Addicted to STUDD 5: The Unexpected

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. As such, the characters in this world sometimes behave badly without fear of consequences outside the imagination of the author or the needs of the plot. In this story alone there is mind-control, forced muscle-growth, unsafe sex with multiple partners and plenty of drug use. The author neither condones nor condemns anyone’s personal choices, but the cost of addiction is the theme of this story. Be warned.

Note: This author owes a “tip of the hat” to digger (Dave) from the Evolution Forum who suggested this sequel. It was just a good idea, so I happily stole it – Tom

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I wake with a start.

A little gasp and my eyes pop open. I’m immediately aware of being in a very dark room – a bedroom, I mean, I’m lying on a bed. Just as suddenly, I’m aware of someone lying next to me, so I quickly glance over to see who it is. There’s some ambient light – this room seems to have no windows, but there’s an open door to the next room that has some outside light coming in. A twilight kind of eeriness.

The man next to me on the bed sleeps on his back, uncovered but for a leg from our communal sheet (no blanket). He is gigantically muscular, hairless skin shining even with this low light, with a huge cock that lays across his hip looking both menacing and gorgeous at the same time. He’s a porn star, a muscle god, a bodybuilding fantasy – and he’s in bed with ME!

What the fuck is going on?

Immediately, I’m in a what-the-fuck-have-I-done? kind of place. Was I out drinking last night? Did I hook up with someone online? Maybe again? Why couldn’t I remember? There’s nothing even vaguely familiar about this guy – he’s bald, with a well-trimmed goatee, strong jaw, low forehead, no surprise, given his body, the outrageously huge muscle – there’s nothing natural there.

I don’t remember meeting him. I don’t remember sex with him (which is kind of a shame, given what a fantasy of mine that is). And I don’t have any idea where I am.

Okay, stop freakin’ out. It’s not like waking up after drunk-sex has never happened to you before.

Still, even with drunk-sex, I’d remember something, even if it was just that the guy had been better looking last night at the bar… something! Here I am, in bed with this HUGE bodybuilder, snoring away with his mouth open, and all I can do is hope the sex had been good!

Naturally, I have to piss – I’m suddenly aware of THAT, too – but when I move to get up, the next realization hits me. I’m different – my body is different.

I’m bigger. I can feel the extra size and weight on my trunk and limbs. When I raise my arms to remove the sheet, even in this dim light I can see the muscle, the thick, heaving bulk of MY muscle!

I’M a big bodybuilder – I’M a muscle-beast – I’M vaguely familiar!

How can this be? What the hell is going on?

I’m as big as the guy laying next to me, identical but that I have body hair. All this ridiculous muscle…

…and a cock that’s nothing short of magnificent! It flops up on my belly, getting hard just because I’ve noticed it. How has this happened? Who did this to me? What in God’s name do I do? (Well, I know what my dick wants me to do – it makes no secret of its desires.)

It takes little effort to find the bathroom – there’s a dim night-light glowing inside – and hopefully there’ll be a mirror, too. It’s a large, tiled space, reminding me more of a locker room than a bath,. There’s a shower area on the far side, with a single drain in the center of the floor, a toilet and a pedestal sink. There’s a medium-sized shaving mirror above the sink, about the size of a medicine cabinet – though it’s not large enough to reflect my entire body, or even just my torso, I at least see my head, my neck and face. That’s enough to convince me the whole thing is real.

It’s really me – me as I’d look with over a couple hundred extra pounds of muscle on my body. I recognize me in my eyes, but my jaw is more solid, much more pronounced – I’m handsome in a manly way like I’ve never been before, like I was the classic hero, the alpha male. My lips are sexy and full, seductive and tempting. I’m stunningly beautiful while at the same time rough and rugged, cro-magnon meets pretty boy. My hair is cut in a military high and tight, shaved on the sides – I look like some COLT magazine fantasy with this muscle, this heavy body hair, groomed as carefully as my head…

…and this porn-star cock! It’s shaved smooth (as are my hefty balls) but there’s a thatch of trimmed pubic hair at its base. As I flex for myself in the mirror, it has begun to get hard. Even at half-mast, it dwarfs what it used to be, though I still identify it as MY cock, as familiar to me now as it’s been my entire life. Just gigantic, thick and nearly ridiculous, a gay man’s wet dream – and it’s MINE!

