Soarin happens to be an oversexed stud with huge muscles and even bigger cock. He also happens to be the leader of the Wonderbolts. The stud has to fit into his tight uniforms and control his urges to keep his teams reputation untarnished./Soarin discovers the magical world of muscle growth in his new supplement formula. Despite growing concerns for his aerial ability he simply cannot stop packing on more and more muscle each session with a mad glee in his eye.

“Soarin’!”

Soarin’ paused halfway through closing his locker. He glanced over at Spitfire, her voice still ringing in his ears. Or, more accurately, he glanced down at her.

She was glowering at him, hands on her hips and both eyebrows furrowed. “Dammit, Soarin’. I thought you told me you were done with that crap!”

“What crap?” he asked innocently. He hefted his massive body to one side, doing his best to conceal the comparatively tiny bottle of pills in his hand. “You’re losing me, ‘Fire.”

“No nicknames on the pitch,” she growled. “And we’re on in five minutes! How the hell do you expect to fly with us like...this!” She waved a hand in his general direction.

Soarin’ glanced down at himself. A pair of beefy pecs stared back up at him, a shelf of beefy muscle that stuck out so far in front of him that he could hardly even see his feet. He wiggled his toes as he flexed his thighs, unable to see them, but knowing that they were bulging against the skintight fabric of his Wonderbolts’ uniform. He smirked slightly, then looked up again and met Spitfire’s eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. He bounced his pecs a few times for effect, then nearly moaned as his hypersensitive nipples tweaked against the latex suit. Ooh. That felt good. Maybe if he—

“Don’t give me that crap,” she said, reddening. “If you’re going to lead us, you can’t go out on the pitch looking like an overstuffed, bulging musclebeast!”

“Why not?”

“It cuts down on mobility!” she barked. “You won’t be able to do half the maneuvers you should.”

Soarin’ sighed, leaned against his locker. The metal audibly creaked beneath his massive weight. His arm flexed, its bicep bulging up larger than Spitfire’s head before relaxing once more. He grinned down at her, one hand on his huge, muscular ass. “Maybe not,” he said mildly. “But I can make up for it in other ways.”

“With what?” Spitfire said. “That?” She poked a hand in the direction of his crotch, and, perhaps not expecting it to be quite so close, felt her fingers sinking lightly into the soft, warm bulge straining over Soarin’s groin. The studly wall of muscle grinned.

“Maybe,” he said. Deciding he didn’t care for masquerade anymore, he pulled out his other arm from behind his back, his intense, powerful shoulders flexing and rolling with even that simple motion. He tossed the little bottle up and down a few times while his other hand snaked down to his crotch.

His size-up had come with other benefits as well. His shaft, even soft, was straining hard against the fabric of his pant legs. It had managed to form a gigantic pouch, and as he stroked it gently, it grew into an even more massive, thickening bulge. It filled out his pants until it was actually pushing his waistline away from his crotch. Soarin’ gave a low grunt and extended his right leg to make room for his shaft to snake down past his knee. Oh, yeah. Many benefits.

Spitfire just stared at him with an emotion somewhere between shock and disgust. “What the hell, Soarin’?” she said. “Steroids? And some kind of stocking-stuffer?”

“Hey!” Soarin’ said. He patted his straining bulge, then grinned as he felt it thicken up enough to more than fill his entire hand. There was no way any pony would have been able to wrap their fingers all the way around that monster. “This here’s one hundred percent real. And they’re not steroids.” He twisted the cap open with a flick of his thumb; popped a pill into the air and caught it between his thumb and forefinger. He eyed it with no small amount of interest, his massive shelf of chiseled pecs rising and falling with every breath he took. “They’re dietary supplements.”

“My point,” Spitfire spat, “is that you can’t go flying around with a fucking python strapped to your leg, and with a pair of basketballs trailing from your crotch. We’ll get fucking sued into the ground, you idiot.”

Soarin’ didn’t appear to hear her. All his attention was directed on the pill in his hand. “Y’know,” he said, almost softly. He sounded mesmerized, hypnotized. He took a deep breath, his arms and chest casually flexing and pushing out the fabric of his suit even further. His deeply cut, rippling abs were more than visible through the latex, and he had a feeling that if he were any bigger, he’d have to take smaller breaths to avoid ripping it outright. The thought turned him on so much that he felt his massive balls filling up with spunk, churning with seed ready to be spilled. “It’s pretty incredible what these things can do, in all honesty.”

“Soarin’.” Spitfire’s voice was at once both demanding and pleading. “Don’t you dare.”

“And in such a small pill, too?” He sounded incredulous. “I mean, can you believe it? All that size...in something so small.” He licked his lips, turned the pill over in his grip. The massive, spongy head of his cock was puffing up in his pants, and he placed a hand on it again to feel it, swollen and hard, beneath his grasp. He gave his shuddering shaft a quick squeeze, and felt it suddenly lurch with arousal. He heard, rather than saw, the thick splatter of jizz that erupted down his pant leg to pool on the floor. He grinned down at Spitfire’s look of impotent rage. “Man. It kind of makes you want to…”

He closed his eyes, took another deep breath. He could almost swear that his pecs were straining even harder against his shirt this time. He held the image tightly in his mind: the picture of himself, a huge, incredible muscle god, a wall of rippling, bulging muscles with a shaft wider around than his waist and just as tall. He could already hear it: the sound of his clothing’s fibers popping and shredding in a beautiful cacophony of growth, his sleeves bursting into tattered ribbons as his shaft and cum-laden orbs swelled against the puny strength of his bursting pants…

“...take another one,” he murmured, almost breathlessly.

“Soarin’,” Spitfire said, turning red. “Don’t you dare—”

He popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed it in a single gulp.