A Body Built (musc)

It was magical, the way the pipe found its way to the sidewalk. It resembled an elaborate game of Mousetrap with each section perfectly in sync: it rolled out of the open truckbed it was stored in, bounced across the dirt and missed each mound that would have impeded its course, gained momentum on the slight hill, rolled down over the grass, nicked a small sapling and went spinning like a helicopter’s propeller, clattering onto the sidewalk.

Bartlett’s loafered heel stepped onto the pipe and began rolling over it before he realized that, if continued, this step would not end well. He picked up his foot and looked under it. Underneath his penny loafers was the long metal pipe on the sidewalk - the would-be banana peel to his Wile E. Coyote. Bartlett looked over at the construction site several yards away and hollered with impertinence, “Hey! HEY! You guys trying to kill me?! Keep your shit off the sidewalk!”

One worker looked over and rolled his eyes at the prep-school stock character on the sidewalk. “Whaddya talkin’ about, kid?”

Getting angrier, Bartlett leaned down and wrapped his slim hands around the pipe. He made a great show of picking it up, but his plan to wave it over his head was hurt by the fact that he could barely lift it off the ground. He got it to between his knees before he groaned and the pipe fell back on the ground. At the sound of the construction worker’s chuckle, Bartlett’s face went red. “My dad would sue the shit out of you guys if I got hurt!”

“If you slipped on that thing and caught air, I bet ya’d just float away with the breeze,” the worker laughed.

Bartlett’s adrenaline rushed hard enough that, on a second try, he got the pipe in a firm grasp and was able to stand up straight while he held it. The struggle would have embarrassed most men, but to Bartlett, it was a source of triumph. He grabbed it with a grin and took a step onto the construction site – and his penny loafers immediately sank an inch into the soft, wet dirt, with the hems of his khakis catching plenty of stains as well.

“Damn,” he swore. “Maria just washed these.” Oh well, it was her job anyway. He tried to move forward but his toe burrowed deeper into the dirt and he nearly fell forward. He dropped the pipe and reached down with both hands to free his feet.

The dirt dusted his hands and took root under his fingernails. He expected to hear the construction guy laughing at him, but when he looked up, the man wasn’t even looking his way – Bartlett had been deemed such an inadequate fight that the man had gone back to work.

“Goddammit Allen, I’m getting really pissed off,” Bartlett yelled. He brushed his hands on his khakis to get the dirt off, but left huge brown streaks running down his thighs. He smacked the stains and the dirt burst in a cloud around him, splitting like amoebae until his pants looked like he’d just crawled a mile on the ground.

“Whadja say to me?” Suddenly, the construction worker had taken interest in him again. “How’d you know my name?”

“What?” Bartlett reached down and again began the fight to lift the pipe.

“My name. You called me by name.”

“No I didn’t,” Bartlett corrected as he hoisted the pipe up. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

“You said – man, I must be hearin’ things.”

Bartlett’s biceps strained as he lifted the heavy pipe. He thought it would be easier to hold if there was some more support, other than just carrying it awkwardly in front of him. So, with one huge heave, he swung the pipe up and supported it with his shoulder.

Two things happened right then, both equally horrifying: he heard his Oxford shirt rip loudly, and then the sudden weight on his upper body caused him to stumble forward and crash, face-first, into the dirt floor of the construction site.

Bartlett thrashed furiously and tried to yell out, but his tie became wedged under his body and choked his voice away. He continued like this for a few seconds, looking like an overturned roly-poly, before his knee caught his tie as he tried to stand and ripped the fabric away, leaving his prep-school striped tie under his loafer. “Allen! Jesus fucking-“

He struggled to his feet, exposing a ruined white dress shirt covered in stains.

“You did it again,” Allen said, taking a step closer. “How do you know my name?”

