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Chapter 1 - Stretching limits

Ryan Bennett had always been proud of his body. At 25 years old, he stood 1.8 meters tall and weighed in at a lean, well-cut 75 kilograms. A former college football player, Ryan kept to his training schedule like clockwork, and he was never seen in public without his signature look—tight, form-fitting athletic wear that clung to every muscle, every curve.

Compression shirts, sculpted joggers, tanks that hugged his chest—Ryan wore them like armor, both for function and for vanity. He loved the attention, the nods at the gym, the way people’s eyes trailed across his broad shoulders and taut abs.

But after years of strict dieting and rigid workouts, Ryan felt... bored.

It started small. A little extra peanut butter on his protein shake. An extra helping of chicken and rice. He still worked out religiously, but now he ate with equal dedication. He wanted more bulk—more power, more mass.

He watched the changes unfold slowly.

After a couple of months, his T-shirts stretched tighter around the arms, the sleeves gripping his growing biceps and shoulders like they were made of shrink-wrap. His pecs started to puff out more, rounding slightly, testing the limits of even his most elastic shirts.

“Still fits,” he’d grin to himself in the mirror, even as he had to tug the hem down every morning.

Six months in, the growth was undeniable. He had climbed to 82 kilograms, and it wasn’t all muscle. A new layer of softness spread across his middle. His abs blurred under a smooth layer of fat, and his waist had thickened just enough to make his joggers pinch when he sat. But Ryan wasn’t bothered—if anything, he loved the feeling. He looked powerful, imposing. Full.

His friends started teasing him. “Still rocking those tights, huh?” they’d laugh, watching him squeeze into leggings that now clung to thickened thighs and a rounder rear. Ryan just smirked.

“Hey, if it stretches, it fits.”

By month nine, Ryan’s body had morphed into a solid mass of dense muscle and slowly accumulating fat. His weight hovered at 88 kilograms. His face had rounded slightly, giving him a more mature, rugged look. His traps bulged against his collars, his lats flared so wide his arms no longer hung at his sides naturally. His belly, no longer flat, had a gentle curve to it—a soft, satisfied swell that peeked from under his rising shirt hems.

One day, he tried pulling on his favorite compression shirt—the dark red one that used to slide on like a second skin.

It didn’t even get past his chest.

He grinned at his reflection as the seams groaned in protest. His arms were too thick, his torso too broad, his belly too round. The fabric twisted, caught on his swollen upper body.

“Guess that’s the end of that one,” he chuckled, tossing it aside.

He stood in front of the mirror wearing only a pair of old black joggers—now stretched tight across his thick thighs and rounded waist. A crease formed above his love handles where the waistband dug in. He ran a hand over his stomach, feeling the firm mass beneath the soft layer. Every inch of him was bigger, heavier, stronger.

And he couldn’t have been happier.