The DeBrose Incident
Part I:
Appointment (0 wks.)
Mike sat in the waiting room. He was happy to have made it on time, despite his GPS’s misdirections. Having seen the building on the website, he was fairly certain it wasn’t in the warehouse district, as his GPS had indicated. He’d been looking forward to this appointment with excitement and anxiety. He made the appointment six months ago, but the waiting list was so long that this was the first opportunity they had to schedule him. DeBrose Medical was an unusual for an independent practice. Dr. DeBrose himself was your standard, young MD. Supporting him was almost a dozen practitioners from across the field, including endocrinologists, dietitians, physical therapists, athletic trainers, exercise physiologists, and even a biochemist or two. The waiting room, like the rest of the building, was pristine. If his gym buddy hadn’t sang their glowing praises, Mike would assume he was their first patient. Everything was in perfect order. The walls and floors were spotless, the chairs were neatly aligned, the tables had an assortment of reading material covering the spectrum from popular sports magazines, to issues of actual sports medicine journals. Not that he had any time to read them. As soon as he had made himself comfortable, a nurse called his name. Looking up, he noticed the nurse’s build was nothing short of astounding. She was more muscular than any woman he’d ever seen outside of a Female Bodybuilding competition. She wasn’t quite as tall as him, but her wide back could be easily seen through the scrubs. Her arms were straining the shirt’s sleeves. Her glutes had already torn small holes in the seams of her pants, and her thighs were not far from the same fate. Even her calves were clearly outlined. Mike rose and followed her to the pre-evaluation stations. Weight, height, temperature, blood pressure, a short questionnaire about his general health. The next station was less mundane; it was a small multi-gym adorned with cables and sensors. The nurse guided him in some quick full-body stretches. He watched closely as her body twisted and strained the scrubs further. After following her direction, she set him up on the chest press. Looking him up and down quickly, she set the weight to 190lbs. “Do as many as you can. If you hit 20, go ahead and stop,” she instructed. Mike pushed through 12 reps, but his arms failed him, and the weighted plates fell to a solid clang. The next machine was a sort of row, but the particular variation was unfamiliar. He reached 14 before he could do no more. The final assessment was a leg press. He managed 9. The nurse printed a few sheets of paper from an adjacent computer, and lead him to another station. She adeptly drew blood and packed the vial in to small container. She brought him to the primary exam room. Like the waiting room, the exam room was pristine. Not a tongue depressor was out of place. The nurse procured a gown for him to change in to. The nurse left to summon Dr. DeBrose, carrying the blood sample with her. The gown was a tight fit for his build, but made of a soft and generally pleasant material. Now totally alone, a feeling of unease set in. The absolute purity of the room made Mike feel uncomfortable, as if he was out of place, or on a set of some television medical drama. He’d never been to a doctor’s office where there was no one else waiting. And medical journals for reading? His vague worries were interrupted by a knock at the door. The man in the doorway was roughly the same height as Mike. Thin, with a short, surgically-precise haircut, and stylish rectangular glasses. He wore no lab coat or stethoscope, but instead a well-fitting button-up shirt with a subtle plaid pattern, and some khakis. A badge on his breast pocket identified him as Dr. Andre DeBrose. His voice was charming and assertive. “Michael! Nice to meet you. I’m Andre.” “Yeah, nice to meet you too, doc.” “Is there anything in particular that brings you in to see me today?” “Nope, just needed a new doctor is all.” “I might know someone who can take care of that,” the doctor chuckled. “Annie put you through the whole battery of tests, right?” “Yeah. First time I had to exercise for a doctor’s appointment.” “Most of my patients are athletes. I’ve found those measurements can tell you a lot if you know what you’re looking for. The equipment was purpose-built for this practice. It records all sorts of things; how quickly you put the weight up, how long you let it down, if there’s a difference between how much you push with your left and right sides, the list goes on.” The doctor adjusted his glasses. “The chest press can tell me months in advance if you’re heading for a shoulder injury, the squat if you’re liable to need a hip replacement or ACL surgery, so on, and so on.” He consulted the printed sheets. “Fortunately, everything looks to be in fine working order for you.” “Always good to hear.” Dr. DeBrose