Meat Market 3
by Aardvark
Jameson’s escape route led him straight to an opulent, gold-leafed restroom. His thoughts were racing faster than a comet, flashing from one plan to the next, trying to put everything together in his confused head. He thought there’d been an exit sign above the door, but as soon as he blasted through it, he could tell there was no exit. Moreover, when he put his head out in the hallway, he had no idea which way he’d come from, or which way he was supposed to go. It was like rooms were rotating and spinning around, like a haunted house with turntables and trap doors.His fear was so overwhelming that Jameson realized he was about to piss himself. He held sudden gratitude to the universe for leading him to a bathroom. Jameson launched himself across the black tiles and yanked his khakis down, not even wasting time to unbuckle his belt or open his fly. One advantage of a thin waist.
His stream splashed against the back of the urinal so hard that it sprayed a little on his hands. Jameson’s mouth dropped open in relief and he placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. He’d forgotten to take a leak before he left work and as he did the math in his head, he realized he hadn’t pissed since before lunch. No wonder it looked like someone was pouring a gallon of water into the urinal.
His neck felt heavy.
There was something pulling his head down. As he continued to pee, Jameson steadied himself and looked down, seeing something reflecting against the dark tiles. He reached to his neck with his free hand and touched something cold and metallic. One finger wrapped around it and tugged on it, and he felt something dig into the back of his neck.
It was a chain, Jameson ascertained quickly. A big, chunky chain. He could feel the individual links with his fingertips. Judging by the reflective gleam, it was gold.
He liked the way the chain felt sitting on his neck, so much that he began to stroke his finger back and forth against his shaft over the urinal. “Oooh.” The world started feeling better. His dick tingled and pulsed with happiness. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. “Oh, goodness…”
He was getting hard, the head of his dick growing red. Jameson knew he shouldn’t be masturbating in here – he wasn’t even in a stall. But the chain was so heavy, so strong, sitting around his pencil neck and scrawny shoulders pretending it belonged.
Jameson’s throat kept producing involuntary grunts. More sweat streamed down his face as his hand, and breathing, sped up. His palm felt rough against the smooth skin of his dick, and he wasn’t being terribly gentle, either. And it was strange, he swore he could hear the cotton of his polo straining while he breathed in.
Jameson had never masturbated standing up before. His hips started pushing forward and his face went red from exertion. Rainbows and sunshine filled his mind and he was gonna…GONNA-
The bathroom door flew open and Jameson’s heart sank. He was painfully working his hard cock back into his khakis when he felt a nudge on his right side. Looking over quickly, he saw the biggest arm he’d ever set eyes on. The muscle looked as big as a telephone pole and the shiny fabric around it had only one wrinkle – the place where it hugged the underside of the bodybuilder’s tricep.
The man next to him was so huge that he couldn’t even stand still without running into people. There just wasn’t enough space between each urinal.
Jameson’s cock started tingling, and he went red. A man had never made him feel like that, but this guy was maybe not even a man – he looked like some kind of god. His shirt was as shiny as tinfoil, and Jameson could see his own gold chain reflected in the material. The size of the muscles was otherworldly, and they were strapped to a frame so tall that Jameson felt like a child next to this stud.
Jameson realized far too late that he was staring, and the man – still in mid-pee - turned and glared down at him. The face was pure testosterone. Hairy, gorgeous, his skin a delicious cinnamon-brown. Rabih’s voice was clearly displeased. “What?”
“I’m sorry, I-” Jameson’s sentence stopped short as Rabih turned and faced him, even as the giant was still putting his dick away and zipping up his fly. Jameson got a long glance at the organ and he became even more envious. He fixated at his eye-level – the bouncer’s chest flaring out of his half-open shirt – and felt his pits grow wet with nervous moisture. Rabih pushed past him and began washing his hands.
“You work here, right?” Jameson finally stammered out.
“I’m the doorman,” came the response, as Rabih checked his teeth in the mirror.
“Uh, I found this chain. It’s not mine. I think it’s solid gold.”
“Alright,” Rabih said, still not looking or paying much attention, this one word making his accent apparent to Jameson for the first time.
“I thought maybe you guys had a lost and found or something…”
“An honest man,” Rabih said slowly as he began subtly flexing his muscles, causing ripples in his shirt. He looked at Jameson and pointed a finger. “Which chain isn’t yours, then?”
“Which-” Jameson looked in the mirror and noticed TWO chains around his neck: the heavy gold one outside of his shirt that hung around the collar of his polo and went below his chest, and then a finer, thinner one around his neck against his bare skin, with a cross pendant visible right below his collarbone.
“That wasn’t there…” Jameson reached up and tugged on the cross, just to make sure it was real. It was then that he noticed the fullness of his arms in his sleeves. The peak of his bicep made a small curve in the fabric.
“You are cold, my friend?” Rabih was laughing. Jameson realized his nipples were standing straight out against the white fabric of his shirt. He continued to stare as the pecs under the shirt – pecs he had never bothered even attempting to get – started to swell. A ledge quickly built up under his polo, followed by a button opening itself. It was clear, even through the thinning fabric, that Jameson’s nipples were getting larger. Stretching out wide across the expanse of his new chest. His shirt was far too narrow for the size of his pecs, now. It was if they were reaching out to touch Rabih on their own. The larger chain that had hung so low on Jameson now rested on top of his pecs, like it had its own podium.