I want to beat off – my cock especially wants me to beat off – but there are more important considerations: how I got here; where “HERE” is; how long have I BEEN here; and what’s happened to me? So instead, I turn to the toilet to take care of the real reason I came to the bathroom. I hold my new cock casually as it produces a powerful stream, which allows me to look down over my new body a bit more, my massive pecs, my tight brick six-pack. Guys with muscle the size of mine usually have a very thick waist, albeit muscular – from cocktails of growth hormone – but my waist is tight and small, emphasizing the width of my upper body, my football hero’s shoulders.

Just as I shake off, flush, and turn, preparing to look at myself further in the mirror, the lights come on – coinciding with a short beep from the alarm clock on the nightstand by the bed. They must be on a timer, I think, but I’m still surprised when it happens. Now I gotta talk to this guy! (And I still don’t even remember who he is!)

I hear him move around in bed, awakening and yawning, so I stall here in the bathroom for a few more seconds, taking my time washing my hands (there isn’t any soap or hand towels by the sink – I have to raid the shower stall for soap – I wonder if this guy is even GAY). I can’t help but wonder if I’M dreaming right now. I hear him shuffle into the next room, which I assume is the kitchen – hopefully, he’s brewing some coffee. I could really use a cup – my brain is so muddled – so I take that as my invitation to exit the bathroom.

With the lights up, I see I’m in a studio apartment – from the lack of windows, I surmise a basement – nice enough, but very drab, sparsely furnished. Whoever this guy was, he was clearly more focused on his body than his environment. And since I’m standing in the “kitchenette,” I can’t help but wonder where the big guy went – certainly not to make coffee – so what’s the other room?

There’s just an empty doorway connecting them, so I step through into a room as large as the “studio” from which I’d come, but this half has been converted into a gym. Clearly, this is where the money had gone that he’d failed to spend on the apartment side. It’s fantastically equipped, several Hammer Strength machines, a smith, as well as a cable crossover, a complete rack of dumbbells, a squat rack, and both a flat and incline bench. The walls are completely mirrored and it’s here, in the overhead light, that I first get a look at my complete self. When my reflection first catches my eye, I think it’s someone else – some hugely-muscled, hairy and hung, bodybuilding porn star – then I almost laugh when I realize it’s me. What… the… fuck…?

My companion is lying on the flat bench, naked, pressing 225 for easy reps. When he becomes aware of me in the room, he racks the weight and stands, greeting me with a heavy cruise and a smirk. He’s gigantic, truly mind-blowing, ready for some tanner and a spotlight – Olympia-sized and competition ready, the only thing that could draw focus away from his body would be his freakishly huge cock, hanging there unapologetically before him, twitching when he looks at me.

“Hey, bud,” I say. “Mornin’…”

He doesn’t respond, just looks at me like he has no idea what I’ve said. He keeps glancing back and forth at the bench press then me – he seems genuinely confused – it’s almost as if he expects me to sit down and start lifting instead of greet him.

“I hate doin’ this,” I say, “but I can’t remember your name. I’m Tommy.” (I hope that was the name I told him last night!) He doesn’t respond again. And I start to wonder if he really ISN’T stupid – if he really can’t remember. I’m studying his face, looking in his eyes, when he unexpectedly grabs me and pulls me in for a kiss.

His kiss is neither tender nor passionate, rather competitive and dominant – aggressive and active. I feel like, even standing there with our arms locked around each other’s mass, we’re wrestling. It’s hot. How could I NOT remember this guy? Even my cock wants to know.

Just as suddenly, he breaks the kiss, pulling his head back. Something has just dawned on him – he’s that transparent. “Eddie,” he says, his smirk becoming a smile. He taps his own chest, looks me in the eye and says, “Eddie” again. He’s proud of himself, like that’s some kind of accomplishment.

What the fuck is going on here? Are we role-playing or something? Did I pick up some… mentally-challenged dude? Did we do too much “tina”? I mean, what the fuck?

We’re about to kiss again when I can hear the footsteps of someone upstairs – we ARE in a basement apartment, I think. The footsteps descend a staircase on the other side of the wall next to us, then there’s banging on the door that must lead to this apartment. Eddie breaks apart from me instantly, eagerly facing the direction of the sound. His cock twitches.

“You muscle-dogs better be up and lifting,” the voice hollers. “Daddy’s ass is lookin’ forward to some big muscle-cock tonight! Okay, we’re going to work! See you dogs later!”

