it lands, the shaker knocks the tub out of his bag rolling it out of sight under a weight bench where it waits for its next convert. In the shadows, the bright pink letters of its name shine out, "ROIDPIG".

Just look at the size of this fucker in front of you. You've never seen anyone with this much developed mass in real life. You'd swear you were looking at a photo morph if he wasn't standing there in front of you. Is this even real life? Where is he? Where are you?...

Judging by his sparse attire and complexion you reason that he's getting tanned up before heading onstage. This is all so weird, but it's a fantasy come to life for a muscle fetishist like yourself. You feel so strange, but at home at the same time due to your vast voyeuristic appreciation of the sport. Even so, there's never been anyone like him.

His traps almost completely envelop his head flowing down to juicy wide lats, in turn, propping his superhuman arms up high. From forearm to forearm you reason that he is as wide as he is tall. Perched above his delts rise up and explode outward adding width to his profile along with his most impressive feature... his glutes. They were simply massive. Flexed like they were, the striated muscle looking powerful enough to pulverize anything that comes between them.

Holding this specimen on peak musculature development up were the largest pair of beach ball quads you had ever seen. They looked so impractical, spreading his stance wide while pushed together as closely as possible, but also so undeniably hot. There's more muscle in just one of them than a normal man's body.

Of course, the only thing left to ogle are his razor sharp calves, but as you move your gaze down, you notice your view is blocked by two comparatively tanned mounds. Odd, what could those be? You think to yourself. For the first time you go to move your head to scan across the room you're in to make sense of the obstacle. You immediately notice how much stiffer your movements are, only able to move your head a few inches to either side. To your sides, the mounds taper off before other ones flanking them rise up, their resolve outside of the limited range of motion and vision you have.

You recenter and ponder... what could this be? They almost look flesh-like, kinda like... no, it couldn't be, pecs?... Your pecs? You flex your chest, expecting nothing to happen. However, the mounds permanently in your field of vision spring into life, hardening and pulling tight, their muscle fibers exploding with power and definition. Your heart skips a beat, that or it's the first time you've even noticed your heart this whole time. Quickly, a feeling of electricity washes over you as you suddenly become aware of the freakish mass you yourself contain. Despite being unable to see it yourself, you can feel your cobblestone core and wing-like lats. Your arms and quads taking a similar wide stance due to their mass, and to cap it off your own perky muscle ass just waiting to be worshiped. You don't know how you know it, but you're sure you have at least 100lbs on this guy. The thought of you looking even more freaky than him sending your mind reeling.

"Alright gentleman, this way for your final coat," a woman with a clipboard announces, breaking you of your thought. The man in front of you slowly begins waddling forward. His mass in motion a sight to see. Quads thunderously rolling around each other while his mighty glutes tighten and relax in relation. His lats twist and stretch while using his upper body to counterbalance his mighty legs. A few steps in, you realize it's your turn to move. Making note of his movements, you replicate them the best you can knowing your body can't move like it used to. After a tentative step, you're in motion, the symphony of muscles dancing as you move intoxicating you immediately. You still don't know where you are or how you got here, but you were born ready for this next huge chapter of your life.

My Desires

Muscle. I want it. I NEED it.

I want people to recoil with shock and disgust when I clumsily waddle down the street. Their reactions only serving to grow my near constant erection painfully larger. My posers not even coming close to covering it or my testosterone factory balls, risking a public indecency charge every time I go out. A body like this though is indecent everywhere, even in private.

I’ll moan with satisfaction over what I’ve done to my body… my chest and arms colliding for the 5th time that day while I try in vain to reach anything, my pecs, traps, and delts limiting my field of view, only being able to see the thinnest sliver of the world past the cavern of muscle that surrounds my head, my quads thunderously rolling over each other, relaxing and exploding with size and definition as I shift my weight.

I’ll be too big for the world around me, constantly stuck in door frames, heavy appendages hanging off the edges of my king size bed. My hands, feet, and head all suspended far from the mattress due to the size of my powerful glutes, exploded arms and legs and of course my wide ridiculously flared lats. Screw a V, even a W, letters, words, nothing can accurately describe their shape.

