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The Walking Mountain
It began with an idle boast, roared to the tavern after too many ales. By the end of the night, Calvagh was on his way to the northern forest, on a drunken quest to hunt and kill the bear known as the Walking Mountain. At some point, Calvagh agreed to the added stipulation that he would do it naked like a true warrior; he assumed he did, anyway, for he now found himself standing on a bed of needles in the ancient forest, surrounded by tall pines and bird songs, the morning breeze against his fist-sized balls. He couldn’t remember much of the night before, but he regretted every minute of it all the same. Thankfully, his companions had departed at some point, or sent him ahead alone. Though he was solid and muscular, his uncovered body shamed him, and he blushed when he realized he had stripped for some drunk farmers. He groaned at the thought that the blue war paint that now adorned his arms, pecs, and the right half of his shaft was applied by someone other than himself. Haunted by the implications of his nudity, he kept one hand cupped lightly over his manhood as he walked. Town was nowhere to be found, and the forest was unfamiliar. Calvagh could find no roads or beaten trails, and the pine floor was too chaotic for his untrained and groggy mind to discern any tracks. Calvagh soon realized that he was hopelessly lost. He ran his free hand over his bald, half-blue head and stared in bewilderment at the foreboding shadows around him. “Hello?” The brute bellowed. A flock of birds started into the air, frightened by his powerful voice. He listened for a response, though a part of him dreaded explaining his situation to a stranger. Bushes rustled, and Calvagh soon forgot his embarrassment. A dark mound the color of wood emerged from the shrubbery, and Calvagh’s heart pounded. The bear, fittingly named, looked like a boulder, unusually wide with muscle and bristled fur. It glared at him with eyes that were no stranger to the human form, eyes that had seen the deaths of many hunters. The Mountain grumbled, sizing up the naked thug. He knew he couldn’t run from it, but Calvagh stumbled back anyway. His mind raced, sorting out escape plans, but unless he learned the arcane arts of conjuration and transposition in the next few moments, he would have no choice but to face his idle boast. He was a towering colossus of a man, seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds of tone meat, and had never known an opponent larger than himself. Now, he stared down a monster easily three times his weight without even the comfort of pants to aid him. The fact that all of his confidence relied on ale and the advantage of size soon became apparent. “Please, I-” He stuttered, pleading to its feral form. It growled and rumbled like heavy stones, and his tongue stilled. With a roar, the Walking Mountain surged forward, pounding the earth with its massive paws. Needles and twigs pierced the human’s soles as he ran, and soon the bear was upon him. He lunged to the side, narrowly dodging its swipe. The heavy animal slid to a stop and turned, charging again. Calvagh staggered to his feet, but the Mountain’s paw forced him to the dirt with a bone-crushing thud. The man groaned and pushed himself up, only to be thrown to his back by a second impact. His ribs ached as if he had been struck with a warrior’s hammer. He stared up at the blurry sky and coughed. Curling forward, and fearful of the next blow, the muscular drunkard found his rippling torso rent by streaks of red. The animal part of him realized with horror that he was wounded. He felt the hot breath of the bear upon his shoulder, and turned in time to see its massive teeth and the dark hole of its throat beyond. “No!” He screamed, and threw his hands up. He wrapped his own powerful paws around its head, taking hold of its jaws and forcing them away. It took every ounce of his considerable strength just to keep the deadly teeth at bay. Needles jabbed his skin as Calvagh wrestled for his life. He tried not to think of the stings and pricks he felt, for he knew the pain of a pinprick on his testicles paled in comparison to the pain he would experience should his grip fail. “Help!” He cried between grunts. “Anybody, please!” He heard nothing but the aggravated huffs of the bear and the quiet drip of its drool against his rounded pecs. The Mountain grumbled and shook its head, pushing forward at different angles as if it meant to literally find its way around his defenses. It grew frustrated with its musclebound food. Its claws slid beneath his flexed body and lifted him upright against its chest. The bear stood on its hind legs, a monstrous twelve feet of fur and power, and wrapped its arms around its prey. Calvagh had no chance to escape; to release his hold, even for a moment, would be death. He strained and whimpered, wincing with each slop of hot saliva against his beard, as the bear began to