Then the footsteps ascend the stairs and I hear a door shut – silence.

Eddie is erect and enthusiastically playing with himself – he pays me no mind, like he’s forgotten I’m even here. Like he’s turned on just by having heard that voice.

That familiar voice. The one that called us “muscle-dogs.”

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

I leave Eddie there, masturbating openly to his reflection, completely self-involved, and I head back into the other room – the “living” quarters. I glance around, looking for the clothes I came here in, or anything that looks familiar and see nothing. I pull a pair of silk gym shorts out of some drawer and pull them on – they cover me, but make no secret of the size of my package. I guess I’m gonna have to get used to that.

The “front” door is a cheap, polyboard affair, but isn’t locked. Up a staircase that leads to a front hall – a very familiar front hall.

Holy shit, I know where I am! This is Paul and Jeff’s house – my party-friends Paul and Jeff. Now I’m really confused – and suspicious. Did we o.d.? Did we do some huge amount of “tina” and then they gave us something else? Did they turn us into these musclebound things?

I hear whimpering from downstairs – seriously, whimpering! – and when I turn, I see Eddie standing in the basement doorway, acting like he’s afraid to cross the threshold. He’s looking up at me anxiously, like I’m doing the wrong thing and he’s afraid I’ll get in trouble. His dog-like behavior scares me – have I been like that? Is THAT what’s going on around here? Have I just woken up from some drug-induced muscle dream? “Don’t worry, boy,” I say under my breath. “I’ll be right back.”

The house is empty – Paul must’ve been the voice I’d recognized from before. He must’ve gone to work. At this point, I’ve settled on the “done a little too much partying” theory and begin a search for my stuff, my clothes and wallet and keys. I don’t even bother with the first floor – I don’t think I’ve ever even SEEN the first floor – but instead head up to the master bedroom. As I think on it, the last thing I remember before waking up next to that Eddie-doofus was heading over to Jeff and Paul’s to play.

I glance around the master suite but don’t see any of my clothes laying around, not that I really expect to – I’ve always changed (and by “changed” I mean, “strip”) in the ante-room to the master bath, combination walk-in closet and male vanity. It’s in that mirror, the wall-sized one behind the vanity, in which I see myself again. Whatever this is, Lord, let it be permanent. It’s hard to resist flexing a little bit, except that starts to get my dick going and that reminds me that I’m wasting time that I may not have. You’re fucking gorgeous, I think. There’ll be plenty of time to stare at yourself later.

I open the drawer in the vanity in which Paul keeps the stash and sure enough, there’s a rather large sandwich bag full of “tina.” Nothing else, though – no evidence of some other drug used to turn guys into gigantic, dim-witted muscle-dogs. (I confess I’m tempted to do a hit or two of the “tina,” but instead, I fill one of the empty dime-bags in the drawer at take it with me for later – it’s the LEAST they could afford to lose for this, I figure.)

It’s in Paul’s computer room/ home office that I find what I’m looking for – two rubber-made tubs, one labeled “Tommy,” the other “Eddie.” This unnerves me – how long have I been here, exactly? Why don’t I remember? Nervously, I reach for the “Tommy”-tub, setting it up on the work table and popping the lid.

Two things compete for my attention – folded neatly on one side of the tub are the clothes that I came here in, my wallet, keys and cell; on the other, stacks of bundled money, hundreds, twenties, fifties, no petty tens, fives or ones. There must be thousands here – where? Why? What the fuck is going on, right?

I pull out my flip-flops and slide them on my feet – mercifully, they still fit. SOMETHING on me is still the same size! – and the muscle-shirt I’d worn over that day. (“That day” – listen to me! Although seeing all this makes me believe it isn’t Labor Day weekend anymore.) If any reminder is needed that time has passed, putting the shirt on convinced me – even though it’s an extra-large, I can barely pull it over my torso, it’s so tight. It doesn’t reach all the way down to my waist, either, exposing the bottom of my rock-hard abs and the happy trail leading down to other mysteries in my shorts.

My cell phone is dead – or at least it doesn’t turn on when I press the button – heightening my uneasiness. My instincts are to take this shit and run – get out now! Quick, before they come home and re-trap you! Haven’t you seen that movie? They’re sneaking up the stairs right now!!!

