The Car Lot: Keep It Classy (ap musc mc)

The lot was just outside of town.

It had been there for years, quiet and unassuming, just like the man who ran it. The used cars were in constant rotation, never more than fifteen on the lot at a time. There was nothing sexy about the vehicles, most of which were clunkers salvaged from highway abandonment by the lot’s owner.

And yet, everyone in the town was always curious about the used car lot and the man who ran it. His name was Sandy and he always wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and tie. His teeth were nice but not perfect, his skin was alabaster and he had a large belly to go along with his male pattern baldness. Yet, for such an unspectacular man, he seemed to have an unreal talent with automobiles. No car sat on the roadside for long without Sandy taking it and somehow making it run great, no matter how old or how bad the make. The used car lot took cash only, and no car was ever priced over a thousand dollars. It was popular with the poor college crowd, people who had bad credit – or no credit – and just needed something that would run. Sandy seemed to run a good business, as his taxes and licenses were all up to date. The authorities never came around – and oddly, no customer ever returned. They were all first-timers.

All of them.

People talked about the lot, that was for sure. Especially because Sandy seemed to make a very decent living: he was always driving a top-of-the-line sports car that was fresh off the assembly line, and his house in the country was spacious and beautiful. For a man who so enjoyed nice things, the townsfolk thought it odd that he spent so little time on his appearance. Maybe that was why he lived alone.

“You wreck your first car in two months so you get a clunker for a replacement. That’s how life works.”

Thomas Kellerman stared at his father with hatred. The blossoming brat, equipped with only a learner’s permit at his fifteen years of age, had wrecked his first car within eight weeks of getting it after sneaking out to drive to a buddy’s house. As an upper-class teen, Thomas was used to getting his way, and he wanted another new car to replace the one he had wrecked – an even exchange. His father, in his usual gruff manner, would not explain why he wasn’t getting a second chance. Cheapskate just wanted to shell out a couple hundred bucks in cash for some shitty Yugo. It was humiliating.

Thomas’ life went from bad to worse as he saw a cloud of dust clear from the air, kicked up by a set of tires pulling into the dusty lot. Two figures emerged and in walked Terry Jameson and, presumably, his father – two pear-shaped males with dirty clothes, crew cuts and surly faces. Thomas saw the weirdo car salesman stand up and greet them, indicating that they had been there before or eat least that he knew them.

Thomas and Terry’s eyes met, and narrowed.

Each boy hated the other. Terry, a large and unruly kid, was always taunting the smaller Thomas and physically intimidating him. Thomas, smaller but much more cunning and conniving, was constantly insulting Terry’s lower economic stature and purposefully embarrassing him in front of teachers. It had started in grade school and was still going strong seven, eight, nine years later.

The tension in the salesroom was palpable to the boys and unnoticeable to their fathers. Thomas straightened up in his chair, reflexively puffing out his small chest and causing the fabric in his polo to tighten. Terry crossed his arms and glowered down to the floor.

“I’ll be with you and your son in just a moment, Mr. Jameson,” Sandy said chipperly to the large spark-plug of a man that had just entered. “Mr. Kellerman, if you’ll just sign here, you and your son can drive home with your new car.”

“New if it was the Reagan administration,” Thomas muttered, and his father slapped the side of his leg. “Ow!”

“This is nobody’s fault but your own.”

Terry watched the scene with hatred. He hated that this rich little prick felt deserving of a better car, but he mostly hated that the car that Thomas was getting was a punishment, whereas the car his father was getting for him was the best they could afford. It was disgusting.

He was bitter for the rest of the day instead of being excited about having his first taste of real independence. Terry was too immature to appreciate his father buying him a car, however old it was.

Sandy had insisted that the boys both drive home their “new” cars, in order “for you to get acclimated to the car, and vice versa,” whatever that meant. Both Thomas and Terry felt a strange sensation of heat that singed their palms when they touched the steering wheels for the first time. Both noticed that the car’s seat was at the perfect setting for their height, which was good, because it couldn’t be adjusted.

It was as if their cars had been waiting just for them.

“Terry, I need you to pick your brother up from his sleepover tomorrow morning. I’ll already be at the factory.”

