Myophile

[GTlifter]

Does anyone know what happened to this guy?

[dominicrue]

Bump this thread! I was wondering the same thing. Or hell can anyone find his images again? I loved his site. He was an amazing morph artist

[schwermarko]

I've rescued a few out of the time machine.

The artist who did those morphs and stories is someone who will make a batch when he gets time, and then disappear. I've actually exchanged messages with him, but I won't reveal his new handle, because I can only imagine how unpleasant it would be to be deluged with requests for more, more, more. Odd how we muscle growth fetishists can become rabid and insatiable, lol

All we can do is wait, and see where he pops up again, and what he produces when next he has the time and the desire.

Perhaps he will see this and PM me with permission to repost what I have, perhaps not...

[schwermarko]

The artist was gracious enough to grant me permission, here is the photostream

http://www.flickr.com/photos/41711493@N07/

[GTlifter]

Wow that is so awesome of you, schwermarko

[schwermarko]

I was rebuilding my own stash after a computer theft, so utterly self motivated.

There are others, I have seen some only in thumbnail, if anyone has them, please post them or email them to me

[email protected]

and I will put them in the stream too.

[GTlifter]

Thank you again. I hope he knows his work will always be appreciated and help some of us go for the limits of our growth

[schwermarko]

( I am reposting this because someone asked to read it, If only IGF-1 worked this well- M.S.)


My father was a world-renowned geneticist who, in the late 1990's, isolated and researched a gene responsible for muscle regeneration in mice. The gene produced a protein called IGF-1, for "insulin-like growth factor type 1". When introduced to the lab mice through gene therapy injections, the researchers found the supercharge rodents to surpass their untreated brethren in muscle mass by an average of twenty-seven percent.

This research was exciting, ground-breaking, and completely, utterly boring to seven-year-olds. My father, working nearly eighty hours per week, would often drag me, kicking and screaming, to his lab on Saturday mornings. I would sit in on the white linoleum floor, rolling my eyes, as my father digressed on findings not even a scientist's son could hold interest in.

My Saturday visits to the lab ended abruptly one morning in the winter of 1999. Dad had allowed me to explore the specimen room, so long as I didn't touch or disturb any of the hundreds of mice. As he walked off into his office, I strolled down the row of silver cages filled with the hyperactive, white animals. My eyes fell upon one animal that stood out from the lot - a huge rat sleeping alone in a cage.

Looking more closely at the animal, I realized that it was not a rat, but an overgrown mouse. Thinking back to my father's monologues, I wondered if this enormous beast was the recipient of a new treatment, as it far surpassed the results that previous specimen had displayed. As I bent down to stare at the mouse, the creature awoke, wiggled its mass around a bit, and looked up at me with curiosity.

Even as a young boy, I had always known better than to open the cages. This day, however, I was strangely compelled to free the animal. It looked friendly and was still watching me with an intense interest. I slowly opened the cage and reached in, allowing the mouse to sniff my hand. Just as my new friend began to lick at my fingers, my father walked into the room, saw what was happening, and shouted at me to remove my hand.

The mouse, understandably frightened by all of the sudden commotion, reacted by biting my finger. Now, an ordinary mouse wouldn't have even broken the skin. This over-developed beast, however, easily chomped through my skin, piercing my index finger to the bone. Screaming in pain, I pulled the mouse free, worsening my wound and injuring the animal. As our blood commingled, I felt myself passing out.

I awoke in what seemed like hours but was truly only minutes to find my father crouched over me, crying hysterically. I later learned that he had ordered his staff to destroy the mouse immediately and had already administered a cocktail of anti-biotics. Through his cries, he tried to explain that I would soon be taken to the local hospital for treatment. I didn't understand the gravity of the situation - my finger was in pain, but hospitalization seemed unnecessary.

My stay at the hospital was brief. The mouse that had bitten me had been the first recipient of my father's new form of gene therapy. Rather than injecting the mice with the IGF-1 producing gene, he had manipulated a harmless form of the Herpes Simplex virus to introduce the gene to the specimen's muscles. An unintended result of the modifications was the extreme increase in the virus' rate of replication and its apparent unresponsiveness to treatment. Rather than an expected twenty-seven percent increase in muscle mass, this mouse had experienced an incredible 800 percent increase. The analysis of the mouse prior to being destroyed revealed, curiously, unheard-of levels of growth hormones and testosterone.

Tests revealed that I had, indeed, become infected with the virus. My father extensively discussed the options with my doctors and came back to me with little good news. He was unable to tell me whether I would live to see adulthood, successfully fight the virus, or ever lead a healthy life. The best plan was to rest and expend little energy, staying in bed and hoping my body could battle the virus.

So that's what I did for fifteen years. I stayed in my room, often laying in bed reading. My father hired a tutor to assist me with my schoolwork, a nutritionist to tightly control my diet, and a number of physicians and scientists to monitor my body's condition.

My extremely sedentary lifestyle would have come to a shock to any uninformed visitor, as I had almost immediately begun to grow. Even my regimented diet couldn't keep the muscle off, as I slowly but clearly developed into a athletic-looking young boy. As I entered puberty at the age of twelve, I found my various doctors beginning to take note of what must have been significant development. I was oblivious, however - protected from reality and any true understanding of my uniqueness.

By the time that I hit the age of twenty two, we had all come to the realization that I was not, in fact, going to die. But by laying in my bedroom and hiding from the world, I wasn't exactly living either. Over a series of months, I succeeded in convincing my still-over-protective father that moving out and experiencing the world would be very good for me.

Through the years, my father's existing wealth, coupled with wise investment strategies, fed into a sizable trust fund designed to support his son. While I could easily live off of this money for life, I strongly desired to put my years of education and pent-up imagination to work. Dad and I discussed these matters extensively, coming to the conclusion that I would be best off by taking one step at a time. We settled on the initial step of finding an apartment. If that went well, I could then pursue employment, a relationship, and all that "life" implied.

