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[Hey guys, hope you like this weird one-shot] Wad Dude, I gotta tell you this crazy story. I was stoned out of my mind at this boring-ass house party. You should’ve seen the fat blunt I blazed before I got there and then as soon as I arrived I dropped some primo acid in the bathroom. The dudes at the party were all nerds with a capital NERD and there were barely two semi-hot chicks. I was about to make a move on the seven (and angry about it, a seven? I never usually dip below an eight) when I literally ran into this short dude. I bounced back a step like a rubber ball and peered down at his dumb sticker name tag. You get what I’m saying, dude? Sticker name tags? It was that kind of party. “What kind of a stupid name is Wad?” The dude cocked his head to the side and eyed me silently. “Is it short…” I stopped and giggled. ‘Cause he was short see? He didn’t laugh. “Is it short for something? Like Wade?” I giggled again. Why would you shorten a short name? Oh I get it! Because he’s short! I started laughing and snorting like a hyena. The acid was kicking in something fierce. “No,” he said. His voice was so deep the vibration of that single word made my body tingle. What the fuck? I stopped laughing and just stared at him. I realized that though this dude was short, he was jacked, man. Big boned, broad shouldered, and massively muscled. I took in the size of his pecs, turning my head slowly to the left, then right. Dude, his chest alone was wider than my whole body! His hoodie must have been an XXL or bigger and it was plastered to his skin. “Bro,” I said. “You’re huge!” “Yeah," he said. I poked his right pec with my finger. It felt like Detroit fucking steel. “Man that’s solid. You gotta give me the number of your ‘roid dealer.” He said nothing, just shrugged his melon-sized shoulders. See, what’d I tell you? Nerds! Can’t even have a conversation. Though I’d never seen a nerd as stacked as this dude before. “Great talking to you.” I rolled my eyes. “‘Scuse me tho’, I got bitches to hunt.” I nodded toward the seven, who’s name was Beth, I think? Or Bess? Was Bess a name? I stood in front of the dude pondering this, you know, that way you do when you’re stoned, and he turned to look. “Her?” he said. Something about the way he said it got my ire up. “What? I got game, bro. You think I can’t get into her pussy?” He paused and dead-ass looked me up and down. “I know you will,” he said. I grinned at him. “Four words in a row. Slow down, Wad, you’re freaking me out.” I made to move past him, but he shifted his stance and blocked my path with his brick wall of muscle. “It’s not my name,” he said. “What??” Now this dude was beginning to piss me off. I stepped up and clenched my fists, ready to go toe-to-toe with Mr Shorty, though the acid was making my vision a little blurry. “I said: It’s not my name. It’s what I do.” My hyena laugh came back. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” So guess what, dude? He showed me. *** I stared out at the partiers with the one eye I could still see out of. Most of them seemed to keep doing what they were doing: drinking, talking, flirting. Fewer people than you’d think stopped to watch a dude wad a grown man up into a ball. One skinny guy looked up from his phone: “Damn, bro, you’re strong.” What the fuck, Captain Obvious? “Yeah,” he said. “How much do you bench?” “Whatever I want." I blinked my one eye between the dude’s thick fingers. I tried to figure out where my mouth was so I could say something. “Mmmmfff!” “Bro I think he’s trying to say something,” said the skinny dude. I watched his biceps and pecs ripple under the gray fabric of his hoodie. He shifted his hands and held me up in front of his face. “What?”. “How?” I managed to gasp. “I told you. It’s what I do.” This was a circular conversation. But then, I was a ball. Fucking hilarious, right? “Well then, why?” “Some dudes need to be shown their place, y’know?” “What dudes?” “Dudes that think they can ignore me. Get wadded.” “I wasn’t… I talked to you!” “Making a move on a girl I got my eye on? Wadded.” “I didn’t know!” “Guess you do now.” “Bro, c’mon.” The skinny guy yawned and went back to his phone. Mr It’s-Not-My-Name-It’s-What-I-Do spun me on the tip of his finger like a basketball and I held together for a few seconds and then unravelled. I tumbled to the floor, put myself back together as best I could and then climbed back to my feet. Somehow he seemed taller than he did before which was