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Chapter 14. One Thousand One Hundred Fifteen Pounds.

Ejaaz had heard of Witha carrying him that day, hadn’t registered what that meant, but knows exactly what it means now. He knows now exactly how it was changing Witha into a God — how it is changing himself now.

 

His awareness of his body has been mounting — his sense of motion, of sinew and tendon, and blood, and fucking bone. It’s exceptional — elevated to new knowingness, to irresistible fluid exactness. Others don’t have this control. He knows that because he lived as a mortal once — until a first pin violated sad vast obesity of his kind.

 

On the TheGym training floor, his hands hold the bar, he’s folded with hips up and back. His knees flex and he’s hourglass-waisted, shredded and ripped and impossibly, steeledly lean. He feels alive, feels monumental. His back casts the buttocked-protruded posture he wants. His muscles girdle volition, supple-hardening him on his ab field, tightening and strangling him far more than a weightbelt that would cinch him. Those ab muscles want for him what he wants. They crunch against his spine wanting to wasp-crush him.

Simultaneously, elsewhere, mainstays in his collar bones stretch loose and ready, trapezius muscles elongate, latissimi lounge lengthily, shoulder encasing fibers ripple, and his firm little pectorals saucer their modest expansing from sternum to outstretched arms. All of it yearns to give him pure strongness, to give him hyperioid strength. Everywhere in him, his body is vibrating, vibrating nue-uberty — pure, sweet, overwhelming nue-uber-driven power. He’s no human — no human anymore — not fully, anyway — not solely human is he, he thinks, as he readies, not at all. What these cells are just about to do, exceed what normal cells do, in any man, any where, across all of planet earth. Do extravagantly more than fuck fatty cells would ever once have attempted.

With one instant of determination, action initiates and laxness transforms to execution. Ejaaz’s corpus swings upward, and in his hands abominable weight — 1115 pounds (more than three times the weight of a massively massed up bodybuilt dude) — rises. The motion spews a gazelle. The weight strains, the load lodestones, yet this body does it... says  I do this Fuck stuff... I Want It...  This is PuneFuck nothing... I Need It — he senses how dominant the edict he gives his muscles. They exert might. Deliriumed. Endowed. Endowed by QUARIUM. Quariumed.

Each muscle unfurls — the rule it commands over the physical world an exclamation. The iron pulls past knees and then lower thighs, storming his groin. 

Fuck the bar, he thinks, perfecting technique. Glute muscles, full in his anterior, round flexingly. His back muscles tighten and contract. The effort required enhances the shape of him, of his musculature during this concentric hold. He lowers the burden and his muscles yield the temporary contours, the bellying, the filling that they displayed in hitting full execution.

A whistling in his head sounds the sentiment of power, of enjoying it. 

Yeah, he must. Allah. Yes. Fucking 1115 pounds. Fucking incredible 1115 fucking impossible pounds.

This capability to transform is accidental, isn’t it. He is like Kal-el who as he grew just realized he could be Superman, right? Kal-el, by dint of rocket ship, ended up in a time and place where he became a hulking rippling superhuman among the pre-steroid normal. Ejaaz imagines himself mimicking Kal-el by using Quarium to stun himself with mounting size and power and consequential sexual transcendence.

Was it something more greedy and deliberate and raunchy-craven to be a normal person, not born Kal-El, who instead shoots something stolen into his side that is the ultimate elixir to feed pure wanting need. Ejaaz seizing what the universe might naturally would never give, what it requires traversing the heavens and landing on a yellow-sunned planet to redeem. It was him consuming all needed to fuck Kal-el…To fuck Kal-el in his forcibly submitted gigantic steeled rear.

He imagined Kal-el discovering himself as Superboy so surprised by a young indestructible earlily muscular body and all those emerging inhuman powers — at first finding them a lark, and then savoring and relishing them seeing how they made him more and more than anyone else, more THAN a man, more than people could bear to desire, oh how much he would desire himself. How would he as Kal-el have fetished his “Better than” and “superior than”? How much could he or would he have eroticized it, feeling his own big muscles, his mountain hard carving ass, conceiving more and more how much it meant he was more invincible than, and gorgeous than, and even and ultimately sexual than. Even though Superboy had had to do nothing to endow himself, other than leave an exploding world and everyone he had ever known, wouldn’t loserish fucking little fucking dumb boy Clark Kent have narcissized the suddenly gorgeousing enormous physique that was building on him and hidden by him and the other-worldly strength that literally began to emanate from him as he’d really become. Was puddish Clark Kent roiling internally posing and flexing with the gloriousness of Kal-el Superman and roiling with the reality of the rippedjackedswoleffucked undeniability of his self? 

Fuck, of course, yes, of course he would have, with his glorious alien muscles and crazy super cock — stretching a fuxksuit to lord in all their faces while pretending that they should all treat him like he was wearing a chaste, honorable uniform. His smoldering beauty destroying to others just for them to look upon his male chiseled eden.

Ejaaz though about it. He himself would fucking make even that Kal-el-Superman drip watching Ejaaz transform, doing what he was to himself — Kal-el-Superman turned on by desiring the growing growth of muscularizing and muscularizing and muscularizing Ejaaz. That Superman would drip, wouldn’t he, would drip fat cock cumdanglers as he smooched his muscled love Ejaaz and forced Ejaaz to take more and more and more of Quarium’s pins violatingly into Ejaaz’s side. Oh how he would show Superman how to bow to a true Allah — Ejaaz fucking dominating Superman himself. To ass fuck Superman as he did so.

And then they’d both, he and Superman, bone when they’d be domming for control — Superman to him and him back. He’d even find ways to force Superman to be his sniveling cock throated, ass receptacle, power mate, wouldn’t he? They’d blow kryptonian jiz and quariumed jiz all over each other and they’d be jacked and fucked and gargantuan and everything that made a beyond beautiful craze-mutated male humanity pair, wouldn’t they?

Ejaaz would embrace that with biceps the size of massive thighs. 

He does believe there is a thorough reason that this Quarium deification is coming to pass — will be truly realized. That this neediness of his might be for some purpose demanded by intelligence in a sentient universe, that it has required that he be this demented thing making himself mindblowingly superior to every last fucking fuckbuck that could ever have been imagined — to the fucking pathetic species as some gift to humanity. Some

savior of hyper magnificent immortal powers. Oh fucking universe, does he deserve it, oh fucking yes, yes, yes he does. Here he is to serve the world — a  candidate savior and destined idol.

He wants to stop and flex and exhibition himself.

But, he lifts again, pulls the bowing bar like a barnblock of granite being craned from a quarry — 1115 indescribable pounds. He loves it. He lowers and grinds up again. So astronomically heavy. His shoulders bootcamp broad and back. His legs torqueing just perceptibly as his gluteal composition strains and his thighs rotate away ferociously from his dick. He’s in tights and every mechanism and silhouette of his still stupidly too-skinny body shows, but still somehow what this lithe thin muscled body is is already godfully supreme. And his skin-thin sheath lets it all explicitly show. 

He’s down again and up. It takes snorting and heaving and shouting rage to raise it but his body churns. And then.... and then....he cleans the bar to his chest — 1115 pounds poised on his collar bones — his fucking Ejaazian collar bones. Muscles string on with a screaming euphoria. MOHAMMAD! he revels, this shouldn’t even even even even be humanly possible! 

He pauses snorting and huffing breath in his blood heating cheeks. And then he bounces with his knees and jerks more than half a ton into a shoulder press above his head. His whole body thrusts to transform upon himself. Comparable to getting stiff, his body fills, hardens, grows aroused.

