Jarom's Goal

It wasn't that he lacked the dedication.

Even his trainers--for there had been a steady string of them over the last two years, each one promising better results and asking higher rates than the last--agreed that he had dedication in spades. They blamed it on his diet, his sleep schedule, and too much cardio, but never the fervor with which he pursued his goal.

The other components came part and parcel with that. He ate like a horse, gulping down protein shake after bland, chalky protein shake. He slept eight hours a night, sheer exhaustion after another night of lifting driving him in to bed and the sounds of rush hour traffic from the highway overpass a block away waking him in the morning. As for cardio, the only running he did was to and from the neighborhood gym in the evenings. Three miles either way, if that. An easy run for someone with his build. No, he had done everything his trainers told him.

And none of it worked.

Jarom stood in front of the mirrored sliding doors of his closet and flexed his chest. Anyone else would have seen a reasonably attractive young man--on the slim side, to be certain, but athletic nonetheless--reflected in the panes. He saw a failure.

A failure who needed to get to the gym before it rained. He pulled on a pair of black mesh shorts over his boxer-briefs and tried to ignore how knobby his knees looked poking out of the fabric. It was harder to ignore the way his tank top hung from his bony shoulders when he put it on. At least once he had his hooded sweatshirt on over the shirt, he didn’t look like a scarecrow.

On the way out of his apartment, his ears perked up at the sound of voices coming from down the hall. Cold dread flooded him as one booming bass in particular drowned out the others. His hand lingered on the lock. He almost hastened back inside.

No, he thought, standing to his full, meager height. He won’t do anything with his friends here.

The pack of them came strutting down the hall, giving each other high fives and shouting their stupid sports cheers. The crowd of muscular young men and slender, too-tan blondes descended upon Jarom. He braced himself for some sharp comment, perhaps a blow, but to them he might as well have been wallpaper. It was their leader that frightened him.

Ryan McAllister stood a head higher than any of his neanderthal friends, with shoulders so wide that he looked like he might have trouble passing through doorways. He had a lazy smile on his face, as pristine as the flawless spikes in his dark copper hair. Jarom remembered a time when he had found Ryan’s perfectly tanned skin and winking blue eyes to be beautiful.

Now he knew they were just a mask.

That mask lifted as he passed by Jarom. Those eyes burned like blue flames for a moment. His beautiful face twisted into a very ugly expression. And then both were gone, and he was laughing with his friends again.

At least I was right, Jarom thought. He’d never do anything with his friends here. As much as he hates me, he’d never want them to find out.

The reassurance did little to sooth the shame that burned in Jarom’s cheeks as he skulked down the hall, hurrying in the opposite direction of Ryan’s cult of friends. Even reminding himself that it hadn’t been his fault, not entirely, provided little solace.

It had seemed like just a social visit. A knock had sounded at Jarom’s door, and he’d opened it, little expecting to see the man of his dreams towering on the other side of the threshold. Ryan had let himself in.

He had just come from a workout, he explained. The musky, salty smell that preceded him into Jarom’s apartment was a testament to that fact. There was a pattern of sweat darkening the chest and underarms of his grey muscle shirt.

Ryan’s body did honor to the name. The shirt was likely an extra large and it fit his ripped physique like a glove. Pectorals with an overhang of at least a few inches over an abdomen so free of fat that eight individual bricks could be seen through the thick fabric. Vein-tangled biceps that, unflexed, leaped with the smallest movement of the jock’s striated forearms. Jarom found himself having trouble imagining hands quite so huge as the mitts waiting at the end of those forearms. They were graced with long, powerful fingers.

Yet of all those attributes, not to mention Ryan’s immensely wide back or his tree-trunk thighs, Jarom found his eyes resting on the jock’s greatest attribute. It was clear that Ryan wore nothing under his gym shorts, and so there was nothing to prevent a truly mammoth piece of meat from hanging partway down one tremendous thigh.

