Five Years Later

Who I was doesn't even matter anymore, that I had a name, a career, a social standing, none of it. Best not even to try to live that old life. Though at first, I confess there had been a certain amount of vengeful fun in it -- goin' back and seducing all the guys who treated me badly -- guys who wouldn't have had anything to do with me socially in high school and college -- watching their reactions when they'd recognize me the way I am now, their helplessness as they'd succumbed to their desires, their lust, that sort of thing. I admit, a couple were fun -- my high-school football coach springs immediately to mind -- but it was ultimately empty.

I have a new name now, one with no past associated with it. A stage name, which just makes things easier. Should I tell you what it is? I mean, it doesn't really matter. Call me "Jake" if that turns you on. "Joe," "Mike," "Todd," whatever gets you off -- whatever you like to scream out. The truth is, nobody cares about my name until after an encounter, when they're desperate to try to contact me again. No, nobody wants my name. They want my body. My perfect, perfect body.

The metamorphosis I went through to get it was singularly the most amazing thing I've ever experienced in my life. Goin' from my skinny, awkward former-self into the slab of perfection I am now -- indescribable! The boost of energy. The rush of confidence. The undeniable sexual need. I suspect the scientist who "sponsored" me only did it in an effort to create some kind of living sex-robot -- no matter his story to the contrary -- some kind of brainless, muscle-bound fuck-machine for himself.

And at first, that's exactly what I was. I'll tell you what, standing there, my muscles blowin' out all over my body, swelling and growing, the way I could feel myself gaining mass and weight and masculine power -- the greatest rush in the world! It was impossible not to flex. Impossible to contain a roar. How I wish there'd been a mirror -- how I wish I could've seen. I mean, looking down on myself was one thing -- seeing my pecs swell like loaves of rising dough in a warm oven -- actually feeling the creation of muscle-fiber as I flexed my growing biceps -- the baseball, then softball, then melon-sized peak -- but nothing would've beat seeing it from the front, seeing it happen to my whole-self at once. Seeing the thickening of my legs, the widening of my back, that would've been the sweetest gift of all. It's every man's secret fantasy, turning into what I am, and it would've been great from the front.

So when my cock dropped to its current impossible length, when the weight of my balls began pulling at the base of my groin -- I felt the testosterone churn in them, the heart of the engine fueling the ongoing muscle-growth -- I gave in, easily and quickly. I surrendered to those new feelings without any sort of fight, without any sort of struggle. I came to the peaceful plateau a man reaches when he realizes his cock is his master. I gave in, and my desires suddenly shifted. My priority became finding release for my new sense of masculinity. Suddenly, all that mattered was satisfying my dominant cock.

Can you blame me? Look at it there, as it lies across my thigh like a sleeping kitten, look how beautiful it is. Long and thick, a slightly tapered beer can connecting to its generous, pink head. The softest skin on my body -- the most sensitive -- even more than my nipples, which seem connected to it internally with an electric wire. My cock is swelling now, knowing I'm thinking of it. It's almost impossible for me to not be distracted by it -- touching it feels so good. Such a potent tool...

It rises up between my arms as I type this, growing in its now familiar way. I love it, and not just because it's so big. I mean, it's beautiful. It's fucking beautiful. I can't resist -- I'm its slave.

A couple minutes later, I wipe the cum from my fingers onto my massive thigh -- I lick them to do the job thoroughly, so they won't be sticky on the keyboard -- also because I've grown to love my own taste -- I'm lucky (and big) enough to give myself head, and the sweet, salty reward at the end helps me ignore the appearance of anatomical oddities -- and I get back to writing this, exactly illustrating my problem.

You see, I have no control over it. When my cock wants attention, everything stops until it's satisfied. Some kind of primal mentality overwhelms me, and nothing else in the world matters but getting off. I have these lucid moment now between erections, where I can think, act, and speak rationally -- longer and longer chunks of time where I'm me, really me -- sometimes as much as five to ten minutes -- but then my cock's erect again, and forget about it! Worse when I'm around other men.

Like, who could resist me? Certainly not the scientist who created me. HE got to see my metamorphosis from the front, lucky bastard. I mean, how much trouble would it have been to film it or something? I suppose he didn't want any traceable evidence -- and ultimately, I guess I'm lucky about that, especially given what happened to him -- but still, I wish I could've somehow seen it. I look in the mirror now -- believe me, I could look in the mirror for hours -- well, I have -- I study the lines of my body, the bulk of my beauty -- and I try to imagine what it must've been like for him, to see me grow, to see me gain my power, to see me accept my destiny. It must've been glorious for him.

