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Family Man

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The fifteen-minute walk to Elliott Schmidt’s house was just long enough to make Mason Zimmerman question the legitimacy of using a car. But it was a nice summer day and the eighteen-year-old enjoyed taking the extra time to listen to his music. He preferred to make the trip to his best friend’s house by foot - it was an excuse to listen to more music on his AirPods while he strolled through the scenic suburban streets. After two fast-paced rock songs, Mason was relieved to find himself in front of the Schmidt household. The light cinnamon shade of the house provided a rustic feel that the other estates on the block lacked.

The text message arrived at the very second that Mason Zimmerman rang the doorbell. Mason pulled out his phone and frowned at the text from his friend Elliott.

“Dude, jazz band practice is running late. I’ll be at my house in 20.”

“So now he decides to text me,” Mason grunted with a roll of his eyes. It was typical behavior though. Elliott had told him all about how strict the new band conductor was at their school. He just wished his friend had let him know before he walked a mile to get here. Putting his hands in his pockets, Mason debated if he should just turn around and go home or wait outside the Schimdt’s house for Elliott to come back. Suddenly, the front door swung open in front of him.

The booming resonance of the Schmidt family patriarch filled the air. “Oh, hello Mason,” he said, his face not conveying much emotion. Dressed in a white dress shirt and a pair of dark brown khakis, his broad yet pudgy figure filled most of the doorway. His long black tie swung with his movements, bouncing over his round yet flabby pectorals and his potbelly. There were dark circles under his eyes and his shirt was a little crinkled at parts. “How are you?” he asked feigning a smile.

“Hey, I’m doing good Mr. Schmidt,” Mason replied warmly. “Sorry, Elliott just texted me and said that jazz band practice will be done in a half-hour.”

“Oh, is that where he’s at today?” Mr. Schmidt said, scratching at his receding widow’s peak. “I can never keep track of what that boy is up to each day.” That was definitely true. Not even Mason could keep up with his best friend’s inconsistent schedule. With jazz band and his computer science club, Elliott always had some event to go to every few days. “You could stay here until he gets back if you want,” Mr. Schmidt offered.

“Oh yeah, that’d be awesome,” Mason replied. This was a fairly normal occurrence considering how often he was over. “Thanks,” he made sure to add after a silent five second pause. Mr. Schmidt was certainly a nice guy after you got to know him, but he still could be a bit of a hardass. Despite knowing him for a few years since he and Elliott met in freshman year, Mason was still a little daunted by his father. There had been a recent situation where Mr. Schmidt had threatened to ban Mason from coming over ever again due to a rowdy night of late-night gaming a few weeks ago. Ever since then, he’d made sure to tread lightly to not provoke the angry giant once more. Although the ice had been broken since then, Mr. Schmidt’s penetrating leer still prompted Mason to focus on being polite.

Feeling a loud set of vibrations emanating in his pocket, Mr. Schmidt scooped out his phone and grimaced at it. “I’ve gotta take this,” he sighed. “Help yourself to anything you want in the fridge.”

“Okay, awesome. Thank you!” Mason replied courteously. Since he was over all the time, Mr. Schmidt practically treated him like a second son. That was, if Mason didn’t get on his bad side.

“Don’t mention it, bud. Make yourself at home,” Mr. Schmidt replied, now with that stoic expression back on his face.

That was a pretty good interaction, Mason thought. He’d even been called “bud.”

Not breaking eye contact from his phone, the short, disgruntled man walked away and began promptly dialing up a number. Mason couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Schmidt’s body had a noticeable bounce to it when he moved, especially the way his love handles protruded from his shirt and the way his paunchy rump bounced up and down with his footsteps. Mason would never judge his friend’s father for his weight gain, but ever since he’d gotten a promotion to be a manager for his job, it’d become increasingly noticeable. Over the course of a few months, Mr. Schmidt must’ve gained around sixty pounds as a result of working weird hours and eating out, often at fast food and local diners. Mason sympathized, but he knew it wasn’t his place to say anything. It wasn’t like he knew a thing about being a general manager for a bunch of retail stores across the whole metro area anyway.

Mason migrated over to the granite kitchen island, which separated the kitchen from the living room. The living room also had quite a nice flatscreen television in their living room. If Mason and Elliott weren’t downstairs playing videogames in Elliott’s room till the early morning hours, they were up here. Mason plopped the drawstring bag that held his gaming laptop down on the cushiony couch like he had thousands of times before and made his way to the kitchen, hungry for a quick snack to tide him over while he waited.

Opening the fridge, Mason noticed that it was stocked full of food! Almost every square inch of it was occupied by some kind of wrapped up meat, vegetable, or tupperware containers with meals inside. That was so odd. He visited the house every other day and usually the fridge was pretty scarce - mostly just filled with leftovers or various snacks. It seemed like an absurd amount of food for only Elliott and his father. Initially daunted by the unusual display, Mason finally landed on a plastic bag that contained what appeared to be a cold turkey and cheese sandwich. Noticing two other identical bags filled with it behind it, Mason figured Mr. Schmidt wouldn’t mind. He ate so much of their food anyway. He was over so often that he was practically Elliott’s twin.

Mason glided over to the living room table, plopping down on their couch in front of the tv, which was playing commercials. Placing the plate with his sandwich down on the ottoman in front of him and looked to either side of him, but the tv remote was nowhere in sight. “Crud,” Mason huffed as he begrudgingly stood back up and began to search through the couch cushions for it. As he did, he was treated to the sound of Mr. Schmidt’s flustered conversation in the other room.

“Yes, I understand your concerns Mr. Brafford. Well, every store needs quarterly audits and the store in Maple Heights is up next...Why is that? I…uh….I dunno, man, but like…I’m only the messenger ...Uh-huh…Yes….yes I know it’s very umm…in…inopportune. Ah jeez, what were we talking about again?”

A wave of second-hand embarrassment washed over Mason. It was difficult to hear how stressed and exhausted Mr. Schmidt sounded. Usually, he was a very composed individual, but ever since his new promotion, he’d seemed much more disheveled and fatigued. Mason couldn’t blame him. Having to travel to places across the metro and answer phone calls all day didn’t seem ideal.

Suddenly, the sonorous bass of a sports announcer’s voice filled the air. Mason spun around and grimaced. “Ugh. Not football,” he grunted as he looked at the pixelated screen, which showcased players of two different teams assembled across the field. Mason checked for the remote, but it was nowhere to be seen. Scouring all of the adjacent tables and reaching into the cracks of the leather cushions turned up nothing. Football, and most sports for that matter, bored him to no end. It just seemed like a legion of huge, spandex-clad men assaulting each other, and millions of people around the country were obsessed with it for some reason. And now he was forced to listen to the rowdy announcer yell about some stupid play that a guy had made. Mason begrudgingly pulled himself from his seat and crouched down to look under the couch, but all he found was dust. In the distance, he could still hear Mr. Schmidt’s weary voice.

