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muscle growth Luck Of The Gods


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itsamemariokern

Long time lurker myself. Please continue/conclude! This is one of the best descriptions of a growth sequence I've read in a long time. Good work, Sirensong!

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Sirensong

On standing up he felt the benefit of his new height, the ceiling was close, he was now an unmistakably tall man.

The image in the small bathroom mirror was unrecognisable, he had to back-up against the wall to even fit his doorway filling frame in the small square. He saw two broad muscular shoulders, visible traps and a thick, powerfully corded neck, above an enormous pumped chest. It was cheesy but ‘mighty’ was the word that sprung to mind. This was a body that wouldn’t look out of place in the weightlifting section of an expensive bodybuilding gym, but somehow it looked more hewn than grown, effortlessly strong and sturdy. From here he could only make out the tip of his chin so he ducked to take in his face. As he did this he felt a residual tingling in the peripheries of his body, a few final tweaks were being made...


His face had hardened, the chin was square and solid, his nose, now a strong Roman nose with a subtle bump, as if an old break had healed. His brow was heavy, covering two eyes that glistened a dark liquid green. His hair which had been thinning and mousy brown, was now a thick golden blonde and a two-day stubble was visibly sprouting across his face, all highlighting the incredibly masculine features. It was still at the essence Chris, some element of the old him remained, but this was the kind of face that was hard to look away from; A fierce young masculine presence that demanded respect and… well, lust. Again, this wasn’t the pouting face of an Instagram model or celebrity heartthrob, but the proud face of a warrior, a fighter who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

It was then Chris felt a swimming sensation in his head, a rushing sound filling his ears. A whirlwind of thoughts and memories that weren’t quite his own: The clashing of metal, the feel of a heavy wooden oar in his hands, freezing cold water and the bellow of a warcry. He felt the glint of sunlight off a shield, the tang of blood and the stinging smoke of an open fire. 

With these sensations came other half-formed memories that triggered the blood to rush into his already stiff cock:

The rippling back of a muscled dark-haired man, as he, Chris, fucked him under the moon; his lover moaning as his large triceps flared, pushing back into Chris’s powerful pelvis.

The taste of wine being poured from a wooden cup by a broad tanned man wearing only a wolf's pelt, his strong chest bare. Chris, this new Chris, felt the man’s stubble graze down his abs towards his manhood.

Memory after memory of beautiful men, wild and virile submitting themselves to Chris’s form, sometimes just one, sometimes multiple, all groaning in ecstasy, begging Chris to never stop.


With these memories (Or were they someone else’s memories that were being imprinted onto Chris’s mind?) came a confidence. He was now a man that knew how to fuck even the strongest men into submission; He had pleasured and been pleasured by warlords, Roman centurions, young barbarians and gladiators. Seeing their eyes dilate with lust at his touch, and the sound of his commanding voice. He only had to look at a man to see his want, to see what would send him over the edge.

As these memories established themselves Chris’s eyes rolled backwards as if in ecstasy, a steady trickle of precum was running off his 11 inch dick. A few final changes established themselves; His shoulders and back pulsed once more, the musculature flexing and becoming even more pronounced, throwing his chest forward in a permanent stance of power and ownership. The veins framing his 20 inch biceps grew dark blue and prominent, and the hair on his head, his armpits and trickling down his ripped abdomen, glistened with hues of gold, brown and a touch of fiery auburn. Finally, on his right arm and cannonball deltoid, a dark blue inked shape began to spread. It was an interlocking set of lines and curls forming an abstract design. Chris’s old historian self would have recognised this as a ‘Ringerike’ Viking pattern; the world serpent Jormangandr biting itself in a tribal design. The tattoo spread from his right shoulder all the way to his lower forearm, swirling around the bicep and tricep, accentuating the shape and bulge of each tendon. In the centre, emblazoned on his huge right gun was a large rune, 'Uruz' the elder futhark rune of the bull.

Opening his eyes Chris, or what was left of him, absentmindedly stroked the now intricately tattooed mound of muscle that was his right arm. He smiled and left the room.

 

----

 

It was an amazing feeling for Chris, he still knew who he was, he remembered everything, his childhood, his embarrassing adolescence and his life at the museum, but now it was overlaid with the experiences of who he had become: An ageless viking warrior, a god of masculine energy and potency. The fear had gone completely, replaced by a sheer wall of confidence and the pacing restless energy of a caged animal.

Moving into his bedroom, the full length mirror revealed a naked comic book superhero. Chris raised an eyebrow enjoying the incredible form looking back. Standing a little over 6 foot 5 the blonde man glowering at him was a young barbarian in his prime, with a body that would make the action hero actors of his old fantasies look spindly and awkward. 

Looking around the room there were a pile of folded shirts, and a pair of jeans on the floor. He picked up a red shirt and smirked. The small bit of fabric would barely fit over one of his legs now. He’d look ridiculous wearing anything you’d find in this house, and every fibre of his being needed to get outside. 

As tempting as it would be to go out as he was, London wasn’t quite ready for a six and a half foot tall naked hunk to prowl the streets... His old-Chris mind knew this much!

Looking over at the bedside table he spotted a copy of Men's Health lay open next to a pile of scrunched up tissues. Peering at this briefly, the page was open on a young smiling man wearing a hooded olive green tank-top and grey tracksuit joggers. Before, Chris would have seen a man like this as a kind of Adonis (as the scattered tissues were testament!) but now he dwarfed this young jock. Still, the combo looked good, it showed off the model’s chest and arms. Plus the short fade military haircut was a classic masculine look.

Chris closed his eyes and felt a sensation like a light breeze rush over him. When he opened them he was wearing the the same simple outfit as the model: Large sized grey joggers that would be baggy on most men but were formfitting around Chris’s powerful quads and calves. The front would also always retain a visible bulge, a solid line advertising what now refused to be hidden. The Large Green tank top was designed to hang loose but on Chris's body, it showed off his hard flat abdomen and the three visible lines of his abs. Whilst it was fitted to his lower abdomen, it clung tightly to his chest leaving no illusion as to the muscular powerhouse underneath. The extra-large armholes were now stretched to capacity, pinioned between Chris's lats and his boulderlike upper arms. His feet were also encased in simple grey running shoes, size 14. 

Running one hand through his hair, which was now a short buzzed fade that still glinted like molten gold. He smirked. He looked like a Super-soldier on his day off. But there was something about the glint of golden armpit hair, the broad stance and forest green eyes that made your mind wander... and brought to mind the sound of steel against steel, the smell of fresh green woodsap and the feeling of being fucked under a cold night's sky...


That would do for now, it was time to do what this body was born for.

Chris, left the room, picked the golden coin off the table, pocketed it before stepping into the cool night air.

TO BE CONTINUED

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