Superstar

[6 word request: Actor Workout Superhero Movie Too Effective]

When Marc called me to his trailer before he had to head to set, I figured it was to complain about the absolute thrashing I’d given him in his leg workout that morning. I was shocked when he gestured for me to have a seat, then turned his own chair around to lean over the back as he lectured me.

“Look, Ian, obviously you’ve done some AMAZING things with my body, and if this weren’t all for a movie, I would tell you to crank it up and give me more,” he started. His pretty soap opera star face was still there, just atop a much more masculine body. He came to me with an athletic build from some action movie he’d just finished--yadda yadda soldier in space yadda yadda big laser explosions… yawn--and the goal was to get him into super hero shape. I decided to remind him of that.

He blushed and looked down at himself, tilting his head to the side. I’d packed thirty pounds of muscle on his six-foot frame, just like the studio said they wanted. I was impressed with how much his big upper body filled out his hoodie. As he stood to get some water, I chuckled at how his sweatpants--bought just two months before--looked painted on his massive lower body. His quads were getting so thick he had to roll them around each other. He returned from his fridge with two bottles of water, handing me one.

“Hey, Ian, the studio’s just getting a little shaky with all this mass so quickly,” he said after a long sip. “They don’t want people thinking I’m doing steroids. Bad publicity this early could really wreck this project.”

“You’re playing PRIME,” I said, giving his shoulder a gentle shove. “One of the biggest superheros ever. Pumping you up to 240 at 6 feet tall may make you ‘moviestar big’ but c’mon, man! Most of my clients take shits bigger than you! You ever seen the pics of the character you’re supposed to be playing? People want to bring that fantasy to LIFE!”

“Studio wants to do CGI,” Marc said, absentmindedly scratching his upper pec. Fucking prick. Before me, there was nothing there to scratch!

“Well the studio is dumb as shit,” I said. “Talk about killing a project before it gets off the ground. You’ve got the perfect build for this, if you let me do what I want here.”

“Hey, you’re my trainer,” Marc said. When he smiled, I got lost in his deep dimples for a moment. “I’m not saying you’re fired, and I still want to be big. Let’s just… slow it down a bit, got it?”

“Whatever you say, movie star,” I said. “Does that mean you don’t want your injection today? You want to postpone that a week?”

I tried not to laugh as he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, uh… maybe, uh… just a little bit LESS of the injection?”

That’s the thing with these prettyboys. They rest on their face for so long, once you give them a body that commands attention, they get addicted to it. I knew how he felt; the first time I walked into a room and knew everyone--man and woman--was staring at my muscles, my dick was rock-fucking-hard. And I wanted more.

So did Marc. He just wanted to make millions of dollars at the same time. I could work with that.

*

Immediately after Marc finished deadlifting, I sent him to the ice bath. “Thirty minutes, fully submerged,” I ordered. He grunted in agreement and lumbered off.

I was shocked to hear someone behind me. You needed a key card to access the private gym, so I figured we’d be alone. It was Jordan, Marc’s stunt double.

“Looking good, Marc,” I said, gesturing at his gymgear-clad body. He stared at the ground, then back up at me.

“Thanks,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But thanks to you, it’s not enough.”

I’d been expecting this. Jordan looked exactly like Marc, save for the traffic-stopping face. Still an attractive guy, Jordan was the same height and with the same broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted muscular frame as Marc--at least, as Marc one month before. As I blew Marc into a monster, Jordan was struggling to keep up. Word amongst my clients was that he’d doubled his growth hormone, started a heavy dose of Tren, and while he was blowing up with muscle, it was nothing compared to what I’d done to Marc.

“Of course it’s enough,” I said, licking my lips. “I sat that pic they took of you next to Chris Hemsworth. You made Thor look small!”

“And Marc’s starting to be Hulk-sized,” Jordan said. He looked at the fully-loaded bar and massive puddle of sweat Marc had left behind. “Holy shit, how much weight is that?”

“900 pounds,” I said proudly. “Pulls it off the ground like a mule. Amazing work ethic. Just comes to the gym, trains without a question, then feeds and rests. That’s the key to putting on real size.”

Jordan doubled up his fists. “For fuck’s sake, I do all that!” he said. “I’ve put on twenty-five pounds like a freak, and it’s still not enough!”

I had to chuckle. I remembered the bravado Jordan had the first day I met him. Stunt guys all have that, especially the guys doubling big guys like Marc. Now, as my hero swelled bigger and bigger, Jordan felt more and more like a joke. “I’m gonna get fired,” he finally said.

I turned around to see Marc, submerged to his head in the ice bath we had to have modified once he got up over 260 pounds so he could sit comfortably. His eyes were shut, nose-canceling headphones hitting him with my special blend of brain-numbing tones and subliminal messages.

“What are you willing to do to stay in this project?” I said, turning away and walking toward my megastar hero.

“I’ll do anything!” Jordan finally said.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll send you the paperwork to sign up as my client, and we’ll get started making you as big as Marc then, got it?”

Jordan’s body finally relaxed as he left. I had a seat next to the ice bath and looked down at all that muscle, chilling. Knowing he couldn’t hear me, I said, aloud, “Marc, how would you like a playmate? Because you’re about to have one--just your size.”