plucked a pair of tools from the countertop. Checking Mike’s eyes and ears revealed nothing of interest. The same could be said for his throat, reflexes, balance, flexibility, or anything else Dr. DeBrose tested. The doctor issued Mike a clean bill of health. As Mike was gathering his clothes to dress, Dr. DeBrose asked the pivotal question. “So, how long have you been hitting the gym?” “Three or four years. Or five? It’s been a while. Why?” Mike replied. The doctor flipped through some of the pages in Mike’s folder. “You put down that you exercise seven days a week. If you don’t mind me asking, how many of those are full-on workouts, and how many are cardio?” “Both, every day.” “For how long?” “A few hours. The workout routine usually goes for about an hour and a half, and I can usually get in another hour on a bike before the gym closes.” “How long have you been running this particular program?” “Almost as long as I’ve been going to the gym.” “...and you haven’t had any major injuries?” “No, just some tendinitis every now and again.” “Well, you’re already doing better than most of my patients in that regard. By the four year mark, most people have at least torn something they shouldn’t have.” “I guess I’m just lucky that way,” Mike replied offhandedly. In the back of his mind, he felt a bit burned. He had been working out for five years. He could even remember the date he walked in to the gym for the first time. Instead of gaining the rippling, bulging muscles he saw on male models and bodybuilders (and apparently nurses), he only moved from “lanky” to “chubby”. It wasn’t fair. He had done everything he knew to do. He ate a ton, he drank those disgusting protein shakes, he worked out until he couldn’t push himself to do one more rep, and yet he stayed the same. His frustration was almost palpable each week when he weighed in and did his measurements, revealing no progress outside of what could easily be measurement error. “Something the matter, Mike?” Dr. DeBrose asked. Realizing he had zoned out, Mike, nodded. It was an uncharacteristic show of vulnerability for him. “Honestly, doc, when I started working out, I was hoping to get… more out of it.” “How do you mean?” “I dunno how to put it. I thought I’d end up looking good, and I really haven’t changed all that much. I did all the stuff you’re supposed to, but I mean, look at me. Does this look like five years of consistent exercise?” He grabbed a handful of fat on his gut. “Does this?” “Everyone responds differently to exercise, Mike. And there’s certainly the prospect of overtraining when you’re doing a full routine every day. What exactly did you expect to change that hasn’t?” “I thought I’d have abs and thick arms and veins all over the place if I did this shit for this long.” “Mike, do you spend a lot of time online, particularly on fitness sites?” “Not that much. I mean, some, but it’s not like I sit around and read Exercise.com all day.” “You should know that some athletes are… less than honest about how they came to achieve their physique.” “You mean, like, juicing?” “You could call it that. It’s more appropriate to call it what it is: anabolic steroid abuse. If you spend much time at all online in the fitness realm, you’ll run in to people who claim their physique is the result of hard work and determination. Most often, that’s a blatant lie.” “It’s real muscle, isn’t it? They can throw around barbells like toys. It’s not like fake tits or something, it’s the real thing.” “Yes, it’s the real thing. You should know that anabolic steroids aren’t magic muscle juice. The people abusing these drugs are risking their health, their sterility, hell, even their lives in some cases. I hate to say it, but folks who dive head-first in to performance-enhancing drugs usually end up killing themselves with those drugs before they hit 40.” Mike looked at the floor and said nothing. Dr. DeBrose put a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Mike, you’re doing good work. Keep a focus on lifting for your health. When you’re 80 and still up and about and these guys have been six feet under for decades, you’ll look back and-” Someone knocked on the door. Dr. DeBrose opened the door slightly. The nurse handed him a folder. “What took them so long?” he hissed. Mike couldn’t hear the nurse’s reply, but the doctor dismissed the nurse and returned to Mike. “Sorry about that. Bloodwork doesn’t usually take this long to go through the lab.” Dr. DeBrose thumbed through the stack of papers. Something among the charts and tables caught his eye. He walked over to a small computer station in the corner of the exam room and stuck his ID card in a slot on the keyboard. Charts and figures lit up the screen. Without saying a word, he picked up the room’s phone and called… someone. “It’s DeBrose. Yes, it’s about two-nine-two-eight. Who ran that batch? And he ran it both times? The who ran it the second time? Were they