Silver Spigot (Patreon)

[a muscle theft bar, where gigantic men have their muscles drained over and over again]

“The Silver Spigot” looked, to all its patrons, like a dimly lit craft cocktail bar with brightly colored, shockingly expensive martinis served on a bar of solid ice. Well-to-do folks in their early 20s frequented nightly with their fedoras and manicured goatees and paid their bills in cryptocurrency.

The hipster clientele balked when Rod stepped in the door. Despite his finely tailored suit and confident strut, he was a well-built blond man with a square jaw. The scrawny guys sipping their IPAs took a break from singing the praises of billionaires to regard what they regarded as a “jock” in their midst.

“Wonder what he does?”

“Probably just a bodybuilder with an onlyfans.”

“We’ll see how long he stays that fit when his balls shrink up to nothing from the roads.”

Rod ignored their commentary and strutted right past. “Bathrooms?” He asked the bartender as he flashed his platinum card to start a tab.

“Down the hall,” the bartender explained. “There’s an elevator. The restrooms are on the lower level. Elevator won’t let you go to any other floor without a card key.”

“Thanks,” Rod said, sipping his electric blue martini while he gave a once-over to the crowd. He could tell that the women were looking at him and the men were talking about him. No matter. He had far more important business that didn’t concern them.

A few minutes later, Rod casually headed to the elevator the bartender had mentioned. He punched the button, scanned the hallway to make sure he was alone, then produced a silver card from his wallet. He held it in front of the floor buttons until a soft tone sounded. Without pressing a single button, the elevator door shut and the lights shifted to a pale green.

After a minute-long descent, the door opened to the secret beneath the Silver Spigot. The room looked like a gym had been merged with a speakeasy. A half-dozen skinny men sat on stools while, nearby, splendidly muscular men lifted weights in threadbare jockstraps.

Rod perused the crowd, unfamiliar with the patrons. He recognized some of the sweat-soaked swollen freaks working out amongst them, however: Leonard, a bull in his forties with a thick grey beard and a body so stuffed with muscle he couldn’t put his arms down or feet together, had been Rod’s favorite when he’d first visited the secret location. Terry, one of the most popular bodybuilders at the Secret Spigot, was a 6’5” brute with a crew-cut and impossibly wide shoulders, ham-sized pecs that protruded ahead of him like a shelf, and a well-stuffed bulge that bounced with every rep.

“I’ll take a hit off Terry!” An elderly gentleman said. The bartender handed the old man a small token which he clutched in his hand as he approached Terry, who was curling 120 pound dumbbells with ease. Terry tried to ignore the old man as he approached—this wasn’t his first day, of course—but there was no ignoring what happened when the man touched him: Terry’s champion physique, so stuffed with muscle the neckless man looked uncomfortable, started to shake.

Terry’s confident, fast-paced reps slowed as his muscles started to quiver. His rippling, vein-dissected arms suddenly started to deflate, the rest of him following suit. When it was over, Terry was still large, but he looked to have shed about thirty pounds. Meanwhile, the greasy-haired man touching him swelled with muscle, his button-down shirt splitting down the sleeves as the buttons around his pecs popped open. He flexed, decimating the rest of his shirt (and shredding his pants), then headed back to his seat with a confident strut, now looking down on the other men. His peers were now half the size of him and he clearly knew it, bouncing his pecs in the faces of the other scrawny men he’d been joking with minutes before.

“Best 500 grand I ever spent!” The old man roared as he triumphantly sat back down on his stool, slapping the bar with a much beefier hand. He demanded a beer. Meanwhile, Terry returned the dumbbells to the rack with a shaky gait, grunting as he set them down and chose 70s instead.

Lewis, the bartender, nodded at Rod and slid a coaster to him. Rod had a seat and smiled at Leonard, who did cable flyers nearby. Leonard made momentary eye-contact, but the bodybuilders were under strict orders to ignore the patrons no matter how verbally or physically offensive they got. “Big Rod! You’re back already? Ready to go from huge to SUPERhuge?”

Rod smiled. He was happy with his size of course—240 rock-solid pounds on his 6’1” frame despite not having spent an erg of effort in a gym—but he wasn’t there that day to get bigger. “Came in to talk to Cronin,” Rod said with a wink. Cronin, the manager of the Secret Spigot, wasn’t someone whose name was tossed around lightly.

Lewis’ tone shifted dramatically. “He, uh… he know you’re coming?”

Rod shrugged. “Well, I brought him a new guy for his stable a few months ago. He must have known I was coming in for payment one of these days. Where is Benny, by the way?”

Lewis’ eyes lit up at the mention of the college football player Rod had taken to the Secret Spigot months before. Benny had been a thick lineman, powerful and sturdily built with a large frame and tons of potential to put on size. Rod offered the 22 year old an alternative to a life in the NFL: “You spend a few years getting worshipped and working out. You leave richer than any NFL player with a body most men would dream of. How about it?”