My interaction with other people had been fairly limited through my youth, and I was still a bit nervous in crowds. I wasn't looking for a one-bedroom within some enormous apartment complex - I wanted something simple, perhaps the second story of a small store. We soon found a nice converted attic located above a quiet lamp shop in a funky-but-relaxed area of town. I happily signed the lease and took my father to the local furniture and electronics superstore to obtain the furnishings for my new home.

After arranging the furniture and shoeing my dad out of the apartment, I paced about the room, contemplating what to do next. I decided to go out and walk around the neighborhood. While this seems trivial, to me it was a huge step - to be out in public, surrounded by potential danger, unaccompanied. I examined the contents of my dresser, looking for clothing that seemed appropriate for what I was desperately try to make into a "casual stroll". I chose a plain, white undershirt and a pair of bluejeans.

I gazed at my reflection in the mirror as I undressed. At the age of twenty-two, I stood just under 6'4" and weighed nearly 230 pounds. My large muscles and thick torso made clear my body's disregard for the the sedentary lifestyle and constant undernourishment of my youth. My head was covered with a neatly-trimmed pile of straight, dark brown hair. Thick eyebrows perched above my steel grey eyes and my powerful jawline was shadowed, even this early in the day, by a field of quickly growing stubble. Despite the thick hair, full beard, hairy armpits and pubic area, my chest, stomach, arms and legs were all devoid of any significant hair. Chalk that up to genetics, I suppose.

The high levels of hormones had quite obviously affected my sexual development as well. Although I had never had friends or siblings with which to compare myself, I had guessed that my penis - which when erect easily exceeded a foot in length and ten inches in circumference - was beyond normal. I just didn't know to what extent. My testicles, driven by the virus to produce testosterone at exponentially higher rates, had grown through my teens to the size of oranges.

My sex drive, too, had been deeply affected by the virus' work. As I entered puberty, I found myself almost paralyzed by my libido and often became engrossed in hours-long masturbatory sessions. These sessions became more and more intense and frequent as the years passed, but my daily schedule had forced me into a routine of climaxing quickly before a session with my tutor, a visit from my doctors, etc. It was not unusual for me to engage and climax eight times during a day - my testicles had no difficulty producing copious quantities of ejaculate at every release.

My fantasies had always revolved around masculine, muscular men - the forbidden brutes who were aware of the world, exposed to the physical demands of nature and hard work. I looked the part, but my uncalloused hands betrayed my bedroom confinement. I imagined being with a man - and being a man - who worked for his strength, who showed no fear in a crowd.

I again looked at myself, now dressed for my outing. The tight t-shirt hugged my defined chest and stretched to cover my round shoulders. The seat of my jeans was filled with my muscular glutes and my thighs showed through the heavy denim. I was ready for my adventure.

I descended the outside, wooden stairway that led up to my apartment, stopping as my feet hit pavement. As I surveyed the street, trying to decide my direction, I noticed the faded sign of a gym - "The Iron Pit" - nestled between a coffee shop and a book store. My father had always warned me of the danger of a gym - I had been taught for fifteen years the hazards of physical exertion to my health. Despite these ingrained teachings, I walked straight across the street, through the door, and up to the front counter.

"Hey! Wanna work out?", shouted a thickly muscled bear from behind the counter. He sat perched upon a stool and looked to me working on a tax return. "Or, if you want, we can set you up with a full membership." The man was in his mid-forties, had a crewcut and goatee of salt-and-pepper black hair, and wore a tight red t-shirt with the logo of the gym on the front and the sleeves torn off. His arms were huge, and I was already getting excited.

"Uhm, yeah. I, uhm... I would like a membership but I don't really know anything about how to do this," I stammered.

The musclebear furrowed his brow and cocked his head, confused. "Don't know anything about what?"

"Uh, I mean I don't know anything about exercising. Do you have someone here who can teach me?" I replied, increasingly embarrassed.

"Well, sure. I mean, it's me and Eddie here. We're your guys for training. But looks like you've already been hittin' the weights pretty hard, man!" The musclebear leaned back on his stool, eyeing my torso inquisitively.

"Uh, hehe. Just genes, I guess." I shrugged my shoulders as I thought to myself how true that statement really was. "Anyway, I just moved into the neighborhood - right across the street, actually - and thought I should check out your gym."

"Well, kid, you've got a great base to work with, there. C'mon - I'll show you the place." The musclebear stood up, revealing his full 6-foot frame, and absently scratched his solid belly through the t-shirt. I would have placed him at 260 pounds. Coming back from contemplation, he outstretched his arm towards me. "I'm Mike Wakowski, by the way. I own the place."

I grabbed his meaty hand and shook it. "Jake Simpson. Nice to meet you, Mike."

Mike motioned for me to follow him as he walked down a path weaving between machines and benches that, to me, gave little indication of their individual uses. Looking past the piles of weights, I noticed a lone man in the middle of his workout. He stood near the back of the gym, lifting what I later learned were called dumbbells, watching his form intently in the wall-covering mirror. The pounding rock music was significantly louder back here, and the lifter was mouthing the words - probably singing along - while straining against the weight.

Mike pointed out numerous machines, benches, and collections of freeweights stuffed into the tight confines of the gym floor. We worked our way to the back of the room and Mike shouted at the lifter to gain his attention. The lifter looked over, threw his weights down upon the rubber-coated floor, and walked up to us.

"Jake, this is Eddie. He's the other owner of the Pit." Mike looked at Eddie with a half-smile. "Kid hasn't worked out a day in his life. Says its genes."

"Well, you're a lucky bastard, aren't ya?" Eddie was definitely the brasher of the two. He was younger that Mike - most likely in his late thirties - and was shorter than him by at least three inches, but probably outweighed him by a few pounds. His physique showed more pure muscle and lacked the thick-but-solid mid-section that Mike carried. His dirty blond hair was cut close and spiked up rebelliously upon his head. His bright blue eyes were indeed piercing, but were difficult to read when he quickly looked over my body. "You gonna join?" he asked.

"I'd like to, yeah." I replied.

