"Here's the deal," the attendant started off while you settled into the mysterious white room, "you can have as much as you want but this is a one time offer, when you step out that door," he muttered something under his breath "if you can," "that's it, so make sure you have your fill."
With that two unremarkable assistants slammed two cases of naked silver cans on the table in front of you. The man continued, "Each of these cans are expected to permanently increase your muscle mass by 10lbs, with an average activation time of only a few minutes. Drink cans one at a time waiting for the full effect before consuming another, simultaneous consumption has not yet been tested. You may monitor your progress via the readout on the wall."
You glance up at the red 4-digit readout displaying 135. In the momentary silence you feel a cold rush through your thin body as your senses finally have a chance to process your naked self, clad only in a pair of excessively baggy stretchy white shorts provided by the facility.
"If you need any more…" 'More?!' quick math says there's hundreds upon hundreds, possibly even 1000 pounds of potential muscle mass on the table in front of you if their claims are accurate, 'how could anyone need more?' He gestures to the door "…or experience any other problems, use the intercom. However, when you are satisfied, simply press the red button on your table and you'll be taken to the outpatient center for evaluation and reintegration."
You were stupefied, unable to process your current situation even in this stripped down environment with just you, these cans, and three, wait, three buttons? "What's that other button by the door?" you ask.
"Don't worry about that, that one will only activate for lab staff such as myself," he remarks wiggling the fingers on his raised hand to illustrate his point. "Now, if there isn't anything else, I will let you get to it."
It took you a number of minutes to do anything after he left you alone in the room. You just sat frozen staring out in front of you. Finally, once you caught up to reality, you slowly reach out for a can. You feel it in your hand, it's warm, room temperature maybe. You had expected it to be cold despite not having any reason to think that. Perhaps it's the fact that you normally guzzle cold energy drinks out of such cans. You look down at yourself, taking note of your featureless body before taking a hard gulp. "Well, here goes nothing."
It's not unlike your familiar drinks, the potent flavor likely covering up other more acrid notes just like their energy-inducing counterparts. It feels weightless in your stomach, your body eagerly soaking up the contents of the can like a sponge. You sit for what feels like an eternity waiting for the promised effects to materialize, in reality waiting just a few minutes as promised for them to do so.
All over your body you feel a fizzy eagerness as your muscles show themselves for the first time in your life. A faint outline of pecs is joined by the top row of a six pack as your limbs take on similar definition. "Holy shit," is all you can utter. Fearing a hallucination you glance up at the readout pleased to see it confirm your visions, now displaying 145. Without hesitation you grab another and in just another moment you're bigger yet, already starting to look like a gym rat. During the next can you take a different tactic, instead watching the readout with burning intensity as it crept up. This cycle continues for another half hour, not that you can tell for sure, only being able to measure passage in increased pounds, not minutes.
As the display lands neatly on 225lbs, you realize that glued to the readout, you haven't even glanced down once in five or six cans. When you do… my god. 'Who is this bodybuilder sitting in this chair and how am I looking out at the view of such a physique?' you playfully think to yourself. You bring your bulging arms up in front of your chest and flex, in a flash bringing them and your pecs alive with tension. You moan in pleasure, joking to yourself, "Good thing these shorts are white." Speaking of, your quads are starting to take up ample space in the once comically baggy shorts.
Coming to grips with your already wildly transformed body, you glance over at the still mostly full case of cans and its full companion, and ponder for the first time just how far you want to take this. Honestly, you thought this trial was all a big joke, but you could walk out of here now to a completely different life. But do you want more?… do you need more?
Anything more would surely be outrageous, a much different life even yet. Your recluse life would surely be out the window with you carrying any more muscle than you already are… but heck, even now you're past that, 'people will be noticing this,' you think as you give yourself a quick flex 'and honestly the reason for noticing ain't at all bad.'
With a renewed fervor you decide to dive back in and let yourself feel out a stopping point. You soon find yourself falling back into the same cycle, its predicable outcome leading you into a stupor. You make adjustments here and there as you feel your range of motion change as your muscles swell, but unrelenting mass filling up your view does not trigger any sort of reaction. The numbers on the readout steadily tick up but soon lose their meaning. Only when you go to grab another can from the first case and come up empty are you drawn out of your trance.
Twisting your mighty chest, you peer over your pecs to stare in shock at the pile of cans on the floor to your left. You turn back to the readout… 615. For a moment you're speechless. Your eyes, darting down to realize exactly what that number meant on you, are immediately met by… not much, but so so much at the same time. Dominating your lower vision is a pair of pecs larger than you've ever seen capped to the sides by a pair of equally awe-inspiring deltoids. You're scared and frustrated by not being able to see anything else. "A muscle-growth factory like this can't spring for a mirror?" you lightheartedly, but also annoyingly, remark to yourself making note of your sexy new bass as it rumbles through your chest. You raise your monolithic arms to a double-bicep hoping to at least catch a glance of them. Though not as easily as you'd have hoped with your delts crashing into your face via the pose, you're rewarded with the sight of massive biceps each out-sizing your head twice over covered in a network of pulsing veins.
The last vestige of your rational mind for a moment returned your focus to that number… 615. That's batshit insane, what on earth have you done? You feel the weight of your unseen mass pressing on and out of you at every moment. You slowly writhe your arms and legs feeling just how much you've limited your movements. Your hands and feet have less of a chance of meeting at this point than an all too obvious catfish and their mark. 'Surely this is enough?' you think as your eyes drift to the red button.
But yet, mere inches away, the other case. Against all reason, you reach for another, ready to be once again whisked away into muscled lust.