weird. I mean, the whole thing was weird, right? He just stood in front of me, all jacked and indifferent, and I felt my face flush. “You feel hot or is it just me?” I said, pulling on the collar of my t-shirt. “Yeah,” he said. He unzipped his hoodie and shrugged it off his massive shoulders. Bro. Like, *bro*. I heard someone gasp like a teenage girl and then I realized it was me. He wore nothing at all underneath. I took ragged breaths as I stared like a chump at his incredible body. He had a thick muscular neck and traps that humped up nearly to his ears. His delts swelled like they’d been inflated by a tire pump. His giant pecs jumped and bounced as he scrunched up his hoodie and tossed it on a sofa. His waist was a tight shredded stack of bricks that would have broken my hand if I’d punched ‘em. The waistband of his jeans was really loose because he had to wear a bigger size to fit his damn huge quads. Despite all that he was going commando, and letting his thick, blond bush sprout out the top of the jeans. I looked back up at his face in awe. He snorted and I was shocked to feel myself skid toward him slightly, like if he’d snorted harder I would have gone up his nose like a line of coke. Then he turned and walked toward the kitchen. “Gettin’ a beer,” he said. I stared at his 747 lats and bowling ball glutes for a few seconds and then my knees wobbled and I fell into the sofa. I picked up his hoodie and held it up to see how huge it was. I stuck my arms in the sleeves and pulled it over my shoulders. It has been skin tight on him but on me it looked like I could set it up with pegs and camp in it. My eyes started to glaze over as his alpha male pheromones wafted up from the fabric. Man, I was never doing drugs again, this was such a bad trip. “Hey.” I looked up to see Bess (I think?) standing over me. “You okay?” I smiled, back in the game. “Doing better now,” I said. “I’m Ricky.” “I’m Beth,” she said as she sat down next to me. “You’re gorgeous, babe.” “Awww, thanks Ricky.” She tossed her sleek black hair, and pushed out her chest. Damn she had nice tits. “This is probably weird to say. But you smell really good.” “Thanks, Beth,” I said. “That is not even the weirdest thing someone’s said to me in the last ten minutes.” “Ha ha, you’re so funny!” She leaned into me like she was going to whisper something sexy in my ear. I watched, excited, as her tits heaved. Instead of whispering, she inhaled, her nose buried in the cotton of the hoodie. I felt her whole body quiver in lust. Hell yeah! “Wow, you really smell good,” she moaned. “I got something you can smell, babe.” Okay maybe that wasn’t my best line ever, but I was goddamn high for fuck’s sake. Just then, a heavy weight smashed into me like a 250 lb bowling ball was dropped in my lap. Everything went dark. “What the fuck?” I tried to say, but my mouth was squished flat into my face by back muscle. My thighs folded up against my chest as half my body was jammed down into the crack in the back of the sofa. “What happened to Ricky?” Beth asked. “Who’s Ricky?” The low frequency vibes from HIS deep voice battered my face even flatter. “Oh nevermind. Wow you really smell good!” I tried to roll my eyes, but that was hard to do since they were squished. “Yeah,” he said. “Ha ha, you’re so funny!” Oh my god, WHAT was I doing at a party with these morons? “That’s it I’m outta here!” I shouted, though it came out more of a mumble. Using all my strength I tried to push myself up. My forearms were the only part of my body that wasn’t squished flat by his massive back and giant thighs. I braced my elbows against the back of the sofa and pushed hard with my hands on his external obliques. This was the only part of his jacked bod I could get a grip on, since both his lats above and his glutes below flared out beyond where my stumpy half-limbs could reach. Dude, I pushed so hard but nothing happened. Fuck. He was an immovable object and being a half-man at the time, I was no irresistible force. But somehow my drug-addled brain wouldn’t admit defeat, dude. I took as deep a breath as my pancake ribcage could manage and pushed against him with all my might. I felt some movement and groaned with even more effort as my arms pushed forward. I let out a whoop when I felt my arms extend fully, but it caught in my throat when I realized everything was still dark. I hadn’t moved his damn super heavyweight physique an inch, I’d merely pushed my noodly arms around his narrow waist. They were caught deep into the groove