O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

The Roommate

by Xyggurat

Part 1

San Cristobal University is not a typical college. To the casual observer, it's an average academic institution, clinging to the hills overlooking the 78 about half an hour away from the coast. It's not unique among universities in that there was no town of San Cristobal before the school was built. Like a growth, San Cristobal welled up between Escondido and Ramona during the 90's. The school played host to 4500 undergrads and a nebulous number of grad students, but it had a Visual Arts program comparable to those of schools ten times its size.

Looking north from the 78, you can see the bell tower of Golding Hall, the largest construct on campus. The campus is still in its adolescence, otherwise possessing buildings with utilitarian names like Science Hall and the San Cristobal Arts Building. Some students commute, but a majority live in the network of dormitories huddled in the valley north of the college. The only problem with living in the dorms is getting anywhere on campus—the parking lots, student gym, or cafeteria—requires a hike up an overabundance of stairs.

It was a good life, mostly. I was seeing a pretty girl named Lisa. If I didn't have much of a social life, it was because I spent too much time studying or working out to have too many relationships. The only irritation in my life was my roommate, Phil.

Phil was quite possibly the worst college roommate a guy could have. Despite being quite a bit shorter than me at 5'5 and 110 pounds, he carried himself as if he were pretty strong for his size. I always thought he could probably make a fight between us miserable, although he'd never win. I was taller, with a larger-than-average swimmer’s physique from years of water polo. Girls said I was pretty strapping at just over 6 feet and 185 pounds. I was dark-haired, dark-eyed, tan, and robust.

Phil was fair-haired, blue-eyed, pale, and generally sickly. I've always been an easygoing guy, so I let Phil get away with a lot. He'd never gotten past the high school stage where it was fun to meaninglessly assault others: in fact, he barely made it out of high school at all. We were stuck together by state policy, and because no one else would have accepted a guy like Phil as a roommate.

The part about Phil I hated most was that he was the best example of a guy deluded into apathy that I had ever met. His failing grades and disinterested outlook on life spread out into all aspects of our relationship. I caught him 'borrowing' food from my fridge several times, but he just laughed and turned back to his computer. I let it go, in the interests of preserving the peace. The guy was addicted to his hand, but he just rolled his eyes when I called him on that, too. His favorite line used to be "Everyone masturbates, get used to it."

I couldn't really bring myself to hate him back then. Sure, I took delight in seeing him get screwed over, occasionally: Seeing him half-heartedly complain about how I never had to study much to get A's in my classes; hearing him gripe about how much his professors hated him; knowing that he was secretly envious of my height and my size, despite his projection of uncaring.

Coincidentally, one such incident of Phil getting screwed over is the start of our tale. It was a really pretty day on the Carlsbad beach, or might have been were it not disgustingly early in the morning. One of the less pleasant parts of living on campus was that the Residential Aides occasionally came up with ineffectual bonding activities for students in their sections. Some favored movie nights. Ours liked beach cleanups.

There's something about community service that makes it feel more rewarding when done in cold, misery, and damp, I guess. The waves were crashing against the shore, driving their sparse cargo of crushed beer cans and the occasional 6-pack holder onto the wetly gleaming sands. It was a cloudy day, so the sea was grey with foreboding.

Some of the guys greeted me with enthusiasm as they walked on by, but I just smiled and nodded in response. I didn't know any of them by name, but they all seemed to know me. One of them even inquired about the hamstring injury that had sidelined me from Varsity water polo this year.

Phil wouldn't have been there if he hadn't been forced, and he made us all regret it. Three separate chunks of icy seaweed found their way down the back of my shirt, and he pantsed another of the guys. When confronted, Phil just gave us the finger and wandered on ahead. The sight of his red hair flapping in the breeze up ahead almost made me want to throw something heavier than seaweed at him—a nice rock, perhaps?—but, as always, I refrained.

We eventually caught up to him at the edge of a makeshift dam that bisected part of the beach. The source of the water behind the dam was not the ocean, but rather a massive storm drain. The futility of cleaning up this part of the beach was not lost on me. The pool formed by the dam was an utter mess. Maybe it was fortunate that most of the stuff inside was concealed by swirls of greyish grime prevalent throughout the murky fluid. I distinctly recall several pieces of rusted metal, shards of broken glass, and other, less wholesome things like latex gloves. It was a veritable soup of foulness.

That was probably why Phil decided to show us what a moron he could be. He liked repulsing people. A single bar of dark, slimy wood extended out into the waters of the small pool. And there, nearby, like a sign of providence from above, glistened a single white bag at the surface of the filthy water. Phil grabbed a thin stick of driftwood from nearby and skirted out onto the bar like a madman. We all turned to look. That was his motivation in the first. False apathy or not, he liked commanding our attention. He bent forward, perching precariously on the wet wood, and began fishing for the bag.

I looked away for an instant, and missed a defining moment in the history of physical comedy. I heard a splashing sound, saw Phil's head submerge, and subsequently erupted into laughter. A moment later, he exploded out of the water, gasping and coughing, and I stopped laughing. He did not look well. Covered in grey gunk, longish hair slicked down like a wet dog's, Phil looked more miserable than I had ever seen him. He tried once to escape from the sucking foulness with the help of the wooden bar. He failed with another splash. I almost went over to help him, but by the time I had reached the border of the pool he was already nearly out.

I expected him to make light of it and run after someone to spread the wealth of sewage encrusting his jogging jacket and trousers. He even might have, had something not taken a hold of me. It was like someone else was using my voice.

"Phil, you don't look dirty, man. You look Phil-thy," I jeered. In the wake of my juvenile cleverness, others began heaping insults onto the pile. A few like mockeries later, and my drenched roommate was stalking off without even a cursory response. Others continued chanting "Phil-thy" from behind us. Freshmen. I should have stopped the insults then. Lisa frowned at me in disgust.

Maybe Phil was frightened by the fall, or just by being insulted so badly by others in concert. It had to have been staggering to realize how much genuine dislike many students felt for him. He walked way up ahead the rest of the way back to the parking lot.

He was already in our dorm room when I arrived. He stripped his clothes off with a minimum of ceremony. After Phil had removed his fouled clothing and tossed it into his hamper (which I really do not know why he had, considering that nothing ever escaped its clutches) Phil walked soundlessly past me on his way to the showers.

I felt sorry for him. With his slender musculature, whose utter lack of fat was the only thing that prevented it from being girlish, and threads of gunk still clinging to his hair, he reminded me of a drowned rat. A very pale, scrawny drowned rat.

I watched him walk down the hall as I was closing our door. He looked cleaner than he should have been: maybe he had scraped most of the goo from his skin on his way up from the beach.

He saw me inspecting him frankly, and hatred flashed in his eyes for a second. I remember him rasping something like, “Just leave me alone.”

Inadvertently, I lowered by gaze. There was barely-concealable bulge underneath his towel, but despite his erect state he was obviously underdeveloped there, too. I didn’t joke to him about his horniness. It just didn’t feel right at the moment. He wanted me to leave him alone, so I did.

 

Part 2

It took a few weeks before I noticed anything different about Phil. Things had gotten a bit better between us after the incident, mostly due to some concessions that I made. I felt like I had ruined his reputation with my mockery, although he really didn't have a reputation to lose. That wasn’t the only thing that had changed, though. Phil seemed more energetic, more willing to get out and do things not involved with sleep and eating.

He even started working out with me in the mornings, and—as I expected—he really was pretty strong for his size.

"Six... seven... eight," I called out in time with Phil's lifts. He had decent form. The way his muscles bunched and exploded in size with each rep surprised me. They were very visible under his tee.

His face was red, and the veins in his neck were still standing out as he looked over at me. There was something hungry in his eyes that he didn't let show in his actions. I wondered if I was imagining it.

"That wasn't really 120 pounds, was it?" His blue gaze speared me.

"No," I admitted. "It was 130 this time. You're finally benching your bodyweight."

He nodded, not really looking at me. The expression on his face was unfathomable.

I went on. "You've made a lot of progress, Phil. You should be proud. Most beginners do gain a bit of weight at first, but you've made 10 pounds in under a month."

Phil still looked distracted. "You helped. And besides, I can't lift anywhere near as much as you can." He frowned.

"These things come with time," I cautioned him. "Besides, you can probably do almost as well as I can on legs. My hamstring's only just healing up."

I observed him in silence. The new weight was virtually all muscle. Phil seemed less undersized as the days passed. I asked him about his height after a routine physical, and he told me he had measured in at 5'6, an inch taller than the last time he had been measured.

"Let's go back to the room," he said. "I'm exhausted." Phil slid off of the bench press and I followed him out of the gym.

Phil was still a lot smaller than I was, but I found myself agreeing with him a lot more. He wasn’t necessarily more intimidating, I just didn’t feel like ticking him off with little things like complaining about his antics or filthiness. We ended up watching a ton of anime, even when my shows were on. I felt that I owed it to him, after being such a jerk. Most other guys might have rationalized that he had earned the treatment. I just didn’t feel that way.

We were still having a few small problems with Phil’s sexual overdrive. The number of times I walked into the room to catch him readjusting himself or looking flushed and out of breath with porn or a hastily-closed computer window was just ludicrous. Maybe, I thought, it was working out that had so enhanced his libido. Testosterone did that. Anyone who has had a sexually overactive roommate can probably understand my feelings: we all do it, but it’s somehow less cool when we catch another person doing the same. College guys do disgusting stuff.

One night, after Phil had gone to bed, I found that I couldn’t sleep. I'd toyed with the idea of calling Lisa up, but she definitely wouldn't help me get to sleep. There had also been the option of doing something productive: one of the new professors, a Dr. McTague, had decided to host a study group in the library for the upcoming Biology midterms.

Instead, I was wasting hours playing BattleSkill—a roleplaying game and occasional stress reliever for me—and eating pizza in the monitor-lit darkness of the room. I reached for another slice of pizza and, like a typical klutz, shoved my hand right into molten cheese. It burnt, and worse, it was clingy. In the midst of my pain, my character died. Cursing quietly, I reached for the dull outline of a tissue sitting on Phil’s nearby desk. It was warm and very soggy.

I nearly vomited. I got a terrible chill down my spine right then and almost flung the soaked sponge away, but fearing it would land some place where I’d have to pick it up anyway, I stumbled over my chair and dashed to the trashcan. To my horror, I could see and feel some gunk still clinging to my finger.

My stomach turned as I hurried out into the hallway and toward the bathroom. We didn't live far from the men's communal showers and bathrooms in our wing of the dorms, a fact for which I was thankful. A pair of coeds dodged out of my way. In the bathroom, I flipped on the light and hurried to a sink, but before I shoved my hand into the water I noticed that my finger was completely clean. That didn’t stop me from scrubbing my hands thoroughly with a large amount of soap. All the while, I cursed Phil internally, thinking about all of the ways I was going to make him pay for leaving a wank-rag sitting around our dorm. That was just damned disgusting.

I didn’t do anything about it, though. It was really late. My body decided to notice the hour right then. The world swayed around me. I couldn't believe how weak I felt, but maybe it was because of my dash.

The same two girls were still out in the hallway as I made my way back to my room. Shirtless and built as I was, I couldn't help but feel their eyes boring into my skin. I wasn't in the mood to indulge them, so I just nodded as they greeted me. One knew my name, so I smiled. I heard them giggling as I made my way down the hall.

When I finally got back into my room, my hands felt raw from all that scrubbing, and I was more tired than I’d let myself realize before. I glanced at the remnants of my pizza, but I wasn’t hungry any more either. Not many people would have been after a contact with their roommate's cum. I didn’t know how tired I was until I sat down on my bed, overcome with a sudden bit of late night dizziness. Within moments, I was asleep.

 

Part 3

It was dark in my dorm room, but the lines of everything were blurred as if with heat. A faint golden cast spilled over everything, its source a branch of candles positioned next to the bed on a small stand.

I looked down. Sweat was trailing down the tensed musculature of my chest. Lisa lay beneath me, deep blue eyes vacant with pleasure, breaths coming in wild gasps. I was already partially inside her, and I eased the rest of my dick in. Her nails left furrows of pain in the skin of my back. Pain could not detract from those eyes, though: they were jewels in her face, set off by the lustrous gold of her damp hair. The sheets were twined about our limbs like serpents, clenching and unclenching with the force of our lovemaking.

At first, I went slowly, allowing her to adjust to the size of my member. Most girls had difficulty taking it, but Lisa exceptional. Hormones claimed me, and I began thrusting with greater speed and force. She groaned, but not in pain. I pinched her nipples with my hands, and she moaned something I didn't quite understand.

As I soared toward climax, I realized that there was something wrong. Her eyes were the wrong shade, a bit too pale a blue. And her hair was swiftly retreating into her scalp, its unsullied gold corroding into a rusty shade. Realization came over me, and my ardor wilted as I noticed my cock pressed up against an equally hard member. In my terror, I pushed myself away from the man who was definitely not Lisa. I couldn't get away, though. His hands were steel bands around my arms, and the bedsheets were binding me to him.

I jerked awake. The first thing I saw was Phil’s face staring into mine, and only self-control saved me from a physical display of revulsion. I blinked my eyes to clear the sleep away. I’d fallen asleep sitting up, leaning against the wall, still in the T-shirt I’d worn to bed. The first coherent thought I had was that I must have stretched it out, as it didn’t feel quite as snug about my biceps and shoulders as it should have. Phil was only wearing his boxers, as if to confront me with how much muscle he had put on in the last few weeks. He wasn’t large by any means, but his complete lack of body fat made every bit of muscle spring into veined relief.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. It sounded deeper than I was used to from him.

After a yawn, I asked, “Coming down with a cold?”

“Naw, man, I feel great,” he said, flexing his arms. I blinked unintentionally at the small muscles that mounded up on his slender body, especially his golf ball biceps. Then he notified me, “You look like shit.”

I felt like it, too. I didn’t feel like I’d slept at all. My muscles were exhausted, and they moaned in protest when Phil asked if I wanted to work out. Against my better judgment, I pulled on my grey workout shirt and parachute pants. As he was changing, I glanced over at Phil, again assessing how much he had grown in just a month. He was definitely larger all over, although that not-terribly-small bulge in his boxers was probably a semi. His legs had always been pretty well-developed from his time as a high school runner, but they were putting on some cut mass now. I felt a surprising bit of heat in my face as he turned around and caught me looking at him. I hoped my face wasn’t as red as I thought. Had I been checking my roommate out?

I glanced around the room uneasily. Our dorm room had a relatively simple layout, with our beds positioned along opposite walls. Mine was positioned under a window; Phil's, a blank wall. Between our beds was a table littered with a few outdated magazines. Phil's desk featured an old computer that was apparently good for little more than looking at porn. He sure never used it to study. I never liked an excess of junk on my walls, and Phil didn't care enough to hang much up. Above my desk was my main concession to decoration: several trophies and plaques displayed in a semblance of order. They weren't all athletic, but I think they made my field of expertise pretty obvious. All of this was reflected by a hanging mirror next to the doorway.

He just chuckled and walked over to me. Anxiety passed away from the pit of my stomach at his wide smile. The friendly expression was pretty alien to his face; I was used to sneers and smirks. He stopped right in front of me and asked, “Ready?”

Inanely, I asked, “Are you getting taller?” Sure enough, the distance between his gaze and mine was not quite as great as I’d become used to.

“Don’t think so,” he said, but he stepped over to his closet and pulled out a folding, rigid measuring stick. I hadn’t seen him buy or make the thing, but it was a good seven feet tall. After getting it straight, he ordered me, “Help me set this thing up.”

I did. He stood against it, and I was surprised to see Phil was just a hair under 5’7. He insisted on measuring me. “6’0, like always,” he told me. I guess I had always been closer to 6 feet than 6’1, and besides, I’d slept in a weird position. They say your spine compresses.

We headed to the gym, leaving the measuring stick standing against our wall, held fast by the ceiling and the floor.

As my muscles had predicted, I did pretty miserably in the gym. Phil told me not to worry about it, as I was still a big guy. I couldn’t quite make 235 on my bench, so I slipped down to 220. My curls were likewise lesser, and I had to settle for 60 pounds with each arm. It was a little disheartening. I don’t think I could have done it at all if Phil hadn’t been offering encouragement.

There was one high point of the day. I had never been fat, but I was trying to get a little more cut to look like Phil. It did wonders for him, and I was pleased to be down to 177 pounds by the call of the scale. I teased Phil about getting fat: he was 136 pounds now, and benching 140. His curls were still miserable: at first, he couldn’t get himself over the 25 pound-per-arm mark. I shamed him up to a pair of 30-pounders.

I was too tired after the workout to want to shower, but Phil’s newfound energy manifested itself. We wound up in the bathroom. Phil headed immediately for the showers, but I stopped to admire myself in the bathroom mirror.

As I had done many a time before, I brought my arm up into a solid flex, admiring the way my baseball-sized biceps pushed out of my arm. With a bit of a smirk on my face and my hair spiked with the sweat of a good workout, I looked dangerous, sexy. My confidence boosted, I went to join my roommate in the showers.

Phil looked at me as I entered, but I walked past him and claimed a shower head. The warmth of the water was soothing at first. It wasn't long, though, before I felt constricted by the steam and heat. It was making me woozy. After a few minutes of leaning against the glassy-smooth wall of the shower, I was almost ready to go to sleep.

The touch of a cool hand on my shoulder startled me into abrupt alertness. Phil was standing behind me, a slight smile on his face. It wasn’t the sort of smile I wanted to see from my roommate. There was a bit of a puckish gleam in his eyes.

He asked me, “You all right, Dane?” I glanced at him over my shoulder, my face heating up again at his closeness, and nodded.

Phil leaned closer. My heart was suddenly pounding, and it felt as if it were pushing all the caffeine at Starbuck’s through my veins. His face was redder than mine, a fact made all the more obvious by his pale white skin. I felt one of his solid little pecs pressing against the middle of my back.

Quietly, I finally stuttered, “W-what are you doing?” I think maybe I was spellbound.

Phil’s voice came, deep in whisper. “I saw you checking me out this morning.”

My heart seized. To my revulsion, the heat spread to my groin, which began to echo with my heartbeat. I was boggled. I couldn’t be getting excited over this! My heart was pounding. A rush of self-disgust fueled my strength, and I rounded on Phil, pushing him firmly away. He slipped, flailed, and fell with a smack of skin and bone against tile. I did not move to help him. I stood there, staring down at my fallen roommate. My fingers fumbled ineffectually over the surface of the wall, trying to turn off the shower. Finally, the stream of water stopped. I pulled the towel down to cover my growing junk.

Phil laughed when I met his eyes. He was lying there with a full-on erection. Judging from what I’d seen of him before, he was at full mast, a little over 5 inches. He was still bigger than I’d expected from seeing him that day after the beach. There was some seepage from the head, paler in hue than the water droplets clinging to his heat-reddened body. He must have been whacking it while we were in the showers. The thought of my body being the source of Phil's arousal tore every pretense of a rational response away from me.

With all the coldness I could muster, I shouted, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His laughter dissolved, and his face hardened. “You were checking me out earlier today. I thought—"

“You’re queer?” I demanded, even as I cajoled myself internally for such a stupid question. When he didn’t respond, I shouted, “God damn it! Get the hell away from me!”

“Don’t lie to yourself—“ he began, rising. I pushed him down again, knocking him back onto the floor. My balance was off, and I followed suit. His erect penis left a trail of fresh wetness where it encountered my leg through the slit of my towel. I drew my arm back to punch him, but I didn’t.

Instead, I forced myself to cruel calm. I was holding his head against the tiles, his struggles barely denting my raging strength.

“Don’t ever think about me again, you dirty little pervert," I growled. "I don’t care if you’re gay. I’m not. I’m a hell of a lot bigger than you. I will make you pay for this.”

His cock was still rock hard against the muscles of my thigh. I shifted myself, but it only served to rub up against the shaft of his penis. I saw terror in his eyes, and an uncontrollable spasm went through his body. I felt the cock buck, once, twice, and a spray of white ooze arced out across my bared thigh. Phil was sobbing, at this point, despite the orgasm. My mind was a whirl of emotions, and the lack of sleep from the night before was getting to me. Something strange was going on, I knew it, and I didn’t care. I just wanted Phil to go back to being my apathetic, idiot roommate, and not some pervert who fancied me!

I was in shock, definitely. The world felt like it was spinning. Dizzied, I wiped myself off with my towel. There wasn’t as much cum as I had thought there would be, from the number of spurts. Afterwards, I threw the towel at him and yanked his down from its hook. As I walked away, Phil whispered something to himself. The room swayed around me as I turned to look at him.

Through his tears, he was smiling.

Dizzily, I spun back about and left to get changed.

 

Part 4

I hurried back to my room at an almost-run, resolving to take a shower at the dorms. Everything felt wrong to my senses after Phil coming on to me. I tripped over my own feet twice, and had to stop to tighten my shoelaces. I felt really weak, weaker than I had when I woke up. Twice I nearly fell running up the steps to the dorms, and by the time I made it to our room I was wholly out of breath. Still thinking in inanities to avoid the situation, I reminded myself to get a new weight room shirt—this one was even more stretched than the tee I had worn to bed last night—as I slipped it and my shoes off.

If I thought I had looked sickly before, I was wrong. The guy in the mirrors looked utterly wasted in his boxers. Although muscular, my reflection appeared not to have eaten in several days. My mirror image didn’t even fill out his boxers like I used to while swimming, although I really hadn’t been working on my legs and glutes as I should have. Maybe I needed to start doing squats again. The reflection cast me an aghast look as I flexed my biceps. They were still hard and large, just not as perfectly balled as they should have been. I was really out of shape today, I thought, and I resolved to start hitting the weights even on off days.

I slipped off my boxers and, tossing Phil’s still-damp towel over the nearby rack, jumped into the shower. It was cold, just the way I wanted it, but the water ended up hitting me too high on my back. I frowned at having to adjust it down a bit, but I assumed that I must have knocked it into a higher position during my last shower.

Despite the coldness of the water, I realized there was only one thing I could do to relieve my tension. I lathered myself up and took my penis in my hand. Shock was beginning to wear off. The cold of the shower, weariness, and disgust at Phil took their toll on my erection. I was normally hung a good nine and change, easy enough for both of my hands to grip. Today I just didn’t feel so impressive.

Even worse, as I jerked it, my mind kept going back to the feeling of Phil’s hand against my shoulder, his pec against my back, his twitching cock spraying its hot payload over my leg and thigh. I couldn’t keep an image of a single girl in my mind, not even Lisa. Then I thought of Phil smiling up at me. I came with a force and speed that was unexpected, splattering against the shower wall. After cleaning it up, I gave up on showering more. I was just too tired.

Though I lay down, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for several hours, sweating under my covers rather than facing the coolness of our room. It didn’t work. I tried to find myself something to do, shifting over to my computer and pecking out a few searches for bodybuilding advice on the Internet. I even curled some old 30s that I had under my bed, and the light weights gave me a better workout than I expected.

Curiosity led me back to the bathroom’s scale. I really must have lost more than eight pounds. As I flexed my arms in the mirror, they rounded up impressively, almost as large as they ever had been. They were also pumped, I recalled hazily. I stepped up onto the scale and stared at the numbers.

“Well, I’ll be,” I said. “173 pounds.”

I thought about going over to Lisa's, but I didn't feel like dealing with a girl right then.

 

Part 5

“Five feet, eleven inches,” said my doctor’s voice in my head as I worked on my Lit paper. My physical's results had not been encouraging, although there did not seem to be anything wrong with me. I shook my head, thinking that the squats I had been doing to strengthen my hamstrings might not have been so great for my spine. Then again, I hadn’t been sleeping much of late, or eating, and it showed. My posture had to have been affected by my change in habits. I hadn’t been to the gym in half a week. But I wasn’t kidding anyone. The biggest strain on my life was Phil. He stood at 5’7 now, if the mark on his measuring stick was true. He was also pushing 140, and was throwing himself into weightlifting. I had to admit, he was beginning to look pretty large. I caught him a few times flexing in the mirror, and even I—despite still dwarfing him—had to be impressed.

I didn’t tell him that, though. In fact, he had barely said a word to me in the two weeks since the shower incident. I was almost glad for that. I still had troubles getting the mental sensation of his body beneath mine out of my head. It was like the feelings had been seared into my memory. Sometimes, I caught him glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, but when I looked over at him, he would look away.

There was something worrisome about Phil, though. I didn’t like his occasional and unprovoked chuckles over things, or the way he continued measuring me up when he thought I wasn’t noticing. I wondered if he was thinking about trying to get into a fight with me. But days came and went, and he didn’t. My bench stayed level at 225 despite the lessening of my health, and my biceps regained a little bit of size and strength. I was at something of a plateau, that was obvious, but at least I wasn’t allowing my stress and general poor standard of living to push me back any further.

One thing that I didn’t mention to anyone was that my erections were definitely not like they had been before. They certainly felt as hard and as heart-pounding as any hormone-drenched college student’s could be, but for some reason I just couldn’t break 9 inches on my ruler any more. I passed it off as stress. I kind of felt like a kid measuring myself. Then, one day, Phil walked in. I wish it hadn’t happened.

In my fluster to clear the evidence, I succeeded in tossing the ruler aside but left my overlarge tool hanging out of my pants. Phil monotonously said, “Guess it’s not just me.” I hurriedly tucked my cock away.

I stood up and stalked over to him, glaring down from my greater height. My bulge formed an obscene tent in my trousers. Phil glanced down at his own inflating groin. It looked bigger than normal; he must have been stuffing. Phil had never been able to manage much of a bulge. At a stir of echoes in my head from our encounter in the showers, I knew what I was going to do even as part of me protested against doing it. I backhanded him, hard, sending him sprawling.

Nose bloodied, eyes unfocused and hateful, Phil used his bed to pull himself up with one vein-choked if still slender arm. He was obviously tensing his muscles underneath his tank top to look as big as he did.

Phil hissed, “You’re going to regret that.” Then, leaving me surprised at his audacity—I don’t know why I was, after all he had done—he stormed out and slammed the door.

He didn’t return until that night. I couldn’t sleep, as usual. This time, it was the scratchiness of one of my new shirts. Then I took it off, and it was the coolness of the covers against my muscled chest and torso. I was awake when, at 3:14 AM, he stepped coolly into the room. His eyes were faintly lambent despite the utter lightlessness of the room, and his voice was ice as he said, “I know you’re awake. Things are about to change around here.”

I pushed myself out of bed and tightened my own muscles like a crowing rooster. With all the ominous deepness I could muster, I began, “You little fa—“

But I was cut short.

Phil barked, “Shut up, and stay there.”

I found myself obeying his order. And I did, as he stepped over to his desk and turned on the light. There was nothing wrong with my mouth, tongue, trachea... I knew I could still talk, I just had no motivation to do so. It was like my mind wouldn’t let me.

