(4/6/12)
Alex has just passed 260 pounds! I am beside myself. I haven't added to this journal in while; I've been busy with a project for my English class the past couple of weeks. A fair amount has happened, but first, the bad news:
He caved and bought shirts and pants that fit. Well, that fit around the time of my last entry—the shirts are starting to ride up around his stomach already and his new jeans are tight in the ass. Alex was motivated to do this after an event that he found embarrassing and I found aggressively erotic.
He was changing into street clothes back at the room after a workout. He really is something with his shirt off—just enough hair to entice me and lots of bloated, swollen muscles. His stomach protrudes as far as his pecs now, leaving only two vertical distinctions where he once had a defined six pack. He began sliding his shirt up his arms, then moved to pull it down over his head. His stomach flexed as he bent and I was surprised to see his abs showing—as opposed to just being fat, Alex has definitely gained a roid gut. Well, I'm not sure if it's actually from the steroids or the hormones, but it's a bulge of solid muscle. He managed to squeeze his arms through the tight sleeves, but was struggling to get the shirt down his wide torso. He put a little more effort into it, stomach flexing again and pecs contracting. Eventually, he was able to slide down the t-shirt when I heard the unmistakable sound of stitches tearing.
Alex's shirt split along the seams where his lats protruded and down the center of his chest as he lowered his arms. His face turned red and he stared at the floor. I would have pretended not to have noticed to make him feel better, but it was all I could do to stand there in awe. By the next day, he had bought a handful of new shirts, a pair of jeans, and some sweat pants.
As I said, the shirts now show a gap around his waist. The sleeves are also starting to roll up when they have taken too much torture from Alex's ballooning biceps. The jeans are threatening to pop the fly button every time he sits down. And the sweat pants, well, they may be loose, but they don't leave much to the imagination. His legs reveal themselves with every step and it is extremely easy to notice when he has an erection. Which is often.
His horniness has only increased. Things must not be going any better with his girlfriend, because he's begun bringing home girls every few nights. Last night was a well-endowed brunette. I was doing my homework in the common area but even from there I could hear Alex grunting. The RA talked to him recently about keeping the noise down when people are trying to sleep.
Just about every night this week I've woken up to Alex pleasuring himself. Our blinds were open one night, and I could actually see him in the light of a street lamp. His sweaty shirt stretched tight across his broad chest, flexing as he pumped his cock. He was sitting up slightly; his belly was flexed, firm and protruding. His dick slapped against the bottom when he let go of it momentarily. As usual, he failed silence his low moans as he edged closer and closer to climax.
That night I came in my bed without much effort on my part. Thankfully, I was able to keep quiet. I can't imagine how things might have gone if Alex had caught me watching him.
(4/13/12)
Friday the 13th. Alex bought a gray muscle shirt to workout in. He bought a size too small by accident. He stood at the mirror between our closets, trying to make the best of the situation. His pecs spilled out of the top and sides of the shirt, his thick arms hanging at his sides. With each breath the shoulder straps threatened to snap. Because of his gut, the shirt only made it to his bellybutton.
He was facing away from me, so I got a great view of his glutes in some stretchy gym shorts that were once loose. In the mirror, I saw him sigh, the initial inhale causing the shirt to rise up with his bulging traps. His powerful shoulders separated into three bundles of muscle as he raised his arms and grabbed the collar. With a small grunt, Alex tore the shirt straight down the center, exposing his chest and muscle gut. The shirt now hung like a vest which he shrugged off, muttering to himself, "fucking shirt."
He sat on his bed while I did my classwork. He was slumped over so his bloated pecs were thrust out farther on top of his stomach, which pushed past the waistband of his shorts. In its shadow, I saw he was getting hard again. I noticed his nipples were getting hard, too, but I had to turn away quickly as he lifted his head up.
It was a close call—I've been increasingly risky when stealing glances of his body.
4/15/12)
Something's up with Alex. I mean, I guess it's to be expected that he's not very happy with his (frankly amazing) weight gain or his out of control libido, but yesterday he seemed particularly distant. Today he asked if he could talk to me about something tonight.
(4/16/12)
This is bad. This is really bad.
Alex knows. He knows everything—he found my journal lying open on my desk. (How could I have been such an idiot?!)
Fuck.
To say that he's pissed is an understatement.
He confronted me last night after dinner.
"I know about the journal, Steve."
"Journal?" I asked, my voice cracking.
He bowed his head, kneading his forehead in frustration. "I know about it all. About all the stuff you've been feeding me."
