[djstoner]

Yes, that's how this story starts.  The sole inspiration of the strange adventure that follows was a molding piece of bread housed in my German engineered stainless-steel, dual-deck, 1400 Watt toaster oven.  Once intended to assuage the complaints rumbling forth from my ignored stomach during a creative whim that forced sustenance to take a back-seat to art (I had decided to construct a to-scale model of the White Sands Proving Grounds, the day of the nuclear test there, from all-organic white cheeses), the loaf had inadvertently slipped between the grilling and fallen into the crumb drawer.  Obscured from view by the uncleaned grease and food spatters that had bonded to the front glass (creating a permanent fog), it had remained inside its fortress now for a solid week.  Perhaps in deep contemplation during its seclusion, it had manifested a hoary stubble of fungus that irradiated a smell faintly reminiscent of my grandmother's cellar.  This semi-fosillized relic of once-food had been rediscovered by yours truly when another wave of hunger had struck a chord in my memory – "Didn't I make some toast a while ago?"
    Realizing I was out of groceries (the last cup of Ramen had been a meager dinner the previous night), and was completely broke (the organic cheese had cost more than I anticipated, as I had to pay a Lebanese exporter to deliver twelve bottles of Naboulsi, a kind of 'boiled cheese,' because it had just the right texture to easily mold into a miniature mushroom cloud), I began to panic.  I searched through every cupboard and refrigerator tray, past the spices and cleaning solutions, around the dishes and under the sink…  I had nothing.
    My thoughts kept returning to the toast.  It was always in my peripheral vision, mournfully wedged under the cell bars of its Toastmaster cage.  I knew it was a mistake, but I had no choice – I did my best to scrape away the patchy, multi-colored peach-fuzz, and then wolfed the fucker down as quickly as possible.  It didn't taste like roasted feces, as I had expected.  Instead, it simply tasted like stale toast.  I was worried, and more than a little ashamed, for awhile, but when I hadn't found myself retching over the john after a couple of hours, I decided it was fine and went to bed.

Pre-Forward__________________________________________________

Awake, before the alarm.  Just five more… maybe ten… minutes until I need to wake up…  What a wonderful dream – one to which I will continue to helm – the stars in this all-to-soon-forsaken voyage determining my fate…. – until that damned alarm sounds.  Then it's up, shit  / shower / shave, and on to work.  The day is just like any other.  Again I wallow in the faded phosphor blanket that clouds my rising.  Again, I wonder what fantastic realm might have been breached if I had just closed my eyes yet a little longer…

Forward__________________________________________________

Little did I, your humble narrator, know at this intersection what would befall me.  My dreams, fancies, and utterly secret and much protected fantasies were as of now just that:  the stardust of chased wishes, the Neverland of Lost Sleep.  I knew, have always known, that at some distant crossroads, the material and ephemeral worlds could (and would) cross.  Yet, I had no idea the role that god-forsaken loaf of destiny had yet to play.  And so begins my tale:

Fuck the pleasantries; let's just get to the muscle growth, okay?__________________________________________________

The alarm squelched 6:50.  The time at which I should, but never do, rouse from my monolithic slumber and face the new day.  Instead, I woke five minutes before I knew I needed to leave – just enough time for a hasty shower and a cursory brushing of the tooth.  No shaving today; the shadow I had decided once was movie-star dangerous had now become the Unexplored Continent.  Boxers first (I hate briefs – Michael Jordan may play some good ball and very well palm my head, but Briefs are just the unnatural adaptation of a honey-comb full of angry bees about the scrotum – IMHO), then button the silky cotton shirt that looks oh-so-nice (a lesbian roommate had once offered up her honey-pot just because of this collared-maroon madness), boxers open – closing the piss-hole-button while brushing your teeth is quite a feat – and black slacks on the top of the hamper (to separate the clean from the dirty, of course – anyone who has seen Ghostbusters II knows that clothes are like onions – they have many layers of wearability), and finally two socks that match… This is usually the hardest task.  Finally, I fasten the pomegranate-and-gravel tie in a Four-In-Hand knot – my neck is rather short… or perhaps wide… and it just looks so damn sensible.  I then carefully conceal my lower-torso – the real fruit – in the slacks: one fastener, one button, and a zipper.  Why so much fuss for the loin?  Isn't that what man is so fond, and yet displeased, of displaying?  Isn't that what lures / detracts the possible gene-pool contributors?  Why so much ponderance for such a short metric measure (or long, if you prefer)?  At any rate, I am now ready to beset my task of menial labour.