“I don’t know your goddamn name,” Bartlett swore as he shook with anger. He reached up and yanked open his collar. “You’re just some blue-collar no-name my dad could buy and sell. I mean, look at yourself,” Bartlett said, waving his hand. “You haven’t shaved, you look like you just walked out of a bar fight with that nose, you’re all dirty-”

“You’re dirty too!” Allen laughed, which just made Bartlett angrier.

“-you probably buzz your hair off at home in your bathroom-”

“-damn fuckin’ right I do!-“

“Shut up, Allen, just shut the fuck up, stop interrupting me!”

“Alright, man, whatever you…hey, you did it again!”

“You probably got all those muscles because you couldn’t pass the fifth grade. Had to compensate, right?”

That was the first time Bartlett had noticed that Allen was huge – giant chest, massive arms. Veins intersected the man like an assortment of arrows pointing to all his best real estate. Allen looked like he could curl Bartlett a hundred times, then toss him like a javelin.

A few yards away, a jackhammer erupted as it bored into underground rock. It was like a sadistic woodpecker had landed on Bartlett’s ear and drilled his brain with its beak. “Shit!” He yelled, putting his hands over his ears. “Turn it off! Make him turn it off!”

But the hammer kept going, and Bartlett’s head began to throb. He had never had a migraine before but he immediately knew that was what he had. The sunlight suddenly felt like twenty searing tanning beds, and the jackhammer noise went from being difficult to being unbearable. It was like having someone crash cymbals repeatedly against his ears.

Allen was all blurry as Bartlett’s head vibrated. There was a pulse and the kid groaned. He remembered the pipe but the memory around it was all different – he had dropped it and gone to the sidewalk to go retrieve it. Shit, that sucker had rolled a long way. But no, that wasn’t right-

The next button down snapped off Bartlett’s shirt. His flat chest suddenly had depth to it, a slight shelf protruding over his ribs, and the cool air felt good against his skin. Although his skin felt itchy, and he remembered he hadn’t moisturized in a while. His palms were more callused than worn leather. Then again, maybe he was itchy because he was a little hairier than before…the dark black curls starting to poke out of his shirt were definitely not the same color as the light brown hair on his head.

His lats were starting to spread too far for his slim-cut Brooks Brothers shirt. He felt the fabric stretching across the mottled landscape that was forming on his back. Maybe Dad had been a little too intense with the tailoring – Bartlett was a pretty big kid, after all. Bartlett’s head throbbed and he thought about all the trips to get his pants taken out, and in, and out, and in; Dad didn’t seem to understand that his kid was tall. Even now, Bartlett’s pant legs hovered above his ankles. It was embarrassing.


That was why he’d been walking home from school early. That big horse cock of his was twice as long as any of the other guys’ and it made changing in gym a nightmare. They all called him a freak. The tailor had even made a face when he’d been asked to leave extra room on the right for that huge dick. Of course they were all jealous, really, not everyone got to be hung like a mule. But the teasing was bad enough that he’d just started cutting gym and going to hang out with his donkey dick alone. Didn’t help that he had a huge ass, too, so if he found a pair of shorts big enough for his cock, his glutes would strain at the back like they were planning an escape. It was either show off the back porch, or show off the porch’s swing.

Even now he could feel his big butt tearing through yet another pair of tailored pants, popping the pockets off. That was why he’d started wearing a wallet chain, he remembered as he felt his billfold brush against the side of his leg, the wallet swinging on the chain like a pendulum.

The headache was just getting worse. “Can’t we shut that damn thing off,” he tried to yell, but he couldn’t hear himself talk over the cacophony in his head. It felt like thousands of needles prodding his brain, and the sensation spread out of his ears and over his head, where his hair lay waiting to change. The expensive haircut he remembered going to the salon to maintain was suddenly a distant memory, and then not a memory at all. Manicured waves flattened and shrank as they turned black. He didn’t really need to go to a salon anyway, he liked having a buzz. He and his pop would take the clippers to each other’s heads on the back porch – it was fun, kind of a bonding thing. And it felt great in the summertime when the breeze floated over his head and through the short bristles.