of his swole Apollo’s Belt. All I could do was keep pushing ‘em forward. “Should I?” I thought. Dude, I’d seen enough self-loving muscle fags flexing in the locker-room mirrors to know the pot that was at the end of that rainbow. “Damn it, I’m no queer!” I burbled into a back muscle. You know, one of those ripply back muscles that wasn’t a trap or a lat and only nerds knew the name of. But a defiant, curious part of me was like: “I bet it’s tiny. I bet his dick is tiny and even tinier lost in all that muscle. I bet this Muscle Mary has a clit dick. A clit dick to match his bitch tits.” With a strangled gurgle, I pressed my entire body forward so that my arms could reach further. My head mashed into the deep canyon between his lower traps. My shoulders and upper arms folded into the undulating layers of his lats, and my lower legs twisted themselves into the corrugated muscle of his hamstrings. “Tiny dick, tiny dick!” I chanted, ignoring the pain as my rubbery hands groped into a dense grove of his pubes that scraped my skin like barbed wire. Finally my fingertips touched a squishy tube that was the size a pencil. “Yes!” I croaked “Tiny dick!” A deep, rumbly laugh pummeled my Play-Doh body, vibrating me into a sticky goo that spread even further into the crevices of his Adirondacks back. The laugh went on and on. My fingers crept forward and I felt the huge salami that lay beneath the pencil. It was just a vein. A vein running along the biggest cock ever. Not only was this dude jacked the fuck out, he was monster hung! Daaaaaamn. “This look tiny to you, babe?” he said. Bess squealed: “Oh my god!” “Let’s take this somewhere private.” The dude stood up and suddenly I could see again. It wasn’t pretty. “Strong dude!” said the skinny guy. “You got some gum or something stuck to your back.” The dude flexed and rolled his massive traps and lats but all that did was weave my bits further into him. “Help a bro out?” he said over his shoulder. The skinny guy pulled on the belt loop of my pants and I peeled away from the grinding gears of his muscle with a loud, goopy THWOCK. The skinny dude dropped me on the sofa and went back to his phone. “Oh, hi Ricky!” said Bess. “I wondered what happened to you.” I was wondering that too, but it took me a few moments to pull myself together, while the dude steered Bess toward the bedroom. I finally stood up from the sofa. When I rose to my full height I was shocked to see that I was now the same height as the short dude. Actually no, I was slightly shorter. “No,” I breathed hotly. I couldn’t be short now. “Give it back! “ I yelled as I marched over to him. You could beat a man at sports. You could fuck a man’s girl. You could even wad a man up into a ball. But you couldn’t take a man’s height. That was too much. I felt my face flush in anger. “Uh,” said Bess, “why don’t I leave you guys to work this out.” She flitted off to the kitchen. The dude turned to me, and before I even considered what I was doing, my fist swung in an arc at his face. He raised his hand sharply and caught my punch in his huge mitt. He closed his fingers tight around my clenched fist, which looked like a small child's compared to his. In fact his huge fingers were each bigger than my dick. I looked past the hand to his face. Maybe it was because I didn’t bother paying that much attention to short people, but I hadn’t noticed before how handsome he was. He had stunning green eyes flecked with gold. Blond hair buzzed into a tight fade on the sides. Major cheekbones and a stubbly, cleft chin. And a square masculine jaw, measured by the devil’s own protractor. My anger ebbed, replaced by lust. For the first time since I was a teenager I got a hard-on for a dude. He didn’t even acknowledge I’d tried to sock him, he just said: “Never tried it one handed before.” He grunted with mild effort as my fist collapsed into his hand. “What?” I said. My gaze traveled to the muscles of his forearm, which were rippling like a nest of snakes. His thick fingers extended out like a claw, then pulled inward, compacting more of my forearm into his palm. His big, meaty thumb compressed and held the wad in place while his fingers reached out for more. Dazed, I stared dumbly as my elbow got sucked in. The weird thing was, I could feel it. I could feel him exerting his strength on my body. I could feel the counter-pressure of my wadded up arm trying to burst out his palm, and it was kind of exciting, like getting a boner in too-tight briefs. As my bicep reached his