The widening of his upper body was further served by its diminishing length. Jameson couldn’t see over his chest, but if he had been able to, he would have witnessed a slight gathering of his pant legs on top of his shoes, as his lanky height went down by four inches, leaving a greater distance between him and Rabih. But the loss served to make him look more stout and powerful; his neck was shorter, his muscles fuller, his hips wider. The bigger his muscles got, the more they suited him. Jameson remembered that most bodybuilders were shorter guys because it was easier for them to pack on muscle. Evidently that was the case for him too…not that he was a midget or anything, just not a leggy six-footer like Ken or Rabih.
His skinny frame had, in the span of a few breaths, filled out into a distinctly masculine shape. He had a thick, squat neck on top of his expanding shoulders. His upper back’s U-shape nestled up next to his pulsing arms and gave extra dimension to his barrel chest. His thighs flared out further than his wide waist, gifting him with the male version of an hourglass shape. And all the lost height seemed to have gathered on his ass, fleshing it out into the size of a boulder. If this version of Jameson turned around too quickly, he risked knocking over someone who stood next to him.
Jameson was noticing how thick his wrists were – more like the fact that they didn’t look like wrists at all, as if his hands were screwed directly onto his forearms – when he saw the watch on it. 40mm, yellow gold, engraved tachymeter. He peered closer: ‘Rolex.’ Reaching over to touch it with his right hand brought into view the chain-link bracelet he wore on his right wrist – with its heavy weight, it was an obvious mate to his chunky necklace.
His mind raced more – he wasn’t really a jewelry guy. It was too glitzy for him, he was still in the ‘assistant’ mode of his career, although he wanted to be higher up. Have more power. Feel powerful. Powerful men wore expensive baubles like gold chains and Rolexes. Jameson couldn’t decide if he felt powerful because of his watch, or if he had his watch because he WAS powerful.
He never realized that the jewelry was distracting him from all the changes he was going through. He only focused on the jewelry. Especially the Rolex. Oh, the way it gleamed…it was so mesmerizing. His Dad had always talked about wanting a Rolex. The knowledge that he, Jameson the Assistant to the Regional something-or-other, had already earned one? Well, it was intoxicating. More intoxicating than the overpriced drinks the club sold.
The outline of his tank top was visible through his polo shirt, the straps starting to creak as his traps hulked up and his pecs continued to swell out. He could feel the hem of the tank get pulled out from his khakis as a huge pair of shoulders yoked themselves directly onto his neck. He could’ve felt his lats hook over the sides of the skimpy undershirt, but he was still inspecting all of his golden accessories.
Almost every finger sported a heavy gold ring now – some had more than one. Jameson had just blinked and there they were, weighing heavily on his fingers. They looked odd at first, but something about the dimensions of his fingers changed suddenly – shorter, thicker – and suddenly they looked very good. And when he felt the same weight pull on his earlobes, he remembered the gold hoops that circled around them.
The buttons of his polo shirt rested flat on the very top of his pecs now, with the bottom of the shirt wrapped snuggly above his bellybutton, nestled between the bulging bricks of his abdomen. Much shorter than before but nearly three times wider, Jameson was already unrecognizable from his starting point.
His heavy, free-swinging cock felt like a soda can stuck to him. Jameson was wondering why he’d worn such scratchy boxers when he met relief in the form of silk caressing his balls. His member was pushed up high and cradled in the pouch of tight, supportive briefs. Had to buy them big to fit his ass.
But he was feeling silkier all over. His cheap khakis were getting smoother, more cozy, and getting lighter as they went. From a dark tan to a much lighter khaki to a gleaming, clean white. The wallet-worn back pocket and faded knees evened out as the fabric turned to a luxurious fine wool, smooth as silk. They tailored themselves around his generous behind and pouched his cock like the treasure it was. Jameson’s thighs and calves were still growing aggressively, filling up all the space of his pant legs, and the white fabric had to keep re-altering and re-forming to make room for his legs. His midsection – admirably flat for a man of such brawn – still managed to give out a little over the belt loops and the white leather belt that was laced through them.
The feeling of fabric flowing over his elbows and brushing against his sinewy forearms surprised him. Jameson was confused by the shirt being in mid-change but grinned as he saw its new form settle into focus. The tailored white shirt had sizeable French cuffs with shiny gold links. His powerful arms bulged in the sleeves, stretching the lush white fabric to transparency. The high, open collar rubbed against his clenched jaw. His tank top had disappeared completely, absorbed into the new dress shirt; otherwise the undershirt would’ve been visible through the shirt’s open three buttons. As it was, all that could be seen through the large opening was a shelf composed of brawny pecs, the cleavage making an upside-down ‘Y’ shape above the first fastened button.
Jameson looked at the beautiful cuff that shoved up against his Rolex. He wriggled his ringed fingers and balled them into a veiny fist, sending more testosterone shooting up his arms, filling out his shoulders until even the seams of his custom shirt were filled with muscle. And then, without a sound, Jameson’s shirt appeared to rise up momentarily and double itself into another layer, which then spun and wove itself into a beautiful white suit jacket. The tailoring of the blazer served to make his arms look even thicker, his taper more extreme, his shoulders even more brawny. The collar of the shirt rested gracefully on top of the jacket’s lapels. A gold satin pocket square made its appearance.
