Apollyon: Part 23 -- "Just One Condition"

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Brad thought it was funny that the clothes I had worn to the gym last night didn't fit. Asshole. I gave him one of those "fuck you" kind of smiles and shot him the bird, which made him laugh. Brad disappeared for a moment while I took a leak, watching my cock over the precipice of my pecs, down, down below my rock-ridged abs. I quietly enjoyed that feeling of being a man again. I now had the body of my dreams - I was the man of my fantasies.

Time I started acting like it.

As I shook off and stepped away, Brad reappeared with some clothes from the "pro shop." A t-shirt with the Apollyon logo - which looked small, even for a double-XL - and an embarrassingly skimpy pair of nylon shorts, slit so that the sides opened completely, to expose the entire leg, the full profile of the ass. It would be impossible to wear anything but a thong underneath them.

And Brad hadn't brought a thong.

"Best I could find," he said, tossing them at me. "Besides, it'll be good advertising."

"Looks okay to me," I said, smiling, sliding the shorts over my massive legs.

Which was how I found myself walking down 64th, or 92nd, or 101st - whatever - dressed like the kind of bodybuilding gym-whore I'd always fantasized about being. It was nearly eight-thirty by the time I'd left Apollyon and the streets were full of the morning traffic rush. To say I drew some attention was an understatement. Though well north of the business district, there were enough suits on the street that I stood out.

The nylon shorts hugged and displayed me in a way that I might've considered obscene yesterday - and at first I may've been a little embarrassed, but then I really started to get into it. The looks of lust and jealousy on their faces - on ALL their faces, everyone - nobody didn't look - lust or jealousy, one or the other, or both. It fed me, almost. In those skimpy ass shorts and a t-shirt emblazoned with the word "Apollyon," I WAS the Destroyer, the Biblical general of the apocalypse, the three-hundred pound invader here to crush their concepts of masculinity, to ruin their motivation, to become their new sexual object.

I was fucking them with nothing more than a glance.

Some stopped dead in their tracks and stared. Gawked. Some tried to be subtle, but were still obvious to me. It took all my control NOT to rip off my shirt, not to start masturbating in the middle of the street. To flex and pose and let them worship me - here I was in my fantasy body, NOT engaging in my fantasy activity.

Instead of heading uptown toward Woody's flat, I turned left on Seventh Ave and went to my apartment in mid-town. After about two blocks, the silk shorts started teasing my dick, giving me a chubby that I couldn't begin to hide. Of course, that just increased the attention I got, which turned me on, which made me even more aware of the soft material against me, which stimulated me further, which increased the attention I got...

My big quads played ping-pong with my chubby, bouncing my cock back and forth between them. Without support from underwear or a thong, the light silk material did little to help. I tried to slow my pace down a little, but the adjustment in speed made it seem as if I were strutting instead of walking. Maybe I was - hell, I looked damn good...

Thinking about it just got the whole cycle started again. Because I was worried that the head of my dick was gonna pop out from under the shorts, I stopped on the avenue, turning toward the nearest shop-window store-front to pretend I was window-shopping, to mask my reaching down to adjust my dick.

Not surprisingly, it was a Starbucks, not a retail store that I'd turned to face, and after a moment of recognizing my new, heavily-muscled physique in the reflection, adjusting the obvious erection in my slutty shorts, I saw through the glass to the patrons within the store, all sitting at their tables or standing in line, gawking at me, open-mouthed and frozen, this huge bodybuilder outside the store-front window playing with his healthy erection in a t-shirt that read, simply, "Apollyon."

It wasn't embarrassment, though - no, for me it was Pride! It was fantasy-come-true! Yeah, look at me, you wimpy nothings! I'm the Destroyer! I'm the Apocalypse Man! I flexed into a "Most Muscular," like Lou Ferrigno's Hulk, then up into a double-bis, my cockhead falling out from under the fabric. My pride at their shock. I smiled.

