QuoteTheRaven Posted May 26, 2021 Author Share Posted May 26, 2021 Chapter 3 Agony Ejaaz suffers. His last injection five days ago had been endurable. Cold and oh so agonizing, but then glorious. It had tightened him, shrunk him, hardened him, strengthened him. That dose had not been this crazed amplified degree of cold. Yet even then that injection had left him floating, hardened and tightened — such an indescribable feeling. Each time he makes a choice to take a larger amount, pushing what can be done to himself, putting the needle in — leave stupid old ‘Jaaz behind, watch that fat melt and sinew rise. It’s a mindfuck, really — the patterns of power and strength that emerge. But it is also ramping up the fucked cold it lows... so much terminating cold. But he hasn’t a choice. If you crave it, you must pay.... does destiny ever offer her highest prizes for free. You can’t go around, only through. So he lies shipwrecked, all execution and excruciation, naked on a celled-in, ice spit of Antarctica, cemented in the heart of heated Arabia. A dead December clambers from his cadaverous mouth, into the damning cruel dark, breathing an indistinct “Mohammahh. Allah. Fuh...” I. Have. To. Move. Ejaaz creaks his head up, crowbarring open an eye barely. He knows he’s becoming beautiful. He radiates with that idea — he’d never really understood what beautiful would be, could be. But as he attempts to scan himself and drink it all in, so many crystals in the retinal fluid of his eyes blind and disorient him. They trigger vertigo. He deflates to not eyeball his body changed yet, he panics at the glimpse of his skin colored blue and gray. He returns his head to the stone beneath it. Curls of his hair fracture like icicles. “Unhh,” he moans, slapped with the fucking thought of foolishly croaking in this harsh manmade hell he’s caused. His smooth narrow-cut chin and chiseled baby-skinned cheeks, usually bare, are furred with an illusory bearish beard raised by a tangle of diaphanous snow crystals that have assaulted his face and mimic actual whiskers and cling to his new angling jaw. It doesn’t escape him that such a portrait of manliness might come to tragically memorialize a ravishingness never enjoyed when he expires as a dead-as-a-doornail corpse. He can feel his heart faltering — knows he’s in real danger. But on his surface, similarly to his cheeks, manly, faux, “body hair” crystals feather flakily across his sleekfrozen chest, belly and legs. Fifteen minutes pass, he will endure! And then he decides, with iron-minded effort he must rock sideways, forcefully as possible. Cold makes him one bonecast and metalcast object so that momentum hangs in the balance — but, desperate determination allows him to tip up just barely to his side. He is like an ice-hard tenderloin selected from the Butcher shop’s freezer — nothing In the iron hard object suggesting the give, and the life of, flesh. The noise of his roll imitates a lopsided iron column laid on a lake’s frozen surface and turned. The glistening purple and gray log that he resembles appears inorganic but it is Ejaaz. He effortfully cracks the elbow of his lower arm, and inches his hardened-in-position hand upward, causing glacier pings to rattle the air. Finally, his palm rests against the frozen-food that incarnates his sternum. The temperatures of both his hand and rib cage hover infinitesimally north of Fahrenheit thirty two degrees. “To survihe I neeh suhh,” his lungs rasp. He drags himself ineffectually. Ejaaz’s palms and popsicle fingers demonstrate no capacity to grip, and his arms lock like crowbars. Nevertheless, excruciating durations allow him to l scrabble out a dysfunctional path across the January-possessed tunnel floor, arm-poleing over the glisten of ice, dragging his log of a body, then wraggling through the hardened sheets of foil, ultimately scraping to the tunnel’s open end. Each foot of progress feels like ten miles. Each minute that passes feels like ten hours. The brightness and heat immediately overwhelm him, landing on him with Saqar’s flames. He pushes onward. At the cement lip, he torques like a mid-winter timber dug from a drift and awkwardly protruded from the snowbank. Ejaaz gets his frozen legs to extend out — hambones thrust out of the freezer to thaw. The furnace-temperature softens his knees minisculely, the pull of the earth hinges them slowly until his feet sink — as they arrive at the concrete, they crack against it. He is four feet above the ground and the sun’s angles strike the entirety of his undressed body. The surface of him hisses — the outermost layer of his epidermis steams with the contact, the barren tundra of his skin sun-lashed and the oven temperatures seeking to roast him. Yet, the permafrosted meatblock below is resistant in unthawing density. He wishes to recoil, to horn pain, to damnify the zero that interiors him. He manipulates instead his eyes to close, he breathes, he yearns to accept. “Fuchhh...... “ and then his voice grows softer “cooocchhhh...” It is lower, barely easier. “Enshallah, fuuchh, okay.” Minutes pass until he’s warmed millimeters deep, nothing to reanimate flesh, but it reorganizes the interchange with the outside world. Gelidity cedes its pursuit of extermination — yet Ejaaz yearns to thaw completely, to discontinue this ruination. He can’t stop though, heat and sun would ignite a Quarium high and arrest his transformation. No, he needs the nue-ubers and must acquire all of the husk-styled new muscle cells he can. He must deny commutation. What he can do now is stand if he places his hand on the wall. This flirty, swimsuit-y body..., he thinks, it is stunning. One I never dreamt I could even have. Look at it. It’s literally ravishing — slim sexy-as-fuck hips, long shaped and lightly muscled legs, this torching ripped upper body, that perky meatfirm butt. Only the rarest of rarest of rare have ever strode such perfection, he continues, but fucking Allah I’m going to fuck it up to fuck high Herak with freakiness. And...it’s so allahforsakenly COLD!. He tries to focus on the ripped jacked muscles he’s created and the covering of the enormous thundering ape-god suit he pursues. Oh how this body will grow more and then really mountain and consume and gargantuate and grow so very vast and consummate him. Creaking pushes him back into the icebox of his curtained off space. He’s back to the cold and lies himself down — conjures visualizations — rude ones — thick throbbing beefy throbbing cock ones. So ridiculous in gargantuity and pornographity that he even senses the expected feel of it. He manages to crack his cheeks into something like a drooling carnivorous smile. He subsists for fifteen hours. Consciousness flows, ebbs, rises and retreats. Each alternate state gives false relief. Unconscious, he lays gone-from-the-world. Dreamscapes of ice conflagrations from sci-fi worlds afflict him, monster snowmen rip him limb from limb. Then, each awakening‘s hope of relief collapses instantly into pain as intolerable as the dreams, with carving apart sensations stretching from toenail to hair follicle, leagues past unendurable until he passes out again. Shampoo. Rinse. And repeat. Decimating. His last awakening, he groans, shouts, and moans like only self-involved youth can. Dick-boy make it all about you, of course, you fucking piss-slit, he self-criticizes. Quarium presents and assaults as warfare, as pestilence, as the no-bounds harshity of outer space. But beyond its hatred-howling, whirling devil inhumanity, Ejaaz’s phantasming mind invents seeing a different further distanced Quarium that is so different — that is some hallucinatory tableaux of unrealistic inaccurate, sweet, nurturing warmth. Baby boy Ejaaz’s hope blearily conjures crystalline bulging Quarium paradisiacally lounging on the remote knoll of a fecund oasis, with shafts of ruffling light falling until they dapple upon a hulk-gorgeous, heave-forged, ice-sculptured god of all bodybuilders silhouette. Ejaaz perceives that bikini’d, swollen anthropomorphized Quarium as anabolism unfettered from all steroid, HGH, or any precedent. It is a Being able to do things to the human body so far beyond even Tren, beyond HgH, beyond insulin. Oh, he sighs, Quarium, and witnesses it as an Arnoldian odalisque sirening a tight little brown swimsuit, and swamping Ejaaz’s bratty, insufficiently grateful, adoration of its poison with beckoned swaddles of Ejaaz’s head up against its chest-muscle-pillows in muscle-monster-daddy embraces. The heaping conception inflames Ejaaz’s baby wants, and boners his little dick. It obsesses his gay wantboy fantasy of gruelful muscle inflation. He’ll leave behind pathetic pudge wudge Ejaaz, will enstone perfect masculine muscle-size and firm-fleshed greatness. He will suck the endless rising tits of this gray-haired muscle-mammoth god. Nothing limits how much he wants mythic Arnold-beyond-all-Arnold frames, how much he wants his personified Quarium daddy to make of him, how much Quarium he will use to make it act, or how much he can want to be cruelly impregnable for what he will make himself. A sword of northern arboreal temperatures swings down through his heart, arrggh, out his left lung, ughhhh, up into the air, and then back into his intestines, eeiiyaah. It is as though its tip rips at his only five and a half years ago just-fuzzed balls like it wants to hack them right off his body. His breath jars out of him. He finds his young-dude voice screaming. And, then, “Ok,” he finally concludes in a whimper. Even a little-wittle fwifth gwader would have been embarrassed at the scream. He’s remotely alone for so many reasons, thank Allah. It feels now as though some surgeon has reached into a cut open abdomen, buried him with crushed ice, and mauls his organs with sadistic fists. “ok. ok. ok” The assaults begin to settle, the imaginary surgeon closes his newly hot young patient’s incisions, with flawless plastic surgery to restore perfection, and eventually mere level ten pain replaces the incomprehensible sensation of fracturing like a comet in lifeless space. “Ok. ok,” Ejaaz barely murmurs further. He quiets and then, “I can’t do this again.” But he commits again not to think that thought, only to think of orgasmically enormous titanic shoulders, and waspish waist, mountainous back, and legs mashed together sweeping humongulous unending godman thighs that bulge a trophy dick bigger, higher, and fuller than a foot long. Quarium will pathway him to the most oversized grotesque muscle freak domination that armament and deifying perfection will make of him or any one. A violent stab comes again — deeply straight into his gut — he screams and collapses. But, then finally Ejaaz returns to full organized consciousness and a semblance of ableness. He pushes himself to keep the cold, but also find his way home. He moves as a prizefighter after a 15 round loss — standing his popsicle of a corpus, recladding in keffiyeh and robes, removing the hanging foil-curtain barriers, shoving them and the sleeping bag in the cooler, and then stooping to lift the cooler. The clothes swim over his fuse-tightened body. So long, fucking lard-man. Though an unburdened youth of a mere two decades of age, a man advanced ten decades would move faster and more fluidly. Ejaaz creaks to the concrete opening. An end-of-night-moon lingers above the solar panels outside. He clatters his lad-ly, polar, fish-cold body down upon the lip of the tunnel’s form and then slides forward. He rotates to his icy solidified and ripped stomach — “unnnhhh” — then scrapes across a frost-glazed ice-kid front, stretching the icecubes that serve as his toes to the ground. It’s ridiculous how much more he resembles a mannequin robotically animated than he does a living real life boy(man). He eases to the sand and pulls down the cooler. Stilting slow strides for fifteen minutes brings him to the hole he’d cut in the isolated chain link fence. On the other side, brush hides his motor bike, but he finds it in the dark. He struggles as he frees it, stows his container, mounts the seat, and heads back to the capital of Kurai. =============== Jacking Break 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