I’m trying to calm myself, but failing miserably. None of this makes any sense. Finally, I listen to my instinct, pop the top back on the bin and beat it the hell out of there. At the bottom of the stairs, I stop and consider what to do about Eddie? Should I take him with me? Will he slow me down? Does he even want saving (or does he need it?)? He isn’t standing in the doorway whimpering anymore, but I can hear him slamming weights in the gym, working out. My cock would rather I stay a few minutes and join him – but for what seems like the first time in a while, I’m not listening to my cock.

As soon as I step outside the town house, I realize more time may have passed than I initially thought. It’s clearly not Labor Day weekend anymore – the ground is still frozen and raw, patchy with thawing snow. It’s like March, not August.

What the fuck is going on?

And then the next horror – my car is nowhere to be seen. I spend a few minutes looking for it, my panic growing as I search in vain. The longer I stay, the greater my desire to escape, to get distance from here – forget the car, get a fuckin’ move on!

I’m happy to say that being an overly-muscled, under-dressed man in Dupont Circle in downtown DC has some advantage. I’m able to hail a cab easily – they’re falling all over themselves to pick me up. Me and my muscles and my tub of cash. As I ride back to my place in Adam’s Morgan, as I’m starting to feel guilty about leaving Eddie behind, the driver says, “You must be cold,” looking at me in the rear view mirror. No, he’s not looking at me, he’s looking down, down at my…

My hand inadvertently reaches up and touches my nipple, the object of his gaze, rock hard and erect. It’s about to tear through the thin fabric of my wife beater. Touching it sends a little jolt through my cock, suddenly reminding me that I’m horny. It’d be easy to seduce this guy – why, with this body, I bet I could have him sucking my dick before the end of the block.

I’m about to, when I suddenly remind myself about how I want to ESCAPE right now. (Damn, this is the second time I had to fight my cock since waking up a few hours ago!) Horny as I am – and I am – right now I need to get away from whatever the fuck’s been goin’ on around here.

“16th and Piney Branch,” I growl, pinching the nipple for him to see. “And would you turn the heat up? It’s kind of cold in here.”

I can feel his eyes on me the entire trip, so I amuse myself by hitting little poses for him, flexing and popping various muscle groups. I’m turning myself on probably as much as him, maybe more – I’m horny as a teenager, hungry to fuck. My big cock is so obvious there, in these satin shorts, and it’s taking a monumental force of will to keep it from getting hard – a battle I’m losing as we drive along.

I feel like whipping it out and jerking off right here in the back seat, as if that wouldn’t be a big deal – as if I’d done it (or worse) before. With a body like this – with a cock like this – I feel like it’s my obligation to fulfill people’s erotic fantasies.

On the other hand, what if cumming just knocks you out again and you suddenly turn back into a brain-dead slug sex slug – like Eddie – and this dude doesn’t know what to do with you and takes you BACK there?

Okay, THAT thought got me back on track. There’s time for uninhibited sex later – right now, focus on ESCAPE…

(No matter how hot your fuckin’ cock is…)

With a few minutes to think – even thinking, I’m rubbing my torso absently – all this fuckin’ hot muscle – trying to put the pieces together. Last thing I remember, it was Labor Day weekend. I was going over to Paul and Jeff’s to pnp, with equal amounts of both “p’s”. I loved fuckin’ Paul – he had this AMAZING ass (I swear, it could do party tricks) and once on “t” (for “tina”) and “v” (for Viagra), I could get in him and pound away for hours, breaking only for a few more hits, a few more tabs, or a leaky orgasm.

Clearly, they gave me something that somehow… TRANSFORMED me into this big, dumb-ass freakazoid, along with that Eddie-guy, and kept us in the basement as… studs – their own personal sex-toys, wiped of brains and free will. (My cock twitches while I consider this – it echoes a life-long sex-fantasy of my own.) And now, six months later, for whatever reason, my… brains have returned, my intelligence, my will (though my cock is struggling with it dramatically), so what do I do?

I mean, what’s the next move? My wallet and personal items were all kept in this tub (along with THOUSANDS of dollars), for what reason? Anticipating my “recovery”? For when they’re done with me? Or caught? Do I call the police? And report what? I suspect my friends did something to me while we were high that turned me into some Tom-of-Finland, COLT fantasy? Want me to prove it, officer? Want to see my cock?

I’m starting to get hard again. What the fuck has happened to me?

We pull up to my building and I give the guy a hundred from one of the bundles in the tub and tell him to keep the change. He’s says, “You serious?” but doesn’t make any move to get me change, either. As I’m getting out of the cab, he says, “If you ever need anybody to suck your cock, I’m happy to do it for ya.”

