Imperius Thad (Muscle Domination)

Rex's phone vibrated, just about audible above the shower, which he quickly turned off. He struggled to open the stiff shower door, having to heave it slightly to get free. Drying his small hands on a nearby towel, he snatched his phone to check the notification: Instagram, telling him that somebody he followed had posted new content. Not the notification he was waiting for, but he clicked into it. He followed, or, rather, "ThadWorshipper" followed, only one account.

Thaddeus had uploaded a new gym video. Or a new-ish video. But didn't look like it had actually been filmed today. Rex could usually tell if it was older material, even by a few days. He could pick up the subtle cues in his clothes and body. Here, Thad was being filmed from behind as he did lat pulldowns, the impossible broadness of his back swelling into enormity with each downward pull. Rex could tell that his triceps, which were not particularly involved in this exercise, were pumped. They bulged even more heavily than usual, so much so that they pressed into the side of his heavy pecs when he pulled the bar close to his chest, to the point that it reduced the exercise's range of motion. Thaddeus definitely hadn't done triceps since the start of the week. On Monday, he had sent his subscribers a teasing tricep-flexing video, when they were rigid and heavy with a gym pump. So the video was probably a few days old. Which probably meant that Thad was travelling and had built up some content to post. That must be why he hadn't responded to his messages, Rex thought.

Rex watched the video over and over, dripping on the floor. Thad's workouts were typically 4 hours long. Once a week they were followed by a massage and cupping session, which were sometimes filmed for his OnlyFans. He hadn't uploaded one since last week though, and Rex was waiting eagerly for the next. He had made a request after the last one. In fact, he had made the request multiple times, and the messages were seen but not responded to. But he knew that didn't mean that Thad himself had seen them. Rex had figured out that he had an assistant monitor the messages. He had a few million followers, so it was natural that he couldn't check every message. But he always replied to tips of over 1000$. In his most recent request, Rex had tipped far, far more than that to get his attention.

No new notifications came in, so Rex watched the video one last time before clicking back to his own profile. ThadWorshipper had a single picture uploaded to its feed: Rex's slight, feminine hand, with its scant few brown hairs gracing the knuckles, spread over an enormous aubergine.

He returned to the shower. By now, he was painfully hard, his small penis jutting out from his neatly trimmed bush. Even Thad's non-explicit videos, his GymThad account, could cause Rex to spontaneously cum. He had watched just a snippet of a video once on the subway, surrounded by bodies and coats and bags, and was mortified to feel the hot wetness of an involuntary emission when the camera zoomed in on a where sweat had caused Thad's gym vest to stick his back. He didn't have enough left in his nutsack for that to happen this time. He had jerked off three times last night after sending the request and tip, thinking about Thad reading it, the phone tiny in his massive, calloused hand. Maybe he would consider it in the shower, as he rubbed himself clean of a day's sweat. Would he click into Rex's profile?

The thoughts had had Rex on his hands and knees on his living room's hardwood floor, his head lowered, imagining the muscle giant standing above him, alternatingly praising him for being such a good fan, and chastising him for being so tiny, so scrawny, hairless, unmanly and pathetic. Rex came three times directly onto the floor. After the first and second times, he had put his phone in a different room, and tried to do something wholesome. Read a book, watch a movie, something unrelated to Thad. And each time the thoughts had started again, and he ran to retrieve his phone, finding his inbox empty again, but still having fallen so deeply into the fantasy that he needed to relieve himself just to function. After the last time, he ended up sleeping on the floor, exhausted, wrapped in a thin blanket next to his final, pathetic, tribute.

So now, as his penis once again jutted stubbornly from its little bush, Rex resigned himself to another quick bout, knowing that he probably wouldn't make it to work if he didn't exorcise himself of his crazed lust.

He eased himself to his knees, positioning himself in the middle of the shower's hot jet. He didn't have to be on his knees, but recently it was the position that worked best for him, especially after a few sessions. Kneeling was the primordial position of worship. And it was the position that gave the best view. At least, that was what Rex imagined. Every time Thaddeus posted a picture from that perspective, Rex sent an obscenely large tip, as if he was trying to train him to post from it more often. He imagined it as he positioned himself under the hot water. The dark tangle of pubic hair, and the thick trail of it that emerged to climb up the deep crevasses of his abs, that split at each intersection, sending exploratory branches of hair to hug each defined muscle. And then, Rex's favourite spot, where the hair reached the pecs, those impossibly massive pecs, and tangled its way into the valley where the pecs, relaxed, pressed against each other, competed for space, and created a dark cave.

