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Commitment: Another for the Camps
|Drew sat in front of his monitor almost trembling, his fingers poised, frozen. He still could hardly believe that what he'd seen on his favorite muscle growth site could be true. A message, a posting, inviting any guys brave enough to commit themselves to be transformed into PleasureBoys, with all that entailed. The invitation was clear, the statement of intent definite: once the "accept" box was checked, the wheels would be set in motion and there would be no rescinding of the acceptance. In other words, with one mouse click, Drew would be committing himself to being taken into the PleasureBoys' world of stupefyingly huge muscles, cock, balls, and sex, a body made for the pleasure of paying guests, men, and a mind with capacity for little more than sensation and the most rudimentary vocabulary with which to express a sexuality jolted beyond the bounds of normal capacity—a dumb, oversexed, huge-dicked, hairy muscleboy pleasure machine. He would spend the rest of his life satisfying carnal desire. He would be a magnificent animal with only one thing on his very narrowly focused mind. A Pleasure Boy.
He gulped. So it was all true. They did exist. He thought of all the times he'd read the stories and jacked off, wishing he could give up his miserable life and just be turned into one of those guys. What did he care? What did he have, anyway? No family, a shitty job as a grease monkey at stupid redneck mechanic's, and the gym, which he could barely afford, after his rent and food. He'd look at the built guys at the gym and wish he could be like them. Better than them. And there was something about giving up everything for it that was strangely, scarily exciting.
If he accepted, he would be contacted. He could tell no one. It was a one-time offer, and his acceptance would take him to a new screen that would instruct him further. The offer would be good for ten minutes after reading the e-mail, and after that time, it would be invalid. He'd read it over for almost the full ten minutes. A picture of a blond PleasureBoy captioned Wilson accompanied the message, and looking at the impossibly muscled guy with the two-foot cock had given him an instant boner. Oh, God. He could do it. What was stopping him? He even found the idea of being made dumber as he got more muscular exciting like a forbidden fantasy. A big, dumbass muscle jock who only had to give himself up for endless sex. The no-turning-back part scared the shit out of him, but the raging hard-on leaking onto his smooth belly had a drive of its own. Not hitting the key would be like not cumming after the most intense foreplay he'd ever experienced. The kid on the screen looked SO FUCKING HOT! He couldn't be older than Drew's eighteen years, but LOOK at him! God, just to feel it, to see what it felt like. He'd give anything. Anything. The cursor blinked in the box. All he had to do was click the mouse. His breath wasn't getting him enough air. He was SO turned on, but SO afraid. This was HUGE! Oh, God . . . Should he do it? What if he changed his mind? But LOOK at that GUY! He took a deep breath. He gritted his teeth . . .
As soon as he clicked the mouse, jabbing it suddenly before his mind could interfere any more, he felt an instantaneous change surge through him. His fear became breathtaking, numbing, and, at the same time, almost indistinguishable from his excitement and the relief that it was done, the decision made, the course inevitable. He stared at the screen as the handsome blond PleasureBoy, Wilson, quickly dissolved, to be replaced by a strobing blue screen/white screen/black screen/blue screen/white screen/black screen. He couldn't take his eyes away. He couldn't move. Or, at least, he felt like he couldn't move. He could feel his totally erect cock lying against his abs. His hands hovered over the keyboard. Though his mind couldn't process any visual stimulation other than the flashing screen as it rapidly changed color, he knew it was hypnotizing him and that he was getting instructions, somehow. Subliminal writing flashing by his eyes too quickly to see must be registering directly on his mind. He knew that when the flashing stopped, he would type a note onto the blank screen and wait.
How long he waited, he didn't know. He was sitting at his desk, his cock still granite hard, staring at the screen, at the open word processing program, at the words he'd typed: By the time you read this, whoever finds it, I'll be gone. Don't try to find me. I have not been kidnapped. I've gone of my own free will, but I will not be returning. To all those who will miss me, I'm sorry, but I have no regrets. Good-bye. Drew.