I stared at Phil. A slight bruise marred his fine Irish features, not so boyish now with his thickening neck and darkening stubble. I thought it strange that Phil needed to shave. He never had needed to since I’d known him. Inane though the thought was, I blamed puberty at the time.

“I bet you’d like to stand,” he said, “but you can’t. Everything is going to change tonight. Want to know why? Just ask.”

Suddenly, I could speak, and desperately wanted to. “What the hell is happening?”

“That’s enough, Dane,” Phil said, wry humor in his voice. Sure enough, I stopped talking again. “I’ll tell you. You remember that little spill I took in the sewage a few weeks back?”

I nodded, dumbly.

Phil smiled, icily. “It just so happens that something in that water changed my whole outlook on life. Since then, everything’s turned around. You had to notice how good everything was.

“I’ve been getting bigger. Sort of a second puberty, feels like. And you’ve noticed.” With a yank, he pulled down his pants, revealing his plaid boxers. I guess he wasn’t stuffing after all. The bulge in his underpants wasn’t that sizable, but it was larger than it had been before, and quite authentic. “I’ve had so much more energy, and I’d never gotten gains like this before when I used to work out in high school. Before I gave up on everything.

”But the best changes of all aren’t what you’d call normal. People just seem compelled to obey whatever I say. Want to see? Watch yourself flex those big old biceps of yours. Slowly, now, so you can savor them before we start our new relationship.”

I complied, quite willingly. Even after I had brushed away the warm layer of platitudes my mind was feeding itself—it couldn’t hurt, he just wanted to see, I’d been planning to do this anyway—I saw the thickly muscled arm rise and slowly tense, its mound of muscle growing until it reached a certain point. Then, it leapt into stern relief on my arm, going from flat to baseball-mounded. My body flexed harder, sending veins popping across its surface, and pushing the muscle up to its fullest height.

Phil said, “That’s enough.” And it was. I dropped my arm and faced him again. “You're so hot. I must admit, that was an impressive sight.” His cock agreed, bouncing in his boxers. He glanced down patiently at it. “At least, it is for now. Once I’m done with you... well. Let’s just say that I found the weirdest thing. A few weeks ago, I noticed you picking up one of the tissues I had cum into. I was just waiting for you to get to sleep so I could get back to business. You picked it up, threw it in the trash, left to go wash your hands, and when you came back… you were just a bit smaller. I barely noticed, and I’ve been watching you for awhile.

“So then we had our little situation in the showers. You thought you were pretty cool, big jock beating up on the little fag lusting after you, right? But I managed to get some more semen on you, and, well, I’m just aching to see what a full dose will do, aren’t you? Soon, I won’t even need to use my voice to control you. I want you to know what it’s like to be the little guy. Now, don’t say a word.” Panic flared in my mind, although I didn’t fully believe at this point what was happening.

He tugged his shirt over his head and flexed his thickening shoulders, sending their striations into awesome relief under the lamplight. He really was getting bigger by the day. He had to have been over 5’7 by now. As he pulled down his boxers, his inch-thick cock swung up to meet the treasure trail on his rippling abs. It was already wet with the stuff of my downfall.

Even he looked surprised at his size. He bent down and picked up the cast-off ruler, holding it against his tool. After a few moments of adjustments and a break to run his hand over the livid shaft a few times, Phil stepped closer so he could show me. His swollen head met the 6 inch mark. My boner leapt up and hit me in the abs.

“Lie down, and flex what you can without moving too much,” he ordered, dropping the ruler. I lay down, flat on my bed, and he just stood there as I tensed and relaxed my considerable muscles. His hands began to work the shaft of his cock, slowly at first, and then with growing fierceness. All the while, he stared at me like I was sex on display for his eyes only.

One of his hands traveled up his treasure trail, feeling each individual abdominal muscle on its way up to his chest. Phil moaned with pleasure, bucking his hips into his hand as he massaged the head and shaft. At last, he opened his mouth to say something, but it was lost in a wave of orgasmic, moaning laughter. I saw his cock swell, and would have shut my eyes but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.

Anticipation hung in the air for a sick, burning moment. I felt like my entire body was awakening from poor circulation, tiny ants crawling under my skin. The sheets were slick with sweat. Phil was standing above me, backlit by his desk lamp, larger than I had ever seen him. He stretched his arms out and raised them into the air, a triumphant flex filling them out to their fullest size.

His seed exploded forth in a wet hot rush, more than I ever thought could have come from his smaller-than-average balls. It sprayed across my chest and face aimlessly, but not a drop missed my skin. He was groaning in pleasure, laughing when he had the breath. The sheets were shifting under me, a soft susurrus against my skin. I knew I was shrinking, but my humiliation at having been used by my roommate was almost as strong as my horror. Even worse, my own tool was spurting wildly in my boxers. I couldn’t be enjoying this! Luckily, I was saved from further thoughts by the dark rush of unconsciousness.

 

Part 6

“I kind of like you this way,” Phil said, looking up at me slightly as I leaned against the measuring stick. “Five nine and a half. Too bad about your cock, though. Eight inches just isn’t as impressive as nine, is it? Well, it’s more than enough. And who would have thought you’d lose so much muscle? One-sixty-five."

He was enjoying taunting me, and because of the force of his command I could do nothing about it.

”I suppose I have to be a bit nicer to you, though. I'd just figured that my cum would make you shrink. I had no idea that your semen would have an opposite effect on me.”

We had measured Phil this morning at his command. With me unconscious, he had seen me cumming in my boxers and decided not to lose a good opportunity. I don't know why, but the stuff had made him grow.

Phil was a bit over 5’7.5 now, and tipping the scales at 145. I now had more right to be physically worried about my formerly diminutive roommate. After I was done with the measuring stick, he picked up the ruler from the floor and set it up to his penis.

He had always been a grower, he told me. That was obvious, as his penis was only three inches soft. I watched, unable to look away, as the inch lines passed under his growing cock. 4, 5, 6, and finally, it came to a rest at 6.4. He stroked it a few times in my direction.

”Look at you. You want more of this. You’re practically drooling,” Phil cackled, as he noticed me watching it. After jacking his tool a few times, he pushed it back into his boxers and glanced down at mine. At eight inches, my cock could still make quite an impression in my trousers. Especially as hard as it was now. “But I like you at this size for now.” he told me. “I’m just not sure about my size.”

He pushed his arms down to his swollen groin and forced his chest into impressive flexion. That I knew the source of his growth did not make it any less astounding to my eyes. His dick was not the only thing stuffing his boxers now—those developed legs were almost as large as mine even at his lesser height. His other muscles were still dwarfed by my diminished ones. I took some solace in that as he forced me to flex my biceps again. They were well over 15 inches still, whereas his were clearly not quite 14 when he brought his up in comparison to mine.

“I must admit I’m a bit disappointed in myself,” started Phil. “I’ll tell you what, though. You’re about to drop your boxers and let me suck you. It’ll be the best orgasm you’ve ever had.”

I couldn’t decline. After he had put the ruler on his desk, Phil got on his knees. The anticipation in his new-grown muscles was pronounced by the too-tight T-shirt he was wearing. I could see the coils of the veins in his arms through the fabric of the sleeves as he placed his hands behind me and went down on my tool. He gagged a bit, and his jaw popped. I wondered if he had done this before, because he wasn't very good at fellatio. I almost laughed when I realized I was comparing him to one of my girlfriends, but then the seriousness of this situation blossomed into my mind. His own cock popped straight out of his boxers, bouncing with excitement.

Phil was getting better at head fast, I noticed through my ecstasy. I started bucking hard against his face. My roommate didn’t seem to mind, even given how ungentle I was. In spite of the clumsy ministrations of his tongue, it was probably the fastest I ever came. Unexpected, my penis lurched in his mouth in preparation.

I spewed. He gagged on the sheer amount of ejaculate the erupted from my engorged eight incher, but he managed to stomach every drop. Pleasure rocketed so fiercely through me that I barely noticed him push me back onto my bed.

Lying there in horror, I saw him start to expand. It was a slow process, compounded by the horror I felt at seeing something so outside of my realm of experience. Phil flexed, and a baseball of muscle exploded out of his arm, he flexed it several times, and each time it mounded up noticeably larger than before. He definitely passed the 14 inch mark and was a good way toward meeting 15. His biceps continued to solidify and stretch. Phil’s pecs had already been straining the fabric of the small shirt, and quickly a slight tear began to form down one massing shoulder.

His cock was growing longer and thicker, amassing much more girth than it did length. Too much girth, actually. I recognized it swelling in preparation for orgasm too late. I should have moved, but I had no warning. His rod spurted thick, white fluid at me. Even as I rolled away, some of it caught me in the face. I frantically wiped it from my skin, knowing full well its effects, but was halted in the act as he gleefully moaned, “Stop and stand up, now.” I couldn’t fight his command.

I rose, and stood straight in front of him because I knew he wanted me to. The level of his eyes was increasing, as if he were pushing himself slowly off of the ground, but I knew he wasn’t. Correspondingly, mine began to drop. I felt mass and strength escaping me as I shrank. His muscles were still flexing of their own accord, swelling with new layers and striations. Mine collapsed into themselves as if they were being compressed. There was no pain, just weakness.

Time and vision swam. Phil rapidly pressed the ruler to his cock again, and watched the head climb to seven full inches. It was almost as big as my still-hard but smaller tool, now. The worst thing was his bright, blue eyes. They were the last thing I saw, an inch below mine and still rising slowly, as I succumbed to the blackness hazing my vision.

 

Part 7

I fell to the floor, awakening with a thud of flesh against hard carpet and its echo, pain answering from within my right side. What my circadian rhythms had failed to do, the fall from my bed had managed quite nicely: I was well and truly awake. Despite the gunk in my eyes I could see two pale feet in front of me. Big feet. From the heat in the room, it was probably about midday.

”Get up, you loser,” Phil’s voice came from several feet above me. I didn’t have much time to notice that it was deeper and more resonant than it had been last night, as my body was already forcing itself to its feet.

My shirtless roommate looked golden. His muscles were swollen and tangled in vivid blue veins, only slightly darker in hue than his eyes. He looked bigger than he had even before I passed out the previous night. I hoped most of that was from his pump—two of my 40 pound dumbbells had been left haphazardly on the floor behind him—but a good bit of it was obviously from the muscle he had siphoned from my juice. I felt a momentary sickness in my stomach as I glanced down at his tool, which was barely concealed by a pair of my plaid boxers. He had outgrown his own clothes, then. The shaft and head twitched visibly through the fabric, once, a further threat to the height and muscle remaining to me.

After that, I was ready to face the music. I looked up, expecting to see him towering over me by a foot or more, but in reality he was still just a bit shorter than I was. This fact was confirmed as he took our measurements: 5’9 for me, 5’8 for Phil. Maybe it had been the swimming of my vision from the night before that had made me perceive him growing more than he had.

I hoped, deep down, that he was having trouble retaining the muscles and height. After all, this was all mystical to me. My mind tore through false hopes. He was still an inch shorter than me, a fact that I clung to with quiet desperation. Still, I knew full well how precarious my state was: any minute, Phil could demand more from my cock, or command me to drink from his. At any rate, my physical advantage over him was negligible.

Our bodies were not similar, but his would approach mine in weeks even if he did not use his powers somehow. Phil managed still to convey an image of lithe wiriness, although he was getting muscled like a track jock who had spent too many hours in the weight room. I was thicker, a little less ripped up, with veins a little more swollen and prominent despite a fine layer of body fat. The tightness of my six-pack was bisected by a trail of coarse dark hair that led to my still-considerable package. I was glad I still had my abs: they had been one of my favorite muscle groups for as long as I could remember. Phil’s were unusually perfect, a cobbling of eight squared bricks marching into his—my—low-slung boxers.

He pulled those down, and ordered me to do the same. Phil was already rampantly erect. I was beginning to think that whatever had been done to him by that sewage made him permanently so, but he had always been horny. His chiseled hip flexors heralded the length of his proud, throbbing cock. It looked to be seven inches and very thick. Worse, it looked ready to cum. I quickly complied with his orders, drawing my boxers down. My cock was already hard from looking at Phil’s. Not that I felt guilty: I was pretty sure by this point that my reactions to his body were part of the changes his cum had wrought within me. It helped me not start sobbing right there.

In the mirror, I assessed last night’s damages to my manhood. Phil might have been understating when he had measured it at eight inches the morning before, but it was definitely a little under now. I took a moment of rueful pride at the fact that, even after shrinking, I was still hung. Then I realized what I was doing. I was adapting to this, a situation I ought to have been fighting with all my strength. An instant of total self-loathing washed through me, mitigated only by the knowledge that any noncompliance toward Phil would lead to a hastened loss of all that I was.

“Flex your chest,” he told me. On cue, I tightened my arms before me, causing my pecs to ripple and striate. I definitely wasn’t as large as I once was. “Stay flexed, and look at me,“ said my roommate.

He turned me away from the mirror so I could look at him. I had always thought he was pale, but his skin was lightly gilded this morning, a pale amber in hue. Up close, I could see tiny spikes of coppery hair pushing out of the skin on his chin and jaw. That was definitely new. The beard was darker in hue than the hair on his head, which was so light an orange as to be almost unsullied strawberry blond. I tried to stop looking at him, but his command was everything in my ears and mind. Worse, despite the terror I expected and wanted to feel, my heart rate was fast with the pulsing of desire. My cock was perilously close to letting go another load. It felt like I had been masturbating for hours without a climax.

Only the fear of Phil being even more muscled, even taller, gave me the strength to hold back. It took all my will as he extended his long-boned hands and began to carelessly peruse my tensed musculature, pinching and feeling it like a dealer might inspect a horse.

He pressed his hands into the crevasse that delineated my pectorals, and I felt his pendulous cock jerk up and smack my thigh with a fleshy thump. He quickly stepped back a bit, leaving a minuscule amount of pre-cum that nonetheless caused the world to shift about me for a moment. Phil did not look any bit taller, relatively, but I knew even that brief contact had taken something away from me.

Phil made me flex my biceps with a soft, irresistible command, and the muscles mounded up. Just like he had the night before, he moved close again—this time, he was careful not to touch me with his drooling prong—and made muscle explode out of the taut length of his arms. I did not need mirrors or measuring tapes to see that Phil’s biceps were almost as large and full-bellied as mine, maybe 14.5 inches to my 15. A shudder went through me as my balls unexpectedly churned. Somehow, I held back from the point of orgasm, even as he tightened his vise-like grip around my right arm and made my small softball of muscle resist him. I nearly didn’t manage to continue my resistance to orgasm when he made me do the same to him. He could not crush my muscle; it took all the strength in my grip to crush his.

He withdrew his arm and whispered a promise to me, “Just wait awhile, and you’ll wish you could even get your hand around my arm.”

Once he was done with my chest, my roommate ran his fingers down the valleys between my abs. They were sheened with a mist of sweat from his intimacy and my close brush with disaster. His forefinger was unusually warm as it ran along each of the three horizontal lines, then crossed its path vertically. I shuddered at how close to orgasm that touch was bringing me, and gasped in ecstasy as his hand continued its path to my cock.

And then he stopped, and chuckled.

“No, I don’t want to have a repeat of last night just yet,” Phil murmured. “After all, if you get too small, this won’t be any challenge. I think I’m going to try a bit of an experiment, instead.”

With that, he stuffed his venomous snake of flesh away into his stolen boxers and led me over to my bed. I was painfully erect, begging for release. He could see this.

”Just give me a little while, and I’ll make sure you get exactly what you need. You don’t want to disappoint me, do you? And if this works, it’ll change everything. Don’t make too much noise, and don’t cum, under any circumstances.” Phil sat me down on my bed, and I doubt I could have resisted him for long without either creaming or getting hurt. From his grip, I could tell he was still not quite as strong as I was. In my state, that didn’t give me much hope.

Phil turned away, giving me a glimpse of his muscularly rounded buttocks through the clinging silk of his boxers. I might have erupted right there had it not been for his command. He grabbed my cell phone off of the desk. I was terrified for a moment that he was going to call one of my friends over to see me in my diminished state, or even begin torturing them like he was abusing me. He started dialing a number.

He held the phone up to his ear, flexing his biceps for me as he did. My cock throbbed painfully, even while I told myself it was just him making me be interested in him. I wasn’t gay. There had been a few times when I thought about experimenting, but I had never enjoyed it enough to drop women. This was wrong, so wrong and disgusting and...

...holy shit, his back was tapered and buffed. I lurched again, balls producing more and more semen at the demands of my body. They had never felt this overfull, but I could not ejaculate.

“Jason?” Phil’s voice cut through me. His slacker friend Jason. He was going to bring Jason over here and ruin my reputation forever. My mind raced with possibilities: would he take pictures of Dane the jock, all bound up and boned? Make me suck Jason? Phil’s words to one of his few acquaintances cut an eerie duet through my mind. “I know you’re not driving. You’re in your room. It’s a minute away from ours. Don’t lie to me, Jason. Good. Be over here as fast as you can.”

As preoccupied as I was with the burning pleasure and pain flourishing throughout my groin, that minute seemed to pass by in hurried seconds. My hand kept racing to my cock, furiously jerking it for a few strokes, but I couldn’t get it to do anything. Then Jason burst through the door without a knock or an announcement. He was wearing, despite the heat of the day, a black sweatshirt and massively oversized jeans which were hung low so as not to conceal his blue polka-dotted white boxers. As he turned away from shutting the door and faced us, he let out a loud laugh.

”Holy shit, man! What the fuck are you doing, Dane?” He barely managed it through his laughter.

Phil’s smile was sickly sweet. “He won’t answer you,” he said, cutting me off from a grunted explanation. My hand worked mechanically over my cock. I felt like my balls were going to burst, but still they kept producing. “And that’s not all,” he announced. “Dane, stand up, and go and stand in front of Jason.”

I got ice in the pit of my stomach as I realized what my roommate wanted to showcase. I had always towered a bit over Jason, who stood at a bit over 5’10. I stood in front of him and tilted my head back. Jason's crystal green eyes looked malevolently down into mine. I looked up at him, watching as he took off his back-turned navy baseball cap and brushed his silken black hair back. It was unruly despite an evident attempt to spike it earlier in the day. He kept his distance from my major boner, but he kept looking at it with surprise.

Then he shifted his gaze to Phil. His eyes widened as he took in Phil’s developments. I noticed again as his eyes sparked over one development in particular: the seven inches of meat that Phil’s boxers could hardly constrain in its turgid state. His attention was drawn back to me by the frantic movements of my left hand over my dry pole.

“What the hell is going on here?” asked Jason, dumbstruck.

Phil calmly said, “I really don’t have much time to explain, Jay. Dane’s all ready to go, and I’m worried about him hurting himself if you don’t do something about it.”

Jason recoiled from Phil suddenly. “What do you mean?”

My roommate’s smile turned a bit sinister, and I wondered between the jolts of sensual electricity roaring from my cock to my head what he had planned. He did not keep me in suspense long.

As if through a haze, I heard him tell Jason, “I take care of my friends, Jay. Remember all those times you told me about how much you’d like to suck Dane off, while you made me gag on you?” I guess he had given blow jobs before. The thought of how boring they must have been for Jay didn’t raise any humor for me in my current state. “You used to fantasize about him giving himself to you, but you hated what a huge jock he was. Well, look at him now. Take of your shirt and pants, Jay.”

Staring directly at me with those piercing green eyes, Jay drew his black sweatshirt over his head to reveal a ribbed white wifebeater clinging to his slim physique. He was muscled like a skinny skateboarder, but what muscles he did have were emphasized by the skin-tightness of his shirt. He kicked off his sandals, dropped his jeans, and revealed his crisp boxers. They were straining with a package that had to be as large as Phil’s, if not quite as thick or appetizing to my altered sensibilities.

“Now you drop your boxers, Dane. We don’t want them to get in the way.” Phil ordered. My junk was in sickly agony, blue balls worse than I had ever gotten. This was only made better by the shocking flow of pleasure through me, intensifying with every heartbeat even though I still had not cum. As I dropped my boxers, my cock snagged on them. When I finally forced them down to my feet, my cock leapt up onto my abs—lower than I was used to—with a hearty smack.

Jason didn’t need to be ordered. He fell to his knees before me and took me entirely into his mouth, parting his jaws with the expert grace of a long-planned maneuver. Disappointment flashed in his eyes as he took me with ease; perhaps he had expected me to be bigger than this. I had been, once. My balls roiled with their internal torture.

It was the best head that I had ever had, a fact that nearly escaped me through the haze of pain and pleasure roaring down my veins. I felt sick and energized at the same time as Jason guided himself over my shaft and tickled my balls with one finger. It did not take long for me to start bucking violently into his mouth, but still I did not ejaculate. He looked up reproachfully, his green eyes reminding me of my first girlfriend when I had gotten a little too enthusiastic.

The reproach meant nothing, because at that moment Phil decided to make his next order. “It’s time for you to have the biggest orgasm of your life, Dane. Cum.”

I did. My balls forced their seed out into Jason’s mouth with a geyser’s force. It was unnatural, the amount of cum that they expelled in that first hurried rush, but I had not a care in the world. I didn’t think Jason could take it. I expected to see spunk pouring out of his nose and ears as my second gush came, and almost pulled out. To my surprise, his hands were clamped around the spasming muscles of my buttocks. He forced me in even deeper, and I rocketed a third blast down his throat.

He was doing everything he could to suppress gagging. The ecstasy was so great for me that I was crying, and Phil, watching over the scene, was laughing like a madman. After the fourth eruption, I heard myself shout, “Is this what you’ve wanted? Take it like a bitch!” I started face-fucking him harder and harder, not letting my diminished size getting in the way of the testosterone tearing through me like a tidal wave. At the fifth explosion of semen, Jason’s grip began to falter. The sixth hit him so hard that he finally fell away from my cock, dazed and shivering, but I wasn’t yet done. I raised my hand to my dick and forced out three more shots onto his face and chest. Not a drop missed him.

I turned my head toward the ceiling and heaved a mighty sigh. It felt good to have triumphed.

For about thirty seconds.

Then, Jason sat up. He looked down at himself, apparently questing for the semen I had just expended over him. I panted, gazing down in shock at him as well. His belly should have been distended, his face and chest absolutely drenched in my fluids. None of this was true. It was almost all gone, except for a little wisp of whiteness at the edge of his mouth that vanished as I watched.

Phil clapped his hands and stared on with anticipation, and suddenly I knew what I had done. Jason was standing up, flexing a scrawny arm. He stared at it with utter amazement. A little ball of muscle had popped out of the surface, concealed though it was by a thin layering of fat. Even as we three stared, the muscle crested higher, and that fat receded, giving way to skeletal leanness. That did not last long. He pumped his arm, and with each successive flexion the muscle exploded higher and higher. We were distracted in unison as a tearing sound came from the chest of his wife-beater.

His chest was getting larger, thicker enough already to have created a slight gash right down its center. He already had pectorals upraised from his flat stomach like pancakes where before they were barely present. Moment by moment, they pulsed larger, creating a deepening valley between the two. I could see the bricks of his six-pack being laid under the shirt, but these were concealed as he brought his thickening arms in for a flex. The shirt cried out another rip of protest, and the furrow between his pecs was revealed as their burgeoning size pulled the shirt apart. His arms did the rest, and Jason stood bare-chested and growing before me.

As he straightened, I realized that he was definitely over 5’10 now. With every second, the distance in our heights increased, until he was standing noticeably higher than 5’11. Even then, his growth did not stop, only slowed.

His legs, too, were growing, cut calves pushing out where slim smoothness had been, the thighs putting layer upon layer of thick, craggy muscle to fill out the legs of his boxers. One of them creaked in complaint, but did not quite split.

Jason decided it was time to show off his biceps again, and I watched in awe at how much they had grown in between investigations. They were clearly larger than Phil’s, and, like Jason’s chest, showed no signs of stopping until they had swollen far past mine. Jason’s growth slowed to a crawl, but as it did he flexed one arm in front of my face. There was no question as to who was more muscled, now. The lightning motion of his arm giving birth to a seventeen plus inch monster of muscle, absolutely choked in jagged veins, drew my cock back to hardness.

The motion drew his attention down to his own monster, which was chomping at the bit to be released from his strained boxers. He readily obliged it, extending a hand to Phil. My roommate had obviously anticipated this: the damnable ruler was ready at hand.

Quivering with anticipation, the nearly six foot tall stud placed the flat steel bar beneath his cock and smiled. The massive head, almost as large as mine had been at its height, concealed the eight inch mark of the ruler completely. I wanted to hate him, but instead my cock just let out another massive torrent of jism across his midsection. That one shot was more than all Phil had taken from me the night before, but it absorbed into Jason’s skin with disturbing speed.

He stood straight, and I saw him swell another inch or two in height. My eyes were at Jason’s lips, now. His chest swelled a bit more, puffing out until it looked like it had, flexed, even though he was completely relaxed. His pecs were squared and massive to my eyes, forming a perfect inch-deep shelf over his brick-like abs. But I could barely pay attention to those, as his cock crawled even higher up the ruler, finally surpassing the nine inch mark and thickening to a point that would have put mine to shame.

I gasped, realizing how much weaker I really had become only as Jason forced me to my knees. Standing straight as he was before me, the man was twice my kneeling height. His cock looked massive, and it was jerking in the air with anticipation.

“I guess it worked,” said Phil. “Looks like you’re going to be in demand, Dane,” he mocked me.

I tried to get up, but Jason’s arm was like a steel girder holding me down. I scrabbled at it with my hands, but his muscles were taut. Even the veins felt hard as granite to my touch. Jason let out a gasp of pleasure.

And then, as Jason’s cock twitched violently and exploded, my world dissolved in the seed of the god I had inadvertently created.

 

Part 8

After Jason was done, Phil let me clean myself off. I felt drenched and miserable from the torrent of his post-growth leavings. His cum did not absorb into my skin as mine had into his. To my relief, the stuff had also not had any adverse effects on me, other than making me feel utterly humiliated by the experience. Jason was larger than I had been at my peak, built like a fitness model and hung like a horse. I watched him with blazing envy as he replaced his clothes with my own, each bounce of tendon, muscle, and bone another nail in the coffin of my hopes. I felt violated, as if more of me had been stripped away, but I was thankfully unchanged in my physique and height.

I knew I was still not short: 5'9 was well within the realms of average. I was aware that I was not 6'1 any more, not even 5'11 any more. It was still a strange and disquieting experience to see a man standing five inches taller than me. To the ghost of my old sense of self, Jason was a 6'6 muscle freak. I kept worrying, as he zipped up my jeans and threw on one of my sweaters, that he was going to hurt me, or take more from me and make my perceptions of him as a giant into an absolute reality.

He didn't, apparently thinking that he had gained enough muscle in one day. My clothes fit him like a glove. The sweater was unable to conceal his upper body's muscular development. The cashmere's thickness only blunted, but did not shroud, the mass and rounding of his biceps. His pecs were distinctly separated and visible, and his abs were almost deep enough to show their stark outlines pressing against the too-tight fabric.