"What is your goal?" Mike asked. When I failed to respond with anything more than an "Uhm...", he continued. "I mean, what do you want to accomplish? Do you want to stay fit, lose weight - although that doesn't seem necessary for you - or do you want to build muscle?"

Eddie jumped in: "We're all about building muscle here. Go to some goddamned fitness center if you want to do aerobics!"

Mike shot Eddie an angry look, but smiled as he turned to me saying, "No, that isn't true. We can set you up with a cardio workout, no prob. Eddie is sometimes too hardcore for our clients." He faked a laugh, clearly trying to do anything to earn my dollars.

"I'd really like to build muscle!" I said, a bit too enthusiastically. "I mean, I would love to look like you guys. I just need you to help me train." As I spoke and thought about the possibilities, I could feel an erection building. I nervously attempted to shift the hardening cock around in my jeans, but only ended up making it worse and being indiscrete.

I watched as Eddie raised his eyebrow at Mike. He looked back at me and explained the gym rules, the training regimen, and the price of the membership. I quickly wrote a check for the first year's dues, walked back to my apartment to change into shorts, and returned within half an hour to begin the first workout of my life.

After my first week of workouts - really just three 45-minute training workouts - I had gained 10 pounds. I caught the lifter's bug immediately. With the help of Mike and Eddie, I quickly mastered the concepts behind weight training. I graduated to the schools of high-intensity workouts but found my endurance to be nothing short of incredible. Soon, I was a fixture at the Pit, engaging in daily, three-hour-long screamfests with Mike and Eddie pushing me the whole way.

When selling me on the gym membership, Mike had failed to convey one of it's strongest assets: the place was nearly always empty. Aggressive competition from the fitness-focused gyms within blocks had depleted the Pit's membership and, despite the hardcore tilt, new members were few and far-between. As a result, I rarely saw any other members, especially by working out in the middle of the day.

Mike and Eddie seemed to enjoy working with me. Freed of any other tasks, they offered guidance and assistance throughout my workout - often far more than I truly needed. After my workouts, I would often return home to shower and change, and then cross the street back over to the Pit to hang around the gym.

Within weeks, I felt that I had earned the two's trust and respect, and that they saw me, already, as a good friend. I quickly came to realize that Mike and Eddie were partners beyond the business. They lived together in a small apartment above the gym and obviously cared deeply for each other. As our friendships grew, I became more open with them regarding my life. I told them of my childhood, my condition, and my fantasies. They responded with acceptance, interest, and enthusiasm.

In three months, thanks to my heavy lifting and the introduction to such terrific sources of protein as steaks and weight gainers, my weight had increased dramatically. I had swollen from just below 230 pounds to an incredible weight of 340 - a gain of over 110 pounds! I still stood at 6'4", but was growing wider at an alarming rate. At the three month mark, Eddie helped measure my body. My chest taped out at 63", my waist at 36", my upper arms at 24.5", my thighs at 34", and my calves at 23". I had gone from being a "big guy" to being a freak, had destroyed all of my t-shirts, and caused strangers to stop and stare on the sidewalks. But I was far from satisfied.

I had developed a lust for muscle. Muscle on myself, muscle on the men around me. I wanted to take advantage of my gift and explore the upper limits of the human body. I wanted to become a monster.

To celebrate my three month transformation, Mike and Eddie insisted upon taking me out for dinner. We went to a steak house, naturally. (I hadn't tasted a steak before the age of 22 - I was making up for lost time.) Over dinner, while avoiding stares from the other diners, I explained to the couple my desires. I knew the state of their business - the Pit was bound to go under within the next six months - so I felt confident in my proposal.

"Hey guys..." I said, with a tone that indicated my seriousness. "I want you two to help me."

Mike cocked his head in the way he did when confused. "Jake, I think that's what we've been doin', bud."

"Right, and thank you for everything. I want you to help me take this further." I watched their faces as I spoke softly in my deep baritone, "I want to hire you."

Mike and Eddie both expressed continued confusion. They knew of my situation, of my "trust fund kid" status, but they didn't understand the extent of the resources at my disposal.

"I know the Pit isn't doing so well, guys. But I know you still want to run a gym - just not a fuckin' fitness place. So why don't you let me hire you to train me...exclusively?"

The couple's expressions reflected the truth of my words and their dawning understanding of what I was about to propose. Mike looked over at Eddie, Eddie nodded in understanding, and I continued.

"I want to buy a warehouse. I want to purchase the gym equipment from you. I want to live in that warehouse, only training, eating, and sleeping. I want to become a fucking monster. Too big to go out in public. Too big to walk. And I need you to help me do it. I'll pay your living expenses, more that you guys have now, and when we're done, I'll make sure you both have enough to retire on."

After I finished speaking, the two muscle men sitting before me remained quiet for several minutes. Mike looked up at me and asked, "Isn't this going back to the life of isolation you hated so much?"

"Isolation isn't so bad if you're with people you love, and people who love you. You two have grown to mean more to me than anyone else in my life. I know with you around, I won't be lonely or unhappy. And I want to return to what I had growing up - someone taking care of me and watching over me."

Eddie, whose rough tone rarely let show the kind personality beneath, reached across the table and grasped my hand. "We'll do it!" he whispered.

We set out the next morning to put our plan into action. Time was precious, as my growth would soon make activities in public very difficult. We located an empty warehouse not far from the old Pit and leased the location. Mike and Eddie had agreed to live with me, so we moved the possessions and gym equipment from our respective homes into the warehouse. The few remaining members of the Pit were disappointed at the gym's closing, but understood the financial difficulties faced by the business. We purchased tremendous quantities of food and supplements. We were ready.

Only four months after moving out of my father's house, the warehouse was in full operation. We called it "Mission: Immobile" and took the process very, very seriously. Mike and Eddie pushed me to sadistically higher goals, and I loved every minute of it.