For five and a half hours, he works out this incredible college varsity jock magical body in its pornish Lycra getting stronger and denser — cleaning and jerking and benching and squatting — dealing repeatedly with massive volumes and runs and piles of iron in super heavyweight quantities in the most braggart, most grunting, dominating, make-room-for-my-godliness, cum bull way. The crushing loads create panic around him. He doesn’t care — fucking just marvel at me he condescends. Amd he doesn’t care at all about the pain-flagration his quads and hams and pecs and delta are assaulted by. Try to burn me to fucking ashes he thinks, it only helps me transform all the faster, all the more. The high still isn’t high enough so he plunges longer and heavier and harder than sane-ity allows. Nue-ubers! he mentally exults — as they are worked, they are forced to get stronger, learn to grow bigger, are voracious in wanting to demonstrate everything they possibly were conceived of for in the small little lonely world.

It is dazzling. He gets almost robotic, gets delirious. His session is like riding the tour d’france and winning the world’s strongest man all at once and when he finishes he joy-hilates at what he does.

Then as he departs the gym floor with his ass glorious and separated by Lycra stretching into his ludicrously perfect crack, his mind returns again to the past - to that week where he endured the aftermath of his quari-spoon excess.

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Chapter 15. Clean and Jerk

Ejaaz remembered waking that next morning — unshaven, stinky, slathered with that uniform sweat particular to obesity, desperate to take a leak and expel a straining runny crap from his blubbery unlimitedly splaying ass — his obese ass and thighs splaying off the sides of the little toilet — far off. 

Throbbing swirled in a stormfront haloed feet around his head. His joints were gelatinous with fragments of bone peppered into a churn of gravel.

He slept a day moaning with pain and his guts gnarled in indescribable voluminous pain. And then woke, eating four olives and a piece of bread with water sip by sip.

Memories of the past Saturday’s rave rattled his head, snippets of himself empiringly all-powerful, Witha’s weird extreme strength, and the jupiterian pull of countermanding Dba’de with his hyper-monumentality.

In the bathroom, he’d involuntarily spewed his stomach fitfully, lamely, into the battered commode.

The pain in his shoulders and vertebrate in the center of his back was that of being camel-trampled and then fallen under a toppling dromedary landing itself upon his hips, knees, and feet.

Mental anguish compounded the suffering. Reversion to fuck fathood vacated the world of sound, space, and color. Uncontrolled obesity blocked his horizon to inches away. It condescended, and derided. His fat full lips and butter sagging cheeks squished any character from his face. His hips widened beyond his shoulder, his belly dumped his gut, his arms extended with gelatinous sausage rolls, his feet splayed beneath pasta-y hams, his buttocks mushed behind with nary the most minimal curve, and his chest pudged tittily with little inward nipples. His peepee was lost in his overweight size. This so fucking wasn’t meant for him, to be, or what he wanted.

The mediocrity squashed albatrossingly — stiflingly, uglily, plain. Fuck mama and Aunt Saleiha and his brother and all his family for never helping him make anything, for never expecting something of him he could have created of himself. The shame and dysfunctional escapism fucked him and made him feel defeated, staring into a dark pit from which he couldn’t quite wrench his eyes up from again.

He huffed just to walk around his apartment. Lost his breath just carrying the small plastic bag of garbage to the top of the stairs.

Rationality tried to tell him again and again that nothing was unsolvable, that his natural body was a correctable mistake, that he could Quary still, that he could really undertake the idea of bodybuilding, to working to exercise to leanness, to lift and eventually be healthy and maybe even be in a spot where he could be jockish or even hot or appealing. That would be enough. Later he could become buff. Later he could deign the idea of being someone roiding. Later he could grow muscularly quite big and gain the respectability due an alpha man of jacked size. 

But dispiritedness withered within him, dizzled into his pores, daubed him with vague-self loathing — all of it was unrebuffed by practical concern.

The apartment, dragged with ennui. 

No activity of self-care, of distraction helped. He wallowed. 

He’d sense his body, and an unconscious attitude arose somewhere within his self. What if this is the best I’ll ever be.

He didn’t like it and loathed himself who risked settling because of it. 

“Fucking, thing,” he’d said.

 

*********************

 

He’s in the locker room, oh so fucking not like that now. Oh, how much arrogance five shots have had the ability to birth in him now, with his ripped, tightfit, steeled god body. He is so ironly certain of his incredible worth, of his fuck-supremity, so vauntedly cock-above, grotesquely satisfied with inequality — with (and sorry to all other last individuals) being fucking measurably superior now, if people attend to the differences, and only cruelly committed to, and destined for more — so much more.

The leggings skinpeel exhibitionistically from the goldennness of his lower limbs. His appearing legs shape like a figure from  minor mythology. The tanktop fights to stay on him as he removes it.  He shows himself once he’s naked — flipping his dick, twisting his torso, rubbing his thighs, massaging his tits, unstopping in his blatant, public self-admiration as others come and go — more coming and fewer going as they can’t help awareness and then fixation of the presence they are in and falling under his perfected sway. Ejaaz sweeps the hands of his muscled arms through his glossy hair again and again.

He’s shredded and anabolized. Surely these bro-dudes appreciate this blindingly incomprehensible body — its utterly perfect proportions and indescribable conditioning and shape. And some have witnessed his complete lifting insanity, his inhuman display of crazed, impossible, non-rational, Krypton-buddy strength.

His narrow little hips physique his relatable size and magnitude. His weiner manhoods oh so fully, oh so shapefully, oh so perfect-headedly between and goodly fastened atop his legs. His alert ass highs and scrumptiouses — fag-tasty marbled — even the ‘no homos’ have to fucking ogle all of it — have to dream of somehow seeing deep into his butt channel to the base of him — over and over and over — fifth, sixth, and tenth times.

He strides with his shoulders broad-manned to the showers — his abdominals fire laddered, his serrati iron, his great chubcock bashing his quads, his towel absently behind, no need for it to obscure the classical antiquity he cruises. 

The casting of his body, even his hammy bellies, even his tight sensitive perky little tit nips, his very cock tip, his muscled neck, and especially his tasty crack, even his fucking toes if it must be admitted exert magnetic pull.  

Disturbed equanimity ruffles his wake. The air caresses him, adulating him as much as he worships himself, as all these fag dudes straight dudes who watch him pathetically do...and then he enters a stall and closes the curtain. Take that fuckers, he thinks. 

The water adores him like the air, like the queers, like the straight jocks, lavishing his nue-uberty the way a spa worker dappling the exceptionalism of a trenned up bodybuilder in his misty retreat would.

The nue-uber cells in him want to exude their might, can’t fucking stand not lashing out with power. His hands form fists. He could so easily batter the tiled walls forward, sideways, downward until shards would rain at his feet. The slate paneled veneer would fall away, and he’d continue expressing his strength against the framing beneath until his wetted vitality would be dazzling in the open again.

How rebellious the nue-ubers urge him be. Ejaaz pretends to egg them on too, the little brutes. 

But Quarium has mountained his self-control. He governs the hungering, dictates to the raw earthly appetites of nascent omnipotence. He can calmly rest, latently sated now, until one day he deploys all that he is becoming at his own any deliberate purpose. He does not need to hammer himself into the open.

He folds his arms behind his head and lounges his hips forward into the water — casting a dramatic sex muscle pose. 