“What’s come over me? Sheesh, I don’t know, man. I just uh…I think I haven’t had lunch is all….Yep….Yep I know…I promise to get back to you in the hour. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m terribly sorry. Something…like came over me, I swear…man. I mean-thank you so much sir.”

Mason stood back up, fruitless in his search so he decided to check the surrounding tables on either side of the couch, mostly as a distraction from listening to Mr. Schmidt’s verbal struggle. The announcer’s shrill voice filled the room as he revamped his energy to boisterously narrate the next play of the game, making it harder for the young man to zone it out. Glancing back down at the gray sofa, Mason still could not find any trace of the elusive tv remote. However, something else caught his eye. Just below his chin, he noticed a long black thread protruding from the center of his clavicle. That was weird. The long, spindly fiber wasn’t even the same color as his light green-colored shirt.

“Owch!” Mason cried as he plucked at it, only to find that the thread had actually been a long black chest hair. Puberty was weird, but this was even weirder. He had blonde hair, but maybe mens’ chest hair was darker than their head-hair or something. That seemed right. He’d probably heard that in health class or something.

“Whatcha lookin’ for, kid?” came Mr. Schmidt’s familiar voice. “Ah, just the tv remote-.” Mason stopped himself as he looked at Mr. Schmidt. The forty-eight-year-old’s look of dishevelment was still there and his shirt was still wrinkled, but for some reason he was wearing….a backward black cap? It seemed so out of place on an older man like Mr. Schmidt, but he didn't seem to care. “What’s with the hat?” Mason asked after a few wordless seconds.

“I figured I’d wear it to remind me of my high school days,” Mr. Schmidt replied.

“Oh nice,” Mason answered. In the six years that he’d known him, this was the first time that Mr. Schmidt had even mentioned high school.

“This job has been so much more than I asked for,” Mr. Schmidt confided as he sidled over to the fridge and swung open the door, revealing his dress shirt was only tucked in a few places on his back. Mr. Schmidt continued, seemingly eager to vent. “I swear, I’m running around town every single day, trying to keep all these stores in line.” He grabbed a half-gallon of milk and without hesitating, he twisted the cap off and brought the bottle to his lips, taking large gulps before pulling it away with a noisy exhale. A few stray drops even dripped from his mouth and trickled onto the floor, nearly falling onto his shirt.

Mason was aghast. He’d never seen Mr. Schmidt act so casual before. It was so off-putting, like he was about to snap back to his stoic self and pull a “gotcha” moment. Mr. Schmidt always yelled at Elliott and Mason when they left a mess in the kitchen from their late-night snacks. But today he didn’t seem to care. The dark rings around his eyes said it all.

“Man, that’s heckin’ loud,” Mr. Schmidt said as he glanced over at the tv which was assaulting them with the announcer’s loud voice. He’d always had a habit of not cussing and even through the strenuous day he appeared to be having, he did not break that habit. As he put the container of milk back in the fridge, he wiped a stray droplet from his mouth before spinning back to snatch the remote sitting on the kitchen table and lowered the volume. So that’s where the damn thing was.

All of a sudden, Mason felt another tickle on his chest. This time when he glanced down, he froze. There was an unmissable black patch of hair. It wasn’t very large, but it was certainly noticeable. The wiry sable follicles dangled over the hem of his green shirt. A brief tug indicated that the patch was very much attached to him. Cautiously, he ran his hand through the individual fibers and watched how they bent like blades of grass.

“What on earth are you doin’ over there, kid?” Mr. Schmidt asked, now holding a container full of food.

“My chest. It…it has hair,” was all Mason said as he craned his neck back up and realized Mr. Schmidt seemed taller than him for some reason. That was different. Usually the two of them were around the same height.

“Yes it does,” Mr. Schmidt replied with an indifferent expression before walking over to the kitchen cabinet.

“No…I’m not s…supposed to have chest hair,” Mason said before squirming. A wave of itchiness spread across his torso and he swore he could feel more hairs emerge.

“Sure you are!” Mr. Schmidt loudly assured, the tone of his loud voice carried across the whole kitchen and living room. He grabbed a plate from the cabinet and placed it down. With his back still turned to Mason, he unloaded his food onto the plate with a fork and casually continued. “Getting a hairy chest is just a natural part of life! I’ve always trimmed mine though.”

“No, I’ve never been hairy,” Mason insisted as the itchy feeling was mounting across his slender torso.

Mr. Schmidt didn’t respond. He was too busy scooping the pieces of rice, chicken, and broccoli out of the container and onto his plate. Mr. Schmidt’s black cap taunted Mason - the object looked so out of place on his friend’s imperial father. Even more strange was the fact that his dress shirt seemed a little tight. It certainly didn’t complement his unsightly back fat. As Mason happened to be staring intently at his friend’s dad, he swore he saw the man rise taller by a few inches. Mason shook his head, figuring he must’ve been seeing things. Mr. Schmidt didn’t seem to notice as he plopped his plate in the black microwave and started a timer for his food. The paunchy man spun back around and only confirmed Mason’s suspicions: he had grown a few inches. But that was an absurd thought. People didn’t just get taller, especially not when they were forty-eight years old.

As Mr. Schmidt walked closer to Mason, the young man was relieved. It had only been an illusion and the two were still the same height. What a relief. But for some reason, Mason noticed that his clothes felt a little…tighter. To his dismay, he noticed that his patch of chest fuzz had not got away. In fact, it seemed even more prominent.

Mr. Schmidt had an uncharacteristically casual swagger as he snatched a water bottle off the table. “So have ya thought about where you're gonna go for college?” he asked before taking a sip.

“Oh, um, not really,” Mason admitted while he subconsciously scratched his chest as more hairs spread down his skinny torso. He hadn’t even applied for colleges yet. Neither had Elliott. The two knew they were probably gonna end up going to the same university anyway. It wasn’t like they had any strong opinions about any of them.

“Have ya thought about Michigan? The Wolverines are kickin' butt this season!” Mr. Schmidt said. He leaned against the table and Mason swore he shot up another inch taller. Even his typically round potbelly seemed less pronounced - its curvature still remained, but its circumference had undoubtedly dwindled. “Nebraska’s also got a great program. So does Minnesota, Notre Dame, Ohio…”

“Program?” Mason asked. “Like for math or science or-”

“No, for football ya dunderhead!” Mr. Schmidt exclaimed, punctuating his comment with a roaring guffaw that ended in a goofy-sounding “huh-huh-huh” before he coughed to correct it. His eyes were wide, like he was surprised he’d sounded so silly. “Anyway,” he said, regaining his composure, “I think you should really check out the football programs at any of those places. That’s what I tell Elliott all the time!”

Mason couldn’t believe his ears. In the six years he’d known him, Elliott’s father had never once conveyed an interest in football. And neither he nor Elliott had ever conveyed any interest in the sport. Before he could interject, the microwave’s timer went off.

