Twelve Steps Back II: Steppin' Out
by FanTCman
Matthew could hardly believe it had been noteven three weeks since his buddy Brett had told him he knew how to get in on the new Littleman's look. Three weeks, and already he could see it happening.
"Dude, listen, this doctor can fix you up, get you started. You can only do it through one of their doctors. But he is so totally cool, and he's doin' it himself. I'm tellin' ya, it feels so hot. I know you want to, dude. That baggy look is so old, and all the really hot guys are going for it, man."
Matthew knew it was true. The Littleman's catalog had already replaced A&F as THE hot catalog, and suddenly getting big and showing the goods was what was happening. Models first, of course, and then, as with most fashion trends, the gay guys in the big cities started taking on the look, and soon college guys on campuses all over were getting into it. And then the high school guys. The amazing thing was how fast the trend spread, as though there were some major force behind it. The first catalog had only come out six months ago, taking a giant leap beyond the blatant sexuality of the A&F style. Provocative, loosely draped sexuality suddenly seemed demure, and in-you-face sexuality leapt out of the closet, unabashedly into the open, when the Littleman's Company had finally released the formula that would allow any guy to take on the look of the bulked up, carved, heavily muscled, hyper masculine bodybuilders that filled their catalog. Suddenly guys who would never have considered looking like bodybuilders were not just considering it, but searching out the connections to achieve it. Matthew was lucky.
Brett worked out at a pretty hard-core gym. Matthew didn't. Brett was thirty-two. Matthew was twenty-two and right out of college. They had met over a magazine rack, both of them checking out these guys suddenly sporting pecs mounded big and hard on their chests and folded deeply over their rib cages, perky young nipples rolled over and pointing down toward heavily cor rugated abdomens, flared backs exaggerating tight waists and hips, high, tight butts, and arms and shoulders that burst thick and veined from short, tight-fitting sleeves, if there were shirts at all. These guys were Matthew's age, give or take a few years, some obviously in their teens, and they looked like guys that, a few years ago, you would only have seen in the hard-core bodybuilding magazines. He noticed the other guy looking at the same magazines, and he knew the guy had noticed him.
Matthew was in his typical summer Saturday clothes: tropical print shirt, unbuttoned to show his cut abs and skinny trail, of which he was very proud, running from his navel down into his boxerbriefs waistband, which rode low on his hips, but higher than his board shorts, which barely stayed up, hanging onto the curve of his ass and down to his package in front. He didn't have much to show, but he was proud of what he had, and he knew he looked as good as most of those Aberdudes. Meanwhile, while he stood there, wishing he could wave a wand and change his look to this new, hot, muscled up and bulging look--these guys on the pages all in skintight shorts cut briefer than his underwear and showing more, or, if they were modeling swimwear, all in skimpy bikinis, showing packages that looked faked, like pictures he sometimes downloaded from the web--this other guy walked up and picked up the same magazine to look at, only he was dressed in the same gear that Matthew was looking at in the magazine.
This was the first one of these guys he'd seen up close and, he could only hope, personal. The guy was handsome, for an older guy, probably in his early thirties. That was okay. Matthew liked men. The guy wasn't huge, but he definitely was working into "the look." His arms were muscular, his pecs bulged out of the sides of the tank he wore, and those--gasp--skin tight shorts showed a sweet pair of balls and a hefty piece of meat neatly packaged up front. God, Matthew thought, to wear that shit in public . . . to get all muscular and show it all off . . . everything.
"Nice shirt," the guy said.
Matthew thought, yeah, right, like you'd wear one of these old island things instead of that muscle hugging tank. He felt himself blush, but he was way too cool to let any of that show.
"Thanks." Go ahead, don't be a chicken shit, he thought. He's just a guy. "Nice shorts."
"Yeah? You like 'em? First time I've worn this shit out. Name's Brett."
The guy offered his hand, a short conversation ensued, and within half an hour, Matthew was in the guy's apartment getting his dick sucked while he felt the guy's muscles. An unexpected turn to his afternoon, it brought him a new buddy, and, within a couple days, and several mutual sexual exchanges later, a referral to a doctor who would only see you by referral, and who was a designated distributor of the formula that the burgeoning Littleman's empire was founded upon.