Fuck... YEAH!

I had renewed energy as I continued down the avenue, sexual energy. I made a half-ass attempt to control my cock, but then I figured, why bother? It's a force that was fast moving beyond my ability to control. It was my cock, after all, an extension of my masculinity, why try to repress it?

Every man I passed, I judged his look, his size compared to me, and his sexual potential. That there was a time when I considered myself straight briefly went through my head, but once my eyes had been opened to sex being about dominance, once I'd accepted my own instincts, I knew I'd never want a woman again. True pleasure was in the competition, the battle, the defeat of the opponent. Now I knew why guys liked playing football, or became warriors.

Why they liked to fuck.

By the time I got to my apartment, I was so ready to get off, I almost couldn't control myself anymore. However, wedged in the hallway between my living room and the main door, I became aware again of my change in size. My apartment had been too small for me when I was a skinny little fuck, now, at three hundred pounds, I literally had to walk sideways down the hall to get to the bedroom - my shoulders were too wide for the building.

But once I saw myself in the full-length mirror on my bedroom wall, once I was in a familiar atmosphere, the whole thing became... became REAL. True. It'd happened - it had really happened. I'd become this... this muscle freak. For real.

I had difficulty getting my shirt off - I couldn't cross my arms, grab the lower hem of the shirt, and raise it up. I had too much mass to get my arms above my head. Ultimately, I had to grab the t-shirt by the collar and work it over my head that way, which made me laugh. I was gonna have to relearn everything.

Or maybe just get some little slaveboy to dress me.

I flexed in the mirror for quite a while. Longer definitely than I had planned - I had other things to do today - but I couldn't resist looking. I was as spellbound as the people on the street had been. I was truly gigantic.

And it was all real.

I masturbated.

And orgasmed on my own reflection, looking into my own eyes, seeing the beast, the freak, the man that I'd always feared, but now welcomed. The destroyer.

I dressed in a pair of heavy spandex, lace-front football shorts that I'd owned but had only worn once, the day I'd received them in the mail. They'd looked ridiculous on me, highlighting my skinny legs, my soft belly line, nothing at all like they had on the guy in the catalogue - I thought I'd never have the body that could pull them off, but kept them in the back of the underwear drawer "just in case..."

Well, the day of "just in case" had come.

I squeezed myself into them, stretching them over my gargantuan thighs. But even as tightly as they fit through the ass and leg, the waist was still comfortable. Look at me! I was so fuckin' hot in them now, WAY better than that pussy in the catalogue. He'd hide them in HIS underwear drawer after seeing me!

It was all real.

Half-hard - again! - which only made the shorts look better, I shimmied my way to the living room and my computer hutch. The message light was blinking on my answering machine, and I hate to sound paranoid, but the reason I didn't listen to my messages was because I was afraid that one of the calls was from Woody - or worse, Dr. V - and it was some kind of code-word, or phrase that would activate some kind of hypnotic I don't know what and ruin my plans.

So I ignored it and logged onto the computer, to blog on my website - interesting, the last time I updated my journal was only the day before yesterday, sitting outside Woody's apartment, but so much had happened since then that it seemed like much longer. It took me a couple of hours to write it all down, not even counting the number of times my own story turned me on so much that I had to stop and beat off, which was far more frequent than you'd guess. I was a fucking machine!

But was I stupider? Was I losing intelligence as I gained mass? I couldn't tell. I didn't FEEL any stupider. But when that wave of masculinity washed over me, my intelligence didn't matter - all that mattered was sex, muscle-worship, and dominance. Nobody cared how smart I was when I was fucking them.

That thought turned me on, but before I began to masturbate again, I finished my business. I set up my email to send my blog's web-link to my editor, Rawley, down at the newspaper where I worked as a columnist. Well, where I HAD worked. No matter what happened today, there was little chance I'd go back to the paper when it was over. Nobody with a body like mine would waste time being a writer.