DING! DING! DING!

“Freakin’ finally,” Mr. Schmidt said, maintaining his lax attitude as he swiftly glided over to the machine. Mason was just flabbergasted. He’d never seen the man act so…chill. Not to mention that he was looking slimmer by the minute. Mason didn’t know that the kitchen lighting could make someone look that much skinnier…or taller? The microwave released a brief wave of steam as the older man swung the door open and promptly reached inside. “Don’t burn yourself!” Mason impulsively exclaimed.

It was already too late as Mr. Schmidt carelessly grabbed the plate. “Ow, ow, ow,” he muttered as he picked it up before rapidly setting it down on the kitchen counter, steam still brewing from the ceramic plate and his appetizing lunch.

“What did I just tell you?” Mason scolded before clamping a hand over his mouth. Why was he talking like this?

“No I’m not, man,” Mr. Schmidt replied casually. His pronunciation of the word “man” sounded extra forced, like he was trying to relate to teenagers, but he didn’t seem to care. “You just gotta be quick with your hands like me,” he gloated before grabbing the plate once more and hustling it over to the granite countertop. “Easy as pie.” “Uh-huh,” Mason replied, unsure how to reply. As he watched the forty-eight-year-old sit down at the stool next to him to eat his lunch, there was no denying that he had gotten taller. And skinnier too. Even the jowls on the sides of his mouth had faded and his neck seemed skinnier than before.

“Oh word, this is the Patriots-Cowboys game from last night!” Mr. Schmidt erupted before taking his first bite. He snatched the remote and turned the volume back up. Mason just wordlessly watched as the man was instantly glued to the tv, lingering on every word the raucous announcer bellowed. Upon closer inspection, Mr. Schmidt’s shirt was still a ruffled mess, but there was no doubt that his body was not filling his shirt up as much as before. A low rumble in Mason’s belly reminded him that he was also starving, so he decided to dig into the sandwich sitting next to him on the counter. The sense of unease had not left him though, so as he started eating, he took out his phone and texted Elliott:

Dude, your dad is being super weird. Since when does he like football? He’s literally watching a game right now and talking to me about college football. Are you almost home?

Noshing away on his sandwich, Mason decided to scroll through social media for the next few minutes until Elliott’s reply finally came through:

Omg weird. Practice just got out tho, I’ll see ya in like 10 mins dude.

Finally some normality, Mason thought before taking the final bite of his small sandwich.

RIIIIPPPP!

Mason jumped and nearly threw his phone across the table. His t-shirt had torn somehow and he could feel the faint breeze of air conditioning tickle his newly exposed chest. A black forest of hair greeted him as he glanced down at his upper body. Not only that, but his pectorals had grown…fuller? They had an irrefutable roundness to them, only accentuated by the mass of black hair that was even visible through his tight green t-shirt! As Mason tensely breathed, he was horrified to see his pecs do the same.

PING! PING!

Confused by the additional noise, Mason perked up to see that the top two buttons to Mr. Schmidt’s dress shirt had popped open. “Ah, that’s better,” Mr. Schmidt sighed. Just like Mason, his pecs were now on display, only his looked more strange. They also had an odd rectangular shape to them, like they were being stretched out, and unlike Mason’s, they were completely devoid of hair. “It’s nice to have the collar open, huh Mason?” Mr. Schmidt said with a smirk on his face.

“I’m not supposed to look like this,” Mason sulked.

“Like what?”

“I’m not supposed to be hairy,” Mason muttered weakly. However, just as he finished his sentence, a rapid wave of hair growth radiated across his chest in record speed. The black hairs multiplied into the millions, covering every area of his torso ranging from his shoulders to his back to the bottom of his stomach. Mason’s t-shirt, once light green, had now taken on a darker complexion due to the carpet of hair that now coated his torso. It clung tightly to his hairy, slender chest and its torn collar allowed a fair amount of the spindly hairs to be on full display.

“Sheesh, you aren’t kidding! You really are a hairy guy, Mason!” Mr. Schmidt said as he stood up from his chair, glancing at the black bush that hung just below Mason’s chin. With his black tie now undone, the forty-eight-year old’s hairless clavicle taunted him with its modesty. Mr. Schmidt’s pecs jiggled when he walked, causing Mason to grow more confused. Mason averted his gaze and looked down at his hairy self. He looked like a hairy freak! And to make matters worse, his stomach even looked a little bloated. It also had an irrefutable fullness to it. “Don’t feel bad about it though,” Mr. Schmidt continued as he placed his plate in the sink. “Getting hair in other places is just a natural part of life.” he said as he turned back around.

An influx of dark hairs curled out over Mason’s hands and gradually crept up his forearms. “Yeah but I don’t-”

“Ah, shoot, I’ve gotta get back to work,” Mr. Schmidt interrupted as he looked at his phone, holding it out a few inches from his face the way older people did. He then placed it down and rebuttoned his shirt buttons, which rewarded him by constricting his rectangular pecs. Surprisingly enough, they withheld some firmness beneath their flab. Luckily, the buttons held together, allowing Mr. Schmidt to fix his tie.

As Mason took some more time to scroll through his phone and figure out what was happening to him, he found that it was harder to click on things. A quick Google search on sudden hair growth turned up nothing substantial so he turned to social media, however he found that he had to jam his thumb into the screen to click through snapchats his friends had sent. The new dark hair on the back of Mason’s fingers taunted him, although it was nothing compared to the thick carpets of hair that had covered his skinny forearms. Frustratingly enough, Mason found that his phone was slowing down until eventually, his social media feed wouldn’t even refresh no matter how hard he tried. After a few seconds, Mason gave up with an infuriated huff and powered down his phone to restart. When he glanced back up, he noticed that Mr. Schmidt was still fumbling over his tie.

“You having trouble over there?” Mason asked, trying not to laugh at Mr. Schmidt’s tangled tie.

“Yeah, a little,” the older man said, changing his flummoxed expression to a feigned grin. He aggressively yanked on the round knot at the top of his tie. No amount of effort would rectify that pitiful Windsor knot.

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” Mason cried out as he stood up and instinctively walked closer.

Mr. Schmidt’s face turned a crimson red. It was rare to see the stoic man look so embarrassed and vulnerable. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know what’s come over me. This used to be so much easier. I just-”

“It’s alright,” Mason comforted, noticing the clear duress on the guy’s face. The poor guy must’ve been really pushed to his limit mentally if he couldn’t even tie his tie correctly. “Let’s just try and redo the whole thing,” he suggested. Luckily, Mason had some unlikely expertise in this field. The junior-scientist conventions he and Elliott had attended ever since middle school had taught him how to seamlessly tie a tie.

“Yeah, yeah I think that’s best,” Mr. Schmidt agreed, before promptly obeying. He flicked his white collar up further and tried again, crossing the two sides of the tie over his chest to create an X. He did a few more maneuvers successfully before giving up in a huff. “This job’s been really doing a number on me, huh?” he said, trying to compensate for his fatigue. He took the tie off and held it out to a confused Mason. “Could you just show me how you do it? I think I just need to see it done to get it back in my head.”