“Okay,” the younger Jameson grumbled. He knew that the car he’d just received wasn’t a gift for turning 16, but was to help his Dad with the various errands necessary in a household with a father that needed two jobs to support his motherless sons.

“What time?”

“Eight. He needs to be home in time for Mrs. Goldman to pick him up for practice at nine.”


“Yeah. Get over it.”

“You know it’s illegal for me to drive anywhere but work and school. I just have a permit.”

Mr. Jameson laughed. “Convenient of you to remember that, after telling me you were going to drive to the movies tonight.”

Terry dropped the fight with a sigh. “I’ll pick him up tomorrow.”


Thomas Kellerman had sneaked out with a buddy and they’d slept in his new car. Thomas’ Dad would be sleeping until 10 anyway – “He won’t even notice that I’m gone.”

Thomas had been surprised to find himself kind of obsessed with his ride – he loved how the seats felt, how the heat radiating from the old leather and upholstery felt, how the history of the vehicle seemed to seep from every area of it. He loved the car. He didn’t want to leave it.

This did not strike him as odd. Thomas reasoned that he’d just had unreasonably low expectations for the car.

Thomas dropped his friend off at his house – oh, the glorious independence – and watched him disappear into his house. He pulled out of the driveway and puttered down the street, watching the intersection ahead of him.

And, as he watched, he saw Terry Jameson drive by, heading down the street to pick up his little brother.

Thomas quickly gunned it up to the intersection, turned left and followed Terry. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it. He was just curious. Terry pulled into the driveway of a house that Thomas knew wasn’t his – it was way too big to belong to that big blue-collar idiot. He must be meeting someone, Thomas reasoned as he absent-mindedly scratched underneath his armpit. Thomas pulled up in front of the house and waited for Terry to get out of his car.

But the car just sat there, idly. Terry didn’t get out of it. Thomas continued scratching himself, wondering why he suddenly felt so horribly itchy.

Hadn’t Terry’s car been a kind of muddy brownish red color? He didn’t remember it being such a slick metallic silver. The car looked a lot newer than Thomas remembered it being. He could see movement inside of it, but Terry still wasn’t emerging. Thomas, annoyed with his own sudden discomfort, decided to get out and stretch his legs and hope that Terry didn’t spot him.

Thomas pulled on the door handle. Nothing happened.

He checked the lock, pulled again, and still the door would not open. Cursing his car’s old age and already-broken door, he reached to get out of the passenger side. That, too, was impossible to open. Trying to reason but starting to panic, he scrambled to the back and tried to open any of the doors, but none of them would budge. It was as if they were being held shut by an invisible, malevolent force.

“H-help!” He pushed on the windows, then punched them, but nothing happened. Feeling like a trapped animal, he clawed at the space lining between the window and door, but nothing gave way. He might as well have been surrounded by a brick igloo.

His mind raced. How the hell does someone get trapped inside of a car when it’s on dry land?


What Thomas, in his white-hot panic, didn’t know – or reason – was that Terry hadn’t gotten out of his car for the very same reason: he was trapped inside of it, like a bird in its cage.

Terry Jameson had struggled so frantically that he had exhausted himself. He wore a white t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned denim shirt, all of which had their sleeves torn off to expose his large, reddish arms. His old torn jeans stuck to his big thighs, as he sweat from the fear of being unable to escape from his own car. Maybe his little brother would come out and open the door from the outside.

He sat back in the driver’s seat, breathing heavily, and let his hands rest beside him. The seat was hot – wait. Leather? Had he ripped off the upholstery to reveal…

He looked down and saw beautiful leather seats, expertly stitched. He ran his finger over the gorgeous material. “Whaaaa…?”

And then he looked around, and realized the entire interior had drastically changed. Everything was sparkling new; a stick shift in between the passenger and driver’s seats, a beautiful control panel with gleaming dials. He leaned forward and saw a bright silver hood through his wider windshield. “This…th-this isn’t my car.” He leaned back and saw the BMW logo in the middle of his steering wheel, the same brushed grey of the rest of the car’s interior. The car sank lower to the ground, its wheels enlarging and front end curving fiercely. “What’s happened? Where am I?” Everything was so perfect-looking that Terry was afraid to touch it. His Dad was a car guy, so he knew he was sitting in a brand-new BMW M5 sedan, a car that cost more than eighty-grand and that a blue-collar motherfucker like himself had no business being in.