My daily schedule involved six full hours of extremely intense workouts, focusing on no more than two major body parts per day. My increasing strength quickly necessitated the purchase of customized weights and equipment - hugely overbuild freeweights became the only solution. My incredible stamina made it nearly impossible to wear myself out through repetition. Instead, we focused on destroying as much muscle tissue as possible on a daily basis, the guys pushing me to my max from the start of the day onward. If I wasn't crying or vomiting, it wasn't intense enough.

Four hours of my day were dedicated to meals. Mike had taken to preparing "wholesome" lunches and dinners in incredible volume. To feed the three of us, he often quadrupled the family-sized recipes. This was supplemented by a barrage of weight gainers, protein shakes, meal replacements, and any number of other products I was being fed at any given time. The exposure to hormones through my youth had significantly strengthened my organs, so I had no problems with the incredible amount of food I was ingesting. Nor did the vitamins, amino acids, and other countless pills I took do any damage.

I had maybe two hours of "free time" throughout the day, and then it was off to bed for my twelve hours of sleep. Mike and Eddie had at least a few hours of time to themselves before they, too, headed off to bed.

After six months of this regimen, the results were shocking. Both Mike and Eddie had put on a large amount of muscle - Mike was up to 295 and Eddie weighed in at 308. They were the hottest couple I knew, but they couldn't compare to me.

My body was a work of art. My face, with its yet-thicker jaw, heavy brow, and visible muscles, gave me the look of a male model crossed with a Neanderthal - handsome, yet brutal. The five-o'clock shadow had become impossible to contain, necessitating a goatee lovingly trimmed by Eddie every morning.

My neck, far thicker than my skull, grew out even above my ears, masses of flesh interwoven like braids, merging into the high, deep traps sitting upon my shoulders. My delts sat like beachballs at the ends of my ever-broadening shoulders and led into biceps and triceps that were thick enough to fill an large t-shirt - the CHEST of a large t-shirt. My forearms looked like a pair of 20-pound hams, and the palms of my thick hands were already too muscular to allow me to ball my fist.

The wingspan of my lats had already surpassed four feet and was well on its way to five, pushing my arms out of the way with thick, heavy muscle. The lats tapered abruptly down to my lower back, a striated battlefield of defined muscles and tendons. My pecs had swollen up and out, restricting my vision and making it impossible to cross my massive arms. Below the jutting chest, my abs had continued to become more defined, and my obliques had grown into steel love handles. All of the growth hormones floating my system were quickly inflating my "roid gut", which would have looked terrible on a man whose pecs didn't extend six inches past the gut.

Looking at my profile, you couldn't avoid my glutes. Resting uneasily atop my thighs, my ass was muscled thickly enough to make me appear inches taller when seated. My thighs had become a source of jokes for Mike and Eddie, as the amount of effort required to walk with the bulging legs increased for me every day. And my calves had only worsened the problem, rubbing and bouncing off of each other against my efforts.

My balls had continued to grow thanks to the exponentially increasing levels of hormones floating around in my body. They now sat precariously on top of my quadriceps, each the size of a cantelope, churning out testosterone like a factory. My cock had resumed the growth I assumed had ended four years before and now extended to an incredible 18 inches - with a circumference of 18 as well. I was still a virgin, and was bound to stay that way due to the impractical size of what we began calling "the fire hydrant".

I was a 610-pound freak, but still not a monster. I had gained 270 pounds in six months but was unsatisfied with my results. I could still walk, I could still brush my teeth, I could even move my head. We had a long way to go.

Mike, Eddie, and I decided that I was being held back by nutrition. I simply was not able to eat enough to fuel my growth at an acceptable rate. This was obvious - despite the thousands of calories I was ingesting, I had virtually no bodyfat. Every striation was visible and my vascular network was in plain view. Now, I had no desire to put on enough fat to cover up the garden hose-sized veins that snaked around my body, but I wanted to make sure I was getting enough to satisfy my body's needs.

We obtained a number of intravenous feeding units which I hooked into at any times I was sitting or sleeping. Mike worked with a lab to develop a special syrup containing as much protein and as many calories as possible. We ordered thousands of bags and I began hooking up to two units at a time, both set to their highest rates of dispension.

Mike began aggressively feeding me, forcing me to consume my food as quickly as possible to maximize the quantity for each sitting. He followed me around the gym area during my workouts, forcing me to drink my weight gainer shake, rather than water, between each set. He would wake me in the middle of the night to force down another shake, or perhaps a steak - often a shake AND a steak - all while still connected to the feeder units.

Eddie firmly believed that I wasn't working as hard on the weights as I could be. He laid into me with renewed vigor, pushing me past failure, past pain, and past fear. I looked death in the eye, and it was a loaded barbell. And I benched the fucker.

All of this increased intensity and intimacy was showing on the guys. Both continued to pack on muscle - although Mike was packing on a bit of fat, thanks to all of the taste testing he was doing - but beyond that, their relationship changed. Rather than running off to their walled-off section of the warehouse to cuddle or fuck, they spent more and more time with me. We showered together (they had to help me clean almost everything, now), relaxed together, and slept together. I would fall asleep after my 3:00 AM feeding, wake up three hours later, and find Mike and Eddie nestled between the masses of my body. I was as much a part of their relationship as Mike and Eddie were. But we had never had sex together.

I have been in this warehouse for 18 months as of today. I'm not typing this, of course, as I am no longer able to use a keyboard. I am not writing this because my hand is unable to hold a pen and, even if it could, my bicep is too large to let me bend my elbow. I am dictating this to Mike, a man I love deeply, in my warm, basso profundo. Mike is sitting to my side. I can see him faintly in my peripheral vision, but I am unable to turn my head to look directly at him - my neck and shoulders surround my skull, fusing it in place. I could sit up and turn my body to face him, but I am unable to sit up without assistance - my legs and my gut fight for space and keep me from bending at the waist. I could stand up and turn to look at him, but, even after I am standing, I cannot turn around easily - my thighs force my legs out at better than 45 degree angles, and its hard for me to move them. All of this would require two people's assistance, because even Eddie, who now weighs 345 pounds, couldn't alone lift me.