“Oh umm, yeah, of course,” Mason replied, a little astounded by Mr. Schmidt’s request, but he accepted the offer nonetheless. Positioning the black tie around his neck, Mason failed to notice that a collar had swiftly fluttered into existence around his neck. It promptly flapped down around it, leaving just enough room for him to move the tie. Beginning the process, Mason was surprised at how quick he was in his execution. As he went through the steps with ease, his doubts alleviated by Mr. Schmidt’s rapt nods and encouragement. Through some unseen force, Mason’s shirt also mended itself, unfortunately concealing the swelling hairy spheres that his pecs were becoming. After a minute-long attempt, Mason ended up with a semi-deflated Windsor knot. “Well, it can be hard to get on the first try. That’s for…SURE!!”

Mason sputtered from a tightening pressure as the black tie coiled tightly around his neck. Pulled by some unseen force, his mediocre Windsor knot rapidly cinched itself into an exemplary one that unfortunately concealed the young man’s shaggy chest. The wave of force wasn’t finished yet though as it continued to ripple through him like a tidal wave. At an impressive rate, Mason’s flat pecs bulged out in unison with his bloated stomach. It wasn’t a drastic change, but it certainly gave him a new fullness all over. His body looked far less scrawny and awkward and far more adult. “What the hell,” Mason gasped as he teetered on his long legs. Sure enough, he’d been endowed with a pudgy belly that hung out from his collared t-shirt, which looked like it was fit to burst due to how tight it was.

“MMFF!” came a subdued grunt from Mr. Schmidt. Peering over, Mason watched in disbelief as the middle-aged man sprung up even taller in height. His 5’10” figure launched up to a staggering 6’5”. The rapid growth also caused Mr. Schmidt’s pudgy gut to suck in on itself, giving him an extremely lean appearance. However, the weight that Mr. Schmidt lost seemed to dissipate directly into Mason who moaned as his gut developed a brand new roundness. And in an instant, it ceased, leaving the two men breathlessly panting as they stared down at their radically different figures.

“HOLY COW! I’M THIN!!” Mr. Schmidt exclaimed as he stared down at his flattened abdomen. All of his fat had vanished.

“HOLY CRAP! I’M HUGE!” Mason exclaimed, looking at his new bulbous belly. Somehow, he had absorbed all of Mr. Schmidt’s fat and then some.

“Are those abs?” Mr. Schmidt cried as he noticed six indentations beneath his baggy polyester shirt. Even his pecs made distinct shapes, but instead of their usual fat, they felt much more…rigid? A quick goose of one of them only proved his point - they had some muscle to them.

Mason, meanwhile, held onto a chair by the kitchen island, nearly toppling over from his new volleyball-sized stomach “What…what is happening?” he mewed breathlessly, giving his rotund orb a poke. Yep, it was real - and there was still a carpet of hair beneath that made his chest feel even hotter beneath the tight shirt. Desperately, he tried to lift it up, but the shirt had other ideas. It danced free from Mason’s fingers, magically generating more fabric as it descended past his waist and tucked itself into his gym shorts. The round young man squirmed as he felt two objects wrap around his upper thighs. As soon as they were fastened, Mason’s new shirt garters locked his silky new shirt in place, eliminating any wrinkles and enhancing the curvature of his belly. “No, no, no,” he cried as he sprung to yank off the garters from his thighs, however his swift action was promptly punished. As Mason feverishly tried to unclench his brand new shirt garters, his already pudgy belly swelled larger and larger until his belly was a firm hemisphere that brazenly protruded out. It looked like he had swallowed a yoga ball! Interestingly, it didn’t sag like Mr. Schmidt’s belly had; instead it stood still in place like a boulder, balanced just above his widening waistline. As one final show of its permanence, a line of white buttons shot up the center of Mason’s new oversized t-shirt, tethering it even tighter to his huge, hairy figure.

Mr. Schmidt’s chuckled dimly. “Wow Mason, you’re built like a brick shithouse!”

Mason perked up, forgetting that he now had to glance up at the taller man. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Mr. Schmidt, did you just swear?” he asked, still in disbelief that Elliott’s authoritative father had actually sworn.

“Hm? Oh yes…it certainly appears I did,” Mr. Schmidt replied, his voice trembling for a moment. Before he could speak further, his pectoral muscles suddenly exploded to the size of party balloons. “WHUH?” Mr. Schmidt choked, his composure ripped from him once again. This change was far from subtle; his flabby pecs swelled larger, first becoming lean like his abdomen before inflating further and further. It wasn’t long before a cacophony of loud pings filled the room, as Mr. Schmidt’s muscular jugs and ripped torso sent all of his shirt buttons flying. Mason could only watch in horrified mesmerism as the pair of enormous pecs swelled so large that they rivaled the size of his head. Finally, Mr. Schmidt’s pecs settled on their final commanding width. The middle-aged man sighed in relief and his porn-star pecs heaved in unison.

Both men looked at each other with wide-eyed expressions. Mason’s was one of shock, but Mr. Schmidt’s was one of raw excitement. “What is happening to us, Mr. Schmidt?” Mason asked in an attempt to clear the awkward silence. “I think that-“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t need to be formal with me,” Mr. Schmidt interrupted, still with that cocky smirk on his face.

“I…I don’t?”

“Yeah man. Mr. Schmidt sounds waaay too formal,” the middle-aged man replied, his manner of speech was becoming less eloquent. He still had that confident smirk plastered on his face, but it flickered intermittently, as if he was fighting to regain his self-control. “I just go by Doug,” he said before his weak shoulders immediately broadened. “Huh-huh. Doug sounds a little d-dorky, doesn’t it?” the changing man muttered as a bulge started to rise in his pants. His new pair of broad shoulders looked like they belonged to a pro-athlete and they only sent more muscles cascading down Doug’s torso. The muscle radiated downward, making Doug’s abs really pop! As one final reward, his white dress shirt flung itself free from his loose-fitting pants, revealing that his waistline had shrunk! The torn shirt provided a window for all to see that Doug’s love-handles had faded completely, giving way to a pair of show-stopping obliques and a perfectly-tapered waistline befitting of someone far more in-shape than him.

“This has to be a dream,” Mason muttered to himself. Morbidly curious, he ran a hand down his line of shirt buttons and found that his belly wasn’t a tub of fat - it was all muscle! Hidden beneath a carpet of thick hair was an array of tight abs, just like Mr. Schmidt…or Doug as he’d rather be called. Sitting down on a tall kitchen chair only made Mason’s huge belly look even larger! As he prodded it, he grew distracted by his hands. His palms had grown enormous and his fingers had become far more fat and stubby. Even worse was the fact that his nails were now perfectly manicured!