QuoteTheRaven Posted May 26, 2021 Author Share Posted May 26, 2021 Chapter 4 Back to Kurai Foil blankets line his garments keeping the warm night air from him and keeping him cold. Others use, he thinks as he rides, but not like he just has. None does it that way. And even if some other does, he never pushed it so singularly to this savage degree. The others, they like the inhalation, the fuck fun, the user-sex. They take it for the sensation, the transportation, enjoying it for a day, not knowing. He’s done that too, has liked it too. But in their cheetah club play, they’ve never comprehended true growth, have they — haven’t conceptualized real power. He didn’t used to but now he thinks of it. Incessantly. Obsessively. Captured by the idea of what power is, of how enlarging and mammothing it pushes one, demands one be. He hungers now — what he hadn’t realized he could. He fanaticizes what he wants, can’t avoid hoping for himself to be more extreme than they can conceive. The incalculable power he might have. Like none have had before. Might. Oh, so fucking incredibly Mighty. Wasn’t there a little cartoon Mighty Mouse once. He and Mighty Mouse will do it together panting at their mammoth bods. All it takes is exterminating oneself, right. That is all. Repeatedly fuck it. Annihilation is the thousand pounds of flesh exacted. It’s the Faustian demand. Quarium, what a dirty whorish Fuck — offering single days of her ecstasy completely free, but demanding life-taking prices for making her one’s permanent mate. Ejaaz strains a smile at the thought, but I am finding a way to pay and not die, aren’t I, you fucking bitch. His numb inflexible cheeks retract as his confidence grows. You can exact your price, cunt, any price, hired fuck, for you never anticipated young obese derided Ejaaz would be the one to enslave you, whore. Ejaaz who would suffer a universe’s length of your blizzard-mad demands to BECOME what I am starting to become. I will be a monumental all-powerful father-HULKING Absolute Total and Complete MUSCULAR dominating GOD!!! The repeated doses have challenged his voluntary free will. They have done so so recurrently, that an outside clinician would surprisingly note in her journal, “subject’s behavior is pathological, addictive, and sadistic, inuring to the cold”. While she writes, she’d be dripping in her pussy, drooling forbiddenly, “I am so obsessed with him, with what he is, with what he is doing to himself, with what he looks like, how he is built — with what he harbors beneath those clothes... With what he could rise up and do to me with what he becomes.” In Ejaaz’s head, there are pleas to retreat from the arctic effort. How lonely and desperate those calls are to be ignored. Ejaaz loathes the weak voice that whispers those calls, even as that voice dares to say to HIM, Ejaaz, Please, oh please, oh Allah, please JUST take what you have so far... and just give up. “Fuck that”, he says out loud in reply. On the mo-ped, he cleaves. The hard, freezing stillness of his palms ice tenaciously to the handle grips even as the grips strive to slide around. The tires bumble over the rutted dirt — would there ever be an end. Hot gusts blow from further inland, across him, toward the direction of the sea. The shielded clothes bar him of any of that heat though. His rigidness offers no give and broadcasts every vibration through the Siberian bones buried in him. It is awful. The unpaved cut eventually converges with the beautifully paved causeway which eases the ride ever so. He opens the throttle, but quickly wind and reverberation too much reinforce the chattering in his teeth and he eases back pissed to go so slow. The towers of Kurai City rise in the north, the lights of the early-risers twinkling. The highway offers empty road. Only an infrequent white or tan colored car speeds by. The city mostly sleeps. Closer in, he exits the expressway to drive local streets to the most fashionable block with desert gardens and affluent luxury — he’s moved there to start this. The bike is sputtering when he gets to the lot of his residential towers. The rack for his bike sits near the forecourt. The metal outlines of it make an arrangement of seabird silhouettes. The slots for wheels and locks are below. He enters an empty slot and shiveringly dismounts. A plaza fronts a soaring wall of high arched glass that splashes out the glittering lobby lights. The facade is a construct he’d ineffectually apprenticed on — a shaming experience for the 19 year old pathetic, do-this-over-you-incompetent that he’d been when interned by mom at the Kuraiti engineering firm of her successful lecherous cousin. He stutters across the plaza exerting all his focus to approximate the steps of an ordinary human dude. In the black marble-floored lobby, Indiron and Vandana ornament the desk. “Good morning, Mr. Ejaaz,” Indiron says, eyes whipping to Ejaaz. Indiron is early-30ish — rugged, short, built, and very handsome. Indiron’s voice flows cool and low. Permanent five o’clock shadow stamps Indiron with manliness. The “good morning” has been new, and the switch to Ejaaz’s first name — just as involuntary additions of “good afternoon” or “good day” have been new. Front desk staff recognize residents with formal direct address and nothing else. Ejaaz’s hot body and climbing handsomeness have apparently demanded the greatest degree of loquaciousness allowed, the most stretching reach for familiarity. His mutation is at minimum banishing the formerly mumbled “Mr. Eud’laat” from a fellow who couldn’t bother halting his hands continued clacking on a front desk workstation and who couldn’t trouble himself to raise his eyes from continued focus on a workstation screen back when Ejaaz was one hundred twenty pounds overweight. Indiron had and does draw Ejaaz. Indiron had previously cowed inferiority in Ejaaz. That inferiority is clearly gone. Now that Ejaaz rocks hard, trim athleticism, he accepts the eyes on him, needily indulging homosexual desires slipping into view wherever he finds them. As cold as he is, Ejaaz postures to show himself off. Rays of dawn break across the desk onto Indiron. Ejaaz has the self-command not to stammer I’m nearly freezing to death, but just gazes at both... at Indiron. Awareness of Indiron’s jock body, (of curvy Vandana’s,) and of his own shake in Ejaaz. “Yea-h-H-h-H,” Ejaaz finally quavers. He manages it without breaking like a calving berg avalanching upon their glam lobby floor. He’s feeling it in his dick as he says it. As Ejaaz traverses to the elevators along the curved glass wall, he knows Indiron’s eyes and Vandana’s will soon only be more superglued to him when he heaves a beyond full sculptural towering muscleman anterior — how awesome and lofty will be Ejaaz’s scrumptious ass, how wide and strutting will be his wing-spanning shoulders, how massed will be his columns of quadrooned legs, how fucking crazy it will be for a fucking near-boy of 20 years, to mass hundreds and hundreds (and hundreds) of muscular pounds. As he changes, males and females will blow out of their heads to a thousand degrees at how sexual his muscular excessiveness makes him, and makes them throb. The elevator cab whisks him to the 57th floor, three from the top. He holds his shivering self together to pass the doors of the two other condo units on the hall — units owned by straight Kuraiti guys thirteen and twenty-five years older who have too many girlfriends and who rake in too much cash with self-serving deals. They have been accommodating, and were almost friendly at first in the you-are-no-threat way. He gropes his cock through his clothes as he walks. They’ll kowtow to him soon, he grins, as he overwhelms them with his infinitude. At his apartment door, Ejaaz exerts resolution to tame his hand and hit accurately the digits of his access code. Inside, fresh sun invades the modernity. He approaches the floor-to-ceiling window and leans on it with slim, strong hands above his head. Out the window, Ejaaz espies the vista laid out for him, a master of the universe — flat sea and endless miles of water stretch as far as can be beheld. The sun striking his face is radiation assaulting ice. For 30 seconds he remains, this chiseled beauty of a thing — but always the heat. It would be so easy to just call it done and drink in the sun of this new day with the managed gains, but the longer the better, the more reactive his body becomes, the more mortal cells transform to nue-ubered immortalness. So, over at the electronic controls, with the shudder-y push of a button, he lowers blacking-out blinds. He is walled in again. With the windows blocked, the fishbowl shifts to a shielded retreat. The temperatures refrigerate lowly. He removes his clothing and foil wrap. He wants to be naked but for the minuscule underwear that strips across his groin and the lower half of his ass. His low-single-digit body fat does everything to glorify him and nothing to insulate him from the apartments cruelly effective cold. Shivering re-erupts uncontrolled. Self-will abandons him and his incrementing body jerks. His teeth wail together. Fuck NO!. “Owwww!” So bad but good. Painful but at last surrendered to. It’s just agonizing. Enshallah. Maybe he doesn’t want to endure it any more. His mutating willpower still has vulnerabilities like this — weakness, habitual from a former era, weakness that is fragments of an inferior Ejaaz who was once all whom existed. Ejaaz fantasizes someone older, steeled in their abilities, substantially more manly, testosteronally so — A fifty year old daddy would take Ejaaz’s naïveté in harness, dom him, top him, enslave him, and force him to suffer whatever the daddy demanded to achieve their mutually desired destiny of jacking Ejaaz up to beyond a muscular god. Ejaaz’s limbs are hard to move when he is frigid. Every spot shimmers with numbration. His cells cry, warm us. He does self-lie that maybe it’s been enough for this time. That maybe he wants it to stop. With this iteration of that idea, his feet start toward the Nest control, his ice-mannequin’s hand blusters into his little briefs, onto his little popsicle prick, over his little marble balls. But he halts, withdraws his hand, and fucking finds a way to laugh at himself. I’ve already become so much fucking stronger than that, he reasserts, who the fuck are those old bulls that I wouldn’t face fuck them and shove my cock up their holes. I’m as strong as any of those old bulls I’d want to be with, who I’d want to have force me grow, who I’d choose to make a life with. The guys he thought of were thirty and forty and fifty years more mature than he is. He’s stronger as he continues to fucking think this and do this — fucking much stronger. Just watch. He can’t imagine enduring the pain, the discomfort any longer. But he knows what desperate coveting is now — so, he knows he will. He won’t surrender at all. I will dominate all of the astrological realm, he thinks. He senses physically the big big big big big body he is to build. Oh, Allah, yes, yes, Yesss. He continues to endure. He stilt-walks again his harder, tighter, already, in fairness, larger Adonis composition around the apartment. He does check the temperature control. His cells will stop making the cold but if he keeps temperatures deeply low reactions can be further nursed. Oh sweet, Mohammad. The thermostat setting reads 4C/39.5F degrees. The commercial cooling units he‘s installed make it as cold as it’s ever been made to go. It’s probably a godsend because could he take any colder? His skin shines silver after all. His mind turns to nine months ago. Turns to his fat ugly, dumpier-than-anyone, alonehood self. Living shumbled, putrick loneliness personified. He’d never heard of even a hint of Quarium then. Hadn’t known the gay crew. Hadn’t known about muscles — oh Allah pure muscles — hadn’t known about deeply intense muscle addiction. Hadn’t known about power, about thundering sexual thighs and highs, about a sexuality now embraced through the perversions he’s come to freak. He hadn’t known then the apogee. Hadn’t known the bulging muscularly weightlifting sublime. =============== Jacking Break 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
