Miracle Man
by AKA
The first time he saw the guy, Steve was in gym. He wouldn't have even noticed him except that he said, softly, "Excuse me," as he brushed past him to get to the pec deck. Steve was standing near the free weights sucking on his bottled water.
He, Steve, was eighteen years old. It was mid-May, less than a month before graduation. Steve lettered in baseball, football, basketball, wrestling and track. The only reason he didn't letter in tennis or hockey or volleyball is because the school didn't have those teams. He was a jock, through and through, with a body that performed whatever task he set it to effortlessly and flawlessly. He didn't excel at any one sport so he wasn't a Captain or a Quarterback or a Forward. He didn't really want to stand out at all if he could help it, because there was another side to Steve he didn't want anyone to know.
The girls liked him because he was "a nice guy" which translates into "he doesn't force his dick on you." He dated pretty girls but they all lost interest after a while because, although he was sweet, attentive and, to be blunt, a gorgeous hunk of studly teen flesh, he was too sweet. He kissed on the lips but didn't open his mouth. His hands never went under a blouse, never fumbled with a bra clasp, never copped a feel of any kind.
The girls knew what the deal with, but the guys wouldn't have believed it. Steve was a sports hero. Steve lifted weights and ran track and field and clobbered his opponents on the football field. Steve whacked the shit out of a baseball and Steve didn't dance.
At least, no one ever saw him dance.
Well, almost no one.
Cary lived across the street from Steve. Cary was a fag. Cary colored his hair, and Cary listened to Madonna (and admitted it!) and Cary drew pictures of muscular bodies on his PeeChee. Cary wore tight pants and wanted to be on the cheer squad and sang in the choir. And Cary didn't give a fuck who gave a fuck about him.
Except Steve. It happened that Steve and Cary shared one thing in common, that being a last initial. Steve was a Taylor and Cary was a Tatum. Consequently, the two found each other sometimes in the same place standing next to each other in alphabetical order. And every time Cary was near Steve, he found himself in lust because Steve was, as mentioned, a gorgeous hunk of studly teen flesh. Although they were the same height, Steve was genetically gifted to such an extent that Cary almost felt like the guy was leaching his strength and masculinity from him when they were together. If nothing else convinced Cary that he was 100% into guys, being next to Steve (or even in the same room) could do it every time.
And also because Cary could see Steve's bedroom from his own, and one fine night he discovered that he could also, with very little trouble, watch Steve get undressed. He could sit at the desk where his iMac sat, and put it on sleep mode so the screen wasn't glowing, and wait until the point, in the heat of long Summer nights in this pisant backwards redneck town, that Steve would go up to his bedroom and strip naked to crawl between the crisp white cotton sheets of his bed and sleep there, alone.
The first time it happened, Cary about shit a brick. He was sitting at his computer cruising AOL chat rooms pretending to be the studly muscle hunk he imagined (and wished) he really was, getting it on virtually with another (very probably fake) studly muscle hunk when he glanced over from his screen to look into the shining night skies and noticed the light flick on across the street. The houses on the block were all exactly alike, and his bedroom was exactly across the street from Steve's.
He couldn't help but know the guy lived there. Who could miss him? He was beautiful, and he acted like he wasn't. He was really nice to Cary, to everyone really, and laughed at Cary's jokes, even the stupid ones. They didn't really know each other, but who cared? If all he ever got out of their acquaintance was to be able to look on Steve's innate masculine magnificence, he'd be satisfied with that.
But then this got thrown into the mix. He was watching the window as Steve entered his bedroom and stripped his shirt off, tossing it somewhere. Then Steve stood there, right there, in his window, and started to unbutton his 501's.
If he could see Cary, he didn't give any indication. He stood there with his lean, muscled torso and his hard muscles of his arms flexed and bulged as his hands slowly opened his jeans. He shoved them off his hips and trampled his way out of them and stood there in his skivvies, his tighty whities, his Y-fronts.
And then, miraculously, he dug those rough, athletic hands down inside his underwear and started playing with his dick.