And so it continues; day in, day out.  Until that morning after, while the dew is still settling (mostly on my windshield), I had eaten The Toast…

We apologize – the writers of the previous section, though of no relation to the writers of the infamous 'Moose Diaries,' have been sacked, for Stream-of-Conciousness-but-not-yet-hot'n'heavy-musclebound-detal-laden-growth-sequence expulsion.  Sweden is a nice country, full of Yak of all sizes… __________________________________________________

The taste of copper was heavy on my much-too-dry tongue.  Hell, it felt as if a mining union had all but stripped the bastard of it's oily sheathing – a dry spittle of crusted treasure bound my teeth to it; a flaccid, parched organ in great disrepair.  And I was awake.  The squealing repetitiveness of the Satellite-Aligned Scientific Workshop alarm had not yet vomited its noisy pollution into my ears.  I was awake, and my head was pounding.  I woke up:  Boxers first… or is it tie?  Tie won't quite be a half-Windsor today…. but what about the shirt?  The shadow-and-silver striped should do…  But pants?  Where are they?  Why won't my goddamn fingers work this tie?!?

Drive to work.  Tired, weaving.  I feel every tread of tire as it callump-callump's to the office.  God, I feel off.  Should've called in sick today – plenty of Paid Time Off left, plenty of sick-days before they start a search party.  I should've called in sick and….

And then I see Her. 

She is perfect – like a porcelain statue with raven hair.  Ultra-Feminine.  If Godzilla had Mecca-Godzilla, then her Femininity had Ultra-Femininity; which seems to wax my grease-pot something ludicrous…

Fuck.  My mind is wandering.  I can't concentrate.  What's wrong?  If only I had a thermometer.  She tempts me to a frenzy.  What is it about her?  What makes her drive me wild?!?  If I were Thorough, I would write a Walden sequel for her… "that Beast-Maiden who Nimmertucks mine pluck-o'-wild… she who biscuits in the grave dances tall grass fiderfongwangshooperdoodle…"

So on and so forth.  But today is different.  My head is pounding, but with that Pixie-dust of fate.  A simple look at her and I decide tonight is the night.

"Would you like to join me for dinner?" my Self says.

"I would like nothing more," she-of-my-nightmares replies.

Nimmertucks and Shooperdoodles__________________________________________________

So, here I am; half man and half exploding headache – flowers in hand – waiting for my date-to-be.  And as much as I would like to make this a romantic soliloquy, that's not what your trousers, my dear reader, are wishing.  You would like my ramble to bust forth with an intrepid feminine-masculinity; a holy, muscular, dutch-boy of maidenhood, a pulsing quasar of FEMALE MUSCLE GROWTH.  Am I right?  So, let's get to business…

The Date__________________________________________________

So, the date went off without a hitch.  We ate a fabulous meal and decided to retire with a mutually-enjoyed movie.  However, the movie went unwatched.  This was one of those fabulous appointments when Cupid blindly shot his arrow and we both went at each other animalistically. 

It was when my second digit penetrated her mound of sex that she let out a faint squeal.  We both had all our clothes on at this point.  Her moan was as if I was voraciously handling her, when I thought she was far from ejaculation.  Her moan stopped me on two points:
This was an amazing and most fortuitous turn of events for me,
and, Something was Not Quite Right.

Our mouths pressed together, eagerly sucking and licking each others' air, and yet I could feel her body tense.  That moan preceded a very feline roar of arousal and dominance.  Something was changing, but I didn't know what. 

I let my fingers slide in almost to the knuckle, and she vocalized (or nearly) her pleasure.  Yet something was changing.  Her body tensed again, and this time she was inconsolable as to any other outcome.

Her moans became cry's, and her body tensed again.

It was at this point that I realized her body wasn't relaxing.  With every movement, with ever buck of her hips, with every pleasurable "oooh" or "aaah," she was changing.

The first physical evidence of this was presented in very short order, as the stitching on the shoulders of her long-sleeve shirt started to make moans and groans of their own.  Soon, they began to "zipper" down around her chest and traps, as her shoulders increased in width.  Her frame was growing, and I didn't understand why. 

Next, absorbed by the transmutation and perhaps triggered by it, my right hand sunk deeper within the caverns of her dripping pussy as my left hand squeezed and tweaked her left nipple (my hand under the shirt).  Her nipple seemed to respond and swell with the penetration, and yet another "riiiiiiip!" was heard – this time I focused in on her shoulders and back, and realized something amazing was happening. 

My somewhat petite and demure date was not only Growing, but she was gaining muscle at an amazingly fastidious rate.  I looked down at her trapezious muscles, and saw them swell like a stop-frame video of mushroom growth.  Soon, they began to push her ever-growing shoulders outward (they looked to be the size of grapefruits and growing) as her neck became wider, somewhat merging with the burgeoning meat at the nape of her neck.  Another "Riiiiiiip!" revealed her arms had put on just as much solid beef has her back.  She was slowly becoming something different.

