Anglerfish

            Bigger is better. Better is best. Increase mass. Cut fat. Add protein. Lift one more set. One more. One more. More weight. More reps. More weight. Be Giles Corey.

            Trudi laughed out loud. The sound echoed through her home gym, empty as always save the sound of weights clanging and her breath ragged and grunting. She lived for that sound and everything that came with it. The constant aching of her muscles as they built and built. The gritty feel of protein powder on her teeth. The bite and sting of the juice flooding through the syringe. Every millimeter of growth was another step in the right direction. Another step toward perfection. At all costs.

            One last rep and she let the weights slip from her hands to crash to the ground. She’d pick them up later. Call it another rep, she thought. She needed food and a change of scenery. Much as she loved this gym and her routines, she could tell she was getting slightly obsessive and caught in recursion loops of lifting, sleeping, repeating. She had to do something different, if only for one night, so she could get back to business tomorrow. Maybe she’d go out to eat. Her meals had basically been chicken and veggies and rice every day for like three weeks straight. Variety could help. Hell with it. Cheat days were a thing, right?

            After showering and dressing as normally as she could – as opposed to the tights and tanktops that defined her daily life – she made her way to the closest sports bar. It was only a few blocks away and it was a nice night, one of those summer nights where there’s just a little bit of a breeze wiping away the grime of the sun-toasted day. She’d get a burger, fries…maybe even a beer. Why not?

            When she walked in, she knew people were staring at her. It didn’t bother her. On the contrary, it actually validated that she was making progress. She was bigger, stronger, more muscled. People staring showed her proof that she wasn’t wrong in seeing the changes. That’s not what she was here for, though. She needed food and needed it now, judging by the roar from her stomach.

            Taking a seat at the bar, she ordered the burger and beer from the completely disinterested bartender-slash-waiter, ignoring his rudeness. She had been here enough – she knew how it worked. Instead, she turned her attention to the room. People-watching was a guilty pleasure of hers and she liked indulging when possible. She scanned the area and didn’t find much of interest. Families eating quietly, a few couples on dates, a group of elderly fans watching some game or another. Nothing to pique her curiosity. Shame, she thought.

            About the time her food reached her, someone slid onto the stool next to her. She didn’t pay him any mind at first. The burger was hot, juicy, and dripped flavor onto the fries on the plate. The beer was cold and crisp and a far cry from the thick smoothies that were her normal diet. She would have to do extra work tomorrow – she knew that – but it was worth it. She was so immersed in actually enjoying her meal that she jumped when someone touched her shoulder. She spun and looked down at a small, thin man with big, expressive eyes and a gentle smile.

            “Sorry to scare you!” he apologized, “Could you pass me a napkin, please? Darn wings are so messy.”

            He indicated to his plate of what really did appear to be messy-ass chicken wings. Some kind of red-orange sauce – not buffalo, something specific to this bar – coated everything in the vicinity, including the poor man’s fingers.

            “Ah, yeah. Sure.”

            Trudi grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser and handed them to him. He wiped his hands and thanked her. As he did, she looked him over. He definitely wasn’t impressive in a physical sense. His arms were like twigs and his frame overall seemed rickety and frail in the way human bodies not bloated with drugs can appear sometimes. Still, he had been polite and didn’t seem to be judging her. Plus, she had to admit, he was sort of cute.

            “I haven’t gotten the wings here.” she said carefully, “They any good?”

            “Eh. They’re fine if you like cayenne pepper and buttermilk. Otherwise, I’d pass. Still, when you have a craving for something, may as well get what you can, right?”

            He cocked an eyebrow and laughed and then something in Trudi pulsed and she found her face getting flushed but not from working out. It had been a long, long time since she had shared the company of anyone and, for whatever reason, on this particular night at this particular time in this particular bar, she found herself wanting this particular man to join her for a different sort of workout. She wasn’t blunt about asking, though not especially subtle either. She made it clear, in her way, that she was interested in a dessert not on the menu and he appeared surprised but not against the idea. They chatted a bit more, finished their meals, took a couple shots of tequila that somehow appeared in front of them, then left together to return to her home.

            The night passed as nights shared with strangers often do. Little sleep, lots of exertion. Despite his small frame, the man was not small across the board and, to Trudi’s surprise and appreciation, was indeed quite adept at knowing how to pump. Hours went by and, finally, they fell asleep, him engulfed in her arms. The next morning, however, was when complications arose. She woke first to find him wrapped around her. Cute, but she had to get working and he had to leave. She shook him and he looked up at her before trying to extract himself.

            He could not.

            His arms and legs and chest were bound to her as if by glue. He tried against but could not move. She tried and the result was the same. His hands and feet were still free but the entirety of his torso and limbs stayed stuck. The freakout, as it were, was understandable. Both people pulled and screamed in pain as skin stretched and creaked and bled, but no movement could be made. Finally, Trudi stood up and the man simply dangled, dripping blood from where the skin had torn but not moved.

            This was not happening, she thought, but if it was, she was going to have to work out regardless – with or without him. As she took a step, a surge of pleasure hit her core and she realized that he was also inside of her, unable to move. That could be problematic, but something to deal with later. She had work to do.

            The workout, as she expected, was miserable. He kept trying to get away or talk to her and she just needed to focus. The lifts were cumbersome, pushups and sit-ups were impossible, and running on the treadmill required a different running style than she was used to, not the least of which was because of the member within. Still, by the time she was done, she was sweating more than usual which she took to be a good thing. The man attached to her had long since given up trying to do anything but moan and shift. She felt him release in her a couple of times and, for whatever reason, that gave her energy. After the second time, the muscles in her arms felt rejuvenated and she was able to produce a personal best in terms of weight.

            Well now.

            Time went on, as it always must. She didn’t leave her home much, instead opting to stay and work and figure things out. She fed her attached person when he asked but he soon stopped asking. One day when she woke up, she noticed that he had diminished in size. His face had sunken into her chest and become lodged there. His mouth was gone, lost in her breasts. Only his eyes, forehead, and hair remained. His body had similarly atrophied, becoming absorbed into the entirety of her flesh. Every step still brought the reminder of his organ inside her, but her movements became faster, her body grew stronger, and she felt fitter than she ever had. The steroids had long since disappeared from her regimen – she didn’t need them.

            She grew bigger, found clothes to cover her passenger enough to be able to compete in tournaments. She won. She won again. She won over and over. Her body became larger and more muscled, the tone becoming evident. Her friend disappeared bit by bit. As she swelled, he reduced. The hair evaporated, the eyes grew rheumy and white. Small fingers tapped at her back occasionally, then rarely. Every so often, she felt a spurt inside her. Every time, another surge of energy.

            She continued to win. She became a champion.

            Then she became sick. In the mornings, chiefly. Queasiness required quick runs to the toilet. She had a suspicion. She hoped it wasn’t true.

            The two pink lines proved her wrong.
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            Shit.