Rex imagined the smell there, that thickly hairy split between those two globes of muscle. It must be so hot in there, so sweaty. Especially after a chest workout, when his pecs pressed together to push those enormous, barbell-bending weights. When the salty perspiration poured down those muscle mountains in rivulets, thin streams over thick boulders. It must gather in there, Rex thought, trapped by the hair, carried around for the day. Maybe on a day when he didn't have time to shower, it would really grow musky there. And would distil as the sweat evaporated. And then, he thought, furiously pumping his little dick, when Thad walked, with his giant, long-legged stride, that caused his chest to heave, each pec bouncing, it would emit a little spray of aged, hot sweat. Like a cologne made of pure testosterone.

Still on his knees, Rex imagined this to be the hot water from the shower, pouring down over him, as he rapidly jerked, getting faster as he felt the pulsing heat in his prostate swell and rise. Please Sir, he thought, keep showering me. His imagination of the scene was so thorough that he could smell the salt in the sweat, the musk of the man-giant, the chemical tang of the testosterone that must ooze from every pore of his obscenely muscled frame.

His imagination went further, to the unknown, the mystery that lay below Thad's dark, thick tangle of pubes. He had never done a full reveal on his OnlyFans. The most he had ever shown was when he had done a posing session in his old gym shorts, a pair of XXLs that had barely fit him 100 lbs of muscle ago, and were now so tight to be practically painted onto

his legs in the short video. His bulge then, usually only seen as a heavy bulk swinging in his shorts, was pasted to his thigh, a long, thick hillock against the mountain of his quads. The head looked to be about the size of Rex's fist. And that was soft.

The video had immediately leaked from his OnlyFans, with commentators on different forums and social medias ridiculing it. Impossible. Some sad doubters even overlayed rulers over stills from the video, using a doorframe in the background as reference. It would be 14 inches flaccid if it was real. No way, they said. Pathetic, attention bait. Someone even claimed to recognise the dildo brand that he must have stuffed down there by the one visible vein and the size of the cockhead.

Rex wrote angry rebuttals to as many of these as he could find. The giant bodybuilder had always leant into the eroticism of mystery, and had never revealed his height, nor measured his muscles. He mostly worked out in a home gym, with bespoke equipment that could handle both his weight and the weight he needed to move to keep growing. So no one knew his true size. Fans guessed somewhere between 7 and half feet and 8 and half feet tall. At even the most conservative estimate, Rex argued, he would have to have a form of gigantism, and how could he have anything but a massive cock. Ten inches would be proportional. He's just a hung giant. Or so he had argued from his various ThadWorshipper accounts.

Approaching his climax, Rex summoned this image of Thad in as close detail as he could. He had a near eidetic memory for every detail of his body: he could remember the scatter of freckles on his pecs, barely visible under tangles of dark hair; the heavy plumpness of each nipple, which he suspected to be enlarged slightly through pump play; the dramatic jut of his Adam's apple, and the deep, gravelly voice that emerged from it.

He heard it now. "Keep pumping. Pump faster for daddy. Let daddy see your pathetic squirt of cum."

"Yes Sir," Rex replied out loud, his frantic fantasy almost real to him.

He imagined Thad in the tight, black gym shorts, several sizes too short. He imagined the massive man flexing his thighs, just as he had in the video, and the sides of the shorts fraying, then bursting, and slipping slightly down his thighs, revealing the barest, barest frame of his shaft, exactly where the video cut off. But he kept the scene going in his head, and the shorts fell completely away, slowly exposing an anaconda-thick cock that, freed of its restraints, flopped heavily and loudly against the massive muscle of the bodybuilder's thigh. Rex could hear the slap as it thwacked against hard muscle, rebounded, and fell heavily again. He could see it grow slowly to erection, thickening and lengthening.