at the same station? And there’s no missing decimal or something stupid like that? The number is actually thirty four, not three point four? And the others too? I’d say we’ve caught a break then. Call me in half an hour, and we’ll figure out how to proceed from there.” He hung up the phone. Mike sat, having overheard something you rarely want to hear: a doctor that’s surprised enough by your test results that he calls someone else to confirm them… while you’re still in the room. Sweating bullets, Mike spoke up, “I hope you were talking about some crazy ball game scores or something, doc. That didn’t sound so good.” “On the contrary, Mike. In fact, I’d like you to meet someone.” He walked over to the phone again. “Mary, it’s Andre. Could you get Phil for me? Exam two. Thanks.” A page went out over the intercom, “Doctor Armon to Exam Two. Doctor Armon to Exam Two.” “Excuse me for a few, Mike.” Dr. DeBrose said, stepping out of the room with the piles of paper in his hands. Behind the closed door, he could hear Dr. DeBrose speaking to another man. After a few minutes of muted discussion, the door reopened and Dr. DeBrose lead a similarly-built man of middle-eastern descent in. “Mike, this is Dr. Armon, our resident endocrinologist. He’d like to look over some things that were highlighted by your bloodwork, if you don’t mind.” “Go on ahead, docs. Do your thing,” Mike said apathetically. “Would you roll up your sleeve, Mike?” Dr. Armon said. His voice carried no hint of an accent. Mike did as he was told. Dr. Armon pulled out a thin fabric tape measure and wrapped it around Mike’s upper arm. He slid the tape down slowly until it reached Mike’s forearm. “Could you make a fist for me?” Dr. Armon instructed. “Squeeze it as tight as you can.” Again, Mike followed his instructions, and again, Dr. Armon slid the measuring tape closer to his balled fist. He retracted the tape. “Thank you. You can relax now, Mike.” Mike sat back down. Dr. Armon looked to DeBrose, who gave him a knowing nod. Dr. Armon pulled out a prescription pad and pen and started filling out the forms in rapid succession. He handed them to Dr. DeBrose. “I’d say two months. Get him started today, if we have it in stock.” “We do,” DeBrose replied. “Good,” Armon said as he walked out. “Pleasure meeting you, Mike.” “You too, doc.” Mike waited until Dr. Armon’s footsteps had receded. “What the hell was that about?” “Dr. Armon’s background is in applied hormonal research. As I mentioned, most of our patients our athletes of one sort or another. Part of Dr. Armon’s work here is to look in to novel therapies for sports-related injuries and... ailments. Some of these therapies could prove useful, but his most promising strategy requires certain foundations in the patient’s physiology. This case, as I understand it, involves a ratio of a particular protein to another. Everyone has both of them, but he estimates only one in a half million has anywhere near an appropriate proportion for his procedure to be remotely effective.” Dr. DeBrose conjured a paper from among the pile now spread across the counter. He circled a row on a table. “This is one of the two proteins, LBxF-1. The number off to the side is the ratio of it to another, GMI-21. Dr. Armon suspected previously that someone would need a ratio of 16.8 to 1 for his treatment to be as effective as possible. Yours is 34 to 1.” “That’s a pretty far shot from 16.8. Is he sure it’s still going to work?” “At the time when he put his theory forward, 16.5 was the highest ratio recorded world-wide. The average is closer to 0.3 to 1. He’s confident enough that he wrote prescriptions for all the components of the therapy at once.” “So, hold on. What ‘sports-related injury or ailment’ am I suffering from that this stuff’s supposed to fix?” “That’s a complicated question. I have a few suspicions, but frankly Mike, you explained the general problem yourself. If you’ve been consistently exercising on a well-designed routine for five years, getting the recommended daily protein intake...” “and nothing happens?” Mike broke in. “Bingo. I won’t go in to the exact taxonomy of it all, but suffice it to say there’s plenty of room for improvement.” “Didn’t you just go off about how steroids are bad?” “Anabolic steroids are a particular class of drug. This treatment falls well outside of that class. Dr. Armon has run simulations and a few rounds of animal tests, all show very promising results. No side effects are expected with the experimental dosage guidelines he’s put together. At the end of the day, it’s your choice to participate in the test or not.” “If I say yes?” Mike inquired. “I give you a shot, and you go straight to the gym after this appointment. You take a few of these prescriptions to your pharmacy and get them filled A.S.A.P. Then you follow the instructions on the bottles. And, since this is technically a trial, we’re permitted to offer a participation reimbursement.”