The heat that radiated off of the steering wheel and off of the seats seemed to seep into Terry. His insides boiled and he writhed in discomfort, feeling the old denim of his pants stick to the beautiful new leather of the seats.

He heard a pop and saw the gold button of his jeans hit the steering wheel. Looking down, he noticed that his white tee was tighter than it had been moments before, and the denim shirt had two buttons buttoned near the bottom of the garment.

Before he had time to reach for them, he moaned in pain as the heat seared inside of him. It clouded his vision and disoriented him, and his body suddenly felt weightless. He arched his back dramatically while pushing his pelvis into the seat, snapping his neck back to let out a squeal right as he felt his body extend in both directions. Legs lengthened and stuck out from the old jeans. Arms thinned as they grew longer, and a slightly chubby torso leaned out with new length.


Both his shirts suddenly had sleeves that reached perfectly to the wrists of his longer arms. He hadn’t even felt the fabric crawl down his arm, but there it was. He whimpered and reached to pull off the clothes, but when he reached up to grab the crewneck his strength suddenly surged and he tore it down the center, right to where the denim shirt was buttoned. Before he knew it was happened, buttons had popped out next to the tear, a collar had blossomed around his neck and he was suddenly wearing a well-fitted white dress shirt, slightly open in the front to show Terry’s sweaty young chest. The loose buttons on the denim shirt fell away as the buttoned ones enlarged. The open front of the denim shirt folded slightly as the shoulders got wider and the waist pulled inward to fit Terry’s newly tall-and-trim physique. The cut of the new sleeves changed to make his upper body look wider and more empowered, the fabric of the denim suddenly changed color, the folded denim snapped tightly to become lapels and before Terry could look again, he was wearing a crisp khaki suit. With shocked breaths, he ran his hands across the expensive material. The fine detail of the suit jacket and matching pants, the beautiful white color of the tailored shirt and the luxurious perfection of his automobile were all the nicest things that Terry had ever seen. Hot confusion burned through his mind. He couldn’t begin to make heads or tails of what was happening to him.

Thomas Kellerman wasn’t aware of the internal struggle happening to Terry Jameson, because he was too focused on his own to care. He scrambled, from the back, back to the driver’s seat. He plopped down into it and felt the familiar sensation of heat exploding through his body. “Nnnnnngh,” he moaned involuntarily, making one last feeble attempt at pulling the door handle before becoming resigned to whatever fate the car had in store for him.

The upholstery on his seats cracked apart to reveal an old leather seat, damaged from years of wear. The dashboard reconfigured itself rapidly and Thomas reared back in surprise, reaching his hands up and feeling the roof of the car get higher as the entire vehicle enlarged. The doors appeared to flatten completely on both sides and the hood shrunk inward as Thomas, with large eyes, watched the car’s body change to a white color. He reached for the handle but realized it wasn’t a handle to be pulled, it was to be pushed – the door was supposed to slide open. It still didn’t budge, of course, but it was greatly changed. Thomas recoiled in fear from its foreign shape, as if it was going to throw him out on the street.


Thomas raised his hands and smacked the window glass, which now felt oddly plasticine, and noticed a change in his arms. Although still pale and stick-thin from years of stubbon refusal to play any sports at all, his arms now each had several thick veins bulging out of the skin. They appeared to thicken as he watched, spreading up his arms beautifully, one big rope-like one bisecting each of his tiny biceps. “Whu-what is…are those…”

The veins were big and bulging, a map of virility undearneath twiggy arms. But as time passed, his arms weren’t quite so twiggy. Slowly, his forearms expanded, then his biceps responded. Thomas held them up in horror. His biceps and triceps began to tear through his shirt sleeves, ever-growing…15 inches, 16 inches…veins getting thicker, forearms starting to look like legs-of-lamb. His hands were bigger too, a worker’s hands, callused and enormous like a catcher’s glove. His biceps hit 20 inches, a magic number that triggered all the hairs on his arms to turn black, giving him another dose of masculinity.

