How to lose a job in Genetics: Pam, Part 1 (Patreon)

I haven’t seen Pam since High School - but she left me with a peculiar fantasy since the last day. Pam was a pretty petite blonde with navy blue eyes, short cropped hair and an oddly slow, eye-crinkling smile.  I met her in a Public Speaking class and a lot of guys had crushes on her.  She had already done some modeling, and had been on the front page of our school newspaper several times for winning local beauty contests.  It was to the point that seeing all the sinuous black and white snapshots created a sense of deja-vu when I actually met her in real life. At the time, I found her beautiful, but wasn’t terribly physically attracted to her.  To me Pam seemed too thin and waifish: something other guys loved but I never much responded too. That did, however, change as the class went on.  Her final speech was on physical stereotypes about women and muscle.  She argued that women weren’t really genetically weaker than men, but rather deep social conditioning that women should be delicate combined with the constant selection for child-like women by men, kept them from being as muscular as they should be.  This both aroused and confused me - because she actually WAS that stereotypical slender supermodel type girl - or at least she appeared that way.  She ended the speech by saying that she always wanted to be a police officer, but was steered into modeling by her family and friends.  She was sick of that, and was going to spend the next few years putting on as much muscle as she could to prove that a little  five foot two blonde woman could be as strong and capable as any male officer. Almost offhandedly, she commented that the slim, lean, model type girls have a secret that both most girls and guys don’t know: that you don’t get that look without putting on some muscle.  She then slid up her sleeve and flexed her thin arm - the peak on her bicep seemed absolutely huge compared to her bones, she then spread her back lats, and lifted her shirt to show her abs which were shredded, but when she relaxed them she had that lean, sculpted, model look.  She smiled and said “I bet if I add enough protein and calories, and focus on force and weight instead of just repetition and “tone”, the same habits that got me photo shoots will get me gains - I don’t want to be built like a supermodel, I’m going to be built like a superhero”.  

The gleam in her eyes as her bicep peaked and she said “I’m going to be built like a superhero” stuck with me the rest of my life.

I didn’t see her again for years - but I had heard that yes, she became a police officer, and yes, she had bulked up so much at the gym people wondered if she might be on steroids or wanted to become a man.

The comments were always derogatory. People would be like - “but she used to be so pretty”!

I never commented - it was funny that her speech remained accurate about how people judge muscular women even to this day.  Still, the image of that peaked bicep on such a slim arm being pumped to more and more massive size popped up at the slightest provocation. Maybe being pumped beyond any man, my imagination said. 

Maybe beyond the limits of human….. 

Beyond the wildest superhero.

But honestly, I didn’t want to run into her again - I knew that my fantasy wasn’t exactly fair to her, and that she could never live up to the exaggerated muscle monster she became in my imagination. 

Just as she had followed her dream - I had followed mine.  I’ve worked for almost fifteen years in the Jackson Laboratory studying myostatin Inhibition and Protein Synthesis.  These are the two primary things that control muscle growth - myostatin restricts muscle growth to increase the efficiency of a system, while protein synthesis controls how quickly muscle can be built or rebuilt after damage.  Though our work is intended to help with Muscular Dystrophy or Atrophy from things like coma or paralysis - there are those of us who have other hopes for the project.

I’d be a liar if I didn’t say that mixed in with my legitimate desires to improve people’s lives, the bit of Dr. Frankenstein in me hopes that someday these studies will lead to the insane mega muscle that so dominates my fantasies.  

I was surprised to discover that this questionable motivation was actually shared by one of the lead researchers at the lab:  Holly. 

Strangely, Holly and I share a striking number of physical attributes in common - we are both about the same height, we have pale skin and slender frames, we both have narrow faces and deep shadows under our eyes - it’s really no surprise that we’ve been frequently mistaken for brother and sister.  However, beyond a physical similarity,  as I hinted, Holly and I ALSO share the same perversion.

We both absolutely love massively muscular women - well beyond the norm even in our fetish pool.  In our fantasies the women aren't just bodybuilder sized, aren’t just hulk sized: they were monstrous kaiju masses of muscle. I realized we had that connection when she caught me doodling a woman with insanely huge muscles in the corner of my lab book during an incredibly boring meeting. I immediately covered it up when I felt her looking over my shoulder - but instead she gently but forcefully brushed my hand aside. 

