Thanks to some sporadic and unrelated flashes of inspiration over the summer I found myself with lots of half-written chapters for my various stories. The update below, being relatively short, is the first one I've managed to complete. Hopefully some longer chapters will be along soon...
Chapter 4.1
It was like a scene from a porn film.
The two women were naked, both of them with their legs thrown up in the air, both of them sprawled backwards over exercise balls, both of them in a state of audible, voluble, unbridled ecstasy.
They were mother and daughter and they were both getting pounded by the biggest dick they had ever experienced in their lives.
It was, in fact, the same dick, alternating between first one pussy and then the other.
An ordinary man trying to fuck two women this way would have left himself exhausted and both of his partners only partially satisfied; but this was a dick of such colossal length and massive girth, and wielded with the unrelenting force of a battering ram, that both women were being pounded senseless.
The man fucking them was also naked, which made it unambiguously clear that his dick was built to scale.
Dripping with sweat, his hulking body glistened under the lights, his muscles jumping and twitching as he held each of his partners by her ankles, bicep curling each woman in turn off her ball and up into the air until the optimum angle of penetration was reached.
He was an aphrodisiac in human form, precision-engineered to make wives, partners and girlfriends immediately forget the men in their lives and become helpless nymphomaniacs. He was a virtuoso cocksman, a swashbuckling spornosexual, a potent mix of voracious masculinity and virile muscularity.
He made women succumb.
He also just happened to be a shy, nerdy, virginal teenage girl.
A few minutes earlier Louise had taken a wrong turn and ended up in the pilates studio. She had been about to retrace her steps when she had noticed the two women at the far end of the room; one was in her twenties, the other in her forties, both of them beautiful and obviously related to each other. Then they had spotted Louise and the inevitable had happened: an intergenerational threesome.
Louise grunted and admired her thrusting, rippling reflection in the gym’s floor-to-ceiling mirror. No wonder these two women hadn't been able to resist her! In her opinion, the only thing better than fucking was watching her muscles bulging as she fucked; and recently she had been doing a lot of both.
Her reflection, her muscles. Louise had adjusted her thought processes. She no longer worried about, or questioned, possessing her brother’s body; instead, she was enjoying it so whole-heartedly that she would have made even the most committed hedonist blush.
It turned out that when you were permanently horny and swoonsomely studly, not only was sex always on the menu, but you had your pick of Michelin-starred restaurants. Louise had quickly come to realise that she had been starving her entire life and had embraced the opportunity of becoming a gourmand of carnality.
Since the swap, Louise had felt like the only stallion at the stud farm. Beautiful women - the kind of women who would have intimidated her and made her feel resentful of her inadequacy back when she was in her own body - had been queueing up (quite literally on one occasion involving a narrow corridor outside a barre class) to fuck her. These women may have thought that they were fucking Michael, but they were fucking her.
Because Michael’s body was all hers now: her hulking muscles, her monster-cock, her animal magnetism and her insatiable sexual appetite.
Louise unsheathed herself from the younger woman on her left and lowered her back down. Then she raised the upended milf whose ankles she held in her right hand and, in an act of improbable prestidickitation, made her enormous erection disappear into the woman’s waiting pussy with the practised ease of a magician hiding a rabbit in a hat.
The exercise balls bounced and squeaked as they were squashed and recoiled, but their rubbery twangs were drowned out by the much louder sound of Louise’s own balls, swinging heavily and slapping against her conquests’ pert buttocks with a series of meaty thwacks that echoed around the studio.
Louise loved her body and the things it could do. It wasn’t Michael’s body anymore; it was unquestionably hers. Sometimes she wondered if it always had been. She could barely remember what life had been like before, so perhaps there hadn’t been a before? Perhaps she had always been Michael?
She certainly hoped she always would be.
—
It was like a scene from a horror film.
In a sparsely-furnished room lit by a single bare light bulb a figure was slumped in a chair. An intermittent draught caused an unsecured shutter to creak and left the bulb swaying back and forth, casting peculiarly angular shadows across the floor and walls that receded as quickly as they loomed.
The figure was slight and androgynous, their face pale but grimy and with dark circles ringing their eyes, their hair apparently shorn by a barber who had let neither myopia nor a blunt pair of scissors stand in the way of a tonsorial career.
With the zoned-out hopelessness of a torture victim clinging on to consciousness, the figure struggled to hold their head up and then vomited explosively onto the plate on the table in front of them.