In answer, Jarom’s own cock sprung to life in his trousers. He tried to cover it, but it was too late. Ryan never finished his sentence about this year’s football lineup at the local community college. Instead, he spoke three words that set the path for the rest of his relationship with Jarom.

“Hi there, queerboy.”

The jock had left, sealing their first meeting with a disgusted glare. His sapphire eyes, normally so full of light and life, had turned to chips of cold blue ice. Then the troubles started.

There was no mistaking his intent the first time he body-checked Jarom in the hall. He had meant to cause damage, and if Jarom had fallen against something hard, he would have succeeded. That behavior continued for a while, and Jarom considered going to the landlord or the police.

Each time he got up the courage, he wondered what he would tell them. That he was being bullied? He was a grown man, even if he had topped out just a shade over 5’5. He was not in high school; he had even left college behind a year or two ago. So he decided to settle things like a mature adult would.

That was a mistake. Ryan had answered the door to his apartment cordially enough, but as soon as Jarom was inside and with the door shut, those meaty, graceful hands had thrown him up against a wall and a solid pillar of jock muscle was cutting him off from escape. He didn’t like thinking about what Ryan had made him do. Before they’d met, he would have done anything to please a guy like Ryan Allister. By the second of their little ‘private sessions,’ he could think of little more repulsive than the jock’s obscene meat staring him eye to eye.

He had threatened, of course, but Ryan was smarter than he looked. He presented pictures of their little liasons and made nebulous threats about getting them into the right hands. People at Jarom’s work, in his family, even his friends. They knew he was gay, but the thought of them seeing what Ryan made him do made something in Jarom’s stomach churn.
So he stayed silent. And he endured. And he went to the gym, where all the dedication in the world wasn’t helping him get bigger.

It turned out that he had left just in time, as great grey stormclouds were sweeping in over the city, and shimmering sheets of mist were already sprinkling down on the streets. Thunder rumbled in the distance, shaking the window panes of buildings looming over the streets. If he had waited any longer, he might have found an excuse not to go.
Running out in the fresh air, it was easier to forget about what he had endured. Easier, but not easy. Sometimes, when he hit the ground in a certain way, he could feel the fading bruises that Ryan had left on his chest last weekend.

Only the pain of lifting weights could make him forget completely. When his chest started burning during a bench press, the bruises and the burn of his muscles became one. It was still pain, but pain that he could control. Pain that he had once hoped would carry him closer to his goal. The goal, part of him knew, was unattainable. A work of fantasy. But he strove toward it nonetheless.

By the time he hit the second mile of his run, the storm had arrived in earnest. Fat droplets of water fell around him, splashing off of the pavement, soliciting a sound like the pounding of a base drum when they struck the overhangs protecting the doorways of nicer establishments.

He came to a stop beneath one such overhang. If he kept running, he would be soaked and freezing by the time he reached the gym. He’d pumped himself up for a workout, though, and he did not want to go back home for fear of seeing Ryan again. He needed a shortcut. He scanned the area.

This part of town was a strange blend of tech businesses and satellite buildings annexed by San Cristobal State. He’d taken a computer science class in the tall, spindly building with mirrored windows, and a biology class at the old brick edifice across the way. If he remembered right, there was an alley behind the brick building that would save him about half a mile. He set off toward it at a sprint.

The alley, though, was not as well-maintained as he had remembered. In fact, now that he came to think of it, he had never actually used it as a shortcut, just noted its existence. As he dashed into the mouth of the passage between the old brick Biology building and its taller, newer neighbor, he could see the way ahead was strewn with garbage.

Worse, there were big bins stacked on top of each other, each one of them a warning orange and bearing a biohazard marker. The wind had toppled one, and its gooey grey-green contents had spilled in a fetid clump onto the floor of the alley.

Luckily, Jarom saw the bins in time. Adrenaline surged in his veins, and he plotted a mildly acrobatic maneuver. As he passed close to the stinking muck, he darted to the right, and would have swung around the mess entirely.

