Written By WideJohnny
My father was a world-renowned geneticist who, in the late 1990's, isolated and researched a gene responsible for muscle regeneration in mice. The gene produced a protein called IGF-1, for "insulin-like growth factor type 1". When introduced to the lab mice through gene therapy injections, the researchers found the supercharge rodents to surpass their untreated brethren in muscle mass by an average of twenty-seven percent.
This research was exciting, ground-breaking, and completely, utterly boring to seven-year-olds. My father, working nearly eighty hours per week, would often drag me, kicking and screaming, to his lab on Saturday mornings. I would sit in on the white linoleum floor, rolling my eyes, as my father digressed on findings not even a scientist's son could hold interest in.
My Saturday visits to the lab ended abruptly one morning in the winter of 1999. Dad had allowed me to explore the specimen room, so long as I didn't touch or disturb any of the hundreds of mice. As he walked off into his office, I strolled down the row of silver cages filled with the hyperactive, white animals. My eyes fell upon one animal that stood out from the lot - a huge rat sleeping alone in a cage.
Looking more closely at the animal, I realized that it was not a rat, but an overgrown mouse. Thinking back to my father's monologues, I wondered if this enormous beast was the recipient of a new treatment, as it far surpassed the results that previous specimen had displayed. As I bent down to stare at the mouse, the creature awoke, wiggled its mass around a bit, and looked up at me with curiosity.
Even as a young boy, I had always known better than to open the cages. This day, however, I was strangely compelled to free the animal. It looked friendly and was still watching me with an intense interest. I slowly opened the cage and reached in, allowing the mouse to sniff my hand. Just as my new friend began to lick at my fingers, my father walked into the room, saw what was happening, and shouted at me to remove my hand.
The mouse, understandably frightened by all of the sudden commotion, reacted by biting my finger. Now, an ordinary mouse wouldn't have even broken the skin. This over-developed beast, however, easily chomped through my skin, piercing my index finger to the bone. Screaming in pain, I pulled the mouse free, worsening my wound and injuring the animal. As our blood commingled, I felt myself passing out.
I awoke in what seemed like hours but was truly only minutes to find my father crouched over me, crying hysterically. I later learned that he had ordered his staff to destroy the mouse immediately and had already administered a cocktail of anti-biotics. Through his cries, he tried to explain that I would soon be taken to the local hospital for treatment. I didn't understand the gravity of the situation - my finger was in pain, but hospitalization seemed unnecessary.
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My stay at the hospital was brief. The mouse that had bitten me had been the first recipient of my father's new form of gene therapy. Rather than injecting the mice with the IGF-1 producing gene, he had manipulated a harmless form of the Herpes Simplex virus to introduce the gene to the specimen's muscles. An unintended result of the modifications was the extreme increase in the virus' rate of replication and its apparent unresponsiveness to treatment. Rather than an expected twenty-seven percent increase in muscle mass, this mouse had experienced an incredible 800 percent increase. The analysis of the mouse prior to being destroyed revealed, curiously, unheard-of levels of growth hormones and testosterone.
Tests revealed that I had, indeed, become infected with the virus. My father extensively discussed the options with my doctors and came back to me with little good news. He was unable to tell me whether I would live to see adulthood, successfully fight the virus, or ever lead a healthy life. The best plan was to rest and expend little energy, staying in bed and hoping my body could battle the virus.
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So that's what I did for fifteen years. I stayed in my room, often laying in bed reading. My father hired a tutor to assist me with my schoolwork, a nutritionist to tightly control my diet, and a number of physicians and scientists to monitor my body's condition.
My extremely sedentary lifestyle would have come to a shock to any uninformed visitor, as I had almost immediately begun to grow. Even my regimented diet couldn't keep the muscle off, as I slowly but clearly developed into a athletic-looking young boy. As I entered puberty at the age of twelve, I found my various doctors beginning to take note of what must have been significant development. I was oblivious, however - protected from reality and any true understanding of my uniqueness.