When the knock came at his apartment door, he expected it. He felt as though he were in a dream, now. The excitement was still there just as strong, but it had a dreamlike quality to it, an almost surreal feeling. He was fully aware, fully awake, but he felt as though he were standing at the edge of a mile-high cliff with the knowledge that when, not if, he fell, or was dragged over the edge, he'd fly. His stomach was in his throat, his heart in his stomach, and the picture of that beautiful, enormous PleasureBoy floated in the air just out of reach, just out of sight, but forever in his mind. The knock pounded again, louder. He got up, opened the door, and stepped off the cliff.
It had to be the middle of the night. A man stepped into his apartment, a man unlike any he'd seen except on the muscle-morph porn sites. He wore a tee shirt that hugged a muscular body that would embarrass a professional bodybuilder, the sleeves barely capping his huge delts, the bottom just reaching his navel. It clung to the mass of his muscles, defining even his cobbled abs. A heavy trail of hair plunged out of it and down into the low-riding, short-legged Spandex shorts that caressed and displayed a bulging package that was obviously genetically modified. But all this Drew took in as what he'd expected, even though the sight gave him a physical thrill that shuddered through him. Not nearly as exaggerated in his muscularity or masculinity as the PleasureBoys Drew had seen in the pictures, this man was obviously a product of their enhancement, and Drew willingly followed the man out, locking his door behind him, and down into the night.
When they got into the man's car, no one anywhere around to see them leave, to report on the muscle freak leaving with an all-too-compliant Drew, he was put into the back seat, and as soon as the musclegod's door closed, without turning, he said, simply, "Drew, sleep," and Drew's eyes closed.
There was little difference with his eyes closed, so dreamlike was the whole thing happening to him, except he could not will himself to see where he was being taken and had no sense of time or distance. He knew he was in the car, moving, going, on his way to some kind of euphoric erotic paradise, but when they arrived, when his door was opened, when he stepped out into the daylight, knowing the man had said, "Drew, wake," he had no idea where he was or how long they'd driven.
In front of him was a vast industrial complex, modern, sleek, featureless. It sat nestled in a valley amongst hills of tawny browned grasses, dark green shrubs, scattered live oaks casting few shadows, and little else, as far as he could see. The undulating landscape could have been an inland coastal valley of California, or any number of places. He barely looked. He didn't care. Inside, he knew, lay his future.
"You're the first to respond to that ad," the man behind the desk said.
The other man had led Drew to a room off the empty reception area, a room that had the look of an antiseptic doctor's office, except, instead of department store art on the walls, or diplomas, there were enlarged photos of several PleasureBoys proudly displaying the results of their processing. Like the morphs that had drawn him irrevocably into the fantasy of hyper masculinity, muscularity, and sexuality, these photos had the ability to bypass rational thought and dive directly into his libido. He realized, sitting there still in his baggy cargo pants, that he was still hard, had been the whole time, his dick tenting the front of his pants, and the photos made him doubly aware of it, and made it even harder, if that were possible. A large spot spread from the rounded point where its head pressed up into the fabric, crying, begging for release, its bondage, the torture of the hours of unrelieved arousal, making it that much more intense, exciting. One after another, as he looked around the room, the Boys looked out at him from the walls, more blatantly erotic than the hottest porn he'd been able to find, teasing with total abandon, enjoying their impossible bodies with pure, unbridled masculine sexuality. Would his picture be up there, too?
"Not very talkative, are we?" the man said.
Drew realized he was being spoken to.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just a little . . . I don't know . . . I'm kind of out of it, I guess. That flashing screen on the computer was sort of spaced me out."
"Yes, I know. That's all right. We had to get you from there to here, somehow, and not disclose exactly where we are. Anyway, it's the easiest way. We couldn't have you changing your mind, now, could we? Especially now." The man glanced around the room at the pictures, at the fact that Drew had seen all this now.
