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Now time for horny!
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Jim or as his mother would call him little Jimmy was begrudgingly AVERAGE at anything and everything and at the age of twenty five it was starting to get on his nerves. Not because it was causing him problems directly or that it was mentally taxing. It was bothering him because at this point all of his peers from high school and college had already moved out, moved on from the small town life. Whereas he was stuck with a simple office job, no relationship and a hell of a lot of self esteem issues. Not to mention living at home with his mom who insisted it was all fine, hell even encouraged it. With no one to push Jim out the nest, of course he would never try or learn to fly. He just moped about what it could have been, stashing back some money here and there just in case though.
(Jim)
He had just gotten home from work! Another droll day at the office, where he accomplished nothing but busy work and kept doing the same routine. He couldn’t even explain it to you if he tried what he did, he needed adventure, something, anything to change but he didn’t want to be the one to do it. He wanted someone to do it for him.
That's just what was getting ready to happen, it was late, he had to stay longer to organize some different files. His mom was out for some wine and book club and he had a microwave dinner calling to him. His clothes, disheveled and slightly unbuttoned, belt taken off and he was ready for the rest of it to be gone but food called his name. Just as finished starting the microwave he heard a loud knock on the door. Firm, sturdy, and from what he heard sounded like authority, it was enough to make him jump.
“Coming, who's there?" It was late but Jim was still a white man, he had no understanding or concept of fear beyond the sudden noise. No one would be coming to do untoward harm or with malicious intent. Not here, not to him, why would they? He walked to the door, not even waiting for them to reply or answer him. He didn’t even look through their peephole. As the door swung open a man spoke.
“Hey, Its Marshall, town sheriff, was doin neighbor check ins, you were on our list to hit tonight!” His voice was deep, southern. Not stupid but definitely slow. Sheriff Marshall was a silver fox daddy. A built body held back by a tan uniform that begged for release. A beard that would put any man's head of hair to shame with how full it was. His voice, his eyes were all deep with authority, holding attention until you were dismissed in some manner. There was also this scent, this smell, this MUSK that started to slowly waft, piercing any barriers, and every sense inside and out of Jimmy.
It was heavy, earthy, drawing the office worker in, making him more susceptible to the upcoming plans of the Sheriff. He couldn’t stop himself from taking another deep whiff, his face scrunching up, because it was almost foul with how overpowering it was, sweat from a hard day's work mixed with natural BO, but the more he breathed in, the more addictive it got. The more agreeable, and open he became, saturating his mind, his body. Becoming a plaything for someone else…. The Officer.
“Oh sheriff, please come in? What has got you goin door to door checking in on us? Something happen?” The way he spoke sounded slightly cautious, maybe Jim actually was nervous, or more likely, he wanted to seem innocent even though he had no crime other than jaywalking that he had committed.
“Suspicious activity, something about strangers being spotted lurking around peoples houses, just coming by, asking what everyone has seen or heard. If they have seen or heard anything?” he walks in, moving right into the living room. He looks out the windows, pulling the blinds apart like he's looking for something, or someone. Jim is offset by all of this, maybe he should be more cautious, maybe he should be worried about something. Why would the sheriff be looking around like that?
The Sheriff quickly scratched the back of his neck, exposing his underarm, releasing a quick, strong blast of his musk discombobulating Jim. His mind is unable to focus, still nervous. He would just put that energy elsewhere, ramble, yes he would ramble!
“Not able to say much, I mean I feel like if there was someone skulking around Ruth or Gladys, our lesbian old lady neighbors would have brought it up to us,or said something. I mean you know how nosey old women are right? They watch from their windows and porches, like to talk gossip . I mean maybe they even called you?” he was word vomiting, Marshall took this time to find the recliner, one that Jim’s dad used to sit in. His legs spreading wide apart, Crotch on full display, bulging out of his tight uniform. His arms rested easily.
Jim wasn’t expecting that, he was taken aback, his word vomit caught in his throat as something he wouldn’t touch was commandeered by basically a stranger… Not a stranger, it was the sheriff, maybe he was tired and he just needed a rest…. Maybe? That was out of nowhere for the young man to think. Why would he argue with himself?
“It wasn’t a call from them, several other residents I’m not able to reveal or identify made the complaints and comments, I'm just here doing my job, come sit, lets talk this through!” His voice lies so easily, like second nature and as Marshall points to the floor beneath him when he says sit. His finger feels just as authoritative as his voice, his eyes, his entire demeanor. More so with everything added together but Jim wasn’t some dog, he wasn’t a kid, he definitely wasn’t the sheriff’s kid. This was all just a little bit weird. No matter how aggressively heavy the musk in the area was, or how … intriguing he found the attractive man… attractive where did that come from.
“I’m fine standing Marshal, can we make this brief, I'm starving!” It's not a question, he is trying to make this more informal, offset this status quo that was just created. Rushing him out, calling him by his name, not officier, not sir.
That upsets the sheriff, “it all started so smoothly” he thinks “I mean the idiot freely welcomed him in, none of the neighbors were watching, his family wouldn’t be home anytime soon. Hell the slight push in his mind, and the deep heavy thick musk didn’t cause any fuss, he was already so openly pliable, did the officer misstep? Was sitting in something that boy defined as his fathers too much and made him start questioning everything?” All of these thoughts were popping in the Transformers mind. Would his time of prepping and planning for this be a waste and he’d have to discard this boy and erase his memory of his encounter?
Sheriff Marshall was special, he and his family for generations have held not just political or social power. No, they held magical power, influence over the ancient horny magics that make up our world. Primordial, lustful and unstoppable especially in the hands of an experienced caster, and the sheriff was experienced, he held this town in a firm grip, morphing and changing its people into his perfect playthings. Sometimes just a slight adjustment to the criminals, of course if he wanted to change them for the better…. But that change had to come with something sexual otherwise the magic wouldn’t do it. It’s why the town they all lived in had such a high density of queer people.
Whether it was attaching manners, proper ways of speaking and attitude to amazing blowjobs and an addiction to cocks, or with keeping their hands only to themselves unless they were pleasing a man who demanded respect. They were all sexual, its the only way his magic could function or work, trust him he tried at first to do without. But at the end of the day the changes worked how they worked, and it was lonely doing it on his own, Samuel Marshall needed help, he needed a son and that's exactly what he was going to get today! By pure unadulterated horny force.
“Brief? There's nothing brief about this! Now be a GOOD BOY and SIT!” The words echo in the air, a strange heat, a PULSE rakes through Jim’s body, his mind shuddering as he feels the need to listen, to obey! The word GOOD BOY banging around in his head, making it feel good to do that, he should always listen to those in charge, and who was more in charge then a sheriff? He goes to do what the officer said, but he doesn’t follow where the man's meaty hand is pointing, he sits down on the couch. This makes the Sheriff mad, his face fully grimacing, disappointment clear, his fingers snap before Jim has a chance to speak, to ask what’s going on.
“I said BE A GOOD BOY AND SIT!” As he yells this, his pointing finger glows and so does Jim’s forehead, that heat from before rises, becoming unbearable. His mind aching and burning as he feels his body, not in his own control, slump to the floor, landing him right at the officer’s boot! Musk flowing through the air encouraging this obedience, fueling this pulsing burning. His face right next to it, it feels so much better to listen, Jim’s cock starts to get hard just doing that but his mind, his face, all say a different story. Wide eyes, staring up at the man commanding him in fear and worry. Those words now loudly echo in his brain, bouncing around in his mind and where they land they plant roots that slowly take over. His cock now leaking precum in his slacks as he feels both terrified and aroused.
“What… how? Why can’t I move?” He manages to ask but The Sheriff just shooshes him, the silence settles over his lips before he knows it. His body, his lips listening, obeying LIKE A GOOD BOY. it makes him grind his hips against the floor, moaning and humming in pleasure. He was acting like some horny dog humping the floor in heat, unable to stop himself from getting off on this insane situation. He needed to remember who he was, what he was attracted to, big, massive MUSCLES AND HAIR.
“Don’t worry about that little head of yours, it won't matter to you in a bit! I want to thank you for COMING OVER TO MY PLACE. It has EVERYTHING WE NEED FOR A GOOD TIME!” As he says the words the townhouse they're in starts to melt away, quickly rebuilding itself into the officer’s manor. His family’s generational home, seeped in magic and horny debauchery. No longer a middle class homey living room, now in the middle of a robust study, with books lining the walls, a fireplace waiting to roar with flames and Jim's face deep in an ornate rug with the cops boot right above his face. This was much more private, with how much moaning and groaning Jimmy would be doing they needed it, now the fun could really begin.
“Now hand me your ID. I wanna make sure we're getting this right!” His hands move on their own, going into his back pocket, taking his wallet out and holding it up for the gruffer man to grab. Again obeying sent a thrill through his body, a deep heat pulsing making his grinding get faster. It makes Sheriff Marshallsmirk as he sees it take root. He snatches the wallet, pulling the ID unceremoniously and discarding the rest of the contents to the floor. He looks at it over hemming and hawing, the entire time jim is unable to look away. The longer he stares at this man, this pinnacle of masculinity, of authority. The harder he finds it to look away.
He has always been straight, never even once questioning it in his mind. Sure he could tell guys were attractive or physically intriguing but he would never give them a second glance. But his eyes stuck on Samuel Marshall, the boner that refused to go down while he listened and obeyed him AND the drool falling from his lips made it clear something was different. There was something about the broad beefy shoulders, the deliciously big, bulging slabs of pectorals and strapping biceps that made the fabric of his uniform stretch that made the formerly straight office worker…. Horny.
Then you take in the exposed body and facial hair. Jimmy had never been into hair on women, it was gross, too masculine. But the idea of it rubbing against him, scratching his skin as the Sheriff grabbed him by the sides of his head and pulled him into a deep all consuming kiss… WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE THINKING..... His massive forearms and meaty hands held him just right, pressing deeply against his body as he fully surrendered and melted into the stronger, better man. THE IDEA OF HIS HANDS MOVING LOWER DOWN HIS BACK, LIGHTLY PALMING HIS ASS BEFORE GRIPPING BOTH CHEEKS! That thought alone snaps some sense into Jim… his ass? He had never even thought of it in a sexual way. He tried to beg the man to stop, plead with the handsome gruff DADDY but all his words came out as a muffled mumble or moan.
“Oh dear, Jim Henderson, age 26, only five foot six, seems like you were made to be a runt!” His voice sounds so disappointed, that hurts more then the things he said, you don’t want to disappoint him.
“No worries though, we're gonna fix you right up SON!” The word hits you like a brick through a window. Your mind breaking in fractal patterns as his musk, so much stronger down at his feet, overwhelms you. SON? SON? But Jim had a dad, this man couldn’t be his DADDY. No matter how much he wanted to submit to him. To feel him explore every aspect of his body, his beard tickling his face, neck and all the way down to his ass as this DADDY peppers his body in kisses. The thought alone is crazy but Jim’s mind latches onto it.
“There’s that light struggle, let's fix that first. SON, LICK MY BOOTS CLEAN! Each lap of that tongue is going to cause that pathetic resilience to slip away till nothing is left!” His body moved on its own, his pants and underwear absolutely already ruined from the amount of precum he was leaking, the weird gay fantasies he was having and all the obeying, now… now it was like he was right on the edge as he moved his face to start licking the Sheriff’s boots. They weren’t filthy, but after a long day on patrol they had dirt, dust and grime. He tried to hold himself back. His neck and shoulders were tight, tense but eventually that familiar MUSK and PULSE overwhelmed his will.
The way he was nose and mouth first to Marshall's shoe made the cop laugh. Jim's face had the look of disgust as he took long licks across the leather, his mind numbing with each one, throat wanting to gag as he did it. It made Samuel frown, a bit of anger rising, I guess his boy would need more initial changes then he thought. The taste of his hard work should get the boy going, not gagging.