Bodybuilders looked good in suits, Jameson remembered. Especially suits and shirts that could show off their pecs. The gold accents – the jewelry, the cuff links, the pocket square – all popped against the pristine white canvas of his suit and shirt. And he loved the way his bigger gold chain swung around the opened buttons of his shirt, like an ornate picture frame. The smaller chain, with the cross, was perfectly positioned for its pendant to fall in between the bulging pectorals.
Jameson looked at the cross. It had been very simple before, he thought…now it had lots of detail: an ornate bottony inlaid with a three-bar patriarchal cross, lined with tiny jewels and made from pure gold. Jameson recognized it – it made him think of chants and the smell of incense, one of his favorite boyhood smells. He was not a boy anymore, but he’d always remember that smell. And he’d always recognize the expensive necklace he was wearing as being a symbol of the Greek Orthodox church.
Greek…
Jameson made a noise of recognition as his jaw suddenly jutted out from his neck, filling in with a day’s worth of full stubble. His thin chin swelled into a heavy ball on the front of his face. The look of surprise never wavered as years drew themselves across his face, his brow thickening up and his nose thinning into a straight line. Two thin eyebrows got so thick and so dark that they almost connected.
“Rabih,” he muttered emptily, his voice thick with an accent. He said it again, “Rabih,” and his bouncer looked at him. “Yeah, boss?”
Jameson started laughing. And the more he laughed, the older he got. His hair sprang out into a tall black pompadour, slicked back from his low forehead with grease. His features got wider and heavier – and more handsome, now framed by two thick black sideburns. The more he chuckled, the deeper his voice became. He felt his muscles rubbing against the insides of his clothing and it made his cock spring up.
“Yeah, Mr. Emmanouilidis?”
Jameson sized up Rabih. He suddenly remembered hiring the huge Arab, hoping to make him a dancer, but Rabih just wanted to be a doorman. Jameson was pretty sure it was because Rabih liked wearing silk shirts, showing up in a different one almost every night, always mostly unbuttoned to showcase his masculine frame. But wait, why did he do the hiring…he was an assistant. No, he was the boss. Assistants didn’t wear white suits and gold jewelry.
Shit, everything was so fucked…
“Mr. Emmanouilidis?”
The Greek club owner radiated wealth and power. Jameson Emmanouilidis. No, no, that wasn’t right. Jameson was a variant of James, which itself was a variant of a Greek name…the name his parents had blessed him with…
In one rapid motion, Dimitrios Emmanouilidis spun back to the urinal, opened the fly of his suit pants, and came messily all over the porcelain commode. His stubbled mouth released a long moan.
“Mr. Emmanouilidis?” Rabih’s voice was edgy and a little frustrated. “Truly, are you alright?”
Dimitrios flushed the urinal and zipped up his fly. “Sorry,” he said, his accent as thick as Rabih’s, “was thinking of something funny.” What it was, he had no idea, but he hoped Rabih wouldn’t ask. “Do me a favor?”
“Sure, boss.”
“Go out and tell them to get started on the costume contest. It feels like a tomb out there compared to some nights, we need to get shit going.”
“Okay, boss.”
As Rabih strode past Dimitrios, the Greek realized again just how huge and powerful his bouncer was. The door was still swinging shut when Dimitrios pulled out his dick and began rubbing it again with his ringed fingers. He was in his 50s and had been bodybuilding for three decades, but he had never seen a man quite like that strapping Rabih. His envy fueled his lust, and with a jolt of pleasure, he again spattered cum all over his urinal.
Dimitrios checked his hair in the mirror, making sure there wasn’t a strand out of place. After a moment of consideration, he opened another button of his shirt, exposing more of his swarthy chest, the hairy pecs framed by the gold chains.
His Rolex said it was three minutes to the hour, a perfect time to start the contest. That always got the club really heated up.
--------
“Fuck this, I’m getting out of here,” Steven said aloud as he saw more and more muscular men gyrating around him. His swaggering, offended demeanor fooled no one who had witnessed him practically faint as he watched Ben change. But Steven had seen all the guys running around like chickens with their heads cut off, and they looked ridiculous. He theorized that pretending to be relaxed might benefit him more, but he was getting really tired of all the bumping and grinding. He knew it was just minutes before he saw a fucking cock. Or a cock, fucking.
Business had really picked up, though. He felt like he was at a concert, squeezing through all the bodies, trying to get to the door – but with the music blaring and the lights flashing, he was having a hard time figuring out where the door even was.
He wasn’t paying attention to the announcer’s voice blaring through the club. “Ladies aaaaaand gentlemen!”
“’scuse me!” Steven shoved his way between two glittery twinks and faced the next wall of scantily clad men. He felt like he was fighting his way through the levels of a video game.
“Who you callin’ a lady,” one of the guys in the crowd barked out, and the announcer chuckled before repeating, “Ladies and GENTLEMEN! Can I get a drumroll?”