“Oh shit, the game’s back on!” Doug said as the announcer’s deep yet calming voice refilled their airwaves. He glided past Mason and plopped down on the sofa. The supposed patriarch of the house had now lost his stoicism completely and had placed his elbows on his knees as he sat on the edge of the couch, leering at the tv with youthful wonder. As a matter of fact, his face seemed a lot more…relaxed. Instead of a permanently gruff frown, Doug had a subtle grin. “So what do you and Elliott have planned for today?” he asked casually without looking away from the screen.

Elliott! What will he think of this whole mess? Mason thought. He wanted to text him again, but he wasn’t even sure how to explain the whole predicament. “Hey dude, your dad’s acting like he had a mid-life crisis and I got really fat out of nowhere” didn’t really sound all that realistic. Hell, if Mason wasn’t feeling the breadth of his hairy tits heaving up and down when he breathed, he would’ve thought he sounded crazy too.

“Mason!”

Mason rocked his head back up. “Huh what?” That was weird, he thought, Doug’s shirt looked so tight now that his nipples could be seen pressed against the fabric. Gross.

“I asked…like…what are you and Elliott gonna be up to?” Doug asked slower than before, allowing the words to linger on his tongue for longer. He’d also thrown his right arm up on the side of the couch.

“Probably just…videogames or something,” Mason mindlessly replied as he gazed at the newest spectacle in front of him. Mr. Schmidt…or…Doug actually had biceps! They weren’t small either. Cradled by the elbow-length vestiges of his tattered dress shirt, they were on full display.

“Oh word,” Doug replied calmly. There was a brief silence until another splitting “RIIIPPPP” that filled the room. Both men were wrought with bewildered as Doug’s biceps exploded through his shirt sleeves, causing white fabric to spill to the floor. Huge, hulking biceps and triceps took their place, complemented by broad forearms. They extended back to Doug’s circular shoulder muscles. His arms were bigger than any arms Mason had ever seen. After a few more tense seconds, Doug finally exhaled with relief as his huge biceps and triceps finished solidifying. They were enormous - so enormous in fact, that Mason could even see their long, striatic veins from his perch at the kitchen table.

As Doug flexed one of his new massive arms, Mason espied Doug’s waist as it tapered itself to a smaller width, making Doug’s faded dress pants oversized. They hung loosely below his midriff for a moment before they pulled taut once again while his round thighs swelled a few inches larger. “Oh fuck yea, dude,” Doug purred, his voice sounded different so he cleared his throat. It sounded less like a man in his forties trying to act hip and more like a younger man whose deep voice now had an air of juvenescence to it.

It was at this moment that his fatty thighs ballooned forth, stretching the black polyester of his fading pants. Cradling his growing erection, Doug’s thighs rapidly stretched tight with muscle, becoming just as robust as his arms and pecs. His pants also seemed eager to show his thighs off as they suddenly crept up his legs until they stopped just above his knee. In those short few seconds, the black color disappeared from them, replaced by a dark brown, then a deep maroon, until finally settling on a scarlet red hue. Doug shook his legs and felt the brawniness radiate through them, aggrandizing his thighs and turning his slender calves into round ovals of muscle. Even his feet swelled larger and his black nylon socks turned to skimpy white athletic ones. Doug gingerly ran a hand over one of his new, muscular thighs, ogling at how spectacular they looked in his new bright red gym shorts. These were the type of legs that belonged to a very athletic individual, something Doug had never considered himself to be before.

Mason couldn’t help but notice that the back of Doug’s palm and wrist kept bumping into his tenting bulge as he squeezed his thighs, causing his cock to jiggle with each touch. Man, Doug sure was bad at being slick. Mason rolled his eyes - even he knew that trick.

“Ooh!” Doug said with surprise before that same dopey grin returned to his face. He was raised a few inches in the air as his buttcheeks inflated beneath him. As he placed his new brawny arms behind his head to relax, his torn shirt began to reform, quickly exposing his armpits. The remnants of his tattered sleeves vanished as the remaining fabric grew much skimpier and revealing. The shirt’s white coloration switched into dark black and compressed around his muscular barrel of a chest. Two thin straps appeared around Doug’s shoulders, pulling his new black tank top tight. “Fuck man, I’m so huge,” he gloated, giving one of his huge biceps another self-indulgent flex.

With the sudden changes seemingly over, Mason snapped out of his flabbergasted daze. It had been impossible to turn away and it was even more impossible to fathom. Somehow, the most stoic man he knew had become this dopey, muscular dude. If it wasn’t for his middle-aged face, Doug could be mistaken for a young athlete, the kind that just commanded attention. “I’m so fucking jacked! Let’s go!” Doug exclaimed, boisterously and lively like a college kid would.

Mason wanted to respond to Doug’s out of character cursing, but something stopped him. For the first time in years, the middle-aged man seemed so happy, even while wearing a younger man’s clothes. The crow’s feet around his eyes had vanished and his whole face had a new glow to it. Mason felt oddly proud. It felt wrong to stomp on Doug’s joy.

Then, Mason’s butt expanded beneath him.

“Whoa!” he cried as he was launched up from his stool. It nearly toppled to the floor over as the massive globes recentered the round young man’s posture. Mason’s new oversized rump was double the size of Doug’s! It was so large that it had propelled him up out of the stool, forcing Mason to instinctively hop out of the teetering chair, a reflex as to not fall over. Standing up also had an adverse effect on his dark gym shorts: they now had a collection of sharp white lines running down them. Even worse was that they couldn’t even be called shorts anymore. As additional fabric quickly unspooled to his ankles, Mason realized he was wearing a pair of black pinstriped pants! To complement them, Mason’s short white athletic socks stretched up his hairy legs and shifted into thin, black nylons: just like Doug’s old ones.

A presence at Mason’s stomach caught his attention. “Whuh?” he muttered, realizing that his stomach had pressed into the granite tabletop. It had grown even bigger? “No, no,” he pleaded. “I’ve gotta be like three hundred pounds! And I look like a f…fatass.”

Doug looked over, clearly noticing Mason’s distress. “What? You’re not a fatass,” he comforted. “You’ve just got the body of an ex-bodybuilder. At least, that’s what you’ve always told me.”

“Ex…body…builder…” Mason mewled. He flexed his arms and suddenly, they exploded with muscle right before his eyes. Thick, sinewy muscle radiated across his biceps and triceps, spreading to his delts and forearms in record speed. In a matter of seconds, his arms had surpassed Doug’s. They were huge and his black hair complemented their mass perfectly. Mason’s frayed shirtsleeves stood no chance against their magnificent mass and they began to immediately lengthen to cover them back up. “Mmm that’s right,” Mason grunted uncontrollably as the sleeves descended past his elbows until their reached his wrists - at which point they terminated into sharp new French cuffs. It was such a confusing, fiery feeling: to be mortified for having a huge belly, but then to be given arms that rivaled Schwarzenegger’s. A fancy new silver wristwatch appeared above the right hairy mitt that his right hand had become. “Errg no! This isn’t right! I don’t d-dress like this,” Mason huffed, his rich, sonorous bass ricocheting around the huge room.