“Sttooopppp.” Little black hairs even popped out across the backs of his hands. Thomas had a thought and went to lift up his shirt but realized, before he could, that he had sprouted several inches. His shirt sat above his bellybutton and his pants had become highwaters. His exposed navel showed a flat stomach with a light dusting of black hair that spread up his torso and across his chest – not close to a rug, but not one of those waxed pretty-boys either.

“St-stop this,” Thomas begged in a deepening voice. “This is crazy!” His voice dropped lower. “This is SCARY!”

The new six-foot-three body was much better proportioned for 22-inch cut biceps with veins the size of vines crossing up hairy arms. Thomas barely noticed the way the hems of his ill-fitting pants were rising higher and higher, their tan color darkening as the dark shade of his polo lightened to an almost white-blue.

“This is crazy, whoever you are, you need to stop this,” Thomas muttered emptily as he felt his shoulders widen within his growing shirt. His waist stayed the same dimensions as cobblestone abs grew outward, but his shoulders grew spectacularly wide, left and right delts ballooning out of tight short sleeves that had since repaired themselves. His traps swelled so high and proud that the buttons of his collar burst open, setting the stage for a pair of pecs to soon make their appearance. Thomas’ new huge hands flew up to his pecs right as they exploded outward, big as melons, further transforming his shirt from the polo it had been to the button-down it now was. The pecs rose higher, then thickened further outward until they were magnificently wide, forcing his arms out awkwardly. He flexed them and placed his thumbs in the divots right by his armpits. “Who…how…” The more he stared, the more intensely they grew and the more he loved them. Big, juicy, meaty pecs, like regulation-sized basketballs stuck to his collarbone, with the black hair of a real man. He wasn’t a real man, though. He was just a kid. Right? He tried to button his shirt but his new fingers were unmanageable and as he looked, he realized he liked how the shirt stayed open to show off his muscle cleavage. He flexed again and loved watching the thin, cheap fabric crinkle under the weight and sag of his power. Thomas shook his head and tried to hate his changing body, but it was hard.

Thomas’ voice deepened into a bass. “What’s happening to me?!” The more he spoke, the deeper it got, dripping with masculinity. He looked over in his seat and saw a worn leather satchel sitting in it, stuffed full of…something…he reached for it but got distracted by the sheer bulging mass of his unreal arm. He flexed it and watched his skin age, unaware that his skin was growing older all over his body, the smooth white skin of an adolescent student that spent his days inside being replaced with the tan, thick skin of a man who labored outdoors.

He scratched his left pec and felt it heave up and down with every stroke. He could tell his new shirt – it fit him like a grapeskin, the light blue button-down with navy blue pinstripes – was developing some kind of logo on the left breast. It was hard to see because his pec pushed it out of view.

What was it…what was it….

Thomas gingerly pulled it outward to look, and as soon as his eyes met it, the real changes began.

The slick-looking teen in the beautiful BMW was beginning to lose his concentration. Terry watched as his crisp-white shirt, unbuttoned right to there, began to fill with muscle. Two shapely pecs emerged from the young fat, then his soft tummy hardened into a gym-trained set of bricks. His pear-shaped body seemed to redistribute itself without any work at all, as his shoulders widened at the same rate that his waist collapsed in on itself.

“Let…me….out….” A foreign voice, that Terry quickly IDed as his, groaned. Somewhere along the line, his country accent had been eradicated from his speech, and he could feel his neck elongate and stretch his chords to much deeper pitches than before. “Help,” a sexy man’s voice, smooth and creamy, muttered. “I don’t feel l-like myself.”