Drew understood. He also rediscovered his fear. The man behind the desk was much like the man who had come to pick him up—beautifully muscular and handsome in a too-perfect sort of way. Altered. Incredibly so. But he still talked intelligently, acted normal. Drew could see the difference between him, his eyes, and the boys on the wall, all eager and playful and completely sexual and . . . and dim. Like pets. Like toys. Like big, extremely hot looking sexual toys. He knew he'd agreed, and now he wasn't sure about that part. Not at all. And yet . . . and yet . . . even as he thought about it, he realized, again, how unbelievable hard his dick was, how his heart raced with his excitement. Not to be able to worry about anything or think about anything but muscle and cock and huge balls and sex. Not to think about anything but pleasure--complete, unfettered, uninhibited erotic pleasure. He looked again at the man behind the desk. To be one of those boys giving pleasure to him . . .
"Well, now. You're here, and you've agreed that you are ready to become one of the PleasureBoys, and one of the best we've created up until now. That's exciting, isn't it? I know, from the survey you took on your computer . . ."
(Survey? What survey? When? Those flashing screens?)
" . . . that you want to be able to experience the process. Most of the boys . . . well, how to say it . . . they don't really know much after the process kicks in. But we can stave off the damping of the intellect, save it for last. We can, you know. In our newest models, the intellect can be saved, or even partially or temporarily restored, if a customer wishes it. We've discovered so many variants, isolated so many aspects that can be amplified or modified for some of our more sophisticated and, well, better-paying customers. But we'll see about all that later. Right now, it's time to turn you into a PleasureBoy. Are you ready?"
Drew gulped, tried to answer, but his throat was so dry he could only get out, "I . . . uh . . . uh."
"I know. It's a huge step. A major commitment, to say the least, and only a very, very few of you have had the opportunity to actually choose this. You know the blond boy on your computer? He chose this. Like you have. And I'm sure you could see how pleased he was with the results. Most of those other boys were . . . well, that doesn't matter. But I can see that you're ready," he nodded toward Drew's persistent erection, "so why don't you come with me."
Drew stood up and followed the man into another room. He felt more alert, now, though the dreamlike feeling persisted. He was following a man who would have had him running home to jack off if he'd seen him somewhere before, but now, this unbelievably built, handsome man, stubble shadow enhancing his handsome, rugged face, muscle mass that made him sway as he walked, this living paragon of perfection, was the second he'd seen today, and it was beyond Drew's comprehension that the reality seemed strangely almost normal. And compared to this guy, the PleasureBoys were . . . well, he couldn't even think about it. He was so hard his cock pushed his pants out to the point of pain. He was going to be one of them. And to be one of them, he would have to . . .
"Just strip off those clothes and sit over there."
They were in a room now like a small, sterile apartment with walls of mirrors, a table like an examination table, a chair, and not much else. Drew didn't question the command. He had no will to question it. He obeyed without question, dropping his shirt, his tee shirt, his pants, his underwear, everything, to the floor. He didn't even think about picking anything up, or putting his clothes anywhere neatly. They were nothing. This man wanted him naked, and he understood that this was how it had to be. He remembered the stories, the needles in the testicles, the pain, and yet, somehow, he simply did as he was told as though he were getting a physical. But there was a difference. Even as he obeyed, and sat back on the table, as he knew, somehow, he should, his heart was thumping so hard he thought his chest might explode. He couldn't swallow. It was going to happen. He was going to be changed, and he couldn't stop it. He didn't want to. But he felt something in his stomach, something like ice, like fear, like a fate about to engulf him, paralyzing him. It was like a dream that was almost, maybe, a nightmare, but a nightmare that he'd asked for, that he wanted. Like the first time he'd smoked pot, afraid, but wanting to know. Only now he would not come down. And he didn't want to. He didn't want to want to. He sat, waiting, his legs spread, the man approaching with a huge looking syringe, and, relaxed as he was, physically, his mind felt about to short-circuit, to go into overload. He wanted to scream, to yell, "No! Stop! Wait!" But he was already over the cliff and flying, and he knew there was no going back up now.
He watched as the musclegod took his scrotum into one hand, pulling it up and out of the way of his solidly boned cock. With the back of his hand, the man pushed Drew's boner aside and squeezed one of his testicles tightly against the thin skin and, with the other hand, poised the long, thin needle against the skin before looking up at Drew, smiling in a self-gratified way, and saying, "You know this is going to hurt. You might want to grab the sides of the table. No pain, no gain, right?"