“That's it Son, keep licking, every speck you clean off my boot with your tongue, the hornier it makes you. The hornier you are, the more eager you are to clean my boots with your tongue, it’s YOUR FAVORITE THING!” The words echo and bounce, Jimmy’s licking becomes feverish, his hands moving on their own accord grabbing onto one of marshall’s legs to pull the boot closer. The small parts of him that remain, the parts that are shrinking and breaking rapidly try to pull away but its no use. After his left boots clean he dives into the right, mouth gently kissing the boot before making out with it.
With the resilience gone, the next thing to naturally go was Jimmy's overly complicated, boring life. Unfulfilled relationships, boring sex with women and a terrible job. Replaced now with deep seated daddy issues, a need to please and serve his father. The idea of older hotter men dominating him and a deep addiction to musk that would never leave him. But so much had to be connected together, so many empty voided spots in his mind demanded to be filled and magic had a way of doing it.
It's crazy how the mind, when something gets lodged into it, will suddenly start making new connections. Little Jimmy here was told he would LOVE cleaning the boots, every speck making him horny, that it be his favorite thing. But kinks, obsessions, really anything SPREADS once its lodged deep into the psyche. Now Jimmy can’t help but wonder if worshipping his new Daddy’s feet will feel just as good if not better then the shoes. If the musk, this naturally masculine, heavenly odor coming from his true superior will always taste this good, and what every part of him will taste like. Images of his face being shoved into the boots, forced to take in that ripe scent till its all he can smell inside and out, the socks being shoved into his open mouth to silence him when they’re fucking in public.
“God you really are meant to be my boy” Marshall snaps his fingers and suddenly Jimmy stops his worship, mind and body waiting for his new instructions.
“Here comes my favorite part, see if you're going to be my son, you gotta look and act the part, so lets change these details here BOY!” Marshall pokes at the ID repeatedly before throwing it on the ground. He stands up, picking his prize right off the floor after, his arms underneath his boys. A small pulse emanating from them, the clothes Jim was wearing slowly turned to ash leaving him in nothing. The sheriff looks him up and down, taking as he does, circling him like a shark does prey.
He already knows he wants him taller, a loud snap is heard as suddenly Jimmy’s legs elongate, his arms become more gangly, his torso stretches higher. His spine snaps and pops till he’s at a solid six foot. His weight makes him look like a tall skinny nerd, something that would have to be remedied very soon.
The boy's ramrod cock is nice, just about six inches hard but it could be bigger. But the rest of him is average or below. Skinny fat, average height and average face. Jimmy wasn’t someone people could pick out in a crowd, or remember in the back of their mind. This would all change, no one would be able to forget who he was. The boys eyes tried to follow his daddy, mouth openly drooling as he looked the sheriff up and down waiting for his next order. Waiting for the final parts of himself to be consumed, to be recreated into his daddy’s perfect son.
The sheriff moves in, his hands go to the boy's torso, rubbing up and down the sides of Jimmy. As his hands trail past where his love handles were, they were still there somewhat, just less obvious. Jimmy can’t help but moan as his body pulses and the fat on his mid section starts to melt off of him. As his mouth opens, the sheriff moves his own onto his son, claiming his mouth. It's passionate, it's fiery, it's all consuming, taking the leftover parts of the old him, making more room for changes and filling him with a new need, an addiction for his new father.
As the younger Jimmy slowly starts to give up, give in his body starts to age, slight wrinkles appear on the skin as he goes from 26, to 27. Then at 28 his hair starts to thin a little, The Sheriff’s hands briefly make their way up and with a quick comb of his fingers it shortens further into a military crop. At 29 as they pull a way to breathe, both men panting, strings of saliva still connecting their lips, Jim's lips plump up, his face restructuring, his jaw line becoming sharper, more angular like some comic book super hero. His nose went from button like to incredibly strong, wider. His eyes became this perfect green and his brow bone extended giving him the final touches to make him look like a dumb ex jock turned cop! When he finally hit 30 Jimmy lunged his own mouth at his new fathers, his hands grabbing the sides of his dad's face to pull him in for a kiss. So eager to feel his lips, his tongue again.
Samuel pushes more magic into his son, his hands trailing his body leaving a smattering of hair, his chest exploding with muscles becoming perfect slabs of meat. His shoulders broadening, back tensing as they become over developed. His biceps bulge, arms getting stronger and more vascular as the kiss heats up. His new meaty hands unbuckling his fathers belt in a frenzy, eyes closed totally lost to lust. His son's new torso firm's up, a six pack of abs cobbling themselves together before leading down to cum gutters that make any faggot swoon looking at him. He was incredibly top heavy now, barely standing up straight, Officer Marshall would have to remedy this next with his favorite part.
It's when it gets to his son's cock and ass that Samuel Marshall breaks the kiss, one hand grabbing at his ass the other gripping his cock. He looks at this younger version of himself he has started to create, a hungry wolf's grin, he already gave him a kink for worshipping his boots, accidentally created one for worshipping his feet and musk. Now he has made him addicted to him and older, it was time to tie arousal to his father, pleasing and worshipping him and of changing the people of this town. He would be just like his new father, dedicated to protecting and serving… just not the community. Serving their kinkiest, horniest fantasies. To make him more similar he’d have to give jimmy a new name
“That's it boy, whimper moan and beg, you can feel it LITTLE SAMMY!, that need in those thick delicious deputy cheeks of yours. A need, a hunger for me and my cock!” The new name hits him hard and fast. If he really was going to be Samuel Marshall’s son, his mini me,then they should share a name right? It's a piece of information that completes the fantasy. Then his father’s fingers dig into his son’s tight ass. Magic pulsing through it making what little fat and muscle the previous office worker had jiggle. Pounds of muscles and fat pour into him, nerve endings get incredibly sensitive, and his once virgin hole starts to wink and become uncontrollably hungry. Until nothing but a hungry irresistible bubble butt.
Officer Marshall moves behind his son, quickly snapping his fingers and his own clothing dematerializing. A heavy twelve inch cock springs free leaking pre, slapping against the newly minted ass. Wedging itself against the cleft of his son’s cheek, grinding in seesaw motions as both hands grip the above average penis on Sammy Jr. The boy cant help but whine and moan, thrusting and grinding back causing his cock to fuck his dad’s hands.
“Oh you're almost there, you're almost perfect, those thighs are catching up to your ass quick, must be all those squats I made you do!” He can’t help but laugh and tease, Sammy’s whining and moaning getting more animalistic, his thighs packing on muscle, his thrusting getting stronger as it does, his calves are next as they carved themselves into perfect diamonds and then his feet become insanely wide size 13’s. It only hits The Master Transformer Sammuel Marshall now that he made his boy shut up and never let go of it, he lets go of that command and immediately his son is a moaning mess.
“PLEASE, DADDY… DADDY MAKE ME PERFECT, MAKE ME JUST LIKE… fuck your hands feel so good! IM SO CLOSE… MAKE ME LIKE YOU!” His voice is panting and yelling as he keeps fucking himself stupid, his hole being teased, unable to get the head of his fathers cock in there yet.
“All you had to do was ask son!” Sheriff Marshall pulses his son’s cock, with each gliding, pre covered stroke it begins to lengthen from six inches till its a massive 12, his balls, so tight so heavy are begging for release as they drop down to heavy bull nuts, filled with literally all of Jim’s previous life, the memory of him across the universe. It was all ready and waiting to be spewed out in load after load of cum but his father wanted the moment to be big. His son’s eyes go rolling back, on the verge, the edge, he steps back, leaving his son’s cock hands free before positioning his own.
His massive flared head slowly, effortlessly pushes into his son’s eager waiting hole. His eyes somehow going further back as the biggest, bestest (only) dick he has ever had slowly glides into him. Samuel Marshall Seniors hands are no longer stroking the dripping, drooling cock of his son, no they are firmly wrapped around his waist so he can control this. So he can control him. As each inch painstakingly glides into his son parts of his magic start to solidify. An entire life built around debauchery, sex and twisted love blossoms. As he gets to the halfway point, six inches he can’t help but stop, his son tries to thrust back but he won’t let him. He’s begging pleading
“Is this the point of no return, are you ready son? To be mine forever?” The questions are redundant, it's not his choice, not anymore. His mind has been scrambled beyond repair, forever craving his new dad’s cock, his cum, his musk and muscles. But he wanted to hear his boy say it, for him to give in to the horny, musky magic that had corrupted him. All of that affects the words that manage to make it out from his perfect dick sucking lips (Officer Marshall would have to use those later).
“Fuck me, please, yes, yes I’m yours… yours forever and ever!” In that moment of release, of giving up ever going back, The Sheriff releases his son's waist and feels him slam himself all the way back into his crotch. Taking his massive girthy dick like it was a sword going into a sheath. His son’s bubble butt recoiling from the force as they both let out moans. But Sammy junior is far from done, he slowly, gripping the closest thing to balance himself starts to pull off before slamming back again. Screaming yes daddy over and over again as he starts to jack hammer up and down on his father’s cock.
This was getting Sheriff close, he probably only had a minute before his sons tight, warm boy pussy milked him of all his cum he quickly made it so his son went to the academy, that he was his deputy, that they were inseparable.
“Fuck I love riding you, love sucking you… god I lOvE YOUU Daddy!” Sammy jr’s voice is hysterical as his brain is flooded with so many chemicals and magic. Both men are thrusting now, meeting each other in perfect rhythm. Breathless as they lose track of themselves, of time. It all comes to a head when The sheriff’s hands move from his son’s waist, one hand spanking his beautiful muscular ass shouting fuck your mine, your all mine, the other grabbing onto his shoulder.
Neither of them can hold it in, The sheriff shoots first, with one final thrust load after load fills his son’s tight warm hole. He loses count at six, his son isn’t far behind, his eyes fully glazed over, dumb dopey look pl;aster on his face as he shoots all of his prior existence onto the floor. His orgasm makes his hole squeeze around his daddy’s massive fuckstick, milking more and more from him toll both men fall down on the closest piece of furniture, exhausted, Sammy junior easily falling asleep whimpering as his father slowly pulls out.
Sheriff Marshall stands up, looking at his above average, thirty year old, six foot son. The perfect specimen, a younger him who shared his name, his views and most importantly his appetite. Tonight was successful, filled to the brim with fun, but there would be so much more for them to do together later. With a wave of his hands their bodies are cleaned up, so is the study, a tight fitting police uniform appears neatly folded on the desk for his son to find in the morning.
(Samuel Jr)
The rest of the night he would spend in his room, away from temptation, to recoup his energy and make sure he had enough tomorrow to teach Samuel Marshall Jr how to properly use his new lineage’s power. There’s very little the two of them would be stumped by in the future, and if things go really well, maybe the marshall family could expand outside their small town and into the city nearby. That could use plenty of cleaning up, so many young men misbehaving, needing to be CORRECTED by their strong musk and ancient horny magics.
After badgering director's to perform As You Like It for years Toby finally gets what he wanted. Well, besides his favorite part that is. Cast as a wrestler, Toby is going to steal the stage in the only way he knows how: losing himself to his role.
Don't be alarmed but this is my longest story yet! Toby's true love of theatre trickles away and fuels his quick and intense growth into the perfect wrestler. Aided by his soon to be 'best bro' Cal, singlets that never seen to fit, and waning knowledge of stagecraft Tony's trip to the ring is my favorite yet. Hope you enjoy ! -Occam
They do one Shakespeare play on mainstage every year and without fail, every year, Toby has made a case to perform his favorite play: As You Like It. And at last, at this super-senior’s absolute final chance he has convinced them to put it on.
While obviously a fan of the play, the real reason he had been pushing so hard was so he could finally embody the ever-melancholic Jacques. To give the ‘All the World’s a Stage’ speech has been a dream of his so long that it is basically always looping in his head. The casting directors are well aware its verses are engraved upon his heart.
Longingly imagining being the actor to teach those humdrum layfolk in the audience that they too are players in this farce that we call life as he walks in for his audition, Toby smirks knowing this charade is all just a frivolous formality. The cast list may as well already have his name written next to the most pensive character in the Bard’s canon.