Brett told Matthew the story of the adman and his buddies that first day, and Matthew had gone home and beat off thinking about those guys so huge they couldn't even walk, with dicks supposedly a yard long, over their heads, that came and came and came until they had to be carried away in a state of orgasmic ecstasy. What a fate! But since then, the formula had been toned way down, the amounts you could get strictly controlled, and the transference of the effects that had been passed back and forth in their semen, constantly increasing the transforming power, had been modified and diluted to be nearly nonexistent, since the passing around of semen among the guys that took the formula was a given. Still, even if the story was beyond the reach of anyone now, even in its modified form, the formula was a powerful catalyst for a change that was rapidly, with breathtaking speed, sweeping the populace. Rumor had it there was work to produce a similar thing for women but, the fact was, once they tasted it, so Brett told Matthew, none of the guys cared.
Matthew sure as hell didn't. He got an appointment, and soon, he knew the intense pleasure of being overtaken by his own masculinity. He buddied up with Brett, watching with more than intense interest, as Brett showed increasing signs of the changes the formula would soon be putting him through. Brett had given himself the second shot on his own when he'd met Matthew in the bookstore, meaning he'd had four treatments before he'd felt he had taken on enough of "the look" to don the garb. It was part of the whole thing, the package of attitude that went with the look, that you didn't get into the gear until you looked like you were one of the guys. It was okay if you looked like you were just beginning to get the look, to show the muscular bulking and genital heft that defined the guys. In fact, looking like a newbie was considered kind of cool, sexy, and the new guys were, Matthew found out at his first party, like a new dish at an epicurean banquet, to be sampled with relish by all. What was definitely not cool was to put on the gear if you weren't one of the guys, and that meant, even if you'd started the formula, until you looked like you had. You had to have the look going, or it just didn't work. So he waited.
He went to work, did his job in the mail room, and every day, he looked to see if his oxford cloth shirts showed that he was starting to bulk up. He could feel it, even after a few days. It was subtle, the physical change, at first, but he was getting feelings that weren't so subtle. What had been normal turn-ons for a gay guy were becoming so strong he could barely control his reactions to them. He was even turning himself on. He was falling in love with his body, all the masculine aspects of it, of himself. If he was bi and leaning admittedly to the gay side before, now he was becoming intensely, deeply, fervently homosexual, and he liked the feelings a lot. While looking at hot guys had always been a favorite pastime, it started to become more. He would almost lose his place in a conversation if some dude walked by that looked good, and if he showed signs of being one of the Littleman's guys, well, boiiinng, he'd be trying to avoid popping wood right there.
So he would go home and call Brett, and Brett would tell him what time he'd be home from the gym so he could come over. Matthew would shower, not because he needed the shower, but because he needed to get naked and look at himself. And every day he'd be hard as steel before he even got totally undressed. In fact, he'd be boned before he got his door unlocked, just thinking about taking off his clothes to see how he looked. He'd strip for himself slowly, relishing the moments, as when he'd unbutton his shirt and see the cleft between his pecs a little more defined, and, little by little, getting deeper. He could see his muscle swelling almost imperceptibly, but definitely growing thicker, day by day. He would feel his pecs, flex his arms, trace the cuts that were a little sharper every day, and he'd be leaking precum by the time the shower was hot.
By the time he'd been given his own vial to bring home, finally allowed to give himself his first shot, he could see himself starting the get the shape, the look. He could tell his balls were bigger and his cock was longer and thicker. He felt bigger, heavier. He bulged more. And he could cum as often as he wanted, which was more often all the time, and he never ran out of steam. Or cum, for that matter. Maybe it wasn't all that noticeable yet, but he could tell, now, for sure, and seeing himself starting the change, feeling the extreme sense of his own masculinity growing stronger, more powerful, driving him from such a deep, cellular place that it was forcing him to change, body, mind, and spirit, little by little, hair by hair, fiber by fiber. He jabbed himself with that needle knowing it would make him more of what he was becoming. He have more cum to expel, more desire and need, he'd be more turned on to himself every day until his next shot, and his next, each one making him into a Littleman's guy. Now he could feel it, he could see it when he wore a tee shirt. Even his loose cargo shorts hung differently on his firmer, rounder, higher ass. Soon everyone would see, even at work, even in his dress shirts. And then it would time to dress in some of those hot Littleman's clothes and just do it. Just be a Littleman's guy. He couldn't wait.