Ten minutes later, Mike headed for the gym, $150 richer.
Part II
Progress (4 wks.)
In the four weeks that elapsed since Mike’s encounter with Dr. DeBrose, he had gotten the results of his five years of strenuous exercise and strict diet paid back with interest, with the help of DeBrose’s specialists. His chest now billowed out with dense, meaty pecs. His once-flabby stomach now rippled with hills and valleys of abdominal muscle. And if his abs were hills, his back was mountainous. Every strand of muscle that filled his tremendous back was on display even through his loosest shirts. His shoulders split in to a half dozen striated heads, each flexing and relaxing constantly as he went through his daily routines. His biceps, now looking like surgically-implanted softballs adorning his arms, heaved and throbbed, decorated with veins and cleft in two. Even his forearms had become powerful chunks of meat, riddled with veins. Every movement of his hands sent cords of muscle dancing under his skin. His girthy thighs, decorated by diamondesque calves, had swollen so far as to push the other out of the way. Even his package had enjoyed some expansion; his previously-average dick became longer and thicker as if it too were packing on muscle. His balls had grown twice over, and he could practically feel the testosterone they pumped in to his bloodstream as it rushed around his body, fueling more growth. In subtle ways, his faced, too, had changed. His jaw caught his eye in the mirror every morning.
Mike heard a pop. Looking down, his tight pants finally gave way. The could no longer confine his monstrous quads. Perhaps he was unconsciously flexing in anticipation of the workout ahead. Regardless, this was the last piece of clothing to have withstood his onslaught of growth. He stood in the gym’s lobby. He was easily the most muscular person he’d ever seen in this gym. Hell, he was the most muscular person he’d ever seen in person. His total weight was up 50lbs since the injection and subsequent pill regimen. Paradoxically, he had actually put on 68lbs of muscle, but at the same time, he shed 18lbs of fat, leaving his newly-defined muscles on full display across his immense body.
His attitude had shifted since the mass started accumulating across on his frame. At first, he thought it embarrassing, as if someone would call him out for the sudden changes. If anyone did suspect something, they had kept to themselves about it. Now, he was starting to get a kick out of the stares. In the second week of his growth spurt, people were more social to him. In the gym, they’d ask for advice and spots, but now no one dares approach him during his workout. Perhaps they were intimidated by grunts and shouts he let out during the routine. Perhaps they wanted to stay well away from the 200-odd pounds he was pressing over his head for a warmup. Perhaps… he didn’t care. In all other parts of his life, his day-to-day activities had hardly changed. Instead of following the meal plans he put together himself, he simply used the plans DeBrose’s nutritionists had assembled for him, and he took his small assortment of pills. He went about his workout and cardio routines. His work as a graphic designer was entirely unimpaired by the changes, as he worked from his apartment anyway. His routine had changed in one other way: he had changed his weigh-in and measurement sessions from weekly to bi-daily. Mike was enthralled with the growth. Watching his numbers climb between a few hours, rather than a few fiscal quarters, was intoxicating.
Mike sat down in the leg press. It was no longer useful to him as anything but a light warm-up before he hit the squat rack like a meteor. He set the pin in the heaviest tier and brought his titanic legs up to the footplate. With a light heave, he pushed the 450lbs. mechanism away with ease. His pants continued to rupture. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… 45? or was it 55?, he was starting to lose count. Trying his hardest to recover is train of thought between the reps, unfamiliar sounds entered his ears: a squeal of metal, a snap, a crash, and a deafening clang. Looking around him (as were all other gym-goers), he found the cable holding the weights inside the machine had been pushed past its limits, the individual twines of steel forming the cable were frayed and dramatically destroyed. Looking at the leg plate, he noticed he had pushed the mechanism far beyond where it was intended to stop. The reinforced beams holding it in place were bent like clay. The leg press was no longer useful to him as anything, at all.