Looking at him at that moment, leaning against his desk for strength, tears in his eyes, savagely beating his own meat, he seemed to be enjoying it. When I strode to him, I felt his tentative fear. He didn't know what I was going to do. Neither did I, really, but I was kind-of getting off on the effect I had on him. I was taller -- my center of gravity different -- and my legs were gigantic, but I suddenly had a confidence I'd never had before, and in two steps I was swaggering. I felt so good. So good in fact, my cock was hardening. The closer I got to him, the harder it became.

Now, I'd never been queer. Hell, I'd never even experimented -- not even with drunken college frat buddies. I'd been way too inhibited. And I can't even say that I thought of myself as gay at that moment. At that moment, I wasn't doing much thinking at all. My cock was clearly in control. And my cock wanted to fuck. My cock needed to dominate. I had no choice but to obey.

And this guy was so easy. As I stood before him, looking down on him, over the shelf of my chest, he fell to his knees and began worshipping me, crying with joy. Tears streaking down his face as he licked around the base of my quads. Oh man, how I wanted to fuck him -- to dominate him completely.

I rode the wave. I threw him down over the edge of the desk, holding him steady with the flat of my palm against his back, and rejoiced when I showed my cock the prey I'd caught -- when I offered his ass like a sacrifice -- and it approved, hardening fully to its new, over-abundant weight. Pushing this beautiful cock of mine into him, I knew I'd never want a woman again. Women were merely for sex. And this wasn't sex, this was ownership.

My first orgasm confirmed it. Nothing could ever compare to this. No woman ever. When I fucked him, he cried out in pleasure -- he sobbed with joy. His experiment a success! He'd created ME, the Perfect Man. And each thrust made me greater, brought my true-self into clearer focus.

I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop. Each orgasm was greater than the last. I fucked him and fucked him and fucked him some more. Hours -- until he was completely used. Until he had a heart attack during his last orgasm. In his ecstasy.

I dialed 911. And soon, the police came. And the paramedics came. And the ambulance came, and took the scientist away. After questioning me, the police decided I was merely an escort -- a common hooker -- hired by the scientist for a little fun -- a better story than the truth, that the scientist had injected me with an experimental drug and I'd grown this way within the last few hours. Certainly more believable. I went with it. I had been too much for the old man, they'd decided, and I was innocent of any crime.

Of course, the officers were amazed by my size. I could barely cover myself with my baggy sweatpants, so tight on me now, my cock so obvious. The guy who questioned me kept stealing glances, trying to take me in, trying to be subtle. I dwarfed them all, these hunky lawmen with their strong arms and thick waists. So masculine. Fucking them would be so good. Taking their macho attitudes and showing them something about real men.

When my cock began to harden, the cop noticed immediately, not that it did him much good. His struggles only turned me on more. Before the scientist had been gone five minutes, I was fucking this cop like it was my first time that day, that fresh. At first, he didn't want to, but once I was inside him, once he'd experienced the bliss of my fuck, he never wanted it to end.

I wanted his buddies, too. As he kissed my feet and begged me to fuck him again, I tried to scheme out a way to get them. The firemen, too. I wanted them all. I wanted to fuck the world!

And for the next couple years of my life, pretty much non-stop, I did.

I couldn't think of anything but my cock and its complete satisfaction. What an incredible thing the scientist had done to me! I was a machine! Any man. Every man. They all needed to be dominated. They all needed to submit to my superiority. They all needed to worship my cock.

I stalk them. I seduce them. I take them at my whim. At the gym, I pump up with them, the big bodybuilders, and we flex together to tease the normal guys, dressed in spandex shorts, or just our underwear, or even less than that. Then I go somewhere private with the big guy -- the posing room, the locker room, my living room -- always replete with mirrors -- we pose for each other, we wrestle, we battle for top. I fuck them into women. I watch myself do it. Nobody's bigger than me. Nobody can top me.

But every now and again, I have these sudden flashes. Memories, you know? I remember painting -- watercolors -- and finding great joy in covering a canvas. But I haven't painted since... well, why paint when my arms look like this?

I remember my old job. I remember liking my old job, my co-workers, even the annoying ride on the subway. But then I think -- or maybe my cock thinks for me -- why should I work when men afford me every luxury simply to fuck them? Isn't that the kind of job that every man wants? Envies? Fantasizes about? So why should I miss it? My old life, I mean. Yet, on occasion, it seems I do. I try to think about it, but then I'm distracted by a man, or a muscle, or a reflection, and my cock is ready again. And nothing else matters.

I'm the biggest, and the best. And for the last five years, I've been unrelenting in my need. I know I used to be someone else, but it doesn't matter who . Nothing matters. Nothing but these huge muscles and this gigantic cock. Look, it's getting hard again.

God, it's beautiful.