“What are you talking about, Dad?”

Mason was in his own little world, just as his pastel-colored shirt dyed itself a rich shade of indigo. “I feel so…grown up. I feel…Wait a minute, Doug, what did you call me?”

“Umm… I called you Dad,” Doug replied peremptorily, as if Mason should’ve known. He glanced at the tv screen and then back ahead. “Why’d you call me Doug?” he retorted. His weak chin squared up and his thin lips became fat and kissable. “I feel like that’s such a dorky name! I’d rather go by Jack or Tristan or something. Yeah Tristan! That’s it!” To reaffirm the newly-minted muscular jock’s new name, the final wrinkles vanished from his face as he readjusted his crooked backward black cap.

Before Mason could inquire further, a wave of cold air rushed against his head from all directions. He nearly screamed as he brought his hand up to his head only to feel…nothing. There was zero hair remaining, no bristles, no nothing! Somehow, the one spot where Mason wanted his hair to say had been taken from him, while the rest of his body was coated in it. His head of long blonde hair had been taken from him in one moment. “What the hell!” Mason cried, abruptly jumping out of his seat.

“Are you feeling okay?” Tristan asked.

“Uh-huh,” Mason replied as he ran away, although it wasn’t very fast. His huge drum of a belly had repositioned his center of gravity and his reduced walking pace was to a lumbering waddle, only encumbered further by his humongous legs and arms. The stout man frantically headed down the adjacent hall toward the nearest bathroom. There was only one room at the end of the hall and that was Mr. Schmidt’s or…Tristan’s old room, but Mason didn’t care. He shuffled inside and darted into the master bathroom. However, his worst fears were confirmed.

“Holy shit!” Mason exclaimed. The reflection that greeted him was a total stranger that shared his face. This man had a huge, commanding, round barrel of a stomach and was dressed up like a businessman. He also must’ve grown a little taller and not even realized it! Reckoning he was almost taller than the mirror, Mason figured he must’ve been around 6 feet tall. His fear began to turn into intrigue. He actually looked…kinda cool! His immense width even eclipsed the width of the mirror, and he had to step back to take in his full breadth. This huge, formally-dressed beefcake of a man was actually him! The grapefruit-sized bulge in his pants indicated that there was certainly something different there too! Maybe, this wasn’t all bad.

The sound of Mason’s ringtone filled the bathroom. It took a few tries for him to jam his square hands into his wide pocket, but he finally found success. And to Mason’s relief, it was Elliott.

“Hey what’s up?” Elliott asked. “I just saw your text. What’s going on?”

“Dude!” Mason cried, his deep, unfamiliar voice echoed through the bathroom. “You won’t believe what’s happening. I know this sounds crazy, but I changed! I’m huge now and I’m dressed all fancy. And your dad is acting crazy! He looks just like a jock!l And he called me his dad and-”

“Jeez, you’re talking a mile a minute,” Elliott interrupted. “Listen, I just opened the garage. I’ll see ya in a sec."

“Great! Meet me in the master bedroom!” Mason exclaimed before promptly hanging up. It was almost comical to hear his low, sultry voice riddled with anxiety. He returned his attention to his domineering reflection. He shook his huge bulge and gave one of his pecs a squeeze. Fuck, that felt good. Curiosity struck again as Mason couldn’t resist the urge to try to bounce the rectangular slabs that were now his pecs. To his joy, they wiggled with ease and he bounced up and down beneath his silky cerulean dress shirt. He exited the bathroom and reentered the bedroom, observing the football pennants and modern art on the wall. This room seemed super personalized. On one of the dressers, Mason noticed there was a line of trophies: all little golden muscular dudes flexing their disproportionately-huge arms.

“Mason! What’s up?” Elliott called as he walked through the open bedroom door.

“Elliott!” the larger-than-life man bellowed as he spun around. “I’m so glad to see you!” he said as he strode a few steps over to give the tall young man a hug. Mason was so hairy now that he could feel his shoulder hair crumple during their embrace.

“Hey, what’s gotten into you?” Elliott asked, confusedly before reciprocating the bear hug.

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you!” Mason praised as he released his huge arms from his friend and stepped back. “I can’t believe I look like this! I’m dressed like this and I’m like 350 pounds! And your dad changed! He got so much younger and…” Mason trailed off as he looked at his friend. Elliott was wearing a bright red tank top, and skimpy black shorts, but unlike his father, he wasn’t wearing a baseball cap.

“Whoa dude, slow down,” Elliott said, immediately noticing his friend’s duress. “Do you need to sit down or something?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just sit down and talk this through,” Mason acquiesced. He sat down at the edge of the king-sized bed, trying not to think about his size. His massive pecs heaved up and down as he tried to calm down and his mountainous buttcheeks took up quite a lot of space on the bed.

Luckily, Elliott didn’t notice as he sat down. “Dude, dorky shirt,” he added playfully, with an awkward laugh punctuated by a teenage voice crack.

“Like you’re one to talk. What’s with the tank?” Mason quipped.

“What do you mean?” Elliott asked, he seemed genuinely confused. “I wear tank tops all the time. But you’re dressed like you work for Wall Street.”

“God, I know!” Mason grumbled and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m so huge I can’t even see my feet! Not to mention, I’m frickin’ bald now!”

“That’s not a big deal. You’ve always been…MMFFHH…eh…bald. And huge,” Elliott’s sentiment was interrupted by his torso suddenly swelling with muscle, pulling the loose tank top taut against it. His pecs developed a new fullness. “Whoops, sorry,” Elliott apologized. His back began to stretch out behind him in accordance with his brand new broadening shoulders. The stimulation spread to his thin neck, which promptly began to thicken and sink into his brand new trap muscles.

Mason’s heart plummeted and he could feel sweat forming all around his bald head. “DUDE! You’re changing too!” he cried, his strong voice rife with panic. “You’re dressed like just like my son….I mean…your dad!”

“My dad?” Elliott replied. He stared off into the distance like he didn’t know.

“Yeah! The man out in the living room!” Mason frantically replied.

“Oh, you mean Tristan?” Elliott asked right as his abs burst forth, blossoming into eight sharp ridges visible beneath the red tank. Simultaneously, his arms began to balloon with muscle. It took only a few seconds for Elliott to follow the temptation of his former father and succumb to the urge to flex them. Immediately, he was smiling ear to ear as he watched engorged veins embellish his arms as they went from lanky to moderate to brawny. Mason had to admit, it was a little wholesome to watch: the way Elliott’s eyes lit up with unbridled excitement the same way that Tristan’s had.

“Yes! Um…I mean no.” Mason’s head was swimming. Recollections of the past and present were mixing together, like two timelines were intersecting. “Look. You’re changing too! Just like I did and just like T-Tristan did! We aren’t meant to look like this!”