He goes back to soaping but then hiatuses the journey of the bar about his fleshly destinations. Stillness overtakes him as he postures with his loose arms away from his sides, his loose fists and flexed tris and flexed forearms six inches off each hip. I want to command with my mind he thinks.

He eyes the warm droplets crashing his fat-absent body and rinsing the lather from his shredded skin. He closes his eyes and imagines a shield around himself, he envisions the droplets turned away from his flesh. 

He opens his eyes — the water is avoiding him, falling short, braking in mid-air and dropping, or ricocheting to the side. It’s as though the water hits an invisible wall. His body feels not a splatter. The growing sense of power and command in him ticks up further and a smile broadens. He releases his mental effort. The cascade of water spatters back against his flesh. “Ah, fucking, Yes”.

 

He jerks an orgasm with only the mental power of psychic hands fondling his shaft and then leaves the production swinging from his gorgeous penis’s dangling head as he saunters back to his clothes. It’s utterly satisfying to have drained himself and to be explicitly skanky and crude for the drooling crowd.

He puts his body back beneath the CrossFit shorts and T. 

At his bike, he swings his leg over the frame. The seat positions itself beneath the living stone of his curvy, but still possibly normal ass. The wheels sink under his granite-y weight. He looks like a jockish but normal really incredibly incredibly incredibly good-looking dude but he careens in industrial ways through Al-Noujah-e-Kurai, thinking of Dba’de and Witha and how that week had changed everything.

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Chapter 16. What Doesn’t Kill Us Grows Us Stronger

That week, the one of the hangover, Witha had checked in with him. He had pressed and pressured him. Witha was fixated in some fashion. Eventually Witha had said he needed to do Ejaaz again. That he was sorry about how he’d been and that he didn’t want Ejaaz to feel bad about himself. So fucking insincere once again; What a fuck, Ejaaz had thought. 

Ejaaz said yes and then, the morning-of, changed it to no — holding his insides together long enough to complete his workday. And more, he was so problematically drawn to Witha’s hot looks. And possibly to some aspect of the shaming. Yet he knew he had been on the cusp of change. He now felt done in. 

That evening, symptoms physical and mental flared. Dry heaves racked the insides deep in his blubberous gut on his way home. The apartment opened like a cell before him and the distance to morning telescoped an unbridgeable length.

Dread opened the car door to his brain’s driver’s seat and some kind of intense need took the wheel. He’d texted not Witha, whose moist lips and glinting eyes mesmerized him, but instead Dba’de who he’d fucked with so mutually and so manfully. Would that dude be in similar suffering. Further, Ejaaz had the inkling of somehow connecting with the bodybuilder to be beneficently brought into his ways and be taken into the fold. The idea seemed to stir some small sense of defeat away.

“Oh Allah,” Ejaaz thought, “I can’t take this anymore. I can’t be this fat kid, this pitied load. I can’t be alone.”

It took all his determination to send the texts, but Dba’de had reflected some of Ejaaz’s same sentiments of decimation back to Ejaaz. 

Ejaaz asked Dba’de if he could come be with him and Dba’de had agreed, told his wife his gym’s management was doing an evening seminar.

The idea of Dba’de’s arrival had somewhat lifted the darkness… had been a graspable scrap of flotsam in a midnight sea, so Ejaaz clung to it. But someplace inside, intrigue tindered too. So as he bobbed in overall hopelessness, sparse projections of desiring flitted in the theater of his awareness though why he thought Dba’de might invest in setting Ejaaz on a studfuck path he wasn’t sure. For sure could he possibly want to dabble with a fat turd? Could he dabble like Witha had? But perhaps just sharing the emotion of double dosing glory’s gain and loss was all they needed uniquely from the other.

When Ejaaz opened his apartment door though, the similarly suffering, naturally bodybuilt, somewhat alpha Dba’de that he expected to find was not there. 

Instead, Dba’de stood tall, immense, sexual. His clothes ripped across the immensity of his rumbling monumentality, hanging in ragged fragments. An illicit quari-spoon dangled from Dba’de’s fingers and Ejaaz could see the wispiest vapor remnant trailing from the scoops and from Dba’de’s kingly nostrils. 

Dba’de lifted the device then and swiftly, before allowing Ejaaz anytime to respond. Dba’de positioned it beneath Ejaaz’s nose and fired. Once, and then again.

Oh sweet Allah, the howling iciness swept back to the chambers of Ejaaz’s skull, bulldozing indifference, slaying inadequacy, pummeling inferiority. Ravenous only to rage and throb, delicious storm clouds of vapored silver howled their intent in him, blowing through his bloodways, sinking their teeth into his flesh, extinguishing the flicker of vulnerability that had been Ejaaz for days. 

Dressed in gray sweats, Ejaaz’s equator disappeared til the fabric hung about him like old hippo skin and then the chest and the arms of his sweatshirt exploded open as his gorgeous huge upper torso and ball-massive biceps burst into view.  He reached down and shredded the sweatpants from himself in a flurry of motion. White underpants draped upon his arc’ing cock’s root. He flicked the waist band forward so that it could playground-slide off of his pipe and catch on his gorgeous massive corded quadriceps and swelling hamstrings. He stepped his feet apart and watched the underpants tear and drop to the ground. His legs circumferenced 54.5”. His thickening back pressed his arms far out and his 91” chest rose as double stadia exploding fabric from his ripped tits.

Oh fucking cock, did he feel gargantuan. Gargantuan and invulnerable. Aroused. Insatiable.  Dominant and edging. Oh so very very very Good.

“Dba’de, come in,” he said. He was twenty with a lad’s face and a bull’s body. He had the confidence of a holy man who’d walked this earth for a thousand years.

Dba’de had stepped in and they’d closed the door.

They fondled and edged, grappled and showed, hammered and grunted, worshiped and rimmed and licked. Mythical builds cast the positions of any male-sexual depiction that they wanted. Cum slithered in strings and their muscumonstrousnesses shivered flexasms and flexasms in them until early the following morning, when Ejaaz shoved his tree limb 17” dick into Dba’de’s throat and finally muscle-posed himself so hard and stroked so sensually that he’d exploded his release of their marathoned desire. The facial battery had choked Dba’de — his 19” neck literally cockcuffed by the log of manroot that expanded inside it. Dba’de’s huge musculature had been blocked in mid expression of its might — a jackoff pinched to a stop by masochistic denial. But with the cum load settling in Dba’de’s stomach and the spent dick retreating from the oppression of his esophagus, Dba’de was made even more elevated. Quarium traces from Ejaaz’s expulsion passed on some quantity into Dba’de’s bloodstream and pillowed various of his muscles even bigger, even more full.

“Yes!” Dba’de had moaned.

For another two hours he’d grappled with the still mammoth Ejaaz but Dba’de snorted superior in his continued brimming arousal and mannered amplification. Their enormous meaty bodies mashed into one another until eventually Dba’de had reclined his seven hundred thirty pounds of muscle ripplingly on an old ratty chair, and had watched Ejaaz’s glossy-haired Arabic boyhead flick, tongue, lip, and mouth his bowling balls and bowling pin dick to elicit milk-pour of ejaculate that flowed into the air all over the two of them and the furniture.

 

Ejaaz felt sweet exquisiteness. Superior endowment and perfected release. He kissed Dba’de, letting cum spill from the reservoir in his mouth into Dba’de’s mouth. Ejaaz savored the authenticity of the thick fat lips, sensed the realness of the heat in the gorgeous Arab-guy skin. He took Dba’de’s still giant hand sweetly and led the two of them to his crappy old bed. The two monster bodybuilt queers splayed upon one another and spooned together in the frayed hand me down sheets, content. Utterly what they wanted and was meant for this world. And then they slept.