Again, Drew wanted to tell him, "Wait! No! I've changed my mind. I don't want to be stupid just to get like them." This room was hung with enlarged photos of more PleasureBoys enthralled with their massive bodies, their engorged cocks reaching easily to their hungry mouths, their balls hanging like bags of mangoes halfway down their huge, vascular thighs. And as the thought screamed in his head, something even stronger, like an irresistible drive, argued inside his head. Being made into a total fucking dumbass muscle boy was the most erotic thing that his imagination had ever entertained, and he was just a painful jab away from that most powerful, magnetic, forbidden fantasy. He looked at the smile on the man's face. "Yes," he thought, "I do. Hurt me. Make it hurt so I know. Make me your huge, cocky, dumbass muscle boy fantasy. Do it. Fast."
Like he'd read Drew's thoughts on his face, the man pushed the needle slowly until it sank into the center of Drew's left testicle.
The pain was beyond imaginable. For a second Drew thought he might throw up. "Aahhh! Aaoowww! Oh, God! Oh, my God!" he panted, trying not to scream. Like being kicked in the balls by a horse, it stuck him in the lower gut, and, as the man slowly emptied half the big syringe into him, Drew felt the pain grow as he felt the nut fill with the serum, the formula, that felt like alcohol on an open wound. He could even see the ball swell with the fluid pumped into it. When he thought he would pass out if the man didn't stop, he did, pulling out the needle, but quickly switching, letting that one drop and squeezing the other tight up against the skin of his ballsack, poising the needle against it, ready to empty the other half of the syringe's contents. Drew stared, almost disbelieving, but again, his mind warred with itself. "No," he thought, "I can't take it again," while the same feeling he'd had before overwhelmed the panic, a feeling of savage desire: "Do it. Do it fast. Do it hard. Fuck the pain. Fuck yeah." And the needle drove into the center of his masculinity, sharp, penetrating his gut. He dropped his head back as he gripped the table, closed his eyes. The pain of it was everything. "Aaaaarrrggghhhh! Aahhh! Aahhh!" He panted, he cried, and finally, he screamed. But even as he screamed, he felt the depth of the scream coming from someplace he'd never felt before, someplace far in his being, and it felt somehow so sexual, so erotic, so powerful, that the sensation of the testicle filling with the life-changing fluid became a revelation of how pain could be exquisite. His own physical center of masculinity was being over-filled, and already the sensations were surging through him like waves of sound and light emanating from some kind of giant, invisible tuning fork, vibrating in pulsing rhythm, his groin the center from which it radiated.
"There, now," he heard the man say. "All done. Nothing to do now but enjoy the ride." He grinned a twisted but exceedingly sexy grin. "I know I always do. I mean watching, of course. You don't mind if I stay here and watch. There are others watching, behind those mirrors. But I guess you must have guessed as much. And, naturally, you are being filmed. All our transformations are filmed. How do you feel about that? It's always fun to see how a boy feels before and after. By the way, you should be saying goodbye to the Drew you know. It won't be long before he'll be only a memory."
Drew listened to the man. Did he have a name? It didn't matter. All that mattered was him, how he felt, what he was doing, what was happening, or about to happen to him. How did he feel? He felt like he'd been having intense foreplay for hours with no release, he was so horny. He'd never been so horny in his life. The pain in his balls was a throbbing now, and they felt heavy, hanging between his legs, against the table, but the throbbing felt good. It was incredibly sexual, pounding up into his prostate, radiating out through his nerves, blood, like some powerful aphrodisiac. Nothing, no drug he'd tried in his search for the ultimate sexual high, even came close to this feeling, and he realized it was just starting, growing, getting stronger and stronger. It made him laugh.
"Goodbye, Drew," he said. His voice came out deep, rough. He looked at the man who had just done this to him, standing in front of him, the enormous bulge in his tiny, skin-tight shorts growing, taking on the shape of a huge, lengthening, thickening penis atop a pair of lemon-sized balls, and Drew realized that he was making this musclegod hard.