I’ll need help with everything, washing, dressing, eating, even the simple act of human locomotion (while I still can), an entourage always within hypertrophied arms’ reach acting as spotters to guide me through a world not designed to contain me.

Onlookers will criticize me, in private and sometimes even to my face, the latter of course being preferred. They’ll call me disgusting, grotesque, too big, too much. Just a big dumb lunk throwing my life away in a fruitless pursuit of more and more muscle. They’ll say I’m destroying my health, that my heart will pop tomorrow, that I’m a waste, consuming so much time, energy, and resources to build something that only the nastiest closeted muscle fetish freak could appreciate.

I want to be an afterthought to my own body, my thoughts and personality withering away as my muscles swell. My muscles will define me, both in outside perception, but also within myself. They’ll be in control, sending waves of desire all throughout me, coursing through the sharply defined veins covering every inch of skin. The bigger I get, the more I’ll want in a vicious and delicious cycle designed for unending pleasure.

They’ll never understand. They’ll never be able to comprehend the feeling of containing so much unrelenting power and how the power feeds the furnace for more and more. If they could experience it, even for just one second, they’d see that all the sacrifice is worth it, they’d understand the excitement of transcending humanity, the ironic enjoyment of experiencing all my body can’t do now and knowing that I did that to myself by falling into the pit of gluttonous muscle lust of my own making.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, all this time talking is time that could be spent growing. So let’s do it. Let’s grow. Let’s let everything else fall to a place of unimportance to the one thing that means anything in this world, MUSCLE.

NEED

Link to part 1

Link to part 2

Finale...

He stood there for what seemed like hours after the wave of growth finally wore off, staring at his obscene body in the mirrors that adorned the gym wall, his muscles filling them completely. Compelled to flex, he found himself clumsy and uncoordinated, muscle bashing up against muscle as he attempted even the most basic poses. His greed and muscle lust had really done a number on himself. The power he felt coursing through his body was in contrast to the real world fact that his hands couldn't get closer together than 6ft apart due to his bulging biceps, pecs, lats, and ham-hock forearms. Looking at his engorged legs, he wonders if he will be able to swing them around each other to at least attempt the most crude waddle. As he lifts one leg up, he is amazed by the synchronized perfection of his swollen quads.

Before landing that first step, he's startled by a sudden voice behind him... "I knew I could count on you," it said. "Who's there?" Vlad replied, his speech muffled by his scruffy chin rubbing against his inner pec meat, but he was met with silence. Unable to see anyone behind him in the mirror, he instinctively turns his head to look, only to be almost immediately confronted by a wall of trap and delt meat. He'll have to turn around, he realizes. As he awkwardly shuffles his overburdened feet to turn his massive body, he takes in the view of the gym around him, the slowly moving carousel of sights framed constantly by the pecs and delts swelled up around him. It's a sight he could get used to. From the outside, the mysterious man watches the curious sight. The bodybuilder blown up with such absurdly large muscles that he can barely move an inch, heaving in one solid mass as he turns around.

Making it a full 180° only after several minutes of struggling against himself, Vlad still doesn't see anyone, for a moment wondering if he simply walked away while he attempted to face him, but his confusion was cleared as the man took a few steps back to meet his gaze over his pecs. "Everyone told me I was crazy, that no one would would be willing to see just how far Formula X would take them. That they'd all get scared once they realize the drawbacks of living life past the previously understood limits of human muscular development, the limits that I am sure you are already becoming aware of..." he trailed off, casually gesturing at Vlad's massive frame with his free hand. "But I knew you were special. I knew it the second you went in for that second dose, the way you sucked the vial dry and unceremoniously rammed that needle into your thigh. So tell me, are you happy?"

Vlad attempted to take stock of the wild changes to his body and life that had taken course in the short time he had known that innocuous little vial. Doubts started to creep in again, but were quickly pushed down by the sensations beginning to rule his body. His muscles, even at rest, pulse with power, the thick veins are in sharp relief all over delivering the nutrients they need to sustain and grow. He's lost in the heaving of his mighty chest as he draws in air to meet the demands of the cords of muscle that make him. He simply nods in reply. Not wasting any time letting that answer sink in, the man quickly replies "But are you satisfied?"