He looked down to see a grown man’s well-exercised torso, smooth and tan, peeking out of the white dress shirt. His pecs were large and well-trained, built for beauty, like his abs. The permanent crease of his dress pants was pulled taut as his thighs got larger from years of sports, and he grimaced as his calves became big and developed from his soccer and rugby days. His thighs, much wider than his waist, pushed out his growing penis and he saw the shaft get longer in his pants. Merely placing his hand on it made him cum. As he moved his arms, he knew they’d gotten larger, bold biceps making the fabric of his shirt and jacket crinkle as he moved them. He looked like he met with a trainer and a tanning bed multiple times a week, a picture of metrosexual devotion to his own body. Terry suddenly was hit with another all-over dose of muscle, his body becoming larger and more cut, the last remnants of his boyhood fat being sucked away. The pain made him snap his head back and as it slammed into the headrest, his very facial features appeared to be jostled. A once-large nose got smaller, pushed closer to the center of his head by enlarging eyes and pouting lips. He slammed his head back again and wavy blond hair replaced his brown crewcut, a widow’s peak calling attention to the symmetry of his face. A third hit gave him a curving aquiline jaw and big square cleft chin, a fourth made his ears smaller and his teeth large, straight and white, and the fifth – and final – gave his youthful beauty a maturity, sharpening and honing his soap-opera-ready looks from the unfinished development of a fifteen-year-old boy to the gorgeous confidence of a handsome, thirty-five-year-old grown man.

Every headrest hit made it harder and harder for Terry to know what was going on. He didn’t know why he was picking up his little brother, since he and his brother were born in the 1970s and didn’t really need rides anymore. Maybe he was picking up TJ?


Yeah, picking up TJ. TJ had been at a sleepover and needed a ride home, which worked out because, because…why did it work out again? Man, this suit looked good. Worth every one of the 300,000 pennies it cost. Fuck, the body he had, it looked so good in everything, tall and muscled and…


…so fucking handsome. God, he was good-looking. That’s why he wore beautiful clothes and drove beautiful cars and had a beautiful house with a beautiful wife and beautiful kids, because he was so FUCKING attractive. Always had been. His dick was so hard that the enormous bulge lay across his thigh, and he debated masturbating before his son came out but decided the risk wasn’t worth it.

His head the headrest again, further jumbling his thoughts, scattering puzzle pieces around his head that would be put together differently than before.

Man, TJ was taking a while. All-nighters at the office were shit but the cases were really piling up, and since he had just made partner he really needed to show his stuff. Plus, it gave him a chance to pick up TJ on the way home, and now he and the kids could have a family weekend while his pregnant wife rested. TJ…what a great kid. His other two were great too, but there’s something special about your oldest son, the one you gave your full name to.


His $500 silk tie lay on the seat next to him, and he slid it underneath his collar to tie it, then decided it looked better undone, the ends laying next to the opening that his golden pecs accentuated. He reached up and adjusted his starched white collar, smiling at the way it sat around his beautiful neck. A quick flex of his pecs and arms made the shirt get tighter, and he smiled. He reached down and tugged on the French cuffs of his shirt to make sure the cuff links were visible and not inside the sleeves of his suit jacket. Maybe, he thought, if there was any time to get away from the kids, maybe the guys could get together to play some soccer? The three times a week with his trainer was good, but he wanted some outdoor exercise too. Always been an active guy. A big-time lawyer needs to stay in shape, beauty gets you places. His genetics were all right on – that FACE, the bone structure, the cheekbones, the jawline – and the body was there. He just had to maintain it all and make the money and…c’mon, TJ, where are you?

Thomas stared at the familiar eagle that had appeared on his left pectoral. He let go of the fabric and saw the logo disappear back underneath the volume of his gigantic chest. His shirt continued to get tighter and more revealing, unbuttoned halfway to show off his hairy chest and enormous, hubcap-sized arms.

The dark blue shorts that his khakis had become now sat above his knees. His thighs swelled drastically as the quads and hamstrings blew up, filling with hard muscle from years of workouts at the gym and years of work, period, lifting and laboring. His big hands touched the thighs and felt the bristly hair – the tree-trunk thighs felt slightly smooth, as if they’d been shaved and the hair was just starting to grow back. Thomas adjusted in his seat uncomfortably as he grew a large ass, two crescent-shape cheeks swelling out to become a big bubble butt. His shorts grew tighter as he filled out their seat, leaving little room for a big dick to grow. But grow it did, to uncomfortable levels, and he felt the pubes grow up and connect to his black treasure trail. His balls dropped and pushed against the seat, and Thomas involuntarily came, a little jizz escaping from his shorts and hitting his thigh and the steering column.

“Unnnghhh,” he groaned in his new deep bass, rubbing his temples painfully and unable to hear any part of his previous childish voice. “Who is this guy?”