Cary's AOL partner was soon forgotten as he watched a real muscle hunk giving him a show from across the street. At first he was totally self-conscious about watching Steve's solo gratification because, he figured, if he could see Steve, Steve could see him. Cary's lights were off (to set the mood) but the iMac was glowing on his face and shirtless torso brightly. Once or twice, Cary swore that Steve was looking right at him as he continued to dig down in his shorts, even flashing his equipment once or twice before wandering away from the window and flopping on his bed. Cary could still see Steve's lower legs lying across the covers after he tossed his underwear across the room � did he do that so Cary could see? � as he finished doing his dirty work and turned out the lights.
But it didn't end there.
Almost every night for two weeks Steve would appear like clockwork to stand in his wide-open window and fondle himself to erection. After the first few days, the shorts came off, too, and he simply stood there completely naked and glorious in the light from a lamp staring out his window caressing his fine, fat dick and, occasionally, twisting his nipples like a porn pro.
Cary was about 100 feet away, he figured, but he could see it all. From Steve's footballer's shoulders to his swimmer's chest to his runner's tight belly to his, well, whoever the fuck was blessed with a mighty tool like the one he got to play with every night.
It was on the third week that the dancing started. Cary just could not fucking believe it. He couldn't tell what the tune was, all he could hear were the soft thumps of bass that made it across the empty night to him. But Steve was a go-go boy! He stripped naked and started to twist and pivot and vamp and vogue right across the street! He was moving like a man trying to seduce someone, and if his target was Cary there was precious little he'd have to do to win him.
Cary knew without a doubt that Steve's closet held more than his sweat-stained T-shirts and stretched-out jockstraps. No straight guy moved like that. Steve could give Ricky Martin lessons! His hips were lubed with something supernatural, and when he swung that tight ass around for a view Cary blew his load every time.
He wanted to go up to Steve and ask what the fuck was up, that he watched him every night, that he saw what he did and did Steve see him? Was he putting on that show? It was getting hotter and hotter as the summer nights grew warmer and more sultry as if he was applying more and more pressure on Cary to get his ass over there and put Steve out of his torment. Was this a come-on?
But he couldn't believe that. It was too overt, too obvious, and too fucking nasty to be a come-on. Steve was simply allowing himself total freedom before bedtime, and the light was his challenge to himself. Cary could hear Steve's thoughts as if he was thinking them. "C'mon Steve, you pussy, fucking strut your stuff! Come out of the closet! Face up to it! Be free! Fuck them and their little minds and attitudes! You're a hot fucking stud muffin and you need to show it off."
Cary was out of the closet because he couldn't fit into anymore. Steve was comfortably stuck inside.
Except for 20 minutes every night.
So Steve spent the days leading up to graduation still closeted behind the safety of the walls he was building. He thought it would be easy, that he could manage to hide himself away until he could get the hell out of this tiny town and off to college in New York or L.A. or San Francisco or some fucking place where they at least recognized that gay men existed.
But that was all before Steve got a load of him, the guy, the young man with the soft voice who said "Excuse me," to him in the gym and brushed past him on the way to the pec deck. The guy who brushed past him and allowed his hand to linger just a touch longer that it needed to on Steve's ass cheek. The guy who rubbed up against him, moving his cock across Steve's hip (there was no denying it) and then made eye contact and rocked Steve's world to its foundation.
Because he was beautiful. How had Steve missed him before that moment? The gym wasn't too full, as was usual this early in the morning. Steve preferred a private workout, and about the only time the gym was empty was when it opened first thing in the morning, just as the sun was dawning. Now that he looked around there was hardly anyone there at all. In fact, the only two other guys in there were headed out, towels over shoulders, talking about some shit and laughing.
It was just Steve and this guy. This gorgeous guy. This guy whose looks and body and poise and manner and stance and, well, everything about him was screaming through Steve's blood, rattling his bones, riding a lightning bolt directly to his pleasure centers and erecting a tent in his shorts.