Crossing onto the too-familiar stage, already in character, Toby performs as pitiful a bow as he can muster. Sauntering to center stage, he prepares to give a dramatic monologue before he’s interpreted by the director. House lights go on and Toby squints into the mostly empty auditorium.
“Heyyy, Toby! So sorry! We really meant to meet with you before this-”
“Oh of course Sir! I know I know, this is all just a big waste of your time, my time– Shall I instead come down there and help with casting? You know no one knows this play better than moi!”
“That won’t be necessary, in fact-”
“AH! Or better yet let me toss my audition monologue prepared to the wind. I’ll just do Jacques again, give you all a sneak peak into my stellar performances to come! *Ahem* All the-”
“Tobias! I’m sorry this is how you’re finding out but the role of Jacques will be played by a professional guest artist. I- We really did mean to tell you.”
It feels like glass physically breaks within the poor actor’s chest. “Wh- Wh- Why!? You literally know Jacques is the whole reason I’ve been trying to get this play put on by our department for years!”
The directors sit there in silence as Toby’s voice echoes through the cold room. Someone clears their throat as the exposed nerve of an actor’s shoulders quiver. Taking a beat, Toby turns away from them to collect himself. He’s not become the theatrical powerhouse he is by letting every shitty mistake made by casting turn him into a pool of tears. Squeezing back tears with nothing but force of will, Toby forces a smile back on and turns.
There’s still the jester! He can be Touchstone! He can play a clown, he’s been the go to fool for years! If you can’t go for gold you can still play its foil, he tells himself. Slowly bouncing back between his feet to work into a solid jester’s caper, Toby starts to perform his next favorite character.
“Not a problem! The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly! If you’d rather I play to type I’m more than happy-”
Looking to his audience he finds a grimace on every face.
“I’m afraid Touchstone has already been cast as well, Toby.”
“God! It’s Jacob isn’t it!? That kid can barely speak in pentameter and you’re going to let him ruin Shakespeare’s greatest fool!”
Again, hearing his shrill voice echo back, Toby just rolls his eyes and awaits whatever his obviously incompetent ex-favorite director is going to lob at him next.
“We’re doing this for your own good Toby! You’ve been in four of our annual Shakespeare selections already, and countless other productions at that. It’s time for other actors to shine and for you to, well, move on Toby.”
Chewing on his lip, the broken actor doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps he should have taken the hint the numerous times he was encouraged to put on the play himself, but producing and directing were of absolutely no interest to him. As he tells the directors presently when they suggest he work instead on the production side of this production.
“I’m an Actor, sir. If I’m alive it is to be on the stage performing. I know this play by heart and am not going to stand in the wings watching other people- some blackguards butcher lines that should be coming from mine mouth!”
Slowly starting to pace the stage, Toby wonders if they’re going to let him have any part to play. This was supposed to be his stage. His production. His proper adieu to the program before touring the nation in a company or hitting the silver screen. “I don’t suppose you have another role in mind for me?”
“Well, there’s still Charles?”
“The wrestler!? He’s in two scenes!”
“They’re the opening scenes, Toby. It’s the perfect role if you change your mind and opt to join the production side. And better yet, it should allow you to spend more time on pursuits outside of our season? Perhaps audition for other local stages?”
“I can take a hint.” He says not taking a hint, “If you want me to bring my show stopping self to this inferior role, so I shall. There are no small parts, as you’ve said to my quite lesser cohorts over the years. If Charles I am to be, I’ll be the best fucking wrestler this stage has seen!”
Leaving then and there to secure the final word, Toby flees the stage and starts scheming as to how on earth the twiggiest man in the BFA program is going to portray a brawny professional wrestler. How he’s supposed to steal the stage in a role that doesn’t even qualify as two-bit. He absolutely doesn’t want to play it for laughs, but genuinely– how is Toby supposed to portray a serious threat to their leading man?
It’s perhaps his greatest challenge yet. But Toby’s no stranger to dramaturgical difficulties, he is going to be the most convincing wrestler no matter what it takes. He already knows the book well enough to recite Charles’ lines in his sleep, now to truly embody the man. He’ll spend hours on end watching matches, live in singlets, ugh perhaps he’d even stoop to interview those dullards on the wrestling team.
In preliminary research he quickly finds the appeal of the sport. Never one for any kind of physical activity, let alone bloodsport, Toby never thought he’d be so sold on such a macho sport, forgetting just how obviously homoerotic it is. This is not the angle he’s going to take with the wrestlers themselves of course, they don’t need to know how hot he finds the whole dicks out sweaty grappling thing.
Schedule mostly vacant, Toby has more than enough time to sneak into a practice and take notes. Being the only witness to this perhaps only technically open practice of the university's wrestling team, when the athletes begin sparing their coach sidles up to the actor-brained student taking notes.
“You one of them figure drawers son? Usually y’all come as a whole class.”
“Ah! It’s a pleasure sir! No, I’m with the theatre department! Are you familiar with the Bard’s As You Like it?”
“Debard? No. Wouldn’t say I am, never heard of ‘em. Theater type ehm? Here to ogle m’boys?”
Blushing, Toby frantically waves him off, “AH! Ah Ha ha, no of course not! I’m here to learn my good sir! I’m so fortunate as to play a wrestler in our upcoming annual Shakespearean production and desire nothing more to get in the headspace of a wrestler.”
“Y’don’t say?” Scratching a few days stubble that’s thicker than most men’s beards, the coach seems to have a few gears turning. The team has gone far too long without a proper featherweight contender… Looking within this wayward thespian the coach seems something he can work with. Something he can mold. Someone he can make into a real wrestler. “Wanna learn what it’s like to wrestle, boy? How’s about you suit up and get down there.”
What a chilling idea. Little Toby amongst those sweaty behemoths. One stray elbow and he’d need to be taken out on a stretcher. And yet, this very, very simple man is right. There is no better way to become a wrestler but to wrestle. His joke of a role cannot dominate the stage without Toby throwing everything he’s got into it.
Wandering down to the only other even vaguely bookish man in the room, the equipment manager, Toby is led to a pile of haphazard singlets apparently left behind by visiting schools. “They skew large, for obvious reasons, but I’m sure we can find something small enough.”
Displacing just about the whole pile, the manager eventually digs up some long forgotten spandex that Toby will surely still be swimming in. Unwilling to strip in front of the man, he rushes to the next room to change. Giving the garment a quick sniff he can’t tell if the acrid musk he’s smelling is from the singlet’s invisible stains or just the ambient odor of the locker room.
“And you said these have all been dry cleaned yes?”
Scratching his ass, the manager certainly didn’t say this, but he’s happy enough to lie about it now. What does he care about the pipsqueak wearing some second hand shit. The baked in Test’ll probably be good for him. “Sh’yeah kid? You think I don’t know how to do my job?”
Frowning, Toby sticks his legs into the purple garment and pretends he doesn’t know what dried sweat stains feel like as he tugs the armholes over his shoulders. Still fully wearing boxers and his Julius Caesar show shirt, even this does little to fill out the too-big singlet.
“Lookin’ good. Well, good enough. Think most’ve the team has gone to weights but Coach held someone back for you.”
“Wh-no. Surely you don’t mean he intends for me to.” Do you want to think like a wrestler or not. Not particularly, but duty calls. With a gulp Toby peeks out of the locker room and sees the coach talking with a man who is at least slightly smaller than the most terrifying of his peers.
No going back now, Toby fights down mortal terror and does what he does best- Acts. “Well I say you put me in direct- coach! I’m raring to go!” Cocky smile on his face, Toby’s sure the pair staring at him with tilted heads are none the wiser to his mortal terror. When he approaches near enough the smaller man reaches out a hand to introduce himself, to which Toby only barely flinches back.
“Hey! Heard you’re interested in the team, Toby right? I’m Cal!”
At first still smiling, Toby meets his hand. Though when he feels the wrestler's rough grip he cannot hide the frown that crosses his face. It’s like sandpaper. Compared to his own soft hands, clean and maintained by rigorous routines of moisturizing, Toby can hardly believe someone willingly letting their skin devolve to such an unpleasant state.
“Oh yeah takes some getting used to,” Cal smiles awkwardly, “Shoulda warned you hah! Really makes dating hell when chicks or whatever get grossed out by your touch.”
Toby smiles awkwardly in turn, sure his tacking on that ‘or whatever’ was trying to signal something to him. Looking Cal up and down, Toby figures he could certainly do worse. But, he’s sure that the coach isn’t intending this as a meet cute. And when the burly man whistles and nods to a mat he sees Cal’s awkwardness shift to excitement. Blush remains painted on his face as he nervously messes with his hair.
“Sorry for whatever’s about to happen Tobe,” seeing his the actor start sweating bullets, Cal walks over to the ring, “Ahh don’t worry though it’ll be alright. I won’t hurtcha!”
“Right.” Toby follows suit and does his best to match the trained wrestler’s stance. As he does so one of the loose strands of his singlet falls from his narrow shoulders. Just before he can cry out to ‘wait’ the coach blows his whistle again. Any look of goodwill in Cal’s eyes fades to make way for some intense gaze of near-bloodlust.
And then he charges.
Fiddling with his singlet’s not-sleeve, by the time Toby looks up Cal is already upon him. Thouse uncomfortably rough hands grab his bony arms with the strength and precision of a machine. Hoisted into the air, the thespian feels weightless. As he’s manhandled by the man, he feels his adrenaline start to spike. He feels the very first rushing sparks of excitement course through him. He watches as the focus on Cal’s face shifts to a cocky, victorious smile. As air rushes past him their eyes meet and Toby wonders if his whole life has been leading to this. And then he’s thrown to the mat and sees nothing.
Coming to with a pounding headache in Coach’s office, Toby moans deliriously. Grabbing his pounding head, Toby mutters out a “Whuh happened?” as Coach fills out some paperwork on the desk.
“Got some sense knocked into you out there kid. Cal feels bad ‘bout the whole thing and wants to walk ya home. Chat yer ear off the whole time I’m sure.”
Woozy, Toby’s happy to hear he’s got an escort home, too out of it to wonder any more about the wrestler’s proclivities. Wobbling slightly as he stands, for a moment the actor wonders why Coach is acting so blase about giving what simply must be a concussion to a student out of his program.
And while some perceptive part of him catches the half-smile on the man’s face, notices how Coach- how the coach seems to be playing some game with him, all of a sudden Toby feels a great deal of trust for the man. Stealing one last glance at the brawny man, Toby feels with certainty that Coach knows what’s best for him. Must be the concussion.
“Cal’s running weights with some of the younger students tomorrow late morning. Be there.”
Slowly nodding at the command as he exits to greet Cal, Toby grins as he sheepishly apologizes a few times over. Taking in his meek words, Toby feels his higher functions slowly booting back up. The musclebound brute apparently has a good deal of curiosity about theatre that Toby is happy to help sate.
On their brisk walk to Toby’s apartment, the thespian teaches Cal the plot of Twelfth Night and Hamlet in between explaining why he’s so interested in wrestling in the first place. When they arrive on his doorstep, Toby finds himself all the more won over by the broad-shouldered man, and those feelings have begun to trickle into a fondness for his brutish sport.
“And uh, don’t mean to be forward or anything but uhhh? Did you want me to stay over and make sure you’re all good from that hit dude?”
“That hit? Oh shoot, uh yeah? Do you think that’d be a good idea?”
“Couldn’t hurt! And I don’t mind dude, besides, Coach said you really wanted to come train with us tomorrow so I can just take you straight there!”
Murmuring in agreement, Toby welcomes a jock he never thought he’d be caught dead with into his neat home. Crossing the threshold over a campy welcome mat, immediately does the weight of weariness come crashing down onto Toby. Forgetting the anxiety from earlier, he lazily removes his shirt and resolves to just sleep in the singlet.