 

When Ejaaz had awoken the next morning, he hurt physically again, and, mentally. Shattered forlornity lay a blanket of unending dimensions atop his pitiful failure. His unshaped legs were an indictment, his waist with one big oversized curve a formless meeting of soft abdominal area and indistinct groin, his disproportionate arms and girlish tits were loathsome. 

Dba’de still had his eyes closed next to him in a wincing grimace. His utterly reverted body was superior in its development but paled to the beefed monumentality of the previous sixteen hours. Its shed magnificence was a finger pointing back at Ejaaz’s pathetic nothing-special gay guy embarrassing porky-body. 

Ejaaz had caressed Dba’de’s handsome

cheek needily then, involuntarily. But when Dba’de had opened his eyes, he’d slapped Ejaaz and swore. “Fuck,” he’d said, “my wife is going to have my balls... and for this.” As he’d finished his statement, Dba’de had taken a handful of Ejaaz’s gut blubber. Dba’de left quickly.

Ejaaz sank back into his saggy bed — his every aspect of his obese body shaking and flinching. 

“If you do this again, Ejaaz,” he said to himself, “it’s going to kill you.”

 

********************

 

Back at the apartment now, Ejaaz works his job. Flailing and failing at it until a month ago, he boners at it now. He’s become incredible — gifted fantastically, intellectually overpowering, convincing. His neurons fire infinitely quickly as he transforms.

What would have taken eight hours a month ago now takes him an hour and a half. His fingers type faster. He sucks in information readily. His cognitive faculties are already advanced enough that he can extrapolate to the exact dose where his consumption of data will be limited only by how quickly his devices can display new content. He assesses and concludes in flashish durations.

His voice has gained some kind of power it seems as well. Not just what he said on the recent call — his rhetorical fluidity and exceptionalism — but also the richness and characteristic of his tone and of his timber. It hastens others mental activity so they follow him, so they raise questions when needed to sharpen his emerging computational abilities. But more, he senses, others seem to always acquiesce to him now, prioritize his outlook, credence his point of view.

He finds that he needs that now and demands it. Submission to superiority.

He does more work now — completing targets and beating deadlines that are planned — but also churning out mastery and concepts and products that are solely driven by his own growing command.

 

He finishes his targeted workload, his intellectual development, and even a robust half hour of delicious intellectual masturbation playing with abstractions far out of his grasp previously, ones worthy of an emerging PhD. The headiness leaves him edged on and buzzing. His cock is plump and his muscles are so sweetly achingly sore.

 

He strips again and visits his closet. He pulls a bin from an upper shelf. Inside lay full latex body suits. One offers a gold lightning bolt printed as a belt around the waist of an otherwise unbroken red field. It has a hood with a mask attached and two golden feathers over the ears. Coordination and slow adjustment maneuver the clinging rubber onto him. The suit grips in so many good places and he pulls the hood up and over his head and eyes. Only his nostrils, lips, and chin show now. 

The costume hugs every part of his body, the rubbery layer relaying the shape of all of his sinews, the jack-hangar wide shoulders, the jack-hammered abdominal ladder, and the sweet loving honesty of his gonadal elements. 

He has a camera tripod set up studio style. He nabs the button-sized remote and stands before his backdrop. The button triggers photo after photo. When he reviews them all, he sees images of a gorgeously muscular, and unreally proportioned DC superhero, The Flash, who is Arab with legs like a centaur.

He smiles and heads to the annex’s sixth story roof. He suspects it will be empty as it usually is. There is a two hundred meter oval there. On the oval he stands in costume with a toe-pointing and ready position — more like a speedskater than a track and field sprinter. That fits the bodysuit, doesn’t it? He verbally starts the timer on his smart watch while he explodes into motion. He can feel the overwhelming combination of whipping wind, raw mechanicalism, and streamlined motional flow as he traincharges the straightaways and as he power-accelerates around the turns.  Oh, Muhammed, it is awesome. There’s no one else there, but what would anyone think if they saw this hurtling red blur blasting around — gods’ legs spinning, bicep-balled arms flowing, meaty dick shifting. He laps forty times, 8000 meters, then he sees his time is just one hundred ninety five seconds. Fuck, take that, Usain Bolt. He is already surpassing quadruple even the most extreme human capacities. He strokes his hands up and down the flanks of these dog-speed thighs and upon the cock-anchored muscled plains laid upon his abdomen by this sleek muscle suit. Shit, I am so so so so so so SOooo fine.

 

Back upstairs, he strips the costume, returning it to the bin with the others, and then admiring his gorgeous skin. He imagines a single additional dose will have  him built sufficiently for Green Lantern, two to become Batman, and four doses from now his donning of the Superman costume will make even DCs version seem under-imagined.

 

He’s just so into himself that he takes time to snap dozens more pictures of himself — first naked — then in a simple black bikini he puts on. 

 

Deciding whether the most remarkable thing about the nude portraits is the sculpted musculature, the impossibly adonisized face, or the nice thick cock that prides in his groin will challenge any appreciator.

 

He puts on the rest of his evening clothes. Trim and tight, they congratulate him on all of the steps of his progress.  

 

He’ll leave soon to see some friends out on the town, but for now he thinks of how uncertain things were following the brutalized use of Quarium he’d not been smart enough to fucking tame back then. 

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I love this story so much! There's just everything that I love about muscle fiction - huge muscle, extreme conditioning, tiny waists, lots of lycra, superhuman athletic abilities... Simply can't wait to read more of your ideas and fantasies!!!

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  • 2 weeks later...

Chapter 17. Near the End

After Dba’de had left, Ejaaz had held on as best he could. From his refrigerator he’d removed food and put it on a plate — grape leaves, some apricots and a pile of chickpeas — but he’d been unable to eat. He’d shlubbed on his couch in his softest thin sweat pants and gentle hoody making him a recumbent mushy, tent-draped Buddha. Like very big and fat. Sitting like a fat load. His legs spreading like a field across the cushions. 

He’d huffed in and out. He tried to observe his breath like he’d heard about on the health announcement on the broadcasts of state TV. Eventually he’d put on tv, specifically an on-demand special about straight guys in gay jobs. The show purposefully was filled only with good bodies. He’d want to put his tongue all over them if something like that could even happen for a huge pig. 

 

But mostly, he was in a mental cave. Misery.

 

When just before dawn the next day, neither sleep nor appetite had visited him and he couldn’t get out of his own head, he’d left his apartment and shumpled to a livery. It passed his drab neighborhood, and then his half the city in the lifting darkness and reduced heat. At the Mehmout Sheid Natra Medical Center they’d admitted him for two days.

 

Uncertain of his condition or state, they treated him with a generalized detox protocol and a half dozen therapeutic conversations and then discharged him.

 

He was lost, but what choice was there but inching in some fashion on. If he plated food, by sitting at the table committedly, time saw that he finished what he prepared. Before sleep they’d cautioned him about using pharmacology as an easy answer, so lowering his dimpled adipose-hidden gonads and blubbery ass into lavender baths, and playing low music, and visualization for his mediocre inward-nipple body came into play until sleeping approximated what should happen at night.

 

Witha had texted things during that time. Insulting. Sexual. It was impossible to miss the superiority, the addiction to shaming that seemed to be part of Wit’s modus operandi.

 

And then Witha had appeared at his door one day.