QuoteTheRaven Posted May 31, 2021 Author Share Posted May 31, 2021 Recap: Chapter 1 Desert. A skinny guy injects himself Chapter 2 To Inject. To inhale is fleeting, Injecting is murderous but starts change the world has never seen. Chapter 3 Agony. Icy annihilation Chapter 4 Back to Kurai. Fantasizing while returning to opulence. Onward... 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
QuoteTheRaven Posted May 31, 2021 Author Share Posted May 31, 2021 Chapter 5 The Taqim Mithli Aljins and Humayeraz Beach It had all first unfolded when his foursome — directionless, how-had-they-considered-themselves friends — had by true happenstance blundered into another group to achieve the improvement of a bigger group of loser aloneness. But, through them they met one guy who mistook them for being more than nobodies and hung with them accidentally and led them to three other actual someones before he figured out to dump them and move on. The three included two who were seared in Ejaaz’s memory from the infinitely improbable coincidence of sharing Ejaaz’s same karate school from when he was seven years old until eleven. Of course those two had dominated the class, had led the show with looks and personality while Ejaaz had had his thumb up his ass as small as a fat introvert could make himself in the corner. They didn’t remember him — not his name, not one thing, of course, the fuckers. Those three were trying to shed another couple who were breaking up — monogamy wasn’t doing it for the couple with one dreaming of partying once more with the lads. Somewhere along the way most all those people managed to drop Ejaaz except one other of the originals, Emzj. Emzj had latched onto the breaking up boyfriend of the splitting couple but had brought Ejaaz along out of a characteristic kind pitying. The breaking up partier had then been easily tapping into a situation that would never have appeared to Emzj, never mind Ejaaz alone. A portal opening to another dimension would have been less surprising than the slipping in with the new huge host of fun stud guys that unfolded — adventurous guys, qualifyingly handsome, a decent number even a reasonable dimension of jock-y. The group was a crowd, the taqim mithli aljins. This larger Arab circle was one so tuned into and onto homosexuality — firmly embracing of the assorted get-offs and get-bys, but in particular its get highs, actually, get Qighs. The group lived free. Acted as though fulfilling desires, hedonism actually, was fine. They were striking. They, first-to-last, all hard, got-off on the chance to parade given days as dick-endowed, giant grunt-grunt males. That was how Ejaaz had been snuck in to “Quary”, to Quarium. Who had dreamed of it? Who could conceive it, that anything would do what it would do? It was a party thing he was told. About having a good time — A regular way to spend their time. Maybe really it was ultimately about having a better time. A lot better really. He and Emzj had been stunned. In disbelief. Emzj wasn’t stunning but at 23 years old had worked on himself enough during the three years that Ejaaz had known him, that his looks had developed. Emzj had managed to become trim and worth looks. Emzj had a hold of himself. He fit himself in — could’ve comprehended the Quary version that would emerge of himself. And managed the reversion to sober just fine. But Ejaaz was disoriented. To see himself lose fat? To en-slab with muscle? To roam about with the body and dildo dick and libido and build and god shoulders and the back of an internet great grand stud? Holy shit, it was so intoxicating — like having a brew for the first time but times five or ten or hundred. Emzj thought it was fill-up-your-prick fun. And told Ejaaz to don’t overthink just let it take him away. So Ejaaz forced himself to pick up on it. To toy with it. Oh, then, to give himself to it. Within a few outings the broken up boyfriend and Emzj were a thing and didn’t generally come. But Ejaaz had clung on to the taqim mithli aljins like a scummy Cal Hockley in the movie Titanic doing everything oily and dishonorable to be kept with the crew. He barely maintained his spot with them, or earned acknowledgement when he showed (until each time he showed how Qigh he was willing to go) — all because of his never attempted looks and because of his weight. But, they’d kept managing to let him come. He had eventually learned to party so hard as the rest of them — how to thunder a god body and a wolfy smile like the rest put on. How to appreciate himself, what he became, so so so much when he was Qigh. It’d be a day at the beach going where the party promoters go. The looser one. The flaunting one. The one where Arab families could not suspect what they’d do while there. The wide open, flat, almost white clay one where a half kilometer stretched between the boardwalk and the water’s edge. The one that sweltered with heat, baking under unbroken Arabian sun from sunup to sundown. Where beach goers would expire on the heating tray of the sand or in the warm bath of the Arabian waters. But it was the one that offered the easy rambling space. The one with the smooth, soft-firm surface that would hold weighty massive muscle beasts, that fostered hombre roid-strutting, that acted as a wild, unregulated dais. They’d load their jeeps and leave at 5:30am in robes and keffiyeh, talking about something restrained. But, as soon as their vehicles crossed the highway into Kurai, they’d shed the scarves and the robes as they drove. With their colorful board shorts and tanks, the changing cadre of other guys who would bring him, would hang their young cool bodies out the open-air jeep. Ejaaz himself would squinch his fat-assness in his seat. He would fake laugh, his gut and booby tips almost on his knees, his buttocks and hips spilling against the door and onto the center console, his flab-drapes of arms nestling atop his circumferencing sidefat. All of the rest of the frigging queers would be thrilling, singing at the top of their lungs, and touching each other rambunctiously. It had been fine — he had so deadened his mind again and again. It had gotten him where he needed to go. At Humayeraz Beach, the lads would lay a patchwork of towels and blankets to domesticate the sand. There’d be fifteen or eighteen or twenty-one or more — a pretty good looking group but for him... so bi and so queer. Ejaaz didn’t have a clue if he could be handsome — he’d been heavy for so long, and had the confidence of a bag of bird feed kept in the cupboard after the little finch had died. As bad as it was, his confidence was sufficient at least, enshallah, not to betray his give up — and over time he was learning that his prurient gay identity was even more grotesque than the others’ and that his hunger to embrace it if he was to survive must be made as honest as he could make it like theirs. Congregating, the others would all run into the cabanas to perfect their outfits, hydrate before the Quarium, or grab a handful of figs or a strip of lamb jerky to help nourish what was to come. Sometimes prancing, they’d giggle sensing themselves being risqué. Ejaaz would waddle to the blankets and huff recovering waiting for the grail to be brought out. By 6:15am, the Quarium would appear. Always passed around in a Quari-spoon, the Quari-spoon looked only remotely like a spoon — really a pastry bag whose nozzle was two narrow side-by-side scoops that could be rested under a user’s nose. A handle and a switch similar to a trigger could be squeezed and dancing streams of illicit blue-green-silver-gold would flow from the pastry bag to each scoop, first as a fluid, and then immediately vaporizing so that it rushed up the user’s nostrils as mist. Oh the powerful rush of it — The sun and the Quarium and the nubile male bodies. Could there be a more potent combination? A more faggy combustible combination. The Quarium would enter nostrils of slim, fag boys. Or his disgusting load of a blimp size. How it would cloud the brains before clearing as it disappeared into flesh. The bodies and the potent agent would momentarily blister. The guys would look stricken for sixty seconds and then in the intense Arab heat, 99 degrees or 106 degrees or whatever, they would swelter and drip with sweat before they would combust the membranic binding and the shadow cell profusion. The priss scrawn prigs, or Ejaaz, would erupt. A dude’s peepee changed first, becoming something of which to be damn well proud. The guy would look down and understand mammalian equipment. In his sensual crossroads he’d be hung like a camel. The fag would handful perfect bigness through his clothes, ownership surprising his face. His groinal latching told him he was real - whoa what a tool. The big-dicked dude, with it hoisted by whatever he wore beneath his board shorts, immediately laughed at the idea of promptly stripping and going all porn star show. He’d think to whip off the tank top that held his still average Moe nothingness so he contrasted his still natural self to the monster honker he now hung. But he resisted — his attitude being, How much more fun to strip when I can barely peel these clothes off my mammoth rippling body Their horse-man dicks remained the same then, but their hips slenderized and their bodies superhulked up. Their backs and lats and necks swelled and went veelike, up and out and back and up and back and out with transformational thickening and broadening, until the dudes’ lats right-angled inverted mountain faces of volume and shoved their arms far out to the side. Their arms would rumble with girth until the fag-males threw giant over-sized softballs and forge-creviced horseshoes into horny bicep flex show. Their legs became massive things of beauteous power and they’d drop their asses on their haunches and rise pumping a tire. With the squats their sex hoses would mash amidst bromkinging quads brimming with corded gain. Their titanic thighs crowded their male reproductive organs and inflated out from iron-tiny waists — their legs were torpedoes of rippling desire. The collection of these normally 150lb guys, and Ejaaz’s 280lbs, re-incarnated as heaving alpha men became a monstrous symphony of homoeroticality — the leers, the sexual energy... the muscular achieval. Finally, awakening to all that muscle can be, the naturally homo innocents would throw their arms wide arching further and further back creating the space demanded for towering hills to rise where once empty chests had been. With shoulders like new Apollos the queer fucks would sweep arms into most musculars and strain against pecs that were western asian ranges domed over the plains. Their gorgeous shelves would burst upon themselves and rise from etched center clefts across breasts that mated into the sirloin of cliff-dropping delts. All over, mignoned muscle supersensualized fuckers who minutes before had barely qualified for even being aware of their own dicks. Oh yeah! Oh fucking yeah, they’d laugh and look at their huge queer brahs. “It all must fucking be revealed,” they’d hound, and stripping their boarders and tanks, would show such unending stretches of lickable rippling sinew and abdominal rivering, all dressed in hilariously stretchy Lycra or spandex raunchy swimsuits that just barely qualified as dressing their sexuality, that barely resisted