O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

The Barber: Super Strong Hold (musc)

by Aardvark

The bell chime of the barbershop door could barely be heard over the squabbling father and son who walked in immediately after the two frat boys left. One of the fratters was a very short but very broad Latino with spiky hair, and his boyfriend a giant football player with long blond curls. No one knew that minutes before, the two had been straight undercover cops. Now they were jacked teenaged athletes and gay as could be.

The blond hulk was the subject of the father and son's conversation. "His hair was cool, Dad!"

"They looked queer with all those muscles. And you need a haircut, not that long stuff. You don't want to look like a girl."

"You honestly think he looked like a girl? HONESTLY?" The son was short and freckly, with hair that was only about two inches long. He looked to be in high school but had a boyishness about him that the Barber could tell was frustrating to him.

"Don't you backtalk me, boy." The father was an older version of his son – they looked very, very much alike. Round faces and round bodies that weren't fat, but bordered on chubby. The dad was only about 5'9" while his son was five inches shorter. They had the same coloring: lightly freckled, pale skin with brown hair, although the father had lost most of his. "You grow your hair out like that and you'll get your ass whooped in school even worse than you already are. Probably why that kid juiced up in the first place, he had to defend himself."

"Donnie's never used steroids," the Barber interrupted with a charming smile. "He's a friend. His muscles are all natural."

"Yeah, well, that's what he tells YOU," the father chortled dismissively. "This is between me and the kid." His son blushed at being called a kid in the midst of trying to assert himself. It was degrading.

"I apologize," the Barber said, noticing the son's embarrassment. "I'll wait over here by my chair and leave you two alone. Whenever you're ready…" The Barber sarcastically took a single step back, about as much space as the shop allowed.

"Dad, do I have to?" The kid's round face turned upward like a puppy's.

"You were trying to hide your school's picture day from me so that I wouldn't make you get a haircut. Yes. You have to cut it, Morgan."

"I told you two weeks ago!"

"Get in the chair and stop making a scene," Morgan's dad ordered, sitting down and plopping a magazine on top of his belly.

Morgan sighed and slowly walked to the Barber's chair, staring at his feet the whole time. With another long, dramatic sigh, he plopped into the seat.

"Now now," the Barber tutted. "That's no way to start a haircut. Morgan, is it?" At Morgan's nod, the Barber continued. "Nice to meet you, Morgan. The idea I'm getting here is that your father wants your hair buzzed off, and you don't want it to be, is that correct?"

"That's correct," his father said from across the shop.

The Barber turned coolly over toward him. "Thank you, sir," he said, before turning his attention back to Morgan and speaking in a lower voice so only Morgan could hear. "Now, Morgan, anytime a customer goes to a new barber, there is a certain degree of trust that must occur. You're trusting me to not make you look terrible, and I promise I won't. I think I can cut your hair in a way that will satisfy both you and your father, but you have to trust me. Will you trust me?"

Morgan gave an odd look, as if to say, what a weird monologue. "Uh, sure," he said, clearly used to chop shops where they hacked off your hair and didn't develop any repartee.

"Alright, glasses off, don't want to damage those," the Barber said, snapping the haircutting cape so loudly that both Morgan and his father jumped in surprise. He tied it around Morgan's neck. He didn't bother turning Morgan around to hide the fun, because Morgan couldn't see much right now anyway – those glasses looked like they were an inch thick, the kid must be basically blind. The Barber looked through his instruments on the counter and selected a comb, smiling at Morgan as he did so, and Morgan smiled uncomfortably back.

The Barber ran his comb through Morgan's hair, which the boy found curious. Morgan's hair was so fine, it didn't need to be combed. It never got tangled because it was straight as straw coming out of his head, and it wasn't long enough. But as the Barber combed it, more hair seemed to be coming out of Morgan's hair. Not only longer, but thicker, like every follicle was duplicating itself two or three times over. The Barber delicately combed the lengthening strands out of Morgan's face, while the haircutting tape tellingly started moving slowly up Morgan's legs. Morgan wriggled a little bit, and his feet suddenly fell off the chair's footrest and stomped into the floor.