I smirk. “Hot,” I say, knowing he’s watching me as I head up the steps. He peals out as I set the tub down and peak around the corner of the porch. Sure enough, my car’s parked behind the building in its designated spot. I’m positive I drove to Paul and Jeff’s – aren’t I? Don’t I remember that? Yet, there’s my car, like it always is – I rarely drive it in the city. Usually, I ride my bike or take the train. But I can see my bike hanging just inside the main door, so maybe I took the train after all…

Or maybe, while I was a… captive of Paul and Jeff, one of them returned my car to my house where they’ve never been and parked it in the designated spot that neither of them knew. This is getting ridiculous. Clearly my memory is faulty.

The apartment is the same, exactly how I left it – familiar clutter, same pile of unfolded laundry (not that much of it was likely to fit now), some dishes on the floor. Then I notice it, the difference. There’s a thin layer of dust on everything, the feeling that the air hasn’t been disturbed in a long time, an “un-lived-in” vibe. It’s weird.

And there’s mold on the dishes – how damning is that?

The electric is still on – the lights work in the kitchen and the refrigerator still runs (also full of the remnants of food – and that milk looks chilling). I don’t have a landline, but I plug my phone into the charger immediately, happy to see it’s working while it gains a charge. I still have no means of communication…

My lap-top sits closed on my desk. I’m happy to see it, thin layer of dust over it and all. When I open the lid to turn it on, I notice a sticky-note on the screen. “Tom,” it says, “before you do ANYTHING, go to and log-in” – there’s a name and password (both common ones I’d used many times before), then, in tiny print below, “So how huge ARE you? Is it awesome?!?”

It’s written in MY handwriting, which jacks my paranoia up to a level I wouldn’t think possible. How the fuck long is it gonna take this computer to boot up?

The desktop picture is a shot of me at the beach last summer, when I was around two-thirty. I was so proud of how big I’d gotten – I paraded my shit around the gay beach that week and fucked until my cock was raw. Yes, a very good vacation. But as I look at myself in the mirror above the computer desk, easily three-hundred pounds, but shredded, competition-ready, I almost laugh at the guy on my computer – so arrogant, and so fucking small.

Finally, I’m able to access the internet, and I go to, as it says in the note – (I’m not above following my own directions.)

A registration page, but the background is full of hugely muscular men in erotic wear and poses which causes my cock to again stir. I type in the ID and password – my fingers are thicker now, impeding my typing – and am surprised when it’s accepted, forwarding me to a home page.

Although there are several options available, I’m not able to link to them – there is a blinking box with CLICK HERE, TOMMY printed in it. A little more nervously, I do. A video link comes up, but there’s no spirals or anything to hypnotize me – I’m oddly relieved, but don’t know why – just a frozen picture of myself when I was around 230, in a t-shirt I commonly wore to the gym, sitting before a backdrop with the STUDD logo (a silhouette of a exaggerated bodybuilder) obviously speaking into the camera.

I hit play and watch myself suddenly move and talk. “So,” I say, “here I am at the STUDD offices. I just finished signing the contracts and legalize and what-not’s to make this happen. They say to mention it because I’m – that is, you’re – not likely to remember.” I pause for a second, looking uncomfortable. “I’m told there’s something like ninety-percent recovery of memory and knowledge, which is something, I guess. And most of what’s lost, apparently, are more recent memories, so I weighed costs versus benefits and figured there had to be some kind of sacrifice involved in getting the body of my dreams, so it was worth it. It HAS been worth it, hasn’t it? You watching this… I mean, ME watching this… are we fuckin’ HUGE? I swear to God, when they showed me the projections of what I’d look like, I got hard! Are you… am I… hard right now? Is our cock as ridiculous as it first looked in their graphics?”

It is, I think. Hard right now – and ridiculous, too. It’s my cock – well over a foot long.

“But I couldn’t afford it,” I say in the video, continuing. “I mean, honestly, it was tens of thousands of dollars – it was just way out of my league. Without a sponsor, anyway.” I sigh. “And then I happened to mention it to Paul on one of our play weekends – that stupid ‘tina’ is like truth-serum with me – and he offers. We made it a deal that night – ignore this if you… I mean, if I remember this, but I just thought I should tell the whole story, just in case there are any holes.”