Benny had seen the set-up, watched the men patiently train while others pawed at them—some occasionally pilfering some of their mass through the Spigot’s black market tech—all while getting pumped full of a nutritionally perfect mash and more powerful steroids than modern medicine even knew about it.

Of course Benny agreed to this new life. Rod wouldn’t have brought him if he hadn’t suspected the humongous lineman wanted it on some level.

“He’s, uh… he’s having a tough one,” Lewis said with a shrug. He finished wiping out a glass and hung it up as a portly man, sweating through his suit, approached and ordered another beer.

“Why’s that?” Rod asked. Red splotches blossomed on the paunchy man’s face. He ran a hand through his wispy, combed-over hair, failing to look anything less than sloppy, then turned around.

“Guy drained him dry,” Lewis said with a whisper. “Saudi dude. Barely spoke to anybody. Benny was big, too—possibly bigger than any guy ever has been here before. He was up around 450 pounds! Big freak was just waddling around here, wheezing every time he moved. Strong as shit though… until he got drained. Guy paid millions, but left Benny absolutely tiny. Scrawny little guy is on janitorial duty for the boss until he bulks up enough to come back out here on their floor. Luckily the Saudi guy had his own jet. No way will he ever fit on a commercial airline again.”

Rod sipped his martini and considered Benny’s fate. As hard as it must have been for who had lived a life as the biggest to be small—“drained dry” usually meant no taller than 5 feet, no more than a hundred pounds—getting a break from the ogling, the pawing, the leering comments and the constant threat of having your size and strength siphoned away must have been nice.

He hoped Cronin was being gentle with little Benny.

“Anyway, Cronin,” Rod insisted. “He had to know I’d be by sooner or later to collect.”

Lewis smiled, adjusted his bow tie, then tapped the small screen behind him. Meanwhile, the heavyset balding man nearby loosened his tie and approached Leonard, who had moved to a bench and was pressing 405 pounds with ease.

“Hey! Hey, you big bitch!” The heavy man shouted, spit spraying from his mouth. Leonard—a head taller than the man and much wider, a brick shithouse of warm, bulging meat looking even more Herculean next to the sloppy scoop of sagging flesh accosting him—just ignored the man, as was required of the “meat” if they valued their pay (and the possibility of their freedom).

Leonard gritted his teeth and pressed the bar again. MASSIVE pecs bulged obscenely, rivulets of sweat pouring into the crevice between the two mounds of muscle. The heavy man poked Leonard in his lat (dangerously close to his armpit). Leonard’s face went red, shaking with strain. It was clear the man was tickling him, but he didn’t break composure, continuing to press. Finally he racked the wait and sat up. The man grabbed his beard and yanked on it.

“Look at this old fucker. Thinks he’s so tough because of his muscles. Barkeep! Barkeeeeeeeeep!”

Lewis turned, rolling his eyes. “You want to make a purchase? Just use the app on your tablet.”

Leonard knew what was coming. Rod saw a moment of panic flash in the gigantic muscledaddy’s eyes, but he clearly tried to focus on his next set.

The paunchy man staggered to the bar, tapped the screen of the tablet mounted in front of his stool, then let out a loud belch as Lewis approached him with a token.

“Here you are, sir,” Lewis said, handing the loud-mouthed patron the metal sliver.

Leonard was purposely lagging between sets, waiting for the pudgy man to take whatever he wanted before lifting the heavy weight off the bar. When nothing transpired for nearly a minute, Leonard leaned back, grunted, and lifted the heavy bar.

“NOW!” Said the heavy man, grabbing Leonard’s wrists with the token in his palm. Leonard let out a roar before all the size just drained out of him. His arms dwindled, his pecs collapsed, his wide back shrank away. The heavy weights came crashing down, about to crush the diminishing man, but the paunchy man grabbed the bar before it crushed poor Leonard’s chest.

The heavyset man’s clothes burst open as he ballooned out on all sides. He’d lost none of his flab; rather, it now sat as a soft layer covering the muscle he’d stolen from Leonard. While he lacked Leonard’s granite definition and deep straitions, he looked all the bigger for his added mass, like two competitive strongman squashed together.

To show off, he curled the loaded bar that had nearly ended poor Leonard (who slinked away, head down, holding up his shorts as the patrons tossed empty beer cans and jeered at his now bird-boned body). “This thing’s light as fuck!” The now mountainous man (clad only in boxer-briefs that seemed ready to explode at any second) pressed the weight overhead a few times before tossing it down.