The test being well over a couple hours in, the attendant takes this moment to check in. He's pleased by what he sees. "Well, well, well, looks like our little muscle pig is well on his way… hmm he's starting to have a little trouble drinking." He notes that his biceps and pecs are starting to restrict his ability to reach his mouth before continuing, "to be seen if he'll tap out or adapt. Session continues, 3h 13m and 29s." With that he flips the monitor back off and continues about his work.
This time you're snapped back by a splash of the precious drink hitting your face. As it snakes down your cleavage you take a beat to figure out what just happened. Preparing again for a glug you feel your tilting head firmly stopped short as it hits your overgrown traps. Attempting to counteract by bringing the can closer is stopped by a paradoxical meeting of your muscles as your attempt to push closer is only met with the opposite outcome. The can is stopped firmly once your arm is fully flexed, causing yet another splash to dribble out.
Shifting your attention, the numbers on the wall come into focus… 775. This time though, there's no reflection or doubt. Instead your mind is filled with another concern. There's so many more cans, but at this rate you're not going to be able to reach many more to your waiting lips. Your one track mind resolves to slam as many as possible in an attempt to beat the pace of the growth. Lowering your grip on the can you down it, following it up with another in your left hand. Over and over, continuing to adjust your grip as the growth kicks in until you can't even reach only pinched between your index finger and thumb.
You let out a thunderous belch as you throw the empty can to the ground. In the distance the numbers on the readout creep up, this time faster than before. The fizzy feeling amplified exponentially. Feeling a sudden urge to know what's coming you lean forward in an attempt to see over your pecs to count how many cans are left, but your abs and quads aren't giving you much range. The far end of the case comes into view as you see them, only two cans left. Just then, the admittedly formidable chair you were still perched atop finally gave up the ghost. As you slam to the floor, the once sturdy metal frame is neatly flattened by your 825lb-and-climbing twitching muscle mass of a body.
Shaking off the shock, mostly metaphorically at this point, you struggle to process the simple math, putting more focus into simple subtraction and multiplication than you did in the 2nd grade. '48 minus 2, minus 16… 30 cans… times 10… 300! plus 775…' "One-thousand and seventy-five!" you yelled to no one. "But it could be ninety-five," you say as you lock eyes with the last two cans. Your new lower seating position left you with an ever so slight chance of being able to reach them, but your vision was quickly being enveloped fully by your burgeoning pecs. Blindly you flail around, rocking the table with your powerful movements, hoping to reach one.
At this moment the attendant decides to tune back in. "Oh my, seems like someone has overindulged!" he quipped to himself, "what's wrong big guy, can't reach the button?" taking pleasure in another subject's unchecked desires overwhelming them. On his assumption he started making his way back to the room to come to his aid and assist in discharging the 1000lb+ mass of a man.
Opening the door he starts "It looks like someone needs some…" but he's not met with the sight he was expecting. There you are, against all odds with a can in each of your sturdy hands. Raising them up you stop short more than a foot above your head. Effortlessly you crush them simultaneously as the last drops of the miracle elixir trail down your face, ricocheting off the trough between your pecs, down to your buried mouth. In a frenzy of snorts and coughs, you suck it all down, letting out a guttural roar when finished.
"My bad, seems I've misjudged… and that you've defied the rules." Lightly stepping further into the room, his smile only grows as he speaks, "Well I suppose I should tell you, I did fib on that one, we have tested that little feature of our formula and found that it triggers two-fold… I don't imagine that was the first time you double-fisted today, so where are we, about 1,500lbs?"
Expecting a reply, you try your darndest to do a final bit of math, at his point peeved to be taking your attention away from you still expanding body. 'If the last cans double up… that means…' "1,395" you declare, your mighty bass muffled by your growing pecs, marking the last words to pass out your lips unimpeded.
"My, my, quite the glow up, or shall we say blow up?"
All you could do now was sit as mobility quickly finished escaping you. The feeling of the mass that you were, the mass you were still to become was overwhelming. Just above the crest of your pecs you watch the readout continue to click up. To your sides, your arms are now perpetually in your periphery propped up high not by their incalculable might, but by plain lack of space. You can't see, but you can feel the sheer area your glues and quads were taking up on the floor, the latter splayed far apart by the girth of themselves and by your growing gut, itself just now meeting the ground, your bottom set of abs feeling the cold tile. Buried deep below, your cock lets out an endless spring of cum fueled by the testosterone flowing through every inch of you. Wracked in pleasure, you finally let go of the remains of the crushed cans, falling, they bounce off your forearms on the way down.
"I must say. That was quite a display of dedication. I don't think we've ever seen someone get so creative with their consumption. I take it that you'll be wanting some more, hmm?"
He didn't wait for a reply.
"Well then, let's move onto the next phase then."
With that, he presses the third button. Like in a movie, you watch as the roof of the room lifts up and the walls fall to their sides, revealing a much larger, warehouse-sized room just as sparse and brightly lit as before, if not more. The table and mess of empty cans are whisked away as a machine tips you forward to remove the remnants of the chair and long-tattered shorts from your powerful cheeks.
"I honestly wasn't pegging you for one of our more advanced applicants, kudos!" he said feeding a flexible plastic tube through your pec valley to your mouth. "Now, just like before… just say when." With a flick, the tube filled with that same fizzy serum.
He places a headset over your eyes. The image flickers on and at first you don't recognize the unusual shape. But then it dawns, it's you! Finally you can see yourself, and what a sight you are. But before you're able to really appreciate, the image zooms out to the full size of the room. 'Oh no, I'm so small!' you suck harder on the hose.
"Phase 2 initiation successful. Subject growth limit: undetermined. Shifting to in-person observation."
You feel his hand make contact with your 135" thigh as he increases the flow to meet your pace.
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