Hunter: B.A.M.F. (musc mc ap tf)
by Aardvark
I've never done a story quite like this before! As always, ideas and comments are welcomed and wanted.
“Oh, Jesus! Fuck! Fuuuuuckk…ohhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHH…”
Hunter and Katie had been away from each other for a month, she in Europe doing promotional and runway duties, he on an exhaustive football schedule. But the Jets had lost in the AFC title game – it wasn’t Hunter’s fault, but he still beat himself up for it – and he was finally back in the New York penthouse for the offseason.
Katie and Hunter had walked in the door an hour prior, fresh from the airport, and immediately torn off all their clothes to fuck the shit out of one another. They’d already done it three times, and Katie kept commenting how aggressive Hunter was being. He was pissed about the loss, yes, but he was fucking her on such a primal level that it was almost freaking her out. His hands were rough, calloused against on her baby-soft skin. His skin was weathered and tan, leathery; his pretty face was partially camouflaged by a trimmed black beard that made him look ten years older. His normally-smooth chest had a healthy growth of hair on the proud pectorals. Katie would almost think that he had become a different person, but when he finally came and pulled out, his huge form lying across her, she looked into his big green eyes and saw the same beauty and kindness that she was accustomed to. He was just a man now, not some innocent high school hunk. It had just happened so fast.
He lay there, panting, his face pressed into a sweaty mark on the pillow. When he caressed her cheek, his rough paw completely palmed her heart-shaped face. She snuggled in closer. “Something’s wrong. What’s wrong with you?” She touched the beard. It was silky-soft and shiny. “What is this,” she purred. “This isn’t you.”
Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in so close that she could hear his heartbeat. His huge biceps were a wall around her, and he kissed her blonde hair over and over, until she realized that he had begun to cry.
“Babe,” she whispered. “You can tell me.”
“I just missed you so much.” He tipped her head up and she saw the tears roll out of the bottomless green eyes. “I stopped caring about anything. All I could think about was…was…you. I didn’t care about my buddies. I stopped going out. I just stayed in and worked out and jerked off to the pictures of you in Europe. I kind of turned into a Neanderthal.” He rubbed the beard and she saw the bicep around her ripple with motion. “I just love you, Kate. I worried about you. I want to be with you every hour of every day. I want to provide for you, love you, fuck you, feel you, hear you, touch you, breathe you…” He trailed off and buried his face in her golden hair, still speaking, but unintelligibly. She couldn’t move, he had made her immobile with his strength. So she lay there, kissing him and hugging him, as he held onto her and convinced himself that she was real once again.
Two hours later, he relaxed in the tub and ran a razor over his chest, the curly black hairs falling off and leaving smooth, tan skin. Soon, he was swiping across his face, leaving himself regal and clean-shaven once more, that model face with the emeralds for eyes burning back at him from the mirror. He wiped the cream off his face and took a long, long look at himself. Already, the football had aged him, for the better. He was almost 23, and the pretty was starting to become handsome. The skin on his face had become tighter, his beard area had gotten darker and his eyes had a wisdom that had not been there two years before. It was the face of a grown man, one who made his own decisions and controlled his own destiny. And, in Hunter’s case, he REALLY had control. The loss had shaken him. He’d gotten foolish with his power, throwing the ball around so haphazardly that he had stopped willing its trajectory and controlling the opponents. And so, his team had loss, a loss that didn’t have to happen.
“It’s time to get over it.”
Katie glided in from the bedroom, blonde hair mussed around her head like Madonna’s halo. She was naked save for the tiniest of panties.
He tried the half-smirk - “Get over what?” – but the 100% success rate no longer applied to his fiancée. “Don’t you do that little smile at me, Mr. December,” she grinned. “I know you’re thinking about the game.”
“And how do you know that?” His hands lightly touched her chiseled hip bones, pulling her in.
“Because,” she said coyly, “I know you. And it happened, and it’s done, so learn from it and move on before I fuck the memory out of you myself.”