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By the time that I hit the age of twenty two, we had all come to the realization that I was not, in fact, going to die. But by laying in my bedroom and hiding from the world, I wasn't exactly living either. Over a series of months, I succeeded in convincing my still-over-protective father that moving out and experiencing the world would be very good for me.
Through the years, my father's existing wealth, coupled with wise investment strategies, fed into a sizable trust fund designed to support his son. While I could easily live off of this money for life, I strongly desired to put my years of education and pent-up imagination to work. Dad and I discussed these matters extensively, coming to the conclusion that I would be best off by taking one step at a time. We settled on the initial step of finding an apartment. If that went well, I could then pursue employment, a relationship, and all that "life" implied.
My interaction with other people had been fairly limited through my youth, and I was still a bit nervous in crowds. I wasn't looking for a one-bedroom within some enormous apartment complex - I wanted something simple, perhaps the second story of a small store. We soon found a nice converted attic located above a quiet lamp shop in a funky-but-relaxed area of town. I happily signed the lease and took my father to the local furniture and electronics superstore to obtain the furnishings for my new home.
After arranging the furniture and shoeing my dad out of the apartment, I paced about the room, contemplating what to do next. I decided to go out and walk around the neighborhood. While this seems trivial, to me it was a huge step - to be out in public, surrounded by potential danger, unaccompanied. I examined the contents of my dresser, looking for clothing that seemed appropriate for what I was desperately try to make into a "casual stroll". I chose a plain, white undershirt and a pair of bluejeans.
I gazed at my reflection in the mirror as I undressed. At the age of twenty-two, I stood just under 6'4" and weighed nearly 230 pounds. My large muscles and thick torso made clear my body's disregard for the the sedentary lifestyle and constant undernourishment of my youth. My head was covered with a neatly-trimmed pile of straight, dark brown hair. Thick eyebrows perched above my steel grey eyes and my powerful jawline was shadowed, even this early in the day, by a field of quickly growing stubble. Despite the thick hair, full beard, hairy armpits and pubic area, my chest, stomach, arms and legs were all devoid of any significant hair. Chalk that up to genetics, I suppose.
The high levels of hormones had quite obviously affected my sexual development as well. Although I had never had friends or siblings with which to compare myself, I had guessed that my penis - which when erect easily exceeded a foot in length and ten inches in circumference - was beyond normal. I just didn't know to what extent. My testicles, driven by the virus to produce testosterone at exponentially higher rates, had grown through my teens to the size of oranges.
My sex drive, too, had been deeply affected by the virus' work. As I entered puberty, I found myself almost paralyzed by my libido and often became engrossed in hours-long masturbatory sessions. These sessions became more and more intense and frequent as the years passed, but my daily schedule had forced me into a routine of climaxing quickly before a session with my tutor, a visit from my doctors, etc. It was not unusual for me to engage and climax eight times during a day - my testicles had no difficulty producing copious quantities of ejaculate at every release.
My fantasies had always revolved around masculine, muscular men - the forbidden brutes who were aware of the world, exposed to the physical demands of nature and hard work. I looked the part, but my uncalloused hands betrayed my bedroom confinement. I imagined being with a man - and being a man - who worked for his strength, who showed no fear in a crowd.
I again looked at myself, now dressed for my outing. The tight t-shirt hugged my defined chest and stretched to cover my round shoulders. The seat of my jeans was filled with my muscular glutes and my thighs showed through the heavy denim. I was ready for my adventure.
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I descended the outside, wooden stairway that led up to my apartment, stopping as my feet hit pavement. As I surveyed the street, trying to decide my direction, I noticed the faded sign of a gym - "The Iron Pit" - nestled between a coffee shop and a book store. My father had always warned me of the danger of a gym - I had been taught for fifteen years the hazards of physical exertion to my health. Despite these ingrained teachings, I walked straight across the street, through the door, and up to the front counter.
"Hey! Wanna work out?", shouted a thickly muscled bear from behind the counter. He sat perched upon a stool and looked to me working on a tax return. "Or, if you want, we can set you up with a full membership." The man was in his mid-forties, had a crewcut and goatee of salt-and-pepper black hair, and wore a tight red t-shirt with the logo of the gym on the front and the sleeves torn off. His arms were huge, and I was already getting excited.