If the sweater was revealing, the jeans looked like a second skin. They were sized to be worn long, which meant that they were a perfect length for his extended legs. The growth really manifested itself in his thighs, which strained the denim precariously. Strain was more prevalent in his crotch. Even completely soft, Jason's bulge was very pronounced. I estimated him to be about six inches soft, with balls close in size to small oranges. That was a lot of meat in the little space provided by his too-tight boxers and denim trousers. Hard, he was about nine and a half inches. The stalk of his dick pushed down away from his groin, almost as thick as my shrunken wrist and barely fettered by the cloth in which it was encased.

"How do I look?" asked Jason, smirking at Phil.

"Like a total jock," my roommate replied, leaning back in his computer chair, still unclothed except for my silk boxers. "I guess people are going to notice. Tell them that you hit a late growth spurt, you've been working out, act incredulous or something. If they still don't believe you, tell me about it and I'll take care of them."

Jason nodded his acquiescence, as if he really had a choice in the matter. "What should we do now?" he asked of Phil.

Phil shrugged his shoulders, making a series of striations leap out over his deltoids. "It was a good show, but I'm a bit bored." He waved his hand dismissively. "You're going to go away and do something. Get laid, maybe. Have some confidence in yourself and no one will resist the new you. I want some alone time with my roommate."

Jason complied, not even bothering to say goodbye. I was struck by the massiveness of his form silhouetted against the doorway. I knew it was mostly my perception, but his back looked so much like mine used to that I almost thought I was seeing my old self. The jealousy in me flared higher, but it was struck down by Phil's next spoken order: "Relax."

I heard the door shut, but it came as if at a distance. I was calm, cool, and focused only on Phil. He looked at me, pale eyes sparkling. Unless I missed my guess, he was plotting what next to do with me. We sat there, both bared to the waist, staring at each other for a long moment. Then, his lips curled into a smug, mocking sneer.

"You know, I used to think you were the hottest thing I'd ever seen," he told me. "But look at you now. Where's your will, your strength? Was it all just in your arms? You can't fight me even now, while you're stronger than me. What's going to happen a few weeks from now, when I’m as big as you?"

I didn't answer. I didn't have an answer to that. His questions sparked a hundred of my own, the most pressing being: "What am I becoming?" With this new discovery of Phil's, he could turn me into a battery for any number of his acquaintances. He didn't have many friends, that was true, but how many people would be willing to appease him in order to gain physical perfection? I would have to sit through that humiliation, time after time, and all the while Phil would keep getting bigger and taller, surpassing me in every way. There was nothing I could do. Helplessness and frustration welled up in my soul, but were banished by Phil's voice.

"I want to see you fight me," said Phil. He pointed to the table in the center of our dorm room, walked over and pulled out a chair. "We're going to armwrestle, and I'm going to see if I can beat the big, muscled jock."

Unthinkingly, I sat down in the opposite chair, and Phil took his own place. With Phil's command controlling my actions, I was almost able to detach myself from the entire situation. We placed our elbows on the hard plane of the table and locked grips. I probably shouldn't have been surprised by the steely strength of Phil's grip. His biceps exploded out of his arm, and mine followed suit a moment later. It began.

Tendons threatened to burst forth from the twinned columns of muscle. His skin was pale golden; mine, darkly tanned. The snaking veins that exploded from our struggling arms were like arcs of electricity, charging our struggle with their muted blue-grey pulses. My biceps and Phil's, mirroring each other, bulged from our arms alarmingly, sending their central veins popping out of the skin's surface. Our forearms were locked into unyielding combat, muscle leaping and flexing as strength fought against strength.

Pain was burning down the length of my entire arm, and the contest showed no signs of stopping. Phil's face was a mask of crimson pain, a vein in his forehead throbbing with the fury of a pounding drum. He let out a sudden gasp, a groan, and I felt our arms shift. Only at that moment did I look away from the roiling madness in his eyes.

I was winning. I felt him pushing against my arm with all of his strength, but the point where we were on equal footing had passed. He had burnt out his inferior endurance, and now his prodigious strength mattered little. It was inexorable. Slowly at first, but with growing speed, I forced his arm down to the table. I was mindful of the fact that this would have been no contest a few weeks ago, but it was a victory nonetheless. The sound as his flesh hit the tabletop was a silver trumpet's fanfare to me.

Then I saw the look in his eyes as he stood up, stroking himself to hardness with his other hand. Smoldering hatred, commingled with malevolent glee, and quiet motes of pleasure. His breathing was already fast-paced and short from our contest, but now he was gasping for breath to feed his lungs through the clenching and shuddering of his autoerotic ecstasy. My heart seized up, and I began to back away, knowing what was to come. I tripped and fell over one of my 30 pound weights, landing hard on my backside. I couldn't take my eyes off my roommate.

He stood there, shadowed and ominous by the waning daylight filtering in through our shuttered windows. Suddenly, Phil stopped stroking. I tensed in expectation.

A wild laugh bubbled up on my roommate's lips, and he thrust his cock back into his boxers. Shaking his head, he reaffirmed his earlier decision: "I like you at this size for now. Besides, it's just a matter of time before I make you regret what you just did." He shrugged, and a broad and benevolent smile blossomed on his face.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," he said, the glacial tone cutting at my self-confidence. I just sat there, terror slow to diminish in my chest.

With that, he turned and marched off into the bathroom, leaving me to await the inevitable.

 

Part 9

The next several weeks passed with disturbing swiftness. I never realized how good I had it when I was taller and more muscular. Classes resumed, and I was forced again to meet with the reality of my situation. At 6'1 and 185, I had been able to easily push through the crowds, and had a decent height advantage over others. Suddenly, I was getting jostled everywhere by my former peers in height and strength. I was an average-sized guy, even though my build was pretty awesome. Suddenly, most of the guys around were near my height or above it. I was shocked the first few times I saw girls as tall as me, or taller.

I took precautions to avoid meeting with my friends; even had Phil not commanded that I keep my silence about what had been done to me, they wouldn't have believed any excuses I offered. An inch or two in height was easily disguised, but three or four was an obvious gulf. The occasional casual acquaintance asked me if I was feeling all right despite my attempts at avoiding contact. One of the guys from the J.V. water polo team—I couldn't remember his name, but I thought it was James or Johnny—kept glancing at me suspiciously as we passed on the way to classes. Some of my classmates inspected me in passing, probably wondering if I had been wearing lifts all this time. I hoped they could not see how my musculature had wasted away under the thick autumn sweatshirts and cargo pants I wore.

At first, I found it strange that no one pursued that line of thought. Then I realized that even when I had been my normal size, I had not been a terribly social person on campus. I wondered how many people would really miss me if this madness with Phil continued. Lisa certainly hadn't. She had apparently taken my recent communications silence as a lack of interest. I'd noticed her on campus with several different guys from the varsity sports teams. She'd pointedly not noticed me. The bitch.

Phil did his part to ensure that my defeat was not too swift. He seemed to enjoy dragging out my misery by making me go to the gym every morning. He didn't even bother working out much, other than to demonstrate as the days passed his growing strength. I was barely able to hold my bench press at 180, but Phil's climbed from 150 to 160 in just three days and showed no signs of stopping. He was only 10 pounds below me on curls, and I saw him flirting with my 60 pounders in his mind's eye. His muscles were visibly larger as each day in the gym passed. The scale's numbers confirmed his growth, his weight rising to 155. My weight climbed a bit more slowly despite my frequent exercise and better diet, and I was able to regain my weight of 165. I was still 20 pounds lighter than I had been at 6'1.

One morning, exactly three weeks after the day I had made Jason grow, I awakened to find my roommate nowhere in sight. I didn't even bother going to the gym that day, opting instead to take my time of freedom to hike up to the campus early. It would be nice to get some studying done before classes. The autumn morning was chill and bright, the sky a luminous blue that soured my mood instantly: it reminded me of Phil's eyes, rising up toward mine on the day he had used me to make himself grow.

My mood further soured as I saw Jason standing outside the entrance to the science hall, smoking on a cigarette. His thick-soled boots lent him several extra inches of height, making him about half a foot taller than me. Disregarding the chill of the morning, he wore a black sleeveless shirt that left his perfectly-rounded delts and biceps bare. He was not flexing, but the muscles arced out of his arms. They bounced like something alive as he adjusted his cigarette in his mouth. As I mounted the stairs leading to the hall, I noticed he was wearing some tight sweat pants. Despite their dark color, they left none of his endowments—muscular or otherwise—to the imagination.

I approached the doors, and he leaned away from his perch, effectively blocking my path. I glanced around several times, hoping that someone was nearby. The futility of my situation struck me: I was on a college campus at just past 6:00 AM. Not a single self-respecting college student would be readying himself for classes. A thought flashed through my mind for a second: what if Phil had planned this meeting?

Jason dispelled that thought. “Surprised to see you up here, little guy,” he said. Without waiting for me to respond, he continued, “I was going to do some skating before my first class, but it’s a lot harder with all of this extra... uh, junk.” Jason glanced suggestively down at his pants. His dick stretched out to erectness in the passage of a few seconds. He looked back down at me, vivid green eyes framed by the wicked arch of his black brows.

It took most of my courage to ask, “What do you want?”

He punched me in the shoulder. I don’t think the gesture was meant to sway me, but I stumbled back, leaving him snickering over my weakness. His punch had felt like a baseball bat swing to my right side. I was shocked again by how strong he had become.

”Maybe you should start working out,” he offered coarsely. When I didn’t respond, he finally answered, “But I think you know what I want. Why don’t we go inside?”

I turned, and tried to bolt away. One of my feet left the ground, I was readied to sprint. I wasn’t counting on Jason’s speed. One big foot snaked out and knocked my other leg out from under me. I hit the pavement with a sharp crack, but the cold had already numbed me against pain. My book bag went flying.

I tried to voice my protest, but the fall had taken my voice and breath away. An instant later, I was lifted by two solid arms. Jason commented on how light I felt as he dragged us through the lobby doors and into the men's lavatory. My hopes for egress died as he forced the restroom's deadbolt into place. It took him a few tries to move the corroded lock.

His eyes were aflame with need. Jason’s lust was beyond anything sexual as he sat me down on the counter, large fingers fumbling with the button and then the zipper of my cargo pants. I was stunned by my fall, but clumsily flailed at his face, head, and neck. He ceased momentarily in his efforts in getting me unzipped to grab my arms and force them back behind my head with one hand. My resistance was utterly ignorable. I felt like a rag doll against his superior strength.

Then he was back at my trousers with his free hand, drawing them hurriedly down to my ankles. I savored a moment of true resistance as I realized that he could not force me to erection. He could not make me give him what he wanted. By this point, the snake in his trousers was pounding to escape its prison. He withdrew his hand from my legs and quickly jerked his sweatpants down, freeing his cock to swing pendulously about. I don’t think I’d ever seen one that big, except maybe in porn.

Jason caressed his a few times, then fished through my silk boxers and withdrew mine. Against my will, the touch called it to attention. With every beat of my heart, my penis swelled a bit more in his grip. It looked small against his big paw. That huge hand was defter than I had expected, knowing exactly how to bring me to full mast. As his other hand beat off my struggles, Jason’s right beat off my prong expertly, arousing me despite my quiet horror at this situation. Everything was piling up on me: Phil’s transformation, my shrinking, Jason’s huge size. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t even realize in my inner torment that I was coming quickly to the edge of my sexual endurance. He was a master with his hand. I began to squirm. All the muscles in my body were clenching and unclenching in the ecstasy of the situation. Jason, obviously an authority on pleasing men, saw an opening and took me fully into his mouth. The resulting explosion tore down his throat with a force that surprised even him, but my trembling fear at the consequences kept my orgasm short and relatively unproductive. I barely felt the power of the climax, which left my toes curling and vision blurring for just a few seconds.

Jason straightened, glowering at me with disappointment as he withdrew his grip from my arms. He wiped his mouth, even as his body rocked with new growth. I saw his cock expand alarmingly, engorging to a thickness greater than that of my wrist. Its length reeled out, jerking past ten inches before running out of fuel to grow on. The rest of his body continued building upon itself, muscles distending with new size. He was feeling at his chest passionately as it expanded, and only the elasticity of the fabric kept it from splitting asunder at the press of his emergent muscles.

The squeaking of overstressed leather drew his eyes down to his feet, which barely avoided bursting his boots. I stared down at the massive boots, but only until the movement of his sweatpants caught my attention. They were down around his thighs, and the waistline was straining to keep those masses in check. Slowly, the elastic cuffs of the sweatpants climbed away from his ankles, revealing an inch or two of his bared leg.

I gazed back up at Jason, who was busy staring at his cannonball deltoids. They led down to arms that had to be nineteen inches around, unblemished by the presence of fat. My head’s movement must have caught his attention, because he looked back down at me.

Awe in his voice, he gasped, “You look so damn short.” Then, breathlessly, “More.”

He moved toward me, and I knew for certainty that there was no way I could resist him now. He would be almost 6’4 without his boots, and had possibly eighty pounds of muscle on me at this point. I had never seen someone so tall look so well-proportioned. By my judgment, he had to have been 235 pounds of massed and swollen symmetry. As Jason’s hands made contact with my skin, a resounding thud echoed from outside the bathroom.

A voice ordered, “Open the door.”

My heart melted with joy. It wasn’t Phil’s voice. Jason pulled up his trousers, his erection wilting away as far as it could go—even fully soft, it would be bigger than an average man’s. I wished that all of the man-made muscle that rippled through his arms, his broad chest and oversized shoulders, could do the same. He looked impatiently at me, and I drew up both boxers and trousers over my spent cock. As I forced myself down off the counter, I realized how much taller he was, 6’5 or more in his booted feet. His sheer mass dwarfed mine.

Jason lumbered over to the door once I was fully dressed, effortlessly undoing the lock that had challenged him just minutes ago. As soon as it was undone, the door swung open.

A fairly short man, 5’6 or 5’7, stood in the doorway. His hair was dark red, hallmarking Irish or Scottish descent. Like Jason, his eyes were green, but they were rich and dark like emeralds. He wore a brown woolen sweater and corduroys of a slightly lighter hue. The newcomer’s voice was surprisingly commanding as he ordered Jason, “Get out of here.”

The huge former slacker must have been surprised. He stood there for a moment, staring dumbly, but to my complete amazement he left without a word, taking obvious care not to get in the way of the shorter man.

This freed my savior to come to my side. He looked up at me slightly, frowning as he asked, “Are you all right?”

I nodded my head, but the scrapes from my fall must have convinced him differently. His green eyes bored into mine, and I looked away. Before I knew it, I changed my mind and shook my head. “No, not really.”

“I’m Professor McTague,” he said, offering a hand. I shook it. My wrists hurt from their abuse. I was distracted from that by my surprise: he had struck me as being around my age. Then again, we had a lot of associate professors who liked to throw around their titles.

“I know this isn’t much consolation,” began the professor, “but I’m pretty sure I know exactly what you’re going through.”

I blushed. He thought I had been getting abused by—well, in a way, I was, but not in the manner he suspected. Phil’s command rang through me, and I struggled to keep from visibly staggering at its potency. I couldn’t tell anyone what my roommate was doing to me, not that anyone would believe anyway.

Taking my silence for unwillingness to discuss the situation, the shorter man gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. “If you need to talk, even if it’s about something you’d rather not tell anyone else, feel free to come by my office on the second floor. Completely confidential. You look like you could use a friend…”

He stopped expectantly. I took the cue. “Dane,” I told him.

”You can call me Liam, if you like.” At my second silence, he shrugged, turned, and walked toward the door. I was actually just gratified that he wasn’t one of those people who wore their educations as a badge. Stopping where he was framed by the breaking light of day, Professor McTague smiled again at me. I almost felt like taking him up on that friendship offer. My mind rejected the idea, but I was still feeling better than I had in months as I looked at him. He broke his spell by saying, “I really do understand what you’re up against. It’s in you to fight what’s going on in your life. So fight it.”

He turned and walked away. Suddenly, the entire room felt colder, darker. Maybe I was just so unused to anyone being kind to me that small bit of friendliness went a long way.

 

Part 10

Phil was waiting for me back at the room after classes. He was wearing one of his old shirts. Before, the thin crimson T-shirt had been a bit baggy on him. Now it hugged the broad track of his shoulders, shrink-wrapped to the tautness of his chest, forcefully showcased the taper of his lats down to his eight-pack. His navel was bare; the shirt was pulled too high by his deltoids to conceal the two lowest abdominals or the livid head of his frequently erect cock, which was pushing up beyond his boxers. I wondered briefly if he even bothered with real pants any more.

“Take off your clothes,” he demanded. I stripped, swiftly.

He looked up at me, and I was struck by the fierce blueness of his eyes. His skin had darkened again, slightly bronzed despite his aversion to spending time in the sun. I noticed he was sporting the beginnings of a goatee. His face looked more mature than I had expected, though by no means aged. Phil’s skin was soft and faintly luminous in the afternoon light. I tried to conceal my hardening member as I thought about how he would look were he not wearing that shirt. I couldn’t succeed, as he quickly pulled it off over his head, leaving his russet golden hair in disarray. His swollen pecs were laid bare, hairless save for a downy golden dusting across their surfaces. Their nipples were hard and sun-darkened. I was instantly ready.

“I have something to show you,” Phil said, obviously pleased with himself. He stepped over to the measuring stick, straightening to the fullness of his height. Even from where I was standing, I could see what he wanted to show me: Phil was of a height with me. He walked forward until we were nose to nose, his ice blue eyes boring straight into mine. “Well, isn’t that just fucking awesome? I’m almost exactly your height,” he told me.

I nodded silently.

Phil’s brow furrowed, and his face shifted into a melodramatic pout. “You never let me have any fun, Dane. I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you pick what we compare first. I went out and got a measuring tape this morning.” He whipped out a length of blue tailor’s tape, marked with tiny white lines. “C’mon. Choose quickly.”

“Biceps,” I told him, without hesitation. I was getting tired of this mental dominance. Getting? No, I was way past getting tired. I kept thinking of what Professor McTague had said, about fighting.

I wrapped the tape around his arm, trying to keep myself from caressing the pulsing blue vein that writhed beneath its surface. I could feel my cock sounding a drumbeat in my boxers. Even though I hated Phil for this, I could not stop myself from being as he wanted me to be. Once I had secured the tape, he tightened his biceps. I was not prepared for the size of the muscle that exploded out, and I lost my grip on the tape. For a moment, I just looked at the split-headed baseball that had grown out of my formerly scrawny roommate’s arm. I reached down and readjusted myself before settling the tape around his muscle.

“Fifteen point one,” I said, my mouth dry.

I pulled the tape away, and he took it from me wordlessly. Reluctantly, I raised my arm up and allowed him to get the tape snug around it before flexing. He sounded a bit disheartened. “Fifteen point three,” he told me.

Despite my momentary gladness, I wholeheartedly resisted the urge to tell him that he should have been working out these last few weeks. Whatever I could do to stave away his capricious malice, I would. Professor McTague couldn’t possibly understand what fighting would do to me. My roommate was almost as big as I was, now. What would happen if I made him angry?

“Seven and a half,” Phil announced, breaking my train of thought. I glanced over at him. He had just finished measuring his swollen prong, and advanced toward me with the metal ruler that had become our traditional standard.

The metal was surprisingly warm against my shaft. I was instantly erect. Between the beats of my heart, I wondered how much time had gone by with Phil trying to get a good measurement. Never before had I been prone to deep thinking, but I’d also never had so much reason to be worried for the future.

“Seven and fucking five eights.” Phil shook his head, sullenly. “You’re still longer than me, and bulkier. Just a bit, though. I’m tired of this.”

“I can’t help that,” I said, and instantly regretted it.

He paused in his quiet lamentations. “Yes. Yes, you can, and you will,” he said, his tone suddenly threatening. “Stand there, and watch yourself help me out.”

As Phil’s hand groped at my cock, the ruler fell to the floor with a dull thump. A gasp escaped from my lips at the electricity of his touch, and another followed as I realized why he was rocking so furiously. Phil’s other hand was hard at work on his own member. He noticed me staring and ordered, “Whack me.”

My hand snaked out to reach his prong, and for but a moment I brushed against its scalding hot surface with my fingertips. I took a deep breath, and my hand clenched in mid-air. I didn’t realize what I was doing until then. My hand held there for a second, my arm as tight as iron, the struggle overtaking even Phil’s furious pounding of my erect penis in my mind. Slowly, shakily, I pulled my hand back away from Phil’s body and forced it back to my side. Professor McTague’s face flickered into my mind, and I silently thanked him.

There was a tense moment of realization. And then I came. I was so preoccupied by my victory that I barely noticed as my balls clung closer to my body, my penis bucked, and a wash of white fluid exploded from its engorged tip, splattering across Phil’s chest. Another wild splash struck across his arm, and a third drenched his own bobbing penis and part of his boxers. All thoughts of victory were wiped away as he shoved me backward with one arm. I was off balance already, and ended up falling hard against my bed.

“Now we’ll see who’s bigger,” he rasped. One of his hands was at furious work on his wildly lurching cock, but as he worked it the head and shaft began to extend, to thicken, until he raised his free hand to join in the work. The head still protruded beyond his twin grip like a plum.

From where I lay, I could see that he was already getting taller and broader. He wasn’t flexing, but his muscles looked a human anatomy chart, growing and pressing against the skin as they absorbed even more of his ridiculously low body fat. His pecs pushed outward, deepening the ribbed crevice between them. His nipples pointed downward. The pectorals shadowed the press of his abs, which were writhing, defined, girded at their lowest level by a pronounced wreathe of veins that traveled down to his still-expanding cock, following the path of a coiled red-golden treasure trail.

He was definitely over 5’9 now, maybe 5’10 and still growing. I had to do something about this! I pushed myself off my bed and crawled toward him, gasping my defiance. He was too busy flexing his biceps, which swelled like softballs beneath the skin of his arm. His delts expanded, lending an almost unnatural width to his shoulders. His neck was thickening, making him look even more solid. Phil had veins I had never imagined, striations that I did not know were possible. He was muscled like a wrestler well-accustomed to careful manipulation of weight, and he was still swelling.

I reached him, finally, and realized I had no idea what I could do to stop this. One of my arms leapt out and grabbed a meaty and growing thigh. I tried to dig my fingers in, but to no avail.

My heart sunk as I felt Phil’s iron fingers jab into my own inferior musculature. I looked up at him, but my view of his face was obscured by his jerking cock. The first shot hit me right in the face, and almost instantly the world began to sway around me. I felt Phil’s thigh swell up even more under my hand, but whether that was due to his orgasmic twitching, his growth, or my renewed shrinking, I had no idea.

He pulled me up, and I felt his fingers creeping over more and more of my skin as they grew and my muscles wasted further. I could barely hold my head up through the dizziness, and so it was that I saw the next scalding ribbons of jism strike me right in my shrinking abs. Phil’s cock was slightly larger than mine, which was still erect. The difference was increasing, though. Mine was clearly leveling around seven inches, and Phil’s was climbing toward eight.

Phil forced me to stand on my own two feet, holding me up with his steady and still-swelling arms. I looked up into his eyes, an inch or two above mine now. I felt the press of his hard pectorals against my body, still swelling as mine retracted. Saw his lats broaden even more. Shuddered as I felt how large his hands felt against the slenderness of my arms.

His gaze was the worst. One look at the spark of triumph shining in those sky-blue depths, and I finally gave up, let myself fall into the comforting unconsciousness I knew would not reject me. Something flashed through my mind as my awareness frayed: a pair of deep green eyes, solid, reassuring. Then it all fell away.

 

Part 11

Strain was written across my face as I pushed against the handles of the chest press machine. The old weights I had pressed seemed impossibly distant now. I was having problems pushing 160 pounds. I didn't trust myself to do bench presses any more, and Mike and Tom—two of the guys I'd helped in the gym during my freshman year—seemed too busy showing off for a couple of nearby girls to help me out. Not that they would have anyway. They had walked past me a couple times without even noticing me.

They say you never know what you have until you lose it. As I went through my classes that next week, all that I once had became quite clear to me. It never occurred to me what it would be like to be this short. At 5'8, I was the national average. Maybe I would have been content to be this height had it been natural, but in my situation I found myself constantly roving the crowds, looking to see who was taller than me. It was an odd dichotomy, trying to hide myself from the people who knew me well while playing my comparison game with the general populace.

I needn't have worried about being recognized. Looking at myself in the gym bathroom's mirror revealed a man who shouldn't have been. This particular mirror had some memories for me; most of them were good. Flexing daily, seeing progress from my workouts... as I walked into the door of the bathroom, I was recalling the numerous personal victories I had won in the gym. The mirror told me they were no more.

The face looking back at me was barely recognizable as my own. There were as many similarities as differences between my current look and the one in my memories. My face was slimmer, finer-boned than it had been since I was much younger. My beard, too, was thinner, providing stubble that looked more like scruff than the careful five o'clock shadows I had cultivated. The faint lines about my eyes betrayed my age, but the dark skin beneath them just made me look weary. I was confident that most girls would still find me attractive, in a tortured artist sort of way.

I tilted my head to get a better look at my neck. The thick column of muscle that lent me a wrestler's appearance was gone. Its replacement was supported by my diminished traps, which were fairly small even though they were pumped from my workout. My pecs were small but hard, clearly defined but no longer forming their imposing shelf over my abs. At least my body fat was low enough to reveal my boyish six-pack. My hip flexors still formed an arrowhead, though the point of that 'V' was a source of neverending frustration to me of late.

It wasn't that my tool was smaller than it had been since I was sixteen. That bothered me. But I was also constantly sporting wood and desperate for release. This was a source of neverending horror for me, because I knew that Phil would eventually notice and be drawn toward more growth. I whacked it between classes just to ensure that I would not attract undue attention, but this revealed a new problem to me: I was cumming each time at a rate that would have given a porn starlet pause. Phil's influence was changing me, and I did not know when the alterations would end.

Even the thought of masturbation had me as hard as a rock and aching with pleasure. I felt like I had been teased for hours and denied release. My logic argued that this was a public place, but the nearby showers were completely empty. Besides, the gym had been nearly abandoned. And those showers... I was of two minds about them. They were a place of privacy, true. They also held memories of the first time that Phil had made me shrink. Now that I was aware of what had happened on that day, I could not get it out of my mind.

I was reveling in the comfort of a hot shower and a self-inflicted hand job within minutes. The sheer pleasure from stroking my erection nearly had me passing out. Little firecrackers of pleasure shuddered up my spine, precipitating a coming orgasm. My eyes were shut tight to shut out the world. This was the longest I had held out against the urge all week, and I knew the explosion would be legendary. The tension was mounting. I started tweaking my nips, kneading the lithe muscle underneath—

"Need some help there?" A brazen tenor voice brought me back to the world, but I felt no shame.