The benign question rocked Vlad to the core. He had to be satisfied, right? Look at him, there simply wasn't anywhere he could pack on any more muscle. Especially if he wanted to keep any semblance of movement. He was already multiple times larger than he was when he walked through the gym doors. That had to be enough. Yeah it had to... had to... but it wasn't, and he knew it. The man stood there waiting Vlad's reply, but he already had the answer. He could feel and see his body shake and pulse for more. Unclasping the latches on the briefcase at his side, the mysterious man held it above his head so Vlad could see its contents. In it were three massive syringes, equipped with grips and wide needles, something you would see brought out for large animals, not humans. The thick barrels looked like they could each hold three vials worth of the transformational formula. Vlad lost it at the realization of what the man was offering, moaning at the thought.

"That's what I thought. Let's finish what we started."

The warm sand on his feet was a welcome change to what Micah become accustomed to in his old life, his feet more familiar to the cold and damp grounds of his Eastern European upbringing. In that life, early in his teens, he found the gym to be an escape from his otherwise harsh and monotonous life. He'd spend every hour he could there working out or taking tips from some of the gym's more developed members. He soon found himself fully immersed in the gym rat culture, complete with all its trappings... steroids and a physique to prove their effectiveness.

His body took so well to putting on mass. People would joke that he was a sponge for the roids soaking them in deeply while his muscles exploded outward in response. By only 24 he looked prime to step onstage at Olympia, but he also looked like the poster child of PED abuse, his insane body headed by a face that looked like 24 going 48 and a receding hairline to match. That's what roiding hard and heavy for the past decade will do to a young man's body, and that's only to mention the outward symptoms.

Unfortunately Micah realized the sacrifices he was making to leapfrog to the top of the heap much too late and felt powerless to stop. Like a drug addict, he always needed more. Heck, he was a drug addict, his drugs of choice? dianabol, trenbolone, deca, insulin, the list goes on... but most importantly, pure, uncut, muscle. The last one among them all constantly leaving him desperate for more. His addiction was ruling his life and his ever-growing muscles impeding it. His bulbous appendages always fighting for space, leaving him breathless just crossing the gym floor.

That's when he started planning his escape. Yearning for a simpler life untainted by the decisions and chemical dependencies of his own he trolled social media to find one, eventually landing on a profile of a hunky twink from Dubai, Sebastian. He had stalked him for weeks watching him along with his millions of other followers travel around the world from photoshoot to photoshoot while he himself spent his days with activities such as struggling to dab lotion on his stretch marked and needle pocked glutes.

He was sure of his decision once he was in his new body. The feeling of the warmth of the desert sun on his mostly naked chiseled body affirming it. As expected, Micah found several DMs from his old body as soon as he unlocked his phone. "Bro, what the fuck?" "Give me my body back" "This body is fucked" yada, yada, yada. A simple block without even as much as a reply taking care of that. Who's going to believe some drugged out muscle freak over a social media hunk like him? Besides, unless he has a stronger will than him, he'll be too busy back at the weight rack soon enough.

Micah's ease into life as Sebastian, Seb for short, was not as easy as planned. Though the chemical dependence was gone, the psychological need was still there. His new leisurely lifestyle helped quell it for the most part, as did the less intense gym routine he adopted to maintain his shape. It was during one of those gym visits many many months in later that curiosity and sentimentality got the best of him and he checked in on his former self. He had often wondered what Seb had been able to make of it.

One look and it was obvious that Seb had given in immediately to the muscular needs of his body even more-so than he had ever allowed himself. Unbeknownst to him, something clicked at the sight, looking down at his shirtless torso he felt a familiar emptiness reintroduce itself along with a familiar need for more.

Upping his sets and reintroducing many of his former favorite friends, though this time at doses and schedules based in hard learned lessons of his former life, he developed a well of untapped potential in his twunky body, packing on an impressive amount of mass while still retaining his boyishly good looks.

Predictably his follower count dropped drastically as his mass increased and his content stream shifted to one matching his renewed lifestyle of a hardcore gym rat, leaving comments on how he turned himself into a freak before they leave. But it doesn't matter to him, he had more than enough cash piled up to live comfortably, as far as he was concerned, the only two followers he cared about where his two fat glutes.