squeeze him. The brute screamed. Air rushed from his lungs in a gurgled wheeze despite his efforts. He tried to struggle, and mistakenly removed his hand from the bear’s jaw. The teeth were an inch from his bull neck when he replaced it. “Help!” Calvagh gurgled once more. The Mountain rumbled as if to taunt him, reminding him of his fate and of his ignorant claims. His bare feet kicked in the air and wrapped around the beast’s torso, desperately searching for some foothold to relieve the pressure in his chest. Its warm pelt tickled his exposed body, and he soon found his cock throbbing and full despite the fear he felt. The animal struggle, the battle of naked beast against naked beast, armed with nothing but their savagery and strength, awakened something primal in him. For the first time in his life, he understood the emotions and the thoughts that the blue paint on his chest, face, and cock embodied. The man had never felt pain and helplessness as he did in the bear’s clutches. He was familiar with the hold, a classic and simple expression of overwhelming strength. Many farmers, a few hunters, and even the occasional guardsman had found themselves trapped by Calvagh’s bulging biceps and vascular pectorals. The big man’s familiarity with the hold did nothing to raise his hopes; every man Calvagh squeezed submitted to his superior strength or turned blue and fell limp in his arms. Now, Calvagh found himself in his victims’ position without even a previous failure to go on. The muscleman flexed and squirmed. Every bulge of his physique swelled, and his face grew red and feral with strain. Drool foamed from the sides of his mouth. Though every inch of his torso was like a wall of stone, the Mountain had little difficulty wringing more air from his body. His spine began to contort and send shocks of pain through him. Any other man would have already found their fate, whether with a broken spine or a quiet asphyxiation, but Calvagh’s strength ensured that his fate would be slower and more torturous. Soon its hold was so tight that he could feel every muscle of the freakish bear, every rope-like cord in its arms and armor-like plate in its chest. The muscles of its neck were as thick as most men’s arms. Calvagh’s final breath escaped his lips. His vision blurred, and his eyes welled with tears. Like a true warrior, the thug struggled with the last ounces of his strength, his painted body shimmering with sweat in the shafts of morning light. His thrashing grew less violent until his legs merely dangled, twitching and trembling. As the strength in his muscular frame faded, the agony in his spine transitioned into a cold numbness. His whole body shook as he slid towards unconsciousness. Stimulated by the primal struggle and his final rush, Calvagh’s manhood erupted, emptying his balls into the killer bear’s fur and marking it as the dominant beast. Within seconds of his submission, a jerk from the bear’s overwhelming arms severed his spine with a thunderous snap. His legs fell still. The man’s green and fearful eyes glazed and dilated. His meaty hands slid down the bear’s muzzle, hooked and hung for a moment from its lips and teeth, then fell to rest on its deadly arms. Instantly its jaws clamped down, piercing the brute’s artery and shooting blood onto the animal’s tongue. It relished the taste of the prey who had resisted it for so long, flying into a frenzy. It squeezed his lifeless body tighter, milking him for every fluid he could offer. A second bite tore his throat from his thick and muscular neck, while a third snapped it. Raging and hungry, the Mountain threw Calvagh to the ground with a thud. It clambered atop and bit into him, lifting his herculean body and tearing chunks from it with a violent shake. Most men who felt his flexed chest and mountainous bicep described it as stone or metal, but to the massive bear’s teeth and claws, his barrel chest was like butter. He was strong, but the grizzly showed beyond any doubt that it was stronger, and it earned the right to his meat by the laws of nature. Calvagh’s companions exchanged theories as they searched the woods, calling his name. Some of them imagined that he had wandered to some other village, or that he was picked up by a rich noblewoman smitten with his physique. They laughed about his huge cock and how arrogantly he showed it off on the trail. None of them considered that he had actually encountered the mythical Walking Mountain until they stumbled onto his remains. Shredded, broken, and exposed, he was almost unidentifiable save for his height and the very physique they joked with ensure his victory. Staring at the brute, killed by his own boast, they gained a renewed fear of the legend, and added the most powerful man they knew to the list of the Walking Mountain’s victims.
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?
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.
Pain management pt2 💀💀💀💀💀2023ink
GB WANDERER
only death is real!
