+Notable Author: [Brand] Stories~collected

[Brand]

Wow, this is great stuff. Are you going to continue the story?

I don't think there 're be a continuation to this one. I will most likely devote my energy to Adam and Eve.

I'm really glad you liked it though, despite the fact this was only my second story and my very first time describing huge muscle masses.

[Brand]

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[governor]

Only change addition I'd make is to have her grow out her body hair and beard/

[Brand]

   More...?

[Brand]

Yep. I finally came round to writing something again. Consider this an experiment of sorts.

The Muscle Bar
[aka 'The Muscle Place']

Introduction

The sign is the final touch. I made sure it was a neon sign, despite pretty much hating the this kind of lighting. Yet the aesthetic was a touch of the 1980s and 1990s, of an era were the art of growing was, well, still growing. Back when the true golden era of serious bodybuilding was at full force and unapologetically so. Steroid tests? A concept that had not even graduated to being a joke back then. 20% rule for women? No one cared. It's called bodybuilding for a reason. Make up? Vague criteria like femininity and overall aesthetics? Totally irrelevant. Bodybuilding was still all about muscle growth. But I digress. Though, to be fair, that's part of my charm.

I'm Mark, the owner of this establishment, the one marked by this hideous neon sign I so much love. The sign says "The Muscle Place". It's bar of some sort. My kind of bar. Starting tomorrow it will welcome any true believer, any bodybuilder that stays true to that original spirit. It can't be any other way, since, in this bar, whey protein will most probably be far more popular than beer.

The sign finally lights up. Which means our final night working on it is done and tomorrow its life begins. "Our"? Oh, yeah. I forgot.

Oh, Mark, I can't believe we've finally done it. Not only do we have our own business now but the whole idea behind it is so "us", I can't help myself with feeling excited like a little girl.
Watch it, babe. No "little girl" talk allowed, don't you remember. It brings back memories of you being another cute and dainty girl and we can't have that now, can we? I've spent years building you up and there's no room for "little" in our establishment now.
Stop teasing me!
Oh, alright. But wait. I'm not teasing!
I know, I know... No need for more of your sarcasm...
That's my big girl. But seriously.
Seriously what?
You're beautiful, babe.

I love her that much more when she blushes.

My big girl is Myrha. Yep. Weird name and all but names do matter. I've always felt that what parents chose to name us symbolises some part of their beliefs, the beliefs we're actually brought up with. And I sure hope I could leave my mark on people while Myrha was as comforting for me as the aromatic herbs she was named after.

Naturally we are both bodybuilders. Not always though. But once can say I corrupted my girl enough to get curious and...curiosity ended up building this cat up. We don't compete and we don't aim to. We only care for the growth, we do our best, we feel for everyone that strives for the same goal and aim to provide them with a place, other than the gym, they can feel home. We'll both be bartending and you know about bartender, don't you? They get to hear some pretty amazing stories.

Lucky for you dear readers, we like amazing stories, we like writing them down, preserving them for posterity and our own unconventional enjoyment.

Welcome to The Muscle Place.

[Jeremy Lightning]

Good start, Brand, good to see you writing again, I enjoyed your other stories, and of course I agree with your feelings that female bodybuilders that are almost completely masculine, huge and hairy, that's a huge turn on for me. I look forward to seeing more of this story, what kind of clientele it attracts, and most definitely some description of Myrha. k+!

[Brand]

Slow burner. I know. But please bear with me.

The Grand Opening - Part 1

Sheeesh. I know the opening of any new business is a challenge and all. All kinds of unpredictable issues, big or small, rear their ugly heads all at once. Having to cater to lots and lots of people as a newbie bartender and the owner at the same time give nerves quite the brutal exercise. Zipping here, zipping there, carrying loads and loads of protein powder bags and the like. At least this way I get to say I did my cardio for the day.

And cardio is always tough on me. I stand roughly at 5'11" and weigh almost 350 pounds. Truth be told, I might not be totally shredded or in contest shape (no need for that, remember?) but there was no going around the fact I 'm built like a ton of bricks. And it feels that much more like it when my ton of bricks has to carry bags full of rice, dextrose, pasta, whey, casein, egg protein, boxes of protein bars and what have so that every patron of our new establishment has whatever he or she needs to keep growing.

It is all a blur. I am huffing and puffing, awkwardly shifting boxes, bags and my weight to keep things well stacked till I reach my darling Myrha that's actually taking care of our customers. And boy did we get lots and lots of them the first day. Family, our own well-built friends, those that had heard of us online and random people that yearned to be killed by curiosity. I don't have much time to take it all in. I need to keep the bar well supplied. And I just had the brilliant idea of keeping all provisions in the basement. So there is a lot of cardio waiting for me in my new career.

I stacked multiple bags of protein. I must be carrying 50 or 60 pounds of whey on me. I can carry more but you only stack so many bags in front of you till you lose precious visibility. I have to know where I'm going and trying to do everything quickly doesn't come naturally to me. The irony. I don't even break a sweat keeping the bags with my arms. Plus I've got a nice power gut on me that lets part of the load rest on it comfortably. But moving all my mass is always a challenge. My thighs are too thick to walk like a normal human being so I has that bodybuilder swagger that is not even a matter of choice any more. Imagine trying to quickly go up a flight of more stairs than you should have to deal with while your own quads fight for space around your legs. It's not funny. Nah, on second thought, it is. I absolutely love this. I love being huge and I can never be too big. I just need more. And just having all the protein on my hands makes me want to turn into the muscle crazed version of Scarface and devour it all.