A canned drumroll sound effect played over the intercom, and members of the crowd patted their thighs rapidly to mimic it.
“Tonight’s lucky winner is…”
“Comin’ through, just trying to leave…”
“STEV-ennnnnnnnn LeGRAAAAAANGE!”
Steven’s vision went white. They’d put two spotlights on him. He looked straight up and crouched defensively, like a fugitive caught by the police’s search light. Guys were patting him on the back and cheering for him, and he felt himself being guided – forced – up to the wooden planks of the stage. “I didn’t enter anything! Lemme go!”
“Don’t you want 500 bucks, dude?” A voice in the darkness said. “Get up there!”
“Five hundred…say wha-” Steven stumbled onto the stage, shaking free of all the hands and quickly smoothing out his clothes. He prided himself on being one of the best-dressed guys at work – tonight he wore a slim-fit white shirt with the skinny tie jauntily loosened and the sleeves rolled up crisply to his elbows, tucked into a pair of straight-leg dark jeans and leather loafers. His dark brown hair was neatly gelled into a small point at the front, and he smoothed down a ruffled section on the side with his left hand as he tucked in his shirt tail with his right. After a few seconds, he was polished again.
“You good?” The announcer’s voice was like a purr over the sound system. Steven couldn’t even see the front row of people, let alone the announcer booth. All he saw past the stage lights was a sea of black. But he could hear the talking, the general noise of the crowd, and he knew people were watching him.
Steven nodded. “What’s the contest,” he shouted over the din. “I didn’t enter a-”
“Your friends put your name in,” the voice interrupted.
“Shitheads.”
The crowd laughed. The announcer laughed. Steven was stone-faced.
“Well, well,” the voice said, “someone wants an explanation. You’re a lucky man, Steven, everyone always wants to get picked and you got it without even knowing the rules!”
A yell from the crowd. “Lucky sonuvabitch!”
“Heh,” the voice chuckled, “anyway, Steven buddy, you get up there, you put on a little costume for us, maybe do a little song-and-dance, and if the crowd likes ya you get five hundred bucks. Cash. Sound good?”
Steven felt his cheeks flush. A cold shiver ran down to his very toes as stage fright set in. Sweat dribbled out of his perfect coif. “I, uh…I don’t wanna take my clothes-”
“Oh, when I say costume, it’s a COSTUME! No nudity required. Right fellas?”
An encouraging roar went up in the club. Steven didn’t relax much, but felt slightly better. “Fuh…uh, five hundred bucks, you said?”
“He’s in!” Another roar. “So tell us about yourself, Steven LeGrange. How old are you?”
“I’m 26.” Steven’s spine straightened up. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t want to tell all these strange horny dudes about himself. He was already pissed that they knew his real name. What if someone knew his boss or had a mutual friend? Word was gonna get out that pretty-boy Steven LeGrange was onstage at a male strip joint.
Shit.
“How much d’ya weigh?”
“What the hell does that-“
“It’s so we can pull the right costume.”
“Oh. Uh, I’m about 170.”
“And your height?”
“Six feet,” he lied. Steven always added two inches on to his height.
The voice chuckled, and Steven wondered if he’d been caught in his untruth. But it wasn’t mentioned. “Uhhhh, let’s see…you a smoker?”
“Fuck no. Never.”
“Touchy, touchy. Alright, guys, what more do we need to know?”
Everyone in the crowd shouted out something, it seemed. No question was actually audible to Steven. He just stood there awkwardly, trying to minimize the shaking of his hands.
“Oh yeah, that’s a good one,” the announcer said to someone. “He wants to know where you work that you earn enough money to buy nice white shirts like that one.”
“I’m a package designer at Columbia Paper,” Steven said, his eyes widening with horror even as the words were still tumbling out of his mouth. Why the fuck had he told them that?!
A low “oooooooh” ran through the crowd. “Ahh, an artiste!,” the announcer said, impressed. “No wonder you’re so refined. A real Slick Rick. So you went to school for that?”
“Yup. Master’s.”
“You got a nice build there, you work out?”
Steven’s smile was of the utmost awkwardness. “Not really. I eat well. I run sometimes…”
He was interrupted by more shouts from the crowd, a few of them discernable: “How big’s your dick?!” “How much do you pay for haircuts…?” “Where’d you go to school?!” “I think he’s got hairplugs!”
Steven went crimson. “Look, I don’t see what the fuck this all has to do with-“
“Whoa! Language! THIS is a family establishment. Heheheh. Easy, easy…but you’re right. Guys, stop Diane Sawyering him. It’s time for the main event.”
The sound effect of a clanging churchbell echoed through the club. The cheers were almost deafening. Steven’s hands started raising to cover his ears, but he stopped himself, knowing he’d never hear the end of it if he did that. Still, he couldn’t hide his fidgeting fingers and defensive posture. He was clearly not at ease.
A tall, muscular figure walked onstage from the wings, carrying a pile of clothes in his hands. Steven recognized him as that dancer, Ken Doll. He was even more handsome up close. It was kind of freaky how perfect his face was – almost triggering an uncanny valley reaction in Steven, as if Ken couldn’t possibly be human because he was too beautiful. But seeing as Ken was only wearing his g-string, Steven was able to see the man’s heartbeat, the tongue licking the lips, the blinking eyelids, the bulging veins…in that capacity, he was clearly human, as real as Steven.