“Okay, then, how about we compromise? I don’t mention the game again, and you…,” he said, tapping her nose, “…get a bodyguard.”
She stared up at him, long and hard. No bodyguards, she had said. They send the wrong message and she didn’t need one anyway. “I can take care of myself,” she said.
He saw her hesitation and softened his tone. “Do it for me. Please, Kate. Please.” She rolled her eyes and gave in, like she almost always did, and nodded her assent. “Alright. But only when I’m not close to you.”
“Of course. The last thing I want is some hulking guy following me and you around. Just one who can be there when I’m not able. I’ll hire one today so that we can be sure.” He smiled and she loved the way the mouth looked with clear skin around it, not that beard. He was so beautiful. A God. “Let’s go get lunch.”
They had a day-long date, eating at one of their favorite neighborhood restaurants by the glass windows – it was like an unwritten rule of celebrity. You were inside, but the paparazzi could still get a few shots. They went shopping at baby boutiques, which was always fun because then people thought they were having their own baby, and bought a birthday present for Lachlan, who was going to be a year old soon. Finally, they went to Katie’s manager’s office, where Hunter gave her a deep kiss and watched lovingly as she went inside.
He loved this City, walking around and seeing the sights and inhabitants. He would stop on occasion to sign autographs or pose for a picture, but people were respectful here.
“Huntah! Mistah Hawwwdy!” He heard a deep voice bellow from across the street and looked to see none other than Officer Mike DeSanto.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Of all the…” Hunter muttered under his breath. The officer crossed the street and shook hands with his (unknown, to him) benefactor. DeSanto had gotten even larger than before. His six-three body was cut into massive slabs of muscle, more out of than in his cop uniform. He had previously needed to leave the top two buttons of his shirt undone to make room for his bulbous pectorals, but now he had to leave three, having grown so large that he looked almost disproportioned. There were slight tears in his sleeves from the occasional too-pumped bicep. He had grown a pencil-thin goatee around his thick Italian lips, and his once high-and-tight fade had grown into a short, kinky crew cut. Every inch of clothing was stretched to the brink.
“Officer DeSanto, how are you?”
“You remembah me? Wow! What a grrreat guy y’are. Mah boys loved that autograph ya gave ‘em, and mah little girl was so jealous that I met ya! She’s gonna blow her fuckin’ top when she finds out I saw ya again!” He laughed loudly, pecs and shoulders quivering. Hunter didn’t know how much the man weighed, but he knew that if a Humvee converted itself into a human form, it would look something like Mike DeSanto.
“I like the goatee.”
“Do ya? Mah wife ain’t too crazy for it, says it itches her” – when he said ‘her,’ it came out like ‘huh’ – “when we’re kissin’, but ah think it looks distinctive, ya know? It’s become mah trademark in buildin’!”
“How’s that going for you?”
“Aw, shit, it’s what I live fo’, besides the brood! This cop thing is just a day job, plus ah like wearin’ the uniform!” He laughed and groped his cloth-and-badge-covered pectoral. Hunter couldn’t believe it. “They go crazy fo’ me because I’m so tall! I’m always up against these short little fuckahs. Dey’re muscled awright but I weigh fifty pounds mo’ and have six inches on ‘em!” He reached down and adjusted his balls, grinning as he clarified, “…in both ways! I win every time. I wanna get Olympia.”
“I’m sure you will,” Hunter said. “Schwarzenegger will worship at your feet, Officer.”
“You’re fuckin’ right!” DeSanto barked his same loud laugh. “Damn, you’ve had a killah season fo’ a rookie! Next ye-ah, the Supah Bowl, I can feel it.”
“I hope you’re right. The AFC game killed me.”
“Don’t beat ya’self up, kid. New Yawk loves ya. You and I, we’ll hafta open a Hawdy gym in the City, do physical fitness stuff.”