Instead, I know that Mike is there, sitting in his chair, his beautiful muscles stretching his tank top to the point of ripping. He is typing softly on the keyboard and, all the while, I know what he's thinking. He's dreaming about what will happen to him in the coming 18 months. He's scared of the results, but he's excited at becoming a monster, just like I have.

Mike is thinking of this because last night Mike, Eddie, and I became blood brothers. I shared my virus with these men because I love them, and I want them to become immobile like me. Will they ever catch up with my growth? Will they ever boast a 32-inch long penis? Will they pack on 1,140 pounds of mass in 18 months? We don't know...but we are willing to find out.

After sharing the virus, we made love together for the first time. I felt their heat and sweat as Mike and Eddie fucked each other while laying upon my chest. Eddie rested his head between my pecs, his back against my gut as Mike fucked him, slamming his muscular shoulders into my enormous chest. Mike bit at my nipples as Eddie stood behind him, pounding with all of his effort. The two muscle men took turns sucking and stroking my cock and both screamed with delight each time I came. The sensations were incredible - it has been quite awhile since I have been able to masturbate, and I've missed it. But sharing this experience with these men has been even greater than I had expected. I can't wait to see what happens next.

My name is Jake. I am not yet 24 years old, I weigh 1,480 pounds, and I'm still growing. I have 53-inch arms, but I want 54-inchers.

Well, maybe 55...

On second thought, 60 sounds about right...

But 72 would look incredible...

Fuck it, 84...

96. That's it, that's the biggest I'd ever want.

Well...

[schwermarko]

Ok, this is a story in progress. I'm interested in finding out what you guys think of it. I'm specifically looking for the "what happens next" ideas as well as any comments on how hot this is for you. Oh, also, please ignore any major errors as I haven't really given this a close looking over as of yet.

I've spent much of the last nine years of my life locked in an eight-by-ten room located within the basement of a split-level home sitting on a cul-de-sac in west Omaha, Nebraska. My room has a prison-issue combined sink/toilet, a double bed with a cast-iron frame, a small table sitting next to the bed, a single, caged lightbulb affixed to the ceiling, and a lone, frosted window sitting high on the wall. In one corner of the room sits an I.V. bag hanger with an emptied bag, its tube leading to my right forearm. Next to it sits a large feeding machine, humming softly, its thick tube running up to my abdomen, where it connects to my stomach via a percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy port mounted flush to my skin.

The daylight dimly filters in through the window, illuminating the room well enough to wake me from sleep. I figure that it's just before 7:00 am, the time of my official wake-up call. As I have countless times before, I instinctively reach down to my forearm with my left hand, carefully pulling off the bandage and gently removing the I.V. tube from the catheter installed into my flesh, then quickly detaching the feeding tube from my stomach.

My stomach growls, voicing its discontent. Despite having been fed around 4000 calories worth of meal replacement formula during my sleep, I am already painfully hungry. I slowly open my eyes, allowing them to focus on the dimly lit room. I glance up to the clock on the far wall to check the time - 6:58 am. Two more minutes until Ben arrives. Two more minutes until I can have meal number one. Two more minutes until I can move forward towards my goal, an extension of the goal I set out towards over a decade ago.

Eleven years ago, I finally did it. I'd been intrigued by muscle all of my life, having secretly lusted after freaky bodybuilders and dreamed of some day becoming one myself. I had always known I was gay, but that was more of an afterthought. First and foremost, I was a myophile - a muscle fetishist of the most intense strain.

So after years of starting and stopping with weight training regimens, I finally amassed the motivation and desire to pour all of my energy into the quest for muscle mass. I started slow, but quickly built up to an extremely intense five-day-per-week workout schedule, a tightly-controlled diet, and an almost unhealthy level of dedication to my body's needs. I stopped going out to clubs, spent less and less time with my friends, and lost my desire to succeed in the workplace. My focus became growth, through training, eating, and sleeping.

And it worked. Within two years, I had gained fifty pounds of lean body mass, ending up at 225 on my six-foot-one frame. I looked great - seventeen-inch arms, a forty-three inch chest, a thirty-two inch waist - but I wasn't happy. In fact, I was miserable. Now, more than ever, I knew that I needed to grow far beyond what I would be able to accomplish with my post-workday training sessions and chicken-and-protein-shake meals. I needed someone who could provide assistance with finances and training, as well as support and motivation.

I started looking through personal ads on the Internet for people offering bodybuilding sponsorships. I posted a few of my own ads as well, and waited. I talked to a lot of flakes, a lot of guys who just wanted sex, or losers who were just trying to talk their way into getting a few nude photos of me.

After talking to dozens of people, I received an email from a man named William Lademann. William claimed to be a wealthy man in his early fifties who was interested in supporting a younger bodybuilder. He was adamant about providing a complete level of support - I would move into his house, focus solely on my training, and let he and his staff take care of the rest of my needs. I would have access to a professional-level gym, any necessary supplements and drugs, and training assistance at all times. William assured me that he would not demand anything in return - I was not obligated to have sex with him or otherwise compromise myself. Growth would be my only goal.

There were negatives, of course. I wouldn't be allowed to have a job, travel, or even come and go from the property without William's permission. He required a five-year commitment, with rigid growth goals. I would be abandoning my life, dropping out of society, and becoming more of a science experiment than a man. But, on the other hand, I had already abandoned my life. I hadn't deviated from my office - gym - grocery store - apartment routine in months and hadn't seen or even talked to any friends that I didn't run into on my daily path. And what would be the point of leaving William's house if I had access to everything I needed?

William and I spent several months getting to know one another over e-mail and the phone. I quickly realized that his taste in muscle fell on the extreme end of the scale. He readily used words like "freak", "monster", and "pincushion" when talking about his plans for me. I didn't know if I was ready to take such a big step, but I was incredibly excited at the prospect.

After several months of discussion, negotiation, and deep contemplation on my part, I decided to accept William's offer. We had settled on a gain of 125 pounds of lean body mass within the next five years, resulting in a total weight of 350 pounds. I gave notice to my landlord, cancelled my accounts, and quit my job. I sold off what I could and put the rest of my possessions in a storage shed. On my 24th birthday - a cold, January morning - I boarded a one-way flight from Chicago to Omaha, and left my old life behind.

