Chapter 3: Bigger and Better
The stale, protein-scented air in Sam’s apartment had thickened. It was now a palpable broth of sweat, ambition, and the faint, coppery odor of rapid metabolic change. David stood just inside the door, the parcel of three unmarked bottles heavy in his hands like a lead confession.
Sam was waiting in the center of the room, and the sight of her rewired his nervous system all over again.
“You brought them,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Her voice had settled into a permanent, resonant alto, devoid of its former girlish lift.
Seven-foot-one. She had to be. Her head was a foot below the ceiling now. The wobbly IKEA bookshelf behind her looked like child’s furniture. But it wasn’t just her height. It was the distribution. Her shoulders were impressively broad, her biceps solid and defined even at rest. Yet, as she stepped forward, the focus was irrevocably drawn downward.
Her chest was a continent.
It strained against—and vastly overflowed—a black sports bra that had clearly been purchased just days ago and was already a lost cause. The sheer mass of flesh was staggering, each breast easily the size of her own head, maybe larger, a heavy, pendulous weight that seemed to anchor her upper body. The thin cotton of a ripped tank top did nothing to conceal them; it merely stretched into a taut, straining curtain over the impossible topography.
“It’s not proportional,” she said, following his gaze. A strange, defiant pride colored her tone. She cupped them in her big hands, hefting the weight. “Everything else is getting stronger, denser. But these… they’re on their own program. I can feel the cells dividing. It’s like a warmth. A buzzing.”
She let them go. They settled with a heavy, gravitational pull. “It’s from the new batch. Batch #7. The site said ‘focal point emphasis.’ I guess I know what my focal point is.” She grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which burned with a desperate hunger for his reaction. “You like it?”
David’s mouth was dry. “It’s… a lot, Sam.”
“She doesn’t have this, does she?” Sam pressed, taking another step. The floorboards creaked in protest under her new density. “Emma. She’s just… thick all over. Balanced. This is different. This is a statement.”
She was right. Emma’s transformation was a total, holistic usurpation. This was a grotesque exaggeration, a caricature of femaleness grafted onto a framework of burgeoning raw power. It was horrifying. It was also, undeniably, compelling. He felt a sick twist of arousal in his gut, tangled with vines of guilt.
“You said you needed them to steer it,” he said weakly, holding out the box.
She ignored the box. Her hand shot out, too fast for someone her size, and wrapped around his wrist. Her grip was a warm, inescapable manacle. “I need you first. To calibrate.” She pulled him toward the futon, its center sagging like a hammock. “I need to feel real again. It’s all moving so fast. My center of gravity is a joke. I feel like I’ll tip over.”
She sat, the futon groaning ominously, its frame protesting with a sharp crack. She didn’t seem to notice. She pulled him down onto her lap, his back against the crushing pillow of her chest. He was enveloped, sunk into a warmth and softness so immense it threatened to smother him. The scent of her—sharp sweat, clean skin, and that underlying metallic tang—filled his nostrils.
Her arms, thick and corded, circled him from behind. One hand slid down his stomach, palming him through his chinos. He was already hard. The betrayal of his own body was complete.
“See?” she whispered into his ear, her voice a vibration through his skull. “You like the statement.” Her other hand tugged at his waistband, freeing him. Then she shifted under him, a massive, seismic adjustment. He heard the rasp of a zipper, the sigh of elastic.
She guided him inside her. The fit was different. Tighter, more profound, as if the internal geography had deepened and changed to accommodate her new scale. She let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Okay. Okay, that’s the anchor.”
She began to move him, using her hands on his hips, setting a slow, rocking rhythm. He was a puppet. Her breath hitched. “Wait. I want to see.”
With absurd, terrifying ease, she lifted him off of her and laid him back on the futon. She stood, towering over him, and shoved her shorts and underwear down her massively thick thighs. It sprang free, already thick and half-hard, curving up against her lower belly. In the span of days, it had matured. It was no longer a tentative novelty. It was a fully realized organ, veined and heavy, the head a dark, flushed plum.
She knelt over him, one knee on either side of his hips, her breasts hanging down like a tidal wave of flesh, brushing his chest, his face. She took herself in hand, stroking to full, intimidating rigidity. It was longer than his forearm. Thicker than his wrist.