The comb kept going, and the kid kept growing. Creeping over six feet tall with hair down to his chin. His father was too absorbed in the magazine he was reading to notice his son's long hair, which he would have found horrifying. Morgan had to spread his legs wider so that his heels would stop digging into the floor – then he had to extend his legs out as they stretched further, the sheet passing his knees as his neck stuck further and further out of the opening up top.

"Lot to comb through here, hm? Almost done," the Barber chirped. Morgan responded with a weak smile but stared curiously at the smeary blur in the mirror. He couldn't see what was going on but it sure looked like his hair was down past his shoulders. The comb was disappearing behind his back now when it reached the end of the brown strands.

A look of unmistakable worry crossed Morgan's face, and the Barber read it expertly. "Don't worry, Morgan, we'll convince your dad."

"Okay," Morgan croaked hoarsely, still very confused.

"Oh," the Barber said, "you know, we should shampoo all that hair, and I didn't put you in my shampoo chair. Here, stand up."

Morgan stood up, and up, and up. He nearly toppled over before the Barber caught him. "Easy, big guy," the Barber said with a smile.

Morgan stared down at the Barber, his expression still apprehensive. At 6'6", he looked extremely different from when he'd sat down in the chair. His body was so long now that it had stretched out all his roundness, even in his face. He looked over his shoulder at his dad, then back down at the Barber, who seemed so short. "Is the shampoo extra?" he finally whispered, wringing his hands nervously under the sheet that now hung barely past his waist.

"On the house," the Barber smiled, leading Morgan over to the chair.

"Okay," Morgan said, sitting tentatively down in it. He almost sat on the back of the chair instead of the seat itself, because he wasn't used to how far back he bent to sit as a six-and-a-half-feet tall version of himself.

The Barber pumped some shampoo into his hands and kicked the chair back to situate Morgan's head in the sink. "Just relax."

"Okay," Morgan said again as he shut his eyes and felt the man's hands go through his hair. He folded his trembling hands over his stomach and remained quiet.

As the Barber shampooed Morgan's hair, the suds were stripping a lot of the color out of the long strands, leaving a tangled wet mass of golden blond in the sink. With the water weighing it down, the hair reached down to in between Morgan's shoulder blades as he sat back up.

Morgan was breathing heavily but seemed less nervy than before. Although his face bore a lot of worry, he was at least physically trembling less. And when he stood back up, his 6'6" stature seemed more settled in. The Barber no longer worried that Morgan was going to topple at any moment. Which was impressive, because not only was Morgan taller, but he was now carrying more weight in his chest – two ball-shaped mounds stuck out from the sheet, and Morgan looked down at them with an audible gulp.

"Just noticed those titties, huh Mor?" his father hollered coarsely from the waiting area.

Morgan turned red as a fire truck. "They're not tits," he said under his breath, which the Barber heard. As Morgan sat back down in the cutting chair, he had to move his hand out from under the sheet to grope his own chest, just to make sure it wasn't soft like a woman's boobs. That was when his tattoo was revealed – out from the short sleeve of his t-shirt snaked dozens of black tribal swirls licked by flames, twirling around his entire upper arm, running past his elbow and ending in the middle of his forearm. Morgan stared at it in visible shock but said nothing.

"Don't worry," the Barber said reassuringly. "I won't tell. It'll be our little secret."

Morgan nodded, not looking away from his ¾ sleeve tattoo.

"Now to just take care of some of these split ends," the Barber smirked, pulling out his scissors and going to work on the hair draping over the back of the chair.

With each snip of the scissors, Morgan's chest started pumping up bigger, and higher, as if it wanted to reach his chin. The kid's pecs inflated out from the flat board his chest had once been and expanded into such mass that few shirts would be able to hold them in. Like big concrete pillows, somehow not sagging from the weight, even as the giant nipples shifted to the underside. Morgan's head started pushing up as his trap muscles distended upward from his shoulders and yoked themselves to his growing neck. It was lucky that he was so tall, otherwise his shoulders and back wouldn't have fit in the Barber's chair. As it was, his new lats barely cleared the armrests, pushing out several inches in either direction past the back of the chair until they stuck well out from under the cape. Morgan's shoulder blades hooked around the chair's back. His baby-faced head looked tiny on top of monstrous shoulders capped by deltoids the size of pumpkins.