hand I flexed it. Not to try to pull away, that seemed impossible, (and I wasn’t sure I wanted to). I flexed it just to see what would happen. It formed a small mound. I had never before thought of my biceps as small, but there was no doubt: the muscle at the base of his thumb was bigger. He met my eyes and held that thumb-muscle against my biceps like he was making damn sure I saw the comparison. Then he squashed it flat. As he continued packing me into his fist with the fingers of one hand, something occurred to me. “How come…” I paused, realizing my voice was hoarse. “How come there’s no pain?” He looked offended. “Dude. I’m not a psychopath.” He bit down on his lower-lip as he reached my torso; he splayed his four fingers out and they mashed the right half of it in one go. Then he extended an index finger and pressed it against the top of my thigh. My whole right leg bent backwards and his pinky finger hooked it into the wad. When he got to the pelvis he did the same trick on my left leg. I burped as a bit of gas forced its way out of my stomach. I was beginning to regret some of my choices here. “Man, sorry I punched you.” “That? First backbone you’ve shown dude,” he said as my literal backbone inched its way into his fist. “Makes me think I maybe misjudged you.” “Yeah?” He smirked. I was now just a head, arm and half-torso hanging from his hand. He leaned his head forward and I felt his hot breath in my ear. “That’s why you’re getting the extra sexy version.” My acid giggles came back, or it might have been the tickle of his lips on my ear. “No homo!” My hard cock said otherwise from somewhere within the racquetball sized mass in his hand. His pinky hooked my neck into the ball and I blindly copped a last feel of the cascading muscles of his pumped 20 inch forearm before his fist slurped up my arm like a noodle. “One handed, bro!” he whooped. He crushed me like Superman turning coal to diamond and then opened up his hand. I laid in his palm like an egg. “Now that’s a fucking WAD, man. Damn tight. I’m getting better at this.” “You are, dude!” I chirped as I blinked one eye. “Thanks, bro. Maybe you’re alright after all. Let’s go find Beth.” “I’ll be your wingman, bro.” “More like Pac Man, get it?” “Ha, ha ‘cause I’m round, right?” “You’re getting it bro.” *** It turns out, dude, that he wasn’t a nerd after all. He was just one of those guys that takes a while to warm up, y’know? “Chug! Chug! Chug!” chanted Bess and the Skinny Dude. I could hear him down the beer in barely four gulps. What a fucking stud! I popped my lips out of the wad, which he’d tucked between his pecs, and whistled. “Fuck yeah, bro,” he rumbled. “Your turn.” He flicked the cap off another beer with his thumbnail and turned it up into my mouth. At first I dribbled the liquid, coating his deep-cut eight pack with a foamy shine. “Don’t worry, I’ll lick that off later,” Bess cooed. Then I got the hang of it and swallowed again and again while the chug chant spurred me on. As the beer filled me up, more of me popped out of the wad. As I took the last gulps, my shrunken, twelve inch frame clung to the bottleneck, my legs swinging like a baby monkey at the zoo. “Good job, little guy,” he said, plucking me off the bottle and holding me up in front of his huge, handsome smile. Bess loomed over me like a beautiful giant. Look how small you are Ricky! Babe, don't drop him!” But then I belched like a linebacker at a victory party and he let go in surprise. I fell down his torso, skidding over the slick rocks of his abs into the loose waist of his jeans, and came to an abrupt stop straddling the base of his huge cock. Thank fuck it was still spongy soft or my tiny balls would have been crushed! “Aww look at him he’s so cute! Babe you’re like a kangaroo with a little joey!” said Bess as I looked up dazed from my new perch. He looked at her weird but Skinny Dude, leaned drunkenly against him. “That’s a compliment bro, those ‘roos are jacked as shit.” “Seriously? That’s cool, man.” While Skinny Dude showed him a vid on his phone of two muscular kangaroos boxing, Bess leaned over and poked my tummy like I was the Pillsbury Doughboy. I giggled to make her laugh and stared at her giant tits, but then her breathing got real heavy as her hand went lower. She felt the shaft of his soft cock between my legs. “It’s soooo big, Ricky. And he’s not even hard yet.” She winked at me like I was a co-conspirator in getting that cock in her pussy, and I started panting with lust at the image that sprung