Olympia weekend. One of your favorite times of year when all of your muscular fantasies would trot their peak condition—hypertrophied, tanned, glistening bodies onstage for all the world to see. But after an 80 hour week, it was all you could do to pass out soon after arriving home, staying conscious only long enough to catch Nick Walker's Instagram story as he pumped up backstage. In your fatigued eyes he looked absolutely massive, noticeably bigger than even his one day out update, a likely case of your fantasies bleeding into reality as you drift to sleep.

You're awaken by the ping of a message from one of your fellow muscle lovers...

Bro, did you hear about Nick?! He exploded onstage last night!

Your mind flashes back to the video, your cock raising to attention at the sight and the thought of him shooting his load onstage simply from the sight of his own massive body.

Can't blame him. If I had a body like his I'd be creaming myself constantly...

No! He LITERALLY exploded onstage... It's fucking NUTS. People are saying he took some experimental shit before the show.

Excuse me what?

I was watching the live stream...

He waddled onto stage with a crazy look in his eyes that didn't even bother to acknowledge that he was easily 100lbs heaver than he started the day with.

By the posedown he was easily cresting 600lbs, everyone in the crowd was glued to Nick. Even everyone onstage, half hardheartedly posing while they watched him continue to flex and morph.

Bro, you've been reading too many muscle growth stories. Hot stuff though.

Seriously, look it up, the whole community is talking about it.

You swipe over to Google: Nick Walker Olympia. Pages upon pages of videos pop up, the stills showing Nick looking more like a gorilla in size than a man. It takes a few tries to find a link that isn't taken down before you finally find a grainy version on a shady video reposting site.

To your utter amazement the video plays out just as your friend said. Nick walking thunderously onstage, despite his larger than average starting size, obviously not used to his newly added size. As he mingled around the stage for the judges you could see him growing, first only if you focused in for a few seconds, but soon enough plainly obvious even if you were to look away... not that anyone was.

Near the end of the posedown his movements were becoming increasingly clumsy, himself tripping over his meaty limbs, just before being locked in place by his exponential growth. Muscles pushing up and out in every direction quickly swallowing his head, hands and feet. Stretch marks littering his skin as it struggled and failed to keep up, splits forming near the peaks of his fire hose-thick veins before... BOOM.

He hasn't been able to pull himself away from the morphed image of himself in his phone for the past 15 minutes. Endlessly tweaking here and there all the while growing it bigger and bigger and bigger.

He's sculpted a decent figure for himself, but he always fantasied of more. When this app started popping up on his usual haunts, he decided to give it a try after seeing some of the photos people have been posting with it.

So amazed by the realistic image his phone his able to create, he neglects to notice that it's more than just a technological trick, with every change having a very real effect on his body.

Not until he feels something brush his ear, what he would shortly come to realize being his swollen trap, is he snapped back into reality. In his shock and clumsiness due to his sudden mass, he drops his phone, but the sound of it shattering as it hit the ground was the least of his worries.

In the mirror ahead he comes to grips with his unwitting enhancements. He had imagined the feeling of such swollen muscles as he pumped them up in the app, but the real deal is something else. Bulging all over, it's all so hot, and fuck wouldn't more be even hotter? but no... it's... way, way too much, right? how is he supposed to do anything normal as a lumbering muscle beast like this.

With a grunt he bends over to pick up what's left of his phone, noting as he does of how much less he can bend due to his thick abs and quads. Through the shards of pixels still managing to display a picture he frantically taps around hoping in vain to land on a setting to dial back the changes.

He sees himself growing in the mirror again and in frustration brings up his other hand to reinforce his grip and refocus on the task, but when it's stopped short inches from the phone by his colliding pecs, biceps, and forearms, his phone once again goes tumbling down, this time across the locker room floor.