Anyway, I gave myself 'til midnight. The email would automatically go tonight at midnight - Rawley would get the link to my e-journal and learn the truth - and perhaps a clue to my fate, if such a thing becomes necessary. If I don't escape.

The phone rang, which startled me. Few people called me on my land-line now that I had the cell. On the caller-ID, I saw it was Woody, and fought the compulsion to answer it. Or maybe I was just fucking with myself with all this talk of mind-control and shit - I don't know, but I stopped myself as I reached for the receiver.

Again, with the paranoid thought of code-words or activation phrases, I quickly made my way to the bedroom, where I could hear Woody's voice talking on my answering machine, but I couldn't make out the words. I looked at myself in the cum-streaked mirror, this three-hundred pound muscle-man afraid and hiding, trying to run away. Hard to get sexually aroused over that course of action.

No - I was a man, now. The destroyer. Time to act like it. Fuck the consequences.

I picked up the bedroom extension. "Woody," I said. "I'm here."

"Strong? Where the fuck have you been? What's goin' on? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. I was... working out," I lied. "I'm a lot bigger than the last time you saw me, Woody." THAT was true.

"Oh, are you now?"

"Yeah," I said quietly, absently stroking my abs. "A lot bigger. I think I could give you your fantasy now, Woody. I think I could make your submissive-boy-turned-dominant-muscle-freak fantasy come true. You should see me, Woody. I'm fuckin' huge."

"So get over here," he said. "Show me. Try to take me..."

My cock came to life - THIS was how I was supposed to behave, no fear, no insecurity, no hiding behind cum-stained mirrors.

"Some conditions," I said.

"Conditions?" he asked. "Since when do you make conditions? Who's the Master here?"

"Once upon a time it was you. Now I'll never submit to any man again. My days of being fucked are through, Woody. So we're making conditions."

"A lot must've happened to you last night with Palumbo."

"For sure," I lied, knowing I was pushing his buttons. "He took me further than you ever did."

"Fuck you, you ungrateful shit!"

"It's no wonder all the guys you trained turned out to be bottoms, Woody. They took after their master. At least Palumbo taught me how to be a man."

"You fucker. You mother-fucker. After all I've done for you..."

"Meet my conditions, Woody," I said, remaining calm, which infuriated him further - that tactic ALWAYS worked, "then you can try to make me pay."

"I'm gonna MORE than make you pay, you little snot. You fuckin' pussy. I'm gonna fuckin' tear you apart! I'm gonna destroy you."

"It's just a little condition, Woody. No big deal."

A pause, finally! A pause, then he finally said, "What, then? What's your condition?"

I smiled, for in that moment, I'd already won the first minor victory. I sat back on the bed and said, "No mind-control. No code words, no Dr. V, just an honest battle between you and me. Winner takes it all. No tricks, no betrayals, nothing but you and me trying for dominance. I win, I walk away. You win, I submit to whatever bullshit you and Dr. V have planned for me."

A slight pause. "How'd you find out about that?"

"Doesn't matter," I said. "All that matters is us, and what's between us - and who's more of a man. What do you say, Woody? Do you agree? It's YOUR fantasy come true."

Silence. Silence long enough that I almost spoke to be sure he was still there. Then finally, he said, quietly, "Okay, yeah."

"Yeah, what?"

"Yeah, you're on. You win, you walk. I win - and I'm gonna win - you accept your fate quietly and without resistance. Sound good?"

My cock was rock-hard in anticipation. "Sounds great," I said, then changed tone, back to business. "Excellent. Okay, I got a couple things to finish up here, then I'll be over. Probably a half-hour out."

"Cool," he said.

I smiled and said, "Wear somethin' sexy." Then I hung up, though I think he heard me chuckling while I did.

When I looked at myself in the mirror this time, I saw the true man I'd become - my cock pushed against the waistband of the football shorts, right above my left hip. I couldn't help but flex for a few minutes - who wouldn't? God damn, I had an incredible body!