It was clear, as he walked back to the patrons drinking at the bar, that the heirarchy had shifted. They had entered hyperwealthy but average-bodied. The elderly man, now built like a professional physique competitor, had enjoyed a feeling of superiority but clearly it was over. As the formerly heavyset man plopped his titanic glutes down on his stool, it creaked and crumbled, dumping the hulk to the ground. He laughed, beating his chest and standing back up, shoving away the normal-sized men who had come to his age.

“Crowd is rowdy tonight,” Rod commented, finishing his drink. “Hey, is Cronin on his way?”

Lewis, mixing cocktails, just nodded.

With Leonard and Terry’s “shifts” on the floor cut short, it was time for a line change. The wall to the “employees only” area slid open and a towering black bodybuilder, followed by a powerful man with a mohawk and a septum ring.

“Cyrus…” Rod whispered as the mohawked man approached the squat rack. Rod still remembered Cyrus’ first night, back when Rod was still a 120 pound weakling, before he’d stolen size from—what the fuck was that guy’s name? Rod was enamored with the powerful bull of a man. His jet-black hair, long limbs, a face so thick it looked bovine. That night, Rod had considered taking Cyrus’ size, but a wealthy Asian man beat him to it.

Rod could still remember Cyrus’ amazing body—the physique of Rod’s dreams—collapsing down into a frame not much larger than his at the time. Cyrus went from superhero to weakling, and Rod felt something shift in him as Cyrus, who now looked positively nervous, walked away, docile and… adorable.

He wanted Cyrus when he was big, and nearly more when he was small. Cyrus was exactly who Rod hoped he would be walking out of the Secret Spigot with that night.

The two patrons who had stolen size had begun to shove each other back and forth. The bouncers, musclebound men in their own right, approached the two, urging them to calm down, but now that their bodies pulsed with testosterone and power, it was hard to request that they repress just what their physiques seemed to demand that they do. Fights amongst newly large patrons weren’t common, but they had resulted in the bar shutting down early more than once.

Rod shifted anxiously in his seat as he watched Cyrus warming up wearing only compression shorts. Why was he squatting? Rod thought. Squatting always got the attention of the patrons, and nine times out of ten, the guy who got drained was at the squat rack.

A weaselly little man with a ponytail and glasses got shoved back by the newly minted muscleguys’ fracas. His eyes flashed with rage as he looked around wildly. Rod watched the man’s gaze fall on Cyrus. He could practically see the man’s thought processes: “Just cash in some crypto, get big enough to toss these two knuckleheads around before they squash me.”

“Well, if it isn’t the beautiful Rod.” Cronin seemed to appear out of nowhere, the fit man in his 50s patting Rod’s face with a silky-soft hand. “You’ve been away too long. How are you enjoying that nice muscular body?”

“It’s great,” Rod said. “How are you enjoying my guy?”

“YOUR guy?” Cronin yelped out a laugh. “I’m fairly certain Benjamin is an adult, owned by no one. Big guy didn’t even have a girlfriend when he showed up here… and to be honest, I’m fairly certain that was the deciding factor in his signing over his freedom temporarily.”

“Your deal is, if somebody brings you a guy, we can have one of YOUR guys released,” Rod urged.

“And so we just dispense with pleasantries and get right to business,” Cronin said with a smile. The lines around his warm eyes stood out, but Rod was careful to recognize Cronin as the threat he was. “You were much more polite before you got muscles. Then again, they all are…”

“Quickly,” Rod said as he watched the ponytailed man approached the bar, his gaze still on Cyrus’ huge glutes. “I’d like to get Cyrus his freedom before—“

“And then what?” Cronin said, snapping his fingers in Rod’s face to get his full attention. “You people all seem to think of these men as property. Just because I give Cyrus his freedom doesn’t make him YOURS. What if he isn’t done here? These men are accumulating massive amounts of wealth while they are in my employ. Even if he does wish to leave today, you really think THAT gigantic, gorgeous bull of a man would want to… what, be your boyfriend? He SWEATS testosterone. Have you any idea how thick his cock is? And his BALLS! This is a man’s man. He eats steel for breakfast, Rod. What makes you think he’d want a little IT guy who saved some money and stole some muscles for himself?”

“Please,” Rod urged as he watched Lewis hand the token to the ponytailed man. “Please, free him. Free him now!”

“Or what? Who sets the rules here, Rod? Who’s in charge? Who made this—“ Cronin squeezed Rod’s biceps with his hand. “—possible? Let me ask you, Rod, WHO owes WHO?”

Rod’s heart leapt as the ponytailed man placed a hand on Cyrus’ hamstring. The Clydesdale of a man came crashing down suddenly as the man with the ponytail sprung up, bursting out of his clothes. Once again, the newly large man caught the falling weight before the new runt was squashed to a stain on the carpet. Cyrus scurried away from the now giant, who tossed the weights aside and returned to the bar to wrestle with the other rowdy muscle monsters.