Already he felt different. He already felt that he had moved past the Drew he knew. He liked being watched. He looked at the mirrors. God, he was so horny, and turning this guy on felt so hot. He reached down, keeping his eyes on the muscle man in front of him, and hefted his balls in his hand. They were swollen, full of a new, exploding masculinity, and their heaviness felt hot. He was sexy and he knew it. He'd never felt sexy like this before.
"You know how I feel, don't you?" he said, teasing the big man. "I feel so fucking hot. You like watching this? You like making a regular guy into one of them?" he nodded at the huge guys in the pictures around the room, and the thought pumped his intensity up even more. "You like making Drew into a PleasureBoy?" Already, when he said his name, that name, Drew, it felt like someone else. Someone he used to be. "Yeah. Fuck."
His other hand found his chest, and his pecs felt hot, tight, tense. Touching them was pure sex to him. They were already thicker. It wouldn't be long, the guy had said. Already, he could feel it. He ran his hands across his pecs, and there were contours, muscle, and his nipples were hard, sensitive. His hand moved down his stomach, and it was tight, hard, harder than he'd ever been. He could feel his stomach pulling tight, bunching up, individual muscles making his fingers wave up and down over mounds and valleys as he reached for his cock.
When he found it, his eyes locked on his maker's eyes, the hard, fleshy organ of manly pleasure was heavy and thick, and, to his surprise, his hand reached its tender, throbbing head sooner than he'd expected. It was already longer. He looked down. He couldn't help it. Could he be changing so fast, already?
"Yeah, I like it," the man said. "Nothing like watching a dude change into one of them. You surprised? It's already bigger, isn't it? Yeah, boy's already getting a huge cock. Big as any horse-hung guy's cock already. You like that, boy? You like that big cock? Hold it for a minute. Feel it grow in your hand. Feels those balls grow, muscle boy. Is that what you wanted?"
"Fuck, man. It's getting fuckin' huge. Yeah, it's what I wanted. You like that? That look hot to you? Fuck. Man. So fuckin' horny. I gotta cum, man."
"Oh, yeah. I know you do. Gonna have to cum a lot. Do it, boy. Go on. You can't hold it back."
Drew didn't even have to jack it. Just feeling the thickness of it, looking at how it was already above his belly button was such a turn-on that an orgasm gathered in his groin and pushed up his cock, swelling the head, then sending waves of pleasure down his legs to curl his toes, up his back until he arched, thrust his hips forward on the table, and let it come, let it go, shoot, spurt, jettison his man-juice in explosive spasms like he'd never felt, each one so powerful that it shot streams of thick milky cum over his shoulders, onto his face, his chest, the table, the wall behind him. He shot and shot and felt himself changing with each spasm. His butt clenched and he could feel his ass cheeks getting thicker, lifting his hips up from the table. He watched his sperm cover him, and every place it hit, he saw thicker muscle. In the throes of orgasm, the power of the spasmodic volleys were equaled by the spasms of growth that were building in him, all over him now. He felt his arms thickening, his legs crowding each other apart with their growth, his pecs and lats and traps all cramping, and releasing, each cramp a growth spurt, each release a swelling of fiber and sinew and vein and flesh.
When the orgasm subsided, the man came over to him and stood between his legs, reached forward, and rubbed the sticky cum all over his body.
"Yeah. Boy's goin' now. You like that? You wanted to feel it, to know how it felt. You like how it feels, turning into a freak? Look at you," the man said, looking at him as he rubbed the lubricating cream all over his heavily muscled body. "You're already as big as any bodybuilder. Fuckin' hot, isn't it? Stand up here, boy. Look at yourself in the mirror. Flex those guns for me. Gotta be twenties already. You fuckin' love muscle, don't you, boy? You want to feel mine, too, don't you? Yeah, I saw you lookin' at me. I know you wanted to feel my muscle since you got here. Well, now you're big enough, and still fuckin' growin'. Go ahead, boy, feel it, if you want. Look at the boy in the mirror. Look at that fuckin' muscle freak. Is this what Drew wanted? Is it?" And the man flexed for Drew, taunting him with his own massive body.