It’s surprisingly comfortable, almost feels a little tighter than it did that afternoon. Strange. Turning to find Cal already at home sitting on his couch, Toby drags his feet to join him. He deliberately falls over the arms and into Cal’s lap as the athlete throws some wrestling onto the TV.
“Woahhh watch it dude, gotta be careful with your head! Don’t want to lose any of your play-smarts y’know heheh!”
Cal pointedly doesn’t touch the man whose head is resting on his thigh. But as he feels heavy sleep coming, he can’t help but smile as the man squirms under his head. Toby doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. This is insane. There’s a man who basically assaulted him sitting on his couch, watching godawful tv on his account, and for some reason Toby feels as at home as he does on stage.
Cal feels as familiar as any of his co-stars. Lulled to sleep by the warmth of his muscular thigh, the sound of men grunting as an audience cheers acts as a lullaby to the injured Toby. Rather than the glitzy lights of the stage, in dream Toby only sees the inside of the ring.
The next morning the actor awakens to Cal making liberal use of his kitchen. Steam rises from a pan and from a few plates already loaded with more meat than Toby thought he had in his fridge. Still cooking, the wrestler hears him stir and welcomes him to the new day.
“Heyyyy G’morning Tobe, hurry and load up on some protein so we can head out to the gym!”
Nodding mindlessly as he rubs sleep from his eyes and starts housing some eggs and sausage, Toby looks down and notices how his singlet is indeed closer to fitting his still-thin frame.
“I- Do I have time to take a shower Cal?”
“Before getting all sweaty dude? Nahhh, ‘s a waste of time forreal. Now shut up and eat, dude! As soon as I pack up the leftovers we’re out the door.”
Obeying his trainer apparent’s commands, Toby scarfs down the breakfast, choking out an “Unquiet meals make ill digestion, you know.” before confirming he’s quoting Shakespeare like a tic after being chided once more to fill his gob rather than chat.
When at last they beat feet and arrive at the gym, Toby finds himself experiencing meat sweats for the first time in his life. Stomach so overfull he can visibly see his stomach bloating against the hitherto limp singlet, Toby’s not sure how he’s going to move at all productively, let alone work out.
Little does he know, as soon as Cal begins instructing him any concern or discomfort melts away. Everything else fades away, including the memory that he is currently missing a class he was auditing. But that’s of no matter, theatre history can wait, he needs to think like a wrestler.
While this was ostensibly a group activity, every other wrestler seems self-sufficient so Cal is entirely focussed on the scrawny actor. Issuing orders like a drill sergeant, Cal ushers his trainee from machine to machine, from lift to lift and delights as his little pretend-wrestler sweats through a baggy tee he borrowed for a pump cover.
When at last he’s sick of the feeling of wet fabric on his back he tears it off to reveal arms that are shockingly large. Balking at the newly beefy biceps hanging where there was once but skin and bones, Cal has a hard time justifying the amassed muscle as a mere bump. Reaching over to feel the man’s sweaty, twitching arms, Cal demands he show off.
“What the fuck dude! Flex those things!”
Panting as he feels as woozy now as he did post-concussion the day before, Toby struggles to raise his arms before flexing them with a pained grunt. Corded muscle twitches through their whole length as they peak larger with each microsecond he keeps up the performance. Cal’s eyes flit to the shadows in the man’s pits as he’d swear the man was hairless yesterday, but watching as the fresh growth drips with sweat he decides ont to mention it.
“Fuck dude! This must be like a beginner’s lucky pump or something! Looking like a member of the team already!”
Rolling his eyes as he trips over to a mirror, Toby prepares to tell Cal to knock it off before throwing up another flex, for his own eyes this time. In his reflection he finds his new arms exactly as Cal described, slightly thicker even. It seems impossible. Truly muscular, sculpted arms. Ones made to manhandle. His ever overactive mind scrambles for something poetic or funny to say only to fall flat.
Beyond that, he’s at last notices how he is clearly filling out the singlet!? He can hardly believe it as it strains against the beginnings of pecs and slightly wedgies into his ass crack. Tugging down on his thighs as he sees the singlet cut into the trunks, Toby frowns at how his boxers ruin the look. Slightly tuning out Cal discussing the importance of recovery and routine, Toby pointedly sniffs the air and realizes how much of a sweat he’s worked up.
Raising one arm into a flex, he fights back a grin as it hardens and throbs to instead look at that dark patch of new growth. Must’ve been a minute since he’s waxed? Yeah, that makes sense. His other hand reaches over to feel it and for half a second he scratches the dank, itchy bush before recoiling. Something deep suggests he give the digits a sniff but he makes the slightly less uncouth decision to just wipe the sweat on his singlet.
“Yo Tobe, is that your phone?”
Returned from his delirium, Toby finds a few texts from his castmates asking where he is. It’s not like him to not be early to rehearsal. “Oh shoot! Wait Cal- I think I need to go, like now.”
Jumping into action Cal tosses him a hoodie and a slightly larger singlet. Neither man even spares half a thought to the fact his musk factory of a body is going to be rushing to a black box without showering, but the rehearsal must go on! Throwing on the baggy hoodie, unconcerned with its cleanliness as well, he shoots his fellow thespians a text saying he’s on the way before rushing out the door.
En route, he finds the idea of being late not weighing all too terribly as it did even moments ago. Texting Cal as he walks briskly, the jock does his best to shift gears back into that friendly curiosity.
yo wait dude speaking of! did u no that ten things i hate about u wth heath ledger was based of shakespear
Toby grins and rolls his eyes. He loves Cal, it’s so nice to spend time with people outside of his bubble. Literally anyone who’s spent half a second studying the Canon knows that. He begins his reply wondering how hard to go on his new friend.
Of course Cal, Ha Ha! You know I basically have a degree in this ;). Everyone knows it’s based on . . .
It’s based on? Uh..? Toby trips over his feet and stands there for a few moments. He’s absolutely blanking. Thank god it’s to Cal rather than anyone who knows better. God! What play is it based on though? He pounds his forehead with his fist assuming that’ll summon the answer. Surprisingly his memory doesn’t seem to react to brute force.
Getting another text from his director he shakes off his stupor and returns to his journey. Leaving it at the wink, he’ll just look up whatever play it was later, no tame– time to waste! Stumbling into the Fine Arts Building, Toby tugs on his hoodie to air out the singlet now stained with his own sweat.
God it’s so tight. He didn’t notice while moving, but now that he’s slowed down every seam is cutting into him. Toby’s bulkier limbs twitch as they’re off and on overtaken with pins and needles from increasingly inconsistent circulation. He knew lycra was supposed to be like a second skin but this is unpleasant, especially in his pants where his boxers really cause it to pinch.
“Toby!? Is that you?”
Looking up, Toby sees Claude, the young man cast as Orlando, the male lead. Wearing a baggy sweater and massive pants, there’s a look of amused disbelief as he holds back a giggle. “My, my! I had heard you were going method for your, abbreviated role? I certainly didn’t think you were to go this far!”
“Yeah yeah, whatever Claude. I’m sure you know this whole production’s a farce anyway, what with me cast beside- er aside.” Disrobing the already damp sweatshirt, when he unveils his newly built body, Claude is taken truly stunned.
“Oh my word!” Blushing slightly at the sightly figure, Claude opts to tease him further. “We should have had you playing brutes some time ago! And- no don’t tell me!? Is that hair? You stopped shaving your pits for this!? Ah Ha! What will that surly trade think of their little boytoy playing at being a man!”
Jaw clenching, every targeted dig flung makes his singlet all the tighter. For the first time in his life, Toby feels what can only be described as rage. Crossing his arms to hide how hard he’s tensing them, veins begin to crisscross their length as they twitch larger. Doing calf raises and flexing his thighs as he stands there and takes it, his singlet again gives him a wedgie before he switches to instead reflexively pop his pecs which sends a tear straight down the middle of his trusty singlet.
“Oh shit.”
Claude averts his eyes with a dramatic turn and gasp while Toby just nonchalantly looks down at his chest. “Fuck that’s kinda hot” he mumbles to himself before awkwardly waddling past the lead. “I gotta- I have a change of clothes, just tell the director I’ll be there in five, kay?”
Rushing as well as he’s able when every slightest movement sends another tear through this fabric designed to not tear, Claude goes to his usual changing room and locks the door as he at last bares his new body. Swearing he looks even larger than he did at the gym, his semi is just as visible in his boxers as it would be in the spandex.
No real time to lust after himself, Toby quickly gets changed, feeling the chill of this spandex unworn as it fits him like a glove. Obviously, after his previous discomfort wearing boxers underneath the singlet, he opts to go commando. Cock shame is a thing of the past, he thinks, smirking. If anyone ogles his cock that’s on them, not that he particularly minds of course. Shit he definitely would. The thought sends it throbbing one inch higher towards his belly button as he sternly tells himself to not get fully hard.
Easier said than done.
Sauntering onto the stage unembarrassed, every eye in the room is on him and his shockingly muscular form. Everyone there has seen him fully nude on stage before, that he’s somehow bulked up in less than a few days seems wrong. Convincing themselves it’s a muscle suit or the like, everyone comes to their own explanation so they can focus on their work. All ignoring the sweat dripping down the lifelike arms or the bushy garden in his pits, thankfully they’re mostly obscured by his massive biceps.
And so begins rehearsal. He’s read the play hundreds of times at this point. Not even opting to check his lines, as they run through the first scene, Toby awaits his cue and acts with aplomb.
Standing straight as he strides onto the stage, still clad in singlet as everyone else performs in their everyday clothes. “Good morrow to your Worship.” It’s such light work, he doesn’t even listen to his scene partner’s lines, simply filling in the blanks as necessary, “They say he is already in the Forest of Arden,
and a many merry men with him…” Resetting as commanded, “Marry, do I, sir, and I came to acquaint you with a matter.”
By the time their work on Scene I is done, Toby has noticed some fuzz on old Claude’s cheeks. Is he growing a beard? Rubbing his own hairless face he feels a tickle in his chest as he considers doing so himself. Awfully masculine. He really should look- He should be more masculine than that princely fraud.
Wonder what Cal would think– “Toby?”
“Huh?”
“You missed your cue.”
Oh shit. He hadn’t even noticed they moved onto the second scene. Getting on with it, he starts to notice his cheeks and jaw are suddenly itchy. It’s annoying. Almost as annoying as the fact that they’re skipping the fight for now. What the fuck is he here for if they’re skipping his big moment.
Getting worked up, his face begins to burn red as there’s almost a prickling underneath his skin. Yanking out his phone as he gets an urge to text Cal, he waves off being chewed out for being distracted before just walking off stage as his last scene ends. When asked if he’s interested in staying to help he laughs in the director’s face “If you wanted me here you’d have given me a real part, Sir.”
And with that he heads on out, excited to chat with Cal and too full of energy to sit around and watch other people act. He only takes the slightest detour towards Claude to stomp at him and fake him out, smirking as the lead flinches back. Scratching his cheek, when he leaves the theater he finds his wrestler-friend has beaten him to the punch:
heyo brobro u comin to practice today?
Man, he's so busy these days. Classes and rehearsal for theatre on top of wrestling practice and the gym? Won’t even have time to play around. His schedule’s so jam packed it’s tighter than a quick..? A quick something. Quick switch? Whatever. He again gives up on what should be the simplest of recalls to text Cal he’s on the way.
This time Coach has absolutely switched up his tune. Still gruff and brusque, when he sees Toby today there’s an unmistakable grin on his face. From afar Cal give two thumbs up with a wide smile of his own as Coach shouts, “Whooee boy! You sure are sproutin’ from Cal’s mornin’ program.”
Nodding approvingly, he pats Toby hard on the back as the younger man blushes and scratches his cheeks, peach fuzz slowly prickling thicker into stubble. On the walk over, every text back and forth with Cal seemed to darken his face with more stubbly curls. The sound of his slightly thicker digits scritching his cheeks is buried beneath Coach’s laudations as his voice drowns out everything else.
“So. Tobias. You wanna get on down there with the boys t’day?”