He had clipped his chest hair a couple of times when he was younger, but then he sorta started liking the fur. It had the perfect pattern, swirling outward from the middle base of his pecs, making them look even bigger than they actually were. It was really why he’d started bench pressing, to get a bigger canvas for his chest hair. The problem was that Dad couldn’t afford all the tailoring for his school jackets – Bartlett went through a 40, then a 42, then a 44, then a 46, his pecs slowly expanding as the hair curled triumphantly through his collars. Soon his chest was so big it resembled a chick’s rack, he thought back with embarrassment, so that was when he started focusing on building up everything else: his arms, his back, his shoulders, his legs. He had been scared to work his legs because he knew his butt would probably get bigger, which it did, but soon all the testosterone was converting his feelings of shame into feelings of masculine dominance. He would get giant boners when he felt his underwear wedge up inside his mighty glutes. He would cum when he’d move the wrong way and his shirt collar would burst open.

He had stopped being able to close his collars a long time ago. Bartlett’s pencil neck vibrated along with the jackhammer, and soon it was expanding along with his shoulders and back. His Adam’s apple was pushing outward, while internally, all of Bartlett’s memories of his speaking voice shifted from tenor to earth-shaking bass, his voice grinding out of him like a foghorn dense and deep.

The bristling sensation in his brain and on his head trickled downward as his sideburns filled in and his jaw darkened. Black shadow spread over his cheeks, around his mouth, on his neck, as he developed the capability to grow a mighty beard. His skin roughened as the whiskers burrowed their way out. But his new permanent stubble was nothing compared to the underbrush sprouting in his underwear, as his balls grew furry and his ass gained fuzz.

The pangs were getting worse, and every pulse made him a little bigger, a little stronger. Every button on his shirt popped off as his upper body continued its growth. His hairy pecs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each, and he could feel them vibrate with each thump of his head. And it felt amazing.

Allen was saying something to him, but Bartlett couldn’t make any of it out. He only heard a dull, intermittent ring in his ears – like being underwater. Not that he knew underwater sounds very well; with his bulk, he didn’t do a lot of swimming, and nowadays his time in the water was spent in wading pools with his youngest kids.

“MUH?!” Bartlett grunted as his memories took a seismic shift and the hammer pounded on his skull. He just had one kid, Axel – yeah, Axel, and he was just a toddler. And such a cute lil’ munchkin, too, like a little Bartlett, before the muscles and the hair happened. Axel was just as big around as one of Bartlett’s biceps, and Bartlett carried him like a football through the house tucked safely under his arm, and his boy would scream with laughter and—

Oh wait, no, there was Deacon too. How could he forget about little Deacon? Deacon was the toddler, Axel was in Kindergarten. Damn, he had two kids now – two kids puts a man squarely into adulthood, that was for sure. You can have a sixty-inch chest and still be a dumb teenager on the inside, you can say one kid was just a surprise, but two kids – that was fatherhood, undeniably, and Bartlett had felt himself change a lot more when Deacon was born than he had when he’d first seen Axel. Not that Axel hadn’t changed his life completely. But Deacon – that was when Bartlett really began relishing his manhood, his studliness.

Wait wait wait. What kind of dad was he? He was forgetting Rocky. Rocky was the baby. Deacon was just going into Kindergarten and Axel was in grade school. Sheesh. Stupid headache was making everything flit around in his brain like a cloud of butterflies.

The remains of his Oxford blew off him as he continued hulking out. He took in a deep breath and his chest swelled from being freakish to something that tested the limits of human comprehension. And to build a chest as impossibly huge as the chest Bartlett now sported, a man would need arms like telephone poles and a back like a fighter jet. So, Bartlett developed those too, shaking and quivering as his body expanded. His biceps alone were as big as his head, yet they only composed a third of his arm. When he’d gotten his armband tattoo, they’d charged him extra because of all the ground the needle had to cover.

