Jack's Big Return

"Maybe this isn't the right venue for that..." Jack offered. Nick deflated, looking even smaller. "Oh, of course, I.."

"I should probably do it somewhere more private, I mean. I don't want to make a show of it."

Nick lit up like a puppy hearing the word 'walk'.

"I presume, in a place this size, there has to be a free room somewhere," Jack offered.

Nick nodded wildly, suddenly possessed by an energetic confidence, seeming, if not taller, than at least bigger, more in the room.

"I know just the place," he said, "I stayed here a lot before, when we were younger, and Kez's family were away. I guess you missed those parties,... it was in our final year of school, before we all left for college."

"I guess I did," Jack said. "Lead the way."

And so, the dinghy lead the battleship through the crowd, suddenly full of importance, pushing his way easily through throngs of bigger men, leading the giant in his wake. They found a stairs, which they climbed, and through one corridor, then another, another stairs, which Jack would not found by himself. Interesting, he thought. Kez has a hidden attic.

Nick steamed ahead, his small legs pumping determinedly, and ass, peachy on his slight frame, jiggling behind him.

The landing that they arrived on was dark, and clearly not open to the party guests. The partiers did not seem to be a crowd to care about 'open to guests', but they also clearly hadn't found the attic, thought it was more a third floor really. Nick groped on the wall, finding a lightswitch which, when flicked, revealed a small hallway, with only a single door. The door, when Nick tried it, was locked, but he confidently stuck his slender arm into a nearby vase, and removed a key. He turned and smiled at Jack.

"We used to have pretty crazy parties here. Kez kept this room for the core gang. Away from the chaos."

Jack absentmindedly reached for the vase, attempting to stick his own hand into it. In his grip, it looked like a tea cup.

Nick, having lost his nerves, commented "I bet you couldn't even fit more than... what... two fingers in there?" He punctuated his point with a giggle before turning back to the door, turning the key in the lock, and pushing it open.

The door opened into darkness, which Nick again lit, revealing a sumptuously decorated bedroom, or boudoir. Jack hadn't realised that Kez's family were quite this old money.

"Here," Nick said, moving towards the window, "look."

Jack followed him, crouching down to see what the small man was pointing to.

It was the garden, softly lit by pools of lamp light, where most of the party seemed to have ended up.

"We used to come up here to escape from the chaos," Nick said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "One of us would turn the light on as a signal to the rest to sneak away from the party. Its the only the room on this floor so, if you know the house, you can tell when someone's in here. We'd retreat here, smoke weed and pass out. It seemed very cool at the time ...anyway, it's a shame you weren't around for it. I guess we'd all be gossiping about your growth spurt ..."

"I guess you would have been, though I'm not sure if it would have been as ... dramatic ... if I hadn't been where I was."

"No. But maybe your shirt would have survived."

Jack laughed. "That reminds me of why we came up here. No prying eyes here for the wardrobe change."

Nick could see the muscles in Jack's neck and shoulders tensing, the swell and fall of thickening, of furrowed veins and the press of sinew against skin. Jack began to make a fist, then eased it open, closed again. He shook his wrist out, as if getting ready to lift a weight, rather just flex.

Jack looked at Nick looking at him, transfixed by the heavy movements of his superior body. "You know," Jack said, "there was a moment downstairs when I could feel the strain of the fabric, where I think that I knew if I pressed any harder, pushed my arm out any bit more, that it was going to rip. I don't know why I kept pushing, why I had to pump my arms up so big in that little flex, why I had to be the big guy ripping his shirt at the party." He paused, looking to Nick for an answer.

"Jack, if I looked like you I would never wear clothes again. My arms don't even reach the sleeves of an XS shirt."

"I don't know if that's the guy at the party that everyone likes though," Jack said with a grin. "And I'm sure you just need a bit of extra work and you'll start touching those XS sleeves. Few weeks under metal."

Nick shook his head. "Look," he said, and flexed his arm. Nothing happened. His shirt sleeve lay slack, most of it untouched.

"Maybe more than a few weeks... Wow, I don't remember you being this ... emm... slim. I thought you had some muscle when we were younger."

Nick blushed, deeply. "Wasting away in an office chair for ten years I guess... But even if was in the gym 24/7, I'd never look anything like you. Your body, or your genetics, they're ... just ... superior... just better. Your body should be seen, admired,... worshipped."