“Look at it,” she commanded, her voice husky. She positioned herself, the tip pressing at his entrance. “Look at what you’re taking.”
He looked. The scale was absurd. Impossible. A primal part of his brain screamed that this would break him. But another part, a part worn down by weeks of awe and terror, simply went numb and pliant.
She sank down.
It was a slow, inexorable invasion, a stretching burn that blurred the line between pain and overwhelming fullness. He cried out, a thin, choked sound. She didn’t stop. She kept lowering herself until he was utterly impaled, her hips flush against his, her immense weight settling onto him, driving the air from his lungs. He was packed, stuffed, every internal boundary redefined.
“Fuck,” she breathed, eyes wide, looking down at where they were joined. “You feel… tiny.” The observation was clinical, delivered with a punch of dark thrill. “It’s like nothing’s there. I can barely feel you.”
She began to ride him. It was less a rhythm and more a series of deep, pistoning drives. Each downward stroke crushed him deeper into the complaining futon. Her breasts swayed and jounced heavily with the motion, sometimes slapping against his chest and face with a soft, weighty impact. The sound in the room was reduced to her ragged breathing, the wet, rhythmic slide, and the relentless creak of the futon’s failing spine.
“Is this what you wanted?” she grunted, leaning forward, bracing her hands on either side of his head. Her blonde hair fell around them like a curtain. “When you told me about her? Did you want to be this small? To be covered?”
He couldn’t answer. He was a crucible of sensation—pain, fullness, the smothering heat of her, the shameful, traitorous prickling at the base of his spine. He was going to come. From this. From being used as a living scale model for her grotesque growth.
She seemed to sense it. She sat up straight again, increasing her pace, her own face tightening. “Yeah. Come on. Let me feel it. I want to feel you getting even smaller inside me.”
The orgasm ripped through him, violent and unwelcome, a white-hot detonation of shame. He arched under her, his cry muffled by her stomach. She kept moving, riding him through it, her own breath coming in sharper gasps.
Then she froze. A low groan built in her chest, becoming a growl. Her hips stuttered. Her hand flew to her own shaft, stroking it frantically as she clenched around him. She came with a wordless shout, her release pulsing inside him, a hot, claiming flood. Her own seed shot out in thick, rhythmic spurts, painting stripes across his chest and stomach, hot and alien.
She collapsed forward, catching herself on her hands at the last second, looming over him. They were both slick with sweat and spent. She looked down at the mess on his torso, then at her own softening length. A weird, quiet laugh bubbled out of her. “Holy shit.”
She pulled off of him, the separation making him feel abruptly, coldly empty. She sat back on her haunches, staring at the cracked bottle of MaxGirl on the floor near the gym bag. The dark stain on the carpet had grown.
“It’s not enough,” she said, the awe in her voice hardening into resolve. “I can feel the plateau. The furnace is idling.” She looked at him, her eyes clear and terrifyingly focused. “I need the next dose. Now.”
“Sam, you just… you need to let your body adjust.”
“Adjust to what?” she snapped, hauling herself up. She stalked to the box, her movements still slightly uncoordinated in her new frame, and ripped it open. She pulled out a bottle, broke the seal, and dry-swallowed two of the oily black capsules. “To being almost there? No. I want to be there. I want to look in the mirror and not see almost. I want to look down at you and not see almost.”
She threw the bottle aside and came back to the futon, her energy buzzing, manic. The changes, once subtle and slow, now seemed to vibrate just under her skin. She was flush, her skin glowing with a feverish heat.
“It’s happening,” she whispered, looking at her hands. The bones in her knuckles seemed to pop, to redefine themselves. A visible shudder traveled up her arms, the biceps swelling a fraction, the veins rising like cables under suddenly tighter skin. Her shoulders rolled back with a soft, grinding pop.
She pushed him flat again. Her arousal was returning, swift and aggressive, the spent organ between her legs reawakening with a vengeful speed, growing even thicker, the shaft darkening. “Again.”
He was soft, oversensitive, raw. “Sam, I can’t.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She positioned him, her hand a vise around him, forcing a pathetic semi-erection. She guided herself inside, the entry now a familiar, brutal stretch. She sank down, taking him to the hilt with a single, decisive plunge.