His thighs swelled to nearly twice the width of his waist, and he once again adjusted his seated position to make room for his huge cock and balls that were smashed between his boulder-like thighs. His body began to cool, the heat leaving, as if his adult body was a sculpture being pulled from the fire, freshly made. The heat shot up through his intimidating chest and massively wide shoulders, warming up his new large voicebox before thickening his neck until it looked like a wrestler’s. His face began to change, and Thomas was so mindfucked that he almost didn’t know. His boyish features began to harden. A heavier brow was pushed down by an enlarging forehead, his blue eyes changed to a sharp steel-grey and his nose’s shape altered into a straight, proud one. His thick lips got thinner but retained their attractive shape, as his jawline jutted out spectacularly fast, becoming ponderously large and defined, like a superhero’s. The skin of his cheeks was pulled tight by his cheekbones and jawline jutting out in a hyper-masculine style, like a GI Joe come to life. He watched emptily in the rearview mirror as he became a new person, a handsome and masculine face matching his handsome and muscular body. Thomas didn’t blink as he became visibly older, didn’t flinch as a beard began to grow. In his mind, now, this felt almost right. “I think, I, I…I don’t know, I…”

Black bristles shot across his jawline as a well-trimmed beard and mustache appeared. It was manicured facial hair, only an inch wide, but it gave him another unneeded dose of butch masculinity. He wriggled his lips as the stubble got slightly itchy, a squared-off goatee growing to match his own squared-off chin. His tangled mass of blonde hair receded, shorter and straighter, into a short black cut, square and tight around his face. Thomas blinked at his reflection, running his hands across his chest, down his abs, into his pants, across his thighs. That guy…looked familiar. Was that him? “Huh.”

Feeling increasingly better and less confused, Thomas threw his satchel over right shoulder, secretly loving the way the leather strap almost disappeared between his pendulous pectorals. The boy’s thoughts slowly spun away as Thomas grew more and more comfortable with his new manhood. His grey eyes twinkled beautifully under his thick black brow as he slowly remembered developing this body, growing into this face, becoming this man. Years of manual blue-collar labor had honed him into the perfection he was today.

He slid his door open and stepped out onto the street, stretching out his new muscles. The man walked to the back of his truck, slid the door up and grabbed a small package, palming it with ease in his powerful, veiny hands.

As the bodybuilding mailman walked up the driveway, he was met by a handsome, manscaped guy who looked about his own age, thirty-five. The corporate stud was tall, six-two, only an inch shorter than the postman. Both their bodies were muscular and developed in different ways, the lawyer’s in that pretty-boy way where every muscle is trained separately to develop beauty and symmetry. He looked great in his suit, with the shirt slightly open, the undone tie resting across his proud chest. The mailman, however, was built big and broad, like a brick shithouse save for a waist that was much tinier than expected and made his shoulders look even wider. His hands told a story of his life, brawny hands that didn’t flinch from any work, drenched in calluses and blisters. His grey eyes twinkled in the sunlight and his shirt stuck to his sweaty body. The lawyer observed that the mailman was more out of his uniform than in it. His shorts were supposed to go to his knees, but he was tall enough – and his ass was big enough – that they only reached mid-thigh. The postman’s shirt sleeves covered only half of his bowling-ball deltoids, and his shirt only had three buttons done, covering but not hiding his rock-hard abs.

“You’re gonna have to move your mail truck, man, my son’s about to meet me and I need to get out of here,” the lawyer said with an affirming shrug. “My wife’s waiting at home and wants me to take the kids for a while, y’know how it is.”

The postman smiled to show, unexpectedly, rows of perfect white teeth. “I’m picking my son up too, I’ll be outta here in a second.”

“Oh, this house is part of your route too?”

“Convenient, huh?” The bearded stud grinned and his pecs twitched on their own. The lawyer couldn’t help but notice.

“This is probably inappropriate to ask, but where do you work out?”

“Not at all, not at all. Gold’s on 5th and Park, five days a week.”

"You compete?"

The huge mailman grinned with sheepish pride. "Yeah, sometimes."