He was just standing there in touching distance, appraisingly watching me stroke my rod. The guy was small, but anyone could see he was gorgeous. He was only about 5'2, pale and slender, with barely any body hair to conceal his taut little physique. His eyes were a neutral grey, but his face was a model's: full lips, feminine lashes, slender brows, and a countenance that looked carved from white marble. I looked into those grey eyes and knew that I was going to change his life. He barely moved, as if he could tell something was about to happen.

Something did. His eyes widened a bit as I began to jerk my cock. I think he was as shocked at my actions as I was. It was a quick jerk, as all of them had been of late. Fire exploded through my nerves as orgasm hit. I threw my head back, gasping with the pleasure of my first volley. I heard it splatter across his slender chest before the torrent of ecstasy consumed me. I lost count of the times that I spurted, even as I lost track of time itself. I felt my knees become jelly, knew I collapsed against the wall, but for several moments I was definitely out of my head. A sick sense of humor tells me now that it was the first and only time I have had a near-death experience.

The drumbeat of the showers brought me back to rational thought. The little guy had fallen by the wall opposite to where I was leaning, eyes closed, chest barely moving. Panic shot through me, and I wondered if maybe I had injured him. I had never given anyone—not even Jason—that much. Who knew what it would do? Could his body even handle it? A wave of guilt and doubt poured over me.

His eyes flicked open, and he groaned. Looking up at the naked man who had just reenacted the eruption of Mount Vesuvius to his Pompeii, he seemed unusually calm. He actually smiled as I helped him up, waving away my apologies. I looked down at him in concern. His five incher's erection told me he was all right. Moreover, he was enjoying himself. He pushed off of the floor and looked right into my eyes.

Quietly, he began, "I'm Christian. That was fantastic! I thought you were going to beat the living crap out of me. It seemed like—"

And then it happened. A quake ripped through his body, sending him falling into my arms. I tightened my grip around his bony shoulders, knowing full well what was about to happen. He doubled over despite my efforts to hold him straight. His eyes were rolling, and the spasms rushing through his muscles looked painful.

Just as abruptly as they had come, the tremors receded.

He uncertainly asked, "What's happening to me?" Another spasm hit. I jumped back away from him, abruptly feeling unwell.

Christian had been slender before, but as I watched, every bit of fat seemed to evaporate away from his body. His skin was shrink-wrapping to his taut, small muscles, revealing a road map of little veins. He grunted with agony as bones began crackling and settling, acclimatizing his naturally undersized physique for the growth to come. I could do little but watch in fascination at the change. As his bones were shifting, he was getting taller. With each shock of growth, he put on a little more height. I wondered how tall he would get—could he reach my height?

As seconds passed, he seemed to settle in to the growth. He was leaning against the wall for support, but looking like he was getting used to what was happening. He was probably lost in the experience as much as Jason and Phil had been. Christian kept rubbing his hands across his chest, bunching his flat pectorals. With every flexion, the striated flats thickened and expanded, forming two bulges of muscle that his old shirts would have been hard-pressed to contain. They were still growing, even as his nonexistent biceps tightened and strengthened. He was as dumbfounded as I when he flexed his arm for the first time and a perfect golf-ball peak exploded from his arm, pushing out a coiled blue vein. He spread his arms out to reveal swelling lats, bulging widely to give his waspish waist the V-taper it deserved.

His abs were looking cobbled. With each heartbeat their definition deepened. They were growing, too, pushing out against his skin like they were yearning to get free. At first, they were just six, then eight defined plates. As time passed, they became distinctive bricks that looked as unyielding as steel. They marched in a perfect, hairless procession down toward his pubic bush. His five incher was just beginning to experience the effects of the growth that was transforming the rest of his body. It was thickening, bloating to a width that would almost have made him look hung at five inches. But then again, he was no longer that small. Christian was definitely on the larger side of average all of a sudden, probably six and some change. In moments, his cock was clearly bigger than mine. It might have been almost as large as Phil's by the time his growth had leveled off. I suddenly felt like I had made a mistake.

"That was beyond incredible," Christian rasped, leaning heavily on the wall and looking wasted. He pushed himself off the wall, brushed silken black hair away from his brow, and I got a look at the extent of his growth for the first time. I had been worried about him growing to be almost as tall as me. He was taller, by at least two inches. His face was the only thing unchanged, but it looked different atop a thickly muscled wrestler's neck. The traps that bulged to either side of that bloated column further contributed to the illusion that he had built his body through long hours on the mats.

I envied his chest. Thick, hard muscle formed a beautifully rounded chest with small, dark nips. He would never be able to hide those pectorals; they were so large as to be nearly out of proportion with his other muscles. His lats were two massive wings, pushing his vein-choked arms away from his body. His biceps, too, were slightly oversized, measuring at least sixteen inches. They were balanced by equally brawny forearms that tapered down to surprisingly delicate wrists. He flexed his biceps while I watched, and the bulge there would have put a softball to shame.

Despite the growth of his abdominals, his waist seemed to be just about the same size it was before his transformation. The slimness of his waist made his massive quads and bulging calves seem all the more impressive.

And his cock was ridiculously large, swollen like a beer can, at least as large soft as it had previously been erect. With his face, body, and that endowment, he could probably have anyone he wanted. He could easily walk away from me. Of course, rational thought was returning now, when I'd have to actually deal with consequences. He could have hurt me for doing what I did to him.

But he didn't.

Instead, he cautiously asked, "Why did this happen? And how?"

I had some explaining to do.

 

Part 12

"I believe you."

I wasn't sure I believed myself. Somehow, I had managed to tell him all about Phil and this entire affair. I wondered at the time whether Phil's command had lost its hold over me. The thought did not hold in the heat of the moment.

Christian was looking up at me from his seat on one of the locker room benches; his plain grey eyes surprised me with their piercing gaze. I wondered if I had done that to him or if they had always possessed such a striking quality. They had seemed so dull and grey in the haze of my need. Everything else had changed. His voice was a burnished baritone where before it had been a light tenor. If his skin had been flawless marble before, now it had transcended the worldly beauty of stone. My seed had washed the femininity away from his features, leaving behind solidity and gorgeous angles. His face was a glory of hard planes and sharp definition, from the faint blue-black misting of stubble along his cheeks up to his brow, whose pallid perfection was broken only by the black juttings of his dark hair.

Looking at him was turning me into a poet. It was also giving me a major erection.

Despite my inspired vocabulary, 'hard' was the only word that could describe his body. His skin left not a ripple, not a striation, to the imagination. No fat marred his eight-pack abdominals. I could see the blue of veins pulsing through his Apollo's belt even as he leaned forward, unconsciously mimicking a thinker's pose. His biceps occasionally flexed as if of their own accord, showcasing a baseball peak. His arms and chest were a bit overdeveloped, but those small flaws only contributed to his beauty.

Feeling perilously close to cumming again just at being in his presence, I forced myself to look away from him. Staring at the linoleum tiles underfoot, I could almost think. Was it my imagination, or could I feel the heat coming off his body? Was his oversized tool even now inflating in anticipation of—

Desperate to contain myself, I forced myself to ask, "You do? Believe me, that is."

He let out a soft laugh, and I looked back at him. He said, "The way I see it, I'm either hallucinating or living proof that something weird is happening here. But... I mean, sure. Evil roommates. Everyone thinks their college roommate is evil. You just had the misfortune to find one that actually is.

"And I really want to help you." Christian cupped his chest and flexed it. The muscled globe expanded so much that he needed to widen his grip. "I mean, you've helped me. I don't think anyone will ever call me little again. You're a god, Dane." With that, Christian hefted his enormous cock and grinned a sultry grin.

I almost burst.

"Er, I guess," I breathed. My face was heating, but whether from the offhanded praise from this paragon of manhood or because of my body's reaction, I didn't know.

Christian's smile fell away from his face. He shook his head and spoke as if to himself. "Doesn't make it right, though."

"What do you mean?" I asked. In order to keep myself from watching him further and inadvertently forcing more growth upon him, I walked over to my towel and pulled it off of its hook.

His voice did not move from its original location, settled on the bench he'd taken to hear my earlier confession. In one way, I was glad he stayed there. I wasn't gay. But a part of me wanted to fall into his arms and be safe for the first time since Phil had begun to change.

"I'm built. All of a sudden. I've exceeded my genetic potential. There's no way I should be... what, 5'9? Maybe 5'10. My parents were shorter than I was. And the biggest workout I've ever done was for swim team. In the course of five minutes, I went from ninety-eight pounds of solid wimp to the stud every man wants to be.

"And I'm grateful for that, but it's still not right or fair. I feel like I've leeched off of you, like you've gone through the pain and I got the gain."

I shook my head fervently, but kept my back to Christian so he wouldn't see the agreement written across my face. "It's not like that," I told him.

"Phil did this stuff to me. He's still doing it to me. I don't even know how to fight him, but some part of me is beginning to think I can. And things are getting better. You haven't tried to shrink me or humiliate me yet," I deadpanned.

He didn't laugh, but rejoined, "I guess I forgot to read the 'Evil Villainy' chapters during my 'Introduction to Bizarro World' classes, sorry."

"Look, Christian. Some subconscious part of me wanted to give you this." I turned to look at him. The boyish smile of gratitude on that faultless face was almost painful to see. "And you seem like a really nice guy, for all that you sneak up on random guys in the showers." I stepped over to my locker and started putting my clothes back on.

He laughed. The mellifluous sound echoed through the bathroom. "You came on me, Dane. I think you definitely take the weirdness prize here."

"I'll give you that. As Phil changes me, I... I seem to be losing control. I'm not the sort of guy that—that does that sort of stuff. I'm not even gay," I added quietly. I was having trouble putting on my boxer shorts because my dick was disagreeing with my comments about my sexuality.

He sighed. "I figured you weren't. The hot ones never are. Okay. Well, maybe once. Or twice."

I found myself grinning again in spite of myself. Smiling like my life wasn't falling apart, like I had nothing to face. And then, in his ignorance, Christian brought the world back to me.

"The only thing we can do is try to stop him before he does more to you," he said, like it was a triumph of logic. "You may never get back what you were, but at least you can stop shrink—"

"No," I blurted. Then, a moment later, I repeated, "No. Definitely not."

"What?" His question was sharp, as if he had not expected the vehemence of my answer. I looked at him as I finished putting my shirt on. He looked crestfallen, and a little stung. The natural pout on his lips made me melt.

"It's not that I don't want your help, Christian. It's just... I told you about Phil's powers. I might be learning to fight the mind control, but I can't guarantee that you'd be able to do the same. The one thing that would kill me right now is having the only other person who knows turn against me."

It didn't take him long to think. "All right, then," he offered, sounding more confident. "What can I do to help you?"

"Pretend like this didn't happen. Wear some bulkier clothes, stoop a bit, and if anyone asks tell them that you've been working out. And... help keep me sane. We'll have to talk in secret, just so Phil doesn't suspect anything."

Christian nodded. "You know I'll be there for you. You may not be gay, but... well. I think I like you."

My face flushed again, but I answered genuinely. "I think I like you, too." I tried to fish for something else to say, but finished lamely, "I've got to go."

It was getting late, and Phil would expect me back soon. Talk of fighting Phil had pushed an appointment back into the forefront of my mind. Brief companionship, however genuine, had made me realize what I'd been feeling for awhile. I was alone.

He nodded again, then asked, "Where to?"

I smiled as I said, "Oh, to a professor's for some tutoring." I patted Christian on the shoulder. Holy moly, his shoulders were hard. And big. Like there were boulders underneath his skin. Rather than dwell on those dangerous thoughts any more, I left the bathroom.

I hadn't told him a lie, specifically. I just couldn't risk Phil finding out somehow. Christian could not help but be a weak link, and I would not see him get involved in this. I needed to see Professor McTague. I had to start fighting for real, because no one else could do it for me.

 

Part 13

"Professor McTague! It's Dane Jackson!"

I hammered on the door to Professor McTague's office. It was painted a washed-out periwinkle like most of the other doors along the hallway. I turned my back on the door and scanned the hall in both directions. All of the doors were numbingly same, and all were closed. It was a popular rumor that an architect known for his prison designs was responsible for the layout of the school.

A single clock hung a good way down the hall, its white face starkly announcing that it was 5:30. I sighed. Most professors who taught day classes left at 5:00. The hour certainly explained why the school had been so empty. I had completely lost track of time during the shower and subsequent confession.

My shoulders stiffened with a sudden chill. With the campus so sparsely populated, no one would be able to stop Jason if he were around. He would force himself onto me, and I would yield. He was so strong, and I would make him stronger. And bigger: I would watch his biceps swell, pulsing slowly out of their softball size and expanding agonizingly toward something more powerful—an overripe orange, a small cannonball. I'd see the pouch of his crotch bulging out with new obscene growth, straining with his pornographic slab of meat. He would tower even higher over me, becoming even more glutted with that malevolent masculinity he now embodied. His pectorals would heave with the pleasure of growth, the dark wifebeater I'd seen him wearing lately offering a crackling refrain as it struggled to contain his mounting size, and...

I took a deep breath and pushed panic into the back of my mind. It did not yield easily. My hands and feet were tingling as if they had been asleep. It took a moment to realize I had a tremendous erection. I turned to scan the hallway. Even though it appeared no one else was around, I was thankful for the jeans I was wearing and my diminished manhood. Had I been normal-sized, I would've been tenting ridiculously.

The creaking of Professor McTague's door behind me banished my erection almost instantly. The blood that had swollen my boner seemed to rush right into my face. I was blushing furiously as I spun around.

Professor McTague was taller.

No, wait. I was a little shorter than when we had first met. It took my senses just a moment to readjust to this change in perspective, but not nearly so long as it should have. It's a testament to the miracle that is humanity that we can adapt so easily to such massive change. That thought made me uncomfortable. I didn't want to adapt to this situation.

"You're not looking well," the professor told me. My face flushed again as his dark emerald eyes scanned over my body. His gaze was as frank as the observation, not at all lewd or sexual. He simply took every inch of me in with his eyes, smiled, and said, "Come in, and relax."

I did, and Professor McTague locked the door behind me. I suppose I had expected a tiny office as was customary for adjunct faculty members to inhabit. Most were little more than cubbyholes pocking the grey faces of the halls, crammed with the gear of professors who time-shared the same cramped space.

Professor McTague's office was not an office at all. In one corner, a small desk housed neat stacks of paper organized into unmarked trays. He had a laptop. It looked functional but not excessive, a real academic's computer complete with a series of animated Da Vinci sketches fading in and out of a black screen saver background. The office space segued unceremoniously into a small laboratory area, with a gathering of beakers, tubes, and various other articles that looked ripped from a mad scientist's lair arranged atop a compact white counter whose support was pocked with drawers. I watched, fascinated, as some violet fluid worked its way through one of the tubes before combining with a clear solution in an Erlenmeyer flask. The liquids swirled together and became a dazzling electric blue.

"Fascinating, I know," Professor McTague deadpanned. He was seated at his desk, and had set up a comfortable if utilitarian chair directly opposite it. "I can watch reactions for hours. But that's what makes me a geek, I suppose."

"You don't look like a geek," I said thoughtlessly, sitting at a single gesture of his right hand.

He chuckled. His laughter had a lilting quality that came from true mirth. It made me feel better just to hear the sound.

"I know it's cliché , but you really can't go around judging books by their covers," he said once he had finished.

"Sorry, it's just—"

"No, no," he waved the explanation away. "Believe me, I understand. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I'm surprised at what I see."

"I know what you mean," I offered. I instantly wanted to take it back.

He leaned forward and considered me. For eyes of such a deep shade, his were piercing. They were raptor's eyes, and could have been unsettling if he let them be. Professor McTague didn't make me uncomfortable at all. I felt about as relaxed as I could be in my situation. In the spaces between moments of thought, I could almost forget about Phil's sweat-slicked torso, the individual abdominals flexing and relaxing as he breathed. Almost.

I folded my hands in my lap.

"At the risk of a perpetual loop, I know you know exactly what I mean," Professor McTague said.

I started to laugh, but something in his expression stopped me short. "I don't think—"

"—that anyone knows what you're going through. That situations are spiraling out of your control, and that you're losing touch with who you used to be."

A breath of relief. It probably sounded like a sigh. "Yeah, that's it exactly, professor."

"Does anyone else know what your roommate is doing to you?" His expression of concern didn't change a bit.

I blinked. "What?" A note of hysteria had crept into my voice.

"Does anyone else know what Phil is doing to you, Dane? This is very important, so I need you to answer."

Answer? I didn't want to answer. I wanted to get up and out of here. But I answered. "Yes. Just two people. A kid that I met at the gym today—"

"—and Jason."

I didn't let my surprise at his intimate knowledge show. "Yes."

"No more, you're certain?"

"As far as I know."

Professor McTague leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "I'm sorry for forcing that on you, Dane."

Weakly, I began. "No, it's... it's good that someone else sees what's happening. But how do you know all of this?"

"Part of what's happening to you is my fault. Please, though. I hope you'll stay calm. I'm not the one you need to worry about, and I do think that I can undo the damages that have been done to you."

Calmness was the last thing on my mind. I was brimming with a thousand questions, all of which were buzzing around in the sudden light of hope in my head. If I could just be normal again, all of this would go away. I wouldn't be acting so strangely. I could move away from Phil, transfer colleges if need be—

"Whatever you need from me, I'll do it," I told him.

"We can't get you back to normal yet," he responded. My hopes crashed and sunk. "Look, I promise things will get better. But you need to understand some things. I'm not sure what you know, so... is there anything you can think of to ask?"

Instantly: "What's happened to my roommate?"

The professor held my gaze for a long moment. "Phil is the host of a symbiote."

"Come again?"

"A symbiote."

"Like... Venom?"

Professor McTague chuckled politely. I was glad someone was finding this amusing. "Actually, a lot like Venom. Except your roommate's no Peter Parker and his symbiote isn't evil. Not specifically, anyway."

"You could've fooled me, Professor," I snapped.

"If you'd like you really can call me Liam," he offered. Evidently sensing my burgeoning lack of enthusiasm for these proceedings, he dropped the bomb. "I have a symbiote, too." I stiffened. "But you must trust me. I am not going to harm you in any way."

Reluctantly, I relaxed back into my chair. "So," I accused, "You're like Phil."

"No, not at all," he assured me, spreading his hands openly. "I said you were right about the symbiotes being like Spider-man's Venom. These symbiotes adapt to fit their hosts' deepest desires. They work at a cellular level to create an ideal environment in which they can thrive and, eventually, reproduce. They're really quite ingenious. Unless a host has a very strong will, they will use him or her to breed in the most convenient way and damn the consequences." He spoke very slowly, as if trying to reach a particularly ungifted student.

I pressed on. "So, this isn't really Phil. It's just something inside of him, making him do this."

Liam closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The symbiotes do not control minds. They don't even have brains in the way we think of them. Before encountering a host, the symbiote is just a bunch of cells running on impulse and instinct. It's only once it interfaces with a human brain that it gains a level of intellect. Phil's symbiote isn't on the same level as mine. Maybe it's incomplete, some form of mutation, but it doesn't seem to have the full range of abilities mine does. It's difficult to say for sure. So much guesswork is involved in a situation like this.

"As for the chance of mind control... I believe that the human brain is too complex for a symbiote to alter so thoroughly. It's more likely that Phil's has tapped into his urges toward megalomania, dominance, all sorts of mental garbage. Otherwise, though... this is your roommate's fantasy."

I held up a hand to stop him. "Hold up a second. You said something about the symbiotes reproducing."

He nodded. "That's the brilliant part of Phil's symbiote. I think his symbiote has been experimenting, and it's found a clever way to work through your roommate. You've seen how it's changed him, making him grow stronger, taller, more virile, more masculine. Phil's symbiote has also given him the same power I have with my voice, to make people act just by giving them commands. It's transformed his semen into a mechanism that can wreak massive changes like the ones that have been visited upon you. Look at how you've changed. You're smaller, weaker, attracted to his power, filled with unbelievable libido. And the important part? Your semen makes people grow."

"I don't see—"

"You're the perfect feeder for anyone Phil's symbiote chooses to share itself with. They'll be the ones with a thirst for vengeance, a feeling of being wronged by the big guys. They'll shrink honest fellows like you down and turn you into subservients, then use you to become irresistible and invincible. It'll change the order of things."

I had to ask. "What does your symbiote do, Professor?"

He shrugged. "Do you want to see the real me?" he asked. I nodded.

Abruptly, Professor McTague rose from his desk. He stripped off the dark sweater he was wearing, leaving only a sleeveless t-shirt on underneath. That soon joined the sweater on the floor. As he untied his shoes and undid his belt and trousers, I was surprised at how nicely he was built, with the lithe muscles of a swimmer or runner. His legs encouraged the latter possibility. They were very well developed, his quads almost filling the legs of his green boxers. He also had quite a bulge. Professor McTague was hung!

I forced myself away from that particular thought, even as I was struck by the vision before me: a lithe, sun-browned man in his late twenties standing before me in his boxers. A dark treasure trail bisected his lower abs, which were just as finely-drawn as his upper.

He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. At least, that's what I thought at first. Ever so slightly, Professor McTague began to expand. His legs lengthened ever so slightly, stretching the muscles to a size more fitting to the rest of his body. The rounded pectorals on his chest thickened and bulged outward, reforming into tight squared muscle that protruded slightly over abs that were not quite so perfect and perhaps a bit hairier than before. A small patch of dark hair also sprouted from the center of his chest. His shoulders broadened, and his biceps and triceps began to bulge outward a bit, losing definition in exchange for size. Finally, his coloring began to change. His skin was getting lighter, his body hair slightly darker, until it was all brown with faint auburn streaks. The only part of Professor McTague that shrunk was the noticeable bulge in his boxers. It looked a lot more average now.

"And here I am," he said, in a voice that was slightly deeper, a little coarser. Coarser was the way I would describe most of the new Professor McTague, with regard to how I had known him all along.

Or Liam, I corrected, as I looked at his face. He was, at most, my age, with a straight nose, small ears, and a blue-black growth of beard that sharpened his features. He had a very bluff, honest look to his face. His eyes were still a dark emerald.

He put a hand on one of his pectorals and flexed it. The muscle bounded noticeably.

"Okay, maybe not exactly me, but I was pretty close to this before I changed into Professor McTague," he said. "It's hard to remake your body without idealizing a bit."

A few weeks ago, I would have been out that door and on my way to a drug test. At the moment, all I could manage was, "Wow. So, why did you change?"

"I was a student here when I first encountered a symbiote by accident. Mine has revealed to me that they're definitely terrestrial in origin. I think they're man-made. This one latched onto me while I was camping near Camp Pendleton. Maybe it was something the military was working on and decided to ditch; I don't know. At any rate, I figured that I had to keep an eye on things here. You see, Phil is completely my fault."

"I'm getting used to trusting you. Go on."

"My symbiote made me smarter, stronger, sexier. I had a good body because I worked out, and decent looks because of genetics, but it gave me confidence and irresistibility. I'd always been a good student in Organic Chemistry before, but I was literally making breakthroughs in every single class. The symbiote also made me clever enough to realize I should keep everything under wraps. We need privacy, you see.

"So, I finally convinced it to reproduce itself. It came out in my semen, and I tried using my smarts to discover exactly what these creatures were. I'm not entirely sure how, but one day, the spawn got away."

"Storm drain," I told him. "Phil fell into sewage. There was stuff all over him."

"Grey?" Liam asked. His features were shifting back into his older countenance.

"Yes, grey."

He frowned. "Well, that explains some of it. The symbiotes aren't yet adept at surviving outside of the human body for too long. Mine was ill when it entered me. Maybe Phil's was... damaged somehow. As soon as it entered him, my symbiote felt it. So I assumed this guise, and used my powers to get myself this office and a teaching job. I convinced my family I was going to Tibet."

I looked at the clock on his wall. Time had not, after all, frozen. "I need to go pretty soon," I said, "But can you change me back to what I was first?"

Professor McTague shook his head. His features were back to normal. "No, I can't. We need to use you to get at this rogue symbiote, and bring it down. Things are going to get worse before they get better."

Resigned, I nodded. Liam started herding me toward the door.

"For now, just head back home. Phil's not at your room yet, but I can tell he's in the apartments. We'll meet when you have the time. I'll tell someone I need some paid leave so I can spend more time at the office." With a falsely cheery smile, he offered, "Hours are 6 AM to 5 PM. Good luck, Dane."

My smile, at least, was genuine. "Thanks, Liam."

"Oh, and... before you go. This is my command to you: do not, under any circumstances, tell Phil about me or the fellow you met today. You will fight against his control as best you can, but not so that he suspects something is wrong." He nodded. "There, now. You should be armed, if lightly. Good luck. Again."

I set off down the hallway. Despite where I was heading, I felt remarkably good.

 

Part 14

My spirits dropped as soon as I made it into the room. It reeked of the strange, acrid smell I associated with Phil's tainted semen. A pair of basketball shorts, torn at the seams by his growing bulk, were strewn across Phil's bed. They lay amongst the tattered remnants of Phil's favorite crimson shirt, which lay as vibrant reminders of my roommate's continued growth.

These were not the only changes to the room. Phil's bed was pressed up against one wall, but mine was moved out into the center of the room, as if it were on display. He had left several pornographic magazines sitting upon our table. I had seen some pretty messed up stuff, but the things he was looking at made me want to retch.

There was no time for that. The door burst open, hitting the wall with a gunshot's bang. Two forms were standing in the doorway. Phil's was recognizable. No one else could make a green t-shirt and grey sweats bulge so exquisitely. They were my clothes. They fit him well. The material of the shirt clung to Phil's swollen deltoids. It probably would have showcased the individual bricks of his 8-pack had it not been untucked and tented out by his protruding pectorals. The bulge in Phil's pants was stunning in length and girth, stretching halfway down to his knee.

The person next to him was more simply dressed. He was clad in a vivid blue polo shirt and khaki pants. As was common fashion, the thick band of a gold watch encircled his wrist, and a cheap silver chain stretched around his slender neck. The guy was definitely handsome, with a few Nordic features watered down by a deluge of something more European. French, probably, given his prominent nose and dark brows. He was slim, like a junior varsity tennis player. Not a very big guy. Then it struck me: he was about three or four inches taller than I was, now. He probably had some muscle on me, too. It made my tool go hard. I flinched.

"See, he's all ready, Trevor," Phil said. His voice was deeper again, and as he stepped into the surer light of the room, I could see he was sporting a thick reddish-golden beard shadow. Surely this could not be my roommate. It had to be his hunky older brother. But no, that deep pettiness lurking beneath his ice-blue eyes told me otherwise.

And Trevor. I couldn't believe how my perceptions had been skewed. This was Trevor Golding, from the tennis team? I had taught him a lot about lifting weights before I had finally gotten frustrated with his attitude. He thought money could buy him anything, and had tried coaxing me into getting him steroids and whatever other new miracle drugs he could think of. Someone had finally slipped word of Trevor's indiscretions to his wealthy father, whose name was on the college's Golding Hall, and Trevor had nearly been disowned.

