Tim walked into the locker room, narrowly missing running into a roided out meathead dressed only in a red stringer sauntering out like he owned the place.
"Douche" Tim thought to himself. The guy was disgustingly roided out. Didn't even try to hide it, wearing a tank that said "Roid Bull" on it. Those types of guys were everything Tim wasn't and definitely not what he wanted to be. He was the epitome of gym bunny; blond, spiked hair, no muscles to speak of, though he always wore a tank top, usually fluorescent. He was pasty, the odd freckle here and there, and no body hair.
As he walked into the locker room, there was a heavy steam, like one of the patrons had just finished showering. But there was something else heavy in the air, he scrunched up his nose at the musky odor. In the back of his mind the thought that the mist smelled like sweat and cum momentarily flashed. The heavy humidity made him breathe through his mouth, and he could swear the musk got stronger and could he even taste a salty, musky sweetness in the soupy air?
He swallowed, clearing his throat and the thought passed into the back of his mind. He felt foggy, he reasoned the smell must be clouding his head. He didn't realize it, but his blond hair had already started retreating across his head, taking most of his complex thoughts with it.
In a flash he was bald, as the back of his head thickened and widened, leading into a much wider jawline, the effect of extended HGH abuse. The jawline sprouted a rough, brown beard that faded up around his ears to his shiny dome. The testosterone abuse on the fledgling roid head might have taken his hair on his head, but his body was about to explode in a thick, black pelt.
His neck all but disappeared while he walked to the urinal, as hairy traps, thick and corded with muscle built in over equally hairy cannonball delts, pin marks peppering the area, all but just visible beneath the the thick, black forest.
Unaware of the changes happening to him, Tim shrugged his massive shoulders as his back exploded in muscle, the lats now pushing out huge arms at least 24 inches around, dense and also covered in his trademark pelt. As his back expanded, acne popped up, the red visible beneath his black curls.
He got to the urinal, still oblivious to what was happening, a state he would pretty much be in for good now, as he tried to unzip the fly on his cargo shorts. He was having trouble for some reason. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was like his biceps kept hitting his pecs, not letting his arms move. He looked down, just as his pecs inflated like air bags of solid muscle, thick and mounding, actually hitting his bearded chin with force enough to cause him to let out a bovine grunt. He adjusted his arms and tried looking down at his fly, but his hairy pecs were just too thick to see over.
He "thought" a second, in as much as he could, and decided that pulling his pants down was the only option. He felt down his torso, his abs expanding as his rough, thick, calloused hands descended onto a full on turtle shell of a roid gut. From the side, he would later see that his gut, at his second row of defined abs, stuck out further than his immense muscle tits and actually curved back in to meet his waist. He felt the hair grow under his touch, which would have triggered some alarm in the old Tim, but the new brute just accepted. By the time his hands got to the waistband, the cargo shorts had changed into a pair of weightlifting leggings.
His ass plumped out behind him as he adjusted his stance while his legs blossomed into hairy tree trunks of raw power. Diamond calves finished out the roided out brute as he hefted his sizable cock from the confines of the Lycra.
He stood there for a moment, shaking the feeling that something was off. He started urinating. Thoughts were like molasses through his head, but he could swear something was happening. Had he been able to think, he would have noticed that the longer he was pissing, the smaller his balls were getting, shriveling from years of roid abuse. By the time he was through, his balls were nothing more than raisins and his cock had shrunk to just a few inches, barely making a bulge as he tucked it back into his leggings.
The brute trundled back to the sink to get a good look at himself in the mirror.
The reflection looking back was a massive fireplug of masculinity. Tim had lost a few inches, probably down to around 5 foot 5 now, but was absolutely massive. He'd easily tip the scale at 250 or 260. Eyes peered out from a simian forehead, completely bald on top, but a toothy grin flashing from a dense, black beard.
His fluorescent purple tank was in tatters and looking ridiculous hanging off his massive muscled tits and muscle gut. You could just make out splotches of red skin under the amazing pelt that covered almost every inch of Tim. He brought a massive arm up to stroke his beard, seeing the tattoo on his immense right delt that he'd gotten when he first started juicing. "Injection Port" with a bullseye underneath. He hadn't been hairy then, but a few cycles in the hair spouted, and now you'd only see the "port" if you knew where to look.
The thought of the next dose was getting to him, as his tiny dick rose to attention. He stroked the fur down his exposed chest and gut when his cock exploded.
In a flash, old Tim saw the brute in the mirror as the tanktop reformed into a threadbare black stringer tank, clinging to the hefty pecs and gut, bulging and threatening to rip. The words "Juice Master" forming on the front.
"What the fuck?" Tim gawked in surprise as he heard his question in an impossibly low bovine voice. "I'm a fucking roid head??" He grabbed his wide throat as best as he could with his thick hands. And immediately his cock sprayed again.
A look of calm came over the brute's eyes as he remembered he needed to get back out there to finish his lift.