Mike stood in his apartment. It was time for his nightly measurements. He had already taken his chest, leg, calf, waist, and hip measurements, and now it was time for his favorite: his bicep measurement. He wrapped the tape measure around the impossibly-swollen hunk of meat. 36.8”. Jotting down the number, he looked back over the last few weeks of his measurements. Starting at 13” even, he had gone up by almost… He heard a click. He hadn’t taken off the tape measure yet, but it now read 37”. He must have flexed a bit, he thought. Starting at 13” even, he had gone up by almost 7 inches the first week of treatment. The next week, it was closer to 8”. This week he was on track for 10” if his current rate kept... click He looked at the tape measure again. It read 37.75”. This week he was on track for 12”.
Part III
Check-up (9 wks.)
Mike sat again in the waiting room. It was a different waiting room than the one they had originally placed him in, towards the back of the building. It was much less… furnished. Probably for the better. The fairly nice upholstered seats in the original room would not have fared well against his burgeoning mass. Annie, the well-built nurse he encountered on his first visit, saw to him again. The same scale that she had used to weigh him the first time now read 595lbs. His height hadn’t changed terribly much, only 4” or 5” new. She abstained from checking his blood pressure; none of the cuffs would fit his bicep, which measured at around 60” when relaxed. He was tired of waiting. When it came time for him to use the diagnostic multi-gym, he set the chest press machine to its highest weight and curled the weight arm with one hand for twenty reps. The row, also set to it’s highest weight, was no challenge, even with one hand. Deciding to put on a show for the nurse, who’s reaction was floating somewhere between aroused and terrified, Mike went to the leg press machine, set it to its highest weight (around 800lbs), and pressed it overhead. It was not as easy as the first two, inasmuch as he had to use both hands. His shirt felt significantly tighter than when he had walked in. He must have gotten a small pump from the measurements. Annie had no trouble locating one of his hoselike veins to draw blood from, and set the vial in another special container. She lead him to a much dimmer part of the building. The building had not seemed this deep from his drive up to it, but there was no way for him to see all the way around it from the road or the parking lot. The floor was no longer decorated tile here, instead it was dense, solid concrete. The openness of the area reminded him of a loading bay. Perhaps under prior building owners, it was. The light, too, had changed. Instead of the warm bright light one might expect in a doctor’s office, it was lit from industrial lights high above. In one of the concrete walls was a gap. Large enough to accommodate his broad shoulders, a sign above the gap read “EXAM L”. The interior of the room was filled with equipment that one might first suspect was designed for construction before seeing the medical instruments strewn around it. Annie gestured to a reinforced steel table. It groaned but remained steady as Mike hoisted himself on to it. Spreading his legs even more so than was already required by his behemoth thighs, he was glad to have the weight of his oversized package off his legs. Obviously his sprawling thighs could handle the weight, but even so, it was nice to relieve himself of it every now and again. Speaking of relieving himself, he couldn’t stop watching the way the nurse’s toned, thick glutes flexed and filled her pants as she moved around the industrial-themed exam room. He had caught her looking at his makeshift pants, but even a pair of tarps could hardly conceal his 3 foot monster of a dong. His balls had grown considerably faster than the rest of his body. Each titanic nut was thicker than his cock was by a factor of one and a half. He tried as hard as he could to break his eyes away from her round, strong ass. Eventually she walked out of the exam room, and Mike was too caught up in a daze to follow her, despite the primal gravity attracting him to her.