He rushes over to grab it once again, or at least he means to, but the growth has shifted into overdrive and his swelling quads are limiting him to the slowest waddle. Each step is more difficult than the last as he covers less and less ground between them. Despite his dwindling field of vision over his pecs and his arms getting pinned in the air further by the second, he's still holding out hope that he can do something to make it stop... until, *crunch*

The growth stops at the sound, the phone was toast. His frantic thoughts give way to a wave of acceptance, at least for the moment, as he calms down enough to take in just how much more he had grown in the last few seconds. He's shocked, bewildered, and aroused. In the mirror was a muscular starfish of a man, so bulging with muscle that he could do little more than wiggle his hands and feet. A size he had only fantasized about now oh so real after the series of bizarre events.

Having not planned to blow up into an immobile muscle blob today, all he could do now is wait for someone to find him and see what happens from there. As he passes the time by inspecting his heaving muscle frame he hopes that app had backed up to the cloud, cuz there's a few more areas that could use some more tweaking now that he's fully taken himself in.

#28 watched in shocked amazement as the man in front of him in line blew up rapidly. This was no ordinary backstage pump, the mysterious shot administered by one of the show organizers being the first indication before the all too obvious massive result.

The man dropped the performative resistance band before starting a slow waddle to the stage, his arms barely dropping an inch as he let go. #28's gawking stare was only broken by the sharp call out "NEXT."

Have your fill

"Here's the deal," the attendant started off while you settled into the mysterious white room, "you can have as much as you want but this is a one time offer, when you step out that door," he muttered something under his breath "if you can," "that's it, so make sure you have your fill."

With that two unremarkable assistants slammed two cases of naked silver cans on the table in front of you. The man continued, "Each of these cans are expected to permanently increase your muscle mass by 10lbs, with an average activation time of only a few minutes. Drink cans one at a time waiting for the full effect before consuming another, simultaneous consumption has not yet been tested. You may monitor your progress via the readout on the wall."

You glance up at the red 4-digit readout displaying 135. In the momentary silence you feel a cold rush through your thin body as your senses finally have a chance to process your naked self, clad only in a pair of excessively baggy stretchy white shorts provided by the facility.

"If you need any more…" 'More?!' quick math says there's hundreds upon hundreds, possibly even 1000 pounds of potential muscle mass on the table in front of you if their claims are accurate, 'how could anyone need more?' He gestures to the door "…or experience any other problems, use the intercom. However, when you are satisfied, simply press the red button on your table and you'll be taken to the outpatient center for evaluation and reintegration."

"So, any questions?"

You were stupefied, unable to process your current situation even in this stripped down environment with just you, these cans, and three, wait, three buttons? "What's that other button by the door?" you ask.

"Don't worry about that, that one will only activate for lab staff such as myself," he remarks wiggling the fingers on his raised hand to illustrate his point. "Now, if there isn't anything else, I will let you get to it."

It took you a number of minutes to do anything after he left you alone in the room. You just sat frozen staring out in front of you. Finally, once you caught up to reality, you slowly reach out for a can. You feel it in your hand, it's warm, room temperature maybe. You had expected it to be cold despite not having any reason to think that. Perhaps it's the fact that you normally guzzle cold energy drinks out of such cans. You look down at yourself, taking note of your featureless body before taking a hard gulp. "Well, here goes nothing."

It's not unlike your familiar drinks, the potent flavor likely covering up other more acrid notes just like their energy-inducing counterparts. It feels weightless in your stomach, your body eagerly soaking up the contents of the can like a sponge. You sit for what feels like an eternity waiting for the promised effects to materialize, in reality waiting just a few minutes as promised for them to do so.

All over your body you feel a fizzy eagerness as your muscles show themselves for the first time in your life. A faint outline of pecs is joined by the top row of a six pack as your limbs take on similar definition. "Holy shit," is all you can utter. Fearing a hallucination you glance up at the readout pleased to see it confirm your visions, now displaying 145. Without hesitation you grab another and in just another moment you're bigger yet, already starting to look like a gym rat. During the next can you take a different tactic, instead watching the readout with burning intensity as it crept up. This cycle continues for another half hour, not that you can tell for sure, only being able to measure passage in increased pounds, not minutes.

As the display lands neatly on 225lbs, you realize that glued to the readout, you haven't even glanced down once in five or six cans. When you do… my god. 'Who is this bodybuilder sitting in this chair and how am I looking out at the view of such a physique?' you playfully think to yourself. You bring your bulging arms up in front of your chest and flex, in a flash bringing them and your pecs alive with tension. You moan in pleasure, joking to yourself, "Good thing these shorts are white." Speaking of, your quads are starting to take up ample space in the once comically baggy shorts.