But I'm a business man now. I have to suck it up AND keep growing during my spare time. One step at a time, I reach in my ridiculous version of "high speed" to the top of the flight of stairs, which thankfully leads me right to the inside of the bar. And right into the view of my babe. The babe I do all the growing with. Ooh and I can practically smell her behind the door. And she me.

[phil123]

Good luck for "your" business.

[Jeremy Lightning]

Yup, looking forward to seeing where this goes, always up for a bar that will feature incredibly huge, ripped muscle girls, and help make them bigger. Here's hoping for A LOT of female clientele! k+!

[derekr]

I'd love to see this one continued.  One of my favourite stories here.

[Brand]

I never got wind of this topic with my work here. Now that I did, here's something new, short but not exactly sweet.

The Fridge

by Drugmeat (aka Brand)

This slave hates this fridge.

The brushed aluminium door is what gets on its nerves. It's not reflective enough to have a good look at its own face and upper body. The fear is always there. The Master has zero tolerance for femininity and this slave needs to constantly be on its toes if it's to keep Him pleased. It's amazing how He can find the devil that femininity is in the smallest of detail. This slave knows He keeps moving the goalposts further and further but it doesn't matter. His will is law, his pleasure the only thing that matters.

And this fridge robs this slave of another opportunity to keep a tab in things, see if there's any flaw, any feminine trait that's till visible, despite the horror that is its face nowadays. It swears that, back in the day, it could fall in love with the muscle hunk that looks back at it whenever it stands in front of a mirror and it wouldn't even suspect there was anything but a glorious man standing in her lustful gaze. And yet, it couldn't make sure. Constant confirmation is needed if the fear and anxiety are to be kept at bay and, more importantly, if it's to be a proactive slave in such matters.

It's more than that really. Nothing fills this slave with more joy than realising that a new change has come about, a change in the right direction, the direction its Master wills it toward. This slave can at least see its wide, blurry reflection that its bloated upper body casts on the damn thing. It's not like it can look down and see much. Correction. It can see lots. Lots and lots of hairy pec meat jutting out, crushing its nipples that seemed hellbent on pointing to the planet's core but instead are now crushed just enough between the underbelly of pec meat and the horrific muscle gut it's developed over time. This muscle gut is the only thing it can just make out beyond its hairy chest. And it's glad this hasn't changed. If it had, it'd go running to Him begging to be beat up for being less of a man in the eyes of the Master, even thought it's more than enough man for everyone else.

This last thought makes it shiver with excitement. Everyone nowadays knows it's a man. There's no room to think otherwise. Not anymore. Anyone still undecided or just slightly perturbed only needs to have a look at its cock that stretches whatever tent-like fabric it might have on at times. At 10cm long one can only feel pity for the obviously small-cocked bodybuilder that stands before them. But only His pity matters and fuels this slave's yearning for their own, their special kind of toxic masculinity that makes its cunt flood with juices and that female-cock-formerly-known-as-an-undeveloped-clit throb with excitement for whatever comes next. As long as whatever comes next is that which brings even more pleasure to its master, the creator of this female cock.

This slave's cunt is practically the only "feminine" part the Master condones and even enjoys and it couldn't understand why at first. How could He if all He was ever after was a hyper masculine brute beside Him? He explained early on. In His House there is no woman, only Man. And if Man is all there is, it only stands to reason for "nature" to have both a male and a female Man, as it does for every beast in creation. This slave was relieved. If it needed to ignore or do away with it, it would. But it needed to be used, rammed, filled with His seed, deformed as He sees fit and had it lost that it'd feel like it's less useful, less prepared for His all-male and true cock. For this slave, His is the one true cock, His body the one true muscle monster it can only aspire to, His mind the one true god it can ever believe in.

Besides it can neither see or reach its female cock, which delights and frustrated it at the same time. It may be the biggest clit in history but it's partly lost in the forest that surrounds its ungodly cunt, while that pec and muscle gut meat combo makes sure it can only be seen in a mirror and only under certain conditions. Worse yet —and "worse" is best in His household— this slaves bloated arms simply can't compress its overgrown, almost slightly hanging as their fight with gravity is never-ending, lat meat the push its arms higher and closer to the pec plates that make it "man enough" to most.

But it's for the best. Full-bush armpits sunken in so much meat stay sweaty —"hydrated", He usually says— and disturbingly musky. Steroids made its body odour just another delicious horror and that's nowhere more pronounced or better emanated than through those armpits. Assuming it can move its arms high enough to create an opening for a bit. And that's exactly what it's going to do in order to open this damn fridge that's been fucking with its mind all this time it's been standing in front of it. But it came here with purpose.

"Gasp!".

Somehow, even this sounds brutish enough now. But it digresses. It's here for one thing and one thing only. It opens the fridge just to be greeted by the rows of assorted drugs that fuel His household, a household in which testosterone is king. And this slave is late because it has the nerve to get lost in horny thoughts, delaying its own and its Master's man-making shots of the day. If it could scour to the Master it would. But He made sure it can't ever do that. It's too big and muscular for that. It's been like that for ages now. And it will only get "worse" in the future. It can't wait. Hopefully its master will be boiling in a fit of raid rage by now. Hopefully He will break its face to teach it a lesson about tardiness. It deserves it. Hopefully it will become uglier still, hence more worthy of His gaze, attention and fists.

This slave loves this fridge.