Hunter was surprised at the idea, but didn’t dismiss it – actually, it was a pretty decent concept. “Not a bad idea, man. Hey, can I sign something for your daughter?” Hunter made the offer out of curiosity of what her name was. He remembered the boys were Paul and Mike Jr. – names he bet he would be seeing in the athletic world in a few years, what with their genetics – but what was the girl?
“Fuck yeah. Here, sign mah notebook like ya did for mah boys.” Hunter took the page and the NYPD pen. “What’s her name?”
“Angie – Angela.”
Of course. So Italian. “Beautiful name.”
“Yeah, like her. Looks just like her mothah. Mah boys take aftah me, though, big strong Italian boys.” He smiled, but DeSanto’s walkie-talkie – or whatever it was called; Hunter didn’t know the term – erupted in static and interrupted his thoughts. “Yo, DeSanto,” the cop spoke into the wire.
“Kid’s gone apeshit outside the McDonalds in your area again, DeSanto.”
“Aw, fuck. I’ll take care o’ it.” DeSanto looked up. “Gotta break this up. Dis homeless kid hangs outside of McDonald’s and yells racial stuff at the black people that walk by. Real piece o’ shit, it’s been happenin’ fo’ a coupla years. I hafta rough him up all the time.” He paused. “Not physically, I mean, just threaten him. I’m a good cop, I sweah.”
Hunter grinned. Of course you are, he thought. The best. “Sure, run ahead, Mike. Good to see you again.” DeSanto tipped his policeman’s brim and jogged off around the corner.
-----------------
It was the same situation it always was. He’d be sitting out there on the corner, hat in hand, and some dumb black guy would walk by without donating. Fucking heartless blacks. So he’d yell that exact phrase, and they’d get mad – he loved it when they got mad - and the fun was on from there.
But then this musclehead steroid-factory cop would come around the corner, moving weirdly because his uniform was so tight, and he’d break it up. Always happened. Tyler couldn’t compete with the sheer size of the NYPD guy, the cop was built like a fucking tank. And he probably wasn’t actually on roids, at least not a lot because his skin was real clear, but Tyler had no idea how anyone could be so muscled.
“Awright, awright, break it up!” He felt the sheer force of Officer DeSanto pull him back. “Beat it, kid. I didn’t see it happen, but next time it’s jail for verbal assault, ya got it?” Tyler balled his hands into fists but DeSanto only had to puff out his huge chest to show that he wasn’t fucking around. Tyler spat, grabbed his hat full of change and split, noticing the cop talking to the pissed off black man that he’d been screaming at.
Tyler turned the corner and saw another hugely muscled man. The guy must’ve been six-six, cut like stone from head to toe and with a face like a model. “Got some change, bro?”
“Oh, I’ve got some change for you.” Hunter peered down at the little homeless runt, reached out and grabbed his collar, and slammed him up against a brick wall.
In fact, suddenly they were through the brick wall, which remained intact as if by magic. It was some construction site, empty for the day. Tyler screamed his fucking head off.
“WHAT THE HELL?!” He fell to the ground and darted back like a wounded animal, eyes wide with alarm. “What WAS that?! I…who…”
Hunter advanced, eyes flashing. “What did you say back there?”
“Nothin’! The cop told me to get lost! I-” He was once again slammed up against a wall, feet dangling helplessly below him.
Hunter curled his lip in. “You’re lying, you racist piece of shit.”
“Those fuckin’ niggers never give me shit!” Tyler knew he shouldn’t be saying anything. “It ain’t my fault they’re all a buncha fuckin’ tightwads! I call ‘em out on their bullshit, I do! I need money. I don’t got no family, no place to live, I’m fuckin’ dying!”
“I don’t have any sympathy. But I do have a proposition.”
His fist tightened more and Tyler squealed, his dirty face beginning to show fear.
“My fiancée needs a bodyguard, and I want nothing but the best for her. Want the job?” Hunter tinged his voice with a mocking tone.
Tyler tried to free himself, but this dude was too big. “What? What the fuck? Dude, are you high?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah,” Tyler squeaked. “You’re…you’re…an asshole.”