Or one big hole, I think, my erection fading a little.

“So they offered the money with one provision: I have to give them six months as their muscle-slave, living in their basement and servicing them whenever they should require. They’d just finished reconverting it and adding a gym, so it seems like a kind of cool fantasy, you know? Well, I guess if you’re me, you DO know…”

And the weird thing is, I DO know – that’s been my fantasy most of my life.

“And because they’re willing to house me during the process – which, apparently causes extreme memory and intelligence loss for approximately six months, while the body goes through the transformation – it kills two birds with one stone. And ultimately saved me… you… us… a lot of money because… we don’t need to stay at the STUDD facility, either. That’s doesn’t get me out of the STUDD contract, but it saves money that I’ll end up having to repay Paul later.

“I’m not sure what else I need to talk about. You’re – I’m – under contract with STUDD for the next year. This website is amazing, though. Clients can only book you – me – through this page, so payment is already taken care of before your… session. (And tips are yours to keep!) The STUDD company takes care of everything else, the money, the scheduling, the publicity, production and distribution of movies, web sites, everything! This is the jackpot for me – it’s like a dream come true!”

I watch myself get a little misty. “I’ve always wanted to be a huge muscle-freak. I would do anything for that, pay any price – even a few IQ points or some short-term memory. If you’re – I’m – watching this, that means I did it – I went for it. So, how do we look? How much do we weigh? How monstrous is our cock? They say that sex is gonna be unbelievable! Have you cum yet? I mean, that you remember? Why don’t you pause this video real quick and go jerk off in the mirror on the closet door? It’s what I’d do…”

Pause. I’m right – that IS what I’d do.

I know what I used to look like – I was used to it. How many millions of times had I looked in this very mirror and imagined myself to be a massive bodybuilder? How wrong I was about what I’d look like. I didn’t anticipate the thickness – how dense I’d be. My legs alone are pillars, the hamstrings steel cables. Naked as I am now, my cock hangs almost halfway down my thigh, tempting and intimidating both at the same time. I can’t look at myself but that it hardens, aroused and hungry, aching to orgasm.

Not that it stops me from hitting the seven compulsory poses as the morning light filters in from the window. I can’t get over how gigantic I am – the size of my muscle – I can’t stop touching myself, rubbing my hairy pecs, my brick six pack. Every flex gets me that much more pumped, that much more excited. My cock is rock hard by my Most Muscular.

I’m almost disappointed by the speed with which I cum! I’ve barely touched my cock and I shoot – it’s that sensitive, and I can’t even get my hand all the way around it – but the orgasm is amazing, and goes on FOREVER! More, it seems to pump me up! I feel like I do after a big set, full and primed – look at the way the veins stand out! Seeing myself in the mirror, semi-squat, hand around thick cock, cum covering just about everything, I discover I’m turned on again – the incredible orgasm I just had has barely taken the edge off my horniness.

I’m hungry to fuck – or work out.

I absently wipe my hand across my chest, leaving a trail of my own cum – the little that’s left on my fingers I lick off as I go back to the computer and click “Play” again.

“I hope you just did it,” I hear myself say. “I hope you just paused this tape, jerked off looking at yourself in front of the mirror, and are now back sitting there absently eating the cum off your fingers – THAT’D be fuckin’ HOT!”

I laugh – I laugh live, too.

“So here’s the deal – obviously, I left my job. There’s a loss. I mean, I need to tell YOU how much I hated it! And you also know how long it’s been my fantasy to be an… escort. So when this… opportunity with the STUDD organization came along – a ground-level company planning on being the new COLT, the new Chippendales, the new, live TOM of FINLAND – I jumped at it. Can you blame me? DO you blame me?”

Popping my pecs at the monitor, I don’t blame me a bit.

“So, I’m under contract with the STUDDs for a year, then we’ll renegotiate, though I suspect that most guys stay with the company after their trial period is over – why would you go through the process otherwise? I mean, you give up everything, even your memory and intelligence for half a year with no guarantee of getting it back! Why would you go through that if you weren’t committed to being a muscle-STUDD? And they are a GREAT company, with a great set-up!