"This isn't Dane Jackson," Trevor told Phil straight off. "You're trying to bullshit me." Trevor's voice was unusually high-pitched for a guy of about 5'11. I had never paid much attention to his height, but he was an inch or two taller than Phil.

I could practically see Phil debating whether or not to use his voice's powers on Trevor. He stayed strong against it. "You'll see, Trevor. Besides, if you're not satisfied, I'll give you your money back."

"It's disgusting. Letting some guy cum on me." His lip curled. "You'll probably take pictures of it and send them to my parents."

"I told you you could trust me, Trevor. Don't you believe me?" Phil looked at Trevor, spearing him with his eyes.

Natural doubt and confusion—probably the lingering remnants of earlier mind control—warred over Trevor's face. Phil's will won out.

"I want a sample."

Phil smirked. Gleefully, he said, "Dane, ditch the clothes. Trevor, you want to take a look?"

I didn't immediately obey. The compulsion was still there, but it was no longer irresistible thanks to Professor McTague's command. Phil's eyes narrowed only a fraction before I was up and stripping. I stripped off my sandals, dropped my pants and boxers in one fell swoop, and yanked my t-shirt over my head. It felt good to obey Phil, but that was no longer my lifeblood and breath.

Unfortunately, Liam had not thought to shield me from embarassment. My skin was flushing again with the heat of my shame at being naked. It was not just that I was weaker, smaller, and nude in front of two people who were appraising me like a prize horse. As Trevor ran a hand over the light muscling of my chest and abdominals, my member hardened even more. It rose, diminished but proud, between my legs.

"Pretty hung for a short shit," Trevor said. "I'm a little smaller than that," he said to Phil.

"I care," Phil muttered. Definitely not Phil's evil older brother. My roommate had a unique brand of caustic sarcasm that I had never heard anyone duplicate.

Trevor backed away from me. "I want a free sample," he told Phil.

My roommate took an instant to acknowledge the request before granting it. "Sure," he said. "But only a little bit. Then you pay by play. You should probably ditch your clothes."

Trevor's shirt came off first. His skin was a deep golden brown, with faint flaxen down but little other hair. He had a faint six-pack and flat if defined pectorals. He had no biceps of which to speak; he was too lanky for that. As he shucked his pants and boxers, I noted that he had been exaggerating about the size of his equipment. He was hard with excitement at the possibilities, and he probably would have had trouble meeting five and a half inches on the ruler. His balls and groin were covered in more golden down.

"I want you to have an orgasm," came the order from Phil. "But don't cum too much. Into your hand."

The moment my hand touched my seven incher, I felt pleasure rocket through my senses. My eyes rolled back involuntarily, my toes began to clench and unclench, and darkness crept into my uncertain vision. I felt fire roar through me, and then... it was over. I could feel blue balls starting to set in, but dared not cringe in pain. Part of my palm was covered in sticky white goo. A streamer of it was still connected to my pounding, unsatisfied member.

Trevor reached out, but Phil's vein-tangled forearm shot out to stop him. "A little test first," he told Trevor. In his other hand, he was easily hefting one of my 30 pound dumbbells. I wondered if I could still curl that much.

Glancing reluctantly at the semen in my hand, Trevor turned toward Phil. His five inch dick bobbed its agreement.

With a grunt, Trevor attempted to curl the 30 pound dumbbell in his right arm. He struggled and strained, veins burrowing out of his forehead and forearms, his slim musculature shaking with the effort. Finally, he curled it to about half way before letting it drop to the ground with a clunk.

"Now, how about some juice?" Phil gestured to my hand. "Rub it on Trevor, Dane."

I reached out with trepidation, placing a hand on the faint musculature of Trevor's abdominals. The instant the cum on my hand touched Trevor's skin, his cock leapt. Out of habit, I jerked my hand away. I felt the warm wetness vanish, saw Trevor's eyes widen.

A tremor passed through him. There had not been very much to change him, I thought. But almost imperceptibly, I saw the transformation begin. He groaned in pleasure as his abs tightened, hardening while some of the thin layer of fat concealing them dissipated. Growing shoulders and lats and a shrinking waist turned his lanky build into a slender but noticeable V-shape. I absently wondered if his deltoids were just expanding, or if his bone structure was widening to accommodate future growth.

His chest pushed outward, giving him the look of someone who had actually worked at the bench press, albeit perhaps with poor genetics. His biceps might have expanded a bit, but I couldn't tell. I did notice that a single vein welled up beneath the surface of each unflexed arm where the skin had been flat before. I originally thought his cock had merely hardened more, but as I watched, he put on a bit of size there as well. He was a good way toward six inches when the limited catalyst to his growth wore completely out. And no one would again fairly call him a pencil dick.

Trevor looked at himself with disappointment. He had not changed much, although his body had definitely metamorphosed from slender to lithely muscled. He glanced at me coolly, then bent to retrieve the weight. I didn't realize until he began to curl it with relative ease that I had been holding my breath. Trevor was smiling down at me. He looked slightly taller than I remembered. I hoped that was mostly in my imagination, the height difference between the two of us was ominous enough.

He pumped the 30 pound weight, and I watched the vein-split biceps of his right arm leap and swell, leap and swell, every time he curled. He was getting something of a pump, and his right biceps had formed itself into a solid goose egg of muscle.

Phil broke my rapt concentration on the muscle.

"So, how can he help you?" he asked.

 

Part 15

Hatred. No. Not hatred. Loathing.

That was all I felt for Trevor as his hand worked ineptly over the stalk of my penis. Sure, Trevor was a wealthy sod who had never needed to do anything on his own, but I know his parents didn't hire someone to jack him off. I almost felt like giving him some pointers, but I was moderately indisposed, being the target of his incompetent attentions.

My balls were churning with the agony of holding back the tide, begging for wet release. A disastrous release, if the wicked look of anticipation on my molester's face was any indication. I almost wished that Phil were still in the room, but he had left after striking a bargain with Trevor. I wish I'd been able to overhear what had been worth fifteen minutes alone with me. Maybe Phil didn't realize how potent a catalyst for growth I was becoming.

"Fifteen minutes with him," Phil had said as he sauntered out of the room. "It's all you, Trevor."

Not that Trevor was making the best possible effort to get his money's worth. His hands were rubbing at my member frantically, as if I were some sort of cow to be milked. It was almost humorous, which helped me keep from spewing at the coarse meanderings of his hands. If I could just hold out for about ten minutes longer, I'd be free again. And Trevor would not have what he wanted. But on the other hand, my balls were still full from earlier denial, when Phil had not let me produce my full load. My firm little six-pack kept clenching with the effort, but my struggles were getting weaker. After all, it's natural for a body to want release.

But there was nothing natural about this. The world had turned upside down, and I felt like I was falling off. No, maybe that was just the blood rushing out of one head and into the other.

Sweat gave Trevor's newly-refined musculature a defining sheen. I tried to keep my mind away from the leaping of his slender biceps and triceps as he jerked on my throbbing cock. Strove to ignore the bobbing of his average-sized cock. Fought to maintain control over the urge to cum. Oh boy, was I ever going to explode.

Then, abruptly, Trevor stopped.

He looked into my eyes, the mad thirst in his meeting the desperation in mine. He was panting as if he had won an Olympic event. A silky coil of bleach-blond hair was plastered down across the tanned plane of his brow. He licked his lips, which spread into a thin smile.

"It's called irony, you know," he told me matter-of-factly. In contrast to his fervor of just a few moments ago, the tennis player's dispassion was jarring.

"Irony?" I grunted, sending a frantic thought of puppies and green fields running through my mind. This was a chance for salvation I would not miss.

"This whole thing, with you helping me grow. I remember how nice you were about teaching me on the weights." He shook his sweat-matted head. "But I never learned how to get results. You know why?"

I breathed in, intentionally biting back my response for a few moments. Time. "Because you never devoted yourself to it?"

"Buzz! Wro-ong." Trevor laughed to himself, a quiet bark of air. "It's all about genetics. I just don't have the right makeup for this. Sure, I'm tall enough. But I've got small bones, thin muscles... nothing like the potential that you had." With a shrug, he corrected, "Have. Hell, you're still buff."

Frustration blazed. "So, what. You weren't born with it, so it's all right to steal it? To take it from someone who doesn't want to give it to you? I tried to help you."

"You don't understand at all. I deserve to have a body that men will envy and women will want. I'm special."

"One of a kind, just like everyone else."

"You think it's so funny, don't you. You won't be laughing for long."

Hysteria overcame my common sense, and I began to laugh. Hard. "Do you even hear yourself?" I managed to speak between thunderous bouts of laughter. "You sound like a fucking evil villain. Why don't you just pull out the laser cannon, leave an evil henchman in the room, and let me escape?"

"Stop mocking me!" His voice was sharp, clear ice.

"Mocking?" Tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes. I stared at him, but I couldn't escape the feeling that my eyes betrayed hints of insanity. I realized now that, whatever my physical changes, I was not the same person I had been at the beginning of this harrowing experience. "I'm not mocking you, Trevor. Not any more. I pity you. You've made a deal with the devil. You watch. Some day, it's going to come d—ohhh, oh!"

Trevor had, swift as a striking asp, bent down and taken my member in his mouth. His tongue worked over my painfully stiff cock, begging it for its power. Caught unawares, my body responded as it had long wanted to do. My back arched. Toes began to clench in uncontrollable spasms.

I felt my balls churn, their hot wet payload roiling with the finality of their triumph. I had lost. The shame of that was only momentary against the explosion of senseless, searing flame that burned through my system. It rippled outward from my erogenous zones, tearing down the walls of my sense until my entire body was consumed in the eruption of pleasure.

I came so hard that Trevor's head rocked backward, but somehow he kept his mouth around my cock even as he began to cough on the seed of his superiority. After the first shot, he took it down like a champion. Each pulsing of my cock was heaven in my veins, and it just kept blasting out of me. I spent myself at the same time that Trevor pulled off.

He fell backwards, his eyes rolling up into his head.

Blissful, incoherent moans bubbled out of his throat as he settled himself on the floor, arms and legs splayed out, his pounding cock pointing toward the ceiling. It began an abrupt series of spurts. Gouts of pale fluid erupted from the tip, spraying two or three feet into the air. Of course, his erection did not subside.

It was swelling. The cock thickened as if preparing for another round of spurts, but instead it retracted slightly, then pulsed even larger. As it thickened, Trevor's tool lengthened, and suddenly, Trevor was no longer average at all but big and growing.

I had been so absorbed in the massing immensity of Trevor's member that I'd missed many of the bodily changes. The shape of his face had been altered; his jaw had broadened, his hazel eyes had deepened to a warm amber. Even his tan had shaded slightly, becoming a wealthy caramel. Cords of muscle wormed their way under the tennis player's former lithe build, strengthening him, expanding him, improving him.

His neck was bulging outward, swelling in time with the bordering traps. His shoulders were literally broadening. I could hear the cracking and settling of expanding bone, but Trevor looked to be in too much pleasure to feel any sort of pain. His delts were expanding at the same time. They could have been balloons but for the writhing striations and sharp cuts as they segued into his mounding triceps and biceps. Veins wound their way under the surface of his skin, dark blue even against the perfect depth of his tan.

His back looked like it was arching, but really his glutes and lats were working in concert to push the small of his back off the ground. At the same time, his chest mounded up, creating a rippling indentation between the two burgeoning muscles. They expanded outward, bulging toward the sky and forcing his nipples to point downward. His pectorals were an exquisite, massive shelf that protruded out over his abdomen by at least two inches. It was quite a feat, given how his abdomen was reshaping itself.

Trevor's abdomen had been flat before, with the barest traces of rounded abdominal muscles. Now they were framed by rippling obliques, and the recession of remaining fat had left his abs a cobbling of squared muscles, one row only slightly offset from the other in the march toward his cock. The downy hair there had thickened into a coarse treasure trail, but his cock and balls were still nestled in thin golden silk.

He bent his right arm slightly, causing a vein crisscrossed grapefruit of muscle to bulge out. It was pristinely balanced by a larger tricep with a full, sharp-edged belly. I felt my cock stirring again.

The man I had resisted creating came again as I watched. White gouts sprayed up toward the ceiling, splattering there with drumbeats of force. His cock was easily over nine inches, and judging from the muscular size that he had gained, he was possibly stronger than Jason now if not quite as tall. As his overlarge paw moved to clutch his huge member and jerk the last few pulses of cream from its span, I noted his size. One time, and he was almost as big as Jason.

Clapping sounds came from the doorway. I did not even bother to look.

Phil's voice said, "Dane. I've got to admit, I'm impressed."

 

Part 16

"You both look so small," Trevor rumbled. I almost turned to jelly at the sound of his voice. It seemed to resonate at the precise frequency of my erogenous zones. He towered head and shoulders over me, a behemoth of ripped muscle. Thankfully, fresh anxiety kept me almost soft.

Looking at Phil was another story. I kept my head down to avoid sight of his too-tight shirt and the gargantuan package that strained the front of his grey sweats. One sight of those features, so rugged yet carved as if with a monofilament tool, and I knew I would be at full mast. Worse yet, I think I liked it. I tested out the thought: I loved liking men, with their unique hardnesses, their topography so different than a woman's soft curves and lush valleys. Even though I logically knew that Phil had transformed the very fabric of my mind, every sense I had told me that this was how I was supposed to be.

"That's something that can change very quickly," Phil was saying. "Remember, Trevor, I'm in control here. Dane's mine."

"Why aren't you gigantic yet?" My eyes strayed up. Trevor's brow quirked. His arms were folded across the massive breadth of his chest, bulging and jumping with every breath or minute movement. The thick slabs of muscle running down his forearms pushed against his rounded bowling ball pectorals. Even relaxed, it looked as if the muscles were warring with each other, leviathan strength against leviathan strength. Trevor was heedless of the fact that the boxers he wore were strained and tearing from the magnitude of his quads. The boxers were lucky that they had a hole in the front. His huge member hung out of the opening, almost too wide for comfort even though it was soft.

"Because I can get big any time I want, Trevor. There's more to this game than size, for me." His cryptic smile solicited no direct response from Trevor.

"Can I get bigger?" Of course that would be the first question out of the former twig's mouth.

Phil shrugged his shoulders, stretching the verdant fabric of his—my—shirt. "Sure. But not now. I think it's about time for some alone moments with my roommate. We have so much to do."

Trevor frowned.

"Well? Aren't you going to get your clothes?"

"But they won't fit," Trevor protested.

Phil shook his head and sighed. "Do you really think anyone's going to stop a 6'3 Hercules with a porn star's schlong on the way back to his room? You'll probably have people spontaneously cumming on the way there."

Meek as milk in spite of his size, Trevor bent to pick up his clothes, giving us a superb sight of the flexing muscles of his ass. The boxers only accentuated his cheeks' dimpled musculature. Behind Trevor's back, Phil hefted his crotch once. He threw a wicked grin in my direction. It must have given him a rush to know that he could undo Trevor's dream body and more with a few sprays from that overlarge package.

When Trevor had finally sauntered out the door, Phil turned toward me. His face was split by a broad grin that seemed to display every single one of his flawless white teeth. I lost myself for a moment in his dimples, the perfect slope and squaring of his stubbled jaw.

Possession rife in his voice, Phil whispered, "Don't be afraid, Dane. I still need you for now. You're so far along that it wouldn't make sense to choose others yet. Your balls have got to be exhausted, don't they?"

I acceded to Phil's command not to be afraid. Soothing relaxation entered through my muscles, but I remained huddled against the side of my bed. I had looked taller to Phil before this change, I recalled. Sudden sympathy for his past situation warred with the loathing I had for all the choices he had made since gaining his range of powers. I hated being small, just as he must have.

"Yeah, I guess they are, Phil." I could not muster the effort to play his game, even with my newfound appreciation for his situation. My eyes drifted back down to the floor between my feet. I had pulled on my boxers, too. Plaid. They were a little tight, having once been Phil's. After all, I was pretty muscular for 5'8.

My roommate crouched down in front of me, using a finger to raise my chin almost lovingly. All I could see was how, as he pushed my chin up, his biceps tightened and shortened, separated from his triceps. I marveled that, as large as he had gotten, Phil somehow managed to look lithe and graceful rather than bulky. Only about an inch taller than me, and I still felt dwarfed by his sheer presence.

He looked at me, glacial eyes meeting mine, and his lips parted. I thought he was about to kiss me. Instead, he whispered, "stand up."

I did as I was bid, and he led me over to the table in the center of our dorm. He stripped off his shirt and pants, revealing his squared pectorals and the steely muscles of has abdomen. A ruddy golden patch of curls gleamed at the center of his chest. His quarter-sized nips pointed downward, forced that way by his burgeoning pecs. They were hard.

Everything about Phil bespoke layers upon layers of solid muscle. He was large, yes, but his weight probably far outstripped his size. His skin was vacuum-sealed over the dense cobbles of his abs and obliques. The breadth of his expansive shoulders and tapering of his lats formed a 'V' down to a waist that had to be no more than twenty-six inches. And there, in the trough of the 'V,' rested his package. It looked uncontrollable, struggling to escape the fabric of my old boxers. Most men with Phil's build would have had weaker legs, but not my roommate. From glutes to quads to calves, his legs were works of sculpted perfection.

"Let's armwrestle," he suggested, drawing my attention back to his face.

I flinched. So, it was time for that.

Resigned to my fate, I pulled out a seat. I held my tongue and put my arm out on the table. Flexing momentarily, I was disheartened by the feeble biceps that peaked out of my arm. It looked smaller compared to Phil's—and more so against the eighteen or nineteen inches that Trevor's arms had swollen to with the most recent dose of my cream—but I tried not to dismiss myself as a lost cause. I had an ace in the hole that Phil would not and could not learn about: Professor McTague.

Aside from the differences in scale, our armwrestling match began exactly as had the one only a short span of days ago. I was shocked by the strength of Phil's grip, but if it had been steel back then, he had since upgraded to titanium. His arms were 15 inches to my flexed 14, but the difference was more marked than simple measurements could suggest. Mine looked flimsy despite their definition, and Phil's were superdense while managing to retain their shocking striations and vascularity. And then he tightened his grip, sending his muscles exploding outward past 16 inches. The nest of dark veins threatened to burst out of his skin, forced up by the softball of solid meat below.

Phil pulled. I held fast for several moments, but his strength was inexorable; mine, fleeting. Moment by moment, centimeter by centimeter, I felt him drive my arm toward the table. I took a breath and let out a furious grunt. Adrenaline pumped through me, setting my heart to pounding. I growled. Phil smirked. But somehow, I managed to push his much larger arm back into an upright position. I felt a tremor arc through my muscles, a twinge of pain at so much effort placed in one action against a vastly more impressive force. The look of surprise on his face was worth the expenditure of my endurance.

He leaned into the push a bit more, sending me into a swift retreat. Weeks of pent-up rage were all that kept me from an immediate collapse. Greater experience with armwrestling lent me knowledge of leverage. I held myself there, a hand's span away from the surface of the table, from loss. I knew I would lose, but I would not let this be an easy fight.

Phil's features twisted with his effort, a mirror of my own mask of fury. I was gaining in millimeters now, and swiftly depleting my muscles' strength. My entire body felt as if it were on fire. Sweat beaded on the surface of his chest, which was swollen with a rapidly-progressing pump. Something fleshy pounded against the underside of the table. Phil had gotten an erection.

I watched the veins leap out of my own arm in protest of easy defeat. Nonetheless, Phil stopped retreating, held me fast. Realization defeated me: there was really nothing I could do, and no point to continue this farce any longer. He was simply superior. With that thought, my hand slammed against the table with such force that I was surprised the wood did not shatter.

And Phil smiled, pushing himself out of his seat in triumph. He raised his swollen biceps into a victory flex, inviting me brusquely to come and feel the muscles that had been my defeat. The vein-crossed muscles rose out of his arms, lemon-shaped pumped peaks dwarfing baseballs.

Mindless and thirsting for a touch of his perfection, the size so at odds with his definition, I stumbled over to him. Our cocks were both sticking out of our boxers. My hands lingered on his arms, trying to compress the biceps. I could not even get my hand to span from the peak to the belly of his triceps. And I would have had greater ease crushing solid stone. Phil had ascended to a different level of power. Desperate and unthinking, helpless to my urges, I leaned into the stone mass of his chest and craggy eight-pack. The caress became a shared embrace.

Orgasm.

I felt Phil's fluid warmth spatter against my leg even as my balls emptied the droplets remaining to them. I wanted this. I wanted him to be my master. I would have given up right then, if it had not been for Professor McTague's encounters with me.

My roommate was swelling, his impossibly dense musculature bulging larger and thicker. I did not bother to watch any more. He stank of sweat and musk and man. I felt his mass increase as I diminished. It was almost as if he were draining me of my masculinity, becoming a radiant god of a man as I shrank into this subservient creature. I drew my hands up onto his shoulders. His delts rapidly expanded beyond the point where I could clutch at them easily, so I attempted to readjust my grip. Even then, he was getting taller and I, shorter. I let my hands slip away from his delts to caress the craggy horseshoes of his triceps: he was abruptly too tall for me to reach his shoulders easily. His cock was a fist pushing insistently into my abdomen, an inch or two above my diminishing tool.

As Phil drew me tighter into his ballooning arms, his cock was forced up against my stomach. It was so long now that it stretched up to my chest. His balls felt immense on my lower abs. I was forced against the unyielding muscles of his abdomen and pectorals. I didn't bother to try and pull away. He was so strong now that I would escape only when he wanted me to. I was not just Phil's roommate any more. I was completely in his power.

 

Part 17

"It can't happen again," I whispered, clutching my head. "I'm getting weaker, but it's not just physical. I want him so bad I can practically taste it, and—"

Liam cut me off with a shake of his head. He was showing his true form today, or at least the semblance of it his vanity allowed him to recollect. He ran a hand through his shaggy dark brown locks. I absently decided that I liked his dark curls better than the straight red-brown he had adopted for his facade as Professor McTague.

"You have to stay strong against Phil's influence, Dane. It's a vicious cycle, this. He's growing and you're shrinking, which is affecting your mind in ways that no sane psychologist would think to research. And who knows what else dosing you with his semen is doing—don't do that, Dane!"

I looked up, embarrassed. My hand had strayed down into my pants and was caught in the act of gripping my six inches. I could tell that I was diminished after my most recent encounter with Phil. The fact that I had shrunken to scale had not altered my perceptions of what an average guy looked like. And I was below average in height, though not yet considerably so. At 5'6, I was a couple of inches shorter than Liam. He looked big, but the difference was probably psychological. It did not stop me from looking up at him with baleful eyes at his use of command over me.

"Look, I'm sorry," he continued. "I'm sorry for having to use you like this, Dane. None of this is your fault, and no one should be expected to hold out indefinitely against the forces that have been changing your life."

I let my frown fade. "Liam. What's happening with Phil may not be my fault, but I have to take responsibility for my actions. I chose to go along with your plan. I'll stick to it."

He nodded, as if that settled it. It struck at my heart that, even after I had let him down and given in to Phil, he still had faith in me. A niggling thought at the edge of my mind asked how much of Liam's kindness was based upon his own guilt in this situation. I banished the concept.

Liam put his hands on my shoulders. He had big, strong hands for someone naturally of moderate stature. In this form his typical sweater and trousers were a bit too snug, so he wore a sleeveless T-shirt. He was not an extraordinary example of manhood, but I wondered why he would make such an obvious change to his body in his transformation into Professor McTague. I laughed, abruptly.

"What's so funny?" He grinned, displaying a nice grin that was not quite perfect. It made his smile into a rogue's smirk.

I shrugged. "You're taller than me. I realized it before, but it's very strange. And I think I'm going crazy." My laugh died.

"Oh," he responded. He looked abashed, and more than a little worried. "Well, once we've dealt with this problem..."

"No," I said. "Don't make any promises. There's a good chance I might have to stay like this for a long time. Maybe it's not even reversible. Just... you said that you had good news for me?" The subject change was hasty, and the look Liam gave me said that he understood. He did not want to remind me what I had lost any more than he had to.

Liam shrugged. "Only that I've exhausted all of the options the symbiote and I could come up with. There are a few viable solutions. We could kill Phil, but who knows if the symbiote would just reanimate him somehow? I know that Phil's symbiote is different than mine, but the extent of its mutation can't be so easily judged."

"Plus, I think there are enough zombie movies out there that the living dead thing would just be cliché ."

Liam laughed. "It's good that you're keeping your sense of humor." More soberly, he continued, "I didn't like the idea of hurting Phil, even after what he's done. The symbiote, however, is a completely different story. Maybe it's just my own symbiote's thoughts here, but Phil's is like a rabid beast. It has to be put down for good. Even if it costs Phil his life. I hope it won't."

"So, what's your plan?" I prompted.

"The symbiote is a complex network of cells that can somehow hold conscious thoughts. It can disintegrate and reintegrate at will. But it seems immune to the toxins and chemical changes it puts out. So what happens if we attack its resistances?"

"Uhm. It... ah... buh..."

Liam snorted, but the twinkle in his eyes set me at ease. "It's a good thing you're not in my class, Dane."

"Okay, okay. I guess it would start poisoning itself."

"Right, and it would lose control completely and hopefully kill itself. I'm not sure what would happen to Phil. It depends on how integrated the symbiote is into his—"

"Liam." I shut my eyes, rolling the words inside of my mouth before I said them. "I don't care what happens to Phil. You told me he wasn't under the control of the symbiote. He's the one who's been torturing me. It adapted to him, not him to it."

He nodded. "It's going to take the better part of a day before I can synthesize the chemicals I need. Will you be okay until then?"

"Sure," I said. I should have been overjoyed; instead, I felt numb.

"Anything I can do for you?"

"Sure, just make me 6'1 again."

At his hurt look, I waved the flippant suggestion away. "Just juice me up." I tried hard to sound enthusiastic.

"Juice—Oh. Uh, let's see." He stared into my eyes, vivid emerald meeting nut-brown. "You will resist Phil's influence. You will keep your mind focused on the goal, and retain control over yourself no matter how you are coerced. You will..."

*****

I whistled a merry tune as I slid the key into our room's lock. As was common, I felt suffused with well-being after my session with Liam. Even before this incident, I probably would have thought that he was a hot guy. He didn't have my refined looks, or my former size, but I could have seen him making some girl very happy. Or guy.

"Wonder if he's gay," I muttered to myself. In the same mental breath, I wondered if I was, too. "When did that happen?"

I was interrupted by the door jerking open. My key was still in the lock, frozen there by my momentary soliloquy. The motion of the door pulled me forward, hard.

"Who were you talking to?"