She began to move, a deep, rolling grind. Her eyes were fixed on the full-length mirror across the room, watching the colossal reflection of herself, a blonde giantess mounted on a negligible man. Her expression was one of rapt, narcissistic fascination.
Then she looked down at him. A new idea dawned in her eyes, bright and cruel. She shifted her weight, leaning back slightly, changing the angle. The motion forced him deeper into her, but also brought the thick, heavy base of her own shaft within inches of his face.
“Suck it,” she said.
The command hung in the sweaty air. David blinked, disoriented. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re inside me. Now put your mouth on me. I want to feel both.” Her voice was low, guttural, dripping with a need for sensory overload. “I want the whole circuit. Do it.”
He was trapped. Literally pinned beneath her. The heady, musky scent of her filled his senses. The demand was absolute. A final, bizarre surrender.
He turned his head, his cheek brushing against the hot, velvety skin of her shaft. He opened his mouth and took the head inside.
The taste was stark, salty, profoundly intimate and utterly wrong. She groaned, a sound of deep, satisfying completion, and her hips began to move in earnest again, fucking his mouth in sync with the rhythm she set on his own body. He was a conduit. A tool for her feedback loop. He could feel his own muted presence inside her, and the much more vivid reality of her filling his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. He gagged, tears springing to his eyes.
“Yeah,” she chanted, her voice slurring with pleasure. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the loop. Oh god, I can feel everything…”
Her movements became frantic, losing all rhythm, driven by the tsunami of sensation. Her hands clenched on his thighs, her nails biting in. Inside her, he felt a fresh, violent series of clenches. In his mouth, she swelled further, pulsed, and then a hot, bitter rush flooded his throat. He swallowed reflexively, choking.
She screamed, a raw, tearing sound that shook the tiny apartment. Her entire body locked into a rigid arc, every new muscle standing out in stark relief. The futon frame gave one final, explosive crack and collapsed completely, slamming them both into a V-shaped valley of broken wood and torn fabric.
She lay on top of him in the wreckage, panting like a racehorse, her weight crushing. He could barely breathe. He could feel her heart hammering against his back, a frantic drum in a cavernous chest.
Slowly, she pushed herself up. In the mirror’s reflection, David saw it. As she knelt amid the ruins of the futon, her silhouette changed. Her shoulders broadened, subtracting another inch from the room’s width. The ridiculous, overwhelming swell of her chest gained a new, impossible inch of projection. And her height… she had to dip her head now, just slightly, to avoid the ceiling.
She looked at her reflection, then down at him, broken and covered in sweat and spend in the crater of the bed.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. It held no kindness, no shared joy. It was the smile of a woman who had just measured her world and found it definitively smaller than herself.
“Go get more,” she said, her voice a deep, resonant hum of pure power. She didn’t ask. She didn’t beg. She stated a new fact of David’s existence. “I’m just getting started.”
The words were a dismissal, a seismic event that left David stranded in the wreckage of the futon. He gathered his clothes with numb, trembling hands, each movement a protest. The smell of her, of them, was a greasy film on his skin he knew wouldn’t scrub off.
His phone buzzed in his discarded pants, the screen lighting up with a name that sent a fresh jolt through him: Amy - Tax Client.
He answered, his voice a ragged whisper. “Hello?”
“David! Hey, it’s Amy. Did I wake you?” Her voice was its usual sunny boom, but underneath it thrummed a new, almost giddy energy.
“No. No, I’m up.” He coughed, clearing the thickness from his throat. “What’s going on?”
“Okay, don’t freak out.” She laughed, a sound like clear bells. “But you know that stuff you mentioned? That supplement Sam was talking about? Max-Whatever?”
David’s blood went cold. “Yeah.”
“I, uh, I got curious. I found some online. The new batch, I think? The bottle looks different.” She paused, and he could hear a strange, tectonic shifting in the background, like a couch straining. “It… worked. Like, really worked. You gotta come see this. I’m… I’m having a moment over here.”
Guilt curdled in his stomach, hot and sour. He had mumbled about it once, in a post-coital haze after she’d had him between her legs, a confused confession about Emma and Sam. He’d given her the name. He had done this, too. “Amy, listen, that stuff isn’t safe. It’s not regulated.”