I gulped audibly. 

Instead of shaming me or calling me out in front of our peers, she asked to look at it privately. Grateful for her discretion but expecting an awkward write up I followed her sheepishly to her office.  Things went as expected as she pulled the write up form out of the office drawer.  However, instead of a formal complaint, she wrote a detailed fantasy about an incredibly muscular woman with ceiling smashing biceps and room-filling pecs and asked if I’d like to share.  From that point on we had an odd office fling - we didn’t really have a relationship with each other per se, but we shared a relationship with the same fantasy which leaked into text messages, folded notes, and  private emails - but that fantasy dovetailed beautifully with our work.  While the rest of the lab focused on balance, and trying to get damaged or wilted muscles to function normally, we shared notes about all the times the effects were SUPRA normal. Unsurprisingly, it meant that we had the most media worthy results, and often helped the lab secure funding from companies they would not have expected (such as sports supplements and vitamin companies).  Most of our work was done on rats, though we also have connections to labs overseas that have worked on animals as close to us as chimpanzees.  

If you’ve ever seen the internet screen-shots of rats with so much muscle mass their legs look like smaller rats? That was our lab.

Due to the success of this and our connections to several outside firms, we were finally given the opportunity to do human testing on patients with severe atrophy due to coma or paralysis.  

And this is how I ran into Pam again.

She remained pretty,  though her circumstances definitely weren’t.  During a shootout a bullet penetrated Pam’s neck, grazing her spine and skull.  She was in a coma for an extended period of time, and the damage caused limited paralysis upon awakening.  She had received excellent physical therapy and was a driven patient - but years of atrophy were physically devastating for anyone, much less someone who had once been at their physical prime. The loose skin from her once massive frame just made her feel all the more diminished.  There were also biochemical effects that her doctors were having a hard time explaining: even though she would start making progress, something would cause the muscle to start to waste away for a period of time, before she would start making progress again.

This was probably an effect on myostatin regulation in the skeletal muscles near her spine - we found that trauma sometimes had that effect, and as a result she would be a perfect subject for the potential restorative effect of our inhibitors.  

She arrived in a wheelchair.  She had the same short bob I remembered, with a little gray shading in her blonde giving it a wheaty color.  Her eyes were surprisingly dark blue with a bright glint in them.  Age had caused crows feet, but it didn’t hurt her appearance any because between the crinkling around her eyes and the dimples on her cheeks, she was an odd combination of adorable and pretty with a straightforward, earthy edge. She was wearing a heavy plain gray sweatsuit. She could walk with difficulty for a bit, but would eventually collapse back into the wheelchair. She apparently remembered me, commenting that she really appreciated my reaction to her speech in high school.  This baffled me at first as I don’t remember really having a reaction any different than anyone else, but she was more than friendly with both of us.  Even in her diminished state she had a flirty confidence that was simultaneously unnerving and refreshing.

The first week was a simple manner of a series of injections and checkups as well as modifications to the program from her physical therapist who eventually called us to ask just what we had been giving her.  

Apparently her lifts had doubled within the first few days.

For the first check up, the effects had been more than noticeable.  She arrived without the wheelchair, which was enough to get a round of applause from some of the other technicians as she walked through to get to us.  She was blushing profusely and had this air of not knowing how to speak at the time.  The rosy pink over her dimples as she tried to hide her eyes behind the grey-gold bangs was so effortlessly charming I couldn’t help but smile.  She had ditched the sweatsuit and was wearing black and pink leggings and a crop top.  Her abs looked like a cobblestone road leading into the black top.  The Nike swoosh was stretched out by full breasts, and thickly striated pecs. She had a sleek vein along her biceps, her arms already thicker than many men.  She had this feminine lilt to her walk with an energetic pop to her step.  She looked like a high end physique contestant.  All of her vitals were excellent.  For all intents and purposes, her treatment was an astounding success and really all we needed to do was observe and maintain.

She however, asked if she could continue treatment for the full month.  