"Worshipped?" Jack asked. His face showed a soft surprise, but, new body or not, Nick still knew Jack and his mismatched eyes, knew the mischievous teenager who could feign a choir boy's innocence with ease.

"Worshipped," Nick repeated. "In every sense. Like a god. You should have people kissing your feet, kissing your... everything. Worshipping you with hands, with lips, with their own inferior bodies."

Jack was silent for a moment. "It sounds like something you might have experience with. Not the Nick I remember from school."

"I've... I've partaken, before. It's a trade, of sorts. I'm never going to live in a body like that. My shirt sleeves aren't going to rip around boulder biceps. I'm not going to stretch clothes out."

Nick's face mellowed into a dreamy look, but his hands got more animated, even frantic, as he spoke. "Jack, I'm not going to be able to look over other people's heads, or look down, between the valley of big pecs, to see someone throwing themselves at me. But I can feel the body that does feel that. I can feel those muscles inflate under my hands, can run them over a back wider than I am tall, or .... Or...feel that strength when they thrust into me, when they pick me up, when I sit on thighs, rigid with strength, splayed underneath me, bigger than my entire body."

The room was silent for a few moments, Jack's face impossible to read, Nick anxiously waiting for an answer, for an anything.

"Of course," Nick added, "I've never really done that. I thought I did that, with guys that I thought were, big. I didn't realise, until you walked in tonight, that I had been worshipping small little men. I didn't know what a real man even looked like."

Nick had evolved from a dreamy look to a pleading one. This was a game he was used to playing: finding the exact right tone, the right role, that a muscle beast needed, that fit with what they wanted from a man, and with how they saw their own superior body. Jack took one, large step toward him, the old wooden floors shaking as he did.

"And what do you do for these not-men, Nick? When they could have anyone's hands on them, anyone in the world, why would they choose you? Why would the biggest guy in the room want to fuck the pipsqueak?"

"Sir,..". Nick lipped his lips, thinking about his words. "Sir, the next biggest guy... he wants to be the biggest guy. He thinks he can just go to the gym a bit more, stand up a bit straighter... he wants to get fucked by the biggest guy so he can get bigger."

Nick paused, then lifted one slender arm and flexed it, pressing his fist toward his shoulder, squeezing as hard as he could. His arm, a pale stick, showed no change, only the barest raising of what couldn't even be called a bicep.

Jack observed the show, a corner of his mouth lilting in approval. He let Nick struggle to squeeze out a bicep for a few more moments before he heaved his sleeve-free arm up and slowly, inch by inch, eased into a flex, causing his arm to swell massively: 30 inches around, then 35, then, at its peak, surely, even more? 40... more... inches of straining, vein-thick muscle.

"The smallest guy in the room," Jack added, keeping his arm as pumped with muscle as it could go, "knows that he will never be this, will never be close to this, is not even the same species as this. And that," he finished, "is why they can only be one thing."

If it wasn't for the beads of sweat running from Nick's brow, he could have been mistaken for a statue, so paralysed was he by Jack's show, and by the full realisation of where this was going.

Jack dropped his arm to his side, breaking the spell.

"So little guy, you want to know how it feels to rip a shirt sleeve, or do you want to be the ripped sleeve."

Nick gulped, his Dutch courage now gone, as was his control of the situation. With Jack's innocent facade finished, with him showing that he knows what it is to be worshipped, Nick barely had a role in the play anymore. He was a puppet now, to his lust, to the complete control that Jack's monstrously oversized body, that his strength-swollen, pump-bursting muscles, had over him.

"Yes Sir. Both Sir. I'm yours to break."

Jack raised his sleeved arm, slapped his unflexed bicep with his other hand, making a meaty thwack. "Put your hand here then."

Nick approached the larger man, his arm clearly held out of his reach. He jumped, trying to reach it, barely catching hold before falling. Jack rolled his eyes.

"Sorry Sir," Nick said. "I'm too short to reach."

Jack held his arm aloft another few seconds, letting Nick jump a few more times before he, with an exaggerated groan, lowered himself to one knee. As he did, Nick's attention moved to his thigh as it inflated under the lunge, tightening the dark denim of his pants. As the denim tightened, it tightened around everything, and Jack's mammoth-like thighs were suddenly crowned by a thick denim-clad bulge.