The black ink that covered his right arm started to stretch as its canvas expanded, Morgan's arm growing as big as the guns he'd envied on the football players at school – and then twice as big as that, growing stunningly huge, to the point that it had to be seen to be believed. Giant veins bulged like telephone cords under his skin, squiggling their way up and down his enormous biceps, lacing around his elbows and then dividing into dozens of smaller lanes that covered his sinewed ham-hock forearms.

The Barber kept combing and cutting, layering up the bottom of Morgan's hair so that it didn't just look like some same-length wig on top of his head. Morgan's clothing started shifting under the sheet to accommodate his new mass. His chest felt cooler, his arms warmer, but all the focus was on his legs, which began growing and wouldn't stop.

"Just a second," Morgan grunted in a deep bass, scooting forward in the chair so that his thighs didn't get wedged in the armrests. The Barber knowingly pulled his scissors away for a brief moment as Morgan rose up a few inches in the chair, his ass swelling under him like a booster seat into two massive, pant-splitting globes. Morgan's breathing was getting heavier and deeper, and he stared straight ahead at himself in the mirror. Calves exploded onto the back of his legs as his feet strained at his tennis shoes, which started changing into simple black leather with black laces.

"Cutting's done," the Barber announced to the overly muscled giant who now sat in his chair.

Morgan still couldn't see much. "Still feels pretty long," he said, his guttural bass at odds with his countenance.

"Well, it's two inches past the shoulders, that's what you said you wanted, right?"

"I don't know if my-"

"How about a shave?"

Morgan's face scrunched up in confusion. "Do you think I need one?" he said, his comically deep voice as squeaky as it could make itself.

"I think every man who comes to a barbershop deserves a close shave, but I might be biased."

"Um…" Morgan looked over at his dad, who wasn't paying attention. "He might get mad."

"It'll be our little secret," the Barber said again, already lathering up some shaving foam with a brush. At Morgan's nod, he began brushing the cream all over Morgan's cheeks, jaw and neck. "I think a good beard trim makes a whole new man."

Morgan was debating the word usage of the Barber for a second – 'beard trim' versus 'shave', they didn't seem like the same thing – but then started to forget as his beard began to sprout. Blond bristles erupted through the dense white foam on his face. The Barber's straight blade wasn't taking off much hair, just shaping up Morgan's new beard so it looked trim and neat on his neck and cheeks. Morgan's worried expression began changing. His eyes brightened up and he began to smirk. In fact, he looked quite cocky, and that cockiness made him look very different. As the Barber whipped off some of the foam from Morgan's beard, the jaw underneath grew bigger and harder.

"There now," the Barber said, wiping more shaving cream off the blond whiskers, "don't you feel better?"

"Much," came the booming response.

Morgan was looking at himself in the mirror, his mouth hanging open to inhale and expel big blasts of air. His vision had improved but now his brow bone had grown out like a hood over his eyes, giving him a look of permanent masculine intensity.

"You're almost done, Morgan."

"Hnnngh…"

"Here, have a hot towel for your face."

Morgan immediately dabbed wiped his eyes with the towel, scrubbing off smooth skin to reveal small trios of lines webbing out from each eye, and slight bags, along with new grooves in his forehead. His nose popped out large and blunt, like a rock on the front of his face, with a long fold of skin running from each nostril down at an angle into his beard. He raised his head up and looked in the mirror as the towel fell to the floor.

Before Morgan had time to react to his new appearance, the hairdryer blasted on to give volume to Morgan's thick mane of blond hair. Blew all thoughts of worry right out of Morgan's head. He totally forgot about his father breathing down his neck and began to think of himself as a man. A man who made his own decisions and ran his own life. That realization really began to change Morgan. His new jeans unzipped themselves and his tiny cock wriggled out, ready to grow. And grow it did, starting to extend upward like a cucumber between his legs, his balls jumping and growing to match. With each inch it grew, Morgan aged, growing more content with himself, more at home in his massive muscles. And with each year he added, his muscles grew a little more too, as he learned more about bodybuilding and wrestling and his own body. When his dick hit 7 inches, the monster in the chair was a happy man in his mid-twenties with 270 pounds of muscle on his 6'6" frame. But by the time he was rocking a foot-long schlong, he was a hypermasculine 38-year-old man who looked closer to mid-40s, tipped the scales at 295 pounds, and went by the name of Vic.