There was his body, to begin with. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was too small for all the prime muscular flesh it was trying, and mostly failing, to contain. The thing looked painted on, the cotton fibers stretched so thin they were almost shiny. They coated his obviously well-trained torso with an almost sheer netting of material that clung to each carved pectoral, every rippling abdominal, and the rounded brawn of his wide shoulders in an altogether amazing way.
Steve's eyes became glued to his body as he moved toward the weight machine, at the way his muscles moved, at how they fit together, at the way he carried himself so self confidently.
Oh, and also at his ass, which was amazing.
Steve almost forgot where he was as he watched the guy. When their eyes met, he could swear the guy knew him. When he smiled, that beautiful man, in his sly and secret way, the smile said he knew something about Steve that no one else did. And when he started working out, that was when Steve's world started to change.
Steve found himself staring at the guy, and the guy met his steady gaze with those dark, almost black eyes and that knowing smile on his lips, one end twisted up a little higher than the other. His hair was dark, dark brown. Almost as black as his eyes. And when he started working the machinery, his body started showing itself off to its full capabilities.
After the first pump, it was like something was inflating him. Each successive pump built him bigger and bigger. His chest exploded, swelling fat and thick and hard with power. His arms would go back and his chest would stretch and then Steve watched the muscles go wild as they shoved the weight again, the fibers twisting and swelling around each other. His shoulders joined in on the fun, bulging higher and stronger and not receding, not relaxing, just getting bigger and bigger.
How was this happening? Who was this guy? This guy watching Steve watching him growing before his eyes, his whole body seeming to swell with more and more powerful brawn until, finally, that T-shirt began to rip.
It started under his arms. Steve heard the seams tearing open, then watched as with the next pump his lats shoved right through the shirt. The dark wetness of his pits opened up, then, and the shoulders came next. They pushed up higher and higher until they were simply too large to contain and they ripped the cotton apart.
The guy relaxed his torso as he released the weight, and his smile grew suddenly brighter and more open, and with the next pump his chest blew up like a balloon and the shirt stretched and stretched and finally tore apart right down the center, displaying the guy's tanned and sweaty collection of muscle and the deepening cleavage between his still developing pectorals.
And he still grew larger. As Steve watched him, his own shorts tented and sopping, sucking in the moist air in short shallow breaths, now smelling the guy's intensely male smell, the stink of his sweat and the power of his workout that was pressing his body to do impossible things, the dude shoved the weights forward again and the T-shirt literally tore itself to shreds off his unstoppable and incredible upper body. It was as if invisible hands grabbed the white cotton and ripped it all away. It flew from his body as if the pressure of his growing muscles had exploded outward.
And then the guy rose slowly from the machine and came toward Steve again, his unblinking gaze locked on Steve's, and again he moved by him so closely that he pressed himself onto Steve's aroused body, rubbing his slick and mighty muscles across Steve's body, moving his hand down to cup Steve's firm ass, shoving his fat dick against Steve's own erect member and he said, again, "Excuse me," in his soft and deep voice and he smiled and then he was approaching the thighmaster, as Steve called it. And he sat down and swung his ankles behind the paddles and started pumping up his legs.
And, if anything, they reacted even more enthusiastically than his upper body. The cables of muscle erupted outward, suddenly pumped with strength and power. They shredded themselves as their definition grew more and more distinct, as the muscles of his thighs swelled and pushed out against the copper skin with its soft coat of dark fur. Then his shorts started experiencing the same sad fate as his shirt had. The sheer size of his growing legs ripped the side seams open. And there, between his legs, something else finally started showing signs of growth.
Steve could see the guy's dick swelling between his legs. It was literally growing bigger, but not because it was becoming hard. It appeared to be experiencing the same growth that the rest of him was having. It was becoming larger and larger, now shoving angrily against its cotton cage, bulging like an over-inflated balloon. Steve could see the head of the growing man's prick swelling outward, ripening, growing fatter.