"Uhm, yeah. I, uhm... I would like a membership but I don't really know anything about how to do this," I stammered.
The musclebear furrowed his brow and cocked his head, confused. "Don't know anything about what?"
"Uh, I mean I don't know anything about exercising. Do you have someone here who can teach me?" I replied, increasingly embarrassed.
"Well, sure. I mean, it's me and Eddie here. We're your guys for training. But looks like you've already been hittin' the weights pretty hard, man!" The musclebear leaned back on his stool, eyeing my torso inquisitively.
"Uh, hehe. Just genes, I guess." I shrugged my shoulders as I thought to myself how true that statement really was. "Anyway, I just moved into the neighborhood - right across the street, actually - and thought I should check out your gym."
"Well, kid, you've got a great base to work with, there. C'mon - I'll show you the place." The musclebear stood up, revealing his full 6-foot frame, and absently scratched his solid belly through the t-shirt. I would have placed him at 260 pounds. Coming back from contemplation, he outstretched his arm towards me. "I'm Mike Wakowski, by the way. I own the place."
I grabbed his meaty hand and shook it. "Jake Simpson. Nice to meet you, Mike."
Mike motioned for me to follow him as he walked down a path weaving between machines and benches that, to me, gave little indication of their individual uses. Looking past the piles of weights, I noticed a lone man in the middle of his workout. He stood near the back of the gym, lifting what I later learned were called dumbbells, watching his form intently in the wall-covering mirror. The pounding rock music was significantly louder back here, and the lifter was mouthing the words - probably singing along - while straining against the weight.
Mike pointed out numerous machines, benches, and collections of freeweights stuffed into the tight confines of the gym floor. We worked our way to the back of the room and Mike shouted at the lifter to gain his attention. The lifter looked over, threw his weights down upon the rubber-coated floor, and walked up to us.
"Jake, this is Eddie. He's the other owner of the Pit." Mike looked at Eddie with a half-smile. "Kid hasn't worked out a day in his life. Says its genes."
"Well, you're a lucky bastard, aren't ya?" Eddie was definitely the brasher of the two. He was younger that Mike - most likely in his late thirties - and was shorter than him by at least three inches, but probably outweighed him by a few pounds. His physique showed more pure muscle and lacked the thick-but-solid mid-section that Mike carried. His dirty blond hair was cut close and spiked up rebelliously upon his head. His bright blue eyes were indeed piercing, but were difficult to read when he quickly looked over my body. "You gonna join?" he asked.
"I'd like to, yeah." I replied.
"What is your goal?" Mike asked. When I failed to respond with anything more than an "Uhm...", he continued. "I mean, what do you want to accomplish? Do you want to stay fit, lose weight - although that doesn't seem necessary for you - or do you want to build muscle?"
Eddie jumped in: "We're all about building muscle here. Go to some goddamned fitness center if you want to do aerobics!"
Mike shot Eddie an angry look, but smiled as he turned to me saying, "No, that isn't true. We can set you up with a cardio workout, no prob. Eddie is sometimes too hardcore for our clients." He faked a laugh, clearly trying to do anything to earn my dollars.
"I'd really like to build muscle!" I said, a bit too enthusiastically. "I mean, I would love to look like you guys. I just need you to help me train." As I spoke and thought about the possibilities, I could feel an erection building. I nervously attempted to shift the hardening cock around in my jeans, but only ended up making it worse and being indiscrete.
I watched as Eddie raised his eyebrow at Mike. He looked back at me and explained the gym rules, the training regimen, and the price of the membership. I quickly wrote a check for the first year's dues, walked back to my apartment to change into shorts, and returned within half an hour to begin the first workout of my life.
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After my first week of workouts - really just three 45-minute training workouts - I had gained 10 pounds. I caught the lifter's bug immediately. With the help of Mike and Eddie, I quickly mastered the concepts behind weight training. I graduated to the schools of high-intensity workouts but found my endurance to be nothing short of incredible. Soon, I was a fixture at the Pit, engaging in daily, three-hour-long screamfests with Mike and Eddie pushing me the whole way.