Good thing he hadn’t gotten any ink on his legs, because those tree trunks were twice as big around as his arms, maybe more. Finding jeans that fit was a nightmare. Jeans – wasn’t he wearing khakis today? Nicely pressed ones, too…

But he couldn’t remember the last time he wore khakis. He was a jeans guy. He looked down at his jeans, his most-worn pair stretching over his leg muscles like a denim skin, with the well-earned hole in the left knee. A bandana hung out of his right pocket, and Bartlett grasped for it to wipe off his sweaty chest. His hand kept missing it because his vision was practically gone thanks to the migraine, and then he suddenly remembered, dammit, he’d given Jett the bandana to play with this morning.

Jett! He’d forgotten Jett!

“Nnnnrgh!” The memories of little Jett poured in – his first son with his second wife, but fourth boy overall. It was really fun for Bartlett to watch Axel play with his baby brother. Axel was gettin’ pretty big, he was one of the biggest boys in his middle school just like Bartlett had been, although Axel had a lot more confidence than Bartlett had at that point. Bartlett remembered the last time he’d buzzed his son’s hair on their back porch – the porch he’d built – and wondered how long it would be before that black hair spread down over Axel’s jaw.

And then, Bartlett had a moment of extreme clarity, and he remembered walking back from school, adjusting his tie, smoothing his khakis – what was happening here? Why was he so…

-he looked down-

-FREAK! All he could see was his chest. It stuck out a foot in front of him. And when he realized that, his dick got hard and stuck out a foot in front, too. Bartlett’s balls jostled for space inside his tight jeans, but he suddenly reverted back to the brain of a school kid, and all he could think about was the hundreds of pounds of muscle stuck on his body. He viciously manhandled his pecs, running his hands through the silky hair and relishing the contrast against his callused fingers. Pinching his nipples made his seed gush into his underwear, but he was sure he’d re-charge before he got home, so he could give it good to his lady. Now that his fifth son Wilder was sleeping through the night, it was great to be back to fucking regularly. He’d felt a recent surge of masculine pride watching his oldest boy turn into a man, which in turn invigorated those same feelings in Bartlett – like he was feeling them for the first time too. Bartlett had watched his son’s muscles grow, and grow, and grow, until once-baggy t-shirts were stretched over Axel like Saran wrap, and he remembered what it was like to be absolutely drunk on your own beauty, as he could tell Axel was. He’d found the jizz in the sink, he’d walked in on a couple of bedroom mirror posing sessions – he knew the score. It was just hard to process that the man with the double-XL chest and the silky black beard was the same little kid he’d carried on his shoulders.

So Bartlett, feeling competitive, had gotten bigger too. Put on more size in his traps and back, mostly. Couldn’t let his kid get too cocky – had to show him that Daddy was still the boss.

That was why Bartlett had gone from wearing sleeveless denim work shirts on site, to just wearing tanks – tanks that had no hope of really fitting. The straps nearly burst every time he pulled the beater over his head, and the scoop dipped past his pecs. No shirt was designed with Bartlett’s width in mind, so it had been years since he’d seen a tank top that covered his nipples. They stuck out of the sides of this one, just like every other one he owned. But he liked that. Made ‘em easier for others to tweak. And despite his abs staying remarkably shredded, they’d bent outward enough that he couldn’t tuck his undershirts in anymore, so it gave his crew a nice look at the treasure trail blazing out of his waistband.

He had never been to a tailor before but the missus had made him go after he’d showed up at Rocky’s school concert wearing a wifebeater, chest looking as big as the refreshment table. So, in his closet, sat one white dress shirt that he could actually tuck in. It was kinda fun wearin’ it, actually – the fabric puckered around his pecs and propped them up like they were on display. “I bet you could crack walnuts between those,” one of the dads had said, and Bartlett had boomed back, “I bet I have.”