 

Witha looked more dazzling in his face than Ejaaz had conceived someone could, and physically as manly as a gym rat. Ejaaz was in awe and worshipped the eyes and warm flawless skin, the hollowed cheeks and big white teeth, and the soft lips. Beyond that, Ejaaz couldn’t help registering the broadening — the shoulders, chest, and upper back — and the excavating narrowing of the hips, the rising at the bicep, the ass, the widening of the quads, and even still more the pressing at the Withan groin.

Oh, Allah, he was drawn to Witha. Witha was so good and noble and pure. That was why Witha could be mutating the way he was.  It wasn’t that the shaming condescension was fucked up — never Ejaaz pussied. 

Witha pushed his way in. “It’s ok,” Witha had said, “I won’t fuck you. Just suck my dick.” Ejaaz had whimpered “no!” as though twisted in the stomach.

But within five minutes, Ejaaz knelt on the linoleum floor his mouth around a much bigger Witha’n tool, getting ridden into until choked by a flow busting the banks of a storm busted river.

When it was over, Witha finished his face fucking and flexed and wrestled his big thing into his slacks. The outline of it was a ready feature now of him even though fully clothed.

As he turned to go, Witha didn’t look at the obese bulk of Ejaaz unsteady on the floor. All he said was, “I’m moving my ex, Amir, out of my extra Palm Bueimira apartment. You should move there.”

It had made no sense — was really not explained. Witha had just said it and then left.

Alone again, Ejaaz cried — he hadn’t even gotten up from lying on the floor with the cheap steel leg of the Formica kitchen table by his cheek.

 

********************

 

In going out tonight, Ejaaz is meeting only two of the taqim mithli aljins. And seven other friends. The other friends don’t know about Quarium at all. The taqim mithli aljins friends don’t know he’s fucked sniffing Quarium to the side, don’t know that he’s injecting, have never even known that that’s a thing. 

They would wither to hear of the brutalizations, he thinks, never mind that Ejaaz conquers the suffering, is hooked to the masochism to get what it makes him — oh, the god-progressing transformation. None of these pieces of smegma would last a sliver of the death-iced torment would they. Ejaaz can suffer anything for the domination that is to become him.

He does realize they know he’s getting really developed because of how chiseledly unrecognizable he already looks.  

He was never previously liked all that much and received pitied, gratuitous attention. But now none keep away. His thin cotton long-sleeved t falls across an upright chest, just thicker shoulders, and sufficiently full arms. His slacks pull up on his rear a bit, they circle on his higher fuller thighs, are all bulgy in his groin. But focusing it all is how his core is whittled and steel hard now and how his face has altered, the substantial chiseling has adonisized him to fucking intense handsome infinity.

The friends probably think he’s been working with a trainer and a nutritionist. Soon they’ll think he’s gone crazy with supplements, then be giddy with their allegations that he’s on roids as well. 

They have a variety of opinions and judgments on working out, on natural bodybuilding, on light steroid use, on extreme performance enhancing drug abuse. Some of them know a heavy user, have watched from the periphery as the same friend of a friend of a friend got muscly, then tanked unbelievably monstrous.  But none of them can remember any philosophical position regarding gear now in the light of Ejaaz’s fitter body, his angled jaw, his chiseled chin, his fuck-you lips, his hollowed cheeks, his big straight white wolves teeth, his broad back, his man shoulders, his cocked ass, his hair, his studliest bulge.

 

They drink and eat and laugh. He beats them at darts, at pool, at video dance challenge, at karaoke, at jumbo checkers, at arm wrestling, at Wii virtual batting games, at trivia, at consumption games, at shuffle table, at Jenga, at all the local games they play. He beats two or three of them at different games at the same time. He imbibes or tokes as much as any of them beg him to do in the fragile mortal companionship they look to achieve with him. His full endowments metabolize the varied elements as immediately as he needs and he feels elevated and euphoric not from the slight stimulants or depressants but from the incarnation of ability and power that rivers in him, thrumming limitlessly and inconceivable.

 

He kisses them all goodnight. A tongue that can reach inches into their throats is just one more way he has been made their command.  

He even takes burly he-man Araman up on his offer to use a room in the nightclub’s downstairs for some foreplay or maybe more. 

In the basement, a steel bar crosses the lofty, roughly finished area. Ejaaz steps up on a tall iron table beneath the bar.  

“Here,” he’s says to big Araman while crouching, “put your arms around my neck.”  

Araman walks toward him and clasps his hands around Ejaaz’s nape. Ejaaz stands, leans forward and reaches up, putting his hands high up on the steel bar. 

He pulls up and drags both he and Araman into the air. His lats constrict and flex. His chest stays open and high. Araman is dragged up dangling, mashing somewhat into Ejj’s dick. Ejaaz pumps out eight strict pull-up reps. It’s hard but not for him as he does it.  

“Fuck,” Araman says to him when they are back on the ground and his eyes are arrested in their search across the points of Ejaaz’s body.  Araman can’t make it out — how that had happened. “Fuck,” he says again.

Ejaaz circles around Araman drawing a finger around Araman’s barrel-big chest and meaty back as he walks. Araman is the bulkiest guy he ever would have made a play with, probably high-200s.

“Do something for me,” Ejaaz says. Ejaaz gets down onto the floor next to the table and slides into position beneath a solid rod that connects two legs. The rod crosses above his chest about the way a bench press bar would. His Dick probably looks absolutely crotched in this position he randomly thinks, but he calls up to Araman with the reason he got down on the floor, “hey, big sexy man, sit on the very edge of the table for me.”

Araman edges up upon the table and takes position. His stockiness very apparent. Ejaaz puts his left hand on the rod.  

“Be ready,” Ejaaz says.

With the one arm, tricep, and pec of his left side he presses. He can tell the power he is exerting and it forces all that weighs above him higher. It’s likely a total of a four hundred or four hundred fifty pound lift with the one hand. He continues to ten reps while simultaneously adding beautifully strict leg lift raises to perpendicular. It takes so fucking nothing out of him. The top of his boner juts inches out of his waistband when he is done. 

 

“Come on down,” Ejaaz says scrambling up from the floor. He looses his newly beautiful man cock, ready for its inaugural spin.

“Strip and Sit,” he says to Araman pointing to a chair. Araman takes some time to get out of his clothes. Ejaaz enjoys watching. Araman has a man’s body. Big, not finely shaped, but burly and hairy and masculine. Ejaaz advances between Araman’s seated furry legs. Ejaaz himself isn’t furry but has the most perfect swirl of manliness. He does enjoy seeing the unruly mat of masculinity that bears Araman.  

“Suck this,” Ejaaz says and offers what is eleven big thick inches of grade A man tool. 

Araman’s serving mouth receives it somewhat virginally. But hey this kind of size is new for both of them. 

Ejaaz enjoys the sight of Araman’s stubbled cheeks rounded around his pipeline shaft, enjoys seeing Araman’s jaw ratcheting rhythmically as the throat and tongue muscles all strive to manage what is asked of them and to serve his needs and pleasure. After five or ten minutes, Ejaaz decides he can switch on his full climaxical arrival. If mortals such as this dicksucker could only feel what this feels. His body radiates with orgasm, and while Ejaaz flexes every muscle, he fills Araman’s mouth with good, high-grade gism for four minutes before he finally has sexually bragged enough and ends it. Araman has orgasmed as he’s been face fucked.