into my brain of just that, my own prick growing rock hard in an instant. “Look, babe, Ricky’s got a little boner!” she said slyly. “Yeah?” he said “Nice, bro.” I looked down at my stiff rod sticking straight out. It was dwarfed by a vein that started to fill with blood as I felt the flesh beneath my ass begin to swell. She stood up and crushed her body to his. Her soft curves molding to his stony hardness, with me caught in between. I could smell her cunt getting slick as she moaned “Fuck me!” into his ear. “Guess what bro?” he said. “Looks like we’re getting lucky.” We stumbled into a bedroom and she fell back on the mattress while he leaned against the door to close us off from the din of the party. Of its own accord, his giant cock busted open the fly of his jeans as it swelled to its full cunt-busting length. I gasped as I stared at the huge purple helmet towering over my head as his thick shaft crushed me into his navel. “Babe—“ she stuttered. “Do you have a condom?” His rumbly chuckle vibrated my bones to jelly and he plucked me up and rolled me flat between two fingers. “See, bro, I told you you’d get into her pussy.” ** Isn’t that fucked, dude? Have you ever heard a story as crazy as that? It’s all true, no word of lie. In fact, dude, I feel flushed, and jacked as shit since I left there. At first, I had a huge headache from how my head kept pounding into her cervix. Yeah bro that huge cock really filled her up to the max. And when she came, that cunt pounded back, dude. Fuck! And then he busted, filling my fucking latex ass with primo jock muscle juice. Once they fell asleep, I pried myself off that big cock and squeezed my hole to keep every bit of that stud cum in me. Fuck man, I was back to normal height in seconds! And look man, muscles like I never seen before in all my life. Feel that bicep bro, big and hard as a rock. I said feel it bro. Where do you think you’re going, you little shit? Feel that muscle I said. Who are you calling a weird ass motherfucker? I tell you a cool story and then you try to split like a chump? C’mere you. Hrgh. Hnnnn. That’s right, who’s weird now, dirtbag? Hrggh. How do you like being a ball, fucker? END

QUARY AND THE MUSCLE FAGS OF KURAI by Quote the Raven (c) JANUARY 2021 Of Quarium, all that could be shared I put forward in an ode. Chapter 1 - Desert (Sahra’) In April each year, Kurai temperatures climb to ninety degrees. They stay there and higher for half a year. - The Non-Arabs’ Guide to Kurai. A hollow concrete form in the center of the Narra al Maktoun Solar Farm 43 kilometers south of Kurai City in Kurai fills a structural role — spacing or reinforcement or something similar. The form sits invisibly amongst hundreds of acres of concrete footings and shiny black glass regiments in an otherwise barren landscape. Ejaaz Eud’laat does not know the purpose of the form, only that he has purposefully found it to shelter in its shaded interior. He swelters as he tapes reflective foil sheets to two cement openings at either end, working wall-to-wall, end-to-end, eight layers thick. The sheets block him in making it more suffocating, stifling and hot than this early July day already is. When the changes start though, the layered separation will not increase the heat, but will do the opposite and enable and protect cold. As Ejaaz endeavors at the curtaining, nerves unsteady him. They tremor his hands and intensely roil his gut. But desire pushes coveting in his veins so extreme that the rhythm of his heart pumping almost throbs aloud the needing of his efforts. He talks to himself. “You’ve done this before, Ejaaz. You’ll do this again. You can do it. You will.” When the layers of sheeting hang completed, he thinks, Get out of these clothes. Robes and keffiyeh that served his former obesity swamp off roomily and effortlessly from his coiled composition — a composition that now only strictly-dieted, intense university cricket or endurance athletics or champion swimming would have forged. He’s never done such training, though, has he. He never went for sport, fuck it, some did, but why could he never have taken to it. He does see now and feel now so palpably how worth it it would have been. He’s never put in years of those kinds of workouts — any fucking kind actually — or that disciplined, necessarily regimented, eating — The eating of the cast iron, forged iron will. He’s never cleaved himself to the half decade that would have forged this goddish muscly whippetness. Oh fuck it up, if only he had fucking