One minute until Ben arrives, and I'm idly tracing the veins in my forearms with my fingertips while trying to ignore my raging hard-on. The cocktail of drugs being pumped into my body every night has a number of obvious side effects, one being the prominent, rope-thick vascular network caused in part by the 25,000 I.U. dose of HCG. There are few areas on my body not wrapped in a web of veins. They run up and down my arms and legs like inch-thick snakes slithering beneath my skin, branching off in a thousand different directions, squiggling, crossing, connecting with each other. My low bodyfat only enhances their presence, my thin skin wrapping tightly around them, showing off everything down to the capillaries. Not even my face is free of these freakish vessels, as they play prominently on my neck, extend up over my shaved head, and wrap across my forehead and brow.

I hear Ben's footsteps as he steps down the basement stairs, carrying my breakfast with him. He sets down the tray of food on the floor outside my room, rattles around his keys as he finds the one that unlocks the door, and slides the key into the dead-bolt's slot. The heavy, metal door's knob turns, and he slowly pulls it open, letting the bright gym light slide across the cement floor. Ben walks in, carrying a comically overloaded tray of food. He's short, but terrifically built - probably five-foot-six and 260 pounds, all muscle - and already dressed in his gym clothes, ready for our morning workout.

He catches me looking at his body and smiles. "Mornin', Cush!" he says as he blushes. "Ready for some breakfast, big man?" He sets down the tray and begins setting out the food on the table.

"Oh, yeah. My stomach's been growling like crazy this morning," I reply in my rumbling baritone.

I eye the spread, trying to decide where to start. Half a dozen chicken breasts, a four-egg omelet, a couple bowls of cereal and fruit salad, and about a gallon of protein-and-milk mix. I dive into the meal, devouring it in less than half an hour. I finish off the protein drink with one hand while rubbing my gut with the other - the burning hunger in my stomach is temporarily sated.

"So, you all jacked up from last night's cocktail?" Ben asks, referring to the mass quantity of anabolics pumped into my system overnight.

"Yeah, I'm ready to go. Damn, did you guys up the test dose again?" I could guess that they had increased the amount of pure testosterone in the mix because I was even hornier than usual this morning.

"Up another 5,000 I.U., big guy. We don't want you slowing down. I wanna see you beat your goal for this month, and we're already half-way through it."

I run back through the numbers in my head. "This month's goal is fifteen pounds, right?"

"Yeah, and you've put on six so far. I think you can hit seventeen if you really work at it." Ben returns the used dishes to the food tray and sets it off to the side. "You ready to get goin', here, or are you gonna just lie around today?"

Ben is a gutsy little guy. He never seems to be afraid of me, and never holds back when telling me what to do. Maybe its a matter of conditioning on my part, but even though I'm vastly bigger and stronger than him, I never disobey his instructions. Then again, maybe its because Ben carries a loaded handgun on his belt at all times.

I lean forward a bit, prop myself up with my right arm, and grunt as I slowly stand up from the side of the bed. I waddle over to the far corner of the room and pick my "gym clothes" up from the back of the chair. I work my forearms into the tent-like t-shirt one-by-one and, holding the shirt in place, raise my arms together above my head. I let the t-shirt slide down my arms, intending for it to slide down over my torso, but it instead slides behind my head. I try in vain to grab the fabric behind my neck with my right hand - the closest I can come is about a foot above my head.

"Ben, you've gotta help me here, man," I say with frustration. "This fucking shirt is always such a pain in the ass!"

Ben rushes over to help me with the t-shirt. "Don't get upset, Cush. Its no big deal." He pulls the t-shirt back up over my head and down over my body, the cotton fabric being stretched thin by my chest and back. He reaches for the shorts and says "Now, I know there's no way you can put these on. C'mon, lift up your left leg."

Ben's right. I couldn't bend over to put on a pair of shorts if I was being paid. I can make an effort, but my chest and 'roid gut get in the way, and, even if they didn't, my legs are too big to reach over. Add this to the fact that I need a mirror to see my feet and I'm a pretty hopeless case. With Ben's hand for guidance, I step each foot into the shorts, leg-by-leg, and let him pull the elastic waistband up over my briefs. He lets me cinch them by myself - an empty gesture of independence, as I can't see what I'm doing - and I do my best to tie a knot with my thick fingers and ballooned palms.

"Ok, sit back down. Time for shoes." I fall back onto the bed, causing it to squeal in agony, and lift my feet off the floor. He slides on a pair of socks and then my gym shoes, ties them in mere seconds, and slaps me on the calve. "Let's go, big guy."

When I arrived in Omaha, I was greeted at the airport by Ben Jacowski. He was a little guy, but was very solidly built and quite good looking. He was maybe 28 years old, wore his dark brown hair short on his head and in a goatee on his chin, and was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather coat. He introduced himself, informed me that he was to be my trainer, and led me to the parking garage.

I must have been shaking with anxiety. Perceptive and intuitive, Ben calmed me down by getting me to talk. As he piloted William's Mercedes-Benz on the drive away from the airport, we discussed our upbringings, our interests, and what William was like. By the time we reached the nondescript little tract house in an outer suburb of town, I was at ease, and much more certain in my decision.

I followed Ben up to the front door and into the foyer. Standing there to greet us was a handsome man in what could be mistaken for his early forties. An obviously muscular frame showed through his crisp blue shirt and neatly pressed khakis. Despite his youthful, athletic appearance, his true age was betrayed by the slight greying at his temples.

"Welcome to your new home, Doug!" He extended his hand and introduced himself as William Lademann. "I can't tell you how happy I am to finally meet you. Ben and I have been working very hard to get everything prepared for your arrival. Ben will give you a tour of the house in a bit, but I thought it would be a good idea to sit down together and talk about what we're going to be accomplishing here in the next five years."