The Barber snapped a tight band around Vic's long ponytail and whipped the sheet off him. Grunting and panting, Vic was pounding away at his cock, now desperate to cum. He eased up out of the chair and hobbled over to the middle of the barbershop as more and more pieces of his new life started to lock into place. Part of him thought it was strange to wear a light blue button-down shirt unbuttoned to the base of his massive pecs, tucked into his dark blue jeans with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And the other part thought it was normal, the way men his age dressed day-to-day. His nipples pushed against the fabric and his giant neck rubbed against the open collar. The rolled sleeves hid all but a few inches of the tattoo on his arm.

"What are you thinking about?" The Barber goaded.

"Wrestling," came the gruff response.

"Good. Think about wrestling. Think about pounding your opponents into submission for a stadium full of fans."

"Hrrngh!" The next button on Vic's shirt popped open, and his pecs tumbled further out. Small sweat stains appeared under his arms as he grew more comfortable being a sexual, giant man.

"Think about your fans. Think about fucking them in the hotel after the match."

"HRRRNG!"

"Fucking your opponents, perhaps…" the Barber sang, and Vic exploded, his seed splattering in long ropes over the back of the barbershop floor and walls. Morgan would have found it disgusting, but Vic lived for it.

Vic quickly tucked his enormous dick into his tight jeans but did not re-button his shirt. He inspected his beard and ponytail in the mirror. "You're incredible, brother," he said to the Barber. "How much do I owe you?"

"On the house. Not every day I get a celebrity in here."

Vic the Viking, pro wrestling superstar, smiled at this. He pulled three $100 bills out of his wallet and handed them to the Barber. "As a tip, then." He then turned to leave but noticed the man who had once been his father still reading a magazine in the waiting area. Morgan's dad looked up at the muscle monster bulging out of his clothes, and his face went bug-eyed.

"What're you looking at?" Vic growled, somehow disliking this man immediately. He popped his knuckles and his biceps heaved inside his skintight sleeves. The big veins of his arms showed through the fabric. His wrists looked twelve inches thick.

"N-nothing," the small man on the chairs stammered.

"Don't make the man wait," Vic said, advancing, his black shoes stomping against the ground so hard that the mirrors in the shop shook. "He's ready to cut your hair." Vic's back was as wide as three of the waiting room chairs as he towered directly over the small man. His face curled up in disgust. "Ugh, you look like shit. You're so fat."

"Now wait a minute, you can't talk to me like that, I'm a grown man!" Morgan's father tried to assert himself but his voice wouldn't stop trembling.

"You ain't half as grown as me!" Vic roughly grabbed his former father and dragged him by the collar over to the Barber chair, like a mother cat grabbing one of her kittens by the scruff of its neck. "Make him look pretty – or at least presentable," Vic barked to the Barber.

"Comin' right up," the Barber said with a smile to his previous client.

"Now wait a minute, I don't need a-" Morgan's father was interrupted by his chair swirling around and dipping him into the sink. He stopped talking as soon as the water hit his bald head, although the look of surprise stayed on his face. Vic was standing over him, flexing, the blue shirt straining over his mass.

The Barber's fingers worked the shampoo into a lather on the bald head, and the hair started coming back. It wasn't mousy and brown like before, or straight and blond like Vic's – it was black and thick, with a generous curl. When the man was sat up, his body hair had turned black too, and his face was starting to sprout dark shadow. He stared with an unreadable expression at the wet, black ringlets hanging around his eyes. "Why-whu-whu…"

"Don't worry, we'll get you looking presentable, just hold still," the Barber said, whipping his scissors out of his smock.

"But that's not my-"

The first snip of the scissors silenced the confused man as his body started changing under sheet. The fat melted off his body as his belly collapsed, his cheeks tightened, his arms became thin. His clothes hung off him, and he shivered before his muscles began to grow – first his chest, then his arms and legs, all bulging with well-earned muscles that looked terrific on his short frame. His shoulders poked out from under the sheet as they got broad and square, ripping through the sides of his old polo shirt. The definition of his chest could be seen through the opening of the cutting sheet that covered him, making a little T shape around his neck. He wasn't a giant wrestler like Vic, but this was clearly a man who loved to work out and ate well.