He waited for what seemed like an eternity, lusting over the sway of her thighs as she walked around the room in his memory. He heard someone snap their fingers. Standing in the doorway was Dr. Armon. For the first time in many weeks, someone saw him and did not express immediate surprise at his immensity. Like the rest of the unnerving office, something about Dr. Armon disquieted Mike. He seemed totally unsurprised by the half-ton of meat sitting on a bench that would be more fitting in a metal shop than a doctors office. “Coming along well, it would seem,” Dr. Armon observed. “You’re fuckin’ telling me. I’ve never felt better in my life,” Mike retorted. “Strictly out of curiosity, how did you get here?” Armon inquired. “My car. Had to take most of the shit out of it to fit. Might have to make some more room by hand if I keep getting bigger.” “It would seem we’ve arrived at the purpose of this appointment. To answer the implied question, yes, you will keep getting bigger. Your protein ratio has skyrocketed since your last bloodwork batch. You were previously at a record-setting 34.0, and now it’s elevated to 92.14. If anything, your growth should be accelerating dramatically if you pass 100.0, plus or minus two.” “Hell yeah! Pump me up, doc!” Mike shouted with enough force to shake some of the surrounding equipment. Veins throbbed across his body with anticipation. “If you insist,” Dr. Armon said sarcastically. He procured a very large needle from his pants pocket. The doctor undid Mike’s improvised pair of pants, and attempted to insert the syringe in Mike’s immense glute. To the doctor’s dissatisfaction, the needle was unable to penetrate the solid muscle. “Could you try and relax a bit, Michael?” the doctor asked. Putting a tremendous effort to clear his mind, he dispersed the tension that many hundreds of pounds of muscle created simply by existing on one humongous frame. With some elbow grease, Dr. Armon gave Mike the preposterous amount of mystery fluid. Almost immediately, Mike could feel it pushing out through his veins. “Now, to kick off the effect, you should go to the gym within two hours. The sooner the better.” “Fuck that place, all that gear is too easy for me.” “The previous owners of this building left some industrial supplies around here... I’m sure you could put them to good use,” Dr. Armon offered with a hint of a smile. Mike hopped down from the table, leaving a dent in both the steel plating and the floor where he landed. “Hey doc, where’s Dr. DeBrose?” Mike asked. “He’s off preparing to open an additional location for our practice.” Dr. Armon flipped a hefty circuit breaker near the room, illuminating the rest of the 20-acre building’s interior, filled almost to bursting with various grades and sizes of steel beams building materials.
Mike cracked his knuckles.
Part IV
Takeover & Factory (9wks. 4hrs.)
Mike sat in his apartment. He had to squeeze through the door frame sideways. His attempt was not entirely successful, leaving large pec-shaped chunks of the frame crushed. The final turn to squeeze his enormous package through the threshold had left a pair of holes at shoulder-height in his drywall. His apartment looked as if a bomb had gone off. The sofa was obliterated. The chairs, shattered. The doors and their frames all had some sort of deformation from his botched passings. The coffee table was split in twain after he had attempted to use it as a footrest. Mike had never been a fan of this particular apartment, but it was the best deal he could get. He strongly doubted the next few months of graphics design work would recover whatever the toll would be to get all this repaired. As he did after any workout, he squeezed in to the small corner designated as the kitchen. One by one, he grabbed the ingredients for the meal Dr. DeBrose’s dietitians had come up with. Before he pulled the chicken breast out of the refrigerator, someone knocked at the door. Mike was surprised that whoever it was didn’t just push the door open. It was brutally clear that the thing wasn’t able to latch shut anymore. “Uh, I’ll be there in a second!” he shouted to his visitor. In a series of footfalls that must have made the neighbors suspect an earthquake, he hustled to the door and wrenched it open. This was the final straw for the hinges, which nonchalantly fell to the floor. The woman standing in front of him was familiar. “Hey, you’re uh...” “Ann. Or Annie, that’s what the doctors call me, anyway. Supposed to make the patients feel more casual or some B.S.” “Okay, which do you prefer?” “Honestly? Ann.” “So, what brings you to my apartment, Ann?” “I have something from Dr. DeBrose. My apartment is a block or two down,” she explained. “He said this couldn’t wait.” She handed him a small, white cardboard box with a few warning stickers in small text. “He said you can take it anywhere, but if you need some help, I do a lot of injections, and I can probably make it sting a little less. Or at least...” she glanced at his almost-nude body. Her voice trailed off, and she tried to hide her inadvertent lip biting. “Or at least?” Mike reminded. “Oh... sorry. I was going to say, I mean... here. Just let me do it.” She took the box from his hand. Out popped a small plastic syringe. “Sorry,” she apologized before sticking it in his forearm and squeezing the trigger. Wondering what exactly she’d just pumped in to his body, Mike started to object, but he was now discovering the purpose of the injection. Despite the approximate tons his monstrous legs could handle, his footing became unsteady. He fell gracelessly to the ground. Ann stepped back, startled by the sudden shift. She pulled something out of her pocket. Mike’s vision was blurring, losing focus. She started talking in to the thing. Maybe it was her phone? He was having a hard time staying aware of himself. He couldn’t make out most of the words, but what he heard sounded like “Doctor? It’s Ann. He’s at his apartment. I gave him the full dose of...” Mike couldn’t hold it together anymore, and lapsed in to a deep sleep.