done exactly that, what a jack he would have been all along, more so month by month, year by year. With the layers of sheeting and the concrete’s one-foot thickness, the space is dark now, it steams with heat. That’s too be expected — he resists the temptation to doubt how it will work. He drips with boiled sheens of fluid. The way he’s prepared the space, the change to the temperature will surely happen — won’t take long. He knows he knows that. Perspiration almost flows from his so recently chiseled jaw and rolls down his so new hard flat brown front. He takes a giant draft of ionized water. It really is the perfect environment now that it’s sealed off — what is to happen in his body will make it work — hard, foot-thick muffling and insulating walls, ultimately remote, and undiscoverable. And just how fucking remote it is, that is the key really — the ultimate reason for choosing here... oh yeah if he could be a betting man why wouldn’t he put money on that. But, fuck, he’s betting much more than money isn’t he anyway. His eyes fall to this body and he is greedy with it. It is indescribably beautiful so shredded and hard and chiseledly trim. Fuck yeah. He knows this is just the start. His eyes go also to his briefs. A snicker disrespects the member there. You’re good, baby, you really are, he thinks, I’ve been ok with you, have made you work, but really, you’re still so nothing. You’ll preen so much more, won’t you baby. Both you and muscle, when you’re both big fuck bold boys, I’ll preen you hard won’t I, fucks, you are both just part of what I’m meant for. Prior use has him to this result — improved from so pitiful, so grossly worse than average, so ignorable or really contemptible — the photo of fucking contemptible — doughy, mr full-on gigantic fat load, obese as a fucking fuck — just twenty-one days ago at 20 years old. Doses have changed him so much already haven’t they though? For sure, but changed him only because of his enduring their evil heinousness, uggghh — abiding the fucking heinous torturing violating heinousness — Allah dammit — oh well, he’s done it now — three times — but he won’t stop now — can only dream now to do it over and over and over and over and over and over again. He mouths, “I. HaVE. to.” He crouches into the wall. Remote, concrete-reduced warmth kisses the hard little sweet curvy sweat ass he has cheated himself to now. He wants it fucked right now, but thinks, Thank you. His ass is so perfectly bubbly, little, rock hard.... round. Ohh. It’s so Hard. Unnh. The location gives desolation — his torture chamber will be effectively and brutally unhearable. This jury-rigged, just-passable buffer will grow to be an ample deep freeze chamber against the outside heat, and will let cold accumulate and oh so drive the compound to work. “Fuck you,” he enunciates, knotted inside.“Fuck the fuck.” Bad language has emerged in him destroying what he was. Self-abuse, even just three doses worth, have rape-assaulted him, roughened him, made it so dirty words vulgarize the changing him — oh how they overthrow his twenty years of prissy, pussy, repressive, Arab-old-lady dictated, fucking mores. Urges ejaculate all over that fucked submissiveness, don’t they? His upper lip curls back from his teeth and his breath makes an exhaling snarl. He reaches out now and eases a vial from a cooler. “Fucker!” he spits. It is this vessel’s transforming compound that births the emerging man’s crudities. Tilting the vial, its liquid shifts between silver, green, gold, and blue. Saliva attempts to gather in his mouth, but his pouty lips crack from heat, and from both the charge and the fears. Opening it, the tube puffs a vapor cloud — a shimmering fog. “Slut,” he seethes, “I hate you,” but also he adds, “I fucking worship you, baby.” He’s so incredibly tempted to snort the Quarium, right then and there, and just have it over, just have it so that he feels...feeeEeeEeels it all here and now — euphoria, greatness, grandeur — everything. But he exerts every last tiny kernel of his too limited willpower — snorting isn’t the way. He needs what’s harder but so much more. So, instead, a syringe draws up the liquid beneath the mist. The liquid is called Quarium. “It’s go time. It is. Now is the time to go. To say go. To do it. Please! Come On. It’s go go go go go fucking go gotime to go.” The dose, Quarium loaded all behind the needle, threatens now and he points the ministration at his so alien taut trim crushingly desirable obliqued side, determined to