Holly, by all rights, should have said no as lead technician.  The treatment succeeded, she was fully restored - our only obligation was to make sure that the effects weren’t temporary and the gains she made could be maintained. However, neither Holly or I could have said no - this was, deep down, exactly what we were hoping for. She had probably achieved what most people would consider peak physical condition starting from a base that should have taken years just to achieve the lower end of normal - and she did it in less than a week. Continuing the cycle to the end was likely to result in a level of muscle-mass that well surpassed anything that a human body had carried before.

I hesitated and looked at Holly, who shrugged.  Pam just winked at me and said: “Remember, I wanted to be a superhero”!

So we continued the treatment.

Her arrival at the end of the second week caused a bit of a different reaction with the other labs members. Everyone was astounded, but some were visibly disturbed.  If she had been the size of a large physique model, by now she would have given Ronnie Coleman a run for his money.  Her leggings were stretched with heavy slabs of muscle, the top so strained she had visible underboob - and underpec which I had never even considered before but was insanely arousing.  Traps rose midway up her neck while thunderbolt veins crackled across biceps the size of small bowling balls.  She seemed to deliberately rub up against us, sometimes with a feline sway.  Her movements had moved from bouncy to slow and sinuous, like she was relishing every muscle as she moved.  It was beyond flirtation to borderline seduction at this point. She asked us to feel her bicep, which we did eagerly - it felt like silky steel.  She rotated her fist, causing another peak to pop up, the dense veins feeling like hills and valleys on some 3-D map under our fingers, the muscle straining and stretching, adding another few inches as she purred: “I want more”.

And we gave it to her.

By the third week, the rest of the lab was starting to have serious qualms.  One or two had privately filed formal complaints. Pam was absolutely huge, lumbering sideways through doors barely fitting all her craggy masses of granite flesh.  She seemed to be treating the doorways and walls gingerly, as if she didn’t want to accidentally break them - that and, well, the friction seemed to arouse her.  Her cobalt eyes crinkled as did her nose every time she caught us looking at her, and she’d flash us a smile and a bicep flex that her fist would thump into before it hit 90 degrees. Peaks surpassed peaks as they thrust over her head. Pam’s biceps were the size of stacked balance balls. Both her breasts and basketball sized pecs had become freakishly veiny.  Starting from her flinty nipples, deeply engraved veins radiating outward like a razor sharp spiderweb of throbbing cables so thick they felt like baroque vines carved into an ivory statue.  Her exercise top had been stretched to the point it had become a black rubber band straining across her massive chest. She went out of her way to bump her nipples into things, with a pleasurable little squeak that made her turn rosy - she’d chuckle each time.  Her manner around us was cute, knowing, and by now very forward. At one point she stated - very matter of factly - that her biceps were “bisexual”.  At first I thought she was just punning on the name of the muscle and asked if she meant “biceptual or bisexual”. She then proceeded to show us how when rotated just right her peaks would be perfect for a woman to mount, and that the way her hands met with the crease between her biceps she could cup his balls while he buried his cock between the deep chasm and squeezed it with all those rippling striations.  “Imagine how good it would feel for both of you as I pump it bigger and harder the whole time”.

Seriously, I had to fight to not blow my load right then and there.

Nothing actually happened that day - but god damn did we want it to!  *Especially* since the top scientists of the team had us fired anyway for inappropriate conduct and manipulating experimental procedure. The human trial was considered a success, but milder doses and more constrained studies were suggested as “excessive swelling and limitations to mobility combined with behavioral changes” were listed.  But technically Pam was set up for FOUR weeks of treatment - and Holly used this as an excuse to pilfer that last dose - the budget had already covered it, and an extra cause for dismissal seemed ridiculous.

I contacted Pam to let her know what happened - She reacted with disappointment and anger, and insisted that she could get us jobs at a number of supplement companies.  We’d already started going down those avenues, and while we would likely be only working on far less ambitious projects, we knew getting back on our feet financially would probably not be a difficult prospect.

She of course wondered what would have happened if she got the final dose, and I, of course, told her we could arrange that.   

It took a little scheduling back and forth, but we set up to meet at an abandoned medical supply warehouse. 

Events didn’t go exactly as planned....