Hearing William say the words "the next five years" added a new level of reality to the situation. This little house was to be my home for the next five years, and when I left, I would be a dramatically different person.

We sat down in the living room and discussed in great detail what William and Ben had planned for me. Throughout the conversation, I was again and again struck by William's intelligence, his efficiency, and his forthrightness. He clearly approached this endeavor as he would approach any business deal. I was, for example, given a forecast of my weekly, monthly, and yearly growth goals, food and drug program, and training schedule in a bound workbook. I learned that William would make weekly visits to the house to check on my progress but would not otherwise participate in the process.

Ben was to be my trainer in all aspects. He was well educated and experienced in weight training, physical therapy, nutrition, and performance-enhancing drugs. I would immediately begin an intense cycle of anabolic steroids and human growth hormone, coupled with a seven-day-per-week training schedule and a 6000-calorie diet.

It quickly became clear to me that William was prepared to make a huge investment in my body. Over five years, he would be spending hundreds of thousands - if not millions - of dollars on steroids, food, equipment, housing, and Ben's salary. William was taking every precaution to ensure that his little science experiment would be a success.

They led me through the house, showing me the extensively modified layout. The living room and dining room seemed normal enough, and there was at least one original bedroom on the main floor. One corner of the house had been reconfigured to act as a small apartment for Ben. And the rebuilt, oversized kitchen was obviously designed to allow Ben to prepare mass quantities of food. Ben swung open a large metal door that revealed the steel stairs leading down to the basement. The basement of the house had been arranged into three rooms - my small, spartan bedroom, a large, tiled shower area, and a vast, incredibly well-equipped gym. The walls appeared to be cement block covered in a thick layer of insulation and drywall, every room's unfinished cement floor had at least one floor drain, and the few windows to the outside hugged the ceiling. The door to my room must have been three inches thick and featured a large dead-bolt.

William sensed my uneasiness with the harsh living quarters. "Doug, this may not have been what you were expecting, but from this point on, Ben and I are making all of your decisions for you. We know what's best for you, and, at this point, it's keeping you locked up. The next few months are going to be very difficult for you, and I'm sure you will have many moments of doubt. But in the long run, you will come to appreciate this confinement as a sort of freedom."

"So you're suggesting to me that I can find freedom in a fucking prison cell?" I responded with frustration.

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm telling. You're under my control, now. And when I'm not here, you're under Ben's control." Lademann's stare conveyed the truth of his statements. "You are to obey us in every way."

"So what happens when I'm stronger than both of you? How the hell are you going to force me to do what I don't want to?" I was beginning to panic, and sweat was forming on my brow.

"Still a bad idea, Doug," Ben replied. "We'll both be armed at all times around you, and we're both excellent shots." He lifted his jacket to reveal the handgun strapped to his waist - so that was why he hadn't taken off the coat.

"Now, I can tell you're pretty upset." William reached up to my face and wiped the sweat off of my forehead. "I think it would be good for you to take a nap for a few hours. And then, when you're feeling better, you and Ben can get started."

I hadn't even realized that I had been backed into my room by these two men. Ben had produced a syringe out of nowhere and swiftly and efficiently injected it into my ass. William was already out of the room, and Ben followed him closely.

"Get some rest, Doug. You'll need it!" William shouted as he climbed the stairs out of the basement and Ben swung shut the door to my room. The last thing I heard was the heavy dead-bolt sliding into place as I was passing out.

Ben motions for me towards gym. I swagger out of the room, turning sideways and sucking in my chest and stomach as best as I can to squeeze through the doorway. Even still, my pecs and back rub tightly against the frame. I walk into the gym and inhale deeply. The place reeks of sweat. Despite Ben's attempts at cleaning out the odor, I've left a permanent mark on this room.

"We gonna weigh in, today?" I ask Ben as I walk towards the two Siltec WS2000L electronic scales sitting along the wall outside of my room.

"You bet, Cush. Hop on 'em."

Each of the scales have a 2000-pound capacity, but William had to buy a second scale when I became unable to fit both feet on the 15"-by-15" platform. If I really squeeze my legs together, I can manage to get my feet about 30 inches apart. I place one foot on each scale while Ben leans over to read the numbers and add them together.

"Ahh, good boy!" Ben shouts. "You're up two pounds from yesterday, beast. Ten-twenty-seven."

One thousand and twenty-seven pounds. I roll the number around in my head. I'm a fucking monster - barely human. I'm easily the most muscular man on Earth. But another thought is floating to the surface. A persistent, nagging desire for more mass. The desire builds up within my mind, taking precedence over my astonishment at my already extreme size, my ever-present sex drive, even my awareness of self. All thoughts are pushed away but my burning, furious desire to inflate my muscles to even more insane sizes.

Ben touches my shoulder and I'm brought back to the present. I've been standing on the scales, unmoving, hardly breathing, my eyes rolled back into my head, for a few minutes. I'm covered in sweat and the vascular network weaving across my body has pushed itself into high gear in preparation for the coming workout. My quickening heart beats are made plainly visible through the determined pulsing of the veins in my forearms and neck. I'm frozen by the surge of adrenaline coursing through my body - I view the weight room as an enemy, and, once again, I've chosen to fight rather than flee.

I slowly awoke to the sound of rain beating against the frosted window of my "cell". Whatever drug Ben had used on me had left me feeling weak and disoriented. I decided that I was better off cooperating with my captors than going through this unpleasantness again.

I rose from the bed, rubbed my forehead in an attempt to soothe my headache, and began to examine my room. While marveling at the combined sink/toilet which, never having been a convict, was quite new to me, I heard footsteps quickly making their way down the stairs. Within seconds, the door swung open to reveal Ben, gun in hand.

"Enjoy your nap?" he asked, smirking at my mussed hair.

"I would have preferred to sleep on my own terms. I've got a hell of a headache."

Ben reached to the mirror positioned above the sink and swung it open to reveal a few toiletries - a toothbrush and toothpaste, a hairbrush, a plastic drinking cup, and a bottle of aspirin. He handed me the bottle and filled up the cup with water. Handing it to me, he said, "Okay, now that your headache is taken care of, let's get to work."