“Look at this web-site, for instance. Clients logon here, search through profiles, pics and vids, find the guy they like (hopefully me!) and book him just like that – no need for us to soil our hands with money or billing, or making sure these doofuses pay – all we need to concern ourselves with is getting a good tip (and a good fuck). Our profile should be up now – Paul said he’d take care of it for me – so take a minute and figure it out, okay? They made it clear that it wasn’t that hard – in case, you know, we lose more brain cells than anticipated – but still, look it over before you do anything else today (or anyone else…).” I laugh at myself again. I’m so fuckin’ horny…

I pause the vid again to navigate around the site a little. There’s a big, blinking button that says, “My Profile” so I hit that. The profile pic is me, the muscular me, standing in the squat rack (the bar loaded with five plates on either side), wearing only a yellow wrestling singlet, the straps pulled down. The camera is low, looking up at me, standing there with my arms over my head, holding the bar, sweating as if I’d just finished a set and was preparing for another, my huge cock pointing straight out, fighting the confines of the spandex, displaying itself to obscene advantage. The look on my face is one of desperate, masculine need, tinged with stupidity. The guy in the pic has just GOTTA fuck something… and soon…

It’s easily the most pornographic thing I’ve seen in my life, yet at the same time, simply beautiful. It’s like looking at a TWILIGHT ZONE version of my life – it’s like living a fantasy.

Stats, weight, pricing guides, it’s all there – plus a little button blinking “Book Me” that makes me laugh – PLENTY of pics and even a video. The pics are all “jock”-themed: in football shorts, in singlets, in jock-straps a-plenty, I’m sweaty and unshaven, hairy and sexy.

And from the look on my face, dumb as a brick.

There’s no nudes, but it’s clear what I’m packing without resorting to cock shots – I’m glad to see Paul skipped that.

I click the one short video, and a small little box pops up. It’s a down-angle shot of me – hugely muscular me – sitting on the end of a flat bench (I recognize it from Paul’s basement). I’m naked but for a pair of nip-clamps chained across my pecs that I’m idly tugging as I psych myself up for the set. There’s five plates on the bar (495 pounds!) – I’ve never done three (315) before – but I watch my mass lay back and grab the bar confidently. My obvious cock is hard and pointing up at my pecs, watching too.

It’s clearly heavy – even for someone as big as me – but I push out six reps, though I’m struggling on the last one. I rack it with a heavy “clang!” and sit up excitedly, punching the air and saying, “YES!” I begin to flex there on the bench, squeezing more blood into the muscle, making them harder.

I stand straddling the bench and do a “Most Muscular” into an off-screen mirror – I’m bigger than the HULK ever was! – and as I flex harder into the pose, really popping the traps, my over-hard cock, erect all this time, shoots a spontaneous load, blowing out stream after stream of thick white cream.

I release the pose. In the last seconds of the video, I run a hand across my pecs as my other finds my still dripping cock and starts stroking it. Action freezes – end of vid.

I’m kind of shaken after I view it – though my cock is rock hard (clearly, IT remembers!). I can’t get over how horny I am.

I click the other mpeg, the one of me explaining – I unfreeze me. “And make sure to click the ‘calendar’ function,” I’m saying. “Make sure we don’t have any clients before we head ourselves to the gym and REALLY get to know that new bod.”

I pause it again and search for the right link. On the bar to the left, there’s a tab that says “CALENDAR,” so I click it. The “APRIL” box opens, and today’s (apparent) date blinks – when I open that, I discover that I do indeed have a “client” today (at 7pm). I press the “info” link under the booking. “Do you want this information loaded to your Blackberry?” I click “yes” and I suddenly hear my phone “beep!” from the charger on the other side of the room.

This is so fuckin’ cool, I think.

There’s all kinds of info – address, or in this case, hotel (apparently, I only do “out” calls); frequency (this is my fifth time with this guy); likes/dislikes/ wardrobe preferences (he likes posing straps, preferably blue and too small); and finally, requested role-play (he wants the arrogant jock muscle-god to force-fuck him). Apparently, this guy has given me a five-star rating (and a comment that says, “Plays the jock-bully role like he was born to it!”)

It’s a little after 8am right now, so I have plenty of time for the gym before I connect with my… client. I smirk and giggle at how hot that sounds – my cock bounces while I chuckle. I have clients – it’s like a fantasy come true!