Ken dropped the pile of clothes at his feet and picked out the pants. The announcer hadn’t lied: they were a full pair of rinse-wash jeans, no missing crotch or ass.
What they did have, Steven noticed immediately, was padding. Lots of padding. It looked like there was a person wearing them even as Ken held them limply in his hands. When Steven took them and looked down inside, he saw thick lumps of white cotton sewn onto the insides of the pant legs, all the way down to the ankles. No real attempt had been made to make the padding look authentic; it was like a child playing dress up, stuffing pillows in the front of his shirt to pretend he had a belly.
“Oh, it’s a muscle suit,” Steven muttered, and Ken replied “Yup” in an equally soft tone.
“I get it now. Funny.”
“Yup.”
Steven crouched down to slide one of his legs into the pants, and the crowd made a noise of great disapproval. “No no no, what are you DOING,” the announcer yelled, and Steven went hot with shame, dropping the padded pants like they were on fire.
“You have to take YOUR pants off first,” the voice said, and Steven began to tremble with horror. “B-but you said…you said I…” He turned to Ken, his face pleading. “Please don’t make me-”
Ken chewed on his lip momentarily, but his eyes sparkled in a way that made Steven feel like he might have a chance at escape.
“I can block ya a little,” Ken whispered, moving to stand between Steven and the crowd. Some boos rained down, and Ken raised both of his middle fingers. Then he started working his hips in rhythm to the musical underscoring, and all was forgiven. The crowd was momentarily mesmerized by the hunk’s dance.
“Give Ken your shoes, Steven,” the announcer said. Steven sat on the stage behind Ken’s legs. His hand was trembling so badly that he needed three attempts to pop off his right loafer. Finally he removed his shoes and handed them up to the stripper. “I better get those back,” Steven said, mustering up a firm tone.
“Oh, totally man,” Ken nodded, his pelvis still emptily gyrating, second nature. “The costume just has shoes too.”
“Nice undies,” someone in the crowd yelled, able to see Steven’s grey boxer briefs from their vantage point. Steven double-timed his dressing after that, desperately trying to pull on the costume pants. His feet kept slipping in between the gaps of the padding. It was just like when putting on a pair of jeans with holes in the knees – his feet were always, 100% guaranteed to go through the holes before they actually got to the bottom.
After catching his toes on what seemed like every padding seam, Steven finally felt the crotch of the jeans meet his actual waist. The legs of the pants were too long for his feet, but he had pulled the pants as high as they’d go. Relief flooded his system, and he stood up as he zipped the fly. The jeans would’ve been far too big for him had the crotch and ass not been padded too. His feet swam in the hems, invisible under all the extra denim.
The crowd cheered as he stepped out from behind Ken. Steven looked ridiculous: skinny upper body in its white dress shirt, then the lower body stuffed like a scarecrow, not remotely realistic-looking. The padding was meant to make his thighs look big, but all the audience saw was what he was: a skinny-legged guy with five pounds of cotton crammed into his jeans.
Steven extended his hand. “Let’s get this over with. Shirt?”
Ken placed an old white dress shirt in Steven’s hand. It looked like it had been picked up secondhand – pretty dingy - and it too had padding sewn on the inside. Two rings of stuffing in each sleeve, one to mimic upper arms and the other the forearms. Steven could tell that four throw pillows, minus the covers, had been attached to the shirt. Two for his shoulders, two for his chest.
Ken made a move to block Steven as he began loosening his hip tie, but Steven motioned that it was okay. “I’m wearing a t-shirt underneath.”
He was slightly calmer than when he’d taken off his shoes. The tie came off easier, as did his shirt, and he placed them carefully in Ken’s arms. Ken helped him slip on the padded dress shirt as the crowd grew more restless. “HURRY UP!,” a voice snarled from the dark. The padding strained the shirt’s buttons, but Steven finally managed to get it buttoned up, save for the open neck. He tucked the shirt into his jeans. All the padding raised his body temperature to an extreme. Steven felt like he was in an oven.
“That it?”
Ken stuck out a pair of black lace-up leather shoes. Looking at them from above, they looked normal. It was when Steven took them in his hands that he realized that the sole was multiple inches of rubber. Platform dress shoes. Who knew they even existed?
Steven put one hand on Ken’s shoulder to brace himself and tried to slip them on. He teetered and nearly fell multiple times, but finally succeeded in pulling up the pant legs and inserting his feet into the shoes. He stood still as Ken tied them for him, and then, to his horror, he watched Ken quickly stalk offstage with his clothes, leaving him alone onstage. Steven wobbled on the shoes like a newborn giraffe. His pant legs met the soles perfectly, giving the illusion that Steven had exceptionally long legs. It was the only trickery that really worked. The rest of the muscle suit looked horribly cheap. Any Halloween store would sell ones twice as convincing. The proportions were totally off; he looked like he had huge traps but no delts, the fabric actually collapsing around his shoulders with nothing to hold it up. His joints and lower back weren’t padded, and his head looked small and disproportionate. It was a disaster. Steven wished that he had been drinking heavily. There was nothing sexy about the look – it was just uncomfortable to witness.