Nick closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath.

"Everything grew Nick, grew a lot bigger, a lot thicker and longer than a normal man. I presumed you knew this."

Nick took a few more breaths before he opened his eyes. When they did open, he saw shirt-clad arm rearing in front of him, begging to be touched.

"Can I, Sir?"

"You may, but quickly. I want to get out of these tight clothes."

Nick needed no more of an invitation, and his two slim, girlish hands were soon roving over the bicep, feeling the strength and size, even unflexed and still clad in that poor, straining fabric.

"I'm going to start flexing, Nick, slowly, and I'm going make you feel the exact moment that this shirt realises that it can't contain a man of my size. You're going to feel it at the exact moment that it breaks, that it rips apart, that it explodes because my muscles are so fucking big that even this tent of a shirt can't handle them. And when you feel that, you'll know exactly what I'm going to do you. Do you understand?"

"Yes Sir," Nick stammered, "thank you for letting me feel that, Sir."

Nick was buoyed up on exhilaration, falling easily into the submissive role he had played since he became sexually active. He had worshipped muscle men before, had compared flexes with them, his tiny body dwarfed by their bulging, heaving masses of muscle. He begged for them to pin him down, feel their massive weight on top of him, and the rounded, straining muscles press into his slimness. Lust, already running through him, had kicked into overdrive when he realised that Jack had had the same experiences, but from the opposite side. That Jack was an experienced muscle dom, that he had been licked, caressed, worshipped. That his gigantic body, overflowing with testosterone and divine masculinity, submitted itself to the touch of inferior men. Nick had to clamp on his swollen, lust-inflamed prostate to stop himself from cumming just at the thought of what was going to happen.

"Pay attention," Jack commanded him. "Here, as I ease into a flex, you're going to feel the long and the short head of the bicep start to grow. Can you feel that tension, Nick? We're going to add a lot more as I get closer to contraction, it's going to get bigger, Nick, and bigger."

Under his trembling hands, Jack's bicep was exploding slowly. He was, maybe twenty percent into a full flex, and already the muscle was inflating as if it was attached to a pump. Nick's hands looked smaller and smaller on the giant's muscle as he inched his tightened fist closer to his shoulder. So much strength in that limb, Nick's couldn't, physically, comprehend how it would feel at full flex.

As this went on, Nick's cock was pathetically heaving against against his trousers, a modest bulge visible. He could feel precum saturating his underwear in sticky anticipation. He couldn't bring himself to look at the bulge pressuring the front of Jack's jeans. Glances told him that something huge was gathering strength there. If Nick was pitching a tent, Jack was erecting a sports stadium.

Jack had paused his flex for a moment, pulsed the muscle a few times, spreading Nick's fingers, wrapped punily around the expanding dome of his bicep, as he did. He saw Nick's face in a rictus of ecstasy.

"How big do you think we're at so far little Nick?"

"This is already the biggest bicep I've ever felt in my life, Sir, and you've barely flexed."

"I know it's the biggest, Nick. But I want numbers. How much bigger,"

Nick gulped, an edge of playful fear sharpening his need to please this giant.

"I...I once got fucked by a professional bodybuilder Sir, who made me measure his arms at full flex. And they were 22 inches. And you're already bigger Sir. I'm embarrassed that I ever measured that his small arms."

"How big do you think we need to get to rip this shirt?"

"I can already feel it straining, Sir. The little fibres, I can feel them starting to split. Maybe another few inches sir. Just... if you could flex just a little bit more, maybe at 30 inches, Sir."

Nick reached his free arm into a pocket and pulled out a tightly rolled measuring tape. "Why don't you keep track little Nick. I can't just walk around naked all the time. This way, we'll know exactly how big I can allow my arms to get before they rip through my clothes."

Nick reached pleadingly for the tape measure, his muscle worship fetish reaching a new height. "Yes please, Sir, it would be my honour."

Nick wrapped the tape measure around the muscle at its highest point, and tightened it slightly, pinning it under his own hands so he could still feel that massive muscle expand. Already it read 24 inches. Holy fuck, he thought. He still couldn't quite believe this man, that he had once pinned underneath him, whose slim, weak body he had caressed, had evolved into this god.