With Ejaaz’s withdrawal, white skanky milk splatters copiously. It goes everywhere and slicks the iron table and steel chair where they’ve played. It soils Araman’s body and obscures Araman’s face. It goops over Araman’s little human penis. It even splashes up on Ejaaz’s own sculptural unbelievability.

Ejaaz puts his cool new sugarcock in his flimsy bikini still sausagey, still wet.

“Thanks, Araman,” Ejaaz tells his euphorically groaning friend, “I love you, Brah.” 

He takes off his tee and pushes it into his briefs to clean up the tip and head of his wanker. Then he uses it to mop the worst of the mess from his own body, then from Araman’s face and body. He tosses the scummy garment to where Araman has slid off the chair to kneel in worship to the deliverancing deliverer of the best blow job he’ll ever participate in. “Here, fucking brah, it’s a souvenir.” Ejaaz kisses the guy hard on the mouth and then walks up stairs.

As he exits La Calhumbr, Ejaaz realizes he’s just set himself to travel back through the city shirtless in only his gripping slacks, but, he thinks, of course, why the hell not.

 

As he walks from the club, through the sparsely populated night streets, every bypasser’s head rivets to him as he hard-bodies by, the seat of his trousers telling the world’s newest bestseller story about ass-tautness, and seam-straining. No matter. 

And whatever the size of the pedestrian group, or the speed of the car, it’s every last person who looks. His upper body is so hard and beautiful really — it’s so indeed the torso of dreams.

Ejaaz fishes his phone from his tight front pocket, near the mounding bulge that now defines the state of affairs. He wonders if he can mentally cause the phone to text. Staring at it, he is close, he even forces it to produce the first letter. That full capability will be something that comes to be soon. He sees that now. He didn’t know when he was still human. He feels for these humans looking at him.

 

He uses his fingers instead and sends “On my way”. It’s to Witha. They’ve been talking and planning and seeing each other since that certain day.

 

On his way, he has a final reverie.

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I know this story is a lot… rambling… so long to read… stuffed with adverbs and adjectives which looking back could have been left aside… made up words (a hobby I do like)… metaphors for metaphors sake. Thanks to readers for allowing for that. And appreciation to those with whom it has connected. 

I’ve loved Ejaaz and what comes to him.  I wanted this to have an addict’s feel, and a reality about what someone enduring anything when they want something so bad it hurts. I wanted pain and agony to be felt. And then euphoria. Having the chance to post this over many months since I originally wrote it, it feels like i couldn’t quite make those original goals reality.  But I read it back, knowing I have one last chapter to post, and I feel an atmosphere that does exist with feelings and sensations all in the realm of what I had thought about as I wrote.
Some writers are in command and know what they will create.  I’m more in the throes and don’t know quite what it is that comes out having to deal with some tangled habits of thought as I go.
 

Having said that, once I post the last chapter, I will miss this world - the beach, the glitzy streets, the towers, thegym, the nightclub, the desolate chamber, and then all the various guys. I will miss Quarium - what if there were really such a thing? I will miss Witha with his lithe becoming-grotesque beauty. And I will miss Ejaaz who when I first wrote him as a skinny guy would have been me.

I’ll have the last chapter up soon.

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Chapter 18. Forever

Doctor Mouad Sarra had recommended that Ejaaz take care of himself physically and mentally. The office had been well-lit with plastic models of the ear, and other body parts on the counter.
“Do something for fitness,” Sarra counseled. The doctor looked around 57, bald on top, salt and pepper closely cut on the sides.  
“Aerobic will regulate your adrenaline. Resistance exercise will elevate testosterone and mood. You’re too heavy. Don’t make a mess of your life before you’ve even started it. A gym, yoga, walking….plan what you eat, Enshallah.”

Ejaaz had thought, “If only you knew.”

So Ejaaz had walked with one or two pitying friends. Slow, shumbling, waddly efforts. His shelf like blubber ass cheeks took turns tilting up and down.
Mostly he walked in the neighborhood but sometimes at Humayeraz Beach. One of the times at Humayeraz, Witha had seen him and came to him and his friends, ordered the friends to leave, had taken Ejaaz to the toilets, and fucked Ejaaz’s asshole while Ejaaz stood in a stall. 

As Witha orgasmed he said to Ejaaz, “You’re moving to the apartment, Ejaaz. Amir is gone. Go next week. C’mon already.  Ejaaz!”

Witha eased down from his climax.

“Just do it Fuckface!” he said.

They’d pulled their clothes back up, had left the bathroom, and Witha had lingered for just a moment, but enough so that Ejaaz said, “I like when you just call me Ejaaz you know.”

“I know, I know there’s just something you do to me, fuck face,” Witha replied, and then tacked on, “Ejaaz.”

Ejaaz had asked shyly, “Do you still go to Saturday raves?”

“Mohammad, fuck, you’re such an ass,” said Witha and then added “.... a queer fucking fat pansy gay fucking ass.”

Witha pushed his glossy hair back and on top of his head with a developed bicep, meant to show off Witha’s gorgeousness, Ejaaz was sure.

“Don’t you think I go?” Witha said… then elaborated, “I don’t need to go.” And then, “You don’t fucking see a thing do you.”

Ejaaz saw Witha subtly bring his shoulder blades further back and arch his legs. Witha’s chest was muscular and his legs formidable. 

Ejaaz reflected as they walked a short way following the curve of the concrete boardwalk around the back of an elevated lookout. 

“What do you do about sex?” Ejaaz finally added.

“I ram it. For Allah’s sake, get some fucking balls again,” Witha said. “Ram, ram, ram. Fuck fuck fuck. Ejaaz, as you want to be called, I am a heaving horny goat of an emerging fucking god. It’s what I’m born to be — fucking qigh, fucking strong, fucking huge”

Ejaaz had detected Witha’s fingers dominantingly feel out his own then, grabbing, possessively intertwining.

Witha said, “I fucking do if I want and don’t if I don’t. Sometimes I need to. But I’m becoming more than those priss boys too. The fucking thing is I just raunch it hard, man.  Look at me even now un-sniffed....I’m pulsing with desire, saturated with virile superiority, with so much you should even guess if you could, cockhead.”

Ejaaz was noticing Witha so clearly. Witha’d been undisguisedly getting taller, by an inch and a half or three quarters or two inches or more and it made a different impression. And Witha was so much bigger. Witha’s shoulders were wider than his torso and Witha’s legs had a rolling aspect past each other when Witha moved. His ass was bigger too and stretched the butt of his clothes. Witha hadn’t recently sniffed Quarium even, it was simply Witha then and there — really changed from the twink during that “date.” Witha seemed tauter and had clearly gotten an incredible degree of lean. Ejaaz wasn’t seeing Witha undressed, but where the clavicle and throat showed at Witha’s open collar there was fleshy, full, muscular quality. There were trapezius muscles. He was developed.

Maybe most changed of all now was the shapes on his build. Curves contoured what Witha wore. What any guy would consider fortunate and desirable protrusions. Down his legs, his quadriceps muscles rose in distinct rail lines and his prick paper-towelled a roll pipe down the left length. Fuck, even Witha’s crotch peaked in a hyper way. 

It was undoubtable as Ejaaz reflected on the memory of the dominating sex where Witha had shown off how much hotter and more dominant he was but that wasn’t nearly as hot as this seemed. It was counterproductive as he tried to deny the appeal of the changes, as he tried to manage his own risk of one day over-abusing the Quari-spoon again.