Arms crossed, he stares down at Toby, eyes burning embers beneath thick brows. The thespian nervously looks down at the wrestlers all going at it already as his pulse begins to accelerate. He remembers himself, he’s no wrestler. He’s a dramaturg! “Uhh no, no I really, I really- uhh?” But his heart races with excitement, he’s almost vibrating as everything within him burns.
He wants to. He needs to. More than anything. The idea of character research is little more than an afterthought as everything within him shouts he has no greater purpose right now than getting down there to spar. To show off his strength. To grapple those men and put them in their place.
Trying to shake his head no, his head instead twitches as his neck thickens. Paltry stubble crawls higher on his cheeks as it lengthens and spreads enough to be a proper beard coating his jawline. Clenched hard enough to crack his teeth as he now has to force his feet to stand in place lest he bolt, Toby feels his most bestial urges rise and rise in volume.
Who dares be more a man, is none. No that’s- that’s not the line. No matter. Blood rushes in his head, he can hear nothing but the toll of his heartbeat and the need to fight. To win. He hears Coach’s whistle blow and he charges. Cal stands there ready to catch him in the ring and in a far more level battlefield, the pair begin to wrestle.
In between lunges and grasps, Toby can’t help but notice he’s taller than Cal. He would’ve sworn he was shorter. He knew he was. He should be shorter. And then Cal punishes him for focusing on anything but the battle at hand. Arms pump larger as he strains against Cal’s strength. His chest widens as he grunts and gives everything he’s got to not go down.
Toby’s thick thighs balloon even larger as he tries to root himself in place, refusing to go down as he scowls with intense focus. And then the sound of tearing echoes in their small ring as Cal accidentally finishes the job begun by Toby’s bulking form. Surprise on Cal’s face as his hand slips away, the actor sees his chance.
Twirling around him as if in slow motion, Toby throws his arms around Cal and knocks his legs. Falling on his back, the growing man shouts for Coach to come and call it, his voice cracking deeper as he pins Cal on the ground. Sweat drips into his eyes and burns the couple new scratches on his muscular back.
One. He can’t believe he’s done it. Two. He has done it. He’s a wrestler. Three. He needs to be more.
Coach’s whistle resounds as he yanks Toby off a smugly grinning Cal. The other wrestlers break into applause witnessing Toby’s first victory, many eyes slightly confused as surely this isn't their first time seeing Toby dominate. Look at him, he took down Cal. Though perhaps not all that fair a fight given the height and weight advantage.
Helping Cal to stand, he sees the smarmy smile and wink of a man who might have let him win. “Nice beard Tobe” For a moment he has no idea what his friend’s talking about, before of course scratching his thick and sweat covered beard. The one he’s had since he could first grow one. There’s no better immediate show of masculinity and all.
“Thanks dude.” Patting Cal on the back, the pair head off to the locker room to get Toby another singlet.
“You’re really going through these things buddy!”
“Maybe if you guys got me a real uniform rather than throwing hand-me-downs at me one of them might stick.”
“Sure bro, then actually join the team.”
His mind stumbles over the thought. That’s right, he’s not actually on the team. Even if he suddenly feels like he’s been here for years he knows he hasn’t. He’s a- Uh. He’s an actor. Yeah. He shakes free from the confusion, refusing to engage as he instead just laughs at Cal’s words. Pausing at a mirror in the locker room he runs his hands down his beyond-defined abs.
Despite his newly prodigious beard and the jungle-adjacent bushes in his pits, his body is relatively hairless. Frowning at the thought, he wonders if that will change any time soon before basking in a few poses. When he catches Cal staring at him he decides to turn the tables and teases him for a change.
“See something you like there Cal?”
“Can’t blame a guy for taking in a work of art bro.”
“Ahh too kind buddy, bet you just can’t wait for me to pin you again huh?”
Cal slaps him, laughing, “Whatever dude!”
Toby’s phone vibrates in his bag. Frowning he finds a couple messages from his director, scheduling combat rehearsal and letting him know when to be ready and at the stage. He rolls his eyes and just mutes the man. They’re lucky to have him there at all. Looking to Cal as he begins showing off a handy few flexes to the mirror, even if he was consciously aware of his priorities realigning. One wonders if he would even care.
This is what it’s all about.
And so his life goes for a few weeks. Prioritizing practices over rehearsals. Going along with the mimesis of fighting rather than putting Claude in his place like he so deeply yearns. Enjoying wrestling more than he ever thought he could, flirting with Cal whenever he gets the chance. It becomes quite the routine, leaving him little time to notice as knowledge he used to consider baseline begins to seep away, replaced by new instincts and strategies for the ring.
Stumbling on free time one day, he finds himself craving an easy win and finally returns to the theatre history class he decided to audit what feels like a lifetime ago. Having already aced it he’s eager to drop in and see where they are, maybe offer some of his expertise since the pushovers in rehearsal are too stubborn to know his worth.
Arriving a couple minutes late, the professor is at first eager to see her once teacher’s pet return. Turning to greet him, she’s concerned by how deep his voice sounds, assuming he must be struck with quite the cold. After a moment of inspection, besides his bullish new size, she is taken aback by how sloppy he seems to be dressing. Once something of a fashionista, now more jock than actor, the man’s baggy clothes cling to his broad frame. While not coming from practice or the gym, the slightest sweat stains are already visibly.
“Hey! Professor, sorry I’m late!” His voice cracks deeper as his tone tinges slightly vacuous.
“Of course we’re happy to have you Toby, please find a seat! I must say you’re looking rather, uhm, jocular?”
“Right, yeah. Dunno if you heard but I’m, or I was cast as Charles in As You Like It.” He gestures with his hands, flexing reflexively which strains the seams of his already failing outfit, “Really trying to get into that Alpha headspace y’know.”
Surprised at his informality, she remains shocked at how differently her neat and cordial once-term favorite seems to be carrying himself. “Very well! Well where was I…”
The erudite professor continues lecturing on about the tradition of Greek theatre. Toby vaguely remembers enjoying the section of the course a great deal. He’s sure if it came down to it he’d remember the nitty gritty details. Still, as she drones on and on, the theoretical-thespian can’t help but get a little bored.
Despite this, when she asks a question, Toby can’t help but bolt up his hand. Some stray instinct from his know-it-all self acting with the urgency of the man in the ring, the sound of his shirt sleeve tearing can’t be ignored as a chunk of his pit fur bursts from the new hole.
“Ahh of course, you’re eager to show off for the class Toby. Well, go on! What do you think the audience of the Bacchae thought of the gruesome violence coupled with the joy of the Chorus?”
The Bacchae. Of course. Maintain composure. Toby slowly lowers his arm, keeping an air of confidence only interrupted when he accidentally elbows his seat neighbor. “Right.” He clears his throat to buy time. This should be a cakewalk, he did a presentation, staged a selection of this just last year. But for the life of him he can barely remember who or what the play’s even about.
“Of course, easy. Well we all know the Greeks loved violence right? S’why the Romans were all about it too. Why shouldn’t they love a good fight scene?”
The professor tilts her head staring, almost looking hurt as she believes Toby isn’t taking her seriously, “Ah, hm. Well, interesting supposition Toby. I was more referring to the Dionysian-”
“Dionysus, yeah! It was on the tip of my tongue.” The professor stares at him blankly causing him to blush with embarrassment before apologizing, “Sorry prof. My mind was elsewhere I guess.” Moving on and making a mental note to check on her wayward student, she focuses instead on the rest of her class.
Unable to ignore how he’s floundering, Toby does his best to hide in his seat. Difficult given he barely fits in it. Starting to nervously sweat, the stains start to grow. Trying to compact his upper body to hide from view, his legs stretch wider into his neighbor as his longer legs blatantly manspread. The poor guy next to him grimaces after taking a breath before being even further inconvenienced as Toby’s massive thigh pushes him to the side.
Still, rather than complain he leans close to the brutish actor’s ear, “Hey psst, sorr- Toby right? did you need to borrow some deodorant?”
Turning with a scowl to the weasly little nerd speaking to him, Toby feels alarm bells start to ring in his head. What is he doing here. He’s embarrassing himself. His chest prickles as his skin starts to burn. “Why don’t you mind your own business kid.” His pecs itch like something is crawling across them and his thick, clumsy hands reach to scratch it.
“Woah jeez? Hey sorry dude, I was just trying to help,” his neighbor does his best to ignore the man whose torso sized thigh is more in his space than Toby’s own. And Toby just continues scratching, reaching under his shirt he discovers the root of his burning itch. At last, his chest has started to prickle with hair.
Ignoring that upstart kid complaining about his sweat, forgetting about the professor who so embarrassed him, a grin twitches across his face as he delights in the new lengthy curls circling his nipples. Feeling thick new strands pressed into his singlet as a wide treasure trail prickles up his tight abs to meet the hopely intense growth smattering across his heavy chest.
Tight against his singlet, he feels his cock start to stir from excitement at his increasingly masculinity. Looking down at his crotch it’s thankfully obscured by the lycra if not his too-small shorts. Seeing his thick thigh pressing into his neighbors though, noticing how it seems to be the size of the little runt’s legs put together, that’s just too much. “Ahh fuck…”
“Toby? Did you need something?”
Shit. Shit. “Shit uhhh yeahh so sorry Professor, uhhh” He forgot her name, shit. “I totally have wrestling practice soon I gotta dip! I’ll uh, see you guys later!” Making no effort to obscure how he waddles as his hog of a dick starts taking blood from his brain, Toby doesn’t even look back at the classroom as he bolts from the Fine Arts building.
Annoyed with his shirt constraining his biceps, he tears it off and shoves it in his gym bag. Seeing the consistent new hairy coat on his chest does little to abate the growing issue under his singlet. Staring as it spreads further, filling the gap between his straps, Toby tugs at his shorts to try and fix the awkward situation but that only exacerbates the problem as his excitement continues to rise.
Thinking back to that twinky man who complained about him stinking, he angles his head towards the bush in one of his pits and takes a deep breath. Fuckkk he does reek. Biting his lip and feeling his facial hair scratch, Toby starts booking it home as his hips feel suddenly tighten and buck.
Sprinting as well as he’s able with a hardon like he’s never felt, he’s at least glad it’s happening now and not in the ring. Mind dancing to wrestling does little for his boner, but it does lead to his singlet getting tight elsewhere as well. Tugging on the shoulder straps as he runs, Toby feels them yank against shoulders cracking taller and a torso inching wider with gasping breath as he sprints onward.
The singlet wedges itself into his ass crack as his cheeks shake with every step, it becomes increasingly clear that he’s going to move up yet another size. He feels it strain against his thighs while inching up higher and higher as he rushes onward. So too do his actual shorts begin to tear, lighting a fire under his growing ass.
He knew he shouldn’t have borrowed clothes from Cal, for some reason nothing from his bro seems to fit anymore? Arriving at his place, Toby finds Cal is already there cooking some trademark protein-slop for the two of them. Beaming when he sees his bro, he asks how class was. “‘S been too long since you had fun with theatre stuff bro! What’d you learn.”
Toby opens his mouth to reply but finds no answer coming forth. Furrowing his heavier brow he struggles to remember, what did he learn, having already forgotten the Bacchae he opts for the most basic of stagecraft lessons. And still he fumbles.
“Uhh y’know just went over simple stuff. I really helped ‘em Like, I bet you didn’t know that to make sure it makes sense for the audience, right, they switch which one’s stage left and which one’s stage right! Like they go by what the audience sees bro!” Convinced this is accurate, his smile grows wider as he watches Cal nod and take this unfortunately incorrect information in.
Then before they can enjoy their stew-ish dinner, Toby’s phone starts going off. He silences it only for a second one to stop blaring as well. “What the…” Squinting at the phone, he starts to mute this one as well before Cal speaks up.
“Wait brobro, I think those are your As You Like It Alarms.”
“As I like what dude?”