“Safe? David, look at me, I was already a landmark. Now I’m a goddamn monument.” The awe in her voice was pure, unadulterated joy, absent Sam’s desperate hunger. “Just come over. Please? I need a… witness. And maybe someone who knows how a W-2 works when your fingers are the size of bratwursts.”
He couldn’t say no. He never could. He drove through the empty streets, his mind a swirl of Sam’s crushing weight and Amy’s bright voice, a chaos of dread and a terrible, pulling curiosity.
Amy’s apartment door was already ajar when he arrived, the frame splintered around the upper hinge. He pushed it open.
“Hey, in here! Mind your head on the… well, on everything.”
She was in the center of her living room, and the scale of her forced his brain to stutter, to reset its measurements. Seven-foot-nine was a number. The reality was a breathtaking reclamation of space. Her ceiling, once lofty, was now a pressboard sky just inches above her tangled, dark curls.
She was dressed in a pair of stretched-out basketball shorts and a torn men’s XL t-shirt that strained across a torso of breathtaking power. Her shoulders were boulders, her arms carved from seasoned oak, her quadriceps like sculpted bags of concrete. The raw, athletic woman was still there, but magnified to a mythic degree.
And her chest. Like Sam, the change was disproportionate. They were colossal, spherical mountains under the thin cotton, their weight palpable in the way she stood, a slight backward lean to counterbalance.
“See?” she said, grinning, spreading her massive arms. Her biceps flexed, each one bigger than David’s head. “I woke up like this. Well, not like this. It’s still… happening, I think. A warmth in the bones.”
Then she looked down, following his gaze past the staggering topography of her chest, to the shorts. There was a distinct, heavy bulge there. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband. “And then there’s this little guy,” she said, her tone shifting to wry, affectionate amusement. She pulled the fabric down just enough.
It sprung out, thick and perfectly formed, lying against the dense muscle of her lower abdomen. Nine inches of respectable, impressive flesh. Yet on the vast, continental plane of her new body, against the thunderous scale of her thighs and the shelf of her pelvis, it looked almost quaint. A survivor from a past life. It seemed small.
David stared, his mouth dry. “Little guy,” he repeated, the words utterly absurd.
“Right?” Amy laughed, a rich, booming sound that shook the lampshades. She gave it an affectionate, almost brotherly tap with her gigantic fingers. “It’s like everything else got the memo but him. He’s still playing college ball while the rest of me is in the major leagues.” She looked back at David, her expression softening with concern. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. A really, really stacked ghost.”
The splintered door frame groaned. A shadow filled the broken doorway, blocking the hall light.
Sam had to duck to enter, her blonde hair brushing the top of the frame. She stood just inside, her eyes, sharp and calculating, sweeping from David to Amy, taking in the scale of her. A slow, competitive smile spread on Sam’s lips. “Well, shit. Look at you.”
Amy’s eyes widened, not with fear, but with astonishment. “Sam? Holy… you’re on it too.” Her gaze traveled up Sam’s towering height, over the even more extreme, suffocating swell of her chest, down to her own formidable arms. “Batch #7?”
“And #8,” Sam said, her voice that new, confident alto. She stepped fully inside, the room shrinking impossibly with two titans in it. The air grew thick, charged. “You’ve got the height. I’ve got the… focus.” Her hands drifted to her own chest, hefting the weight in a blatant, challenging display.
Amy whistled, long and low. “No kidding. You look like you’re smuggling weather balloons.” There was no malice in it, just stunned appraisal.
“You got any more?” Sam asked, her eyes already hunting the room, past David as if he were furniture. “The stuff. I’m running dry.”
“Yeah, maybe. In the gym bag.” Amy nodded toward her bedroom, the movement a massive sweep of her head. “But maybe we should, I dunno, talk about this? This is kinda intense.”
“Talking’s done.” Sam brushed past David, her hip a glancing blow that sent him staggering into the wall. She emerged from Amy’s bedroom with two fresh, unopened bottles of MaxGirl, the black capsules inside like beetle shells. She tossed one to Amy, who caught it with a hand the size of a dinner plate. “We’re in the doing phase.”