Just about that time, when he was given his own "kit," was when Brett had told him that he'd also sent some guy from his gym to see doctor Troy about the same time that he'd sent Matthew, some guy that he was pretty sure was an executive or something at the agency where Matthew worked. He described the guy as being so fucking gorgeous that he couldn't wait to see what the formula would do. He'd be a god. He wouldn't tell Matthew who he was, though. He said he was sure he find out soon enough.
"Meanwhile," he also told Matthew, "you're turning into a young god yourself, if you haven't noticed. Don't even try to tell me you haven't." He said he wanted to take him to a private party at a club where a lot of the Littleman's guys hung out. He would have to wear the gear, but Brett said he would lend him some, since he knew Matthew hadn't felt ready to wear any yet. Maybe not on the street, Brett said, but it would be cool for the party, and you couldn't get in wearing regular, old-fashioned street clothes.
"So, you want to go?"
"Hell, yes!" Matthew said, and he was so excited to be "coming out" as a Littleman's guy, he had to jack off twice just to get his dick to stay soft enough to arrange his package and go.
Brett helped him, of course, laughing even while he was saying, "Man, you're gonna start to show that muscle at work pretty soon, dude. Look at those pecs and guns," and feeling those muscles, making Matthew so hard, because Matthew knew it was true. Matthew flexed for him, and for the first time, got a real sense of starting to be a muscle dude. He felt so hot. He arranged his stuff up front, the way Brett showed him how to wear it, pulling the shorts up so they fit tight in the crotch, then putting your hand in, pushing the front down and making a pouch and gently laying his nice, heavy balls and fat dick in there, letting the material crease up the sides and make a real, Littleman's style "display basket." The term made him laugh, like something from a specialty shop, which he said, and which Brett said was true, in a way, and that made him bone up again, and Brett sucked him off so they could get going to the party.
The club was plush, with sofas and easy chairs and cocktail tables, pool tables, arcade games, and every amenity a guy could want, including stacks of towels, bowls of lube, bottles of lotions, and cases of toys of the sex-obsessed. When Brett escorted Matthew in, the two were surrounded by guys Matthew had seen in the catalog, guys with the kind of body he dreamed about every day growing into, so thick with muscle. Young guys like him, some older, some younger, but just all kinds of hot dudes as big and musclebound as the big pro bodybuilders used to be. And these guys had cocks and balls that hung huge from hairy groins, huge like those morph pictures he loved. Was it a dream? Could this be real? Was this what he was changing into?
By the time someone shoved a drink into his hand, he was already hard, a fact which did not go unnoticed among the pantheon of minor gods of male sexuality that surrounded him. There were hands all over him, and then he was naked and being touched, caressed, adored, even as he adored, to the point of swooning, the muscle and meat that was initiating him into their circle. This was it, the inner sanctum of male sexual beauty, guys being guys with guys, only so built, so hung, and so insatiably horny. Their scruffy, densely whiskered faces, so masculine in a way he was just beginning to feel himself, were all over him.
One guy stood in front of him smiling as though Matthew should know him. Something looked vaguely familiar about his face, but Matthew had never known anyone as hot looking as this stud jock with his totally hulked out muscles, balls hanging almost halfway to his knees, cock thicker than his wrist arching up to his pecs, stiff, hard, jerking with insistent need, his face the picture of the new, intensely masculine beauty that was a hallmark of these Littleman's guys. His blond hair spiked, messy, so hot, his blue eyes glittering with animal lust, his full lips moist, ready for contact, his thick blond sideburns meeting the square curve of his heavily stubbled jaw.
"Matt, you faggot. It's Jarrod, dude. Fuck, man, look at you." He put his hands on Matthew's chest. "You're getting there, bro. Yeah, starting to show. Looking fuckin' hot, dude"
As he leaned in to take a kiss from Matthew's open mouth, Matthew remembered Jarrod, a guy he'd known in high school, a math geek he'd been friendly to, probably because, nerdy as he was, there was something kind of cute about him. As he felt the guy come into contact with his own mouth and body, that cock, like a curved arm, push on his belly, the before and after picture that flashed in his mind drove his cock so hard he thought he might cum blood. He'd jacked off looking at this guy in the catalog, never realizing, and now, now . . .
