Chapter 1: The CEO’s Uncontrollable Hunger
The phone screen was slick under Dave’s thumb. He adjusted his grip, the case creaking. On it, Brad moved with a practiced, easy rhythm, his back arching off a rumpled sheet, that familiar, stupidly handsome grin plastered across his face. Some guy, all tattooed shoulders and forgettable features, was driving into him from behind. The sound was off, but Dave could hear the phantom grunts, the slap of skin.
He shifted in his leather chair, the material groaning. His own cock was a hard, insistent weight against his zipper. He licked his lips, dry. Brad’s expression was one of generic pleasure, good but not great. I could do better, Dave thought, not for the first time. The guy on screen was just…pounding. No finesse.No ownership. Dave’s hand, broad and heavy, spread over his own gut, covered in coarse salt-and-pepper hair. He imagined the weight of himself pinning Brad down, that grin dissolving into something raw, unreserved. He’d make him feel it for days. He was bigger.Thicker. He knew it.
The fantasy was solid, vivid—the heat of Brad’s skin, the muffled sound against the pillow—when the screen flashed, an incoming call shattering the video.BRAD. The phone vibrated in his hand like a live thing.
Dave exhaled, a sharp, frustrated sound in the sterile quiet of his office. He accepted the call. “Talk to me.”
“Davey!” Brad’s voice was all sunshine, a contrast to the damp tension in Dave’s lap. “You buried alive in there? I’m downtown. Brought you a pastrami on rye. The dirty one, extra fat. Let me up?”
Dave’s eyes flicked to the reflection in the darkened window—a bullish silhouette, a face all shadow and beard. “Yeah. Come up. Security’s cleared.”
He ended the call. The office felt suddenly too quiet, too clean. He stood, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window that framed the city. His kingdom. From here, the people were ants, the grid a neat toy. He adjusted himself, willing the stiffness away, and straightened his jacket. He didn’t bother hiding the phone; the cracked screen was a testament.Let Brad see.
Brad arrived like a summer storm, bursting through the doors in sweatpants and a tight tee, a paper bag in each hand. “Your cardiac arrest,” he said, tossing the heavier bag onto the desk. “And my rabbit food.” He held up the other, a limp salad visible through the transparent container.
“You eat like a victim,” Dave said, settling back into his chair, the pastrami’s pungent, spicy scent already filling the space.
“You eat like a pampered lion. It’s a balance.” Brad dropped into the guest chair, sprawling. He nodded at the phone. “Screen’s fucked. Anger management issue?”
“Something like that.”
They ate for a minute, the only sounds the crunch of Brad’s lettuce and Dave’s thick swallows. The city hummed, a distant, sub-audible thrum beneath them.
“So,” Dave said around a mouthful of rye. “Business. How’s the…performance art?”
Brad grinned, wiping his mouth. “It’s good. Real good. The subscriber jump after the last collab was insane.” He speared a piece of chicken. “It’s fun, you know? But…”
“But?”
“It’s just work sometimes. The guys…they’re all kinda the same. Fit, yeah.Eager. But it’s like they’re following a script. I wanna…” He searched for the word, gesturing with his fork. “I don’t know. Get wrecked.For real. By someone who actually knows how to use what they’ve got. Someone bigger, you know?Dominant. Makes you forget your own name.”
Every word was a hook in Dave’s gut. He forced himself to chew slowly. “Tough order.”
“Tell me about it.” Brad sighed, theatrical. “Your empire treating you better?”
Dave shrugged, a rolling motion of his thick shoulders.“Developing.
“Developing,” Dave repeated, the word hanging in the air between them. He wiped his fingers on a napkin, the grease from the pastrami leaving a faint shine. “Actually, we’re in trials on something new.A supplement. Not just another pump-and-dump pre-workout. This is… deeper. Targets systemic vitality. Libido, cognitive function, raw testosterone production. Recalibrates the entire endocrine system.”
Brad whistled low, setting his fork down. “No shit? Like, legit?”
“More than legit. It’s a paradigm shift.” Dave’s voice dropped, taking on the gravelly texture of a sales pitch he usually reserved for boardrooms. “Imagine feeling twenty again, but with all the control you have now. The drive. The stamina. The sheer… capability.”
“That sounds amazing,” Brad said, his eyes widening with genuine interest. He shifted in his seat. “Hell, sign me up for the beta. I’d be the perfect test case.” He laughed, but it was a nervous, eager sound. He pushed his chair back. “Speaking of systems, nature calls. Too much iced tea. Don’t let anyone steal my lettuce.”