Unluckily, his foot hit rain-slick pavement. His heart leaped in his chest as he legs flew out from under him. Sharp pain shot through his head, and he was lying in the alley, covered in the vile stuff. Raindrops pattered down on his forehead.

He swore, loudly. His voice echoed through the alley. Grunting, he rolled over and forced himself to his feet. Whatever the stuff was, it tickled. Fearing that he’d doused himself in some sort of acid, he quickly took off his hooded sweatshirt, the back of which was coated in the gunk, and used the parts of it that were still clean to wipe his face and hands off. The rain washed away the rest, which was surprising. He’d been certain there had been more of it on him.

Of greater concern was his head. He could feel his heart throbbing in his skull, and his skin felt feverish against the chill of the rain. Still, he had just been running. He wasn’t dizzy, he could see clearly, and his skin had stopped tickling.

He took a step back and looked at the biohazard signs on the bins.

“I should definitely see a doctor,” he muttered. But he did not have any open cuts that he could find, and unless he went in to the emergency room, there was no way his HMO would let him get an appointment on the weekend. He sighed.

The gym had a shower. More, they had a pool, and therefore a drier for people’s swimsuits. He could clean up there, get dry, and maybe still work out. If he grew a second head or started throwing up blood before the weekend was out, he somehow doubted any sort of early prevention would help that.

Maybe it was just the short break, or maybe it was the freedom of knowing that however much running hurt, it was still nothing compared to vomiting blood, but he made it the rest of the way to the gym at record speed. He felt energized, ready to face anything. Well, almost anything, he amended: not a second head.

The girl at the desk gave him a sympathetic smile. He was drenched, carrying a muck-covered sweatshirt, and red-faced from his run. After checking in, he hurried off to the restrooms. To his relief, the gym was almost empty. Apparently, other people had possessed the sense to stay home during a rainstorm.

He made sure he was alone amidst the sea of lockers in the restroom before stripping out of his clothes and wrapping up in one of the towels the gym provided. At last free of his sopping, filthy attire, he took inventory of his situation. Clean, he decided. Then dry.

He turned on one of the showers and washed the sweatshirt until not a trace of gunk remained. He did the same with his shorts and tank top. The stuff had even bled through to his boxer-briefs, he noted with disgust. The thought of the muck lingering on his skin powered him through a very thorough shower of his own.

Once Jarom and all of his clothing were both as clean as a gym shower were going to get them, he ran his clothes through the swimsuit drier, piece by piece. His hoodie came out a little damp, but the rest of his clothes ended up serviceable. He took them back to a nook formed by the lockers and sat, letting out a sigh of relief.

His sigh rose into a strangled yelp as a spasm ran through his body, making his back arch. Motes of white-hot pain burned in the marrow of his bones. He tried to scream, but no sound came, only a hot rush that felt as if someone had injected boiling water into his veins. Tears streamed from his eyes, his skin felt as if it might burst, and then the pain turned into pleasure.

Instead of fiery agony, the sensation became the white heat of ecstasy. It tore through his veins, flowed through his muscles, shot toward his cock. It shot from soft and shriveled by the cold air to an almost painful, purple stiffness in seconds, as if all the tension that had just been in his muscles had drained into his dick. And he came.

The first spurt exploded from his dick, shooting like a bullet toward the opposite wall, ten feet away. The white stream struck with a high-pitched splat. It was joined seconds later by a second shot. The third hit the ceiling and rained down in thick droplets. All told, he was nine shots of jism in before the orgasm subsided.

Sweat poured down his brow, and hot dribbles of cum still fountained down his dick. His confusion at what happened was mitigated only by how amazing it had felt after the pain went away. He found it difficult to stand. The world swayed around him in a drunken, dizzy spiral, and he caught himself against the cold metal of the lockers. Something in the back of his mind cried out in protest, that there was something wrong with the lockers, but Jarom could barely think straight.

All he could manage to determine was that he needed to clean up after himself. His clothes abandoned, he stumbled around the lockers and back toward the paper towel dispensers to either side of the bathroom sinks. The sinks had wide, tall mirrors.