survive and thrive, but not able to escape feeling totally in danger. He’s engaging in absolute self-deceit when he says, “This is completely safe and easy, Ejj!” What, without exaggeration, would be described as unlimited fear jarringly jitters his hand as he attempts entry and the needle jabs a slashing plunge, nothing that remotely approximates a calm, controlled pin. Nearly no part of Ejaaz’s conscious brain can register anything but anxious terror at this moment. The insertion tolerates the gross inaccuracy of his stab though and offers a still acceptable option for pushing in the dose. Just be fucking brave and do it, dammit, Ejaaz!! a shred of his will finally proffers, penetrating into the haze of his alarm. A workable command, his fingers, almost on auto-pilot, squeeze; rivulets thread continuous cold virulence into his flesh. “Yess,” he hopes to say, but more rawly what comes out is “NOOOoOOOoOoOOO!” — so emotional, so afraid at what he knows in an instant is to be intolerable excruciation. The green-silver squelches in, indifferent to any feeling — particularly the rising pulsing fear. The serum, loosened, oozes. It is irretrievable. The poison takes occupation, assumes its subject territory. Ejaaz clenches.... resistance the definition of fucking futility though. Like his prior uses, it’s possible to feel the liquid chill consuming his veins, spilling everywhere through his flesh, ignoring humanity. The blood’s additive pushes advancements depravedly into his body, pillaging, cold-raping, violating progressive landgrabs as it goes. Panic pushes Ejaaz’s stomach into his throat. Ejaaz prays if it would just spew from his mouth, oh, if only that would possibly carry this bottomless fucking fear and destruction from his body. “Oh AllAH. FUCK the great god Quarium!” he shouts. And then, because his brain is heavy already, he slurs, “You NASTY naStY nassttyt..... fu..fu...fuck-devil...” From the wall, he lists forward and then falls forward. The ripped trim body that is so very very hot — perfect long toned curved legs, cinched ripped waist, jockey shoulders, and rocking swimsuit-model arms, and all still new to him — languors out ravishingly as he smothers into the pillow of the thermic insulating sleeping bag prepared there. A deepening ice age gradually and progressively submerges him, annexing his sylvan flesh, his wiry, whippety torso and limbs, his blood, his bones, his genitals — all that had been obese, fetid, abhorrent just weeks ago. Unconsciousness claims him. **** Twenty hours pass. If unconsciousness cleft the ice shelf of his mind from the main and sank it in North Sea waters, the berg breaching the surface reawakens him. Insulated by foiled layers at the tunnels opening and the sleeping bag, while Ejaaz is gone from this world, his temperature and that in his crafted space dropped to below 0C/32F degrees. In the chamber, rime coats walls and ceiling and everything, even the foiled barrier. It’s a cold dark freezer of isolation — extreme to a degree far eclipsing even any previous shot. Brutally bare except for orange underwear, Ejaaz’s raw skinned body prostrates a heartbreaking, snowstormed, make-model purple corpse — hipbones and ribs and solidified sinews. He’s so abominalized he’s almost beyond aching — but he aches, aches gravitationally. Hoar glazes his skin and the cloth over his tantalizing pubes. Fog streams in and out of his ajar mouth. Invisible Kelvinic blades mutilate his striated flesh in the shoveling thousands. Daggering vectors spear viciously into his drop-dead skull. He can’t move, he’s so ice-tombed. “Noooo,” he whimpers, “enshallah, pleahhe.” Then he gathers his objections and yaps, “No” — A sound agonized and croaky struggles out because his vocal chords both harden in one position and because hour after hour of comatose screaming have sanded them raw. His sublime jaw mainly freezes open in place. Outside, the high unchallenged sun flames. Sand scorches about the foundations of al Maktoum, baked worse than a kiln. Concrete and steel footings sizzle. Four square miles of black glass horde sunlight then dazzle it back into the sky. How can it be so inhospitably hot when the nondescript concrete form hidden in the middle of it all shudders with the nihilation of outer space. In the tunnel, it is Quarium in Ejaaz that generates endothermic extremes, terraforming the concrete to match the exterior of McMurdo Antarctic Scientific Base upon a months-long night. Unabated by searing heat and injected instead of