Rex was hurtling towards his orgasm now, his wrists pained from jerking himself. But he picked up the pace all the same, driven to manic lust over what he knew must be hiding in the giant's pants. He imagined the flop again, the heavy weight of it. And a dribble of pre- cum dropping from it. He imagined pressing his own small cock against it, and it not even covering the apple-sized cock-head.

He opened his eyes, and looked upwards, allowing the hot water to run over his face. He superimposed the image of Thad into his small shower, saw the swell of his muscles pressing and pressing against the wall until the tiles cracked, his shoulders splitting the wall, the shower door bursting open, his arm-length cock spitting warm, pre-cum over him.

And then the heat that had started deep in Rex reached its peak, and exploded, spraying thin spurts of cum onto the shower wall.

And Thad slipped out of his imagination, and the shower walls repaired themselves, and the door was re-assembled, and once again he was a small, pipsqueak of a man, stiff and sore from kneeling, watching his tiny load of cum run down the bathroom tiles.

Completely emptied, Rex finished his shower, quickly dressed, and headed to work. He left his phone at home, knowing, even drained of the slightest possibility of an erection, that he would be unable to focus with it nearby, with the possibility of a reply present.

*****

Often, during mysterious weeks where his libido was, for some reason, in manic overdrive, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from sending tips to Thad, even at work. The larger the tip he sent, the more connected he felt to the giant, the more fully he could imagine him seeing it, clicking through to his profile, and finding the invitation of his picture, with its location marking Rex's city and neighbourhood. And, he would feel, then, the first pearl of pre-cum emerge, and he would have to beg off whatever meeting he was in, quickly relieving himself in the bathroom.

So he went through his work day as a kind of automaton, speeding through complex coding tasks, somehow helped by the soul exhaustion that occurred when he overdid his Thaddeus addiction.

His manager had scheduled a meeting with him at the end of the day, which Rex bemoaned as delaying him from checking his phone. Which was all he was thinking about as he was told that he had been promoted, with a hefty pay bump to go with it.

His work had been outstanding, he was told. Later, he would search the memory of the meeting, and find that he, more or less, reacted to everything with appropriate noises. But, mentally, the mention of the pay rise had distracted him, had his heart racing, and even the first tremors of an erection growing feebly in his tight work pants. More money meant more Thad. It meant more tips, it meant private messages, it meant he was more likely to notice him. Deep, in the primal parts of his brain, where lust trumped logic, it meant Thad would get even bigger. Rex had watched Thad eat hundreds of dollars worth of food a day, had watched years of his cheat-day videos with a strange fascination, his fascination with the giant increasing as the man systematically demolished a table heaving with barely-seared steak and roast-chicken, and washed it down with shakes that must have amounted to half a kilo of protein powder.

His conscious brain knew the man to be filthy rich, with hundreds upon hundreds of worshippers probably sending as much money to him as Rex did. But somehow he still believed that there was a direct connection to his size and Rex's libations. He had been one

of the first to send him money, far before the OnlyFans had started, when it was just a PayPal link in his profile. When his followers had numbered in the hundreds, and he was a just-out-of-college athlete, buff, and freakishly tall, but not yet gargantuan. A few dollars a day, with encouraging messages for the growing bodybuilder. Buy yourself some whey!

Treat yourself to a steak dinner! You're growing out of those vests, buy yourself something new... Sir! And as Thad had grown from a tree-like youth into a muscle mountain, into a true biology-defying freak of nature, so too did his fan base grow, and so too did Rex's tips. The larger Rex's competition grew, the more money he felt he had to send to maintain that connection. Thad would have noticed, surely, if one of his earliest supporters had lost interest in his growth.

Or, that was how his deep-brain rationalised the situation. So every time he sent a tip, a sensitive little trigger fired, and he could almost physically see the bodybuilder growing in front of him: the basketball sized pecs expanding until they were the size of exercise balls; the erect nipples begging to be sucked, getting so big that they would fill his mouth; the thighs barely growing fast enough to support his bigger frame, then exploding outwards in heaped slaps of muscle; his feet, impossibly, growing too, keeping the giant upright; and the lats, spreading wider and wider, as if they were great wings, flaring behind him, keeping him in that perfect, beautiful v-shape; his arms, already looking nothing like human arms, now almost as wide as they were long, as biceps and triceps eased outwards, like inflating balloons. At this point in his fantasy, Rex would imagine Thad's Herculean face, on the pedestal of a glorious jut of black beard, almost lost among the impossibly pulsing muscle. And the beautiful tangles of dark body hair, which had been hidden under the new muscle growth, would burst suddenly from between these valleys, until he was almost carpeted in dark, masculine hair. And finally, he would allow himself to imagine the posing trunk growing. The fabric, in his fantasy, was impossibly generous, and grew and grew and grew until, finally, it almost failed, and sagged forward. And he imagined a tearing, a ripping, as his still growing cock burst out, accompanied by two hairy bowling balls.