Drew couldn't believe the image he saw when he stood up. He was as big as any contest bodybuilder he'd ever seen. His arms flexed up thick and round and peaked, with long, muscle bellies bulging from elbow to the massive curve of his delts. He wasn't just huge, he was thick, and beautiful. He was pure sex. His balls hung low, heavy, big as the man's now, and his cock arched up, reaching halfway between his belly button and the cliff the was forming where his pecs rolled heavy over his ribs and abs, the thick, sensitive meat of manhood bouncing against him, jerking with the surges of sexual intensity that grew wave by wave. He felt the hard cushion of flaring lats under his arms, holding them out, not allowing him to drop them to his sides. He was going to cum again. He didn’t even have to touch his cock to cum. Just seeing what he was becoming pushed him over the edge. He'd never felt or even imagined anything so hot in his life. Even his fantasies about doing this didn't come close to what it really felt like. It was real. He remembered sitting in front of the computer, hesitating to make this decision. He remembered fantasizing about this. He remembered everything. This was perfect. He could get bigger . . . was getting bigger . . . much bigger . . . and still remember what it was like, what he'd wanted, everything. He hoped it would stay this way. Maybe he didn't have to get stupid, be such a total dumbass. That would be cool. He looked at the muscleman flexing for him, the musclegod that was so turned on by how he was changing. The more he changed and grew, the more it turned him on. Fuck. Nothing was hotter than making this dude hot like that. Flexing. He did want to see that muscle. Feel it.
"Yeah, this is what Drew wanted," he said. "This is exactly what Drew wanted." And even as he reached for his maker's tee to pull it roughly over his head, he realized again, for a fleeting second, that when he spoke of Drew, it felt like some other guy he used to know. But he didn't care right now. He just wanted to feel this guy's muscle, to turn him on, make his dick so hard he'd have to cum like Drew had. But it was Drew who came.
He felt the masculinity of the man who'd given him this, the thick, bulging, hard muscle, the silky dark hair that perfectly decorated his body, marking even more definitely his profound masculinity, and Drew came again. He had to stop feeling the guy's body and feel his own. Even as he came again, shooting and shooting, each jerking spasm clenching his whole body, every muscle, full retract and recoil, pumping from someplace so deep, so intensely sexual, so powerfully masculine that it was turning his body and being into something as erotic as sex itself, shooting, jerking, spasming so hard, that he could only stand and watch in the mirror, with the guy standing and watching him, and grow bigger and thicker. His cock was becoming so thick and long that each time it spurted a stream of hot cum, the spasm would throw the stream up the mirror until his cock slapped against the wall of muscle that his stomach had become, hitting higher and higher until it was slapping his pecs, almost sticking in the crevice between them, the cum jetting up onto his face as he stood there. He wanted nothing beyond this right now, nothing but seeing his muscle, huge, massive, totally sexual, his cock, so fucking huge and hot, his balls, big, heavy, total masculinity, pure male sex.
Now, for the first time, he saw that his pecs, even his abs, which he could barely see, now, over the swelling mounds of his pec meat, were sprinkled with thick blond hair, very short, but suddenly filling a pattern on him like the guy's next to him. Aww, fuck, just when he felt like his masculinity couldn't feel any hotter, seeing hair on his body flooded him with a still more powerful feeling of masculinity. Fuck yeah. Man hair. But blond? He wasn't blond. It confused him. He felt some kind of disconnect, although it barely registered. Why not blond? Was he blond? He must be. No, he wasn't. Was he?
Now he looked into the mirror again, looking slowly up, his stomach and chest and arms and cock. He was fucking huge. His legs had pushed apart, his arms hung laterally, his pecs were boulders hung from his chest, and he saw, now, was that he was bald, or almost bald. All his dark brown hair had fallen out during this orgasm, was lying on the floor as if around a barber's chair, even his eyebrows, and now he had short, very short, pale white-golden blond hair growing in on his head. Even his dark stubble had disappeared, to be replaced by a blond shadow.