exploding off their size so as to leave them rawly bare. The low, raw pube-cuts, the immodest fabric and the hinting scraps that humped over their asses and lumped disgustingly just barely over their soft dicks would be printed with “my little ponies”, or pictograms of Greek buttfucking, or a photographic image of David Laid hanging with his hoody muscle bros, or would have a pattern of lightning bolts in neon hues rising over mounded big dick volume, or would incorporate any of dozens of other playful, naughty, or exuberant patterns. The revealing fucksuits would suction-slither on each dude’s hips and lay paint-thinlow over the snake-y folds of his organ. Oh, How swaddled the trotted bull balls and queer god-shanks, bragcoddled, and simultaneously aching across the hale-mounds of their muscled ass hills. Best of all, the hulking male-only-loving gorillas used the teensy suits’ negligibility solely to blatantly emphasize the maximality of bodies towering on their greatly monstrous tops, over-built with mosqueian necks and chests and shoulders, and rumbled upon oil-tanker legs that projected out to the ends of the world. They’d frolic and cavort. A posse of jack-mongoosed mangods pose-roaming the sands of the public beach, amongst the punified mortal Waji and Ayaya normals. They’d burst from the surf, then go handstand for thirty feet or four minutes at a time, parading their Lycra-traced, muscle-boy-presented penises high in the air. When they walked, their bodies angled across the expanse, horse-meated with proportion and bulging etching. Their constricted hips, great asses, and meat-massed thighs quaking. Their arms over others’ powerful homo bodies, across fagstud shoulders or palms rested on buds’ rippled brick-road abdominal walls. Wrestling hard beasts pounded against one another throwing fells to the sand where they grappled steer to steer, everywhere their skin sweatily slipping across others’ flexings and liftings as they looked for holds and as they sought to show how their particular strength and muscle and size would feel in pinning over some beastly beefed-upon-beef buddy man. Faux play would bring pouching pricks that hammocked under arching abdominals near to the lycra’d cracks of others’ curve-muscled rears. Beautiful black hairs would spill out of the pube bands of their so low Lycra, and would also run down their legs. Similarly deep black eyelashes batted the beauty of their clear green and brown eyes beneath lush arching eyebrows upon Malakbelian faces sculpted around jaws, and ears, and noses, and chins. Full brown lips and snowwhite teeth and fuck tongues found each other repeatedly throughout the day as Amir, or Nidal, or Qadir, or Hahmid, or Yusuf, or Zareb or any of the others would kiss and then part from each others’ tremendous bodies or from Ejaaz himself. The sun would at last decline. The baking heat would subside to 90-something Fahrenheit, a temperature that only someone on Quarium could think cool. Libidinousness would crescendo and the sex would begin. All over the sand, male muscle creatures would liberate dicks nine inches to a foot and a quarter long and proportionally as thick, then would slow blow each other’s holes while they gripped their own lemon-sized balls in such a way that the collective grunting would make the coastal soundtrack of an elephant seal mating ground sound tame. Ejaaz didn’t know that those simple bull-broncing fucks and resulting cum throws were triggering the de-metabolisation of the doses of Quarium that had been muscle-fantasizing them that particular day. Or, simultaneously that the prick-spritzing vacated any trace Q remnants in the seminal fluid fired from their shafts. He just knew that with Olympian sexual appetites sated and bearably abated, he and the other giant bodied faggots would all take to the patchworked ground and pull blankets over their spent, orgasmic magnificences, content with nothing like anyone could ever imagine. And when they’d awake in the morning with their unruly mussed up shaggy hair and scrawny weak bodies (or Ejaaz’s obese, weak body), they wouldn’t openly admit a care and would return to their boardies and tanks, or go back under their keffiyehs and robes becoming everyday, Arab noones again in their ordinary lives oppressively okay with, or self-dismissive with, how fully to the top they’d chosen to go in getting high on Quarium, if anyone were ever to find out. =============== Jacking Break 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
QuoteTheRaven Posted May 31, 2021 Author Share Posted May 31, 2021 Chapter 6 Inklings of the New Him Ejaaz's remembers it all. He looks across the living room and sees his reflection in the mirror above the foyer table — his tough stud body so new in the last weeks. His abs rip and his shoulders stand broad filled with brimming potential. His arms fill out detectable 16.5” biceps and his thighs braid four light cords of 23” muscle. His hips narrow to 29.75” with an adonis belt excavated like a concrete municipal spillway between his abdomen and groin. His limbs lengthen, changing to approach the 1:1:1 proportions of the Ancient Greek aesthete philosophers and not matched by even the very best stage-mounting fitness competitors. Evaporated are the hippo’d heaves of fat rotundity and candy bar obesity that’d so universally pud-smunched him. Oh the Fuck does hard leanness jack him. His current statistics plot a first point on the slope of his transformational intention. He grows, he wants to grow, and his wants so intensely grow. A sharp-tusked piggishness is goring his lame-engineer’s measuredness, and is escalating. It cracks the facade of the sad porky Arab-mamas-pudge, shreds fag-sad-boy repressivity, strips emasculating blubber. Nothing will deny his fantasies now — he’ll do as he wants. Plainly. Rampagingly. In the broadest light of day. Through his family’s fucking front door if he wants. He’ll do it as much as the time he spends masturbating over the hunger for it. He arches around twisting his neck to visually grasp his ass. Fuck! its bubbling height so sexually models his desire — It’s fucking arousing him! He needs it and wants it, and doesn’t care what others might think about it. Doesn’t care a fuck’s all, doesn’t care a ram’s all, doesn’t care a penis slap’s all. AND, simultaneously cares. Cares utterly. Cares with the intensity of a sadist. He cares so voraciously what they’ll think. That’s actually the sharpest diamond fucking point, right? Isn’t it? Oh fuck, so fuck, so FUCk yeah. This 41” chest and the new six foot height? Isn’t that where his lust burns hottest? To fuck them all with how impossible he is. Doesn’t every push come with the creaming, searing obsession that he parades it? To become so that he hulks all day, every day, in in every fucking face, in every raping way? Fucks it on them just to look at him? Mountainous in his bed, seam-splitting in his western business suit, ass-rounding, and arm-sleeve destroying in jeans and tshirt, standing on his balcony for the city to see in his jockstrap. To have them cowed and choked at what he fucking does to himself and becomes — envious and covetous and desiring — and so fearful and so grossed out by him. Of him. And him wanting and needing and having it bad, so sweetly, so dysfunctionally bad. Him so gutturally carnal and dominating with masochistic superiority and fatal attraction. His appetite sears any humanity of his vestigial resistances to such corrupted desire. He portends now the figment of how he will arrest their eyes, of how it will be impossible to avoid the becoming of a giant 89-inch shouldered, 50 inch thighed, and 27-inch hip-narrowed Heraklean darkening of the sky, of how they will pledge their stares to him and their wills. And they will YEARN. He has tolerated pain for this, and he consumes agony more cravenly now, destroying amounts of agony. For too long what should have been self-obvious muscle-growth-fetishism had been walled off from him and he had merely been a sad, enormous, jiggling, gluttonous crap. But muscle fetish offers something to a dude. Does something for him. And it blooms in him now like five hundred thousand glint-thorned, desert bushes that sprout spontaneously across the lands of all the countries. He’ll suffer the inhumanly unendurable to feed the conflagration that’s been kindled. He has determined to abuse his magical worshiped substance so extremely that he will never constrain its rage, will simply Jahannam himself and worse. When Jaheem freezes over they say — bring it fucking on. That’s what Ejaaz experiences, isn’t it. He loves the reality of just how magnitudinally he must be slaughtered and quartered and assfucked to balloon his mass in brawn and size and virility and domination. He’d always thought it mattered what others thought. How they’d look down on him. Now, he’ll make it plain as day, when his body is six foot two, or six, or eleven, when he is giant, giant as even fucking Jalut, who he is, may have always been some version of secretly, and what they can fuckingly do with what they used to think as they are commanded to think of him, to worship him for how muscular and strong he is. He smiles wistfully at his arresting, sweetly pretty, proportional six foot reflection and he recollects the uncomplicated innocence of those first five or six or ten outings when it was all new. Partying. Him not doing anything at all wrong with the crew — no matter what his too-much-in-the-know, sixteen-year-older, straight brother might say — just taking something to goad on the good time. Loving everyone. Everyone finding him sexy and alive. Them getting touchy, and then sexual, explicitly so, and not being afraid to do him or show him themselves doing other guys, all of them letting him know what bros mean to each other — how special they are, how lustful one can be toward them. Then sleeping it off the next morning, buying the myth of retreating back into the normal world as all they wanted, believing the myth of being in ways content with that. It was so encompassing as though nothing could be more simple in the world. Of course, Ahmed, the sixteen-year-older, like-a-father brother, had accidentally spotted him at the beach, had been explosively repulsed and concernedly furious, had lectured him again and again. But Ejaaz had finally realized to defend himself, right?, screaming with no other resort, “don’t tell me what to do habibi brother — there’s NO REASON FOR ME NOT TO DO THIS THAT I DO! I’m nineteen years old! I’m already a grown up. I know what I’m doing!” And so Ahmed had ultimately had to quiet his tongue. So it was all so good - so fleeting but so good. But things had continued to change. The taste of it all was pulling and skewing something that couldn’t resist inside him. He started to not want himself as-is any more, saw his sloppy, out-of-control dumpy plumpness with no-concern-to-acheive as something so disgusting that he must change, must become something better. He began to fantasize if he were thinner, if he tried harder, if he took care of his health, if he tried anything to meet someone. But in his bed, with the lights out and his hands on the so below average prick he’d been cursed to have, queerer, more fetished thoughts would emerge. Rising in his fantasies and in his rod symbiotically was versions of his body big and ripped, him domming and controlling, visions of what a bodybuilder could feel. So developed, so truly masculine, so confidently commanding — it would grow into a vision of being that way every day — powerful, and more unchanging than Quary-snorting once-per-week with “friends” would ever have him be. He would ordain himself with his own delirious ejaculations of being built. His sheets would end up a skanky smutty should-be-washed-but-didn’t-want-mama-to-know mess. But, for now, Ejaaz, in the apartment, looking in the mirror, decides he needs to put a stop to