“Wrong. That would be you.”
“Let me go!”
“Why?” Hunter quickly sneered. “So you can go out to beg and insult the African-Americans of this city? Give me a reason I shouldn’t beat your ass right here.”
“I…I…” Tyler honestly couldn’t think of one. He was barely human anymore, more animal than man. He hadn’t showered in days, he reeked. His hair was down to his shoulders and was disgusting and matted, his youthful beard was bristly and his clothes stained with filth. He was so skinny and underfed that Hunter could easily snap him in two.
So why, if he was so desperate, was he insulting people? He suddenly began to think in ways he hadn’t before. That wasn’t very nice, what I said to those people…beggars can’t be choosers…
Hunter laughed. “So, any reason yet?”
“Nooooo…” Man, it was real hot in this construction site.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s…unnngh. It’s Tyler. I need a job…please don’t hurt me.”
Hunter chuckled and released his grip around Tyler’s collar. “Well, then, you’ve got a job, Tyler.”
Tyler grimaced and braced himself to fall onto the dusty floor in a heap. But he didn’t. He saw this guy back away, but he was still as high up as he had been. It was like he was affixed to the wall.
He looked down and almost fainted. His feet were touching the floor, but they were attached to very long spindly legs. He was high-up, real high, dizzyingly so. He was looking down on this tall guy!
Oh, that’s right. I’m six-eight...but I’m not, I’m five-ten…but I’m not…but that doesn’t make sense, I was five-ten in eighth grade…fuck…I’m six-eight NOW, that’s undeniable…
He felt a sudden draft and saw his painfully tight pants collapse around his ankles. He hadn’t unzipped them. It was as if the hand of God had removed them. His arms pulled back and he felt the ratty shirt remove itself from his lanky body. “What the fuck…”
He stood there, clad only in underwear, and began to shiver and shake. He was used to being cold, but this shiver felt unfamiliar, more like an uncontrollable spasm. His butt wriggled while he shot his head back and felt thousands of tickles around his head.
He threw his head back and forth and began to shriek like a banshee. The dirty hair whipped against his face and suddenly began to feel like ropes smashing into his head. He dug his hands into the matted hair and felt glossy, tangled dreadlocks. “How is…this is nigger hair!”
Hunter rolled his eyes. “And it’s your hair.”
“But that means…ohhhhh…” He held one dreadlock in front of his face. There were dozens of shoulder-length, tightly-wound tendrils on his head, shiny and well-maintained and black as coal. The dread was pulled from his fingers as a bandanna wrapped around his head and held the mass from his face.
Tyler’s stretched-out, six-foot-eight body began to warp. His malnourished frame suddenly bloated and he doubled over and stumbled from the weight. He grimaced and his head shook as heat shot through his body, blowing out his slim shoulders and puffing out his chest. His upper body was suddenly a blockade of mass, and he bulged out farther in all directions, expanding with muscle like a balloon expands with air. “What’s happenninnnnggggg…” He desperately scratched as the wispy hair on his body receded into his skin, leaving him smooth and hairless save for the beautiful crown of dreads.
His pecs reshaped themselves. They got stronger and larger with every frantic breath Tyler drew, and his back reciprocated to balance him out. He teetered on his toothpick legs, trying to hold himself up as his body became a fortress of muscle. Each protruding pec was the size of a watermelon, with nipples the size of small fists. His traps flared out and forced his arms straight out to the side.
Tyler was frantically trying to figure out what was happening to him. The muscle in his back started to fortify and strengthen, and with every spasm it became increasingly hard to move. His limbs burst with vitality; if he hadn’t been so panicked, he would laugh from how fantastic his body felt. “Is this the job?”, he asked, and he felt a blast of heat in his vocal chords. “How is this happening?” His voice dropped into his chest and began to rumble with power. “What’s wrong with me?” Another jolt, and he dropped from baritone to bass, feeling his very Adam’s Apple thicken out of his neck. “Am I becoming…am I…” He recoiled and swallowed at the tone and felt the heat swell. His voice had a depth that only black men could have, a deep power-bass. “How are you doing this?!?” It was like Barry White’s voice, but rougher and with a steroid shot of masculinity.