Then I wedged my way back to the living room - fuckin' small-ass hallways they call apartments in mid-town! - and retrieved my cell-phone. Sitting on the window-ledge with the fire-escape - the only place "inside" the apartment where I got good service with my cell - I dialed Prince's number.

It was almost noon, so I certainly wasn't waking him, but it took a while for him to pick up. "Strong?" he said as a greeting. "What up, man? I can't really talk - I'm with a client."

That word immediately brought up images of Prince laying there getting fucked, or stripping, dancing, or whoring it up somehow - like I now see all the members of Apollyon - but then I remembered that he was a personal trainer - more, I could hear the sounds of a gym in the background. It wasn't Apollyon, though - I could hear the Top-40 station, not the grinding hard-rock that accompanied a workout at Apollyon.

"Sorry to interrupt you, Prince. Want me to call back?"

"No, no. She's in line at the water-fountain. What do you need? Want to work out later? I'm actually sore from doin' legs with you the other day."

"Actually, I'm kind of hopin' we CAN meet. Some amazing shit has happened to me, and I want you to see it."

"Cool! Let's meet at the gym. What time? I'm done with my client-load at two today."

"Well, I wonder if you could come by my apartment first?"

"Dude," he said quietly, "let's work out before we fuck. I like that better."

I chuckled with him. "That's not what I mean. Listen, I'm thinkin' about gettin' out of town for a little while and I kind of want you to go with me. Can you get away? Is that possible?"

A pause. "Um... I COULD re-arrange a few things, but... why this sudden urge to split? What's goin' on?"

"I don't want to talk about it over the phone - it's gonna sound paranoid and stupid. Can we just get together?"

"Sure, Strong. Sure. What time?"

"Let's meet at my apartment at four - that should give me enough of a window for what I gotta do. Is that okay with you?"

"Yeah, sure. Are you okay, Strong? Is everything all right?"

I snorted. "Everything's great! Dude, I weigh over three-hundred pounds now!"

"What? You're kidding? How'd THAT happen?"

"Dumb luck. Wait'll you see me!" Then, more quietly - seductively - I added, "Wait'll I fuck you."

A sigh, a shudder, that's what I heard. "Shit," he said. "My client's coming back and you got me all fuckin' hard! Fuck. Okay, I'll see you at your place at four. What's your address again?"

I told him, rattling it off so quickly, he asked me to repeat it - I think he was writing it down. "Got it," he said. "Okay, I look forward to... seeing you. Gotta go." Then to someone else, he said, "Yeah, it was my girlfriend. Get back on the machine..." before the connection was lost.

I put on a pair of socks and my Aesics wrestling shoes, leaving the football shorts where they were. I squeezed into my Chrebet jersey (still a Jets fan, even though bigger than any of their linemen), laughing about wearing number 80 with my size - like I'd ever be a wide receiver again. Maybe I should dig my old Klecko jersey out of storage.

No time for nostalgia, I thought - I had shit to do.

Sorting through my gym-bag, I pulled out the syringe that Palumbo had given me, the pre-loaded amp of the magic gear, air-tight and golden within. Palumbo advised taking it right before I went into Woody's apartment, but that was a detail I didn't want to be bothered with then - that moment was about focus and clarity.

I didn't feel like dickering with my shorts, so I jabbed the needle straight into my quad, right there in the living room.

With about ten minutes before it would hit, I grabbed my shit, headed to the street, and hailed a cab. It didn't surprise me how little effort it took.

Everything was gonna work out perfectly.

The buzz of the gear actually hit just as I knocked on Woody's apartment door.

He opened it, standing there in only wrestling trunks and shoes, pumped up and ready for battle. Except now he faced his physical equal.

Hell, his better!

"Well, look at you," he said, and his cock started to harden.

"Your fantasy's here, Woody," I said. "You ready?"

And he opened the door wide to let me in.

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