Jarom stopped as he saw his reflection.

All thoughts of cleaning up vanished as his eyes drifted over a body that was not his own. Those muscles didn’t belong to him. His pecs didn’t have a definite cleft between them, nor did they protrude from his chest. His arms didn’t have hard lines of muscle accenting their length. For that matter, he didn’t have abs, not even the light four-pack the figure in the mirror possessed. And that definitely wasn’t his frustratingly little dick, standing erect at half a foot long if it was an inch.

No, he didn’t trust his eyes, but his hands confirmed all they had seen and more as he looked down at himself. He didn’t just have muscles, they were hard, hot, and unyielding. He was still no bodybuilder, that was for sure. There were probably freshmen at the local high school with as much muscle. But suddenly, he had the contours of a man’s body, not a boy’s. He wanted to shout for joy--no, he wanted to lift, and see what his body could do now.

In a daze, he ran back between the lockers and threw on his clothing. Everything fit differently. The tank top was still a little too big for him, but it no longer hung limp from his shoulders. His boxer-briefs fit snug against an ass that suddenly had a little muscle to lend it shape. His basket up front was no longer flat. He left his sweatshirt in one of the lockers. There was no one in the gym to worry about, and even if there were, this was a body he could live with.

He hit biceps first. The ten-pounders he normally worked out with were too light, so he moved up to fifteens, and finally met his match with twenties. But as he powered through a set of hammer curls, he found that the strain wasn’t growing greater as he lifted. His heart thudded in his chest with the exertion and his lungs strained for breath, sure, but his arms weren’t getting tired. In fact, it was like the weights were getting lighter.

Exultant, he replaced the twenties. For the next set, he grabbed twenty-fives. For a moment, he thought he’d grabbed the fifteens again, they felt so light. But the weights hadn’t gotten lighter. His arms had gotten bigger.

It was barely noticeable after the way he had transformed in the locker room, but fresh curves of definition bulged up beneath the tanned skin of his arm. In fact, he looked bigger all over, from his neck down to his calves. That was impossible. Nothing about this was right, he knew. People didn’t just grow like this. A body needed protein to grow, and time to recover. Part of him wanted to stop, to figure out what was happening to him. Another portion, more primal, hungrier, overrode that part. It wanted him to reach his goal.

He curled thirties and then forties. His arms pulsed faintly larger with each rep, until his biceps felt so pumped that they might explode. At last, he set the weights down.

He flexed in the mirror and sucked in a breath as a vascular ball of muscle rose out of his arm, swathed in veins and hard as stone. His arm had to be at least 14 inches around. And it wasn’t just his biceps that were growing. Steely triceps had swelled up to match his new-grown bis, and the straps of his tank top now stretched over two firm pecs that were a far cry from the pancakes he’d woken up with this morning.

A wicked smile spread across his face. He had to see how much he could bench now. Over a hundred, at least, he hoped as he loaded up the bar.

He was not disappointed. Half again that proved to be too easy a job for the hard muscles that had taken up residence on his chest. He stopped every few reps to add more weight. By the time he was done, he was pushing almost two hundred, and his shirt was almost painfully tight.

Another look in the mirror sent a wave of pleasure straight to Jarom’s groin. It was almost painfully tight because he had muscles. He looked like a serious athlete now, with his tank top fitting like a second skin. Real, rock-hard muscles. Broad shoulders widened by rounded deltoids. Rounded pecs pushing his nipples downward. He looked as if he had spent years in the gym. Only his waist was unchanged. It was the same slender waist he had always had, except now it was the narrowest point on a dramatic taper.

He wanted to grow more, wanted it more than anything he had ever wanted before, but there had to be limits. Any larger and he would outgrow his clothing. He could grow more at home. Maybe enough to reach his goal.

Walking around was a strange experience. He felt the material of his boxer briefs straining over his newly rock hard ass. Every step was steadier on two strong legs with thick quads and diamond-shaped calves. And his package was bigger than ever. He could feel it thrusting forward, pointing the way to the restroom.