“Showtime!” The voice yelled.
Steven looked around, confused, not sure where to tilt his head. He heard the click of a switch, the crackle of a speaker…
Then everything exploded. Strobes and colors flashed every which way in an overwhelming extravaganza of lasers and light. The deafening din was from the speaker blasting out a song with a bassline so heavy that it swallowed any other instrumentation or vocals. Crunching, bone-grinding bass reverberated through Steven’s skeleton and nearly knocked him over. He realized he was supposed to try to dance, so he lifted up one platformed foot and then set it back down, then again with the other, all the while waving his hands in some pathetic attempt at performance. He wasn’t giving it his all. He wasn’t even giving it a quarter of his all. He looked like a cotton-stuffed dumbass stomping on ants and swatting away flies at a picnic.
But he could really use five hundred bucks.
Purple, green, red, white, blue, orange; every color raced across his vision. He couldn’t hear the crowd screaming over the music, but he felt them through the darkness, sending their energy his way. He tottered and slid to the left on his shoes, his muscles tensing as he anticipated a fall, but miraculously he righted himself with some frantic pinwheeling of his arms. The pitch of the music rose higher, and higher, bass giving way to screaming treble, the kind of pitch that blew out lightbulbs, made dogs squeal, and ruined eardrums for life. Nails on a chalkboard. Violin strings gone horribly wrong. SCREEEEEEEEE!
The violence of the music and lights finally grew to be too much. Steven felt like his brain was about to leak out through his ears. His hearing so affected his balance that he shook wildly as if having a seizure, then he pitched straight back. With his arms flailing desperately through the air, he braced for impact-
BOOM.
The noise, whatever it was – maybe the speakers blowing - was twice as loud as a crack of thunder. Everything went dark for a nanosecond.
Steven felt like he was looking to his left and his right simultaneously, before his vision blurred back into a solid image. He was onstage. White light, same as before. Light musical underscoring, also the same. And no bruised ass – he hadn’t fallen. He stood there in front of everyone, breathing in and out as the crowd cheered and hooted in foot-stomping, drink-thrusting appreciation.
He stood. Still, unmoving, with his shoulders pulled back and his jaw clenched. Now that they were drawn into tight, angry fists, his hands couldn’t shake anymore. He had drawn his elbows slightly back, which served to puff his chest up and out. He had his head high and tilted up, peering through narrowed eyelids at the room in front of him. It all gave him the appearance of being two seconds away from throwing a right hook.
Even when he registered that the applause he was hearing was for him, his defensive posture never wavered. One side of his lip curled up, baring his upper teeth, but it was more sneer than smile.
“Alright, alright, settle down,” the announcer finally yelled, and after a few more moments, the loudest cheers subsided.
“Christ almighty,” Steven finally rumbled, “what the hell was all that ruckus?”
“That was your music!”
“Ugliest thing I ever heard.” He broke a small, charmless smile. “Now gimme my money ‘fore I tear this place apart.” He spun on his heels and took a step toward the wings.
“Ah, ah, ah,” the voice droned. “You can’t just walk offstage wearing one of our costumes. We have a very strict inventory system here, and we need to make sure we get back every piece. Isn’t that right, witnesses?”
The crowd thundered their response. Steven sighed and gave his head a shake. “Ahh, I get ya.”
“Shoes first, please.”
“This better not be some weird fetish shit.” Steven easily bent over and untied the dress shoes, mumbling curses under his breath. He wiggled one finger into the back of each shoe and used it as a makeshift horn to slide his large feet out of the cheap black leather.
What Steven didn’t seem to notice was that the shoes he was dropping to the ground were not platforms. Their worn soles were just a quarter-of-an-inch thick. The man on stage had legs as tall as trees.
The crowd cheered their approval. A liquor-drenched voice shouted from the crowd, “Hey baby, those legs go all the way up?!” The place erupted in laughter, but all Steven did was take a step forward and thrust his chest out. “FUCK YOU,” he boomed.
The room went silent again and Steven stepped back, content with the authority he had asserted. “What next,” he said impatiently, running a tongue over his chapped lips. “I wanna get this ugly shit off.”
“Then take it off. I’d recommend the shirt first, it looks uncomfortable,” the announcer said with false sympathy.
Steven started flicking open the buttons of his shirt, and the heat in the club began rising. Glasses fogged up and crotches tented jeans. The low murmurs in the crowd turned to wolf-whistles and noises of orgasm.
As the shirt opened further and further down the front, fabric folding back to reveal Steven’s sweaty skin, the illusion of the padding was suddenly shattered. The shirt had no padding. There were no pillows on his shoulders, just round mountains of muscle, solid as rocks arching straight out of his neck. The pecs hanging off of his collarbone were impossibly heavy. Round at the top and bottom, swollen in the center, granite balloons hanging both outward and downward. His nipples were stretched large, nestled on the underside of his pecs, pointing down and to the side at angles. The firm pecs bounced a little as Steven opened the buttons over them, as if they were excited to make their debut. With their astounding hang and awesome size – almost too large for the mind to process - it was understandable why it had looked like he was wearing pillows under his shirt.