When he woke, he no longer had the cover of his industrial-strength pants. He had nothing covering him at all, he could feel that much. He felt like he was upright, but… spread eagle? There was more, but he couldn’t see, it was too dark. Only a few tiny lights registered in the whole room, and damn was it a big room. He couldn’t exactly look around too much, his traps made sure of that. His skin felt odd in dozens of places. He felt twitchy. He struggled against his restraints, but found that his wrists and feet were firmly bound by something metal and very, very solid. He felt a jolt. His cock had... was that his cock? It had gotten pretty big, but he didn’t remember it feeling THIS absolutely massive. He let out a yelp in surprise. Suddenly, pleasure rushed up through his member. He shuddered as he basked in the euphoric sensations bursting from his groin. In the distance, the door opened. Light from whatever hall it was streamed in, but only illuminated the room a bit more than the various dimly blinking lights. A sudden clap resounded as the lights from high above flooded the room with light. He was indeed chained and suspended, totally naked. Dozens of IVs were attached across his body, and wired pads decorated his every muscle. He was indeed twitching, and he suspected these pads were the cause. Whatever fluids were being pumped in to his body were of unappealing colors, mostly neon blues and greens, some pinks. He suspected that they would glow if the lights were left on too long. He could see where the liquids were mixing with his blood, slightly discoloring the veins they were pouring in to. He had long since lost the ability to see down to his feet, instead seeing his protruding pecs, but he suspected they were augmented in the same ways. Just over his pectoral ridge, he could see something cylindrical, maybe a barrel on its side? It had some red lights showing. One of them turned green. The surge of pleasure from his crotch returned in force. He was almost pushed to the brink of cumming before the machine’s light returned to a dull red. He couldn’t be sure, but he was almost certain that his dick filled up 99% of whatever that thing was. It was certainly larger than a standard 55-gallon drum. He heard footsteps. One by one, he watched as a dozen men and women in lab coats and scrubs poured in to the room, in the empty space before him. Among them were Ann, Dr. DeBrose, and Dr. Armon. “Hey. HEY! What the fuck is this?! Where am I?” Mike shouted. Struggling against the chains that could easily anchor a large boat, he yelled “Get these chains off my fucking-” One of the men in lab coats reached over to a panel and hit a button. On the machine attached to his cock, ALL the lights went green. Mike tensed up all at once. This was the most intense pleasure he’d ever felt. Like a whole club’s worth of hands feeling his cock, massaging and teasing every square inch of his shaft, of which there were MANY. He was getting close to the breaking point. All his muscles flexed and writhed as the sensation of pure sex ramped up.
Like a dam, he broke.
He could hear gallon after gallon of his cum sloshing around through the machine, pumps now spinning up somewhere in the background, presumably to help evacuate the seed from the tubular device. He hung lazily in the celestial afterglow. The man who had pushed the button leaned down to read something on a screen. “Ladies and gentlemen, Day one, run one: sixty five point two gallons!” Cheers and mutual congratulation from the bespectacled kidnappers. A woman popped a bottle of champagne and handed around glasses.