Cal smiles, finding his bro’s stupidity and disregard charming rather than concerning. “The play Tobe,” gently pushing Toby to the door, he pats his bro on the ass to try and strike some urgency in him. “Ah and I packed some clothes from the gym in your bag in case you get too sweaty again. Now, go! And on’t worry about dinner, Imma slowcook this shit!”
Realizing he forgot to show off his chest hair to Cal when he’s about 3/4th there, Toby makes a note to do so later since it seems like he’s already late. Yanking on the door, he forgets he needs to do his ID since it’s after hours. Dutifully retrieving it from the bottom of his bag, strange even after four attempts the building refuses to yield. It’s almost as if he no longer had permissions for the building?
Whatever. He sneaks in with some little dude wearing all-black head to toe. Must be a goth, Toby figures. Making no rush, Toby strides in with pride and disregard for the rest of the production. “Worry not everyone, ol Tobe’s here,” the director calls cut from the scene they’re working on and turns to chew out an actor he used to trust implicitly.
Turning around, priorities instantly realign as he sees a man now seemingly twice as wide and infinitely hairier than the one he knew to be a leading actor. “Jesus Christ Toby!? Are you on steroids for this part or something?”
Looking gravely serious the man shakes his head, “God no! Wouldn’t dream of doing gear dude. They’d kick me off the team!”
“Th- Are you on the wrestling team?”
Rubbing the back of his neck and exposing his beyond-hairy musk traps he shoots back a “Don’t worry about it.” Scratching the same pit with his other hand, he looks deadeye at the director, “So we starting with my stuff or what?”
With a sigh he motions to set, this was all supposed to be a favor for Toby. “We were in the middle of something but I suppose we could-”
“Aces. Well I’ll be backstage listening for my cue.”
He misses it. Twice. And when he at last returns it’s beyond obvious that he’s no longer the Shakespearen scholar he once was. “Good uhhhm, day t’you mister,” Puffing out his chest he gives a nod to the audience. After being reminded he can call ‘line’ if he finds himself lacking, he does so at every turn and still manages to screw up.
“Come! Where is this young Gallons- No I swear that’s what she said!”
“Toby, is this a joke to you?”
His brow twitches, “No? I’m here aren’t I?”
“I suppose you technically are.”
“You wanted me to be a wrestler dude!”
“We wanted you to play Charles. We wanted you to- Look.”
“Can you freaking chill!?” He feels his blood start to boil. He hears the sirens that resound in his head when it’s time to fight. His arms twitch as he looks through the auditorium and sees Claude standing in a crowd of other actors. Ignoring the intrusive thought about the man’s height, how he needs to be taller, Toby stills his rage and takes a deep breath. “Sorry, s- sir. I swear I’ll get my shit together. I’ll be good for the dressing rehearsal.”
Wiping his nose with his thumb, he jumps from the stage and sits in the dark auditorium. When Claude takes the stage, despite trying to read his lines, Toby’s unable to take his eyes off him. Watching as people fawn over the man returns his heart to racing. His shoes squeak on the floor as his legs slowly stretch longer.
Staring daggers at the man, he reminds himself he didn’t even want that role, but for the life of him he can’t remember who he auditioned for. What this play even is. Didn’t he like it for some reason? A character, or..? Lost in struggling thought, the auditorium chair creaks as his back stretches taller and wider. It was like Jake or something, Jock?
Putting his all into recalling this name, sweat trickles down his brow as he tries to set his mind to anything not-physical. It just makes him want to punch a wall. Bouncing his leg as his feet start to outgrow his shoes, Toby tries to cross his arms and realizes how difficult it has become with how swollen his forearms and biceps have become, opposing an equally unyielding pec shelf.
After receiving a text from Cal, he guffaws loud enough for someone to trip on stage and shouts an apology, “Sorry gotta call someone! Don’t you worry Coach, I’ll be shipshape by game day!” And with that, the cast and crew watch as his defined ass carries him out of the theater. The director’s eye twitches, what is he supposed to do with this.
Free from the humdrum boredom of a rehearsal he’s not altogether much involved with, Toby feels the clarion call of clothes he’s about to outgrow as he feels the leg holes start to ride up and sees his package getting more and more visible. Shittt- He’s not even getting hard!
Rushing home he pulls Cal into a bear hug and the pair spend the rest of the night together. They’re something of an inseparable pair these days and Coach certainly isn’t going to complain. The new Toby obviously needs all the help he can get to show up to practice on time. Beyond that Cal seems to be quite the incentive for Toby to be the best wrestler he can be.
Since both their places only have the one bed they have to share wherever they end up. Some time ago Cal invested in earplugs as Toby developed an oppressive snore once his neck grew in. Less manageable is the sweaty furnace of man’s body heat as his sleeping self always ends up snatching Cal to use as a pillow to hug. Even more of a problem are nights where his bro gets riled up, you wouldn’t believe the number of times Cal’s already woken up to the hulking man dry humping him in his sleep.
Not that he minds, shit really they should start burning off some of that energy before bed. Certainly easier to clean if they get ahead of it. Sleeping through Cal’s alarm the next morning, when Toby eventually falls back to consciousness he’s happy to not feel any telltale stain besides the hefty pool of pre safely contained to his jock from the day before.
Drinking two protein shakes before heading out for his morning jog, Toby’s surprised to get such an early call from Coach. He takes it in stride as his heavy footfalls pound onward. “Yo Coach, wazzup?”
Already in his office, the Coach smirks at how nonchalant his newest wrestler has grown as he bulked up. “Nothing, nothing. I know your dress rehearsal is today so I just wanted to say ‘break a leg.’”
Toby trips up in shock, thick brows furrowing in concern, “B- But Coach? I thought you wanted me to stick in the play? Said it was good for me?”
Fighting back a smirk at just how effective a wrestler he’s made if Toby can’t remember even the most common of theatrical terms, he apologizes, “Come now Tobe, you know that means good luck. It’s a switch-em-up. Them actor-folks think it’s bad luck to say good luck, y’know that.”
Laughing at forgetting that, “Ahh like MacDuff!”
Toby is a success beyond measure. “Right, just like that, boy. So, I’ve been thinkin’ about your place on the team. Gonna have the boys vote on it ‘course, but how’d you like to be Team Co-Captain.”
Having only just returned to his jog, Toby stops dead in his tracks once more, heart racing. Team Captain. His biceps pulse larger to his sleeves limit. His underwear would tear to shreds if he wasn’t already commando. Instead his athletic shorts reveal his instant hardon themselves. The cleft of his pecs are as clear as his nipples as his breathing stretches the fabric of his shirt enough to make it sheer.
Then he realizes, when did he even join the team, “B- But coach? I’m not even..?” No, he for sure is? What is he if not a wrestler?
“Don’t worry too much ‘bout it Tobe. You just focus on rehearsal and we’ll talk after. Callin’ a special training at about 7 PM. Remember, break a leg.”
With that, Toby jogs at an even better pace down the road, buff chest held higher from pride if not from his spine creaking longer and his shoulders spreading wider. There’s certainly a skip in his step as he rounds the block back to his apartment complex before bolting up the stairs back to his place. Meaty fists cutting through the air of a stairwell only he and Cal use, he yanks open his usually unlocked front door and shouts for his bro.
“Caaaaaaaaal!”
“Bro shhh! You know the neighbors asked us to chill a little!”
Before Cal can get another word in, Toby throws his sweaty arms around a waist thin perhaps to him alone. A waist that not a month ago would have had him drooling for its overwhelming size and muscular density. Now the brute lifts him in the air with ease and spins with excitement.
“Dude! Coach just said they wanna make me Co-Cap!”
Grinning, Cal feigns surprise, “Y’don’t say? Any idea who suggested it, Big-T?”
Staring blankly, mouth hanging ajar, it takes a few moments for the idea to spark and his eyes light up. “Bro?” His dumbfounded confusion turns into a grin.
“Bro.”
Spinning once more as his chest widens enough to finally ruin one of his few remaining shirts, Toby squeezes Cal even tighter. “God I can’t wait to captain alongside my best bro.” Vibrating with excitement, Cal grappled against him, his heart racing like it’s life and death. Just like in the ring. His eyes fall on his best bros lips, “Fuck dude. I could kiss you!”
With a sharp gasp as Toby squeezes him tighter than life, the wrestler looks up to find Toby’s eyes hungrily staring. Hazy with need as his own eyelids droop, Cal meets him with a question, “Why stop there bro?”
Before a second passes Toby’s mouth is on his neck, tasting his sweat, feeling the sharp curve of his carved jawline as his tongue feels the scritch of his sandpapery cheeks. And then his lips find purchase, and as they do his face begins its final changes. His already impressive beard thickens as it scratches against Cal’s face.
His nose cracks bent before reshaping a couple times over as his skin loses whatever softness remained from a regimen from a life now forgotten. Scars scratch into his face from victories he can almost remember as he feels the shocking sensation of one of his ears puffing up from a far more recent injury. Whatever style remains in his once-deliberately coiffed hair dissipates as it flops onto his head lifelessly and perpetually greasy.
All the while he keeps breathily grunting and moaning as he leads Cal to their couch and falls onto his back. Cal giggles as much as a baritone’s able in between pecks as the sofa creaks and starts to give, unable to bear their overwhelming load. Feeling the lightning rod of Toby’s need poking into his abs, Cal steals a beat to sit up and once more take in the intense hazy need filling every inch of his soon to be co-captain’s face. No thought in his head besides ‘why Cal stop?’
Apparently coquettish despite his otherwise masculine demeanor, Cal puts his hand under Toby’s jaw and clenches slightly, grinning at the massive man moaning with need at the action. “Bro I think we should bone later, you don’t wanna be spent addressing the boys for the first time!”
Groaning as he doesn’t hear anything but Cal saying not now, the ‘actor’ throws his head back in annoyance and frowns. Struggling to cross his arms yet again, he gives up and instead reaches towards Cal and rubs his calloused hands up and down the wrestler’s thighs. Biting his scarred lip as he feels his cock edge close to coming hands free, Toby whines as Cal straddles his waist, “Fuck bro you got me all riled up on purpose…”
Pushing up off Toby’s chest, happy to get a handful of his meaty pecs, Cal dismounts and adjusts his own visibly tighter shorts. “Look at you! And you say you’re not that smart dude,” turning back with a wink he heads off to the gym and leaves Toby to attempt to study his script before a rapidly approaching dress rehearsal.
It takes a full hour for the man to think about anything but sex with his bro, but after at last doing so he pulls out a script stained with sweaty handprints and food. Overnight his theater coach emailed him to say not to worry about all the word parts, apparently he’s just gonna focus on the wrestling part.
This, he’s more than happy to hear. No sense in him worrying to remember dumb fake words like morrow or acquit. He’s no acquitter, that’s for sure. Instead he focuses on the match he’s got with Claude. Sure, it’s just a practice today, but he wants to go all out. His theater coach was pissed at him for whatever reason last time and Toby needs to prove him wrong.
Struggling into his latest singlet, Toby makes his way to the Fine Arts Building with haste that has been quite lacking for his previous sojourns to the school. Thinking of this rehearsal as a match rather than some laborious play has done wonders for the man. And a match it certainly is to be.
Handled with the care of an explosive, fair given the power within those biceps, there’s a tech stationed at the entrance to lead him backstage. Everyone gives him a wide berth and a kind smile as he’s led, perhaps concerned that one of their department’s stars has had some kind of a mental break. Their shy grins are often replaced by a tight grimace when he gets near enough to sniff.
Led to a changing room where he stews in his still pent-up state from not getting some earlier, Toby watches Scene I with disinterest. Impatiently bouncing his meaty leg as he sees some tiny man in a singlet that must be the chump he’s going to be wrestling for, Toby frowns.
“That fucker’s tiny!” Are they treating him like some kind of joke? Eye twitching, his ire changes targets and he clenches his jaw when he sees Claude saunter onto the stage with his own petty irritation. That’s his challenger. Quickly busting through a few stretches to prepare for the match, he starts hopping to raise his heart rate. Doesn’t need to be on his A-game to beat that little nerd but he’s not going to leave anything out of the ring.