Halfway there, heat began to build in his bones again. His heart pounded and adrenaline rushed through his veins. He had to get to the bathroom before it started. The girl at the desk might not have noticed him growing, but she would certainly take note if he went through another seizure on the gym floor. He reached for the handle and missed it.

“What the--” he began, looking down.

That handle had moved. He shook his head, realizing how stupid that was a second later. He had been coming to this gym for years, and it was the same handle that had always been there. It was then that he noticed how much higher his shorts were riding on his legs.

He was taller. Judging from the door, 5’9 or 5’10. He had no time to think on that as another dizzying eruption of heat traveled through him. His head spun. He clenched his jaw and struggled to hold back the tide of heat inside of him. Slowly, reluctantly, it ebbed away.

As he pushed through the door, the last of the heat inside him started to fade. Exhaustion rose in its place. He leaned against the other side of the door and slouched down, letting out ragged gasps of breath. His hands shook, his swollen muscles hurt, but the fit he had been fearing did not come.

“I have to get out of here,” he breathed.

Jarom struggled to his feet and stood, adjusting to the wider stance required by his bigger legs. He needed to get his hoodie. Then he would run home. Or walk, maybe. He still felt a bit unsteady, a bit buzzed, a bit… wonderful.

He tugged the hoodie over his shoulders. It had been baggy, before, but now it fit as if tailored to his body. In the bathroom mirror, he could see the bulges of lateralus muscle broadening his back, the breadth of his shoulders. He looked bigger, better, more masculine than he had ever imagined possible. He wanted more.

Just as he managed to tear his eyes away from the mirror, agony lanced through him. It was as if his holding the flow back had only increased its pressure, and his mouth opened in a silent scream at the pain that sent him to the ground. He writhed around on the tile floor, unable to make so much as a sound.

And again, the pain turned to pleasure. Molten fury shot down his limbs as they lengthened. The sounds of cloth popping, straining, and shredding echoed through the restroom, punctuated by the deepening cadence of grunts involuntarily ripped from Jarom’s throat as he grew. There was a sharp pain in his groin that intensified over a series of seconds. Then, with a tearing sound, the torment ended as his cock burst free from its prison of cloth.

He stared down at the huge organ pushing out of his still-intact basketball shorts. Eight inches long and thick as a beer can, it was bloated and angry, red as a plum and drooling precum down its impressive length. The sight of it and even more muscle piling up beneath his tortured hoodie sent him over the edge, and he came.

Again and again, his cock fired off spurts of cum. Each shot was more spunk than he’d managed in a single load before his transformation. If his orgasm before had been a pistol firing, his bigger dick was like a shotgun, spraying ribbons of jism into the air around him.

At last, the fit subsided. Though dizzy, he got to his feet easily, moving with an athletic grace that had always been denied to him in the past. He was a total mess, he could see, as he tucked his still-hard dick into his pants and the ruins of his boxer-briefs. It made a hugely visible bulge with only the mesh material to restrain its mass.

He was at least as big as any of Ryan’s entourage now. The sleeves of his hoodie fought to contain baseball-sized muscles visible even when he wasn’t flexing. His feet felt cramped in his tiny shoes, ready to burst through the material containing them.

The transformation had also refined his features, turning the boyish curves of his face into beautiful, hard planes. His jaw looked as if it had been cut from stone, and his neck was hard and thick, like a wrestler’s. But still he hadn’t reached his goal, a goal that seemed suddenly attainable.

He charged out of the restroom and dashed down the corridor to the front desk, passing by the desk girl without giving her any notice. He felt her eyes boring into his back. Why shouldn’t she look? His body was a paragon of masculine power now, six feet tall at least.

Running had been easy in his old body, but now it was effortless, even with his too-tight shoes and hoodie. He dashed through the driving rain at incredible speed, one goal in mind. He made it home to the apartment building in what seemed like minutes, and as soon as it came into sight, heat started to build in his bones again.