the recollecting. He must weigh himself. He travels through the white glazed simplicity of the enormous master bedroom to the opulent bathroom, moving like a sleek ultra-conditioned gazelle. He mounts the bathroom scale. He sees the number and he shivers. Colder, more unbearably so again, but giddy too. He laughs. His body will suffer all he’ll demand of it, won’t it, he thinks, for I am making it.... making that vision... making myself.... He tries to get a grip on himself and tone down the vision just for here just for this hour. He restarts. He is simply making himself into that impregnable Arab-brown desert super warrior, he decides, that one that one reads about in the local pulp novels. He needs to measure his size. Q-injecting weight and Q-injecting size are two different things he has learned. He uses a cloth taperule and checks each body part. The new numbers register changes that have come from this dose. He’s gained a third inch girth on each arm and on his legs. Yes, fuck that is good. Two third inches around his chest, an inch and one eighth around his shoulders. Oh, Allah, that’s what I want. His waist is smaller than his portly Q-prior self had been by twenty nine inches, some of it subtracted from the width of his hips that have contracted as well. Oh holy I really love it so much. And of course his dick has experienced its own improvement — thicker, and longer by three inches now, it’s a nice six and a half incher even soft, with bigger rounder balls, as well, and when it gets hard he knows it will have some awesome reach and breadth. Ohh, yeah, this thing is really a pretty damn ok tool, he bones to himself. Quarium is making him this way — more erotic, more arc’ing, better built, not an infinitesimal trace of flab, more aesthetic....taller — superior as a human. And these measures all probably have another ten to twenty percent to go before this dose is fully processed. When he assesses the visual changes, the changes in size, they are such awesome adjustments, he thinks. Where he’s added in some places modestly — his limbs, his chest and shoulders, his rear — he’s drastically taken away in others — his waist, his hips, his elbow and wrist and ankle and knee joints. And that’s why he laughs. His size, while immeasurably more physiqued, isn’t even yet big in any real way — hideable under the right clothes, he just looks like he’s for the first time in his life athletic and hot, not soft, not round — but undressed he is already transformed, arrestingly so. BUT, the scale shows that he weighs too much for what eyes would tell. A month ago he weighed two hundred seventy three pounds, had 62 percent body fat — an obese weight of fat sedentary junk food eating sloth. A visual assessment now would suggest a nicely transformed conditioned and super tightly muscled athletic 164lbs. But he recalls the digital display again and horns a long and cocky triumphance — the scale had shown three hundred thirty five pounds. He’s as slender as a beginning bodybuilder, whose poser would be a little too much like floss on a dieted down un-juiced bulk. But, oh huge swinging gonads, he’s as heavy as a fucking Mack truck, that could trundle a cargo load of granite blocks thousands of miles. Unnnhh, it jacks him so hard. Quarium has made him so much heavier — sixty two pounds heavier in three weeks than the hog swine he had been. It is all on a far tighter frame through its power of densening and hardening. His decreased volume is tremendously more thick and solid. And with it the power of hard darkness and more. That is an unanticipated amplification of what is happening to him and will really happen more. He is profoundly heavier without even yet doing the dosing that will build size. The knowledge thrums in him. This is beyond how he imagined the changes could be, would be. Densening. Strengthening. Scrutably Biggering. Driven to a new capacity. A new incarnation of what Man is. Of what any single man could be. Holding the key to exceed the fucking straight men who have roided before or who have self-smugly inhaled Quarium before without conceiving to inject the magical mead or succeeding if they have conceived of it. But he shivers more intensely. He anticipates it will get uncontrollable again. He looks in the mirror. His lines are scratched in icy whitish gray into his skin and his usually brown lips glint beyond blue to a cruel deep silver. His fingernails inanimate indigo. His legs rumble and almost fracture. It is agony to endure. He’ll still grow more if he can continue. But, He must orgasm so as to put a stop to it and put the temperature up. Or die. He choses to die. Not really — He unsheaths a syringe of sedative. He stabs the needle into his pectoral and administers the liquid. He heads for his sprawling white bedclothed bed. He sleeps perchance to dream. In his dream, Ejaaz is magnificent. Power crackles from his fingertips and his humongous body pulses with indescribable power. A musculature that sculpts infinitely in its mass encumbers him. All around his feet lays a country of ice and snow with trees the height of his ankles, mountains that reach past his champion-muscled calves to his knees. He begins to glow, radiating an aura that thaws the earth and causes an eruption of green to Spring. Rain falls from him upon the land — voluminous and milky and white. He wakes up. His cock masts mineral-stiff. Ten and three quarter inches crane over his abdomen, seven inches in circumference. He was naturally four and seven eighths inches a few weeks ago. These new erect dimensions couldn’t make him more proud. The cock growth is also a sign that he is virtually done. The program of his thermostat has eased the polar temps and elevated them close to the outdoor highs. He feels his sternum and then his delicious pecs woo his hand. They round perfectly — shallow, but quite distinctly raised saucers and, while finally warmer, they granite the thin breast plates on him as hard as living rock. He likes that — intensely. He’s not frigid any longer. He must be 97 degrees, within normal. He can go back to the world. He wraps both hands upon his shaft one above the other. For a while he simply holds the newness of the totemic column, his tennis-y balls a worthy platform for the heel of his lower hand, his pole tingling and thrumming so flavorfully. He begins to play with it though and as he heats up he feels his muscles growing bigger. His back cobras, his upper arms turn into meat haunches, his traps crowd his neck, and his ass and legs crush the mattress under their weight. In the finally warm apartment, residual Quarium that has not passed into his cells finally binds, kicking off shadow cell instantiation — a denouement to his past two days of brutal Quarium-induced self-subjugation. He rises from the bed and looms in front of the mirror at 6’4” and marvels at his Zuesian growth. His body undulates that of an enormous aesthetic muscle bull. His muscles pile with bulging size. His ass rounds high and full. His manbeam batters from between protruding endless Night of Champion 39” quadriceps. He flexes and preens and marvels at the uber super heavyweight beefiness of it all. Atop, his sculpted delicate facial features arrogance over a heaving beast. He takes his staff of a cock in two hands again. His arousal underlines his phallus’s new bigger size — it’s the just-under-a-foot endowment of a more ur-manly man who injects himself with raw Quarium each time he wants to grow more. He parades the tool for himself. His calm hands affect a simple motion and it feels so good. Up and then ever so slowly down. He rides the inches cruelly — the restrained touching tremoring his bulk. He ticks up the pace and tremors charge him even more. Sensation accretes to his big organ — a Sheikh’s incremental oil revenue dropping coin upon coin into the sheikdom’s vault. Striations define his muscle-rippling skin. Brushing his man-organ cyclones a centrifugal filling of his balls. He flexes his enormous body. Look at this unbelievable high and mountainous 66” chest, he thinks, Look at my mountain-smashing 78” shoulders. He curls his fists and ever so slowly swings them upward and outward. Slabs upon slabs of back meat gather and coil. Ah yes it feels so good. With his arms straight out to either side, he brings his fists upward. The 23” arms he flexes heap like Valentino’s — just give him a fucking armored tank car that he can lift and toss into the distance — Fuck. It’s everything he might have always wanted since he was a boy, if he had just known, and now it is making him truly a man. This beastliness, this power, this sexualization and might beyond manhood. And then an era of framed expectation opens its gateway all the way and he’s orgasming — Flights of spuge jet in joyous trails past his head high into the air as his coconut-gonads ecsta-clench. His right hand bronco busts this shaft which more and more approaches a porn camera ready cock. His left hand rises upward intercepting delicious helpings of his goo that ICBM by. He collects the eruption into his left palm as though filling a milkshake glass. Bringing the spilling volume down, he slathers cock-milk across his enormous godly torso and back around onto the upper face of his ass, muscled four times the fleshy rear of an Olympic 100 meter sprinting gold medalist. He even slides his hand into the great chasm there and dots his sphincter and anus with drops of jack. He eventually slurps up the great remnant of his juice with his tongue. He tastes his own seed and the trace flavor of Quarium and he smiles deeply content and rumbles mightily back to the bed where he lays himself to once again sleep. In his sleep, the shadow cells that joined his new nue-ubers to blow him up to such a monstrous jacked hardon all disappear. They are all gone — all come to naught. Gone into thin air like dew from the morning grass by ten am. But the swath of new nue-uber cells added, more greatly armor and endow him. They do not disappear, and of course remain. He is them now, altered. And already the nue-ubers genesis so that they are laying quantities of undetectable musclehusks in his body — he can sense it happening — hundreds of millions of invisible placeholders will get laid in the week to come over what have been laid before, at a pace he’s never behooved from before — a pace that will overwhelm any latent presence for transformation than has ever existed before. This quantity will be truly threateningly vast. It, all of it, mutates him. Denser, so much more greatly powered. He’s gifted now with stuff better than other fuck men have. And, on top of it, all will more excessively amplify him each time he next floods a shot of Quarium into his brown-gathering brawn. The hundreds of millions of musclehusks that will get laid this time will themselves lay thousands of millions of husks once they themselves are nue-ubers a week from now which will lay ten thousands of millions upon their translation. When he awakes, the shadow cell mass is gone — he’s lost the shadow cell massivity of his Quary pump. But still. He is twelve percent bigger and almost fifty percent heavier than before this dose, than before this past two and a half days. And he feels TWICE as incredible as he ever has in his life. He thrums with vanity and capacity and dominance. He doesn’t care about the loss of the pump and the twelve percent progress for the hell he has paid. Kurai wasn’t built in a day. The degree of torture is that of ‘Iiblis himself, but those infernos will be Ejaaz’s, now fetished for what they give in each gain — he understands what forever means... and the glory doesn’t go to the quick or the brave but to the young reckless immaturity of the rank fuck who masochistically skewers himself. Again. And then again. And if he can again and again and again and again and then again and again and infinite. He will become bigger, mammothly so. And