Coming to grips with your already wildly transformed body, you glance over at the still mostly full case of cans and its full companion, and ponder for the first time just how far you want to take this. Honestly, you thought this trial was all a big joke, but you could walk out of here now to a completely different life. But do you want more?… do you need more?

Anything more would surely be outrageous, a much different life even yet. Your recluse life would surely be out the window with you carrying any more muscle than you already are… but heck, even now you're past that, 'people will be noticing this,' you think as you give yourself a quick flex 'and honestly the reason for noticing ain't at all bad.'

With a renewed fervor you decide to dive back in and let yourself feel out a stopping point. You soon find yourself falling back into the same cycle, its predicable outcome leading you into a stupor. You make adjustments here and there as you feel your range of motion change as your muscles swell, but unrelenting mass filling up your view does not trigger any sort of reaction. The numbers on the readout steadily tick up but soon lose their meaning. Only when you go to grab another can from the first case and come up empty are you drawn out of your trance.

Twisting your mighty chest, you peer over your pecs to stare in shock at the pile of cans on the floor to your left. You turn back to the readout… 615. For a moment you're speechless. Your eyes, darting down to realize exactly what that number meant on you, are immediately met by… not much, but so so much at the same time. Dominating your lower vision is a pair of pecs larger than you've ever seen capped to the sides by a pair of equally awe-inspiring deltoids. You're scared and frustrated by not being able to see anything else. "A muscle-growth factory like this can't spring for a mirror?" you lightheartedly, but also annoyingly, remark to yourself making note of your sexy new bass as it rumbles through your chest. You raise your monolithic arms to a double-bicep hoping to at least catch a glance of them. Though not as easily as you'd have hoped with your delts crashing into your face via the pose, you're rewarded with the sight of massive biceps each out-sizing your head twice over covered in a network of pulsing veins.

The last vestige of your rational mind for a moment returned your focus to that number… 615. That's batshit insane, what on earth have you done? You feel the weight of your unseen mass pressing on and out of you at every moment. You slowly writhe your arms and legs feeling just how much you've limited your movements. Your hands and feet have less of a chance of meeting at this point than an all too obvious catfish and their mark. 'Surely this is enough?' you think as your eyes drift to the red button.

But yet, mere inches away, the other case. Against all reason, you reach for another, ready to be once again whisked away into muscled lust.

The test being well over a couple hours in, the attendant takes this moment to check in. He's pleased by what he sees. "Well, well, well, looks like our little muscle pig is well on his way… hmm he's starting to have a little trouble drinking." He notes that his biceps and pecs are starting to restrict his ability to reach his mouth before continuing, "to be seen if he'll tap out or adapt. Session continues, 3h 13m and 29s." With that he flips the monitor back off and continues about his work.

This time you're snapped back by a splash of the precious drink hitting your face. As it snakes down your cleavage you take a beat to figure out what just happened. Preparing again for a glug you feel your tilting head firmly stopped short as it hits your overgrown traps. Attempting to counteract by bringing the can closer is stopped by a paradoxical meeting of your muscles as your attempt to push closer is only met with the opposite outcome. The can is stopped firmly once your arm is fully flexed, causing yet another splash to dribble out.

Shifting your attention, the numbers on the wall come into focus… 775. This time though, there's no reflection or doubt. Instead your mind is filled with another concern. There's so many more cans, but at this rate you're not going to be able to reach many more to your waiting lips. Your one track mind resolves to slam as many as possible in an attempt to beat the pace of the growth. Lowering your grip on the can you down it, following it up with another in your left hand. Over and over, continuing to adjust your grip as the growth kicks in until you can't even reach only pinched between your index finger and thumb.

You let out a thunderous belch as you throw the empty can to the ground. In the distance the numbers on the readout creep up, this time faster than before. The fizzy feeling amplified exponentially. Feeling a sudden urge to know what's coming you lean forward in an attempt to see over your pecs to count how many cans are left, but your abs and quads aren't giving you much range. The far end of the case comes into view as you see them, only two cans left. Just then, the admittedly formidable chair you were still perched atop finally gave up the ghost. As you slam to the floor, the once sturdy metal frame is neatly flattened by your 825lb-and-climbing twitching muscle mass of a body.