 

While Ejaaz’s thoughts churned. And then, Witha slowed their walk and paused. Witha stepped in front of Ejaaz with Witha’s slung ass, arch-levered back, and spread arms. Magnetism circulated off Wit. Ejaaz could almost not get breath into his overweight body because of how penetrating were the rippling waves of desire in the air.  

“Ejaaz, fucking pork boy,” Witha finally said. Ejaaz’s eyes fixed on those pillowy lips as they spoke. Ejaaz could feel Witha’s long-lashed, shinily browed eyes denigrating and simultaneously desiring him.

“Yes,” Ejaaz said.

“I think you’re a fucking loser, you fat fuck, you know that.” said Witha. “But something turns me beyond on at what could be done with a huge fat fuck loser like you. Move to the fucking Palm Bumeiera apartment this week.”

 

********************

********************

 

Finished with his shirtless, bare-torso’d saunter home, his lower back cinched and his nue-uber musculature christmas-treeing it, Ejaaz returns to his complex — the complex that Witha has granted him a place in — and goes directly to the alternate elevators that serve the tallest of the sister towers in the complex. Witha lives in the penthouse of that tower — a place that had taken $73m Nidhar to buy.  

The ride in the glass elevator is serenity itself, especially on a moonless night. A dark blanket lays everywhere to the horizon and points of light circumambulate in all directions whether from windows, or stars, or the sea’s reflection of both. He eyes his kickboxing hot body in the glass’s reflection as well — of course in love with it for its inhuman perfection, touching himself and getting giddily aroused and super hard-on’d all over again.

At the 80th floor, Ejaaz’s key, code, and biometric signature open the elevator doors into the public spaces of Witha’s mansion in the sky.

 

Ejaaz likes the oversized artwork hung in museum fashion here. Especially he savors the string of four photographs that line the wall near the open marble kitchen. Witha’s portraits as he had been. So fugly and fat and then disturbingly thin then. These are photo realism — harsh shadows and light. It does make it so arousing how what that was then can be what is upstairs now. The first one shows Witha eighteen, shapeless, obese at the beach with his family in big baggy trunks and a tented t-shirt. The second freezes him at twenty-two jello-seated as fat and faggy-as-can-be hosting a sex cam show for a certain kink crowd. Then two years later emaciated in the convertible side seat of a first boyfriend’s car, a much older man. The last offers Witha at twenty five sitting on the concrete ground of a cargo pier. His thin shirt hangs open showing browned anorexic x-ray ribs and pinprick nips. Witha’s delicate skeleton arms wrap around knobby knees pulled in. Vacant eyes smolder into the camera above concave cheeks and a fuck hot mouth. 

Oh how quarium, most rancid of potions, has annihilated all those versions of Witha. Towering obsession alone has transformed that cam sex partner, that rail thin skeleton into what lurks upstairs now. 

 

Ejaaz leaves the portraits behind and turns to the kitchen. It sprawls. The island seats thirty and fifteen could work at counters. There are five refrigerator units. Multiple wall ovens and a ten burner range equip the cooking area. Ejaaz opens refrigerators, all stuffed. At the furthest, though, he taps in a code on an access panel which unlocks the freezer compartment.  

“Q-W-E” and the number “8”. Q is for “Quarium”, W for “Witha”, and E means “Ejaaz”. Witha picked the initials and “8” as the closest symbol for infinity — “if you turn it on its side...,” Witha had said to Ejaaz. The whole thing was explained as “it means we’re together forever, Ejj, you and me and Quarium.”

Sure, thinks Ejaaz and looks at his own extremely muscular arms. 

Ejaaz removes not one bottle, like he’s built up to for himself right now, but takes four bottles from the icy vault and places them on the field of the island’s marble. Then remembers and puts one back before he locks the freezer compartment and closes the door.  

Forty eight drawers occupy the island, but Ejaaz knows which contains the syringes. It only takes a minute to find the largest hypodermic and unwrap it from its paper and plastic protection. The needle punctures each of the three bottles’ silicon seals in turn, adding together the quantities, until the collected three-fold dose shimmers fully blue-green-silver-gold in the giant hypo.  But it’s not full.  Witha visits one of the other refrigerators removing a bag of medical grade saline. He doesn’t know why Witha doesn’t go into this subzero which they both consider ‘Ejaaz’s’, doesn’t know why Witha hasn’t seen the saline. Ejaaz sinks the syringe’s needle into the bag and draws up saline until the dose looks like equal to four bottles. There is a line between the two fluids, so Ejaaz shakes steadily until any hint of the saline is mixed in, its presence fully disguised.  

 

He climbs the staircase of floating, glass treads to the white marble floor of a master bedroom and suite the size of a large house. The ceilings are fourteen feet high.

 

Witha lies propped on a dozen white cotton-cased pillows on the white sheeted grand master bed. Adorned in a cutting, brilliant white poser — almost icy blue it is so white, and trimmed in neon red fades at the edges — he is gloriously muscular and utterly gargantuan in size.

He smiles at Ejaaz, his smooth supple skin veinier, and more sumptuous than anyone’s has ever been.  

His teeth gleam. His carved jaw and features are sculptural and heart-batteringly handsome.

He folds his great hand behind his head and his upper arm is a 36.5 inch volleyball.

He crosses his ankles and Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles of nuclear propulsed proportions flex hypnotically. They are his thunderously sexual legs and thighs 71 inches around. 

 

He lifts his torso to greet Ejaaz and his shoulders domer rounder than the mosque-al-Madran top and so wide that they’d touch both sides of the el-qaat-a-tab passageway as he walked through. His cinched and elongated core cobblestones a dozen river boulders of muscularity.

 

Unconsciously, Witha removes his huge paw from behind his head and fingertip fondles the beast of a right pec he has, his pinky delivering its particular ministrations to the gorgeously paradisiacal nipple pointed there. Witha’s upper arm squeezes his left pec into an Everestian mountain. His chest and back are ninety inches around.

At his taut and micro-flossed waist, the poser is a thing that raiments — it exhibitionistically clings yet simultaneously lifts and drapes the huge cock mound with which Witha is endowed. It wraps thirty three inch hips that are works of art that outdo any of Islam’s craftsmen, and climbs the Oud-tracing curve of his elephant-strong ass like belaying ropes secured high on a convex cliff face. It sheaths across the desert python and balls of Witha’ned manhood — it is a sexual proposition that could be announced forty feet high rendered in the LED mega-wattage glowing light display in Kurai City’s flashiest crossroads’s billboard.

 

Witha rises to his feet and he is towering and assembled more like a cyborg transformed to flesh and blood than anything else. His gorgeous countenance broadcasts with higher fidelity than any generation of dioded display. It is the unequaled masculine beauty of a million magazine ads. His head is enhancing it’s pre-mutated size and it is perfect. Beneath his head, a slender muscled neck cranes his gaze the way a creature of predatory capabilities would — a velociraptor most probably. Each movement ripples striated sinews criss-crossing his windpipe, wrapping his nape. At his shoulders and collar bone, at his chest and high lats, thews of olympiality crescendo. Everywhere cords rise and collapse shaping a long and tapering core which is woven bands of hypersinewed steel rather than fibers of human cells. At his hips his gargantuan mass compacts further. Hip bones, as though cast by Kurai’s modern titanium trade, peel from beneath the silky blatancy of the aesthete-utilitarian poser. Upon those hip bones attach ass thew cords of incalculable depth and octriceps of enormous jacking beanstalk gnarls. To the pelvic center, anchored by a sensitive fag prostrate, is the scooped up tastiness of his phallus and balls.