utterly irreversibly so, progressively so. More, right now he can feel that he is more powerful than he was, how transmutated these muscles are, not like his little fucky tubby human ones used to be when he was such a fucking porking fucking obese fuckhead. They felt nothing like these feel now, were nothing compared to this emergent god-musculature — what composes him means he has begun to invent some new species, some homo superior. The youthful Adam of that new humanity is him. He will go to the gym today to find out about strength — about how much stronger he has made himself. His solidity premonitions his gains and how the wheels of his bicycle will compress beneath his weight as he rides to the gym. An increment of size has increased him, like the ring of growth on a sapling oak that pushes it one year closer to the mighty king of the forest. This dose infiltrated a bigger measure of size and power than the two doses before. He has no misgivings. He’ll keep administering more, pushing doses bigger, taking them faster, suffering harder, if he can, for what it can do. He has but to go to the remote freezer and witness the glistening Quarium bottles in row upon row. He feels aroused that the next dose he takes, the gains he adds will be more than what has come today - fifteen percent in size and sixty percent in weight maybe. And the one after that even more again — twenty percent more for size and maybe seventy percent in weight then. And Three, or four, or ten doses from now.... he’ll get another marble-hard hard-on just to think of how those doses will transgress him, augment him beyond this which is still closer to humanity. He stands and he feels the difference in his relation to the room around him. Weeks of ingesting have made him an inch taller. His eyesight has gotten better. He can hear frequencies he could not before. He’s shredded normality and peels a growing and rare aesthetic, recompositioning more to deeply statuesque. What was it like when he was a fat nobody? He can remember, but already it’s growing remote — the change numbers only weeks but the new reality overwhelms. Why retain anything but reborn alphahood anyway. His face is chiseling. It is infinitely more superior. He knows as he continues to manifold-inject Quarium that all these effects will increase. He’ll only be done when his looks outdo those of Malkabel, his physique dethrones Baal from his apex upon the pantheon of the Gods, his strength makes Herakles weep in sad despair. And it will be him, his new immortal destiny. The effects never go away. On top of all, he shall have powers that unchanged humans have never previously had. His mind turns back to reverie, to the next event that had grown the hunger taking hold, the pathway to the addiction he has now that he will never curb, that he must allow to rampage unstopped. He would slay before he would ever give it up, before he would ever give it up or try to recover from it. His reveries return to the eighteenth or twentieth or twenty-third Saturday, one that to others was just yet another faggy queer Quariumed Rave. It had been a rave when he had still mostly just faggily gone along — a rave when he had had no inkling of bloodstreaming Quarium, of bloodstreaming’s reward, of its merciless execution. It was the day that Witha had come. That day — like his other “friends” — he’d known only of frolicking, of inhaling, of having a fuckingly, good Quary-social time. =============== Jacking Break 5 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ro20316 Posted May 31, 2021 Share Posted May 31, 2021 BRavooooo!!! BRAVISIMOO. WHAT a story the way you write and teh way u tell teh story is dreamlike. I get sucked into what is happening. Amazing work Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
QuoteTheRaven Posted June 1, 2021 Author Share Posted June 1, 2021 Thank you for those demonstrative words. I’m glad that you had an aspect that connected Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
QuoteTheRaven Posted June 5, 2021 Author Share Posted June 5, 2021 Recap: Chapter 1 Desert. A skinny guy injects himself Chapter 2 To Inject. To inhale is fleeting, Injecting is murderous but starts change the world has never seen. Chapter 3 Agony. Icy annihilation crucifies Ejaaz freezing him and ripping him apart with pain. Chapter 4 Back to Kurai. Motorbike fantasies while he returns to the glittering nest he has in the sky. Chapter 5 The Taqim Mithli Aljins and Humayeraz Beach. A big group of guys inhaling Quarium turn into raunchy jacked beefcake and fuck all over the sand. Chapter 6 Inklings of the New Him. Ejaaz is lost in the mirror engrossed with the emerging him. Onward... 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
QuoteTheRaven Posted June 5, 2021 Author Share Posted June 5, 2021 Chapter 7 A Transformed Twunk at Humayeraz He’d piloted the Jeep carrying Kaleb, Adham, and Cemal — each part of his new group — each fag-proud Arab jackers and pretty boys and ohWowWhoIsHE’s. Adham, always on the cutting edge with his green dyed hair, bluetoothed his playlist speakering dance tracks from Saudi superstar DJ Basaad. Kaleb and Cemal took selfies while drinking droplet-condensated cans of green iced tea. The morning shone gloriously. As they came off the Mazaar el’Anhan skyway, the water lay ahead and below striped with blue and dotted with speedboats — white and colored dots lost in the sun and the horizon. Not far from the white paved parking lot at Humayeraz Beach, seven skinny handsome aljins already loitered about the growing settlement of blanketed ground. The still booby-fatted Ejaaz who he’d been then panted as he worked toward the crowd and thubbed to the edge of the group, out of breath. When the time came for the quari-spoon, Ejaaz waited last in line. It struck him that he had reliance on this, for what they’d hooked him to, and what he libidinally now depended on. He had a physical, warped coveting for what was on deck. He was jonesing for the sensation of vapor stuffing up his nose. He suffered DTs for the eminent sexualization. He must feel once more that something unreplicatable which was such a big heavy pulsing body, such strength and mammothification, such swaggering man desire. An awareness bloomed of a thirst trickling — a species of want, perhaps a venal and untamed species — a dirty appetite for being more, as much as, and more than. Superiority. Yes, fucking superiority could be the word for it too. The sensation pulled the thread’s tip, but was not dire thirst yet — yet it had the supremeness of a sensation only the experience-of sniffing had hooked him to — to lick a brief sampling of superiority, like licking a super heavyweight bodybuilder’s shaved pit, and to then wonder what it would be to wield the unyielding conquering energy of it. He did his dose, using his porky-weak-waddled arm to raise the gadget to his bird beak of a nose. The droplet cloud vacuumed into his unconsidered Buddha body — the cold billowing numbness. His mutation happened and he laughed forcefully with the instant and needed elevating transformation. Crossing his hands to the hem of his neon pink tank, with one motion, it was over his head and off his rippling huge torso. He jacked his head around arrogant, baring his 32-tooth smile at the muscle-grown versions of Hassan and Adham and Quddus who he found postured behind him. With a fluid continuation, his mesh shorts were free from his booty, then at his ankles, then kicked from his feet. Neon lime swanked around his chiseled hips atop exploding thighs that contested his ripped veiny groin area supremely. Over his fertiled meatsome phallus, spandex distended in pulls every which way while his sexuality lifted marvelous collections of folded cock lumps and ball rounds. He’d rolled with Kaleb, Qadir, Yusuf, Malik, Nijam, and Dyab to muscle beach where they’d striven so hard to outdo each other throwing bro-stinky, cargo-hold‘s worth of crushing iron into the air. To bench six hundred pounds — with all that metal disked plate upon plate upon plate upon plate at either end of the bar — it was immensely posthumanly powerful. To squat 850 pounds. It thoroughly boned him how powerful he was in doing that. They didn’t even know that only history’s biggest Mr Os might have matched the heaviness of what they pumped with their thick master man muscles that bulged and filled with the demands made by groaning steel. Having further intumescenced their muscles with the lifting, so that the pump that flooded into their sinew bellies was almost immobilizing, they sought out their friends in the sea. The whole assemblage rumbled into the surf, parting the water from where they hippo-ishly strode their muscle-heaving behemothic god-bodies. What walruses they were — roiling the waves with Veed backs and thirty inch thighs in clingy cock-filled wet speedos. Spray detonated around the drilling platform appendages of their legs and blew to kingdom come upon the rock promontories of their asses and across the skying cliffs of their monstrous backs. The roiling surges drained around their pricks like horizontal derrick lengths penetrating the sea. Periodically, hydro-tidally circumferenced thighs squatted and exploded, propelling them upward with brine sheaths swept up behind in the formation of rocket-drag skirting from their strangled waists enveloping their humongous bodybuilder legs. And then the musclemens’ arching forward dives would crunch their abs and thunderquake the waters surface as their entering delts and boat-prow traps and continental pecs tsunami’ed the sea for multiple dozens of meters around. The day endured with stoked hormonal arousal. Ejaaz encountered again and again his pumped up fag friends, their lips finding each other as they pushed muscle masses in upon each other. More specifically, Ejaaz intertwined his hands behind Witha’s neck now. He could feel how heavy his arms were with alpian bicep heights and roped tris. Wild Witha, that was what everyone had said when the impossibly pretty twink had showed up that day. Ejaaz had never seen Witha at a Quary rave before. They’d all had him, they said. “Beyond supreme,” Amir had whispered to Ejaaz, “None of us can quite get over him.” But now Qigh, Witha’s quary-amplified face purposefully flirted with Ejaaz, carved so fetchingly fuckably handsome it arrested Ejaaz’s attention, overcoming even Ejaaz’s own narcissistic self-infatuation. Ejaaz lost his tongue in Witha’s open orifice. This was his chance while both were transformed to conjoin to a breathtaking beast. It grew darker and the beach emptied. They all recognized that the taqim mithli aljins were alone and the copulating could begin. Ejaaz’s tool which had buzzed all day equined. He brushed Witha’s hair behind Witha’s ears. As sculpted and bucked up as he was, Witha bulged “pretty” somehow, his musculature somehow delicate in its immense swells. The willow-y slender stunner while q-sober was now this mind bender while q-high. Ejaaz was snorting and heaving an encounter with the muscle-obliterated twink. The two specimens of beef queered throbbed boners up on each others’ fag bodybuilder mass. Ejaaz was simply horny with enjoyment. But then Witha leaned his sharp teeth and sinuous lips close to Ejaaz’s ear, “You’re one of the newer guys, I think, aren’t you... but, you are a beast, let’s go out with each other even when we’re not on Quarium.” Yes! Ejaaz thought both horned up grotesquely by Quary but also rooting for the porkboy version of himself who needed to be wanted for once. “Oh, yeah,” he exhaled back. He did momentarily tremor reflexively with nerves — fat turd him and pretty twink boy Witha? But then he looked down at this pulsing mighty physique and throbbed with orgasmic desire again and forgot about the shortcomings of normal him. Ejaaz looked back at Witha. Witha had turned and walked suggestively away — the mounds of Witha’s bunching and