His arms doubled, then tripled in size and thickness. Biceps swelled out of their confines, delts growing to the size of a child’s head, forearms thickening to match. He could only grunt and wipe the sweat off his brow. He felt like a caged animal. He grunted as the bicep blew into massive magnitude, he grunted as he felt the veins snake down his arms and across his chest, as his vascularity greatly improved. He grunted as he watched his hands quickly enlarge and his fingers lengthen, thick as sausages. He grunted when he noticed he was looking really, really tan.
More heat, this time in his stomach. Huge abs protruded out, but he couldn’t see past his bloated pecs, and as he felt the muscle creep up his neck, his range of motion plummeted. His arms were like wings attached to the plane of his traps, which seemed to extend straight out from the base of his head, and his shoulders broadened more, widening him into a powerful muscle machine. He saw the power of his delts segue into the broadest, most powerful shoulders he had ever seen on a man. He threw his head back and roared in that lionine bass as he felt the muscle reach up to his head, grasping onto the tendons and enlarging them, making him borderline superhuman.
His rib cage became wider and made his impossibly rippling ten-pack the perfect center on his torso, carving out every miniscule muscle that surrounded it. His tan skin darkened another shade and he became a light mocha, but he was too distracted by his growing cock. It felt like a hand had reached into his tight boxers and yanked his equipment downward, like an anvil was attached to his dick. It shot out to 13 inches as if being powered by an air pump, and his balls pulled inward into a tight, thick pouch. They swirled like they were on spin cycle, the scrotum stretching to accommodate their sudden girth.
The noise his body made was indescribable – stretching, prodding, pulsing, tearing, growing, all at once – as Tyler became the one thing he detested. But he didn’t hate himself – he LOVED himself. He was fucking awesome. And getting better with…every…breeeaathhh…
“Ohhhh,” he moaned, trying to maintain his sanity while feeling his impossible equipment. His thighs quivered and his ass shook like a stripper, and he felt his legs press into each other. His cock was now encased by a bright purple poser, and as he felt the new suit he realized it was velvet. His ass distended into two huge crescent moons, the two cheeks swallowing part of the poser as the dimples pushed in. He leaned back and tried to look, but his huge arm blocked his view, and he could only feel as his thighs pressed against each other. He adjusted his stance as he felt the same thickening sensation that he had experienced on his upper body, as the muscles became one with his body. Big tear-drops were on each leg, every sinewed muscle bulged with power, and his calves quickly followed suit. He fell forward and felt his feet break and reshape, a sharp spasm shooting through them as the toes became longer and the soles became wider. He tried to stand, but couldn’t force up the hundreds of pounds of muscle. He leaned forward, cracked his knuckles and pushed up again, and the huge man stood. He was an anatomy chart with skin. Every muscle in his entire body was visible, from head to toe.
“I’m a bodybuilder. You’ve made me a muscleman! A muscle…g-god…”
The warmth of his body increased as his skin darkened again, from mocha to chestnut brown. “Oh, shit…”
He looked up, not able to see his blue eyes become a beautiful brown. The whites of his eyes twinkled against his brown skin. He ran his long, thick fingers over his hide and could only watch as it darkened once more. He had looked biracial, but his skin became a solid caramel-brown, then darkened slightly more from tanning.
“Ohhhh…” He desperately caressed his new muscle body. “L-look at me. Is this the job? Am I…”
“Forget the job, you’re not done yet.” Hunter looked at the confused bodybuilder in front of him, very much in the Ronnie Coleman mold, absolutely stuffed with muscle. “Right now, you’re a white guy with black skin. First, the face.”