Motioning for me to sit down on the edge of the bed, he briefly stepped out of the room and returned with a chair and a large notebook. He settled his thick frame into the chair and set the notebook down before me on the side table.

"You have five years - 260 weeks - to add 125 pounds of lean body mass. That amounts to point-four-eight pounds per week. There are basically four components to our plan - training, diet, drugs, and rest. Rest will be no problem - when you aren't lifting or eating, you'll be relaxing or sleeping. I want you to get ten hours of sleep every night, as well as a one-hour nap during the day."

"Eleven hours of sleep? That seems like a lot!" I'd never slept more than eight hours a day in my life.

Ben chuckled. "Trust me, Doug. You won't have any problems getting to sleep after I'm through with you."

Before I even thought about a double meaning to his statement, Ben had opened up the notebook and begun describing the details of my regimen. We spent nearly an hour discussing every element of the plan - down to ever last rep and every single bite of food. I would immediately begin intense training sessions - two a day, every day - spending nearly four hours a day in weight room. The extra hours of sleep, coupled with a pro-level drug program, would minimize the risk of overtraining.

Ben led me into the weight room to demonstrate the workouts and teach me the extreme failure training principles I would be adopting. Towards the end of each set, the last few repetitions of the movement would be nearly impossible to complete. Extreme failure was a process of forcing me to finish the movement with as little assistance from Ben as possible - if a single rep took a full minute to complete, so be it.

After stepping through the entire program, we prepared to get serious and start the first day's training. Ben produced two sets of gym clothes for our use and immediately began stripping off his clothes in front of me. I was surprised to see this level of candidness, and was hesitant to pull off my clothes. Ben noticed.

"Doug, I know this is new for you, but you're going to have to get over any shyness right away. Starting right now, I'm going to be at least as familiar with your body as you are, so there's no need to hide yourself." The shirtless Ben stared directly at me as I stared directly at his perfectly developed, hairy pecs. He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow, looking down at the bulge quickly developing in my pants. "Man, if you're that horny now, you're going to be out of control in a month."

"I... I'm sorry. You're just really big. And I'm excited about the workout. That's all." I stammered. I quickly pulled off my shirt and pants, replacing them with the workout clothes.

Ben eyed my body as I stripped, examining every line, every crease. "Well, if you don't give me everything you've got for this workout, then you'll have something to be sorry about."

Every workout with Ben has been the same. Sure, the weights change, the movements change, the repetitions change. But from my first workout to today, the level of intensity, the feeling of giving my absolute all, has never subsided one bit.

Ben starts off this morning's chest workout by loading the independent press machine with countless 100-pound plates. Even this massively-overbuilt device creaks as the weight is stacked on. I'm no longer able to perform many traditional movements due to my size - benching, for example, became pointless when the distance between the bar in its fully raised state and the bar resting on my chest was whittled down to mere inches. So we instead compromise by finding exercises that provide a useful range of motion, like this press machine.

He nods to me, and I walk to and lower myself onto the bench, wondering how many exercises I'll make it through before vomiting. Due to the bulk of my thighs and calves, I'm forced to stretch my legs out in front of me rather than keeping them at the recommended ninety-degree angle. We have adjusted the hand grips to their outermost setting, which leaves me doing a motion somewhere between a press and a fly but is the only way to prevent my biceps from getting in the way (they make it impossible to bend my elbow inward beyond a 110-degree angle and have a tendency to bind against my pecs).

As I begin the first set, I'm not sure how much weight I'm pressing, and I really don't care. Ben takes care of the numbers - I just do what I'm told. My world is quickly shrinking as I forget about everything around me and focus solely on completing my set. I charge through the first five repetitions, pushing up the weight quickly but not recklessly, tightening my chest at the top, lowering it back down at about one-third the speed, and moving to the next rep without a second's pause. I can feel the burn building as the acid accumulates within my muscles, feel my face reddening as my neck tightens, feel Ben's stare as he looks down at me from behind the machine, ready to offer assistance at a millisecond's notice. I begin to lose momentum on the sixth rep, yet complete it and the seventh without Ben's help.

On my eighth repetition, the weights freeze midway through the upward motion. My vision is blurry as I lose myself in the effort and I am a crazy blend of hyper-focused and ignored senses. I feel the slight movement of air around my hands as Ben, completely aware of my needs, reaches towards the grips, touching them gently, offering only the most minute quantity of assistance. The weight continues to move upward, ever so slightly, but I instinctively know that all movement is relative, and that even the slightest movement is a significant achievement. After what seems like hours - really only about three minutes - I complete the upward motion of the eighth repetition, squeezing my pecs at the top until tears stream down my cheeks. On the downward motion, I fight against the weight with everything I have left, losing the battle as the arms of the machine accelerate towards the floor, slamming into their rests with a boom and prying my arms apart.

I am lost in a fog of pain and exhilaration, unaware even of Ben's presence until his strong hands touch the back of my shoulders. He assists me as I struggle to sit up from the bench and, in an attempt at keeping me stable, keeps his hand on my shoulder when my torso is perpendicular to the ground. My thighs are at a ninety-degree angle to each other in order to make room for my gut as I sit upright, and my chest balloons over the gut and up towards my head. I'm able to drop down my head just enough to rest my chin in the canyon formed by the engorged, rock-hard pecs. My arms, my shoulders, and especially my chest are dark reddish-purple - they almost look bruised - due to the tremendous amount of blood rushing into the region via the pulsing, web-like vascular system. I focus my mind on the exercise, because I know that I will have no more than a minute's rest before I begin the second of five sets.

I am drenched in sweat, and I've just completed the first set of the first exercise in today's first two-hour workout, and I can't wait to push myself further.

[paarke]

Originally Posted by schwermarko

The artist was gracious enough to grant me permission, here is the photostream

http://www.flickr.com/photos/41711493@N07/

Amazing pics! Thanks