Jarom smiled.

He did not bother to stop at his room or remove the clinging clothing, but as soon as he was in the hall, he pried his shoes off of his feet. He had one target in mind, a singular purpose that he focused on while holding back the next wave of agony and ecstasy. Ryan was going to pay.

The hallway around Ryan’s apartment was quiet. For a moment, a worry assailed him: what if Ryan had left with his friends? The thought filled Jarom with rage. He would have his revenge.

But then a floorboard creaked in Ryan’s apartment, and the smile returned to Jarom’s face. With one meaty fist, he pounded on the door. His arms shook with the effort of holding his transformation back.

The door swung open. Ryan stood there in all of his glory, a massively muscled silhouette with shining blue eyes. He wore only a pair of boxers, and his muscles were sheened with sweat, as if he’d been exercising. A dull, uncomprehending look washed over his face as he took in the figure before him. Jarom glared up at him, his rage flaring like a furnace, fueled by the fact that Ryan was still half a head taller.

Unthinking, blinded by fury, Jarom swung a wild punch at Ryan’s face. The larger man’s surprise was not enough to dull his reflexes. He caught the blow with a huge mit and twisted, sending daggers of pain shooting down Jarom’s arm. Before, that might have bothered him, but he had experienced so much worse.

“What the fuck, man,” Ryan said. “Who the hell are--wait, queerboy, is that you?”

“Let me go,” Jarom hissed.

“I never realized you were this big, homo. What, you been working out? Eating your spinach? You’re still nothing. But I have to admit, I like you this way better. You put up more of a fight.”

Ryan freed one hand and slammed the door closed. Almost effortlessly, he threw Jarom up against the wall and held him there, one immense hand around his throat. Ryan took his time inspecting Jarom’s body. Something swollen and hard jumped beneath the fabric of his boxers.

“Put me down or you’ll regret it,” rasped Jarom.

“I was just thinking about you, queerboy,” Ryan said. “You interrupted me while playing with my big friend here. And I think he likes what he sees.”

He reached out with his other hand and tore at the fabric of Jarom’s hoodie, ripping the already strained material away as if it were paper. He smiled at the taut expanse of shredded muscle beneath. Jarom’s pecs and abs looked as if they were cut from pale marble.

“You almost look like a man,” Ryan said, letting Jarom fall to the ground.

Jarom struggled to control the fire inside of him as Ryan tore his boxers down. Hanging there between two tree trunk legs was a sight that haunted Jarom’s nightmares. Ryan’s cock must have been at least ten inches long, perhaps eleven, and it was easily thicker than a man’s wrist. He smiled down at the immense tool, but his smile evaporated as he heard the first moan rise from the ground below.

The heat had, at last, escaped Jarom’s control. It raged through him like a wildfire--no, like a forge fire, taking crude metal and breaking it down so that it could be turned into more. This time, Jarom screamed, and it was the sound of a tortured animal.

Ryan backed away. His eyes went wide at the sight of Jarom’s limbs lengthening, strengthening, surging outward with mass. The last vestiges of Jarom’s clothes tore away at the explosion of muscles. Arms surged past sixteen inches, seventeen, eighteen. Legs shot outward, feet expanding until they were almost as big as Ryan’s own.

But his gaze caught and focused on the shape twitching and writhing beneath the remains of Jarom’s shorts. Its size rivaled that of his own absurd tool. As Jarom stared through a veil of pain at Ryan’s beautiful face, it was clear that the gigantic bully was wrestling with desire.

He had never seen that look from Ryan. Hatred? Often. Dumb pleasure as he forced Jarom to suck him to completion? Sometimes. But desire, need so strong it made his eyes lose focus, that was new. Maybe that gunk had done more to him than make him grow.

“Go ahead,” Jarom gasped as another surge echoed through him. The entreaty came as much from his own need to get off as it did from curiosity at how Ryan would react. “Touch it. Suck it.”