Matthew gave himself over to the relentless tide of pure male sexuality as hard-muscled guys pushed against him, opened him in ways he'd never thought possible, made him feel reborn as a new kind of male. He discovered a new, deeper, more dominating, driving sexuality, intense, unencumbered by old concepts, free of inhibition. As he found himself devouring deep armpits thick with male-scented hair, taking thick, hard, huge cock as far down his throat as he could until his face was deep in a tangle of pubes, as he felt pole after pole plunge into him, he knew deep in his soul and his cells that he was changing forever. He knew he was, from that evening, a Littleman's guy.
The next day at work, he studied all the guys to see who might have visited doctor Troy. It didn't take much figuring. It had to be that incredible AE, Ian Larkin. The guy was the talk of the whole shop. The women all joked that when he walked by, they stuck to their seats. Matthew couldn't have agreed more. He'd even heard rumors that Ian might swing both ways, but he wasn't about to jeopardize his job trying to find out.
Then, one afternoon, there he was, the hunk of hunks, mister too-beautiful-to-be-real, standing in the mail room much longer than he had to, chatting up Matthew. Matthew couldn't keep his eyes off him. He knew Ian was the guy. He saw the telltale bulge behind the zipper of those three-hundred dollar slacks. He saw the way the material of the guy's shirt was lifted and pushed out by a pair of pecs that Ian knew, since he'd studied this paragon of maleness closely, were not this big a week ago. He saw muscle fill the shirt sleeve as Ian reached over his shoulder to scratch an itch just below the back of his neck. Had he done that just to show Matthew? Why was he spending so long here? Matthew felt sure that Ian was giving him ample time to admire him and enjoying every glanced he caught.
Ian was so friendly, and Matthew was so sure this had to be the guy, he asked him about giving him some workout tips just as a way to tell him his body looked like he worked hard at it, to see how the guy would react. The reaction was both exciting and disappointing. Ian was obviously turned on by the attention, but did nothing to encourage Matthew. Maybe sometime.
When he asked Brett, Brett said Ian was the guy. He also thought Ian looked, from what he saw at the gym, like he might be ready for his initiation, too.
"Probably should held off a little with you, stud, but you were looking so young and delicious, I gave into my lust. But I bet you could handle another party this week, huh?"
"Are you kidding? Fuck yeah."
"So, you want to ask him? Tease him a little? Get his blood going?"
"Yeah, if you think I can get away with that. I don't want to lose my job."
"Oh, babe, I really don't think you have to worry about that. Just let him see those pecs and guns you're growin'. He'll know. He's gotta be ripe, and you're way too delicious to pass up."
"Am I? Am I getting the look? You really think so?"
"Oh, come on, Matt. You know you are. Look at yourself, man."
Matt looked into the mirror, which Brett had turned him to face.
It was true. He could see it. No, he didn't look like a huge, hulking bodybuilder yet, but he was getting the shape. He could see it. The way he stood. The way he walked. And the meat that hung from his dense bush. His trail had thickened up and climbed up his abs some, his pubes had grown seriously dense and spread handsomely, and his pit hair had thickened, too, and it made him feel even more masculine. No one shaved their body hair now, and he looked at his blossoming masculinity and watched with pride as his cock lifted and arched upward toward his abs, while his buddy Brett stood behind him caressing his pecs with one hand and teasing his beautiful hot cock with the other. He was getting the look, for sure. He was hot. God, he was showing muscles. And cock. His shadow was heavier, and he was already stubbly since his morning shave. Fuck. But the muscles. Oh, yeah. He could cum just looking at himself. And tomorrow, he'd be bigger, and thicker, and hotter. He'd go to the office showing this muscle under his dress shirt, showing the package in his slacks, and he'd talk to that Ian, get him to come to the party. Then he'd get into his gear, show his stuff, and he'd be one of the Littleman's guys to bring Ian Larkin into the circle. And this was just the beginning . . .