After a few minutes, Mike fell back to reality. “What the hell WAS that?” he panted. “THAT, Michael, was a custom-built ejaculator. It uses complex mechanical stimulation along with epidermal electrical signals to virtually force an ejaculation,” Dr. DeBrose said. Dr. Armon joined in. “There’s been a runaway... reaction inside you Michael. I was correct in my original speculation that your particular protein ratio would accelerate the effects dramatically, but there were other pathways and activities involved that I hadn’t fully anticipated.” “Anyway, we’ll be taking care of you here for the time being.” Dr. DeBrose picked up. “You’ve clearly outgrown your living accommodations. We’re happy to provide the space, medical care, food, all free of charge, provided you agree to let us use your...” “Product!” Ann blurted. “I suppose that’s an adequate term. Your ‘Product’.” “You want my jizz? What the fuck for?” “Frankly, it would form an ideal base to, potentially, introduce a more limited version of your therapy to the public.” “I’d also like to mention to you that this is likely the only place and only organization that would focus on your continuing… physical performance. I’m sure you’ve noticed the IVs. We’ve arranged for a continuous supply of the particular agents needed to further your growth. The beam you’re suspended from was originally part of a shipbuilding crane. It can support the full weight of an aircraft carrier’s hull. Our nutritionists,” he gestured to some of the folks in lab coats, “will be calibrating your nutrient intake to pack on as much mass as possible, as quickly as possible.” “Why do you want me to get bigger?” Mike asked in a half-accusatory tone. “Easy. More of you, more of your ‘Product’. I’ve been keeping very close track of certain measurements, Mike. I think advancing your progress could very well increase the potency of the resulting therapy,” Dr. Armon added. “That’s what the stimulation pads are for. We couldn’t find a way to supply you with the usual physical activity that would encourage your growth, while also building a facility to properly supply you with what you need in other regards, so we are taking a more direct approach. We’re going to flex your muscles for you. Enough stress in the right pattern, and they’ll grow.” “I should also mention we’re not presently aware of any way to reverse your changes without very invasive, untested major surgery. So with that cleared up, what do you say, Mike?”
Mike couldn’t force “God, yes!” out of his mouth fast enough.
Dr. Armon, Dr. DeBrose, Ann, and the rest of the staff all grinned. “I suppose we should introduce some of our colleagues here. I believe you’ve met Ann. She’ll be taking care of you from day to day. This is Dr. Chapman...”
Epilogue
??? wks.
Ann poked her head in to the chamber. Her first matter of business every day was to check and make sure the ejaculator rig hadn’t sprung any leaks, and wasn’t showing signs of mechanical stress. It would be the seventh upgrade Mike’s needed since he began his stay. When she flipped the lights on, he was already hard at work, being hard, as work. She would not have believed a human could get this big. Mike was so far beyond that, using “big” seemed like it would insult him. His arms were thicker than would fit through a highway tunnel. His quads pressed out almost as far as his pecs did, which, she reminded herself, was now being measured in yards. Each individual abdominal muscle was thicker than her whole torso was. She couldn’t wait to get her hands all over him while she scrubbed him down later. His back could have been passed off as a geologic landmark. The dense folds, bulges and ridges, all flexing in rhythm with the computer’s “exercise” routine. Sometimes she could swear she saw his muscles growing as she worked. Her mind wandered as she casually inspected the monstrous sex-machine rig. “Hey Mike!” she shouted. “Morning, Ann!” he hollered back. There was no way for him to have known who came in other than that. They had agreed that the lights would stay on as long as someone’s in the room with him, but honestly, she loved sneaking peeks even after he was sleeping. She’d gotten two pieces of great news from Andre last night. 1. She’s at the top of the list for official trials of the therapy, and they intend to start next week. 2. With Mike’s approval, she has and idea of something new to do with just a bit those thousand-gallon tanks of cum. She knew very well that it was impractical, but she held the small case in her pocket anyway. It was so silly to her, but she had gone and gotten it ready anyway.
Even the muscles on his fingers had engorged to such a degree that no ordinary ring would ever fit.