Hearing the scene end, Toby’s poor stagehand leads him to the wings to await his cue. Slightly distracted from breathing in his musk even before Toby started deliberately working up a sweat, the tech is struck woozy as they get in position backstage. Too confused to question the stance that makes it certainly seem like Toby’s about to pounce, when the new comedically twinkish Charles rushes off stage with a “break a leg!” to Toby, the stage hand barely remembers to tell him that’s his cue.
In the end it wasn’t strictly needed as Claude’s nervous eye-contact was more than enough to call the match to order. Toby charges the man who is already cowering in place “You’re supposed to lose you fucking animal!” He whisper-whines as Toby’s meaty fists find purchase.
As fuckin’ if he’s gonna choose to lose. He’s the best wrestler this stage has ever seen. If he’s alive it is to win. To dominate. And so he does with ease and aplomb. If Toby himself was handled like a ragdoll in his bygone first spar with Cal, Claude is thrashed like a plushie.
Legs flung through the air with a single one of Toby’s arms, he is then yanked back towards the stage floor with an unpleasantly loud boom. Pinning the moaning actor to the stage warmed by spotlights, Toby waits for a count that never comes. Hearing nothing but stunned silence, he starts doing it himself.
Slamming his padded fist into the stage he shounts a countdown, “One!” his chest heaves with excitement, pushing his singlet to new extremes as he weighs heavier on Claude’s crumpled form. “Two!” He feels his cock twitch against the lycra, not an infrequent occurrence when he’s on the precipice of victory, but this one feels special as a pre stain seeps visible. “Three!” He takes in the reeling face of his defeated foe with a wide grin before pushing himself to standing with impossible ease, raising his arms in victory.
The handful of actors and extras that were supposed to share the stage with him cower in the wings. Still they’re hesitant to return to the stage where the wild man who charged their lead still stands. Claude continues whining on the ground and Toby starts to feel a little confused. “What’s the problem? You guys wanted me to wrestle, yeah? Y’all’re looking at me like I just said Mac-” everyone gasps in fear, “guffin or whatever.”
Tremors of cast and crew saying ‘Jesus Christ, he almost named The Scottish Play’ in the audience sends Toby’s single remaining thespian neuron firing. Eyes light with the now infrequent feeling of him remembering something, he can’t help but speak it aloud, “Ohhh! Wait! I got it!” His innocent grin grows wider, “It’s MacBeth! Right?!”
Someone cries in agony as the wrestler is expedited from the stage. He doesn’t know why, nor does he really care anymore. Shoot he’s already forgetting whatever bizarre situation just happened. Weirdest wrestling ring he’s ever been in, that’s for sure.
Final growth spurt oncoming, Toby shrugs with a grunt as some nasally dweeb shouts “And don’t come back!” as he scratches his sore chest and begins his way to the gym for wrestling practice.
The final walk away from a building that’s apparently for art or something is a blur. His mind is instead focused on recalling the years and years of memories of doing what he actually does best washing over him. Wrestling and winning. Muscle groups surge even further with strength as he recalls countless victories, months spent in the gym bulking up, cutting to stay in his weight class, and sparring with Cal until it devolves into fucking.
That’s what bros are for.
By the time he arrives at the gym the vote is obviously a formality. The only reason he wasn’t captain the previous years was simply a matter of interest, Cal barely got him to sleep with how focused he was on the olympic trials. These days he’s only sticking around on the college team to help out with Cal and to otherwise hang with his best bro.
Sauntering up on stage next to Coach, only taking a moment to slap Cal’s ass as he walks by, Toby smirks as he looks out across his team. Can’t wait to whip them into shape and make this program a powerhouse now that he’s already proven himself the greatest at every turn.
Cal goes up to perform a speech for the pair of them about the year that is to come and the effort it is going to take to be the best. Toby tunes it out as Coach instead whispers in his ear. “Glad to have ya Tobias. Don’t know what you were ever thinkin’ struttin’ on a stage. Look what puttin’ all that effort into your body- into your sport led to.”
Having absolutely no idea what Coach’s referring to, Toby just turns with a confused look to his superior. Coach just smirks and ruffles his hair, feeling as it retracts into a short buzz cut, delighting as Toby finishes hardening into the greatest wrestler he’s ever trained. “Don’t you worry ‘bout it kid. You just focus on the gold.”
The witch agreed to get the three gay nerds access to the frat party, but when the trio of friends walked up to her trying to pay a single price for three passes, she told them it was a hard no. They whined and argued to the point that she said fine, I'll make sure all three of you enjoy the party as one. Her eyes flashed with energy as reality warped around the guys, the one who had handed her the money felt himself growing and stretching, shoulders broad and nipples tingling, while the other two unfortunate losers felt themselves sucked into a widening chest, their bodies melting and shrinking and absorbed into a growing, muscled shelf of thick pec meat. The conscience in control of the body felt his smarts dim and his mind go fuzzy and warm as his cock swelled into a fat breeder fuckstick, while the other two unlucky bastards, each trapped in their own respective man tit, felt themselves grow dizzy and broken apart and unable to hold on to their identity as the new frat stud kept dancing his muscle tits.
When you wake up from a nightmare while snuggling with bro, and instinctively start kissing him. He kissed back, instinctively too. Then you both open your eyes, realize what you're doing, and just keep going anyway.
The stars of Orion have a way of looking flawless even in nothing more than an oversized white T. When it's hard-coded into your upbringing and social tribe to give "elite", you don't risk grabbing a low-cal midnight snack looking anything less than firm, cool and snatched. Effortless as well, of course.
Bros embrace the bounce. All the best bros, truly, are donk-delerious. Ass-addicted. Butt-befuddled. His own butt, his bro's butt, his bro's bro's butt. He just can't get it out of his mind, and his only outlet is to twerk that thick, gym-honed cake till he tires himself out.
Coach'll get asked who he prefers fucking: his jocks or his cheerbois. And though he loves his beautiful total-bottom cheerleaders and how submissive and eager they are to please him, he has to ultimately give it up for his boys. The jocks are psychologically tops, though they spend most of their training period bottoming. But that means they bottom like tops. They're pushy, aggressive, cocky, demanding. They spur Coach on to fuck harder and harsher. It's the only time he'll accept disrespect and backtalk from them. "I feel like I'm getting fucked by one of the cheerleaders, Coach. Fuck me like a man!"
Shit, that makes Coach so damn hard.
The jocks always need a good spanking after he's cum though.
It was the first piece of the puzzle. You'd always liked the look on all the gym bros, and decided to try it yourself. It felt a bit weird at first. Almost like you were entering the territory of another tribe. This is what gym bros wear, not gay guys.
But then, you are a gym bro. Well, you sure go to the gym. Have done for a few months. Flashfoward a few years, and look at you now.
The loose tank, the scratchy stubble, the sexy studs, the stretch marks from all that new muscle. You actually used to shave your pits; one of those odd gay-boy misfires, confused around what men actually wanted. Now, the pit is free, and out, and freshly sweated from a killer sesh with Kyle and Stu and P Dawg.
You look fucking cool. Hot, actually. You'd never thought of yourself as hot before. You felt like such an indifferent, unremarkable, middle of the road gay man. Crazy what some muscle and a change of clothes will do.
Only, that's just the surface level. The muscles the tank top, the pits - it's all just a natural expression of a growing, confident masculinity. There was a word you used to shy away from. Loved it in other men, of course, what gay guy doesn't? But on yourself? Nah. It felt a bit... fake. Again, someone else's territory.
Only not anymore. The gym is a home away from home, the bros a group of close buddies, the identity - the masc label - a natural, comfortable marker of reality. You're masc. A sexy, studly, cool, masc gay dude, and that's pretty fucking awesome.
It soon became an open secret in my dorm that I was working tirelessly on my cock-serving skills, and that I had an open-door policy to any of my dorm mates who needed some attention. I knew by-heart every bump and vein on each dude's cock before the semester was up.
Oh my fucking god! The righteousness is through the roof. These bros understood the assignment top to bottom. The bro fits, the cuts, the ice; the shared kissy-time, no greed or jealousy; hands close but not too close to the danger zone; open body language to invite the bronergy in to its fullest; and a throuple to boot. Bros work best in threes.
The writers of the Code would be so fucking sticky proud.
Do-yun Choi was squatting, adjusting his bulge ready to get to work as he watched people pass by the restaurant. He hadn’t walked into this place the stud he was now, but curiosity and all that.
Just an average college student trying to make the most out of the one day he could afford to get away from his studies. Not like he had any friends to spend it with. One of the annoying things about going to a small community college in your hometown was no chance to reinvent yourself. The local jocks had destroyed his reputation and others by deeming them as losers. Once you were an outcast in a small town, life was over, but the others were lucky to get away. Do-yun had to stay and deal with the ramifications, even going to school with some of those very same jocks.
Like the brunette and blonde terrors, Daniel Gibbons and Greg McFielder. A footballer and wrestler who tag teamed on their bullying growing up. All their dads hung out together doing stuff at golf courses or whatever. Both bulky boys who would sequester Do-yun by brawn alone, trap him in between their bodies, sometimes even crush him, and never in a fun way. On campus these days, they had outgrown the physical violence, and preferred to just talk shit, or shoot Do-yun annoyed looks if they passed by him.
Going to eat was more of a treat to himself, in spite of them. Do-yun would bite the bullet and risk passing by those lingering jocks or even their parents, hearing snickers or being eyed at. To put it in laymen’s terms, Do-yun had a sneaking suspicion when it came to him what people really didn’t like was…his ‘culture’. Yeah, that was the nice way to say it. The town itself was plain and boring. The status quo was king here. Never two prom kings, definitely not prom queens. It didn't matter if the best hometown players were black or brown they were never the captains and certainly not winning MVP when the season was over. Hegemony swallowed everything and forced people to conform and never question it.
Do-yun only allowed those reflective thoughts to pass his mind when he walked down the food strip, eyes scanning the typical McDonalds, Burger King, quick runs. Better than thinking about Marine biology. He may have loved it, but he refused to let his major have his free time as well. Besides, the collection of fast-food chains hammered home how samey the town was becoming. Do-yun’s stomach grumbled. He really didn’t want to do another late-night golden arches meal. He needed to actually sit down and get something good in his system. He deserved that much. For some reason he continued walking. Lord knows why. He already knew the chains in town; they had barely changed since he was little. This was the town and would always be the town.
The wind blew past his ear, as he heard a jingle. A wind chime. Do-yun turned on his feet, there were no wind chimes on the block. 19 years of his life in the town no freaking way. The old people were allergic to whimsical and fun things. Turned in a new direction, Do-yun spotted a place he hadn’t seen before. A restaurant nestled into the strip he had walked by. Blink and miss it spot. Do-yun walked up to posters on the windows with food items, but more importantly cheap prices. The lights were on, so he wasted no time stepping in.
“Hello?” He walked in not hearing anyone, the place was quiet and spotless. Looked as brand new as it smelt. He worried if he had walked in on someone forgetting to lock the door. There was no ‘Grand opening’ sign but nothing else could really explain that amazing condition. As for the sudden appearance, the place hadn’t been here last month when Do-yun treated himself to a meal.
There was a sign that read: Sit and Order. You will be served.
Do-yun found his feet walking to a booth to sit down, before he even registered it. Then he sat opening up a menu. One page, one item on the menu.
Do-yun Choi $28.99
5’7”, black hair, baby face, average to thin body.
This college student offers a fresh taste of a pure love for sea life and ocean exploring alongside his studious nature. A quick appetizer. Food, but make it nerdy!
“Huh?” Do-yun read the menu again. That was his name printed there with his physical traits and a description. No matter how long he stared, it didn’t change, he was really seeing it. He looked around wondering if anyone was secretly watching his reaction. Sorta sucked that he had such a stupid description.