It took me a moment to associate the voice with its owner because of several reasons. First, I was much closer to the owner's taut-muscled chest as it strained against his too-small grey wifebeater. It was a little lighter in shade than his boxer-briefs, and darkened with anticipatory sweat. My eyes were actually level with his nose. Second, he had lost weight since water polo season, and he wasn't quite so tan. The dusting of stubble and not-quite-trimmed goatee were also new. So was the crazed look in his eyes. I almost lost myself in my exploration of this newcomer.

"No one," I said, squaring my shoulders.

The crazed-looking youth looked down at me and laughed, yanking me into the room with strength that surprised me.

"Dane, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." He spoke in a cold, clinical way as he slammed the door. That tone was at odds with his fevered face, something I had seen from my teammates only in the heat of struggle against an opposing team. The invasive fingers of one hand tore at my shirt as the other fought off my struggles. "You're small. Oh, you're so damn small. So weak. And you're all mine, for the next... oh, hour or so."

 

Part 18

'Don't fight him,' I told myself. 'You'll just lose.'

Hard wood dug into my back as my assailant held me against the door. His eyes bored into mine, fiercer by far than the sharp edges of the door frame. The irises were dark, almost black, in his pale face. He looked as if he had not shaved in several days. A droplet of sweat hung at the end of his Romanesque nose and, as he leaned over me, fell onto my bare chest. The remnants of my white shirt hung in tatters, framing my lithe physique. He looked like a man deprived food for days, and I was the roast waiting at the end of his torture.

I stilled my voice to calm. What was his name? James... Jack... no!

"Johnny. Hi. Uh—"

"Hi," he answered, inanely. "Cripes, you're still hot, even small."

I shifted slightly against the door, and Johnny ground his weight into me. I let out a hoarse breath. "What are you doing?" I wheezed.

"What am I doing? Funny answer there." He dragged me away from the door and threw me on the bed, his hundred and sixty pounds coming down on top of me. Johnny held me down, his hands locking mine against the bed. I cringed inwardly at the thought of where things would go from here.

"Do you even know who I am?"

"Sure, sure I do, Johnny." An edge of panic entered my voice. He was stronger than me, and I was trying to fight an erection even as I struggled to keep from infuriating him. "You were on the junior varsity squad."

He laughed. Hot breath assaulted my face. It was scented with the fierce chill of spearmint. "Not important enough to get the attention of the great Dane Jackson, water polo jock extraordinaire, was I?"

"Johnny, what—"

"Every day." He drew his words out as he stared into my eyes. "Every single fucking day, Dane. Of course, you knew how many girls wanted you. You were so well-aware of how many guys wanted to be you. But did you even notice the guys that wanted you? You know what it's like to love someone and know that they're out of your league? That nothing you can do will make them feel the same way?"

I sighed. Something crumpled inside of me. "Johnny, I'm not gay."

"You weren't. No, no one was straighter than Dane Jackson. But then you started shrinking. It was slow at first, an inch here or there, but that sort of stuff adds up. Probably thought no one noticed, because you were so damn good that you didn't have any real friends. You stopped looking like you after awhile, but I was watching." He diverted a hand from holding me down to tap his own temple. "I saw what happened to you, Dane. But I didn't get it. And then I saw your roommate."

His bulk on top of me was hard, with a toned musculature. I swore I could feel the individual muscles of his abdomen as they pressed against the faint six-pack that decorated my own. I knew I could feel his cock pulsing over mine. He was enjoying this. So, that was it. He had paid Phil to be able to act out his fantasy with me. He was as depraved as my roommate, but had been longer deprived.

"It's too much of a coincidence that you got smaller just when he started to get bigger. I think you made him grow. And that other guy I saw you at the gym with. You gave it to Jason, and Phil, and that bastard Trevor, but did you even think about me?"

Go fish. "Johnny, a relationship takes time. You never even talked to me."

He breathed out. The fever was still simmering in his eyes, but some of its original fire had dimmed. "You don't understand what it's like to be gay. How it is to see so many guys that are so damn perfect. To want to be with them, and know that they're never going to want you back. You don't know what it's like to be helpless, but I'm going to show you."

I had fire enough of my own to contest Johnny's, but all that escaped me was a sigh. Honesty sucks, sometimes. "You're wrong. I know what it's like to be gay. Feel my cock. It's swollen against your leg because you, Johnny Pearson, are making me hot. Because my roommate did something horrible to me. He's dominating me, and he's letting other guys do it. But do I even look like the Dane Jackson you wanted, Johnny? Am I built? Tall? Confident? He's taken all that away, and you're no better than he is if you force yourself on me this—"

He kissed me, harshly, on the mouth. His tongue forced its way around mine, not even giving me the chance to fight off the advance. I felt myself stiffen even more and damned my roommate in my mind for doing this to me. Some part of me was enjoying this invasion, and I wondered if I would ever be free from the damage Phil had done to me.

My former teammate came up for air and smiled. He could have had quite a few girls or guys begging after him, with that squared jaw and those finely-drawn features. His nose was bold and straight. His black hair seemed even shorter because it was matted down against his skull.

"No more excuses, no more talking," he whispered, husky voice breathless with his unrequited passion. "You're going to want me. Stay here," Johnny ordered. "If you run, I'll hurt you."

He stood up to his full five feet and nine inches, smiling at me with twisted benevolence. As he did, he tugged at the sweats I had been wearing, pulling them and the boxers underneath down in one fell swoop. Six inches of meat stood up, proud despite its shrunken state. Something in me wanted to laugh at the absurd, perverse situation. Wisely, I didn't. With practiced swiftness, he pulled his shirt off over his head.

I had never had time or desire to study the intricacies of Johnny's body. Even though he was not in season shape, he had a nice physique. He was slender, but his chest was well-pumped. Veins stood out from his slender arms, more so because of his recent exertions. There was a bit of coarse hair in the center of his chest, but not too much. A trail dotted his lower abs, which were not quite in firm relief. His cock was tearing at the insides of his grey boxer-briefs. It looked as big as mine.

He plunged a hand into his trousers and worked around, winking at me in what might have been an attempt at seduction. He raised his other arm slowly, bending it with agonizing slowness, as if he wanted the flex to last forever. Slowly but surely, a small but hard muscle expanded out of his arm. It reached a point of flexion and leapt to full attention, settling into a perfect split peak. He was no bodybuilder, but water polo had left him with some obvious strength and muscularity.

"This is what you like, isn't it?" He asked this as he lowered his flexed arm and withdrew his other hand from his sole article of clothing.

"You've practiced," I said, almost lightly.

He stared at me for a moment as he segued into a most muscular pose, clearly trying to discern whether I was making fun of him. As he tensed the muscles of his chest, they exploded into stern relief. He had done a good job of working his pectorals, I noted. "Every day in the mirror," he grunted.

"Good job," I offered, lamely.

"Not good enough," he answered. "Not good enough for varsity. If I'd been able to make it onto varsity, maybe... maybe we could've worked." He flexed his abs, sending his six-pack from muddled to clear. My cock leapt.

Before I knew what was happening, he bent forward and gave my cock a firm squeeze.

"You know what's coming next, lover," Johnny whispered.

If I didn't, my organ sure did. It required only the lightest brush of his hand's talents to bring me to a point of discomfort. My toes curled reflexively, and a hot rush traveled through my senses as blood shot to the point of contact. I knew the feeling too well. With an insistence that bordered on the zealously self-destructive, my balls began to tingle. They forced their load out into the stalk of my shaft.

I was shocked, however, as Johnny's hand tightened its grip around my dick, halting the orgasm in mid-progress. Well, kind of. A bit of jism shot from the purple head, lent speed and trajectory by Johnny's sudden squeeze. It hit him in the face with a splat I could have sworn was audible. His grip seemed to tense, to strengthen around my cock. I wondered if he had tightened it intentionally, or if he was already getting stronger. He held out until the end of my orgasm without letting any more escape, but as soon as he let go, hot sperm began to well up from the slit like a volcano oozing lava.

Through the haze of post-orgasmic bliss, I could see him smiling. "That's enough," he told me.

And he flexed again. The changes hit in the middle of his flexion, starting with a spasm that rocketed through his athletic body. As I had seen before, my cum shot through his body just moments after being absorbed into his skin, eating away at his sparse body fat as it made way for further changes. His abdominals flexed involuntarily, rising out of the surface of his stomach's skin.

But his biceps had already been decorated by a few veins. Now, they were pulsing, the natural split heads being emphasized by sudden, uncontrolled growth. I had gotten very accustomed to visual measurements, and his arm had swollen in moments from 13 to just shy of 14 inches.

The devil was in the details. His shoulders were slightly broader and more striated. Full-bellied traps rose up where there had been none, thickening the column of his neck. His Adam's apple was pushed into prominence. Where before his body had been straight and slim, his lats were pushing out to form the hint of a V-taper. I had some very brief thoughts about washing clothes on the serratus muscles pushed into visibility by his expanding back and the simultaneous reduction of his fat. Best—or worse—yet, the cock that had been straining at his boxer-briefs had managed to free itself, in a sense. The barest edge of its head was pushing beyond the waistband of his sole article of clothing. His boxer-briefs were made too tight by the swelling of his glutes. So he dropped them, and kicked them off with thicker, more toned legs.

"Am I hot enough yet for you?" He asked me, the seduction coming to his voice more easily now that it had dropped just a few notes.

The beat that it took me to nod was apparently too long for his ego to take. He fell on me eagerly. I could tell that he was heavier and stronger. As his naked cock met mine, more of my semen smeared upon his naked lower body.

Now I was sure I could feel his abs against me, because my left hand was all over them. The stink of his sweat was an orgasm to my senses, but my mind kept a cool detachment. I wasn't giving in mentally, even though my body was well beyond the edge. Johnny's burgeoning pecs swelled against my lips as he ground them against my face, and I could feel his cock feeding off my juices, already well beyond the size of my own.

My right hand found Johnny's biceps, and he obliged by pushing himself up and flexing one arm and then the other. His tennis ball-sized biceps easily forced my clenching hand open. I could feel and see the coils of veins beneath his sweaty skin, veins that were being pushed into further relief by his growth. Johnny's back widened, forming an ever-sharpening taper.

And as his growth began to slow, I came again. Spurt after spurt splattered against his chest, absorbing almost as quickly as I could make more. Didn't he deserve this? After all, I had ignored him. What? No. I steeled myself against Johnny's plight. I had enough plights of my own.

His biceps were mounding even larger. He uncurled his arms once and flexed again. They swelled past sixteen inches of baseball-sized steel. I was momentarily distracted from his increasing mass—and damn, he was practically crushing my legs. He must have weighed 190 easy, and how tall was he?—by the drumbeat of an eight-inch cock as it thwacked against his abdomen that appeared cut from steel. Each of the eight individual abdominals exploded in and out with every one of Johnny's panting breaths.

"How do you like me now, Dane? Am I good enough for you? Am I in your league?" He shouted at me, grinding his body against me, like he was trying to forge us into one mass of sweat and cum and muscle.

*CRACK!*

Sex left the building as something thudded against the room door.

Johnny fell away from me in shock, tumbling off the undersized twin bed and slamming to the floor with a loud thud.

*CRACK!*

Whatever it was, it pounded against the door with inhuman strength. The force of the impact rattled the plaster and left a bulge in the wood's interior side.

"Holy shit," I heard Johnny whisper from the floor.

The roar of rage that preceded the next *CRACK!* against the door was deep-throated and almost inhuman in its hunger. Added fury proved to be too much for the wooden barrier, which cracked inward with the force, gave way, and belatedly fell to meet the floor.

An immense figure was silhouetted by the lights of the common room outside. Its massive shoulders heaved beneath the black sleeveless t-shirt it wore.

"He's mine," the shape snarled.

It was Jason.

 

Part 19

Jason tilted his head, sending a series of quiet pops through the air as his neck cracked. His eyes roved the room, taking my nude and erect state into brief, predatory consideration. I hadn't recalled how big he was. He looked larger. Maybe he had been working out. Neither Liam nor I had considered what long-term effects my semen would have on someone. Perhaps his musculature had been strengthened, given new growth potential... now was definitely not the time to be considering these things.

"Where is he," he snarled. "I heard him. Where is he, Dane!?"

I shrugged. This was just lovely.

He stared at me, ice and fire warring in his eyes. "I know he's here!"

With a feigned casual air, I raised a hand into the air. I gestured with a single finger toward the other side of the bed. There was a beat of absolute silence.

Then a large, bloated wall of muscle launched itself over my bed, hurtling toward Jason and thundering a stream of basso curses. The two collided with a resounding thump. Swollen biceps wrapped around bulging lats as the two titans grappled for dominance. Jason had at least 30 pounds on Johnny, but Johnny was a blur of fury, clawing and grasping in ways that Jason had probably never experienced. I'll say one thing for water polo. It teaches you how to kick ass.

Of course, it this point I was too busy watching the struggle with bated breath. An absent meandering of my mind made me wonder if the people living above our room even bothered making noise complaints with all the madness that had happened in our room. I somehow doubted that Phil would have let them become an obstacle to his master plan.

"I... need... more," Jason grunted. A 20 inch biceps was crushing Johnny's windpipe. The steely girder of his arm was soliciting a series of wheezing grunts from Jason's opponent. At least, it was until Johnny broke an arm free and jabbed his elbow up into Jason's sternum. The angle was bad enough to prevent serious damage, but Jason dropped away, gasping for lost breath.

I sat up on the bed, my tool thrumming as if it, too, were a combatant priming for the fight. Johnny fell on Jason in his moment of weakness as I reveled in mine. I watched from my front-row seat, and Johnny began throwing punches. His stony knuckles pounded into Jason's face. It sounded like he was beating meat. Considering my perilous erection, I revised that assessment before it became a problem.

And then Johnny flew. Literally. Jason's arms raced into motion. In unison they rammed against Johnny's meaty, rounded pecs, sending him hurtling away. A quiet curse bubbled up on my lips. I had been so concerned with Phil that I had forgotten the danger that Jason could do. And what about Trevor and Johnny? Even if I ended Phil's dominion over my life, wasn't I responsible for—

"Holy... unnngh—" I was simultaneously shocked and derailed from my previous train of thought as a hand came up from the side of the bed and grasped my cock. It was followed moments later by Johnny's sweat-drenched face. Even in his state of disarray, and backlit as he was by the lights of the outer room, he was beautiful. His features were carved from granite. His mouth was hot and wet over my tool as he licked the remnants of my previous orgasm from its length. And, stimulated as I was, I shot another volley down his throat. It felt like I was shrinking again, because his hand began to swell on my tool, but I had no chance to see how big Johnny got. He was bodily lifted and hurled out of the room by Jason's tremendous figure.

Jason was rewarded for his efforts by the second shot of my cum, which sprayed across his black shirt. The fluid glistened starkly for a moment before disappearing into the fabric. Jason's growth was nearly instantaneous. I wondered if the limits of his genetic potential were as strained as the straps of his shirt, which twanged in protest as his mammoth pectorals bulged yet larger.

Jason threw his head back in exultation, his shoulders and neck swelling as broadening silhouettes against the doorway's light. The crack of muscle exploding from Jason's shirt was near-simultaneous with another attack from Johnny, who was not to be denied. I rolled and fell to the floor. The two behemoths fell onto the cum and sweat-soaked bed. Their weight was too much for my much-abused piece of furniture. It collapsed with a groan of metal and creaking of springs.

They were heedless of the shattered bulk of the bed beneath them. Johnny had Jason in a Full Nelson, but as the two swelled and pumped against one another, I could see that Jason still had a slight edge. I was surprised that there were no sounds of bones breaking. Perhaps their bones had strengthened to the point where they could handle such tremendous strain.

As I stood up, an unyielding claw stretched out of the mass of manflesh and held me fast. I did what any self-respecting person about to be crushed by two muscular behemoths would have done: I stomped, hard, on the hand that held me with my other foot. The moan of pain was enough to assure me that I would take winner in this conflict.

Good thing for me that I was dashing for the door, tugging my boxers and sweats up as I went. The two were so in to beating the living daylights out of each other that they did not deign to notice my passing. I went into an all-out sprint as soon as I reached the common room. I was so busy glancing over my shoulder that I stumbled with a hearty smack into Phil's chest.

He flexed too slow to absorb the blow, so instead I was left with the sensation of being rebounded as his pectorals formed up. They pushed me away from his body so hard and abruptly that I stumbled back a bit. His pectorals were enormous, and dominated my field of vision. They were emphasized rather than concealed by his tattered white shirt. It was split at one shoulder and around both arms. His biceps pushed the fabric almost up to his armpits.

"What's going on?" he drawled, not even bothering to look down at me.

"Jason. And Johnny," I breathed.

He frowned, turning his fallen cherub's face into a storm cloud. "I see," he said, and walked into the bedroom the dueling titans had destroyed. I did not stay to hear his shouted commands. I ran, and did not stop running until I had reached the door to Christian's dormitory. If people found something unusual about a shirtless man running through the halls in sweats too large for him, they said nothing to me as I sprinted by.

Christian opened the door just seconds after I rapped on it. He was standing there in boxers white and crisp, as if they had just been pressed. The mass I had given him was defined with a fresh tan. It seemed that Christian had been avoiding wearing a shirt as much as possible since he had become gorgeous. He was larger than I recalled, and not just because I was shorter.

"God, what happened to you, Dane? That bastard shrunk you again," Christian guessed. He pulled me into his arms, which did not make me feel better. It only served to make me conscious of how much taller than me he had become in relative measurements. There was about a four-inch height difference, but he outweighed me by at least 35 pounds. His arms were thick and solid against my back, and the pectorals and abdomen I leaned into would suffer no argument. They felt like part of a statue, but they were warm and mobile, flexing and leaping with his breath. Christian's dick, too, was thick and huge between us. I did not resent him nearly so much as I felt a connection to my former self through him.

I looked up at his face and, with gentle pressure, pushed myself out of his arms. He allowed my escape. He was gorgeous, with those full lips and pale, intense eyes. The recent tan emphasized the planes of his face, making him if possible more perfect than he had appeared just after I had changed him.

That brought me back to an earlier point. "Have you been working out, Christian?"

He laughed at the abruptness of the question, and shut the door before responding. "It's crazy, Dane. I eat like I've got a tapeworm, and everything just turns into muscle. I went into the gym one night, when no one was there, and I benched 250 pounds. It was easy. I didn't dare load it up with more, but I came back the next day and suddenly the shirts that were too tight on me didn't fit at all around these."

He tensed his chest, causing it to explode outward. His pectorals were squared and in pristine symmetry, but it was noticeably larger than that with which I had left him.

"And when I was curling... well." He raised and flexed his right arm. A softball had nothing at all on the vein-wrapped biceps that exploded from his arm, highlighted by the natural slenderness of his joints. His triceps were full-bodied and swelled in perfect balance.

"They started out at 15 inches when you changed me, but now they're much closer to 17. My cock's about the only part of me that's stayed the same size." He visibly noted my silence. "I'm... sorry. Jeez, I've completed the transformation into insensitive jock. What can I do for you, Dane?"

"I need a place to sleep, for tonight."

He nodded. "Done."

"And one other thing. I'm going to need your help some time. Some time soon."

The comforting smile on Christian's face was more reassuring than the best of Liam's commands. He pulled me into the room. I was surprised by his gentleness as much as by his strength. He turned against me, giving me an excellent view of that luscious chest as he closed the door.

Christian gestured me into his room. It was smaller than mine, but he did not have a roommate to share his with. Lucky. His size would have been hard to explain. There were several pictures of him in his previous state hung up on one wall. Apparently he had done some modeling for at least one photographer, as all were artistic shots in black and white. I wondered what his new physique would do for his modeling career, but did not ask.

Christian sat on the side of his bed. "You've got my help whenever you need it, Dane."

"Why?"

"Because I like you." Simple as that. Whenever I was at my lowest during this ideal, it seemed I rediscovered some of the good in this world.

I folded my arms across my chest. "I don't want to get you stuck in the middle of this, but I might have to."

"I said I would help," he insisted, not sounding the least put out with me. He gestured for me to sit next to him on the bed, and I did. It was not the same as my responses to Phil's gestures and commands; Christian was not in the least commanding. I did it because I liked him, too. Yawning prevented me from saying so aloud.

"Looks like you're tired. Do you want to sleep over?"

I glanced around the room. "You don't really have any place for me to sleep."

As my eyes completed their circuit of the area, they met Christian's gaze. Amusement sparkled in his wise grey eyes. He was pointing at his bed, a companionable grin on his face. Somehow, I trusted him when it felt like trust was dying in the world.

"I'll sleep on the floor," he volunteered.

A long moment hung between us as I considered his offer. I sure didn't feel like lying in the same bed as another guy, especially with all that was going on. On the other hand, I was just feeling washed out by this point. I gestured toward the bed wordlessly.

With a shrug, Christian responded, "Just don't hog the sheets."

 

Part 20

"Ow. Christian, you're... too big. Ow."

It took all my strength to move Christian's arm off my body. It was practically crushing my shoulders with its weight, and was every bit as unyielding as it looked. For a moment, terror raced through my veins. We hadn't... had we? Christian obliged my frantic curiosity by rolling over in his sleep. The bed creaked with the shifting of his weight.

He was not noticeably bigger than before, but the sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window cast the beauty of his enhanced body into radiant relief. His hair was thrown into disarray by his tossing during the night, so several Asian-black locks struck across his brow. They were lustrous in the daylight. His cheeks were high and sharply-defined, their hollows framing his straight nose and those blemishless lips. The squaring of his jaw was framed by his thick neck, which like the rest of his musculature was a study of light and shadow.

His pectorals were twin mountains, bare as a child's except for the lightest coating of down about his quarter-sized nipples. On a normal physique, the nipples might have been too large. They were pushed into proportion by the sheer mass of his chest. Golden light could not penetrate wholly into the valleys of shadow formed by the muscles' size. Other shadows taunted my eye, too. Each burgeoning biceps was delineated by a trailing river of veins, bulging out of the skin even though Christian was doing anything other than flexing. I found one of my fingers tracing over the perfect horseshoe of his triceps, and watched in amusement as goosebumps echoed out from the point of contact. His abs tensed involuntarily, eight square-shaped peaks bordered by the jagged ridges of accompanying serratus muscles.

My modest eyes avoided for a moment the bulge in his boxers. They were still crisp and white, as if he had not slept in them. Maybe he starched them. The snowy hue lay in definite contrast to his delicate golden tan of his abdomen and tree trunk quads. With all of that muscle packing his too-small boxers, Christian's mammoth organ had no place to go but forward. Soft, it pressed against the fabric and left nothing to the imagination.

"Like what you see?" He was grinning at me, but clearly half-awake.

I smiled back, momentarily taken with discomfort. The smile on his face faltered and fell. I couldn't really say that I wasn't gay. After all, I had just been admiring his dick. Instead, I opted for complete candor.

"You know I do. It's just a little hard—a bit difficult," I corrected myself, "to think of other things with all that's going on."

He nodded, and the smile returned. It was not so certain as before, but the expression looked genuine. Christian had a face that could make anything look genuine.

"I know," Christian offered. "Well. I guess I know. I don't know as much as I thought I used to. You've really fucked my worldview, you know."

I forced a laugh. "Yeah. Sorry about that. I've been having such a good time doing it, too."

He sighed, folding his arms behind his head. I could have spent days admiring the flexion of his forearms, biceps, and triceps as he bent his arms. I wished that I had time. I wished that I had control of this entire situation. My lack of control had suffused my dreams and resting thoughts during the previous night. Bodies entwining, growing larger, consuming what little sense of self and pride I had left these days.

Christian shook his dark-haired head and stared up at the ceiling. As if he knew my thoughts, he said, "I know you wish you could do something to stop all of this, Dane. But you're not a superhero. You're just a guy thrown into a really messed up situation. You might as well make the best of it."

I looked at him, and my hormones took things from there. I scaled Christian's magnificent physique and maneuvered my arms around him, feeling the dense hardness of his shoulders and triceps beneath my hands, the painfully wonderful valleys formed by his pectorals beneath mine. My entire weight barely depressed them at all. And speaking of hardness, I got a very distinct feel of something stirring in his boxers. There was an answering reaction from my own desperate cock. He smelled of musk and sex and everything I wanted. Everything I needed.

My lips found Christian's. His mouth was wet and hot, the kiss fervent with need from both sides. I felt my member stiffen even more, if that were possible, and I started into his eyes. I saw only innocence, despite his lust. Somewhere inside my head, something broke.

I pushed away and looked down at Christian. A curious look bloomed in his eyes at the sudden break of our kiss. His lips parted as if to speak, but I rolled off him and back onto the bed. Sweat dotted my skin, and I suddenly felt claustrophobic. The heat of the air was closing in on me, making me ill.

"This can't happen right now," I exploded. "It's not me, Christian. This isn't me. You don't know the real Dane Jackson. If—"

He saved me the trouble of explaining by holding up a hand. "I understand. You've got to get through this. Your mind's not yours, you're not even really gay. Once you get through with Phil... then, maybe—"

"Yeah. Maybe."

All was silence except for the shifting of the covers beneath us and the pounding of my heart. I'd hurt him; that I could tell from his body language, the way he wouldn't quite look at me as I looked at his too-perfect features. The hurt I felt emanating from him warred with my own shame at the situation: I had almost used a person—no, a friend—to fullfil my pleasures without regard to consequence. Putting it that way, was I really that different from Phil after all?

I sighed. "I don't know if you really understand why we can't do this."

"I think I do. You don't feel for me what I feel for you."

My heart almost stopped.

"That's not true, Christian. I want you so bad. I want you in, on, under, over me. I just can't be sure if this is Dane Jackson talking or whatever Phil made out of me. You said that I can't control this situation, but it's worse than that. I don't even have control over myself. Before Phil changed me, I know I never wanted to bone guys. Cheerleaders and Catholic schoolgirls, yeah, but not the quarterback down the hall. And now I think I—I don't fucking know."

Christian shook his head, throwing his black locks into disarray. "Look. I think... Dane, I'm in too deep. I want you, and you can't want me right now. So I think we should just—I think you should just go."

It stung more than I thought it would. I nodded, climbed out of the bed, and, with my face burning scarlet as if I had been slapped physically rather than emotionally, began pulling on my clothing. I could feel Christian's grey eyes boring into my back as I walked out of the room without another word.

*****

It was quiet back in my dorm room, and I was alone with the masculine scent of Phil's sweat, muscles, and semen. I absently wondered who Phil had gotten to replace the door. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered to me for a few seconds. It felt like I was losing everything, and Phil was getting all that I had been given. But that wasn't it at all. I knew that I had been given some gifts—height, good looks, masculinity—and that Phil was draining those all away. But I had worked hard to be me, and he was stealing that too.

I wasn't the Dane Jackson of old any more. I was what Phil had made me, and it was time to start acting like it. He had given me the capacity for acts that the old Dane never would have considered. The line had to be drawn, and it would be drawn here. I had to stop treating this like a roller coaster ride and start playing it like a chessboard.