I slowed my explorations of her cervix and moved to her engorged clitoris – playing with that precious skin-flab between my thumb and forefinger.  A gentle massage sent a shockwave down her spine, and her nipples seemed to increase in hardness, if not size.  I gave the right a sudden squeeze with my left hand, invoking a moan and another spurt of density-growth from my now hypnotized partner.  Then I heard the words which I will never forget:

"Bigger.. I want to be bigger."

It was a moan, a groan, a plea, a whisper – and oh, such a delicacy.  I didn't know how this was happening,  but I didn't want it to stop and neither did she.  I plunged three fingers into her viscous vat…

Another full-body-tense, but this time, she remained half-hunched.  I was about to worry, when I heard a growl start in her chest and escape through her throat – and then she nearly doubled in size.  In a matter of minutes, my formerly modelesque coworker had transformed into a hulking behemoth.  Her traps had shredded the back of her shirt, and her triceps had demolished any hint of sleeve.  Her forearms were not only as thick around as my thigh, but were vascular, shredded, and seemed to be growing larger.  My hand left her breast and explored the cobblestones of muscle twisted around her torso – she was becoming a goddess.  Another grunt and growl as my fingers pried deeper into her hole and reinforced her growth; this time her shoulders were wider than a door-frame, while her height had increased only slightly. 

I looked down at her calves, and was amazed to see to prehistoric ham-hocks flexing back at me.  Her thighs were truly massive.  Veins started to surface, first along her midsection, and then spread to the biceps, thighs, calfs, forearms, and finally chest.  She was so massively shredded now that her back was vascular.  Thick veins the size of boa-constrictors coiled around her limbs, as smaller tributaries started to form.  Her neck could barely be distinguished from her back.  Shoulders were now well beyond even the largest of pumpkins, and her lats were so wide that my arms out-stretched couldn't begin to reach their width.  And still she grew.

Thighs were now so thick that their inner-muscle was touching, even while she was effectively in the "splits" position.  Her chest heaved and grew and rose to such dimensions that her pecs absorbed her tits and actually began to droop from the weight of all the muscle.  Her abs were sticking out to a gross degree, completely shredded and vascular.  Her belly-button was still petit and and inny.  Further down, her calves began to resemble basketballs, as her shoulders and traps fought for space as they became larger than medicine-balls.  Soon she was grotesque, a flagrant image of the epitome of musculature.  Nothing could stop her or stand in her way – her chest bulked almost three feet in front of her chin.  Her head was quickly running out of room to move freely about.  Still she grew…

It wasn't before long that I felt a crushing blackness descend up on me….
__________________________________________________

I awoke from that amazing dream at the beginning of the day.  The alarm sounded its shrill, monotonous drone, and I nearly threw a shoe at it to shut it up.  Man.  What a night.  I only hope I can piss without difficulty or embarrassment this morning… I've never quite had a dream like that before…

Must've been something I ate…

[gblock01]

An absolutely amazing story! The descriptions were vivid, the situations, humourous, and the Monty Python-like interruptions were a particularly nice touch. I have to say, the whole thing left me wanting more. There will be more, right? Right? <Gives "puppy dog" eyes>

[AbyssPlanet]

There will be more, right? Right? <Gives "puppy dog" eyes>

Seconding this!  😮 That was a great story, and I'd love to read more.

I wasn't a fan of the stream-of-consciousness stuff, but when it got to the actual growth, the story became AWESOME.

[gblock01]

Hey! That's not nice! I write all of my stories with stream-of-consciousness, too! Is there something that you would like to tell me?  😉

[Fonk]

Whilst I have to admit to being slightly disappointed that it was all a dream, I enjoyed this story immensely. ;D

[AbyssPlanet]

Hey! That's not nice! I write all of my stories with stream-of-consciousness, too! Is there something that you would like to tell me?  😉

An opinion doesn't have to be nice. 🙂

Your stories don't read like his does, though – there's a difference between WRITING it stream-of-consciousness, and having it actually read that way, where sentences just trail off, or go on and on for paragraphs, or don't make any sense when you re-read them.

[gblock01]

Yeah, I know the difference. I was just teasing. But you're right in your observation how the sentences just seem to ramble on in this story. However, from my point of view, I think that the way that it was written perfectly suits the story. Since it is being told from a first-person perspective and takes place entirely within the main character's mind, it makes sense that it would ramble on like many people's thoughts do. It adds a certain realistic quality.

[AbyssPlanet]

I can appreciate that perspective, but that sort of writing style just doesn't appeal to me. I've written some first-person stuff, and for what it's worth, I try to make it not ramble; I find it distracting. Sure it might make sense to the person doing the talking, since it's his/her mind, but for the sake of the reader it's just confusing, I think.

Diff'rent squids for diff'rent kids, I suppose.

[TheSteamPunk]

I especially like the Monty Python reference you've added

[gracilis]

Thank you for posting,
I think the name of the guy who wrote Walden is spelled "Thoreau."

[Author]

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