"Rex? Rex?" A finger snap.

"Sir. Sorry sir, just, just really blown away."

His manager laughed. Rex could feel a hot, wet stain spreading in his thankfully dark pants. He dropped his hands to his lap to cover it.

"Well, I don't think you even stopped for lunch today pal, no wonder you're a bit light-headed. I think I saw your brain turn off for like, ten seconds there."

"S-sorry sir, just really fell into a flow today, barely noticed the time pass."

He stumbled and stuttered through the rest of the meeting, feeling almost feverishly hot under his work shirt. His manager gently chided him for not eating, and encouraged to keep up the good work, just not at the expense of his body. Rex almost forgot that he had had a body.

He sped home after work, as much as was possible in Friday evening traffic, feeling guilty all the time about having fallen into his Thad muscle-growth fantasy without having given a tip that day. He only allowed himself to imagine the giant growing bigger after a tip. He felt it was an insult to do so otherwise. This way, Rex felt he was helping to make him bigger, by sending him both the cash to get there, and, in some strange way, the thoughts too.

He got home and scouted out his phone. Still no notifications. And no new uploads either. He sent the tip anyway, made it a bit bigger to reflect his new salary. He didn't dare jerk off again though, he had already, mortifyingly, cum in his manager's office. Thankfully he barely had enough cum built up to form a stain.

After the heavy tip, he felt suddenly proud of himself for his promotion, and his ability to support Thad. He decided to order steak for himself. Or, actually, why not two he thought, clicking through the various restaurant options on a food delivery app. He added a breast of chicken as a side, feeling giddy. When the meal came, it took him almost two hours to eat. He did so watching an old cheat meal video of Thad from when he had first started his Instagram, still impossibly big, but with a boyishness that he had lost as he had inflated to inhuman proportions. The younger Thad was methodically working his way through a series of steaks, half a cow's worth. It was the biggest meal he had ever had at that point. The day before, Rex had gotten his first job in tech, and was suddenly in receipt of a salary that far outsized his small life. And so Thad had received his first quadruple-digit tip from him. In Rex's mind, he sat at the other side of this table, proudly having paid for the growing man's meal.

Overly full and sleepy from his meat feast, Rex stumbled almost drunkenly to bed, feeling bloated and too hot: the effects of too much protein in too small a body. As he got into bed, he felt the pulse of this heat even more, and thought, almost feverishly, that this is what it must feel to grow: to turn food into muscle.

His dreams that night were incredibly vivid, though barely comprehensible. People were absent, but bodies were everywhere. Or parts of bodies, overblown, huge, hairy, muscled, slapping against one another, grinding, rubbing.

*****

He woke in a sweat, the sheets tangled and damp, far later than his usual rise. He was so distracted that he had finished his shower before he even thought to check his phone. In

fact, it dawned on him that he hadn't seen it in a while, a realisation that brought on a manic search and rescue mission that eventually recovered it from the tangle of his sweat-soaked bed sheets.

A black screen greeted him, which didn't change after a few clicks. Out of battery. He plugged it in and paced the room waiting for it to get enough charge to turn on, and then for the home screen to properly load. When it did, it loaded blank, with no red dots to indicate a notification. Resigned, he opened his Instagram anyway, at which point he felt a pulse- quickening buzz, and saw red.

Not a message. Just a new post alert. Rex felt himself deflate slightly, but he clicked into Thad's profile.

The post was a blurry screencap in which Thad's giant frame could be seen in a classic, arms out front double bicep pose, while another, smaller frame was pressed against him. No, Rex realised, was massaging him. He had finally posted another massage video.