I click the mpeg. “Okay, they’re signaling me to wrap it up,” I say. “You’ll receive an email in the next twenty-four hours detailing your next contractual requirements and stuff. Read it carefully – you’re under contract with STUDD for the next year-from-this-date, so follow directions and enjoy yourself. Who knows, Tommy? Videos, photo spreads, parties and personal appearances, it could be mighty lucrative for us. It also lets us live a fantasy – a couple of ‘em. That reminds me, if you haven’t yet, make sure to thank Paul and Jeff! Not just for sponsoring you through the process, but for taking care of your personal business for the six months you were ‘out.’ It’s an amazing gesture on their part! Don’t you think?”

I’m not sure what to think. I feel like the last six months have been DIFFERENT than that, somehow – I just can’t remember. Fuck, man. It’s so weird.

“Far as I’m concerned,” I continued, “they get free-bees for life!” I laugh on screen. “Okay, enough of this bullshit, go to the gym and see what we can do now, pump up and enjoy it… and wear something sexy! Peace, me!”

The video stops, a “REPLAY?” link fading in on top.

I click through the pics again, playing with myself while I look. As I watch the bench-pressing video again, fascinated by the tit-clamps, I pinch my nipple, sending shock waves through my body, directly to my cock – I orgasm even more powerfully than before, if that’s possible.

It’s fun to run the cum through the hair on my torso, smelling the salty freshness of myself – it’s impossible to resist licking my fingers. Before I know it, I’m hard again.

I end up jerking off, like five – no, not five, the number after five… SIX! – times before finally heading to the gym. There, I fuck the hot front-desk boy (in the manager’s office), seducing him and his tight little ass without any effort at all; the sexy black personal trainer (the one in the tights – whew! that guy has some booty) in the massage room; and some buff older guy in the shower (who sucks my dick and worships me in a way no coach-type has ever done with me before). In between all that, I manage to get a chest workout in, too, and I’m swollen like a tick right now.

It’s gonna be a GREAT new life! Whatever I put myself through was totally worth it for THIS! Fuckin’ awesome!

And I still have five hours before my client – and I’m still crazy horny – so I log onto to scope out a little action. I got my dick up somebody’s ass within a half-hour.

Yeah, worth the price.


He picks up the phone on the second ring. “Tommy?!? Oh man, is it really you? We were so worried! I mean, we knew you were gonna come out of it sometime this week, but when I came home and found you gone I freaked out a little.”

“Hey, Paul,” I say, still marveling at my deep baritone. “I just finished up with my client and thought I’d give you a call.”

“Is everything okay,” he asks. “I mean, what do you remember? Has it all come back?”

“You mean my intelligence, my memory? There are some holes, but it’s mostly short-term related. I feel okay – well, better than okay, considering what’s been done to me, but that’s all physical. Mentally, I’m okay.”

“You sound really good.”

“I FEEL really good! I just finished fuckin’ the shit out of a client and I’m ready to go again. I’ve fuckin’ cum about nine times today and I feel like I could cum nine more – I’ve barely scratched the surface. All I wanna do is lift and fuck.”

“That’s all you’ll HAVE to do – and you don’t really even NEED to lift, at that. You’re gonna have quite an amazing life, now. I just hope you remember the little people who made you great!”

I laugh, adjusting my cock as I drive the narrow streets of DC. “Listen,” I say, trying to sound humble (which is VERY hard now), “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I don’t remember setting it up and only bits and pieces of going through it, but it seems like it was mighty magnanimous on your part – to sponsor me, I mean.”

He laughs and makes a dismissive snort. “Are you kidding? It was OUR pleasure! More, we’ve become an official… “foster” home for the STUDD company – we’re already negotiating our next guy – honestly, there was just as much in it for me as there was for you.”

Pinching at the base of my giant dick while I drive, I doubt him, but whatever.

“Well, I’m still grateful.”

“You can pay me back with that big dick of yours.”

“Whenever you want, buddy. You know how much I love fuckin’ you – you have an AMAZING ass!”

He laughs a little, low in his throat. “I’m glad to hear you say that,” he says. “You don’t have any more clients tonight?”

“Nothin’ till tomorrow afternoon. I was gonna go home and dig up some ass on ManFIND.”

“No need for that! Listen…”

He says something then – I’m not exactly sure what – but my cock is suddenly rock hard, hungrier than it’s been all day (and that’s saying something). I drop the phone, forgotten, and with the hand that held the phone, I play with my hard-on while the other steers me to Paul’s house. Suddenly, nothing else matters but getting to Paul and fucking that amazing ass of his. I mean, he has the BEST ass – I could never get tired of fucking it!

I can’t wait to get there! I’m so focused on it, I forget everything else…