coiling ass smutty as fuck-all in the oversized bikini that dragged Witha’s bubbliciousity. Witha’s shoulders undulated atop Witha’s rippling back. “You’re fine, so very fucking fine, Wit” Ejaaz said. Witha stopped at a lamppost along the concrete boardwalk and turned. He sunk his hips back against the post and crossed his feet out in front of him. His 27-inch rippling quads swelled mesmerizingly and his narrow hips caved backward. His groin sank away but the spandex that lumped over his equipment did not, testimonying a horse’s heap in its setting. The showing-off hillocking from the valley of Witha’s crotch rose so very perfectly between Witha’s big, huge-huge round thighs. Tearing his eyes away from the enormous sensual manhood, Ejaaz took in the rest of Witha’s beauty. Witha’s abdominals concaved the rubbed washboard of a once twinky queer who’s enlarged himself and then ripped himself with such extreme development that a supplicant could now hand-over-hand scrabble up the sculpting ab-rungs of his elongated middle. Atop the ladder, the supplicant would be hard-stopped by the blockade of the sexiest underhang of the most over-carved, over-fattened big tittied pillow pecs that any of the taqim mithli aljinshad ever managed to sport. Witha’s hips and lower core narrowed snakishly while his legs foundationed monumentally and his bowling ball shoulders, chest, and lats overhung so vast on his awesome physique. Witha dropped his head and raised his eyes toward Ejaaz. Then as Witha began speaking, Witha’s slender brown hand sluttily pawed at Witha’s own prick. “Take a look at yourself, Ejjy, before you decide who to call fine,” Witha said. Ejaaz tilted his head down then. And no different than a hundred times that day his eyes encountered the bequeathments of heat-fired Quarium — as far as he knew, the ideal realization of hyper masculinity. Perhaps he was more extreme and more gorgeous than many of the others. How could he tell? Was there a difference between wildly powerful and enormous and one of the most powerful and enormous and charged? But abruptly something more grasped him. He imagined the strength not disappearing, imagined ruling with it, bending all to his will, it permanently his. Without even being able to think about it he raised his 22 inch arms into a double biceps and squeezed and flexed and flexed and squeezed. He iron-flexed his legs so that his twenty nine inch thighs rippled with cords. He could exert Aswanian will-power with this body. He had recalled his beachfront, muscle beach weight-lifting then, the memory of his domination of the steel in his muscles. How he’d fucked with every last struggling grain of his will to churn a 45lb bar with fourteen metal plates through space and time, exhibitioning to any who watched. How that had used every last thing in his soul to lift the most. He Imagined having the power to do that load at will and always. Or maybe even more. WHAT. IF. THIS. WAS. ALWAYS. ME. he thought. His dick hardened with a molten casting and his balls rolled like halfpound shots in his sack below a frigate deck. His eyes dropped back upon his thickened flesh. He breathed out and then in again. Out and then in again. His side-of-beef arms dropped to being ajar at his sides and his eyes moved to and from high points across his drugged 20-year-old camel-ox-god bod. YES. He had thought. And breathed deeply. And exhaled. Y E S . He had sensed it. Could sense it. For the first time recognized domination. Stood dumbstruck with the realization of a taste that others be made to serve this, must worship the superior divinity this could-might and could-should be. He conceived suddenly, so suddenly, to dominate, with unreasonable and unresistable strength, with ruling condescension. YES, OH YES, OH ALLAH YES. He stepped toward Witha — the thewed heaviness of his own leg ridiculous. All of himself was ridiculous — super heavyweight empowered and brutish. The bunching of his ass meat. The shunting of his ultramanhood side to side. The preposterous attempts of the stupidly cut bikini to house him when his length and girth just bull-spilled fuckingly into naked, naked display. The clenching of assorted abdominals as his core labored to bring his solar-systemian upper mass along. YES. And his lips pulled back from his impeccable white teeth as his jaw tightened. FEEL. THE. POWER. He thought it in rhythm with the three steps he took. Something had shifted inside. The Quarium had always acted on his body. But not his head. Inside each week’s Heath-Rhoden-Coleman-Cutler nearly-reached body had been just a 20-year-old fag twerp. Playing. Giddy. One with a certain self-perception — slightly get-along, poorly self-imaged, not egocentric enough at all — self-believing straightness for Mom and Aunt Suleiah, self-shaming, numbing pain in slurping sweet drinks and loser stuffing of his face with western chips, even failing at engineering work. He looked at his battle-shipping chest — What do I think about this? Do bodybuilders actually create this for themselves? Each of these pectorals is inches and inches broad and high and thick and hard. I relish how I feel, How I look. Do I relish this power? The sexual arousal it forces on me? He inhaled in and pulled his shoulders back and throbbed what spanned like a gryphon’s wings across his back and an elephant‘s mass across his breast. He fucking relished this, of course he did. He reached up and brought the obverses of his wrists and fists back-to-back high over his head. His guardshield of a rear dorsal plane widened and mountained. His paired pectoral Taj Mahal domes crowded his neck and chin. His abs pulled up wrenching in, vacuuming a cavern beneath his rib cage. His thighs flared hard. With bodybuilding I could make something like this for myself. He lifted his right heel and advanced his right knee. He knew his legs were titanic. His hands came down clasped together at his lime-neoned hip and he lifted his shelf of an upper body and arched back his bulbed, meaty derrière striking a full-body side chest pose looking multiple hundreds of pounds heavy with a lycra-covered cockmound protruding the substantial Ury that it was there. Yeah with sick roided bodybuilding drugs and a gym bro lifestyle this will be exactly who I am. I’m going to do that — am going to roid and do drugs of any kind. I need some kind of fucking bod like this — want it so desperately, crazily bad. He relaxed and stood simply — an over anabolized gorilla ape. If I too cheat like any of those little fuck boys who’ve transformed themselves, being diabolically careful with whatever steroids I need use, I can be this big every second of every day as my every day self... be this big big big guy by the time I am twenty three or twenty four, be this big for fucking boy, fucking everything and as huge as I want, for decades. I could be this big and then use Quarium on top. Cloaked from himself before had been any sense of such a narcissistic appetite — an appalling, grotesque, glorious appetite to obliterate the failing, obedient, submissive hugely fat, school-boy-mamas-boy and make himself instead the obsessive, exhibitionistic, dominating muscle gargantuanity so few people would daringly adventure themselves to expose. He flexed his mammoth legs and licked all over his grotesque arms. The appetite was birthed in these moments, gestated from months of experiences that had hammered apart his mewling wimpish kitty personality. He imagined a new real him now, released from within, making this endowment through addictive eating, lifting and drugs, through gear — to pile it upon himself, so thick and voluminous and overdone — to succumb to all its physicality, to be brought into permanent masterhood, jockhood, ruling over the pathetic I’ve-finished-my-twenty-of-cardio-now-I’ll-do-these-ten-curls. Allah!, to rule above the others, to demand attention. His hands were on this specimen, Witha then, and Witha’s were on him. The man-god bodies on each of them rising into one another. He devoured Witha’s mouth as the huge masted cock given him by Quarium prowled up the cliff-ish front of giant Witha. Their glorious Quaried beef mashed together. Ejaaz growled, filling his mind with ALLAH. I. MUST. DO. EVERYTHING. TO. BE. THIS. ALWAYS. He peeled the waist hem of the tiny elastic swimsuit off the veinyness of his dickrocket and then exerted his watermelon-circumferenced arms to lift multiple hundreds of pounds of Witha into the air and move Witha backward against the boardwalk’s lamppost. “Whoa, that’s some show of strength, you jacked-up house,” said Witha. “Do I even know which one you are sober?” “Ejaaz,” Ejaaz prided. Ejaaz directed his gaze at his own guns euphorized by how from the gullies of his elbows his girth crescendoed, climbing and widening, jack-and-jill-hilltopping upon his huge upper arms with a moby-hammocked weave of marine cables formulating Ejaaz’s titanic triceps below. Oh, Allah, he was so fuckingly strong. “I guess you don’t know which one I am sober.... Wit-ha,” he’d drawled lowly back, “but why don’t we worry about that later, just open your fucking hole.” Witha’s dick pulsed at that. Then Witha amped up the tremendous heat, resisting, and then Ejaaz had simply been forced to overpower Witha, forcing entry, at a new level of euphoric because of it. Ejaaz was in then — in an impossibly warm, sweet, moist Witha. Ejaaz had done the ravishing stud against the lamppost — Witha up in the air, Ejaaz longbowing his post of a cock from below. When it was over the Quarium hunger ebbed in their bodies; Ejaaz didn’t worry for a moment that his attitude of alpha ascendancy could ever slip away. How could it, he was such a monumentally dominant alpha stud of mankind specimen. They uncoupled and retreated to a blanketed respite. When he woke in the morning his ordinary limbs, his immense soft belly, back fat, and side wobble, his flabby shapeless legs betrayed him, left him hostile — annoyed at the worst of plain. He could see that a reverted gorgeous and ripped slip of a guy, Witha, had pulled away in the night and now cold-shouldered Ejaaz beneath the shared cover, hostile to Ejaaz’s homely attempted embrace. Sand shifted beneath their sheet. The sounds of shore birds broke. The air wafted anew with the rejuvenation of a new day and the freedom of being by the open sea. A Municipal Parks Department truck rolled and stopped, pistoned and clanked a distance away. The mixed pitched voices of familiar, decent queer Arab guys (Hassan, Hammad, Adham, and others) murmured the notes of an oudic maqam. Ejaaz disentangled himself from fabric of the lightweight cover. The fucking cold shoulder from Witha couldn’t be faulted but wouldn’t be tolerated, right?, with what he was going to do to himself starting today... well at least tomorrow... well definitely definitely no later than sometime this week. His eyes fondled the slender belly Witha displayed, the tiny curvy little bubble ass. Witha was fucking rippled — even though smaller than the rest, super-toned more developmentally than any other guy in his normal state — perhaps Witha was just not quite flushed of Quarium? Sliding out from the covers, Ejaaz almost bumped into Cemal whose preposterously jacked, ripped muscularity had lain down nearby to sleep the night before but was now displaced by just a good-looking guy with a small gap in the front teeth of his gay smile and a great natural shape to his everyday ass. Ejaaz rose and waddled to the bathhouse in the shameful stupid squeezing Lycra racing suit. He was such a fucking lard load. A fidgeepudge who’d laid in his bunkbed junk fooding his life to 70% body fat. In the men’s room, he thought, It is ok, listing close to the mirror above the row of sinks and holding a stare with himself. I’m 21, he thought, I can get my life back on track. His eyes drifted down to his shoulders and hips - could there be a word that meant more womanly, softest, fattest, blandest, huffing weakling. He pushed his squishy bathing suit off his flubbery hip and saw such a puny little boy dick and purposeless balls swamped by his wibble thighs. He touched the prick’s little tip and flicked it and then rolled the squeezing swimsuit down his legs and off. He pulled on big shorts and a tent like tank top. Time to get the guys and go. As he’d struggled to regain any feeling of dominance the next day, a Quary-acquaintance tired of his whining, had asked him about his true identity. Ejaaz said “I was so fucking Qigh... so fucking Quary high and stoked yesterday... so euphoric and happy and alive...I don’t think I’ve ever been so Qigh. I had the motivation I was really going to turn my life around — work out, diet, bulk up, make myself a bodybuilder — a real stud bodybuilder — a beast. I was so out of my mind.” The words searched for that sensation of aggressiveness that had possessed him the day before, they tinged a loss of believing he would do what it took to make something like that come true. Like the brainless 20 year old he was, he remembered the fact of the bestiality that he’d raged, but now that the chemicals had faded he couldn’t re-cock that stallion’s desire and drive and effort. Voices were discounting, dismissing, and even self-unworthying what only days before he’d snorted with undefeatable hunger, to grow with alpha hauteur, and to grow huge. He spent the afternoon eating fats and sweets and playing with his little prick and porking out. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