The lawyer’s beautiful blue eyes lit up with recognition. “My gym membership’s about to expire and I want to go somewhere where I can get bigger. That one’s on the top of my list.”

“Really? You look pretty big already. Really good for a white-collar guy,” the postman said with ribbing humor.

The lawyer smiled. “Yeah, I guess. I thought I’d go to the gym less with each kid, but the fourth is on the way and I’m going more than ever.’

”It’s therapeutic. I’ve only got one son, but I go as much as I can.”

The lawyer noticed that the postman did not wear a wedding ring. The postman wasn’t about to tell that he only was able to have the one child before his wife had left him after discovering his homosexuality.

“Well, I’ll probably join, and I’d love some help on bulking up.” The lawyer, with a flick of his fingers, presented the postman with his card. “Terrence Jameson.”

The postman extended his own massive hand. “Tom Kellerman. Pleased to meet you, Terrence.”

“Tom Kellerman sure is a familiar name.”

"I've done some bodybuilding stuff that's been in the paper. Won a few trophies." Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Terrence Jameson sounds familiar, too.”

“My son’s name is Terrence, as well, Terrence Jameson III. Goes by TJ.”

“Oh, your son is TJ? My boy talks about him.”

“Who’s your son?”

“Kale Kellerman. Big, husky kid. Takes after his Dad, what can I say,” Tom smiled. “I’m amazed it took us this long to run into each other. Our sons go to school together, I guess, I think the sleepover is a class thing.”

“It is. Well, then, we have no excuse to not do some lifting together.”

Tom laughed. “Except for your wife and four kids!”

Terrence nodded and laughed too. “It’s a busy life, but I manage.”

“Clearly,” Tom said, motioning to the BMW. “That’s a nice ride.”

“It’s a little gift to myself, yeah. My wife made me get the M5 sedan and not the M3 convertible. Of course, I understood, need room for the kids and all.”

Tom’s eyes twinkled. “Still, let a man be a man, right? Let him have his convertible.”

Terrence laughed. “Exactly! Finally, someone who gets me.”

They heard the house’s front door finally open and close and two boys ran out together. Kale Kellerman and TJ Jameson had plenty of their fathers in them. Kale, big and burly, built for muscle and power, with a face that was going to be like a He-Man action figure in a few years, just like his Dad. TJ was a better-looking kid but smaller, his shoulders and waist slimmer than Kale’s but his face like an angel’s, with an already pronounced jawline and big blue eyes.

“You boys have fun?”

“Yeah,” Kale responded simply.

“We played Rock Band and watched movies,” TJ said just as concisely.

Their fathers laughed. “Gotta deliver this package, but it was great to meet you, Terrence,” Tom said with another handshake, his powerful bicep and shoulder bunching up the sleeve. “And I definitely look forward to seeing you at Gold’s.”

“Same to you,” Terrence smiled, as he placed his hands on TJ’s shoulders. “Nice meeting you, Tom. Hope you can help me out a little…my trainer is great but I’d like to add two more days a week with a partner. A workout partner, I mean.”

“I get ya,” Tom said congenially as he dropped the mail and small package into the house’s mailbox. “You ready to go home, Kale?”

“Yeah, Dad. I’m hungry.”

“We can get breakfast once we get the car from home.”

“See you at school, Kale!” TJ called as he got into the BMW.

“Bye, Teej,” Kale waved as he got into the passenger seat of the mail truck.

Tom got into the driver’s side and noticed two small sweat-stained handprints on the glass. That’s weird… Kale must’ve done that.

“Sorry I can’t drive you around in a BMW, pal,” Tom said, tousling his son’s hair as they headed home.

“It’s okay, Dad. You make delivering the mail pretty cool.”

Tom couldn’t help but smile, the beautiful teeth shimmering through his neat whiskers. “Thanks, son.”

Tom looked down quickly at his unbelievable body and flexed his pecs. Needed to hit those today, and he couldn’t wait to get to the gym. He could feel Terrence’s card in his breast pocket and wanted to call him immediately. He was so hot. The wife and kids just made him even hotter. His eyes, his blond hair, the sexy suit and the way he wore it with confidence…Tom got fluttery just thinking about the hunky lawyer.

They would make great workout partners.

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