When there was nothing left for them to bring back up, with crudely bandaged fingers they retrieved the pieces of regurgitated meat that were big enough to hold and forced themself to eat those chunks again, gagging and retching all the while. In between mouthfuls their body was wracked by heaving sobs, but they had no tears left to cry - the streaks on their grimy cheeks suggested they had passed that point long ago.
And yet no one had told this figure that they wanted to play a game, no Billy the Puppet watched on from a dark corner, no challenge had been set by Jigsaw.
This was something different, something even more twisted, something totally self-inflicted.
It was a punishment and a promise. A promise that they would force themself to grow bigger, much bigger, absurdly big, in defiance of the physical limitations imposed on this frail body by genetics; and it was a self-flagellating act of discipline to remind themself that they didn’t care how they achieved this goal.
Unlike Louise, Michael did remember his life before and could recall with absolute precision the size, the shape, the striations, the vascularity and the strength of each and every one of his beautiful muscles. When you have known the elation of benching 400lb while every girl in the gym was watching you and frothing at the gash, suddenly finding yourself unable to even lift the bar was disappointing on such an elemental level that it had a way of helping you focus your mind on your goals with an unwavering resolve that meant you could endure the pain and the indignity of the struggle to reach them.
When there was no meat left, he raised the plate to his lips and laboriously licked it clean of all the remaining viscous residue. He had made a solemn vow: no matter how disgusting, protein was precious and no calories were to be wasted.
Shaking and unsteady, he stood up, his long-sleeved T-shirt stained yellow below the armpits and around the collar, and with bloody handprints visible on its front and sides. He swayed like he was drunk, but there was no alcohol in his system: this was pure physical exhaustion, the result of a 5am start, an hour of callisthenics, two hours of cycling, two hours of pumping iron, another hour of callisthenics, another two hours of weights, and then two hours of cycling to get home; it was the result of Herculean labours rather than Bacchanalian indulgence - and, besides, he had nothing to celebrate anyway.
He clenched his fists and winced. His hands were not yet calloused and hardened enough to cope with this brutal exercise regime and they had not had time to heal between workouts. Instead they seeped blood when pressure was applied to them, making the weights difficult to grip, the handlebars of the bike difficult to control, the rare steak they had forced into his mouth for breakfast, lunch and dinner even more metallic-tasting.
Underneath his jogging bottoms, his legs were bruised, his knees and shins scraped and scabbed - he regularly fell off the bike, the inescapable tiredness that always weighed him down causing him to lose control, swerve and crash - and his feet were blistered, his shoes not designed for physical activity.
He knew that he would have to shower again soon - and in some ways this was the worst punishment of all because of the risk of being naked. He had avoided washing regularly since he had been abandoned here; the thought of seeing or even touching the scrawny body of his sister in which he was confined was too depressing, too disgusting to countenance. Once or twice each week he had undressed, stood under a cold shower, and then allowed himself to drip dry so he didn’t have to run a towel over his spindly limbs - all while keeping his eyes screwed tightly shut.
But now, as he started walking, his socks, soaked through with sweat and blood, squelched; and his hands, his knees, the puncture wounds on his skin, all of them stung and itched. Reluctantly he accepted that the necessity of cleaning the various lacerations and abrasions he had accumulated now outweighed the horror of accidentally seeing his body.
Or as he preferred to think of it: his prison.
He staggered towards the doorway, barely able to move one foot in front of the other, clutching his stomach as he burped, desperately hoping that his dinner would stay down this time. Earlier that day, his breakfast had made not one, but two reappearances, and on the second occasion he had had to scrape it up from a corner of the gym floor, the spatter of spew mingling with cobwebs and dust bunnies, neither of which had added much to the flavour.
He had forced it back down regardless.
At the bottom of the staircase his legs failed him, too drained by the exertions of the day to push himself upwards, and he began to collapse slowly; he tried to hold himself up on the bannister but his hands were too sore, his arms too weak. He slid into a crumpled heap.
He choked back a sob as he realised he was unable to get back up and suddenly couldn’t help but imagine the shame of Rachel seeing him stuck in this position, no longer a hunk of a man, not even a husk of a man, but an inconsequential, insubstantial squirt of a girl.
He wondered where Rachel was right now, picturing the soft, feminine, inviting curves of her body as he lay his head back on a step and mourned the loss of her wet, willing holes and his ability to stretch them out and fill them up.
A few seconds later, he was snoring loudly and about to endure a night of bad dreams in which he was haunted by the fear that he would forever remain this way, small, weak and irrelevant.