“The…face…,” Tyler’s voice mumbled. He felt a pulling on his mouth as his lips lost their shape, the Cupid’s bow distorted and then destroyed by their puffing out. His lower lip doubled in size and his upper lip inflated, and he licked them, feeling their strength and size. They were beautiful lips, a mouth of a Nubian god, slightly pink as if kissed by a rose and dominating his lower face. “Ahhh, shee-it…,” his suddenly-accented voice groaned. He giggled as a small pencil stache sprouted on top of his upper lip, and a little matching soul patch grew into the crevice of his chin. He felt the bridge of his nose flatten and his nostrils flared, then flared more, as the tip dropped down and he developed the wide, strong nose of a black man. His wide brown eyes got bigger, prettier, then slanted slightly and tuned to a distinctive almond shape under heavily folded eyelids. “What tha fuck, man…” His ears got smaller and flattened against his head, and he felt his strong brow develop a cocky, high arch at the sides. His very brow thickened as his forehead got noticeably smaller, his hairline subtly creeping forward. He grimaced and his teeth got literally bigger, their whiteness popping against his dark skin, and he groaned as his jaw began to distinguish itself from his face, becoming so big and square that the chin had to push even farther to make itself known. It was an unbelievably beautiful, terrifyingly masculine face; model meets thug. The features settled into place and Tyler drew in a breath, his wide nostrils flaring with air. “Yo son, this shit fuckin’ hurts, dawg…I ain’t playin’…”
Tyler’s eyes widened at what he heard himself say. But it shouldn’t surprise him, it was how he always talked growing up in Atlanta, hustling before he’d started bodybuilding and made something of his life. That black slang was entrenched in him, a part of him…but it wasn’t, he had ran away from home, or what was left of it, at 14 and had lived on the streets of New York for five years…no he hadn’t, he’d moved his Mama to Virginia then left to train because he was so naturally big…no, he was 19…wait, he was 34…
He was beautiful, a Nubian god, a perfect black male. “Now, the body.”
Tyler’s very physiognomy underwent another metamorphosis, as Hunter watched. Slowly, he lifted his hips as his Mack-truck ass rose visibly higher on his body, shooting out like a shelf from his carved lower back, the impossibly huge glutes appearing to swallow part of the poser. He held his hands out and they got even bigger, along with his feet, sending a message of power with a mere wave. His biceps lengthened on the vine, his abs thickened and his pecs swelled more. His waist got smaller and tighter, his shoulders became similarly broader, neck bulking out farther as the new black man developed the natural genetics of a builder and the inherent musculature of a huge African-American. His very DNA was now fundamentally black.
Tyler held his hands out in front of him, foreign hands, hands that could crush a skull at their will. His brown eyes widened with fear.
Tyrell threw a double-bicep pose and came a little in his posing strap before realizing his boss was in front of him.
Tyler pulled back in horror, confused, and looked down at his huge horse-like appendage stuffed into the neon-purple velvet.
Tyrell cupped his cock in his hand and grinned proudly. He didn’t understand why men like him were supposed to hide their bodies and dicks.
Tyler tried to think of beating up people for money, of scrounging for food, of running from the police. But all Tyrell could think of was sex with other bodybuilders, and excessive training and dieting, and his Mama at home living off of the money he earned from showing off his body and protecting Katie Snow. They called him Coleman 2.0, except a bodyguard instead of a cop. Fuck yeah, this nigga ain’t playin’.
Tyler didn’t know who Coleman or Katie Snow were. Tyler didn’t know anything…Tyler…T-t-t-Tyler…who was that…
Tyrell reached down and pulled up a pair of fleece gym shorts over his globe ass and tree-trunk thighs.
Tyler touched his abs and couldn’t believe how firm and defined they were, since he was such a big man now.
Tyrell pulled on Timberland sneakers and clumsily pulled an XL tank onto his 3XL upper body. Fuck, he loved how tight that shit was, the way it didn’t even cover his black nipples.
Tyler didn’t know where he was.