Meanwhile, above Bartlett’s neck, the inky stubble grew even more dense: he could feel sharp blades of new follicles crowding between what was already there, multiplying, covering every last square millimeter of his cheeks. Three hairs where there had once been one, four where there used to be none. He trimmed his stubble daily but it fluffed back out by noon, especially in the mustache area – that was just a genetic thing. He had seen it with Axel, and now he was seeing it with Deacon, big black mustaches appearing seemingly overnight on their smooth faces.

He was disoriented. He looked up at the sun and blinked, his blue eyes switching to brown, his skin bathing itself with a deep laborer’s tan that made his muscles look like they were about to pop off him. Pained, he looked down to shield his eyes and caught a strange sight. He couldn’t see over his chest, but one leg was stuck out to the side, and on his feet…was he wearing penny loafers? They looked like the ones he’d bought for Rocky for the concert – definitely not suitable for a worksite. Bartlett wriggled his toes and felt the leather tense before splitting apart. His feet spilled over the edges of the shoes and burst through the sides as they grew enormous and hairy, just as thick and muscular as the rest of him – the roots of the Redwood. The ruined leather leapt up his ankles and melted down around his foot, reshaping itself into a huge pair of Carhartt work boots. Bartlett grinned as he remembered having to pry them away from little baby Diesel this morning when he went to work. His sixth son really loved playing with his boots and playing dress-up as Dad – it was a real hoot since the boots were almost as big as Diesel himself. Diesel hadn’t wanted to give them up but he’d finally been convinced with lots of kisses and squeezes.

Bartlett motioned frantically in the direction of the jackhammer. “TURN THAT SHIT OFF, BOY,” he boomed, and the young man running the machine finally got the message.

Barry’s migraine immediately subsided. “Goddamit, Axel,” he swore, lumbering over to his son, “tell me when you’re gonna turn that on next time.”

“Sorry Dad.” Axel picked some grit out of his beard and spat on the dirt. Barry grinned down at the young Adonis he’d produced. Axel’s muscles gleamed like the body of a polished racecar. He was the embodiment of young male vitality, whereas his father was masculinity made flesh.

“Can’t stay mad at ya,” Barry growled, his mouth curling up in a small smile.

“Hey, what’s that?” Axel walked over to where Barry had been standing and picked up a dirty white piece of fabric with a button attached to it. “Looks like part of a shirt.”

“Lemme see,” Barry said, but when Axel held it out in his palm, the wind took it and blew it away.

“Who’d be wearing a shirt like that around here?”

“One of those rich prep school kids,” Barry hypothesized correctly. “Wouldn’t know a solid day’s work if it jerked ‘em off.” He flexed his pecs and then reached out and smacked Axel’s. “They ain’t ever gonna look like us either, boy,” he said proudly.

“Deacon wants to work chest today.”

“Goddamn right he does. Boy’s about to blow up.”

“When are you gonna have him start working with us?” Axel bent down and began gathering up his tools.

“Real soon. Real, real soon. One more growth spurt and he’ll be here. Hey, watch that-”

Axel hadn’t realized the wrench on the ground was being used as a paperweight. As soon as he picked it up, part of the site plans went shooting into the breeze, which sent them flying for several yards before they landed directly on the face of a diminutive, bespectacled kid in a Oxford shirt and pressed khakis.

“Lookit that little goober,” Barry mumbled, but Axel ignored him and called out to the kid: “Hey! Hey, sorry about that! Here, I’ll come get those…” He trailed off when he noticed the kid had angrily ripped the plans off his face and was storming onto the site. “…or you’ll bring ‘em to me, alright,” Axel muttered, pulling his enormous shoulders back instinctively as he braced for a fight. He never had to talk much. He just stood there and let the other people get scared.

“Aw, shit, Axel, you missed a big chunk here,” Barry said, picking up the jackhammer. “Here, I’m gonna drill it real quick.”

The sounds of the jackhammer ignited the air, and Axel watched as the angry preppy stopped abruptly and put his hands to his ears.

“Heh,” he laughed, scratching his hairy chest just like he’d seen his dad do. “Can’t even take a little drilling. He’d never make it on this site.”