sniffed, Quarium molecules failed to bind to Ejaaz’s cell receptors, instead entering into his cells. Destiny now unfolds. If instead there were heat — i.e., baking direct Arabian sun — and if sniffed, it would be different. In that situation, Ejaaz’s cells’ receptors would have received the Quarium and bonded, then caused a cloning of cells to explode. A warm environment causes Quarium to make fleeting Shadowcells — desirable musculoskeletal replicas. They flourish in ratios of up to two dozen or more for each native cell. With sniffing and heat, before a Quarium user’s eyes, an Arab guy’s sweaty, perspiring body expands in girth and power with growth. Shadowcells in him proliferate as uncontrollably promiscuous as a nation’s worth of bare-assed bubbly-butted submariners occupying every square inch of a sirening 1960s erotic cartoon steamy island poster. The unbridledness of the cells’ replication rams guys’ growth — explodes them into objects of lust — sizeable, full, meaty, snorting, dripping things, like massive studs, like big bull cocks, like brimming djinns — full of libido and power — cut, jacked, huge. It happens in proportion to the Quarium and the thermic source and the guy. With extreme heat and Quarium molecules, any poxy loser becomes gorgeously muscular. Cells mass and magnificate him. They hyper masculinize him — the new found grodiness rages in a metamorphosed rippling gay or bi or even straight fagbeast who has hijacked all the trappings of ultra bodybuilding, porning masculinity while the baking heat persists. But the external heat always abates eventually and the circulatory system’s pace recalibrates, and the shadow cells subside upon loss of energy. So one ought understand: an inhaled administration of Quarium (misted up one’s nose) when done in great heat expands and then subsides. Orgasmic flexing swells into exquisite being, parades conquering raunchy triumphancy, narcisses and exhibits erectionally, ejaculates climaxingly, and then disappears as the dissipation and reabsorption of shadow cells unfold. Contemplate, a wimpy faggot sniffing Quarium with some loser friends in the dazzling Arab summer morning. See their unworked little bodies bulk up and grow fantastic before their lechery eyes. Imagine them narcissistically swept into the lording of the gigantic bodies they receive, ostentatiously wearing bikinis cut so low and so tight that they more than show off what they’ve drugged for themselves, that it reveals every aspect of what they have done on purpose — the hugening of their mountainous chests, bouldering of monumental shoulders, crowding of climbing backs and traps, rising of their incredible biceps, expansion of their enormous curving asses, and the unbelievably thick legs that stage behind awesomely transformed barely-clothed-over himbo dicks and balls. They earthquake their strength and vitality, oozing the enthrallment to feel such vast beef across their bodies, weighting them down, mountaining them up, widening them like the Ranhad T’maad span, arching them toward the sky from the great asses they have, planting them in the ground with their bridge truncheons of legs, expanding torsorally with monolithicality. They feel all these things for every minute of the Sun’s journey across the sky. And then shift to consider the late day sinking disappearance of the sun, the hot blast easing, the moisture-sparse air of an arid land not retaining the heat it has gained. Envision the gentle cooling from that. And, in conjunction, conjure the thought of thumping heart rates that release orgasms the kind of which these fuck-nothings would piss just to realize existed. They would spuge-detonate after eight or thirteen hours of oversized, so-bare-they’re-more-vulgar-than-naked raunchy foreplay. Afterward, their cumming-eased heart-rates back down from porn-horny pace. Understand that a diminished, fever-broken bloodflow brings less energy to cells, tires the hosts of those blood cells, has them doze, and know then that shadow cells in the temporary Mr. Olympians say goodbye. Over hours, the cells aerobate until a quarter day later, neither the Quarium, nor anything the Quarium dingle-servingly wrought in the sniff-poxy-pansies exists any longer. Individuals who for soul-joying hours ass-humped as gluttonous gargantuans, muscling more extremely than Grimes or Kai Greene or baby Forslin or Marcello, revert to exactly the fagstupid putrid nothing fucks they had been. But, that is not Ejaaz here, that is not him now. ———————