When selling me on the gym membership, Mike had failed to convey one of it's strongest assets: the place was nearly always empty. Aggressive competition from the fitness-focused gyms within blocks had depleted the Pit's membership and, despite the hardcore tilt, new members were few and far-between. As a result, I rarely saw any other members, especially by working out in the middle of the day.
Mike and Eddie seemed to enjoy working with me. Freed of any other tasks, they offered guidance and assistance throughout my workout - often far more than I truly needed. After my workouts, I would often return home to shower and change, and then cross the street back over to the Pit to hang around the gym.
Within weeks, I felt that I had earned the two's trust and respect, and that they saw me, already, as a good friend. I quickly came to realize that Mike and Eddie were partners beyond the business. They lived together in a small apartment above the gym and obviously cared deeply for each other. As our friendships grew, I became more open with them regarding my life. I told them of my childhood, my condition, and my fantasies. They responded with acceptance, interest, and enthusiasm.
In three months, thanks to my heavy lifting and the introduction to such terrific sources of protein as steaks and weight gainers, my weight had increased dramatically. I had swollen from just below 230 pounds to an incredible weight of 340 - a gain of over 110 pounds! I still stood at 6'4", but was growing wider at an alarming rate. At the three month mark, Eddie helped measure my body. My chest taped out at 63", my waist at 36", my upper arms at 24.5", my thighs at 34", and my calves at 23". I had gone from being a "big guy" to being a freak, had destroyed all of my t-shirts, and caused strangers to stop and stare on the sidewalks. But I was far from satisfied.
I had developed a lust for muscle. Muscle on myself, muscle on the men around me. I wanted to take advantage of my gift and explore the upper limits of the human body. I wanted to become a monster.
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To celebrate my three month transformation, Mike and Eddie insisted upon taking me out for dinner. We went to a steak house, naturally. (I hadn't tasted a steak before the age of 22 - I was making up for lost time.) Over dinner, while avoiding stares from the other diners, I explained to the couple my desires. I knew the state of their business - the Pit was bound to go under within the next six months - so I felt confident in my proposal.
"Hey guys..." I said, with a tone that indicated my seriousness. "I want you two to help me."
Mike cocked his head in the way he did when confused. "Jake, I think that's what we've been doin', bud."
"Right, and thank you for everything. I want you to help me take this further." I watched their faces as I spoke softly in my deep baritone, "I want to hire you."
Mike and Eddie both expressed continued confusion. They knew of my situation, of my "trust fund kid" status, but they didn't understand the extent of the resources at my disposal.
"I know the Pit isn't doing so well, guys. But I know you still want to run a gym - just not a fuckin' fitness place. So why don't you let me hire you to train me...exclusively?"
The couple's expressions reflected the truth of my words and their dawning understanding of what I was about to propose. Mike looked over at Eddie, Eddie nodded in understanding, and I continued.
"I want to buy a warehouse. I want to purchase the gym equipment from you. I want to live in that warehouse, only training, eating, and sleeping. I want to become a fucking monster. Too big to go out in public. Too big to walk. And I need you to help me do it. I'll pay your living expenses, more that you guys have now, and when we're done, I'll make sure you both have enough to retire on."
After I finished speaking, the two muscle men sitting before me remained quiet for several minutes. Mike looked up at me and asked, "Isn't this going back to the life of isolation you hated so much?"
"Isolation isn't so bad if you're with people you love, and people who love you. You two have grown to mean more to me than anyone else in my life. I know with you around, I won't be lonely or unhappy. And I want to return to what I had growing up - someone taking care of me and watching over me."
Eddie, whose rough tone rarely let show the kind personality beneath, reached across the table and grasped my hand. "We'll do it!" he whispered.
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We set out the next morning to put our plan into action. Time was precious, as my growth would soon make activities in public very difficult. We located an empty warehouse not far from the old Pit and leased the location. Mike and Eddie had agreed to live with me, so we moved the possessions and gym equipment from our respective homes into the warehouse. The few remaining members of the Pit were disappointed at the gym's closing, but understood the financial difficulties faced by the business. We purchased tremendous quantities of food and supplements. We were ready.