He ambled out towards the private washroom attached to Dave’s office, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
The silence he left was electric. Dave stared at the space where Brad had been, his heart pounding a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs.A good chance. The phrase echoed in his head, merging with the image of Brad’s eager face. The perfect test case.
He moved without conscious thought. It was a predatory glide, smooth and decisive. He stood, his large frame blocking the light from the window for a moment, and crossed to a sleek, biometric-locked cabinet flanking his bookshelf. A press of his thumb, a soft hiss, and the door swung open. Inside, among bound reports and prototypes, was a small, unmarked refrigerated case.
He lifted the lid. Two vials of viscous, amber-colored liquid lay inside, chilling in a faint mist. The final, untested samples. The animal trials had been… extreme. Unpredictable. Human trials were months away, pending review. Screw the review.
His hands were perfectly steady. He uncapped the first vial and tipped it over his own half-eaten pastrami, the thick syrup soaking into the bread and meat, disappearing into the fatty marbling. He did the same with the second, emptying it over Brad’s salad, using a fork to toss the glossy leaves until the substance was invisible.
He was back in his seat, the vials disposed of in a secure bin, by the time the toilet flushed and the sink ran.
Brad returned, shaking water from his hands. “God, your towels are nicer than my bedsheets.” He dropped back into his chair and picked up his fork without a second glance. “So this supplement. Any side effects?”
“Some minor physiological fluctuations during testing,” Dave said, watching him closely. He picked up his own contaminated sandwich. “Temporary. The body adjusting to a new peak.” He took a large, deliberate bite.
Brad shrugged, spearing a massive forkful of the glistening salad. “Worth it.” He stuffed it in his mouth and chewed. “Tastes a little… metallic? You sure this is just kale and sad chicken?”
“It’s organic sadness. Premium.”
They ate. The city’s lights began to wink on below, a galaxy laid flat. Dave finished his sandwich, wiping his mouth. A slow, deep warmth was spreading from his core, like a generous pour of brandy. He felt good.Strong. His focus sharpened until he could see the individual pixels on the monitor across the room.
“Whoa,” Brad mumbled, setting his fork down.He blinked slowly. “I feel… funny. Really warm. Like my blood’s fizzing.”
Dave stood up. The movement felt different. More… substantial. The air in the office seemed thicker, harder to move through. “It’s starting,” he said, and his voice was a richer, deeper instrument.
“What is?” Brad tried to stand, but stumbled, catching himself on the desk.His knuckles were white. “Davey, what the hell was in that?”
Before Dave could answer, a deep, resonant crack echoed through the room. It was the sound of his favorite chair, the imported Italian leather one, splitting at the seams as the breadth of his back and shoulders expanded, pressing outward. The fine wool of his suit jacket pulled taut, threads whispering apart at the shoulders. He looked down at his hands. They were swelling, the fingers thickening, the veins rising like cables under the skin. The platinum face of his watch bit painfully into his wrist.
Across the desk, Brad let out a gasp that was half shock, half exhilaration. He was growing upwards, his sweatpants straining at the thighs. The cheap cotton of his t-shirt stretched across a chest that was broadening, deepening. The sharp, clean lines of his jaw seemed to harden, his neck thickening to support the change. He looked at his own hands, turning them over in wonder. “What did you do?”
“We’re upgrading,” Dave rumbled. The floor seemed closer. The ceiling, which had been a good twelve feet high, now felt pressingly low. He took a step and the entire floor joist groaned in protest. A profound, hungry power was roaring through him, a tectonic pressure building in his bones and sinew.
Brad laughed, a wild, unhinged sound. He flexed an arm and the sleeve of his shirt ripped clean off at the shoulder seam. “Holy shit!” The laughter died as he looked past Dave, out the window. His expression shifted to bewildered awe. “Dave… the buildings.”
Dave turned. The skyline, his magnificent painting, was changing. The nearest skyscraper’s spire was now nearly level with his eyes. He was rising past the fortieth floor. The fiftieth. The city wasn't shrinking. They were ascending. The glass of his window bowed inward with a tortured squeal, pressed by the incredible bulk of his expanding shoulder. A web of cracks splintered the panorama.
A fierce, possessive joy surged through Dave. He looked at Brad, who was now a titan in torn cotton, his body a masterpiece of colossal scale, his familiar face rendered in breathtaking, monumental proportions. The hunger Dave had carried for years wasn't gone. It had just become literal. The world was getting smaller, softer, more fragile.
And Brad was right here with him.
A low, subsonic chuckle vibrated in Dave’s chest, rattling the broken glass in the window frame. “See?” he said, his voice the sound of grinding stone. “I told you it was a paradigm shift.”