"Are you ready for me to push further? You can call the numbers as I get bigger, and bigger."

"Yes Sir."

Jack began to deepen his flex, as slowly as possible. He felt the tightness of the measuring tap, and the constriction of the shirt, as both of them struggled against his swelling bicep.

"We're already at 26 inches Sir. Now... 27, 28,... 29.

Jack wasn't finished. He held it there for a moment, his arm now a mass of thick, vein-popped strength, eager to reach full contraction. Jack eased slightly toward it again.

"Thi..."

Nick was interrupted. Jack's second shirt sleeve finally gave way, and burst under the pressure of the muscle. The ripping sound was followed by a triumphant roar from Jack, his handsome, square-jawed face exulting at this conquest. He finished his flex, pulling Nick almost off the floor, his bicep blowing way past the thirty inches.

"Hold on," he instructed him, and then Nick was actually off the floor, as the giant stood back to his full over 7-foot height, Nick's puny body hanging off his bigger than basketball-sized bicep, his thin legs dangling pathetically. The shirt sleeve slid off and dropped to the floor, and the beginnings of fraying sprouted up on every other visible seam of the shirt.

"How did that feel little man???"

Nick couldn't offer a response. Not verbally, at least. His pants, however, showing a dark stain at their front, could. The second he had felt that shirt burst beneath fingers, had felt Jack's roar into a full, stage-ready flex, his willpower and body had given out, and he emptied the contents of his balls into his underwear.

Half-dizzy from lust and the strength of his orgasm, Nick couldn't hang off the giant's bicep any longer, and his grip slipped, dropping him to the floor with a soft, thud.

From this vantage, he looked up at Jack, looking even bigger than before, as if his entire body had swelled up just that bit more. Both arms now free, his shirt in half tatters, he looked like a dapper Incredible Hulk. He was grinning now, and a pulsing bulge at the front of his pants told Nick that he was enjoying himself.

Looking down at Nick, Jack felt superhuman. He couldn't not notice his own incredible size when that pipsqueak was ogling him. He worked every day to increase that size, to make other people feel small, to tower over them. Still, he was used to his body. It was only when being worshipped, when making some manlet service him, caress his tank of a body, that Jack could shake off the normalisation of his body, that he fully remembered, at every level, that he was so big, so massive, that he was superior. A good worship session could fill him with that assurance for a week, and he could feed on that energy, push himself that bit further in the gym, draw on knowledge that he was, actually, superhuman, and could be even bigger. That he was the Alpha.

With Nick, looking so slim and tiny before him, staring up with animal amazement, Jack felt a pump go through his entire body, as if every muscle filled itself up just a little bit more. As if the lust was pumping steadily into every pore. This was his moment. He hinged slightly at the waist, curling both ham-sized hands into fists, and pressed them closer together, flexing the massive collection of muscles that made up his Herculean back. Tiny ripping sounds announced the coming of a rent. Then, in one final effort, he deepened his flex, and the entire shirt exploded into fragments of fabric.

Watching this, it was only by virtue of having just cum that Nick didn't cum again. Jack's body was not what it seemed in that shirt. The shirt itself must have been made from specialist material to have kept that body inside it for so long. When it fell from Jack in tatters, his body seemed to flop out of it, every plumped, pumped muscle, rounded and hardened by years of work, exulted on being released. Free to the air, Jack seemed caught up in lust himself, his face taking on an animal energy. In one movement, he had whipped the belt from his jeans and flung it to the corner. In another, the first button was released. The rest released themselves, unable to hold in his monstrous thighs. He kicked off shoes, stepped out of his pants, and was finally clad in nothing but high sports socks, and a red, satin posing pouch.

He had been ready, Nick realised, for this encounter.

The posing pouch must also have been specially made, but Nick could not believe that this man could stand on a stage in it. It was less of a pouch, more of a rucksack. Jack's package, building in size as the jeans came off, was monstrous. It was so heavy that the pouch sagged off Jack's body, showing a hint of cock flesh. No bodybuilder would ever stand on a stage next to him, Nick thought, not with that. Where had he been competing, Nick wondered.

Definitely nowhere local, or nowhere that allowed cameras...

Fear and lust were always mingled in the type of sex that Nick had. For the first time in a long time, Nick felt fear take the upper hand, not believing that whatever was growing in that pouch would fit inside him.