Shaking off the shock, mostly metaphorically at this point, you struggle to process the simple math, putting more focus into simple subtraction and multiplication than you did in the 2nd grade. '48 minus 2, minus 16… 30 cans… times 10… 300! plus 775…' "One-thousand and seventy-five!" you yelled to no one. "But it could be ninety-five," you say as you lock eyes with the last two cans. Your new lower seating position left you with an ever so slight chance of being able to reach them, but your vision was quickly being enveloped fully by your burgeoning pecs. Blindly you flail around, rocking the table with your powerful movements, hoping to reach one.

At this moment the attendant decides to tune back in. "Oh my, seems like someone has overindulged!" he quipped to himself, "what's wrong big guy, can't reach the button?" taking pleasure in another subject's unchecked desires overwhelming them. On his assumption he started making his way back to the room to come to his aid and assist in discharging the 1000lb+ mass of a man.

Opening the door he starts "It looks like someone needs some…" but he's not met with the sight he was expecting. There you are, against all odds with a can in each of your sturdy hands. Raising them up you stop short more than a foot above your head. Effortlessly you crush them simultaneously as the last drops of the miracle elixir trail down your face, ricocheting off the trough between your pecs, down to your buried mouth. In a frenzy of snorts and coughs, you suck it all down, letting out a guttural roar when finished.

"My bad, seems I've misjudged… and that you've defied the rules." Lightly stepping further into the room, his smile only grows as he speaks, "Well I suppose I should tell you, I did fib on that one, we have tested that little feature of our formula and found that it triggers two-fold… I don't imagine that was the first time you double-fisted today, so where are we, about 1,500lbs?"

Expecting a reply, you try your darndest to do a final bit of math, at his point peeved to be taking your attention away from you still expanding body. 'If the last cans double up… that means…' "1,395" you declare, your mighty bass muffled by your growing pecs, marking the last words to pass out your lips unimpeded.

"My, my, quite the glow up, or shall we say blow up?"

All you could do now was sit as mobility quickly finished escaping you. The feeling of the mass that you were, the mass you were still to become was overwhelming. Just above the crest of your pecs you watch the readout continue to click up. To your sides, your arms are now perpetually in your periphery propped up high not by their incalculable might, but by plain lack of space. You can't see, but you can feel the sheer area your glues and quads were taking up on the floor, the latter splayed far apart by the girth of themselves and by your growing gut, itself just now meeting the ground, your bottom set of abs feeling the cold tile. Buried deep below, your cock lets out an endless spring of cum fueled by the testosterone flowing through every inch of you. Wracked in pleasure, you finally let go of the remains of the crushed cans, falling, they bounce off your forearms on the way down.

"I must say. That was quite a display of dedication. I don't think we've ever seen someone get so creative with their consumption. I take it that you'll be wanting some more, hmm?"

He didn't wait for a reply.

"Well then, let's move onto the next phase then."

With that, he presses the third button. Like in a movie, you watch as the roof of the room lifts up and the walls fall to their sides, revealing a much larger, warehouse-sized room just as sparse and brightly lit as before, if not more. The table and mess of empty cans are whisked away as a machine tips you forward to remove the remnants of the chair and long-tattered shorts from your powerful cheeks.

"I honestly wasn't pegging you for one of our more advanced applicants, kudos!" he said feeding a flexible plastic tube through your pec valley to your mouth. "Now, just like before… just say when." With a flick, the tube filled with that same fizzy serum.

"Oh, almost forgot!"

He places a headset over your eyes. The image flickers on and at first you don't recognize the unusual shape. But then it dawns, it's you! Finally you can see yourself, and what a sight you are. But before you're able to really appreciate, the image zooms out to the full size of the room. 'Oh no, I'm so small!' you suck harder on the hose.

"Phase 2 initiation successful. Subject growth limit: undetermined. Shifting to in-person observation."

You feel his hand make contact with your 135" thigh as he increases the flow to meet your pace.