"Unff," he squeaked, his breath catching in his chest. His new commitment to health was showing in his skin, which glowed with a healthy tan; his teeth, which were bleached white and perfectly straight as they peeked through his black stubble; and his hair, which bore a high-gloss shine. This was a vain man who enjoyed looking beautiful. His eyebrows were clearly plucked into a perfect arch, his stubble carefully manicured. And when his features started shifting to make him more attractive, the transformation went a step further and started making him younger. As his hairstyle began to take shape, the man was getting more stunning, like a model. Thick pouty lips, high cheekbones, a jawline sharp as a diamond. His eyes were rounder and darker, and his nose was getting thinner and longer with almond-shaped nostrils.

"Hnnngh, I-" The beautiful man rolled his eyes desperately up at the Barber, who ignored him. It was clear, as the man got younger, slipping back down into his twenties, that his hormones were going into painful overdrive. His stubble was getting thicker as his cock bloomed in his pants, bursting through his fly like a jack-in-the-box.

"Looks like we got ourselves a problem," Vic snarled, his thin lips wearing a wry smile.

"Can I-can I please-" The man in the chair was now barely mid-twenties, his skin untouched by life. He was hypnotically beautiful and in clear distress.

"You can play with yourself, that's fine," Vic rumbled.

The young man, more than a decade younger than his former son now was, began to rock back and forth slightly in the barber chair as the Barber continued to snip away at his coif. The movement under the sheet was unmistakable. Vic chuckled at the kid's face, which was twisted with orgasm.

"Almost done," the Barber said, slapping some gel into the man's hair.

"Almost DONE," the Italian stud in the chair parroted, his tan taking on a noticeable olive hue.

With a flourish, the Barber ripped the sheet off to reveal a muscular young man wearing a white dress shirt with a jauntily loosened red tie and black pinstriped trousers. He couldn't have been more than 24, and he wasn't good at holding himself in – he had little experience with it. So it was no surprise when his cum hit the mirror in thick globs, as he stared at Vic's muscles bursting out of their shirt.

"You're disgusting," Vic laughed down at the kid, who chuckled back. "What would your mama say?"

"She'd say she raised a stud," the young Italian smirked, stuffing himself back into his pants. "Ask me when I'm gonna put that stuff to use and make her some grandbabies."

Vic laughed again, pulling another hundred dollars out of his wallet and giving it to the Barber. "Button up your collar, Paolo, you look like a slob."

"You're gonna wear your shirt four buttons open and tell me I can't loosen my tie?" Paolo smirked while he inspected his gleaming black hair, slicked back from his forehead in a semi-pompadour style.

"You're gonna be my assistant and question my instructions?" Vic folded his arms and squared his bearded jaw. Even though Paolo was now quite fit himself, with shoulders that made noticeable ripples in his shirt, he still barely came up to his boss's collarbone, and wasn't as wide. "When you have all this to show off," Vic continued, pounding his fist against a pec bigger than Paolo's head, "then you can loosen up some buttons too."

"Okay, okay," Paolo acquiesced, pushing the tie knot up to his Adam's apple.

"Good boy," Vic said, with a rough smack on his assistant's ass. "Go get the driver around back and tell him we're ready. We good on time?"

Paolo checked his large silver watch. "Interview is in 37 minutes. We're fine."

"Good."

"That's your assistant?" The Barber asked as they watched Paolo walk away, his white shirt tight across his broad back.

"Yeah, pretty, right?" Vic rolled his eyes. "Kid is into himself. I can't blame him, I was at that age too." He walked over and grabbed his leather jacket off the coatrack. The thing was like a leather sheet – it had to have taken multiple cows to make a jacket that would fit Vic. He slipped it on, fixed his shirt collar over it and checked himself out. "Okay, maybe I still am," he smirked, making sure his ponytail was pulled tight across the top of his head. "Part of his payment is that he gets to train with me."

"To be a wrestler?"

"Nah, to be a bodybuilder. I'll get him hulked out like I am. He's too pretty to wrestle. I've broken my nose more than I could count, that would fuck a pretty boy like him up," Vic roared with laughter.

A black SUV pulled up to the front of the shop and Paolo stuck his head out the back window, motioning for Vic to come. Vic slapped his massive hand into the Barber's and pumped it vigorously. "Thanks again."

"Anytime."

END

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