Amy looked at the bottle, then at Sam, then at David, who was pressed against the wall, a spectator in a cage of flesh and intent. That sunny demeanor flickered, replaced by something darker, more intrigued. The competitive athlete in her stirred. “What’s the plan?”
“The plan is we don’t stop.” Sam cracked her bottle open, dry-swallowing three capsules. She tossed it aside. “The plan is we see how far this goes. Together.” Her eyes locked on David. “And he’s our control group. Our little constant.”
Amy popped the cap on her own bottle. She hesitated for only a second, looking at David. “You in for this, buddy?” The question was almost gentle, but the fever was in her eyes now too, lit by Sam’s uncompromising flame.
He had no words. He gave a faint, numb nod. It was all the consent they needed.
Amy threw back four capsules. They swallowed in unison, two giants committing to a new, unknown horizon. For a moment, nothing. Then Amy shuddered, a full-body quake. “Oh. There it is. The furnace just got gas.”
Sam’s breath hitched. Her spine straightened, claiming another half-inch from the air above her. The seams of her top shrieked in protest.
They converged on him, not with rage, but with a terrifying, casual purpose. The room was a forest of limbs. Amy’s hands, gentle but inescapable, lifted him from the wall as if he were a suitcase. Sam’s hands tugged at his clothes, the fabric tearing like tissue paper.
“My turn first,” Amy murmured, her breath hot on his neck. “I want to feel that… contrast.” She laid him back on her vast, leather sectional, which groaned like a dying animal. Her shorts were already pushed down, that “little guy” now fully erect, a thick, proud spike against her monumental thigh. It still seemed manageable, until she knelt over him, blotting out the ceiling light, and he realized the sheer mass it was attached to.
She guided herself inside him with a surprising, focused delicacy. The stretch was familiar now, a brutal homecoming. She sank down with a deep, gratified sigh that vibrated through her entire frame and into his. “Oh, wow. Yeah. There’s the constant.”
She began to move, a steady, athletic rhythm, her eyes closed in concentration. Then her eyes snapped open. She looked past David’s head, at Sam. “Your turn. Come here.”
Sam didn’t need asking. She moved behind Amy, her own massive hands sliding around Amy’s waist, palming the dense muscle of her stomach. Sam pressed against Amy’s back, a tower behind a citadel. She reached around, her fingers finding David’s mouth, pressing inside. “Suck,” she commanded, and he did, his tongue circling her impossible fingertips.
Then Sam lowered her head, her blonde hair cascading over Amy’s shoulder, and her mouth found Amy’s neck, biting down. Amy cried out, her rhythm breaking, hips stuttering. “Yes! Oh god, that’s—”
The change was audible this time. A deep, subcutaneous creak, like a ship’s hull adjusting to a new weight. Amy’s back widened under Sam’s touch. Her arms, braced on either side of David, suddenly gained new, definitive ridges of muscle, the deltoids swelling, stretching the skin taut and shiny.
Sam’s own breath grew ragged against Amy’s skin. She pulled back, looking at her arms wrapped around Amy. They were thicker. Her own chest, pressed into Amy’s back, swelled further, the two women merging into a single, breathing monument of expanding flesh.
“More,” Sam growled, her voice dropping another octave, becoming something non-human. “Give me more.”
She reached down, her hand slipping between Amy’s driving thighs, finding where Amy was joined to David. She pressed her palm hard against Amy’s pubic bone, rubbing in rough, demanding circles.
Amy shouted, a sound of pure, unraveling sensation. Her internal muscles clenched around David in waves so powerful they were painful. As she came, her body locking, another visible shudder raced through her. Her height increased, her shoulders pressing Sam backward even as Sam herself grew. The sectional couch cracked down the middle, its center collapsing under the concerted, multiplying weight.
Sam pulled Amy back, rolling her off of David with a grunt. They were a tangle of colossal limbs on the broken furniture, both panting, both shimmering with the heat of their transformation. They stared at each other, not with love, but with a savage, mirrored recognition.
Then, as one, they turned their heads. Their eyes, blown wide with power and the drug’s insatiable demand, fixed on David, still lying exposed on the ruined cushions. He was the only thing in the room that hadn’t grown, the only remaining point of reference.
Sam’s lips peeled back from her teeth. Amy cracked her neck, the sound like popping bricks.
They moved toward him.