He stands across from Ejaaz and his belly button is at the height of Ejaaz’s lips.

“Enhsallah! Fuck!” says Ejaaz, “You are godly. as. fuck.”

Witha smiles down from his seven and a quarter feet and paws his endowment.

“You think I’m godly, Ejjy? Tell me more.” 

Ejaaz eyes up and down Witha’s beefing greyhound divinity.

“You look like you are cut to the bone, Wit. You look like an six hundred pound giant whose grown bigger and bigger while never losing the shape of a muscle whelp — slender and slippish while more destructive than a neutron cannon of militarial-industrial design. You look so powerful that you’d rip fissures in the earth.”

“I weigh five times your guess, ‘Jaaz. I can bench press 8900.  Can squat eight thousand more than that.”

Witha strikes a double biceps and his muscles crunch harder and harder, muscle-belly filling fuller and fuller.  He finally relaxes his tensing to pant his huge overhanging monumentality. 

Ejaaz’s brain is nearly blown out of Ejaaz’s head.

 

Witha godstrides to Ejaaz and takes the syringe. He squeeze until a faint drop of Q glistens at the needle’s point. Witha’s snake-like tongue stretches fourteen inches out of his carnivorously-toothed mouth and touches the point and steals the drop. Wit smacks his lips and sighs. He tilts the instrument sideways and verifies the cc’s and smiles approvingly. Then he gently positions the tip on his flank and inserts it calmly, then squeezes dominantly until the full shimmer has disappeared. 

 

He closes his eyes and breathes. Each breath draws in and out of him no faster than a secondhand circling once around the dial. Tinkles of condensation freeze as he exhales and drift on to his exposed skin. His skin hues blue faintly and then intensely, almost becoming an ice sculpture for a conference buffet. And, then he seems to flinch and his whole body shudders once. 

 

Ejaaz knows that is the sign and does all he can with his building power to brace himself. And then there is a boom of earthquaking volume. The thunderous sound rises from where Witha stands and sonics of iced particles and a pure wall of blinding squall sail from Witha to all points of the room. The storm rages over Ejaaz, ripping at his bare torso, shredding his slacks, pushing him with iron will to be blown from his spot. But Ejaaz stands rooted holding to a faith in his growing abilities.

 

Perhaps eleven minutes go by and the blizzard ends. The room clears. Ejaaz sees that every dressing of the bed sweeps and snows in a wild heap against the headboard and that the white rugs everywhere tatter, cream, and winter-drift in folds against the walls. The artwork in the room is decimated. Assorted tables are broken and chairs and sofas toppled. It is a scene of wild icy chaos.

 

But Witha stands in front of Ejaaz with his warm color returning and his sapphire eyes reopen. Ejaaz knows that billions and billions of husk cells just neu-uberized in Witha, and now double that number of new husk cells begin to lay in fresh colonization about Witha’s mass. Witha’s realized endowment is done and astonishing. He is five inches taller and appears three hundred pounds heavier, though the real number is greater than that obviously. The veined skin that was previously thinned to paper across the steers’ loads of his roidmeat, tightens a microscopic film everywhere even more extremely gross across his greater gigantic mass. Ejaaz can see Witha’s sense of his own power. Witha thrums with obliterating massculinity. His chest is 115 inches now, each bicep would read 69 inches and his legs fill out to almost 91 inches at their heights.

 

Witha in turn looks at Ejaaz and Ejaaz knows Witha is charmed by Ejaaz’s jewel gold eyes, Ejaaz’s faintly pointed ears, and with Ejaaz’s mirroring fayness that Witha has said once made Ejaaz’s Quary-blow-ups such boner-inducing juxtapositions of faggy handsome delicacy and muscle roiding overdosing — so transforming from porkboy ugliness. Ejaaz’s transformations have always yielded a combination of blithe pretty boy faggot with someone who’s given himself unharnessed untrammeled grotesque muscle-roid transformation.

 

Witha fondles and swell-splays everything new on his body. It is exquisite and his horse mallet iron-bars hard in the lay of the half of his poser-cut underpants that have improbably stayed intact, the other hip string having severed expectedly with his swelling increase.

 

“Three or four more months, Ejj,” Witha booms, “and you’ll be able to shoot as much Quarium as i did just then, and shoot it the way I just did. We can make ourselves whatever we dream to be.  I’m going to be a specimen of domination none has ever expected. I relish the unnatural superhuman powers with which I’ll rule — with which we’ll rule....With which we’ll be endowed.”

 

Ejaaz thinks how much sooner it might be than three or four more months. Three or four weeks if he has calculated correctly, if he can keep up the pace. He’s subjected himself to agony more extreme than Witha has, hasn’t he? How does Witha not remember. Ejaaz has pushed the dose loads faster and larger. His just completed dose ten-folded what Witha willed himself at the same point in time, didn’t it. He’s changed more quickly and gotten heavier and stronger faster, hasn’t he? Ejaaz shouldn’t fight his need for superiority should he? And he’s been diluting Witha’s doses as often as he can. Not by a lot, he does get off on seeing Witha grow so mutantly immortal, doesn’t he. He knows he will need a monstrous beast mate. Just, Witha, I’m so sorry..., thinks Ejaaz, I just have to Dom you, fucker, just have to be the one who is the even bigger, fucked up godlier one - godlier than there will ever be ever in all time - that is all. I must be the biggest and strongest myth that can have ever lived or will live. I will be bigger and more powerful than you fuckboi and have my way with your fucking mountain asshole with a cock that has never before been so hard.

He flexes his own little body, then, letting Witha look. He knows Witha likes him. Ejaaz knows that he arouses Witha like a tasty treat with these muscles, with this titanium hard jock-build. But one day Ejaaz knows he’ll fuck Wit, plowing Witha’s asshole and face hole so fucking full and hard. Witha will be Ejaaz’s eternal bitch boy available to him night and day, when he himself weighs tens of thousands of pounds.

 

He says nothing aloud. Instead, he watches as Witha walks to him and Witha’s heaving body rises expandingly, fleshily around his neck and cock and core with each thundering step.

 

When Witha reaches Ejaaz, Witha places the gorilla troop’s girth of his arm across Ejaaz’s strong but still mortal shoulders.

 

Witha leans over, and says, “Join me, Ejaaz, as we become gods.” 

Then they kiss, their hot male lips sealing conflagrating addiction that will never be allowed to abate.

 

“Let’s go put my parthenonic column of a cock in your throat and ass and fuck.” He says.

THE END

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On 8/15/2021 at 10:48 AM, QuoteTheRaven said:

I’ve loved Ejaaz and what comes to him.  I wanted this to have an addict’s feel, and a reality about what someone enduring anything when they want something so bad it hurts. I wanted pain and agony to be felt. And then euphoria. Having the chance to post this over many months since I originally wrote it, it feels like i couldn’t quite make those original goals reality.  But I read it back, knowing I have one last chapter to post, and I feel an atmosphere that does exist with feelings and sensations all in the realm of what I had thought about as I wrote.
Some writers are in command and know what they will create.  I’m more in the throes and don’t know quite what it is that comes out having to deal with some tangled habits of thought as I go.

Man i applaud your dedication to this story and this world. I loved the way you tell the story. Dreamlike and full of details thos little things that made Ejaaz feel euphoric we felt it too through your written.

Ejjaz is such a compleing character once a nobody wanted to be something else and he found someone to grow and "fight" along the way with Witha. They both sasiate each others needs for mass, mucle and dominance.

Thank you for thim.

Im hoping to read more from you in the future

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