“Yes we are,” Elliott calmly refuted, his voice sounded much deeper this time, similar to Tristan’s dopey baritone. “We put the work in the gym to get this big!” Paired with his huge pecs and round stomach, Elliott reminded Mason of a powerlifter. His thin waist had broadened to complement the girth of his growing muscle gut. His bulkier body was engineered for raw power while Tristan’s was engineered for agility. “And I never skip leg day. I take up after you, old man,” Elliott smiled, patting Mason’s muscular thigh. As he did, black strands began to blossom over his exposed chest, coating his muscular pecs with bristles.

“No, I’m not old!” Mason cried. He was so stressed that he could feel warm sweat start to accumulate under his hairy pecs. He didn’t know that was even possible.

“But you’ve literally got a mustache, dude,” Elliott said, accompanied by the sound of his gym shorts straining from his growth.

“I have a…what!” Running a finger over his upper lip, Mason could feel bristles, like he was touching a brush. Even stranger, he could feel them spreading further to the edges of his lips. Thick black hairs sprouted from oblivion, enhancing the young man’s facial expressions and making him appear far more stern. “Shit, this can’t be happening,” Mason huffed. His wooly mustache bobbed up and down with each word that left his lips. It looked ridiculous on his youthful face as he began to breathe heavier. “I…I can’t be old. I…I can’t be a father.”

“Hey, hey, I think the mustache is a great look,” Elliott comforted as a five o’clock shadow appeared on his face. The red tank top, once loose now was perfectly fitted to the young man’s new frame, showcasing his arms and obliques. He could discern the anguish in Mason’s eyes. “Seriously, are you feeling okay? What’s going on?” Elliott asked, wrapping one of his muscled arms over Mason’s broad pillar of a back.

The sight of a hulking businessman was on the brink of tears was almost comical. He couldn’t help it though. He didn’t know the first thing about being an adult! To make matters worse, the longer he looked at Elliott, he could see a younger version of himself, especially from the dusting of hair forming across his body. “Dude I’m freaking out. I don’t even remember which house I live at. Or what my parents look like. Or what their names even are! I…I….It must be this house! That must be the reason I’m l-like this,” Mason tried to stand up from the bed, but it took a few extra seconds longer due to his gargantuan size.

“I don’t really know if I know either,” Elliott admitted. His attempt to be helpful only muddled his brain further. As he stood up after Mason, his nonexistent butt suddenly inflated forth, becoming two thick globes of muscle. Elliott couldn’t resist the urge to gawk at his huge body: his junior powerlifter’s stomach, his brawny arms and hairy, muscular legs. His build almost made him look fat, similar to Mason’s, but the sheer force and power he exuded more than made up for it. “Whoa, look at me dude,” he said, a smug grin appearing on his face. “I’m huge! Nothing like you though!”

A dwindling part of Mason’s brain wanted to resist the urge to ogle over his size, but the temptation was too much to bear. Just like the younger man in front of him, Mason flexed his arms and was instantly rewarded with a rush of dopamine. His pecs were nearly twice the size of his head and his butt protruded nearly a foot behind him. “I really am huge,” he agreed. A cocky smirk appeared on his face as his doubts began to fade. More rushes of testosterone inundated his system and calmed his anxieties. As he looked at Elliott’s confident smile, he could tell his friend was suspended in equal bliss. His familiar boy-next-door face was changing. His chin was widening like a shovel, his nose was ballooning larger, and his shaggy blonde hair rapidly was darkening to a jet black color, short and slicked back. His eyebrows became the same black color and his eyes grew even fuller and dreamier. When Mason looked at Elliott, he felt a new sense of friendship, one of deep, paternal love. He wanted to see his future son succeed the way he had at that age.

Although the feelings were surreal, the guilt about becoming a father was too much for Mason to bear. “Elliott, I’m erasing your family though,” he blurted.

“Hm?” The brawny jock asked while his handsome face aged from an eighteen-year-old to a twenty-two-year-old. Aside from his burlier build, he looked extremely similar to his brother Tristan. With his broad chin and short haircut, this guy was a far cry from the geeky high schooler that had walked in minutes earlier. “What do you mean, Dad?” Mason twiddled his fat hands nervously as sweat formed above his bushy eyebrows. “You and your brother…you look like my sons and I…can’t…remember what you used to look-”

The roar of Tristan’s low voice came from the living room and easily traveled to the bedroom. “Bennett! The game’s back on, bro!”

The dazed jock had a moment of confusion before that confident smile returned to his face. “Later Dad,” Bennett replied, his voice completely devoid of its adolescent awkwardness. Immediately accepting his new name, the hulking young man headed toward the door at a walking pace so much slower than before. His larger, linebacker stature inhibited his speed and his heavy stomps were far more intense than his dainty footfalls when he was taller and lankier. Elliott turned sideways and flashed a jovial grin at his new father and subconsciously pulled the bedroom door shut as he left. Seeing his reflection in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door only reignited Mason’s fiery self-worship as he was greeted to another sight of his gigantic, tightly-clothed frame.

Mason wanted to yell out and tell the young man that he wasn’t his father, but that wouldn’t be true. Elliott…or Bennett Holt was his son and a beefcake of a twenty-two-year-old, just like his twin brother Tristan. Mason was so proud of them. They had both blossomed into an inseparable duo of college football players who put in the heart and soul to get to the top. The “Holt Colts,” as they were colloquially known, were a force to be reckoned with, and Mason Holt, their ex-football player turned bodybuilder of a father, was their central impetus. It was all so much to think about.

“Fuck,” Mason cursed as he looked at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. His cock sprouted in his pinstriped pants so he promptly unzipped it before gently stroking it. The skinny young man who had walked inside the house was a far cry from this beefcake of a dad who was in his place. This man was so huge that his immense figure barely fit in the mirror’s frame. This strong, middle-aged man always had that problem wherever he went. Having to take a few steps back was an everyday practice of his: whether that be in his home or work mirror. Where did he work again?

“I’m a father,” he affirmed to himself. He snarled his teeth in the mirror, enamored by the way his mustache accentuated every emotion. The huge bodybuilder of a man turned to the side and ogled at his endearing new shape: his rigid stomach and colossal butt were nothing less than eye-catching. “I’m just a big ol’ daddy,” he growled. He was too. Not only did he have two sons to show for it, but he could remember a vivid, sex-filled life. He was a sexual beast, having satisfied the likes of many men and women alike. “Mr. Holt” they always called him. “Daddy” was the one that really got him fired up though.

Mr. Holt ripped his black tie off and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dark blue dress shirt to let his saucer-sized pecs breathe. As his strokes grew more intense, he watched his hairy pecs bounce up and down with his movements. The forty-eight-year-old behemoth radiated so much pride. He wasn’t some bumbling, nervous kid anymore. He was Mr. Holt to almost everyone he met. Bennett and Tristan Holt, a linebacker and wide receiver respectively were both entering their final year of university football and were on their way to join the pros. Mr. Holt couldn’t be prouder. Even in middle age, he’d taken up bodybuilding and his calming, sultry voice - it was very recognizable. He loved to ramble on and on about football. He knew practically everything about the sport and was good at it too. He’d played the pros for a few years before retiring and raising his sons, all while transitioning into a bodybuilder on the side.