“Fine,” Cronin said, stopping Cyrus with a single hand (which, now, was all it took). The emaciated little runt needed both hands to hold up his comparatively huge underwear. His Mohawk hadn’t changed size, looking all the more ridiculous on his shrunken head. His septum ring looked gigantic beneath his now button nose. “He’s all yours,” Cronin said.

Cyrus took a moment to fetch his things while Rod waited in an antechamber behind the bar. When Cyrus finally emerged with his duffel bag, he couldn’t even look Rod in the eyes. He wore pink short-shorts and a light yellow tank top, both of which looked to be size XS (and still roomy on the little guy).

“Cute shorts,” Rod said, trying to stoke some conversation.

“Th-they’re not mine,” Cyrus said in a high-pitched voice. “They just gave them to me so I didn’t end up naked.”

Rod and Cyrus waited for the exit elevator quietly. The hallway behind them was empty, but the bar still buzzed with activity even beyond the heavy metal underground walls.

“So do you… do you remember me?” Rod asked after he scanned his card in the elevator. “I’ve been here a bunch.”

Cyrus (who only came up to Rod’s chest) opened his mouth to respond, then fell silent. “I mean, I was going to say ‘yes’ to be nice, but… Just being honest, no. I never really looked at guys while I was there. Better to just focus on working out, getting huge, and hoping you didn’t get drained.”

Rod’s heart fell. “Do you… have a place to stay?” He asked.

“No, but… after Cronin drops my pay in my account, I’m going to be set for life,” Cyrus said. “I’ll probably rent a hotel tonight, then who knows? Buy a condo, live on an island…”

It was silent between the two for several moments, though Rod could clearly hear his heart pounding in his ears.

“You could, y’know, stay with me…” Rod said, letting out a defeated sigh after realizing how pathetic he’d sounded.

“I mean… sure…” Cyrus said. “That’d be cool. Just for tonight.”

The elevator doors opened to a back alleyway. “I’m parked around the corner,” Rod said, his hand slipping into his pocket for the little “gift” Cronin had given to him.

“Cool,” Cyrus said.

“You know… you’ll get all that size back in no time,” Rod said.

“Not as easy as I would’ve in Cronin’s stable,” Cyrus said, his posture sinking as he stated it. “Hopefully with my money I can get some good gear, maybe a good personal trainer… don’t think I’ll ever be tall again.”

Rod fished a token from his pocket. Cronin had said it only had a single charge, only a one-way transfer. Rod stared at the small man in front of him whose little glutes barely filled out his shorts. “Look, I don’t think this is ever going to make you like me,” he said, his voice cracking in an embarrassing way.

“What’s that?” Cyrus said as he turned, studying Rod’s face for a clue to what he meant.

“Fuck…” Rod said. He took a deep breath, held the token, and touched Cyrus’ bare shoulder.

There was a tingle of electricity between them. Rod shivered as he felt the sensation of falling. Meanwhile, Cyrus seemed to rise up. When it was over, their sizes had swapped. Rod was swimming in his suit, his muscles gone, back to the body he’d had as an IT guy. Cyrus’ clothing burst, leaving him naked as tatters fluttered to the ground.

Cyrus looked down at his body—nowhere near as tall or muscular as it had been before he’d signed up with Cronin, but it was a vast improvement from the pipsqueak he’d been just moments before. “Wh-what? Why the fuck… why would you even do that?” He said, confused.

“I dunno,” Rod said. “I didn’t deserve that muscle. Not more than you do.” He swallowed back tears as he looked up at his hero. The big man’s confused expression softened. He pulled Rod close to his warm, hard muscles.

“That’s crazy, you know that? To give all that up…”

“Yeah…”

“You could go back, y’know. Steal somebody else’s.”

Rod sniffled. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just… stay away from Cronin’s for awhile.”

Cyrus stared into Rod’s eyes, then pulled him into a kiss. Rod felt himself swallowed up in Cyrus’ thick, rippling arms. He moaned as Cyrus’ big hose hardened between him, hot against his belly.

“Let’s get to your place,” Cyrus said, one hand pawing at his cock.

Rod knew that what Cyrus was feeling wasn’t real. How could it last?

Maybe it would only be for a single night, Rod thought, but that would just have to be enough. “Wait here,” Rod said. “I’ll pull around my car.”

“Fuck it,” Cyrus said, picking up Rod and throwing him over his bulging shoulder. “I’ll walk you there.”

“But—you’re naked!”

“Who gives a fuck? It’s my first night as a free man! Anyone wants to take me on, they’ll have THIS to deal with.” He wagged his hardening cock and strutted in the direction of Rod’s car while the smaller man enjoyed the feeling of the warm, hard traps beneath him.