Only four months after moving out of my father's house, the warehouse was in full operation. We called it "Mission: Immobile" and took the process very, very seriously. Mike and Eddie pushed me to sadistically higher goals, and I loved every minute of it.
My daily schedule involved six full hours of extremely intense workouts, focusing on no more than two major body parts per day. My increasing strength quickly necessitated the purchase of customized weights and equipment - hugely overbuild freeweights became the only solution. My incredible stamina made it nearly impossible to wear myself out through repetition. Instead, we focused on destroying as much muscle tissue as possible on a daily basis, the guys pushing me to my max from the start of the day onward. If I wasn't crying or vomiting, it wasn't intense enough.
Four hours of my day were dedicated to meals. Mike had taken to preparing "wholesome" lunches and dinners in incredible volume. To feed the three of us, he often quadrupled the family-sized recipes. This was supplemented by a barrage of weight gainers, protein shakes, meal replacements, and any number of other products I was being fed at any given time. The exposure to hormones through my youth had significantly strengthened my organs, so I had no problems with the incredible amount of food I was ingesting. Nor did the vitamins, amino acids, and other countless pills I took do any damage.
I had maybe two hours of "free time" throughout the day, and then it was off to bed for my twelve hours of sleep. Mike and Eddie had at least a few hours of time to themselves before they, too, headed off to bed.
After six months of this regimen, the results were shocking. Both Mike and Eddie had put on a large amount of muscle - Mike was up to 295 and Eddie weighed in at 308. They were the hottest couple I knew, but they couldn't compare to me.
My body was a work of art. My face, with its yet-thicker jaw, heavy brow, and visible muscles, gave me the look of a male model crossed with a Neanderthal - handsome, yet brutal. The five-o'clock shadow had become impossible to contain, necessitating a goatee lovingly trimmed by Eddie every morning.
My neck, far thicker than my skull, grew out even above my ears, masses of flesh interwoven like braids, merging into the high, deep traps sitting upon my shoulders. My delts sat like beachballs at the ends of my ever-broadening shoulders and led into biceps and triceps that were thick enough to fill an large t-shirt - the CHEST of a large t-shirt. My forearms looked like a pair of 20-pound hams, and the palms of my thick hands were already too muscular to allow me to ball my fist.
The wingspan of my lats had already surpassed four feet and was well on its way to five, pushing my arms out of the way with thick, heavy muscle. The lats tapered abruptly down to my lower back, a striated battlefield of defined muscles and tendons. My pecs had swollen up and out, restricting my vision and making it impossible to cross my massive arms. Below the jutting chest, my abs had continued to become more defined, and my obliques had grown into steel love handles. All of the growth hormones floating my system were quickly inflating my "roid gut", which would have looked terrible on a man whose pecs didn't extend six inches past the gut.
Looking at my profile, you couldn't avoid my glutes. Resting uneasily atop my thighs, my ass was muscled thickly enough to make me appear inches taller when seated. My thighs had become a source of jokes for Mike and Eddie, as the amount of effort required to walk with the bulging legs increased for me every day. And my calves had only worsened the problem, rubbing and bouncing off of each other against my efforts.
My balls had continued to grow thanks to the exponentially increasing levels of hormones floating around in my body. They now sat precariously on top of my quadriceps, each the size of a cantelope, churning out testosterone like a factory. My cock had resumed the growth I assumed had ended four years before and now extended to an incredible 18 inches - with a circumference of 18 as well. I was still a virgin, and was bound to stay that way due to the impractical size of what we began calling "the fire hydrant".
I was a 610-pound freak, but still not a monster. I had gained 270 pounds in six months but was unsatisfied with my results. I could still walk, I could still brush my teeth, I could even move my head. We had a long way to go.