Mr. Holt pumped his cock harder, fascinated by the way his bull-sized balls bounced underneath his dress pants. “I’m just a big muscle daddy now,” he moaned with no more hesitation. His new master bedroom changed all around him as he pumped away. The cruddy wood trim of the walls vanished and they became a nice pastel shade of tan. A mounted flatscreen tv appeared on the wall and the queen-sized bed stretched out into a memory foam-filled king. Pennants from a multitude of colleges and framed pictures of him and his sons now adorned the modern walls. In the corner of the room, a moderately-sized glass trophy case appeared, filled with shiny medals and little statues. With his erection fit to burst, the 350-pound man waddled over to it, eager to read the various accolades he’d been rewarded. There were a lot of trophies and medals inside, many from his years in professional football and many from bodybuilding. One trophy bigger than the rest beckoned his attention. It read “IFBB 1st Place” and under it was the name “Stan Holt.”

“MMMM!” Stan Holt growled as his thick, hot, cum shot through his floodgates. It shot down onto his work desk, narrowly missing his desktop computer. It felt so good: the oozing, glopping testosterone, his rippling muscles, his hairy body - he felt like he’d been given the greatest gift in the world. All memories of the Schmidt family were expunged from existence forever, replaced by the new Holt family with Stan finally becoming the proud, handsome patriarch he was predestined to be. The panting forty-eight-year-old bodybuilder gripped his muscle gut as the vestiges of his orgasm trailed out of his girthy cock. Luckily, he’d gotten none on his fancy clothes - it was a skill that he’d mastered over the years. After putting his thick member back in his pants, Stan promptly reached under his work desk and snatched a vial of colgine. He kept a his full of wipes and sprays under there so he could purify the room after his bouts of raunchy self-expression.

“You dirty perv,” Stan whispered to himself as he spritzed himself and the ventilated room with tropical cologne. That always did the trick to rid the smell of his spunk. With his head now cleared, he sat his big ass down on his new office chair and breathed another sigh of relief. Now settled into his new life, Stan Holt opened up his computer and fired away a few emails. Many of them were about the company he worked for. They called him their star media personality because he was. Looking at his silver wristwatch, Stan realized he only had a few more minutes before he had to leave.

As a sports announcer, Stan Holt had mastered the art of projecting his voice. Being an ex-football player turned sports announcer wasn’t all fun and games, especially being a bodybuilder on the side. Responsibility came naturally to Stan though. After all, it was far easier than his past challenge of raising a pair of twin sons with a divorced wife. With that thought, Stan stood back up, giving his black leather office chair some much-needed respite from carrying his weight. The hulking man grabbed a suit jacket from the chair and black tie he’d thrown on the bed and threw them over his shoulder. He’d wear them later once he was at work, but he always let his hairy pecs breathe during the convertible ride to the stadium. As Stan exited his room, his shoulders and colossal butt nearly filled the doorframe - both just further indications of his massive size.

Walking down the hallway, Stan paused for a moment and looked at his favorite picture on the wall. It was one of him and his two sons taken at a banquet all donned up in dress clothes. It had been a few years ago, back when Stan had had hair and hadn’t yet decided to grow out his mustache. He was in the middle with one massive arm over each of his sons. Bennett was in the middle of saying something, most likely a jokey remark, and Tristan was laughing, while Stan was the only one beaming for the camera. The picture always made him smile and he always glanced at it every day.

As Stan entered the living room, which he was surprised to find it vacant. Although he didn’t think anything of it, the whole house had lost its old character. A more modern and uniquely stylish decor had overtaken the tacky, old wooden walls, turned them a light gray color, and adorned them with a plethora of colorful pictures and art pieces. More interestingly, Stan could hear a familiar sound filled the air: his own voice. Sure enough, the television was playing a rerun of one of his old games. Stan just smirked and turned the tv off. It was always a pleasant surprise to hear his own deep, macho voice was broadcast to millions of homes worldwide. Recording it in the studio was never the same as hearing it on tv.

It didn’t take very long for Stan to find his twin sons predictably tossing a football in the backyard. Both heads turned at the recognizable timbre of his deep bass. “Guys, I’m headed to the stadium. Bennett, you’re in charge of your brother.” This was a common joke between them and their dad since they always had debates over who was the more-trustworthy sibling.

“Like he could even take care of himself,” Tristan chuckled, slugging Bennett on the shoulder.

“Shut up man,” Bennett laughed, giving his brother a playful shove back, nearly causing Tristan to drop the pigskin.

Even twenty-two years after they were born, it was still surreal for Stan to think of his sons as strong, young men, but there was no denying it. For the moment, he still had them beat in mass, but the boys were definitely on their way to rivaling and possibly surpassing his size and he couldn’t be prouder. “And if one of you eats that prime rib I got in the freezer, it’ll be your ass.” Stan commanded, although his light-hearted tone made it obvious that he wasn’t being serious.

“He’s talking about you, dude,” Bennett said.

“Yeah, I know, you hairy ape,” Tristan joked.

“This is why we label things in the freezer boys,” Stan interrupted. “Take care of each other now,” he said, his black and silver mustache contrasting perfectly with his pearly veneers, and headed back in the house. His boys were always mischievous to each other. Despite the fact they’d matured into astute athletes, they still bickered with each other like schoolchildren. Stan always loved when they came over, as any parent does. Tristan and Bennett both had their own places across town but were over all the time. Dad’s house had the best food after all.

Putting on the pair of shiny, black Oxfords that Stan kept by the door was always a laborious task. Stan’s huge belly stifled his flexibility severely, but he was used to it. The fact it took a few tries for him to get down to tie his shoes was a small price to pay for being a giant among men. Standing back up, the colossal man marveled at his impressive side-view in the mirror by the doorway. His posture was perfect, his face was handsome, and his husky stomach, prominent bulge, and tight, firm glutes were impossible to miss.

Stan Holt opened up his garage and stepped inside his chic maroon convertible. He tossed his suit jacket and black tie on the passenger seat - he always used the drive there as a way to air out his hairy chest. Firing up the car, he threw on a pair of black sunglasses and reversed into the street. The warm wind caressed Stan Holt’s hairy chest as he turned on the radio. The content smile remained on his face. He was eager to narrate another game. The exodus from being a pro football player into a sports announcer and pro bodybuilder had been more than fulfilling. Placing one of his muscular arms on the car door, Stan Holt cranked up the radio and sped down the road, excited to spend another day doing what he loved.

Didja like it? 👀 Thank you for reading and here’s a reminder that I work for tips! 😘

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