Steven began struggling more with his shirt as he reached the bottom buttons. It took a mighty effort to unlatch the last two, as he had to keep maneuvering to get his arms to go around his chest. He finally succeeded but faced greater opposition when he tried to completely remove the garment. He reached up to slide one arm out, but his chest blocked his reach. Another tact of bending over and trying to pull the shirt over his head failed miserably thanks to the breadth of his back. He popped open the shirt cuffs, revealing forearms stuffed to sinewy bursting, but the tightness of the sleeves still wouldn’t allow him to pull his arms through.
“A little fuckin’ help?” Steven strode to the edge of the stage and turned his back to the crowd, allowing hands to reach up from the audience and pull his shirt off. The fabric was yanked away as Steven hit a back double bicep pose, flaring his huge lats outward and letting his biceps ball up on his arms. Arms thicker and fuller than most men’s legs, with triceps that hung out so far it looked like they were melting off. And he certainly was not missing delts – on the end of each shoulder was a spherical muscle the size of a human head, laced with veins. Most surprising of all were the intricate swirls of tribal ink that decorated his right upper arm and shoulder, a few strands of the tattoo even reaching up to lick the side of his neck.
Not one to waste time, Steven yanked open the waist of his jeans and began bucking his hips, trying to get the pants off. “How the fuck did I get these on?”
It was an honest question. His ass was like a cinderblock stuck onto his backside, and the jeans were tight in all areas, even the waist. It was like he’d been sewn inside of them.
They peeled off like the skin of a grape. A white jock strap peeked into view, holding a set of dick and balls that were big enough to knock a person unconscious. His thighs fleshed out from his waist like a pair of redwoods, the types of legs that had to swing around each other stiffly just to propel themselves forward. He looked like his best friend was the squat rack, with every plate in the gym stuck onto the barbell. He had to give a vicious tug to the jeans just to pull them off his butt, what with each ass cheek being just as thick and just as heavy as the thighs they were attached to. Even his knees looked muscled, running down into calves that were as big as his thighs had previously been.
The pants got turned inside out as he victoriously pulled his feet through them, slamming the thin denim on the floor as the crowd cheered. Steven looked at the cheap pile of dress clothes in front of him. “The hell was I wearin’ that shit for?”
“The Meat Market Costume Contest! How’d he do, fellas?”
The roar of approval was deafening. The man onstage was an absolute monster of a bodybuilder. As wide as he was tall, and boy, was he ever tall. Gigantic, pumped and strong as a pair of oxen.
“Who’dja doll me up as?” Steven cupped his jock-strapped dick with his hand. “I was dressed up purtier than a twenty-dollar whore!”
“You told us beforehand, you were in costume as a pretty-boy package designer named Steven LeGrange.”
“Stevie LeWho?” The man let out a loud bark of laughter. “Sounds like a pussy!”
“So what’s your real name, buddy?”
The murmurs ran through the crowd like an electrical current. It was coming…
“Name’s Ennis Scarbrough.” Ennis’ pecs bobbed up and down, in a greeting.
“And you told us you’re six-foot, 170-”
“WHAT?!” Ennis chortled and slapped his knee. “Maybe when I was twelve ‘r thirteen! Helllll no.”
“So how tall ARE you?”
“Six-six.” Many figures in the crowd moaned their approval.
“And your weight?”
“You talkin’ off-season? Or…”
“Up to you.”
“’bout 350 on average.”
The crowd went berserk. Ennis raised his hands and told everyone to shut up. “I think I’m done here,” he rumbled. “Gimme my fuckin’ money.”
“How big are your arms?!” shouted a voice from the crowd.
“25 inches,” Ennis snarled, getting more angry after each failed attempt to leave, “but they’re 27 when I’m chokin’ the life outta you.”
“Alright, alright, Ennis, that’s enough. Christ, you sure don’t talk like you’ve got a Master’s degree.”
“’cause I don’t! College…ha! That ain’t for me.”
“So what do you do?”
“Started in construction, still do it sometimes. Truckin’, road crews. Mostly lumberjackin’ now. And of course…” Instead of finishing the sentence, Ennis hit a most muscular. His veins popped out like a Braille map. Then the bodybuilder gave one final sneer to the crowd and turned to walk out.
“Ennis! Aren’t you forgetting something? You have to take off the rest of your costume.”
For the first time, Ennis’ masculine dominance gave way to a little bit of confusion. “Whaddya mean…”
“The hair, Ennis.”
“Oh.” Ennis reached up and touched Steven’s perfectly gelled coif, the brown hairs still meeting in a tiny point above his forehead. Then, to the crowd’s amazement, he lifted it up, and away. Right off his head. It was a wig. And underneath was a shaved head that gleamed under the stage lights. Ennis was bald as a bean.
While the crowd freaked out, Ennis tossed the hair back and forth between his hands, and looked at the piece of masking tape on the inside netting: “Steven,” it read.
“Y’want this back? I don’t want it.”
“You know what do with it, Ennis.”