He was confused, now. He saw the dark hair on the floor. He was sure he'd had dark hair. But he was looking at a blond. He flexed. The reflection flexed. He was so fucking huge. Oh, fuck. He was so hot looking. And so blond. Fuck. Blond was so hot. Fuck, he loved being blond. But. But. What? He couldn't piece this together. But his cock was throbbing, pushing upward into the blond stubble that plunged into the crevice between his pecs. Huge fuckin' cock. Fuck. He reached down to lift the fruit of his manhood that hung down against his massive thighs. He looked over at the man next to him. He was much bigger than him, now. He saw how hard the man was, looking at him, how he turned him on. He liked that. Yeah. That was hot. He looked back at the mirror. His body was smooth like a baby's, but not. Everywhere, he had lost his hair and it was already growing back in, short, blond stubble. His arms were covered with it. His legs. It made him hard. It made his cock so hard. He flexed to see his armpits. His biceps bulged so huge he couldn't flex past straight up. His armpits had lost their dark hair and blond hair was growing in. His arms were so fucking huge. Flexing straight up. That was, uh, that was . . . some number, some degrees. Nine? That sounded familiar. No, maybe nineteen? No, that was something else, uh, how old he almost was. Shit. What was it? Well, fuck. What was it he was trying to think of, anyway? It made him confused. Too hard to try, too much trouble. He only wanted to feel what he felt like. Even as he stood there, he could feel his legs being forced farther apart, his back and chest thickening, his stomach tightening. Sex. Pure sex. Pure man.
"You look confused. I know, I didn't tell you that the order this time was for a blond boy, did I? Well, I told you to say goodbye to Drew, now didn't I? What do you think? Would Drew like this? Is this what Drew wanted?"
Now he felt a slight, dull panic. When the guy asked about Drew, he remembered. Sort of. Drew. Some guy who . . . He couldn't quite piece it together, but he knew he wasn't piecing it together. He knew he'd forgotten, and he knew, sort of, that the guy there had asked him so he'd know. So he'd know he couldn't remember. But he did remember. Yeah, now he remembered. This change, becoming one of those . . . he looked at the pictures around the room . . . he was just like them, bigger, now than most of them . . . it made you, uh, uh, not remember. Drew. Drew. Shit. He felt like he was hanging onto that cliff . . . yeah, he remembered about jumping off a cliff . . . and now he was clinging, but only by a fingernail. He didn't want to lose it. He . . . but he was so horny, and he felt so good, so hot. He loved that feeling more. He saw how hard the beautiful muscle man was, looking at him. He was so muscled up, so thick. It felt like sex. He felt like sex. And now the blond hair was real hair, and his face was so handsome he loved the guy in the mirror. He was . . . yeah . . . he could remember: PleasureBoy.
That was when he saw the syringe in the guy's hand.
"Okay, phase one, better than expected. You'll fill this order perfectly. Go sit on the table again."
Now he was really confused, but he knew about the needle. Still, he had to do what the man said. This was his, his, uh, maker. He sat on the table. His thighs were so thick and his balls so large that they lay on top of them, and the man only had to steady them against the hard muscle.
The dark-haired musclegod held the needle. The syringe was quite large and full. He smiled at the blond monster-boy on the table.
"We've had a special order for a special PleasureBoy. Our most exclusive camp. You'll be more valuable than any, now. Costing these guys a lot for a blond-haired extra-extra large. But just think. You'll be the biggest, hottest PleasureBoy we've ever created. Too bad you won't remember where you came from. Now that we've filled the original agreement, it seems the company has decided that the choice is ours. But I don't think Drew would mind. Do you?"
As the formula surged from his testicles into his massive body, the boy felt his panic, his sudden screaming desire not to go any further, slowly slide away, ebbing like his memory, slipping beneath the tide of a raging sexuality that wanted only to feel how huge he could grow, how hot he could feel. He wondered, or almost wondered, after a few minutes, what "Drew" meant. Funny word. He could feel his mammoth body being forced to grow again, more, thicker, more huge, so huge, so hot, aww, fuck yeah, muscles so massive, cock so fuckin' huge, another orgasm coming, and the last thought and vestige of "Drew" exploded from his giant cock and splattered onto the floor.
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