Tyrell confidently walked over to his boss.
Tyler didn’t have a boss. He didn’t know anything…he felt a warmth envelope him.
Tyler opened his mouth to say he was sorry, but Tyrell said, “I’m ready, sir.”
Tyler was ready. Tyrell was ready. It all came flooding into him at once, as if a computer had been turned on: memories altering, changing, as he merged into Tyrell. Memories, Atlanta, dates, muscle, training, boyfriends, clothes, muscle, the ghetto, muscle, his Mama, muscle, Katie Snow, muscle, bodybuilding, muscle, winning, muscle…muscle…muscle…
His beautiful brown eyes snapped open and he staggered back, then carefully set down the barbell he had been curling. Fuck, that was a first, blacking out during barbell curls. Had he been that fucked up last night? Dangerous shit. He took a seat on the bench, and chugged some water. He would rest for a second, but he had to get through this workout, before he left with Katie for Australia in a month. That bitch was so fine, she almost turned him straight. He grinned at how Hunter had specifically asked to make sure that Tyrell didn’t like pussy, because he didn’t want nobody makin’ it with his girl. But he and Hunter were cool, yeah, they were friends. He understood that Hunter was his boss that signed the paychecks, but they got along real nice.
Tyrell stood up and flexed a little in the mirror, chuckling as he threw a boner in his fleece shorts from the sight of himself. He was so grown and sexy, what a muscle brotha. He curled up his big lips in a cocky sneer. Yeah, the judges always loved that. Fuck, dude, he was so fuckin’ jacked right now. Look at that fuckin’ pump, all those veins under his dark chocolate skin…
“Ty, come spot me.”
Ty grunted his assent and swaggered over to the bench to help out his workout partner. They were the two biggest guys in the gym, Mike DeSanto and Tyrell Patterson, the cop and the bodyguard. Their kids played together, Mike’s oldest boy with Ty’s only son from a youthful fling, before he turned exclusively to cock. They worked out for hours on end together, and sometimes Mike thought Ty knew him better than his wife did. That male muscle bond, man, it was undeniable. They did their occasional cycles together, just a few ‘roids every now and then to really put ‘em over the edge. They had grown their little goatees together, although Ty had just shaved his into that little stache and soul patch. There was even that one time they had fucked in the locker room, so horny from the workout that they couldn’t help it. Mike had sworn Ty to secrecy, and the guilt had kept it from happening again.
“C’mon! Two more! Come on! Do sumpfin!” Tyrell barked in his thunderous bass, the sultry mix of the Georgia and New York accents rolling out of his large, pendulous lips. Mike roared as if in the throes of orgasm. Every muscle pumped as he pushed the loaded barbell up, then did another rep, cursing until he was blue in the face. Ty clapped his hands and reached under the bar to support his friend.
“I gotchoo! I gotchoo! C’mon, muthafucka!”
The bar slammed into the resting place and Mike laughed with pride. “Fuuuuuck yeah. Better than sex.”
Later, in the locker room, they put on their skimpiest posers and flexed for each other, completely enamored with their massive barrier-like bodies. Mike dressed in his tight cop uniform. Tyrell pulled on a sleeveless polo that fit like a grapeskin, the synthetic knit fabric holding onto his body like glue, and a pair of skin tight dark jeans that were barely able to get above his thighs. Three inches of his crisp white boxers were visible above his thick leather belt, and his muscle ass stuck out proudly as he walked in an ass-powered gait identical to Mike’s. He had shoulders as wide as a doorframe, the grand sweeping traps pushing out the seams and neck of any shirt he wore. Dressed, the men swaggered out proudly, two bad-ass motherfuckers who owned the streets.
“Holla at me fo’ the next workout, brutha.” Tyrell met Mike’s powerful grasp in a tight fraternal handshake and fist-bump. Shoulders rolling and ass bouncing, Tyrell Patterson walked off into the night, attracting envious and respected stares wherever he deigned to go.
To be continued