“Oh, right.” Ennis lifted Steven’s old hair up to his face and pressed it against his jawline. Immediately it fused directly onto his skin, and when he pulled his hands away, he was left with a thick brown beard and mustache. The boxed beard hugged his jaw and mouth and was rounded at the edges. Half of his face disappeared under the lush, dense whiskers. The beard kept him warmer and more protected from the elements than any mask or scarf could. The mustache was grown out enough to have developed a natural handle bar shape, no wax necessary.
“Don’t you still feel a little constricted?” The voice, once again, was a velveteen purr.
Ennis looked down and noticed the dirty white girdle around his midsection, almost like a men’s corset. He hadn’t seen it before thanks to his pecs hooking over its edge and hiding it from his view. He reached back behind him – an almost impossible angle thanks to the size of his arms – and split it apart.
What had been a slight six-pack swelled out upon release into a hard, rock-solid roid belly, distending outward from the base of his pecs. Ennis patted it lovingly, feeling the grooves of the abs on top of its curve. He even gave his outtie bellybutton an affectionate flick. The veins crawling up from the straining waist of his jockstrap looked thick enough to burst.
“Fuck,” Ennis slurred, stroking his beard with one callused hand and his belly with the other. “I forgot you put me in that thing. Thanks.”
Ken walked out carrying Steven’s folded clothes. Ennis picked up the crisp white shirt, looked at it with curiosity – “this don’t fit me” – and gave it a forceful shake. Immediately it changed into a different shirt. The sleeves fell off, a pattern formed, and the whole thing went up about six sizes. By the time Ken was helping Ennis put it on, it was a sleeveless, frayed buffalo plaid, with alternating squares of black and red. Ennis didn’t button it, instead letting it sit on him like a vest, his lats spilling over the sides and his nipples peeking through the opening.
As his dark jeans slid up his massive legs, they lightened into the lightest of blue denim washes, at least ten years old and covered with stains, with frayed knees and a back pocket that was about to fall off. The jeans hugged his legs like glue, his favorite pair, loose enough for his dick to not hurt but tight enough to show it off. Ennis’ furry face lit up when he felt the bulge in his back pocket. He pulled out his trusty lighter and one of his cigars, and in a few seconds he was puffing away behind a cloud of smoke.
“Your accessories, Ennis.”
Ennis held the cigar in his teeth to free up his hands. He looked at the skinny tie, gave a noncommittal grunt, and ran it through his frayed belt loops. By the time it had grown long enough to reach around his thicker midsection, it was a heavy-duty leather belt with a giant buckle. And when his feet slipped into the too-small loafers and broke through the sides, the leather wrapped itself back around his feet, then his ankles too, until he had a pair of muddy steel-toed work boots.
Ken reached behind Ennis and yanked a piece of tape off the back of the bald skull. Ennis’ forehead loosened and cascaded down, furrow after furrow bulging out of the formerly glass-smooth surface. His eyebrows re-settled right on top of his eyes; a tough, mottled ledge. Lines webbed out from his eyes. Ken reached behind Ennis’ ears and tore off two more pieces, and Steven’s chiseled jaw bulged out into Ennis’ thick bullneck, almost indiscernible from his traps.
“How old did you say you were again, Ennis?”
Ennis grumbled at having to remove his beloved cigar to speak. He only stopped puffing on it long enough to say “Forty in two months” before he clamped his teeth back around it.
Ken backed into the wings and casually tossed the wadded up medical tape in the trash.
Ennis didn’t flinch when there was a loud pop and confetti rained down on him as the crowd cheered. He was only concerned that all the paper – and what felt like dust and fuzz, oddly enough, mixed in with it – would put his cigar out. He was relieved to see the tip still glowing as the glitter cleared. He didn’t realize that some of what had showered him had attached itself to his body, covering his bulbous pecs with a thick brown pelt of chest hair. The curly forest ran up over his collarbone, down his stomach, thickening back up around his huge cock. His forearms were carpeted with it.
“Ladies and gentleman, your winner of the Meat Market Costume Contest: Ennis Scarbrough for his fantastic metrosexual twink costume!”
The bald, bearded bodybuilder finished off his cigar and stubbed it out in his palm as the Meat Market went totally apeshit. Ennis didn’t make any acknowledgement of his impressive performance. A guy came out holding five one-hundred dollar bills and counted them out into Ennis’ hands. The man barely came up to Ennis’ chest, and the titan couldn’t resist proving his dominance after he had his cash: he reached his steel arm around the man’s neck and crushed him under his armpit, giving the poor guy a noogie like they were kids on the playground. After he let the guy go, he slapped him on the back, almost knocking him over. The poor man scurried off and Ennis posed for a few moments, triggering orgasms through the crowd. He had only heard of two or three men in the world as tall and muscular as he – some guy named Noah, for one – but he was thicker and buffer than any of them.
Ennis stuffed his money inside the pouch of his jockstrap and clomped offstage, his body – and especially his dick – ready to rumble. The crowds in the wings parted to make way for the moving mountain. Some rich foreign guy in a white suit came up and handed him another hundred bucks. “You’re the best winner we’ve ever had. Everyone’s horny as fuck out there! Any night you want to come back, we’ll have you.”
“Thanks,” was the only response. But deep down, Ennis knew he’d be back eventually. Any excuse to show off. Any excuse to pose. Just none of that stupid dancin’.