"But I…" I couldn't string together a complete sentence.
He lifted his head and stared me down, narrowing his eyes. He stood up and walked over to me. Alex is, to put it mildly, physically imposing since his transformation. He wore one of his newer t-shirts, but it was still snug around his shoulders, chest, and gut. I was sitting on my bed and now I was pretty much eye level with his bloated torso. He seemed to tower over me in this state. He stopped in front of me and clenched his fists, causing the cords in his forearms to twist and contract and his arms to fill his sleeves.
"Why, Steve?," his teeth were grinding with each word, "Why did you do that—do this," his chest stood out as his muscles tightened when his voice rose, "Why would you…?"
I was simultaneously frightened of what Alex could do to me, and turned on by this display of power. I was paralyzed with fear and lust. Alex noticed I was getting an erection, let loose an angry snarl, and left the room, slamming the door so hard that the clock above it fell. Moments later, he stormed back in and again towered over me, eyeing me furiously.
He shook—or shivered?—with anger for a few seconds before he managed to expel, "I need you to get out of the room."
I opened my mouth to say something—anything.
"NOW!" he roared, veins standing out on his thick neck.
"Can we maybe—?" I began, but Alex interrupted.
"NO! I need you to leave now. I have to take care of this—this thing that you did!"
And then I realized that he was hard. His sweatpants made that much clear. He seemed to shiver again and I saw his cock throb beneath the thin layers of fabric.
"GET THE FUCK OUT NOW!"
I stumbled out of the room just in time for him to slam the door even harder than before. I could've sworn I heard the wood frame crack! Outside, it took little effort to hear Alex moaning. It was different than usual: deeper and longer, more strenuous. He was hate-fucking himself, basically. Occasionally I'd hear something slam and break—he was throwing and smashing my things.
I tried to get to sleep on one of the common area couches with little success.
I went to the computer lab. I need to clear my head, so I started writing this with a borrowed pen on some printer paper.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
(4/16/12)
It's been 24 hours since Alex flipped out on me. He kept unnervingly quiet the entire day. Just a few minutes ago, he approached me and finally broke his silence.
"You've really fucked me over, Steve," he said, more in control than last night.
"Alex, I'm sorry. I'm so—"
"I don't want to hear it. I've read your diary. I know how you feel. You're not sorry at all, you little fucker. You wanted me to get big, huh? You wanted that? Well guess what? We're going to see how big I've gotten."
He gripped my arms with his callused hands and squeezed. It felt like someone was stabbing me in my biceps as I reflexively struggled.
"You like that, don't you, you sick fuck?"
I didn't. I actually would have been beside myself if I wasn't so scared, but this was not pleasurable at all. He squeezed harder, flexing his biceps and I begged for him to stop.
"You're the one who wanted me big, Steve. I'll show you big!" He walked over to mini-fridge and the shelf we kept our food on. "Where is it?"
I hesitated.
"WHERE IS IT!?"
"I-i-in the closet. In a cardboard box under my duffel bag."
He grabbed the box of secret additives and asked me to leave the room like the night before.
"Don't wait up," he said, "I'll be a while."
He slammed the door in my face and I heard him grunt first with rage, then with relief.
(4/30/12)
Two weeks since Alex learned what I was doing to him. I've been much more careful about this journal—writing only when I'm out of the room.
Alex, meanwhile, has gone into overdrive. He seems to spend all of his free time at the gym (without me, of course) and he's been gorging himself at every opportunity. It's as though he's channeled his rage into something constructive.
I wish I could say the same. My grades have taken a dip lately. I have trouble sleeping. And not just because Alex kicks me out to masturbate every night. Even the nights when he already has had a girl over. And sometimes when I get back from classes the door is locked and I can hear him going at it inside.
But holy shit, has it paid off for Alex. Once again, his shirts and pants fit him like special athletic gear, molding to every contour and bulged of his swelling body. He's up 295 to according to one of his buddies from the gym! Almost 300 pounds of mass! It's unbelievable. That's something like two pounds a day, for crying out loud. He's as big as a bodybuilder. Maybe bigger. He's surpassed any progress I could have had him make without his knowledge.
He's got to be a genetic freak. That or those supplements work even better than I suspected. However it's happening, he's making phenomenal gains now that he's aware. He's eating every time I see him in the room and I silently avoid eye contact. Word is starting to spread around the school of how hard he is hitting weights. They call him The Beast now, and his workouts are full of loud grunts and the thunderous noise of weights falling to the ground. I haven't been to gym in a while, but I picture him straining himself, pushing himself to the limit—and then some—every night that I hear him groan and moan.