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Mike, Eddie, and I decided that I was being held back by nutrition. I simply was not able to eat enough to fuel my growth at an acceptable rate. This was obvious - despite the thousands of calories I was ingesting, I had virtually no bodyfat. Every striation was visible and my vascular network was in plain view. Now, I had no desire to put on enough fat to cover up the garden hose-sized veins that snaked around my body, but I wanted to make sure I was getting enough to satisfy my body's needs.
We obtained a number of intravenous feeding units which I hooked into at any times I was sitting or sleeping. Mike worked with a lab to develop a special syrup containing as much protein and as many calories as possible. We ordered thousands of bags and I began hooking up to two units at a time, both set to their highest rates of dispension.
Mike began aggressively feeding me, forcing me to consume my food as quickly as possible to maximize the quantity for each sitting. He followed me around the gym area during my workouts, forcing me to drink my weight gainer shake, rather than water, between each set. He would wake me in the middle of the night to force down another shake, or perhaps a steak - often a shake AND a steak - all while still connected to the feeder units.
Eddie firmly believed that I wasn't working as hard on the weights as I could be. He laid into me with renewed vigor, pushing me past failure, past pain, and past fear. I looked death in the eye, and it was a loaded barbell. And I benched the fucker.
All of this increased intensity and intimacy was showing on the guys. Both continued to pack on muscle - although Mike was packing on a bit of fat, thanks to all of the taste testing he was doing - but beyond that, their relationship changed. Rather than running off to their walled-off section of the warehouse to cuddle or fuck, they spent more and more time with me. We showered together (they had to help me clean almost everything, now), relaxed together, and slept together. I would fall asleep after my 3:00 AM feeding, wake up three hours later, and find Mike and Eddie nestled between the masses of my body. I was as much a part of their relationship as Mike and Eddie were. But we had never had sex together.
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I have been in this warehouse for 18 months as of today. I'm not typing this, of course, as I am no longer able to use a keyboard. I am not writing this because my hand is unable to hold a pen and, even if it could, my bicep is too large to let me bend my elbow. I am dictating this to Mike, a man I love deeply, in my warm, basso profundo. Mike is sitting to my side. I can see him faintly in my peripheral vision, but I am unable to turn my head to look directly at him - my neck and shoulders surround my skull, fusing it in place. I could sit up and turn my body to face him, but I am unable to sit up without assistance - my legs and my gut fight for space and keep me from bending at the waist. I could stand up and turn to look at him, but, even after I am standing, I cannot turn around easily - my thighs force my legs out at better than 45 degree angles, and its hard for me to move them. All of this would require two people's assistance, because even Eddie, who now weighs 345 pounds, couldn't alone lift me.
Instead, I know that Mike is there, sitting in his chair, his beautiful muscles stretching his tank top to the point of ripping. He is typing softly on the keyboard and, all the while, I know what he's thinking. He's dreaming about what will happen to him in the coming 18 months. He's scared of the results, but he's excited at becoming a monster, just like I have.
Mike is thinking of this because last night Mike, Eddie, and I became blood brothers. I shared my virus with these men because I love them, and I want them to become immobile like me. Will they ever catch up with my growth? Will they ever boast a 32-inch long penis? Will they pack on 1,140 pounds of mass in 18 months? We don't know...but we are willing to find out.
After sharing the virus, we made love together for the first time. I felt their heat and sweat as Mike and Eddie fucked each other while laying upon my chest. Eddie rested his head between my pecs, his back against my gut as Mike fucked him, slamming his muscular shoulders into my enormous chest. Mike bit at my nipples as Eddie stood behind him, pounding with all of his effort. The two muscle men took turns sucking and stroking my cock and both screamed with delight each time I came. The sensations were incredible - it has been quite awhile since I have been able to masturbate, and I've missed it. But sharing this experience with these men has been even greater than I had expected. I can't wait to see what happens next.
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My name is Jake. I am not yet 24 years old, I weigh 1,480 pounds, and I'm still growing. I have 53-inch arms, but I want 54-inchers.
Well, maybe 55...
On second thought, 60 sounds about right...
But 72 would look incredible...
Fuck it, 84...
96. That's it, that's the biggest I'd ever want.
Well... •