Then he stood up, and he walked again toward Steve, who was frozen in place, and he said, with his powerful tone, "Excuse me," and rubbed himself and his sweat and strength across Steve as he moved around him, almost through him, almost making love to Steve with his closeness and intimacy and sheer size and Steve felt the guy's enlarged cock like a snake, like a firm and juicy burden down below, press against his own painfully hard dick.
And the guy moved finally over to the curling bench. And he picked up a bar overladen with iron, almost drooping with the weight, and he started to slowly build up his arms to match the rest of him.
And now that he was warmed up, it didn't take hardly anything at all to get them there. From the first curl, they bulged like they were being inflated, and probably they were. Inflated with strength and power and incredible size. The muscles of his arms swelled so fast and so huge that it almost looked cartoonish. But the strength he possessed and his innate muscular development was clearly etched on every inch of him.
He was a beautiful, tight-bodied wonder when Steve first saw him fifteen minutes ago. Suddenly Steve was looking at a vascular, super- strong, muscle-fat body still topped with the guy's amazing and perfect face. The face with the sideways smile and the dark, dark eyes.
The face that was turned in his direction through the whole process, the face that was now, still, looking directly at him as if this show was for him, all for him.
The guy stood up and stretched his overwhelmingly beautiful and powerful new body and, finally, the growth between his legs managed to do what his legs could not as his shorts began to rip open, too. There was no zipper to burst, no snaps to pop, the size and weight of his growing dick simply tore through his shorts and then he flexed something, somewhere, some collection of power and strength that made the shorts literally tear themselves apart and he started walking over to Steve totally fucking naked.
Steve couldn't breathe. He couldn't talk. This was impossible. This was amazing and this—this had to be a dream. It had to be.
The beautiful naked man, his copper-skinned body dusted with dark curls, his muscles bulging thick and fat, his dick swinging like a pendulum, impossibly long and impossibly thick, and his two fat and round balls hanging low behind that tool, and his dark, dark eyes came over to Steve again and paused in front of him. His whole body glistened with sweat, like polished metal, slick and smooth and perfect. The guy reached forward and down and took Steve's workout towel from his hand and lifted it to his face.
He paused and breathed in Steve's scent from the towel, sucking Steve's sweat stink into his powerful body and smiling. Then he wiped his face off and scrubbed the towel across his scalp, turning his silken mane into a messy nest as if he just crawled out of his bed, then he rubbed the terry cloth under his arm pits, bunching his huge shoulders into swollen balls of brawn.
And across the wide thickness of his chest, the muscled hemispheres, across his hard round nipples, down his rippled six-pack. Then he slowly pressed the towel into his moist pubes and then lower, wiping down his ample and luscious prick, the length of the thick shaft and the dangling bud of the helmet, and underneath it, on his two big nuts in their hairy sack, and then he turned and showcased his tight, firm ass, the two round globes of it as he polished his wide, rippled back and then down to his tight waist. Then he grabbed the towel, Steve's towel, and wiped the sweat from his butt cheeks and then lower, underneath, and then between them.
"Thanks," he said, and tossed the towel back at Steve.
And then, the most beautiful and powerful and amazing man Steve had ever seen wandered naked toward the exit and disappeared.
And Steve started to breathe again.
...........................
Graduation was hard for Cary, literally. He and Steve would be sitting next to each other until their names were called. When he sat down, Steve looked at Cary and smiled, said, "Hey, Tatum, how they hangin'?" and Cary said, "All right, Steve. How are *your* balls?" The look he got in return could have been read as either, "What the fuck did you just say to me?" or "What do you know that you aren't telling?" Cary read it as the first statement.
It wasn't meant that way.
Because in the days following Steve's strange encounter with the muscular miracle man at the gym, he could think of nothing else. His fantasies all now involved that man, and they were about watching him grow, watching his muscles swell and bulge, watching his eyes as he looked back, that smile on his face, and the glistening sweat that slicked his skin and sweetened his scent with a powerful masculine spice.
Steve went to the gym every morning as usual, but he hadn't seen him since and he wasn't about to ask any of the other guys about him. That would look suspicious.