*

I started joking that they needed a wide-angle lens just to get all of Marc in the movie. I watched from the sidelines as he acted out his scene, tossing henchmen around like they were nothing. The choreography of his fight scenes was taking a toll on Marc. At his size--now 6’3” tall and 295 pounds, lean enough to win a Mr. Olympia show without a fight--the big brute was all power. I could see it in his eyes: it was agony to be as huge as he was, to mock battle these men who were each maybe as big as one of his quads, and pretend they were actually giving him a good fight.

I could see how desperate he was to unleash all that power, to grab one of these little stunt extras--men who were as big as Marc when I first started with him, mind you--and launch him into the sun. Luckily, I’d taught my guy to be patient. He could bask in his power in our two-a-day sessions as I piled more and more metal on the bar.

Nearby I could see Jordan dressed in the same goofy superhero getup as Marc, cape billowing from his massive back as he clenched his gloves fists. If he flexed too hard, I worried that those 28-inch biceps would burst right through the suit.

Jordan had more growth potential than Marc did. I actually had to exercise restraint to prevent him from overtaking my star. I could see Jordan’s over-sized heart was just pounding to get in on that action. When the director said cut, swapping my two goliaths, big Jordan nearly skipped toward his mark like a 300 pound little kid headed to a carnival.

I gave Marc his regenerative formula as he lumbered toward me. I could actually feel his heavy footfalls rumbling the earth; with every minor tremor, I got a little more proud. As he suckled at the bottle I’d handed him, I wiped some sweat from his face. “You’re stressed,” I said. “Nasty cortisol spike is in your future if you don’t chill out.”

“Damned rewrite--again!” he growled, shaking his head. I could see, despite whatever troubled him, it rankled him to watch Jordan out there, looking massive and truly superhuman in the suit that was meant for him. I put a hand on his big delt and gave it a reassuring pat.

“That’s movies, Marc,” I said. “You just do your part. Learn your lines, do what I tell you, and leave the rest to the director, got it?”

Marc hung his head. “Word is, they can’t get any women to play my love interest,” he said. “I guess I’m too… big.”

“This movie’s an action-junkie’s dream,” I said. “Putting romance in would completely ruin it. Don’t worry about it, big guy.”

“You think I’m… too big?” Marc asked quietly. I looked down at my titan, who had to turn sideways to get through doors now. He needed my help to fully shower, now preferring to be soaped up and hosed down like a minivan. I had noticed that the other actors weren’t speaking to him anymore. In reality he had grown into a freak, but on film he looked the size of a building, and all of the other actors looked like scrawny little ants. On a set full of action-stars with testosterone-soaked reputations, my ape-sized star was making them all look like little sissies.

Before I could answer, we were both distracted by a commotion on set. Jordan had accidentally slammed a stunt performer into the ground too hard. Jordan stepped back, hands in the air, as a medic ran to the wheezing stuntman’s aid. Jordan rolled his eyes and I understood his irritation. He was tired of being around these puny little guys who used to be his peers.

I loved it. My guys were actually starting to become superheros--and they were tired of being around mere men.

“I’ll tell you when you’re too big,” I whispered straight into Marc’s ear. The big goon’s eyes went wide and a dollop of drool came from his mouth as his whole body flexed.

It was subliminal suggestion; at those words, Marc’s cream his pants like a bitch, without even being hard. Luckily we’d had the codpiece on his suit modified so no one could see the massive amount of cum making his dick slick at that moment. He waddled back to his spot in front of the cameras, a cartoonish gait created by the 32-inch quad’s I’d blessed him with pushing each other out of the way with every step. But this time, his stance was extra-wide. As he and Jordan silently passed each other, I knew that each of them was thinking of that night, when I’d take them into Marc’s trailer, give them their injections of my miracle compound, and then had them straddle each other, each one lapping at the other one’s limp and useless cock.

See, that was another side-effect of my treatment. As my men blew up into big rhinoceroses, their dicks would get massive but would stay limp as hell. Each of my big brutes, in his shiny super-hero suit, had nine-inches of coiled dick packed into his impressive bulge, but when I stripped them down at night, their big dicks flopped helplessly back and forth as I jammed massive dildos into their big asses until they pawed at the ground and came like the livestock they were growing into.

But they were happiest when they got to suckle at the other’s hose while I slipped big vibrating eggs into their asses, bluetoothed to my phone, and hit them with their subliminal tracks to get their minds right. With the right prodding, each of them was swallowing mouthful after mouthful of the other’s hormone-dense load while their brains were being scrambled beyond recognition.

It would only take a couple more weeks before the two got fired from the project. Soon, my guys would be well over 350 pounds. I planned on taking them to 400, but the studio wasn’t going to tolerate another massive reshoot necessitated by its primary star looking nothing like any of the other film shot. But it didn’t matter to me. My guys got their pay, and they’d be in my stable for good now.

Soon, they’d be unrecognizable, but I’d know that deep within those muscle-blown bodies were two former prettyboys made into ridiculous piles of meat. And with my programming in place, they’d thank me for doing it.