Standing up he walked to the counter and slammed the menu down “Real funny guys. And I could be more than an appetizer!" He waited for someone to emerge out the back. Nothing but the register, utensils, and pens. Pissed off he reached over and grabbed one writing on the menu. If someone went through the trouble to mess with him, he was going to ruin their prop.
So, he rewrote it.
Do-yun Choi $48.99
6’3”, black hair, handsome face, beefy built body.
This college student offers a bulky fresh taste of a pure love for sea life and ocean exploring alongside his studious and muscular nature. A full meal. Group meal even. food, but make it a stud!
He laughed to himself, setting the pen down, satisfied. “That’s more like it.” He tucked the pen back into its holder. His written blue scribble on the page glowed as the fresh ink flowed upwards, latching onto the printed text and changing it. Soon Do-yun’s description became the new printed text. Do-yun jolted away seeing the new state of the menu. As he did, a heat thudded his body. He broke out in a sweat. His heart was working like crazy. There was a fierce pump within his body, his chest exploded out of his shirt. Two pecs ripped through his T-shirt just to sit pretty.
Over his left pec was a nautical tattoo, fresh ink seared into his skin as blue as the ink he had used on the menu. There was a pop as his knees and back cracked growing upwards. His back broadened shoulders being forced further apart as muscle poured into his frame. There were tears and rips across his jeans as his thighs got massive, entering skull crushing territory. Abs appeared on his body and deleted his flat stomach forever more. There was no one and done, his muscles kept expanding, drinking in power from no discernible source. Do-yun went beyond looking like a fit guy into a new territory. His body wanted to get bigger.
One minute his shoes were there the next, they were smashed into the ground, feet popping out of them. Large. Extended. Masculine. Even his socks were ruined. His glutes inflated, pushing against the seat of his pants. As for the front his balls swelled, his own seed beginning an insane production as his cock rudely took up more space.
“Ah!” he let out a yelp as a nipple piercing claimed his right areola.
The consistency of his face transformed, or rather matured. His eyebrows grew thicker, while his cheeks shredded fat. A face that naturally found its place on the neck thickening to support it and the new body taking shape. The change was overwhelming to Do-yun firing off all pleasure centers as he passed out. The last thing he heard was his clothes continuing to tear as his body broke free.
When Do-yun Choi awoke he was naked. Night was over and a new day had begun. His heavy body pressed to the cold floor. Slowly he stood up, muscles easily supporting him. The clothes his body had shredded were gone, not a trace anywhere. As he got up, his cock didn’t dangle, it flopped about, smacking his thighs with weight. Precum spilt from the tip onto the floor. “Unsanitary,” Do-yun muttered to himself. But as he watched that clear liquid puddle, he noticed the restaurant's floors were different. His gaze shifted. The entire place was different. It had gone from a generic western dining to a more Korean experience.
There was a white fundoshi. waiting to be worn: Do-yun’s uniform. The answer was already in his head. Though he wasn’t sure why he found himself slipping them on, making sure his package sat just right to help sell the merchandise. As he did, he perched himself into a squatting position, watching people walk by. He didn’t try to leave. He didn’t have the desire to. The restaurant was his. He belonged there. No time to process that information as the wind chime jingled and two people walked into the store.
Familiar voices. Boisterous and loud. Jocks through and through. Daniel Gibbons and Greg McFielder. Both dressed in workout clothes. Daniel’s arms were out, wearing teal tank top biceps showing off. Greg had on a white muscle shirt, but his chest looked ripe, nipples poking through. Their shorts were both black and mid-thigh, showing off the great quality of their thighs and legs.
“What’s the deal with this place?” Daniel turned around and Greg smacked his arm, both spotting Do-yun watching them.
“Hey, uh, we’d like to eat here?” Greg asked. His typical cocky voice sounded unsure, eyes darting around. The space was devoid of people, save for the three of them. They looked directly at Do-yun bulging in his undergarment and made no note of it. Do-yun cautiously nodded to a table with menus’. The two young men sat down.
A sobering reality to have his personal antagonists step through the door. Do-yun stood up. He became hyper-aware of his near nudity. Logically, his heart should have been pounding for multiple reasons, but he was entirely calm. Ass swaying, he walked over to them, crotch eye level with their faces.
“What will you two be having?” Do-yun asked, hands behind his back posture straight.
“Is this a joke, there’s only one thing on the menu?” Daniel flipped the book over searching for more pages. “What kind of cheap ass place is this?”
“I assure you, that’s correct.” Do-yun stated. “We only offer one thing, but you're sure to enjoy it.”
Daniel rolled his eyes closing the book, “You seem pretty confident.”’
“Oh, come on man, I’ve never had Do-yun Choi either, but it sounds pretty good. Say a group meal. We could split it!” Greg petitioned his buddy.
Do-yun peered over and the only thing written down in the menu book was his stolen description. If the place was his now, what exactly was he expected to make?
“Ugh! Fine.” Daniel sighed.
Greg pumped his fist, “We’ll have Do-yun Choi then!”
“A fine choice.” Do-yun bowed.
“It was the only choice,” Daniel sniped.
Ignoring him, Do-yun put the menus away, then as if second nature, climbed up onto the table in front of Greg, his side to Daniel.
“Enjoy your meal.” Do-yun said.
The two jocks stared dumbly at what had been ‘served’ in front of them.
“The hell is—
Daniel’s words were cut off by the sound of Greg standing up to nurse on one of Do-yun’s pert nipples. The compass tattoo moved under order of the pec’s gyrations. Greg pushed his face in deeper, nuzzling both bodacious man-tiddies. He popped his head out, “You got to try some of this man.” Then he was back on a nipple suckling, hand fiddling with Do-yun’s piercing.
Do-yun and Daniel exchanged looks. Do-yun extended his hand. Daniel grabbed it and struggled bringing it closer to him. His eyes seemed frightened, but his mouth was wanting, a strand of drool escaping. Do-yun watched the jock’s willpower collapse in real time, as Daniel shoved Do-yun’s thick index finger into his mouth, moaning, body shaking in pleasure. Kisses and licks over his arm across his torso. Greg was lapping up the pecs watching them jiggle back into place. Daniel’s kisses, morphed into full out make out with Do-yun’s biceps and forearms. The two were going to Do-yun like he was their favorite ice cream flavor.
Do-yun had one thought: This was just foreplay. Despite that, neither jock had his realization. Daniel licked and traced a protruding vein up Do-yun’s neck. Greg couldn’t peel himself from Do-yun’s chest, humping the table as Do-yun cradled the back of his head, teasing the blond’s hair.
“Taste so fucking good!” Greg whined, backing up face cover in slobber
“Yeah, where fuck has this place been all my life?” Daniel stopped kissing, chest moving heavily attempting to catch its breath. They put Do-yun on all fours on top of the table, as Greg crawled under him in a 69 position. Daniel slapped both of Do-yun’s cheeks, testing its firmness before leaning in and kissing each. He pulled the thin undergarment strand aside, exposing Do-yun’s pretty hole. Then he dove in, eating Do-yun’s ass, tongue diving deep, Fat cheeks smothering his face’s cheeks. Meanwhile, Greg fished out Do-yun’s cock, letting it snap out of the pouch and slip right into his mouth. He had an insane neck game, born out of pure eagerness.
A wave of pleasure washed over Do-yun as he was assaulted from the front and back. Never in his life would he have believed those straight guys could go so hard sexually on another dude's body. There was no faking it or hesitation. They were going for gold. Greg’s boner was a big fucking indicator for their enthusiasm. Ecstatic himself, Do-yun retrieved Greg’s eager cock and plopped it in his mouth.
“MMffhpphh.” Greg moaned, legs shaking unable to speak with the sausage clogging his throat.
“What was—Mmffhpph!” Daniel’s face was shoved back into Do-yun’s ass by a massive hand and held there. Do-yun thrusted his hips deeper down in Greg’s throat.
“Don’t talk with your mouths full at a restaurant, boys.” Do-yun corrected.
The ass eating and cock sucking lasted for a while. Daniel started to sneak his lips down to Do-yun’s bloated balls and kissing and sucking them, his face near Greg’s. At one point, Do-yun felt his cock miss a throat but brush against Greg's face nuzzling his crotch. Greg’s cock twitched in Do-yun’s throat as fresh jock cum spewed forth, before being swallowed down. Do-yun sucked it all out, feeling each slurp make the tingle in his own balls get even stronger. Luckily, he wouldn’t be without a throat as Greg got full deep throat and Do-yun unloaded right into it. Took Do-yun longer to drain his balls into the jock. As he did Greg’s abs extended out ever so slightly, taking on a pudgier quality.
Once it was over Do-yun pulled his cock up and Greg stumbled off the table into a chair.
“I’m fucking stuffed.” Greg rubbed his gurgling gut.
Daniel pulled his head out of Do-yun's ass, “I could actually go for dessert!”
Do-yun smirked, patting his lap and Daniel understood right away. The jock flicked off his pants and underwear climbing into Do-yun’s lap. A wiser person may have asked how had a virgin’s oversized cock breached a jock’s untouched hole so easily? Well, a wiser person wasn’t there, and it happened with no fanfare. Do-yun simply positioned himself and thrusted in. Daniel opened up immediately, ass gripping Do-yun’s dick. Greg sat in his chair watching as his best friend got fucked in front of him.
“This is sex? We’re like fucking right now, right? I’m not going crazy?” Do-yun asked, body pummeling into his partner. His body was doing things and making itself available in a way Do-yun didn’t even know where possible. Daniel asked for dessert and got a dick up his ass. How did that correlate?
“Yeah, best dessert ever man!” Daniel shouted. It didn't engage with Do-yun’s question at all. The footballer’s cock slapped against Do-yun’s abs, battering them. A strong hip thrust and Do-yun flooded Daniel’s gut. Daniel’s cock fired the moment he felt the warmth enter him, blasting long ropes over him and his host. By the time he got up, assisted by Do-yun, Daniel also sported a little food pouch. “Fuck, that tasted so good!”
Do-yun got up caked in cum, completely naked, looking over his satisfied customers. Their stomachs were loud with the digestion process but Do-yun wasn't even sure why. They hadn’t actually eaten anything. Putting his undergarments back on, he watched as their stomachs shrank pulling back into abs, even larger than before. Their chests pushed forward, arms out. Even the cushion of their asses inflated. The real shock however was the black that erupted from their hair. All traces of brown and yellow vanished. Thicker eyebrows. Plumper lips. Suddenly, they looked a whole less like themselves and more like…Do-yun.
“Fuckin hell that was great!” Daniel stood up and gave Do-yun a celebratory handshake. Still naked from below he pulled Do-yun into a hug, his own cum seeping into his shrunken tank top.
“We gotta come back here again!” Greg gently pushed Daniel away so he could lap up his best friend’s cum off Do-yun’s giant milkers. The wrestler took his sweet time, and no one was in a rush to remove him. By the time they left they were raving how they were going to tell everyone, even their dads.
Do-yun took a long sigh of relief once they were gone. He had just had sex with his childhood bullies and enjoyed it. Those two had a hankering for cock that even Do-yun couldn't compete with them. And the way Greg came when Daniel kissed him? What was going on there? Alone again, he looked around the restaurant, realizing he had been made the owner and all he served was himself. Definitely, a strange place. He could have left and never looked back. Maybe Do-yun should have left. But in all honesty, he was looking forward to when they'd bring more of their jock friends along.
No one asked why there was a sudden explosive growth of the Asian population in their county. Do-yun Choi’s signature dish was lauded by word of mouth as a cultural touch stone needed to bring some diversity of flavor back into a stagnant town.
Even the men at the country club couldn’t resist to call in a reservation, determined to appraise the place. Do-yun would listen, cock already stretching, thinking about how to best feed the fathers of the jocks who bullied him. The men who hadn’t done a damn thing to stop it. They needed the splash of cultural taste more than anyone.
They’d come in, wandering about, appraising the place, and unexpectedly find their meal ready and waiting. Do-yun couldn’t wait to share dessert with them.