QuoteTheRaven Posted June 15, 2021 Author Share Posted June 15, 2021 Chapter 8 Kindling. In his apartment, Ejaaz lets the conjuring of that visit ease away. He’s been readying for the gym while the Humayeraz Beach film unreeled in the theater of his mind. He dresses in blocky cross-fit shorts and an over-sized black t-shirt with a graphic of two industrial-looking 3-d cog wheels. Four weeks ago he could not have dressed as such. He checks the mirror confirming the look. He has a model face now — angular, perfectly proportioned. His locks sheen. In his workout get up, he looks like he might be hiding a ripped martial artist or the seed of a body builder, he definitely looks like a head-turner, fitness enthusiast — a CrossFit contender — something notable, not extreme like he’ll be. He also gives it to these clothes for their straight guy ethos — even his thickened big, fat dick, now a girthful seven and a quarter inches fully soft and thawed, can barely hint itself in the desexualizing shape that the boxiness in the reflection presents. That’s ok, he has other ideas for once he is at the gym. He readies a gym bag and puts it by the door. Then opens a MacBook on the white silicone dining room table by his panoramic windows. He has a project call about an engineering project that takes an hour. He wraps up the call by recalculating a shearing load aloud on the fly. He cock-hardens over what Q-abuse is doing to him mentally — he courses the growing horsepower in his brain and it arouses him — the knowledge of what he conquers with his mind. He leaves the apartment and rides the elevator to the lobby and begins the bicycle ride to the gym. He thinks about the week that followed Witha’s suggestion of non-rave connecting together. *************** Witha had cancelled immediately before they’d even left Humareyaz Beach, saying forget it you fuck. Then didn’t return two hundred fucked up clingy messages that Ejaaz sent over four days. Then, just when even the fuck-fat he had been got a grip, a text had finally came back, “fuck the fuck, fuckhead, you are into me” and then a few minutes later “as well you should be, bottom boy”. It had been 11:30 in the morning on a Thursday. “Your one chance is now, lardpig, you come for me to do you right now, or leave my phone the fuck alone.” Ejaaz had said the most ridiculous thing to his chronically disappointed project lead and had shumpled desperately to an Uber and then pivveled dripping with sweat so fucking clums-awkwardly from the little rear seat of the car to the beat up sidewalk of Witha’s old, when-he-never-expected-to-be-more-than-nothing apartment. In the lobby of Witha’s squat three story concrete building, Ejaaz had planted himself in front of the wall-through a/c unit and had dried only the slightest degree before mounting one flight of steps and with all his will had twisted the clanky bell on the door of Apartment 4. Ejaaz screwed himself up as the door opened. There was Witha dressed in slacks and tailored shirt. Witha with oversized eyes, plump lips, and such a narrow face — so reedishly handsome. “You’re like a dickless worship thing, aren’t you?” said Witha, “Come in.” Witha had closed the door behind Ejaaz. “Tell me, do I look different from the last time you saw me,” Witha asked. Witha looked slight and willowy, but Ejaaz thought that, yea, maybe Witha didn’t look quite so ethereal as he had five days ago. Witha had promptly stiffened his own dick down his pant leg. Then told Ejaaz to get bare. Witha watched judgmentally as Ejaaz’s XXXL and larger garments had come off. Ejaaz stood their a satellite of sag. Witha scoffed but then while fully clothed walked over and humped his nice size tool through the fabric of his clothes against Ejaaz’s gelatinous bare thigh and finger-fondled Ejaaz’s dick-y flaccidities. Then Witha had stripped himself in a striptease that was obviously more for his own enjoyment — flexing and grinding and posing as he did so. Petting lasted barely any time, Witha wanted to get to the main event, slapping Ejaaz’s cellulite-dimpled rear. Witha let Ejaaz know that he was such an inferior fatso to Witha’s saucy hard ripped twinkiness. Witha’s movements seemed eager driven. Not much time passed with Witha relocating them to a couch. Witha shifted Ejaaz to his back. Witha lifted and spread Ejaaz’s porkboy legs, as though one thousand percent entitled to something. Ejaaz felt shame. He averted what seemed requested by a discouraging motion of his foot. He applied a communicating degree of pressure to deter Witha. “Don’t you want to be my bitch boy, Ejj?,” Witha had asked and it was impossible not to hear condescension. Ejaaz closed his eyes. While quary-high the previous weekend, something came out in Ejaaz which had made him dominate Witha, but it had left him. He was clearly the much bigger of the two, although all fat, while this guy was like a twinkish boyish ice skater type. This whole thing was a first — to be with any other guy sober. To undertake this transgression sober. Ignore Ahmed, Ignore Mom, Ignore Aunt Suleih, he thought. He was completely ignoring the current shaming for the history of shame. He opened his eyes and adjusted back to sitting. “Witha, you have such a pretty little body and such a big dick ....even Q-sober....” There were many many inches of rock hard Witha tool that Ejaaz noted — Ejaaz remembered thinking it was puzzling as the gossip from Adham and Cemal as they’d driven from Humareyaz on Saturday was that while Witha was beautiful he wasn’t all that hung. Ejaaz swung his legs free and stood. “Yeah, fucking look at it, Ej-aaaz,” Witha had responded, while wrapping Ejaaz’s fingers around the plowman’s pipe Witha hung. Witha bored holes in Ejaaz with his eyes and meanwhile looked like he was getting bored. “I’m going to fuck you, Ejaaz,” Witha had now said crossly, “Don’t be a cunt.” Crap, Ejaaz had to make this work. Taking on man-on-man sex was a centrality he had to unlock and come to terms with. “I see you want to use it,” Ejaaz finally said. He got up and walked to the bed in the studio. “Here,” he said picking up an unopened condom he saw lying on the table beside the bed. He handed it to Witha who had prowled up behind him. Ejaaz said, “Just do me.” Ejaaz started to agitate about what being done as his actual self would feel like and mean. Quary-sober, he was a virgin and perhaps had both dreaded this and waited for this his whole life. “I’ll do all I can to fit you,” Ejaaz whimpered. “Ah, fuck, of course,” Witha responded, “pigmeat.” Ejaaz lay back on the mattress, his flab mushing in. He raised his butterball legs, opening them again. His small weewee softened. Witha shuffled on his knees forward rocking the mattress back and forth in a brutish way, no problem with the iron hardness of his own endowment. Ejaaz didn’t register the implications of the physical rocking. Instead his eyes were glued as Witha plinked his large-on — up and down it rumbled like a cannon barrel with big balls beneath at the base of a trim cobblestone road. Witha sidled forward and lowered his torso onto Ejaaz’s torso, startling Ejaaz with the squeezingly overwhelming substantiality of the weight. “Unh!,” Ejaaz grunted, “Hheeavyy” he managed. Witha eased back a tad. Ejaaz was slightly pissed, “How are you so heavy?! You’re so lean and scarcely there? You’ve never had my problems.” Witha looked so barely quizzical, and uttered, “Don’t you know?” Then Witha communicated with only a long steady look — his face offering no further statement. Witha eased down again, a look as though he almost enjoyed crushing Ejaaz. Ejaaz kept having this sense of bulk that couldn’t possibly be there, could it, that had to be lifted if he wasn’t going to be suffocated or crushed. But Ejaaz couldn’t push him up. He knew he wasn’t that weak for how small Witha appeared. At last Witha eased back again, saying, “Oh right, you haven’t known me all along. But, don’t think I’m so heavy Ejjy.... I’m just on you at a wrong angle,” Witha laughed. Ejaaz thought the utterance seemed completely fucking disingenuous. Witha rose up and looked like a faggy gay again who’d made himself hotter than he should naturally be. Ejaaz’s mind addled with dissonance in reconciling the slightness. Whatever it was, Witha did look lithely very physical in a way that exuded testosteronality, that punctuated Witha’s ethereal marble face. Witha limbered his hips, then intruded his man club, splitting Ejaaz. It filled Ejaaz gloriously, and also hurt like a fucking truck had occupied his rectum. Dominance lay on one side only, but it was confusingly hot to be shamed. Ejaaz could see Witha’s attention grasp full narcissistic self-involvement then as Witha kept looking at Witha’s own chest and shoulders and dick. Witha undulated his whippet hips, rolling the spelunking and withdrawal of his eleven inches in gorgeous, fluid, speedening thrusts. Ejaaz ejaculated weakly within thirty seconds spurting minimally into his own pubes. (Witha’s tool had squeezed Ejaaz’s prostate.) Witha meanwhile had grunted “more, more, yea, yea” and continued his too-guy-typical self-satisfyingness for what seemed three and a quarter minutes of hosing his load. Ejaaz had felt used. Witha’s withdrawn dick just reinforced the sensation — Ejaaz felt vacated and abandoned — but more Witha’s condom was filled til leaking like a fucking water balloon around the slobby throbbing rod of a cock. There must have been a quart of dick flow. Looking at his own five dollops of ejaculate, Ejaaz wondered how-the-prophet Witha’s big organ had hosed the literally brimming scumbagful of semen he had made. Witha fixed Ejaaz with his gaze. Ejaaz felt fat and a failure. Witha’s probing expression looked superior but also locked Ejaaz for a duration about equal the one over which Witha had cum. It unnerved Ejaaz and almost pissed him off. The sensation was very much as though Witha was assessing the potential presence of something in Ejaaz’s eyes. It put Ejaaz on edge. Witha put tight, body-hugging gym clothes on and headed toward the door. Clearly he saw no reason to hang around. “See you later, fuck,” he’d said as he headed out the door, “just lock up my place before you go.” And then, “You’re really not a bad dude.” 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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