I think he's trying to intimidate me, trying to scare me for doing all of this to him. And it's working. But I don't think he anticipated that my attraction to his bulk is almost as strong.
Alex is truly a mammoth mountain of muscles now. From his firm gut to his bloated pecs, from his killer calves to his massive quads and hamstrings, from his bulging biceps to his thick triceps, and from his bowling ball-like shoulders to his spreading back.
I think I'm in love. Or I would be if I wasn't on the verge of pissing my pants every time he looks at me with those dark brown eyes.
(5/3/12)
Alex is gone. All 300 pounds of power gone from my life. For good, it would seem. He transferred rooms and had his stuff out of here before I got back from my last class.
Maybe I should explain why.
But maybe I shouldn't. I'm afraid he'll kill me if he finds out I've continued writing about him.
No, I need to get this down on paper.
The night of the 1st, Alex was particularly ornery. He came back from the gym, soaked in sweat, and literally tore off his skin-tight black t-shirt in front of me, as though daring me to look. I secreted a glimpse of his hairy, powerful chest flexing and expanding as he stretched his enormous arms. His muscle gut bounced as he turned and walked over to his bed.
"Leave," he commanded, but I didn't. Fearful as I am of him, I was drawn like a moth to a flame, unable to avoid what would surely end badly for me.
"LEAVE!" he yelled. He sighed and laid down on his bed. "FINE! Just stay out of the way!"
To my surprise, he began shimmying his gym shorts down his thick legs. He wasn't wearing any underwear, having long since outgrown his old pairs, and his dick sprung up, bobbing with his heartbeat.
"Ah, FUCK!" he said to himself as he grabbed his cock with his right hand. His left reached down to his balls which were hefty and swollen, just as he'd told me before. "Fuck, fuck, yeah," he moaned.
I began to get very nervous. I broke out into a cold sweat. Was this the greatest moment of my life, or would I regret this?
Alex moaned with his mouth shut, face scrunching up as he began to stroke himself. He let out a breath with a guttural sound and began pumping his cock up and down. Every muscle in his body tensed and flexed as he proceeded. I somehow had not come in my pants yet; I thought I had reached my limit of my self-control when he started grunting in time with his thrusts.
"Fuck. Oh so fucking good. Fuck. Fuck anything—fuck everything. So fucking big…"
I got up, the mere act of standing nearly sending me over the edge, and slowly made my way over to him. I wanted to see this up close, and his eyes were closed. What harm could come from getting a little closer?
"Fuck," he opened his eyes and looked at me, but kept going, "fuck anything. Fuck me!"
In the right light, it could be argued that this was an invitation. He nodded to me—or was he just rocking his head as his hips bucked? I got closer, sitting down at the end of the bed and his eyes rolled back in ecstasy, a steady stream of curse words flying.
"So damn big—fuck me…"
Carefully, I reached over his hair-coated thighs that flexed and contracted with every stroke. I put my hand on his.
"FUCK," he gasped, and he closed his eyes tight. I didn't hear him say no. All I saw was a muscle stud, a behemoth of my own creation, begging for relief from overpowering horniness. His pecs flexed up against his stomach as he focused more and more energy on getting off. His body was coated in sweat and veins were surfacing here and there.
I wrapped my hand around the base of his hot cock and took over for him. He cried out again and moaned like an animal. Faster and faster I pumped his cock, until I felt tremors and spasms start to rack his body. I eased up, but his large balls—nearly the size of golf balls—were already pulling up—he was ready to come.
He came, and came, and came. Cum drenched my arms and shirt. He had a lot of it. He must have been pumping it out for at least a minute of what had to be indescribable bliss. I came in my pants, and had to catch my breath.
A few minutes after this I was laying back on my bed, breathing deeply, covered in spunk. If Alex had any particular reaction to me assisting him, he didn't show it. He was so quiet he might have fallen asleep, actually. I drifted off myself.
When I woke up, Alex was gone. He came back the next morning, very drunk, and unwilling to speak a word to me. He gave me no notice when he transferred rooms.
(5/5/12)
I don't know what to make of my experience with Alex. Would I do it all over again? I don't know. But my new roommate has become my new workout buddy. It wouldn't do any harm if I helped him along a little, would it? And I've picked up a few methods for building muscle that I can use on myself, too…
THE END