Shockingly, Ryan complied. He moved like a man in a dream, eyes never leaving the throbbing bulge. He knelt and bent forward. With a surprisingly delicate touch, he peeled the waistband of Jarom’s shorts away from the slightly smaller man’s corrugated abdomen. He let out a shocked breath as a huge tube of flesh leapt out and thwacked against the hard expanse of Jarom’s belly. It was attached to a set of balls that looked like softballs. To Jarom’s shock, Ryan leaned forward more and put the head of the tool into his mouth.

The orgasm built in Jarom new-grown bull balls, roiling and gathering before traveling into his gargantuan tool. It seemed to take an eternity to travel each inch of his cock. Ten eternities of mind-blowing ecstasy before the first shot came, filling Ryan’s mouth.

The bully choked and wheezed, tearing his mouth off of Jarom’s dick. He fell backward, sputtering, gagging, and finally swearing. All the while, Jarom’s cock kept shooting torrents of cum into the air. Ryan’s eyes narrowed at the other man, now almost as large as he was, and his lips curled into a sneer.

He took a step toward Jarom, but it proved a halting step as a spasm shot through his body. Horror sent ice running shooting through Jarom’s bloodstream, aborting the washes of pleasure emanating from his huge, impossible cock. Had he exposed Ryan to the same chemicals that had done this to him? Had he made Ryan grow?

Another spasm shot through Ryan, and his eyes widened with fear. He stumbled, huge legs going out from under him. With a shaking, timid voice, he asked, “What the fuck did you do to me?”

It was as if all of his muscles were compacting in on themselves. The huge bully clutched at his chest as its huge pecs diminished, his chiseled abdomen softened slightly, and his hard cock retracted at least an inch. The spasm passed in just a moment, but when he straightened, he was clearly smaller than he had been.

He was almost the same size as Jarom.

Jarom lurched to his feet, easily adjusting to his new size after so many transformations in such a short time. He put a meaty hand on Ryan’s shoulders and forced the shocked bully to his knees. Ryan was still weak and dazed from his own metamorphosis, and his slack-jawed mouth made a perfect entrance for Jarom’s still hard cock.

He felt Ryan trying to pull himself off of the massive tool as another orgasm rose in the depths of Jarom’s groin, but he held fast, pumping in and out of Ryan’s mouth as fast as possible. This was even better than he’d anticipated. He’d never imagined that he’d reach his goal this way, but now he would ensure that Ryan never hurt anyone again, not like he’d hurt Jarom.

The thought of it sent him hurtling over the edge into bliss. His huge hips bucked as a volley of cum erupted from his cock. Ryan had no choice but to swallow or choke, and swallow he did, forcing down load after load of Jarom’s boiling cream.

Only once the waves of pleasure had receded did he let Ryan fall to the ground. The bully looked up at him with a defiant glare, blue eyes burning like twin flames of hatred. The emotion was washed away in a flow of shock as the spasms started again through his body. Muscle melted off of his frame. His limbs shortened and slimmed. His cock retreated, dwindling until it was no more than five inches in length, if that.

“Why?” Ryan asked. His voice had an almost boyish timbre. “You son of a bitch. Why!?”

“As if you need to ask,” Jarom said. “I suppose I should thank you. You gave me the dedication to accomplish my goal. But I know I sure as hell can’t forgive you, and I can’t promise you’ll be safe here. If you’re smart, you’ll leave tonight, or I’ll make you even smaller.”

He did not stay to watch the rest of Ryan’s muscles slip away. He could not suppress a twinge of regret at seeing something so beautiful lost, but it did not last long. Never again would Ryan force himself on someone. Now it was Jarom’s time to be the big man.

Back in his apartment, he looked at himself in the mirror. He was almost as big as Ryan had been, and his dick was easily longer. He would have to get new clothes, of course, but that was a small struggle compared to what he had just been through. He was ready to seize his new life. Ready to be huge.

As he smiled down at his new, stunning physique, heat began to build in his bones.

To be continued?