With resolution driving my body, I strode to the nightstand next to my broken bed and picked up the phone. I dialed. Listened. Liam's voice sounded on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Liam. This is Dane. We need to end this. Now."

There was a pause. "Come up to my office, Dane. I think I might have good news."

"It better be very good."

I hung up the phone, turned, and—for the second time today—my heart stopped. Phil's voice echoed from the doorway.

"Well, well, well. What *is* the little man doing?"

 

Part 21

Phil stalked in, the look in his eyes brooking no argument. His swollen form was clad in a white polo shirt so tight that it was merely a second skin. I wondered how he had managed to get it on, or if perhaps he had grown into it. He was enormous to my eyes, but my perception of such things was skewed.

"Nice job breaking the bed last night," said Phil. "You won't have to deal with Johnny any more, but Jason is very angry. He thinks you're his. Now, I asked you what you were doing."

"Nothing," I responded. It came out as a rasp.

Phil's smirk told me that it was the wrong answer. "You're just sitting by the bed, waiting for me to get home, aren't you? I knew you'd come around, Dane." The thought pleased him. The bulge in his too-tight jeans swelled up, and I could hear the denim creak.

Seized with inspiration, I stared at the floor. Mumbling, I encouraged his line of thought. "I was about to go and look for you. I tried to get some sleep, but I kept dreaming of you and thinking about your body, and your—"

"—my dick?" he asked. Phil was still standing in the open doorway, not caring if anyone heard him or witnessed him stroking that prodigious bulge. I could see its head creeping up along his abs and toward his pectorals. It forced his shirt away from his abs, so that I could no longer see each individual brick of his eight-pack.

"I want it so bad, and I know you want mine." I hoped that the revulsion I felt wasn't coming through.

He chuckled throatily. "You're such a little faggot. I'm going to take care of something, and then I'm going to give you what you want." With a sick smile, he explained, "I think I want to become the big man on campus today."

I had to know something. "Phil, what happened to Johnny?"

Phil's eyes flashed for a moment with jealousy. "I sent him away. Why?"

"Thank you."

Score. Phil's smile deepened, and he winked at me. It was a struggle not to lose the contents of my stomach at all the thoughts a simple wink awakened in me.

As he sauntered off into the hallway, I had to force my eyes away from the v-shaped taper of his back that was formed by his ridged lats and impossibly slender waist. It was more difficult to ignore the perfection of his ass and its twin muscular globes. My diminished member felt like it was pounding harder than my heart. I almost took it into my hands and finished what hormones had started.

Nonetheless, as soon as Phil was gone, I reached for the phone and dialed up Liam's office again. As soon as I heard the receiver pick up, I started talking. "Liam, how good is this news you were talking about?"

"Very. You've got to get up here now. The timing's essential, and it might already be too late. I'll explain when you get here."

My pulse quickened, and I felt myself sweating despite the clamminess permeating my hands and feet. "He's going to be back any second, Liam, and I think he's going to do something drastic."

"Dane, do whatever it takes, just get here. The game's up," Liam assured me.

"Okay, I'll try."

I slammed the phone down and dashed for the door. Maybe I could make it down the hallway before—

The thought was interrupted as I slammed into the concrete wall of Phil's chest. I had felt steel girders that were more yielding. His body was even hotter than usual, as if from recent exertion, and a tear had formed along his right sleeve, revealing more of the coiled muscle and vein of his biceps. My head only came up to the middle of his thick neck.

I felt his left arm bend around my back, smelled the fresh spice of sweat and deodorant rising from the skin beneath his polo shirt. I was acutely aware of the material's roughness, which cast his amazing musculature into even bolder relief. Not a detail of his pectorals, his cockhead, were left out by that cloth. His left arm tensed, and the biceps that burst outward pushed against my spine. He was so big.

"Couldn't wait, could you?" I could feel the fabric of his shirt tighten ominously as he shifted his posture. He was almost unable to contain himself. Phil pushed us into the room, and the door slammed behind us.

"No, I couldn't," I whispered back. I looked up into his face adoringly. He was so far gone into sexual bliss that it seemed he could not sort out the emotions in my eyes. His features softened for me, but they were still rugged: fiery stubble and sharp planes ensured that. He had the face of a jock god, with those piercing blue eyes and the ruddy bronze of his skin. Women and men would have given their lives to touch that perfection, but he wanted me. Both of my arms wrapped around the tautness of his waist; it would have been impossible for me to reach around the wider part of his back.

"Do you want me?" There was a quiet hint of desperation in that voice, something that I had heard in Johnny's, right before he had taken me. Right before he had tried to rebuild himself physically, when his real problems were all internal. Phil, too, could change his body, his attitude... but he would always be a desperate, pathetic little man on the inside. Pity for him almost forestalled me.

But not for long. I drew my leg back.

"Never," I hissed. "You son of a bitch."

Then, I kneed him in the groin as hard as I could.

Part 22

Breath was torn out of my lungs by my pounding heart as I ran. It didn't seem that I could breathe fast enough to support the needs of my smaller body. This had seemed like such a good idea at first: incapacitate Phil, make a run for Liam's office, and set our final plan into motion. It was so simple, and everything would go back to normal again. Well, maybe not precisely normal: I was going to kick Phil's ass with every ounce of my returned strength.

Around the time I sprinted past Christian's room, my strength began to flag and breath started to become more and more difficult. Phil's cries—which had been demoniac, basso shrieks that rumbled in my chest with their fury—had long since stopped, and I swore I could hear him running after me.

I noticed that the door to Christian's room was cracked open, but he would be no help to me now. I wasn't even sure that he would help me if I begged. No, there was no salvation there. All I could do was go forward. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself to race harder.

Before I knew it, I was bounding up the steps leading to the upper campus. If I had thought that flat ground was difficult to run on, the stairs were torture. Still unused to shorter legs, I tripped occasionally on the steps. Nonetheless, I was a man driven. Scrapes on my shins could not hamper me, nor could losing a shoe after a particularly painful stumble on the top step. Pain—awareness of everything, really—began to fade from my mind as I sprinted through the science building. My sight was just a red wash, and I felt cold all over. I could barely see Liam's office door through my clouded vision.

Somehow, I must have managed to slam a knuckle into the door, because in a matter of moments I could feel myself being led inside by warm hands. Liam said something, and instantly my exhaustion began to recede. My head continued ringing, as if I were recovering from a major headache.

Liam was speaking, quickly, as my thoughts came back into focus. "...so I think it's at it's weakest now."

"Wait, what?" My voice sounded like gravel in my throat.

"We might already be moving out of the weakness stage, Dane. Every second counts."

I shook my head and held up a shaky hand. "Start over at the beginning. I'm still trying to catch my breath. Tell me everything, Liam."

His green eyes bored into mine for a moment. He was wearing his natural form, with its bulkier musculature and coarse dark hair. I instantly decided that I preferred its honesty over the artificial perfection of his more common face. Even my affection for him would not dissuade me, however. I forced steel into my gaze. A trickle of sweat dripped into my eyes, but I continued meeting his stare.

"Okay. But we're running out of time." With that warning offered, he began, "I've been looking for a way to stop the symbiote. If you recall, I told you that I thought Phil's symbiote would need to seek out new hosts individually for its offspring once it was ready for reproduction. I've been doing some analysis, and I think that Phil's symbiote may have mutated beyond such limitations.
"If my guess is correct, Phil's symbiote could produce hundreds of offspring, which could then be delivered over any number of liquid mediums. Drinking water, sexual intercourse, even seawater. And... I'm sorry I didn't tell you this before, Dane, but the symbiote may have already reproduced."

I raised a hand to cover my mouth. No words came to my tongue or mind. "Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

He ignored my irritation. " that the new symbiote's reproduction cycle was much shorter than I'd assumed. Phil's symbiote is as different from mine as a lower primate is from human beings. Genetically similar, but beyond that... well, the differences are obvious. It's some sort of an atavus." At my evident lack of understanding, he offered, "A throwback. Whatever complications it experienced made it more rudimentary than mine, but it also has a number of features that my symbiote doesn't. I'd have to examine Phil's symbiote itself to figure out exactly what it's capable of."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" It came out as less than a whisper, muffled by my hand. "You say that you found out about this reproduction thing a few days ago. It may be too late now, but I could've done something to stop it if you'd told me earlier!"

He glanced away, now unwilling to meet my stare. "I've become very fond of you as a friend, Dane. Neither of us could have stopped this, short of killing Phil, and even then the symbiote could have just found another host. I refuse to take a life. Besides, if it has managed to reproduce... the symbiote should be weaker after spawning. I can give you a drug that, when delivered to the symbiote, will flag it to the host's immune system. If it works, it'll cause the two to become incompatible. And... after that, I might be able to restore you."

The 'might' did not even faze me at this point. I held my hand over my mouth tightly. Otherwise, I would have used it to hit him. He had rationalized away a solution to this entire problem, and all to save me. I don't know who I hated more: him for his deed, or me for my gratitude.

"Dane, I'm genuinely not sure how much damage Phil's tampering with you has done on a larger scale."

I waved aside the concern. After what Liam had told me, the world was spinning again like it had the times when Phil had shrunk me. All of the rationales seemed to fade away in my mind. Even though I did not understand all that Liam had said, I had a few sneaking suspicions. I suspected that he had been maneuvering me this entire time. I think he had always known more about Phil's symbiote than he let on. I was fairly certain that he had let Phil's symbiote reproduce just so it would be weakened enough for us to attack it directly. And I knew that, if Liam had done anything wrong, it had all been for me.

"All right," I rasped, tears in my eyes. "Give me the drug."

I was numb. My head was still tingling as I held out my arm. Liam's fingers expertly found the vein. Had this been several months ago, the veins on my arm would have been prominent enough to find by sight. The syringe that he injected into my arm was filled with a translucent crystal-blue fluid. It stung a bit, but no more than any other injection.

Liam put the syringe down and placed his hands on my shoulders. I jerked my head away. With all of the thoughts bouncing around inside of my mind right now, I could not quite bring myself to look at him.

"There's not much we can do, Dane. The symbiote either has reproduced or will reproduce shortly, and we will need to strike."

I sighed. Whatever I was about to say was driven out of my mind by a sudden flaring of pain in the center of my skull. I felt a searing sensation deep within my brain, rippling out to sway the world around me.

"Are you all right?" Liam's voice sounded frantic.

I looked up at him from the floor, wondering how I had got there, but I did not inquire about my state. Instead—and I did not know why—I just announced, "Phil's coming."

"How do you know that?" Liam asked, looking at me very strangely.

The words hung in the air for a few sick seconds before the first loud bangs on the door began. Phil's voice sounded from the other side, deep and unsteady with fury.

"I can feel you in there, Dane."

Liam did not wait for anything so crude as Phil bursting down the door. He strode toward the entryway, skin and hair segueing into different shades even as he moved. Liam's true form fell away, collapsed like a glamor, to reveal the ruddy-haired, shorter, but far more commanding shape of Professor McTague. It seemed to be almost an unconscious thought, his musculature refining and reshaping as his features completed their transportation. Any other time, the fluidity of the change might have been miraculous to witness.

Liam threw open the door. Golden light flooded into the office. Phil stood in the hallway, his undersized polo shirt torn in a dozen places from his exertions and mass, revealing patches of taut golden skin beneath. It was plastered to his musculature by the same sweat that slicked his hair into a fierce arc. The ruddy golden locks coiled over his brow, framing the fury in his wintery eyes.

"What the hell do you think you're doing in my office?" Liam growled. He was back in his false form, his tenor voice booming with authority.

"I'm here for him. Feel like standing aside, little man?"

"A world of 'no,'" Liam responded. The skin around his eyes tightened. It was the only warning as his body sprang into action, throwing a punch directly into Phil's chest.

My roommate went flying. I was shocked at the sight: Liam's body did not look capable of such power, but he had control over his body in a way that Phil did not. His arms had the strength of steel pistons, but he did not wear his strength overtly as Phil did.

Phil went flying into the wall opposite Liam's office, hitting with a wet crackling sound before slumping to the ground. It did not take him long at all to recover. He moved with a speed that was almost inhuman, leaping to his feet without obvious effort. Fury was written in his stance, and his chest heaved. The swollen pectorals bulged angrily beneath the fabric of his polo shirt, warring for space.

Liam stared at Phil and ordered, "Stay down."

As if they were turned to water, Phil's arms buckled underneath him, knocked out from under him by Liam's command. It did not, however, take Phil long to begin trying to rise again. When Liam repeated his order, Phil shuddered for a moment, but continued rising with inexorable slowness. He had cast off the command with little obvious difficulty.

Once again on his feet, Phil stared Liam down and commanded, "Die."

Liam rolled his eyes. "How about not? You have no power over me, Philip, and anything of these attempts against me or your roommate will be met with all due—"

Caught up in being self-righteous, he was too slow to stop Phil's next charge, which carried the two of them back into the office and crashing into Liam's computer desk. They went down in a series of sparks and flares, and I heard Liam groan in pain over the crackle of breaking wood and glass and twisting metal. He had taken most of the force of the blow, and did not rise as Phil did. All he had for his exertions was a cut on his brow. Liam looked deathly pale, a wound to his scalp sending blood washing down his face.

Phil moved around the desk's wreckage until he was again framed by the doorway. Light shone around him, and he looked like an avenging angel with his head wound dripping crimson onto his shirt. I was trapped. I scrabbled backwards to the nearest wall as if I could somehow hide within it.

He began to advance toward me at a halting pace. Maybe the wound had dizzied him more than I thought.

"I don't think you understand," Phil growled at me. His voice rumbled through my bones. "No matter what anyone says or does, I own you. And there's nothing that anyone can do to save you now, Dane."

A clanging sound, metal against bone, sounded from behind Phil. It took a moment for me to realize that the source of the sound was Phil. At least, partially. He swayed for a moment, surprise rising in his gaze, and then crumpled.

"Wow, color you wrong," rasped Christian's silhouette, standing with the shadow of a fire extinguisher held aloft.

 

Part 23

My heart swelled with gratitude and hope.

Christian stood above Phil like an avenging angel, taut musculature pressed against the white undershirt he wore. He had obviously been in a hurry to follow Phil. One of his running shoes was undone; the other, hastily tied. He was also wearing basketball shorts, which given his endowment was probably not the best of ideas. Perhaps I was imagining it, but he looked taller than he had the last time I had seen him. Maybe it was just his pose.

He still held the fire extinguisher that had knocked Phil unconscious aloft, and shafts of setting sunlight from the windows in the hall framed his physique. He was the very image of a classical hero standing over a felled beast, even as he lowered the extinguisher to his side—effortlessly, I might add—and stepped over Phil toward me. As he lifted me to my feet, my heart threatened to pound right out of my chest. There should have been trumpets.

I swallowed. I thought then that if he kissed me, I would lose consciousness. The touch of the man I had inadvertently created was enough of a straw to break this camel's back, especially after all that I had been through today. He was definitely taller than the 5'10 he had been just a night ago. Not so much that most people would have noticed, but it was hard for me not to do so. He was so close, and the little details were different to my eyes. Unless I had shrunk again, but that had never happened spontaneously. No, I decided, Christian was definitely bigger. The way his shirt rode up against his triceps even when they were not flexed, how it looked about to split from the press of his squared chest and mounding traps... I wondered exactly how much residual effect my tampering with him had caused.

Would he continue to grow? Would the others? I knew then that I had to make it through this, and claim victory against Phil. Christian I could trust with the powers of an enhanced body; the others had demonstrated what they would do given dominance over others. I swayed with a sudden sickness at the thought that Phil's symbiote might have reproduced. A great burden lay upon my shoulders, and I was not the man I used to be.

Christian was staring into my eyes. He did not kiss me. Instead, he just smiled. His teeth were white in his lightly-bronzed face. And those dimples...

"I couldn't let him do anything to you," Christian said. The words sounded so simple, but they spoke volumes. He opened his mouth to say something else, but I cut him off.

"Thank you," I rasped, staring into those grey eyes.

Christian looked away for a moment before forcing his gaze back to meet mine. "You can't be in love with me because you're not sure if your feelings are real. I get that. It's so far past the line of fucked up for me to push someone who has been through what you have. I kind of felt like a date rapist after you left." His smile softened into something more sincere. "If you do ever figure out what you want, and it's me, I'll be there. But right now... I'm in sore need of a best friend and—"

"Yes. Definitely, yes."

I was unprepared for the mass of primed muscle that surrounded me as he wrapped me in one of his steely arms. The embrace was a balm to the wounds the last few weeks had left on me, a resolution to so many conflicting feelings I had over Christian. At that moment, I felt like nothing could hurt me. A deep breath from Christian expanded his abdomen, forcing his cobbled abs against me. They were so hard against my slenderness, and speaking of hard, I was sure he could feel me stiffening against the cut mass of his right quad.

"Friends... occasional benefits?" I asked, jokingly.

Christian laughed. "Maybe. You'll have to fight off the other beneficiaries, now that I'm hot."

"I think I'd lose."

"Not if I make the rules."

I stood there for a few moments before realizing that he was joking. Mostly. Finally, I smiled.

Comprehension dawned on me, breaking the relaxed silence. I pushed away from Christian, and he relaxed his arms to let me out of his embrace. Otherwise, I could have been pushing all night and he would have remained as unyielding as stone. He had said yesterday that he could bench 250 pounds with ease. He had to be stronger now. What had I done?

"So," I asked, rather than dwell on future issues, "you're going to have to fill me in. Not that I'm not grateful, but why are you here?"

"I heard Phil running after someone. He's got a good head for—well, he doesn't have a good head for anything much right now after that beating, but he really had a grip on his obscenities. Nothing spectacularly innovative, mind, but he's got some f-bombs that could do a lot of damage."

The look on my face seemed to tell Christian I was not amused.

He continued. "I still don't know everything about what's going on, but I had to help out. I hurried as fast as I could, ran after Phil, and when he started advancing... there wasn't anything heavier than the fire extinguisher here." Christian set the extinguisher down in a corner, glancing over at Phil.

"You could have gotten hurt," I told him.

He gave me a patronizing glance. It stung a bit, but he softened it with his words. "Until we get you back to normal, I have a feeling that I can take a bit more of a beating, Dane."

"Point conceded," I admitted. "Shit. Come over here and help me with Liam. His symbiote ought to be healing most of the damage, but I don't know how much it can repair on its own. He looks like he needs a doctor."

We rushed over to the remnants of Professor McTague's desk. He was lying, pale and still, amidst the shattered remnants of his computer. The shards of the monitor's screen caught the sunlight streaming in through the door and shone like an aura around the fallen. There was a lot of blood, and he did not appear to be breathing. Maneuvering myself around the fall of glass and splintered wood, I crouched by Liam.

Christian crouched opposite me and placed two fingers on Liam's neck.

"His pulse is... wonky," Christian assured me. "Maybe that's just the symbiote."

Liam took a sharp breath. As if he had heard, he groaned, "I'm all right. Lot worse than I look."

I winced. "I think you have that the wrong way around."

Grunting, Liam forced himself to nod. "Right. I look a lot worse than I feel. Sorry about that. Head wound, and all. A bit dizzy."

The gash seemed to have diminished in size, but I wondered how much blood the symbiote could regenerate in such a short period of time. Liam tried to force himself upright, but just fell back into his desk.

"You're going to hurt yourself if you move too much," Christian said. "Just lie there, and we'll try to get you moved."

"Can't..." Liam moaned. "...any second, Phil's symbiote is going to recover—"

"Fuck." In unison, Christian and I hissed.

Deadpanning, Christian muttered, "Jinx."

I reached across the fallen man and desk to slug my friend—my best friend?—in the arm. Might I add, it felt like I was punching pure concrete sheathed in a layer of velvet. Wincing, I turned back to Liam.

"What am I supposed to do with Phil?" I asked. "He's got a bump on the head, but it looks like he's going to be fine. How am I supposed to get rid of the symbiote?"

"Dane," Liam whispered. "It's going to take awhile for the drug to take effect. It has to permeate your system before you can do anything. The symbiote will adapt, so you won't be able to keep him down for long. I don't think that you have time just yet." Fighting back pain, he breathed, "You're going to have to get out of here before—"

He was interrupted by a groaning sound coming from across the room.

Christian shuddered. "Did anyone else hear that?"

A second groan answered. The three of us turned as one to look back toward the door. Sure enough, Phil was moving. His were not the measured movements of a man trying to regain consciousness. Rather, they were the exploratory twitches and twists of something unfamiliar to a human body. Like rabbits caught in the oncoming headlights of a vehicle, we watched with sick fascination as the symbiote began pulling Phil together.

One wound on his scalp had already closed, and the one from Christian's heroism was already fading away. Still, with blood down his face, and moving like something not of this world, he looked terrifying. Phil may not have been quite conscious yet, but the symbiote was determined to have me.

It pushed Phil's body to its feet in a jerky motion. Muscles swelled against the fabric of Phil's shirt, split by his mass and too many sudden movements. It was torn around his biceps and at the shoulders, tanned skin and striated muscle shining from underneath the rent fabric. Caught in icy fear, I did not have my usual response to the perfection of his form, to the outline of his chest and abdominals struggling against his shirt. To that ominous bulge in his trousers. I was paralyzed.

The symbiote lurched toward me in Phil's body. Its face was a mask of rage, sputtering incomprehensible syllables that nonetheless held tantalizing hints of sense for me. I stared into his eyes, bulging with the force of the creature's rage. At first, I thought mindless fury lurked in their pale depths. As the symbiote neared me, I knew that all for a facade. Phil's symbiote was a creature of fiendish intellect.

I was unprepared for the attack, but Christian was ready. He launched to his feet and hurled himself at my assailant. I expected him to do something stupid, but at the last moment he diverted his energy into a kick.

Apparently, all it took to wake Phil up was a swift kick to the balls.

He fell to his knees, groaning in complete agony. The sounds that he made, gutteral and basso, were still human. I turned toward Liam. His eyes were slightly unfocused. I had not noticed that he had a concussion. A spill of dark hair across his brow could not seem to decide whether it was curly black or straight red-brown. His symbiote must have been injured, too, if that was possible.

Nonetheless, he had the will to speak. "Run, Dane. You need to buy time until the injection takes effect! LEAVE ME HERE."

With the booming force of his command, I was off at a dash. My conscious mind barely even registered where I was going. It was cursing the fact that I had not had the chance to ask Liam exactly how I was supposed to win out against Phil's symbiote. I tore past Christian, grabbing at his arm along the way. We dodged around Phil's outstretched hands.

Christian followed, trying to match my speed with his longer legs. We must have been a sight, but fortunately no one was around. If they had been, they would have heard a battle of titans thundering inside Liam's office. I heard Liam shout something incomprehensible from within the office just as we reached the stairs.

Was it my imagination, or did I hear steps thundering up above already? We reached the bottom, and I came to a decision. I stopped at the lobby doors, panting.

A howl of rage emanated from within the stairwell, chilling in its intensity and volume. It seemed to resonate at the same frequency as the core of my being, causing me to shudder. And then, somehow, I mastered myself. There was no more time for fear.

"Christian!" I shouted. "Head out and around the building! I have a plan."

Christian hesitated a moment, but, faithful and loyal as he was, nodded. He was off in a hurry, barely looking winded for the run. Even in this time of trouble, I had to admire the way his muscles shaped his shirt into a 'V' about his back. I hated being horny sometimes.

I waited a few moments, until he was gone around the building. Before following him out of the door, I kicked off my remaining shoe. The other one was lost somewhere on the steps leading up to the campus, and I figured I might as well go barefoot.

There was no plan in my mind, not yet, but I needed Christian out of the way. I hated lying to him, but he could too easily get hurt, or used by Phil. Besides, I had already exhausted my supply of deus ex machina for the day.

Something sprang to mind. I set off at a fiendish pace toward the college gym. My mind was racing as I justified the snap decision I had just made. The gym was perfect. The manager was a forgetful man, and rarely locked up even when it was closed over the weekends. Moreover, there were lots of heavy, blunt objects there. No one would be there, which was perfect. I needed to ensure no one else would get caught in this final standoff.

This, the end of things, would be between me and my roommate.

 

Part 24

I pulled on the door of the gym. It did not budge.

My heart seized in my throat. Forcing panic back down into my chest, I tried the door again with greater effort. It had always stuck a little bit, but in times of old I had been able to overcome that with ease. Now, sweat had slicked my grip and my lungs were burning from the sprint that had taken me to the gym. I reminded myself that I was not the man I used to be.

Before pulling the gym door open entirely, I paused to glance over my shoulder. Adrenaline shot through my veins unexpectedly, sending my pulse racing faster. I wasn't worried that I had lost Phil by running away, only that his superior physique and preternatural endurance would allow him to catch me before I set my plan into motion. Or before I came up with one. I had been able to sense Phil not long before he arrived at Liam's office. I wondered if he could sense me, too. Moreover, I was amazed by how easily I accepted what had once seemed to be the stuff of fantasy.

I filed my worries about telepathy under other things to ask Liam when this was over. Then, resolute, my mind clearer, I pushed through the door leading into the gym. My eyes scanned the main hallway and the second-floor walk that overlooked it. Gratefully, I noted that no one was in the gym. The lights were off, but sunlight made up for their absence. Cool air flowed around me, providing an almost uncomfortable chill after my exertions. I forced myself to walk rather than run to the weight room: I would need whatever strength I had left to delay Phil until the injection took effect. Every second would increase my chances, but I couldn't outrun him for long enough to guarantee success.

The weight room was a hexagonal enclosure bordered on four sides by glass windows, larger than most college gyms that I had seen. It was well lit by a glass dome criss-crossed with metal support beams. One wall of the gym was solid, featuring two doors: one led back into the main hall; the other, to a stairwell that opened out onto the second floor. The center of the room was dominated by various machines. Exercise bikes and treadmills were spaced around the windowed room at even intervals, except for one mirrored wall. It was this wall that interested me more than any others--no, I hadn't become unexpectedly vain. Rather, it was along the mirrored wall that the free weights were racked. I hastened over to them.

Realistically, I knew that a weight would not be the most effective of weapons to use against my roommate. After all, he had virtually shaken off a fire extinguisher wielded by a much stronger man less than an hour ago. This might have been a bad idea, I told myself, even as I instinctively reached for a 30, then quickly changed my mind. I needed a blunt object I could wield effectively. 15 pounds would do.

The front doors of the gym slammed open. The crash echoed down the long main hallway and reached me in the weight room. Phil's footsteps followed. They were slow, as if he were still dazed. Perhaps he thought he was so close to taking me in hand once more, he saw no reason to hurry. I grabbed another 15 pound weight and sprinted upstairs with all possible stealth.

I crept along the second-floor walkway, which featured several kinesiologists' offices and those of the gym administrators. Just as I was about to chance a glimpse over the railing, Phil's voice boomed out from below.

"Dane, I know you're here. Come out now and we can put this behind us," he reasoned.

His voice sang to me, as tempting as a feast to a starving man. I had to clench my fists around the grips of the weights to keep my hold on reality. It took several moments, but the power of the command began to diminish, then failed.