But the gym trips weren't all for nothing. He'd doubled his efforts, spurred on by what he saw, wanting that same huge muscular power and overwhelming masculine presence himself. So as he sat next to Cary, who had seen his sudden development from afar but was now witnessing the veins that popped along his forearms and the way Steve's shoulders swelled inside his graduation gown he wondered if the guy sitting next to him, as rumor had it regarding the members of the football team, was wearing absolutely nothing under his black taffeta shroud.
He almost missed hearing his name being called. He was hearing his friend David, the only other out student at the school, explaining the rumor. "When they announce the class to the audience," he said, his Asian features animated with humor and anticipation, "and the rest of us are tossing our hats or whatever, the football team is going to unzip their robes and streak across campus. The rest of us will stand there on the football field with our parents in the stands watching the primest of prime muscled flesh bouncing and swinging its way in front of us." He pushed his finger at Cary's chest. "And you, Mr. Lucky, will be standing right next to Closet Case," as he called Steve, having been filled in on the guy's late night shows for Cary, "when he strips down and sets off." He laughed. "Maybe you'll finally see if what you think he's got from across the street is what he's really packing in his Fruit of the Looms."
"Cary Tatum!" He heard his name called and he accepted his diploma, paused for a picture as he shook the principal's hand (the homophobic prick would never ordinarily even recognize Cary's existence) then returned to his seat in a hurry because he wanted to see if there was a cuff of pants sticking out under Steve's full-length gown or if all he saw was bare ankle.
But he missed his chance, and before he had time to catch his breath Steve Taylor, campus hunk and dancing dream, was standing next to him. Cary's heart was racing. Steve was only a couple of inches taller than him but at the moment he felt terribly small.
Then Steve leaned toward him, he actually drew closer to him, and said, "Watch your feet when they present the class."
His heart skipped a beat. "Huh?"
Steve turned toward him, he was smiling, and he winked. "It's a surprise, Tatum." The class was assembling around them. The announcements were up to the W's. There were only a handful of diplomas left to give. Steve raised his hand to the zipper at his collar. When the sleeve fell away, Cary saw Steve's well-muscled arm, firm and meaty, and no shirt or jacket beneath. "One I know you'll enjoy." He still smiled. He meant what he said.
`Jesus!' Cary thought.
"You know Cary," Steve added, bending even closer, "You're a very attentive audience." He started unzipping the robe. The hot June wind swirled around them. "I hope you'll be around this summer." He reached his crotch, bending slightly to reach the end of the gown as the zipper released. "I'd hate to put on a show with no one watching."
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm proud to present..."
They both heard the principal's amplified voice. Cary felt off- balance, hot, dizzy. He watched Steve pull his graduation gown open.
"...The Class of 2001!"
All around them chaos broke out. Hats flew skyward, tassles flying, shouts and screams filled the air. Steve dropped his gown off his naked body. He was totally nude beneath, wearing only Nikes. His body gleamed in the afternoon sun. Cary's eyes couldn't gather all of his beauty in fast enough. His chest and arms, his flat belly, his long neck, his shoulders and hips. His dick. His big fucking dick. His cock and balls. He was everything promised -- more than that. His body was so beautiful, so amazing. There, inches from Cary's touch.
"See you tonight, Tatum!" Steve was still smiling.
And he was off. He shoved by Cary, moving him aside almost carefully, and then charged into the pack of naked, wild boys whooping as they ran. Cary watched two dozen guys, those on the team ballsy enough to go through with the dare, break out of the erupting student body of black robes, their pink and copper and chocolate flesh stark and exposed among the flailing dark nylon. The screams and shouts suddenly swelled even louder as the pack of muscled streakers ran toward the audience, jumping and running and leaping, pumping their fists in the air, strutting and flexing and proud in their naked perfection.
Tight, trained asses and wide bulging backs disappearing across the campus as the cries died down and the audience recovered. And Cary stood there, frozen, dumbstruck, with Steve's empty robes at his feet.