"Please, just talk to me," Phil pleaded.

It was easier to resist him the second time. He sounded too pathetic to be taken seriously, and I realized that he was just fishing for a response. I set the weights down and offered a quick prayer. Taking great care for stealth, I peeked over the railing. He was standing right beneath me. There was no better chance than now.

I stretched to my full--if not so considerable--height and hefted one of the weights overhead. Doing my best to aim its decent, I dropped it. A split-second later, exhilaration made me shout, "Hey, asshole!" True, it wasn't my most shining moment.

It wasn't Phil's, either. He turned his gaze up just in time to see a fifteen pound weight just inches from his face. The blunt object struck with a resounding crack. I reveled for a moment, noting that no matter how many times I saw Phil got hurt, it never got less satisfying. I pushed that thought away, even though I allowed myself a triumphant whoop when I saw that Phil was down and not moving.

True, my apparent victory had made me more confident, but not entirely stupid. I crouched and reclaimed the second weight. My heartbeat tried its best to slow on the walk back down the stairs leading into the weight room. It was almost pumping at a normal rate as I crept back into the main hall. Phil was still down and unmoving. I swallowed. Had I killed him? My eyes took in a fair bit of blood, but not much. And some of the crimson fluid on him might have been from earlier.

I approached Phil. The magnificent mounds that were his chest were unmoving. His polo shirt was a ruin after all he had been through. I didn't glory in the sight at all. Instead, I just closed my eyes, thinking of the implications of murder--even if it was Phil. I knelt by his side and pressed my fingers to his neck.

There was a pulse, and it was strong.

His body shifted ever so slightly, and one hand closed around my ankle almost tightly enough to break bone and cartilage. I stared down, aghast. His arm was tensed, the veins and striations pulsing with a life all their own. Phil drew breath. He was staring at me, malevolence in his eyes.

My roommate smiled. I recoiled physically, trying to stand and escape him all at once, but only managed to stumble and fall hard on my rear. My free leg moved as if of its own volition and kicked him, hard, in the side of the head.

His eyes widened, and I realized almost too late that his grip had been loosed in his shock. I stumbled away on my hurt leg.

Phil leapt to his feet in a single, fluid motion, but swayed as he gained his footing. All of this head trauma had to be doing something to him. At least, I hoped it was. I didn't bother to wait for him to come after me. Clutching the weight in my right hand, I hurtled through the weight room door and positioned myself for an ambush.

My roommate's footsteps pounded toward me. As he strode into the room, I swung. The weight never made contact. One of his massive arms rose up and collided with mine with the force of a steel girder. The weight went flying. Sharp pain greeted me as I clutched at my arm.

First one, then the other of his hands gripped my arms, tearing them away from each other. Glaring, he dragged me unceremoniously into the very center of the weight room. Phil threw me down, and I fell, landing on my back. I didn't know what my roommate was doing, but I was too dazed by his manhandling to reason it out. He reached down, and, with brutal force, tore my shirt down its center. His bloodied polo received the same treatment, and my eyes were filled with his extraordinary physique. Every muscle was pumped, veins exploding furiously from his pectorals, delts, biceps, and forearms. My body quaked with a wretched shiver. Time was up.

"I'm going to show you who's boss, once and for all," he growled. I stared up into the skylight, numb. Phil had beaten me. His pants fell to the floor, and I felt his ungentle fingers pulling me out of mine. He positioned himself on top of me. Despite his greater height, he bent slightly so that his immense member was right over my mouth.

It slammed into my face with all the gentleness of a battering ram. I tried to twist away, but my movements were limited by his bulk. As Phil took my smaller cock in his mouth, I gasped. His dick saw the opportunity, and thrust hard into my throat. He was no expert at fellatio, mainly focusing on my head until the pleasure was so great I could barely lie still, but I was rock hard. I don't think he cared what I did with his dick. My struggles seemed to be exciting him even more.

I rose to the edge of climax with unprecedented speed. Almost as if he sensed this, he let me out.

"They're everywhere, Dane. You couldn't even stop me and mine. Now they're everywhere, and everything is mine for the taking. But first, you're going to make me into a god."

So hackneyed. So very Phil. Who writes his monologues? I wondered.

And then he took me back into his mouth. I came. We came. Orgasm rocketed through our bodies all at once, fire and ice pouring through each vein, artery, capillary, every filament and molecule of our beings. The sensation was a thousand times more powerful than any I had ever experienced, magnified by the bond and amplified by my skin against his. All I could see was white light for a moment, and I worried that I had experienced a stroke in the wake of this explosion of pleasure.

But my sight returned, and other senses followed. I tasted semen, could feel it within me, permeating my being. Diminishing me. A great weight lifted off of my body, and I could see Phil's bulk in silhouette against the skylight's luminescence. He was growing again. The floor scraped against my back as I shrank, losing inches as Phil grew. Perhaps it was the angle, but he looked immense, and he was still swelling. Muscles were mounding up over his body, making him look almost inhuman.

Then again, that was what he had wanted, right? He wanted to be a god. His voice boomed like an Olympian's as he laughed, a maniacal cackle of ultimate success. He had claimed me. I was entirely in his power. I still had to try to get away, to live and... what, fight? Maybe just to live another day. My chest ached with the hopelessness of it all. I had tried, and failed.

Phil was so consumed in his monstrous growth that he didn't notice me crawling away. I don't think he cared any more. I dragged myself, broken and battered, across the floor, his laughs swelling behind me like a diabolical symphony. I tried to look away as he approached six and a half feet in height, his body spasming as his biceps expanded to professional bodybuilder sizes and beyond. I couldn't, at first, but then the need to get away drove even my awe away.

I was almost to the door when he stopped laughing. My heart skipped a beat. He had noticed me.

There was no way to keep my head from turning. The look on his face was not one of triumph, or fury--he wasn't even looking at me at all. There was a dazed cast to his features, like something important had gone missing inside of his head.

Phil twitched, and stared down at his arm. Its skin was covered in beads of greyish fluid. A moment later, he started to stumble. I don't know what possessed me, but I pushed to my feet and rushed toward him. Somehow, I managed to catch the man, almost a foot taller than me and who-knows-how-many pounds heavier. His skin was unyielding as stone to my feeble fingers, and it took every ounce of strength I had to hold him up.

Something then passed into my skin, an awareness, a feeling of lightness and warmth. Phil twitched again, our torsos pressed together--albeit his much higher than mine--and something wet and hot passed between us, burning as it went. He felt abruptly lighter. I felt suffused with energy. My head rocked back with the intensity of the force.

His body was shifting against mine, faster with every spasm of his over-muscled and huge physique. I thought he was writhing in my grip, but no--he was still standing slack and stunned. I stared into his chest, aware that his swollen pectorals were lower in my field of view than they had been a moment before. And he was easier to hold. He was getting smaller, and I was growing.

I tightened my arms about his waist, and the effort hastened the transference. A wave of pure power slammed into me, filling me with strength that I had been missing for so long. I felt my muscles tighten beneath my skin, swelling and bulging against Phil's diminishing body. My joints ached, sending pins and needles of agony into me, but that was washed away in the peculiar pleasure of my restoration. I was beginning to feel dizzy with the rapid transformation.

We were nearing the same height, now, somewhere in the high five foot range, and Phil's face was a mask of terror. He tried to speak, but it just came out as babbling. His struggles were weak, and feeling weaker against my expanding bulk and height. I flexed my pectorals against his chest as he shrank further, and by the time I was done flexing his eyes were level with my nose. I squeezed again, as if I were squeezing the very muscle out of him.

Suddenly the world swayed around me. I held tight to Phil as darkness closed in at the edges of my vision, heard him mewl another babbling protest, and allowed myself to sink into the darkness.

*****

Morning. It was morning, and I was on the gym floor. I shot up with unexpected speed and steadied myself. The rise had been effortless. Almost as if...

I stared down at myself. Still nude, I was an absolutely extraordinary specimen of masculinity. My chest was squared and rounded, pectorals bulging out several inches over my brick-like abdomen. Sure, there were a few splotches of blood from where Phil's skin had rested against mine, but there was not a bruise on me. My forearms were corded with powerful muscle and coiling veins that extended all the way up to my biceps. I was bigger than I had ever been.

As I rose to look into the mirror, this fact was confirmed to me. I was at least a couple of inches taller than I was before, and I was well beyond the size I had been at my best playing shape. No one would call my physique a swimmer's build any more. Perhaps I was more refined than most bodybuilders looked, but I was definitely as large as the most developed fitness models.

And very naked, I noticed. My brow furrowed as I examined the morning greeting of my endowment. It surely hadn't been this thick or long before. If my collegiate career didn't work out, there was always the porn industry.

I walked around, marveling in my new size, the restoration--and more--of all that I had been before. Phil was nowhere to be seen, but there was a modest looking pile of clothing near the door of the gym, crowned by a simple white envelope. It was sealed. Professor McTague's simple handwriting had scrawled my name across it: "Dane."

First, I put on the clothes. They fit well, if a bit tight around the shoulders, chest, and biceps, and the boxers as well as the shorts were constricting about my thighs and too loose around my waist. It was, if possible, thinner than when I had started this whole ordeal, and cobbled like a stone road. Every muscle was visible through the fabric of my shirt, and my pants did nothing to hide my new cock.

The new changes could wait, but Liam's letter would not. I extracted it gently--my hands were still deft, although longer and stronger--and read:

"Dear Dane,

I've never been one for too many words in letters. Perhaps if we had been able to know one another longer, you would have come to know that for yourself. Unfortunately, we two are both slaves to our responsibilities. You have fulfilled yours, but my work has not yet begun.

You will have realized by now that the injection I gave you worked as was intended. Philip's symbiote is dead. I do not know what happened in those last moments of its life, but it seems that you have had an unlikely stroke of luck: not only are you free from your roommate, but your life can continue as normal. I know I promised that we would be able to restore you, but I must humbly--and sorrowfully--admit that promise to be a lie. I have been forced to abandon San Cristobal State and my identity here. We will not meet again.

As you might imagine by now, your difficulties with Philip were but part of a larger struggle, one that has been severely complicated by my own inability to act. The others warned me that I was becoming too fond of you, and perhaps I allowed our friendship to stay my hand until it was too late. I have been forced to use you to combat your roommate, but I could not bring myself to use you to the fullest of your potential. I hope that you will forgive me, and appreciate what it cost to spare you. There are only a few of us with symbiotes out there, and we now have our hands full with an invasion on a level that we cannot yet fully comprehend.

We have tried to set things back to normal at San Cristobal State, including modifications of memory for many of those involved. Our haste may have left a few loopholes behind, so I suggest that you be very careful in the next few months.

I know I have no right to ask anything more from you, but I hope you will take my advice. The drug in your system will not diminish for several days. It may have enough potency yet to reverse the physical changes in some of the people you were forced to enhance.

We cannot ask you not to seek revenge on those who wronged you at San Cristobal, but please do not attempt to seek us out, or your roommate. He is under our control, now, and we will deal with any interference without prejudice. I am I pulled on the door of the gym. It did not budge.

My heart seized in my throat. Forcing panic back down into my chest, I tried the door again with greater effort. It had always stuck a little bit, but in times of old I had been able to overcome that with ease. Now, sweat had slicked my grip and my lungs were burning from the sprint that had taken me to the gym. I reminded myself that I was not the man I used to be.

Before pulling the gym door open entirely, I paused to glance over my shoulder. Adrenaline shot through my veins unexpectedly, sending my pulse racing faster. I wasn't worried that I had lost Phil by running away, only that his superior physique and preternatural endurance would allow him to catch me before I set my plan into motion. Or before I came up with one. I had been able to sense Phil not long before he arrived at Liam's office. I wondered if he could sense me, too. Moreover, I was amazed by how easily I accepted what had once seemed to be the stuff of fantasy.

I filed my worries about telepathy under other things to ask Liam when this was over. Then, resolute, my mind clearer, I pushed through the door leading into the gym. My eyes scanned the main hallway and the second-floor walk that overlooked it. Gratefully, I noted that no one was in the gym. The lights were off, but sunlight made up for their absence. Cool air flowed around me, providing an almost uncomfortable chill after my exertions. I forced myself to walk rather than run to the weight room: I would need whatever strength I had left to delay Phil until the injection took effect. Every second would increase my chances, but I couldn't outrun him for long enough to guarantee success.

The weight room was a hexagonal enclosure bordered on four sides by glass windows, larger than most college gyms that I had seen. It was well lit by a glass dome criss-crossed with metal support beams. One wall of the gym was solid, featuring two doors: one led back into the main hall; the other, to a stairwell that opened out onto the second floor. The center of the room was dominated by various machines. Exercise bikes and treadmills were spaced around the windowed room at even intervals, except for one mirrored wall. It was this wall that interested me more than any others--no, I hadn't become unexpectedly vain. Rather, it was along the mirrored wall that the free weights were racked. I hastened over to them.

Realistically, I knew that a weight would not be the most effective of weapons to use against my roommate. After all, he had virtually shaken off a fire extinguisher wielded by a much stronger man less than an hour ago. This might have been a bad idea, I told myself, even as I instinctively reached for a 30, then quickly changed my mind. I needed a blunt object I could wield effectively. 15 pounds would do.

The front doors of the gym slammed open. The crash echoed down the long main hallway and reached me in the weight room. Phil's footsteps followed. They were slow, as if he were still dazed. Perhaps he thought he was so close to taking me in hand once more, he saw no reason to hurry. I grabbed another 15 pound weight and sprinted upstairs with all possible stealth.

I crept along the second-floor walkway, which featured several kinesiologists' offices and those of the gym administrators. Just as I was about to chance a glimpse over the railing, Phil's voice boomed out from below.

"Dane, I know you're here. Come out now and we can put this behind us," he reasoned.

His voice sang to me, as tempting as a feast to a starving man. I had to clench my fists around the grips of the weights to keep my hold on reality. It took several moments, but the power of the command began to diminish, then failed.

"Please, just talk to me," Phil pleaded.

It was easier to resist him the second time. He sounded too pathetic to be taken seriously, and I realized that he was just fishing for a response. I set the weights down and offered a quick prayer. Taking great care for stealth, I peeked over the railing. He was standing right beneath me. There was no better chance than now.

I stretched to my full--if not so considerable--height and hefted one of the weights overhead. Doing my best to aim its decent, I dropped it. A split-second later, exhilaration made me shout, "Hey, asshole!" True, it wasn't my most shining moment.

It wasn't Phil's, either. He turned his gaze up just in time to see a fifteen pound weight just inches from his face. The blunt object struck with a resounding crack. I reveled for a moment, noting that no matter how many times I saw Phil got hurt, it never got less satisfying. I pushed that thought away, even though I allowed myself a triumphant whoop when I saw that Phil was down and not moving.

True, my apparent victory had made me more confident, but not entirely stupid. I crouched and reclaimed the second weight. My heartbeat tried its best to slow on the walk back down the stairs leading into the weight room. It was almost pumping at a normal rate as I crept back into the main hall. Phil was still down and unmoving. I swallowed. Had I killed him? My eyes took in a fair bit of blood, but not much. And some of the crimson fluid on him might have been from earlier.

I approached Phil. The magnificent mounds that were his chest were unmoving. His polo shirt was a ruin after all he had been through. I didn't glory in the sight at all. Instead, I just closed my eyes, thinking of the implications of murder--even if it was Phil. I knelt by his side and pressed my fingers to his neck.

There was a pulse, and it was strong.

His body shifted ever so slightly, and one hand closed around my ankle almost tightly enough to break bone and cartilage. I stared down, aghast. His arm was tensed, the veins and striations pulsing with a life all their own. Phil drew breath. He was staring at me, malevolence in his eyes.

My roommate smiled. I recoiled physically, trying to stand and escape him all at once, but only managed to stumble and fall hard on my rear. My free leg moved as if of its own volition and kicked him, hard, in the side of the head.

His eyes widened, and I realized almost too late that his grip had been loosed in his shock. I stumbled away on my hurt leg.

Phil leapt to his feet in a single, fluid motion, but swayed as he gained his footing. All of this head trauma had to be doing something to him. At least, I hoped it was. I didn't bother to wait for him to come after me. Clutching the weight in my right hand, I hurtled through the weight room door and positioned myself for an ambush.

My roommate's footsteps pounded toward me. As he strode into the room, I swung. The weight never made contact. One of his massive arms rose up and collided with mine with the force of a steel girder. The weight went flying. Sharp pain greeted me as I clutched at my arm.

First one, then the other of his hands gripped my arms, tearing them away from each other. Glaring, he dragged me unceremoniously into the very center of the weight room. Phil threw me down, and I fell, landing on my back. I didn't know what my roommate was doing, but I was too dazed by his manhandling to reason it out. He reached down, and, with brutal force, tore my shirt down its center. His bloodied polo received the same treatment, and my eyes were filled with his extraordinary physique. Every muscle was pumped, veins exploding furiously from his pectorals, delts, biceps, and forearms. My body quaked with a wretched shiver. Time was up.

"I'm going to show you who's boss, once and for all," he growled. I stared up into the skylight, numb. Phil had beaten me. His pants fell to the floor, and I felt his ungentle fingers pulling me out of mine. He positioned himself on top of me. Despite his greater height, he bent slightly so that his immense member was right over my mouth.

It slammed into my face with all the gentleness of a battering ram. I tried to twist away, but my movements were limited by his bulk. As Phil took my smaller cock in his mouth, I gasped. His dick saw the opportunity, and thrust hard into my throat. He was no expert at fellatio, mainly focusing on my head until the pleasure was so great I could barely lie still, but I was rock hard. I don't think he cared what I did with his dick. My struggles seemed to be exciting him even more.

I rose to the edge of climax with unprecedented speed. Almost as if he sensed this, he let me out.

"They're everywhere, Dane. You couldn't even stop me and mine. Now they're everywhere, and everything is mine for the taking. But first, you're going to make me into a god."

So hackneyed. So very Phil. Who writes his monologues? I wondered.

And then he took me back into his mouth. I came. We came. Orgasm rocketed through our bodies all at once, fire and ice pouring through each vein, artery, capillary, every filament and molecule of our beings. The sensation was a thousand times more powerful than any I had ever experienced, magnified by the bond and amplified by my skin against his. All I could see was white light for a moment, and I worried that I had experienced a stroke in the wake of this explosion of pleasure.

But my sight returned, and other senses followed. I tasted semen, could feel it within me, permeating my being. Diminishing me. A great weight lifted off of my body, and I could see Phil's bulk in silhouette against the skylight's luminescence. He was growing again. The floor scraped against my back as I shrank, losing inches as Phil grew. Perhaps it was the angle, but he looked immense, and he was still swelling. Muscles were mounding up over his body, making him look almost inhuman.

Then again, that was what he had wanted, right? He wanted to be a god. His voice boomed like an Olympian's as he laughed, a maniacal cackle of ultimate success. He had claimed me. I was entirely in his power. I still had to try to get away, to live and... what, fight? Maybe just to live another day. My chest ached with the hopelessness of it all. I had tried, and failed.

Phil was so consumed in his monstrous growth that he didn't notice me crawling away. I don't think he cared any more. I dragged myself, broken and battered, across the floor, his laughs swelling behind me like a diabolical symphony. I tried to look away as he approached six and a half feet in height, his body spasming as his biceps expanded to professional bodybuilder sizes and beyond. I couldn't, at first, but then the need to get away drove even my awe away.

I was almost to the door when he stopped laughing. My heart skipped a beat. He had noticed me.

There was no way to keep my head from turning. The look on his face was not one of triumph, or fury--he wasn't even looking at me at all. There was a dazed cast to his features, like something important had gone missing inside of his head.

Phil twitched, and stared down at his arm. Its skin was covered in beads of greyish fluid. A moment later, he started to stumble. I don't know what possessed me, but I pushed to my feet and rushed toward him. Somehow, I managed to catch the man, almost a foot taller than me and who-knows-how-many pounds heavier. His skin was unyielding as stone to my feeble fingers, and it took every ounce of strength I had to hold him up.

Something then passed into my skin, an awareness, a feeling of lightness and warmth. Phil twitched again, our torsos pressed together--albeit his much higher than mine--and something wet and hot passed between us, burning as it went. He felt abruptly lighter. I felt suffused with energy. My head rocked back with the intensity of the force.

His body was shifting against mine, faster with every spasm of his over-muscled and huge physique. I thought he was writhing in my grip, but no--he was still standing slack and stunned. I stared into his chest, aware that his swollen pectorals were lower in my field of view than they had been a moment before. And he was easier to hold. He was getting smaller, and I was growing.

I tightened my arms about his waist, and the effort hastened the transference. A wave of pure power slammed into me, filling me with strength that I had been missing for so long. I felt my muscles tighten beneath my skin, swelling and bulging against Phil's diminishing body. My joints ached, sending pins and needles of agony into me, but that was washed away in the peculiar pleasure of my restoration. I was beginning to feel dizzy with the rapid transformation.

We were nearing the same height, now, somewhere in the high five foot range, and Phil's face was a mask of terror. He tried to speak, but it just came out as babbling. His struggles were weak, and feeling weaker against my expanding bulk and height. I flexed my pectorals against his chest as he shrank further, and by the time I was done flexing his eyes were level with my nose. I squeezed again, as if I were squeezing the very muscle out of him.

Suddenly the world swayed around me. I held tight to Phil as darkness closed in at the edges of my vision, heard him mewl another babbling protest, and allowed myself to sink into the darkness.

*****

Morning. It was morning, and I was on the gym floor. I shot up with unexpected speed and steadied myself. The rise had been effortless. Almost as if...

I stared down at myself. Still nude, I was an absolutely extraordinary specimen of masculinity. My chest was squared and rounded, pectorals bulging out several inches over my brick-like abdomen. Sure, there were a few splotches of blood from where Phil's skin had rested against mine, but there was not a bruise on me. My forearms were corded with powerful muscle and coiling veins that extended all the way up to my biceps. I was bigger than I had ever been.

As I rose to look into the mirror, this fact was confirmed to me. I was at least a couple of inches taller than I was before, and I was well beyond the size I had been at my best playing shape. No one would call my physique a swimmer's build any more. Perhaps I was more refined than most bodybuilders looked, but I was definitely as large as the most developed fitness models.

And very naked, I noticed. My brow furrowed as I examined the morning greeting of my endowment. It surely hadn't been this thick or long before. If my collegiate career didn't work out, there was always the porn industry.

I walked around, marveling in my new size, the restoration--and more--of all that I had been before. Phil was nowhere to be seen, but there was a modest looking pile of clothing near the door of the gym, crowned by a simple white envelope. It was sealed. Professor McTague's simple handwriting had scrawled my name across it: "Dane."

First, I put on the clothes. They fit well, if a bit tight around the shoulders, chest, and biceps, and the boxers as well as the shorts were constricting about my thighs and too loose around my waist. It was, if possible, thinner than when I had started this whole ordeal, and cobbled like a stone road. Every muscle was visible through the fabric of my shirt, and my pants did nothing to hide my new cock.

The new changes could wait, but Liam's letter would not. I extracted it gently--my hands were still deft, although longer and stronger--and read:

"Dear Dane,

I've never been one for too many words in letters. Perhaps if we had been able to know one another longer, you would have come to know that for yourself. Unfortunately, we two are both slaves to our responsibilities. You have fulfilled yours, but my work has not yet begun.

You will have realized by now that the injection I gave you worked as was intended. Philip's symbiote is dead. I do not know what happened in those last moments of its life, but it seems that you have had an unlikely stroke of luck: not only are you free from your roommate, but your life can continue as normal. I know I promised that we would be able to restore you, but I must humbly--and sorrowfully--admit that promise to be a lie. I have been forced to abandon San Cristobal State and my identity here. We will not meet again.

As you might imagine by now, your difficulties with Philip were but part of a larger struggle, one that has been severely complicated by my own inability to act. The others warned me that I was becoming too fond of you, and perhaps I allowed our friendship to stay my hand until it was too late. I have been forced to use you to combat your roommate, but I could not bring myself to use you to the fullest of your potential. I hope that you will forgive me, and appreciate what it cost to spare you. There are only a few of us with symbiotes out there, and we now have our hands full with an invasion on a level that we cannot yet fully comprehend.

We have tried to set things back to normal at San Cristobal State, including modifications of memory for many of those involved. Our haste may have left a few loopholes behind, so I suggest that you be very careful in the next few months.

I know I have no right to ask anything more from you, but I hope you will take my advice. The drug in your system will not diminish for several days. It may have enough potency yet to reverse the physical changes in some of the people you were forced to enhance.

We cannot ask you not to seek revenge on those who wronged you at San Cristobal, but please do not attempt to seek us out, or your roommate. He is under our control, now, and we will deal with any interference without prejudice. I am sorry.

I took the liberty of personally removing Christian's memories of these incidents. I believed this to be the best course and--"

I could not read any more. The paper in my hands was shaking so hard. Fury was rushing through my mind. Liam was fortunate that he had fled; there was no way I would be able to control myself after all of that. The symbiotes had stepped into my life and left things a shambles. And now, because of me, they were at war. I tried to calm myself by giving Liam credit for keeping Christian free of this madness, but even that seemed an unforgivable intrusion.

Sighing, I looked around and pushed myself back to my feet. Regardless of what Liam had said, all of this was my responsibility. I had work to do.

*****

I walked down the hall, my hair in a tangled coil, my features set as hard as stone. Some day, I would find Liam again, and show him that I was not a tool, to be set aside after he had used me. These creatures were my responsibility and mine alone. There was messy work ahead, but I would see it done. Still, some of that work was bound to be more pleasing than the rest. Like this first job.

Fluorescent light battered down atop my head; I almost had to stoop in this older corridor of the residential halls. This hall had not been built with a 6'4 man, almost 230 pounds of solid muscle, bone, and sinew, in mind. I was still getting used to my new height, but it was nice; how crowds parted around me, how people I used to know glanced down at my feet to see if I was wearing new boots, how the girls--and some boys--chattered about me just out of a normal human's earshot.

I'd miss it all. I was leaving San Cristobal State on a year's hiatus, or at least that was what I'd told the people in Registration and Records. They would have had me committed if I'd told them the real reason I was going away.

The door awaited me. I could break it down if I wanted to, but that seemed excessive. There'd just be more to clean up afterwards. I looked down at the name plate. "Jason Keane," it read.

I knocked. Once. Twice. My knuckles left scars in the door.

"Who is it?" Jason's voice boomed groggily. Not a trace of regret for the things he had done, the people he had bullied since becoming a behemoth. He was going to be brought down to size.

"An old friend," I said.

The door swung open moments later, and I reached for Jason. Difficult times were ahead, and I had to have a few last worthwhile romps. I'd earned that.

His expression shifted from exhaustion to shock as my hand closed on his shoulder despite his resistance.

Oh, yes. This would be fun. Lots of fun.

END

 

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