Hunter: W.A.S.P. (musc mc)

I've had this idea for a while and just worked it in. Leave comments and also give me your ideas for future installments! Please!

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“Do you and Katie want to have a baby?”

The ball swished through the hoop and broke the awkward silence following Hugh Hardy’s question.

Hunter walked over and picked up the basketball, then looked onto the street below. Sean Hardy had rented his family a huge townhouse for the Olympics, one that included an indoor basketball court. It was so lavish that even Hunter was impressed by it, and Hunter had a lot of 'lavish' in his life.

“Now, what would make you think that, buddy?”

Hunter tossed the basketball to his eight-year-old brother. Hugh and his twin, Hank, were mirror twins, each with a distinctive beauty mark above their lips. Hugh’s was on the right-side; Hank’s, the left. Although black hair was a dominant Hardy trait, the twins were coiffed with a light chestnut brown, with the same swept-back roots that Hunter had. Like Hunter, they had sparkling green eyes.

“I dunno. Dad was 21 when you were born, right? And you’re 21 now, so you and Katie might…you know…have a baby.”

“Hugh, it doesn’t work like that. Katie and I want to get married first. And besides…” He grabbed Hugh and wrestled him to the floor, tickling him. “I got all my little bros to take care of!”

Hugh laughed and kicked. “Stop! Stop! Daaaaaaaaaaad!”

Sean Hardy rounded the corner and chuckled. “Mmm, a wrestling match?”

Hugh convulsed with laughter. Hunter eased up and stood, pulling Hugh up with him.

Sean rubbed his younger son’s head. “Where’s Hank?”

“Watching the Olympics, I guess.”

“Go watch with him. I’ll take you guys to a baseball game later.”

Hugh shrugged. “’kay.”

The boy walked off, exiting through a door and walking down the winding staircase to the penthouse’s lower level.

Sean Hardy was still, at 42, like walking sex. He and his oldest son shared their six-foot-six height, beautifully muscled physiques, and thick black hair. Sean’s face had lost its boyish quality – what six kids, another on the way, and running a multi-million dollar company will do. His face had hardened into a more rugged beauty, enhanced by the wisdom of life. His skin was still clear, but rougher, and his eyes now had a slight crinkle in addition to the internal sparkle. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his square jaw was dotted with salt-and-pepper stubble, although his hair was still untouched by any color aside from black. His health clubs kept his fantastic body in unbelievable shape. He was a genetic lotto-win, with a ticket that he had passed on to each of his six sons.

Sean and Hunter were almost like mirror images, standing parallel to each other, square-jawed and broad-shouldered. Sean was still more musclebound, his body thick with sinewed power. Hunter was no slouch at 260 pounds of muscle, but he couldn’t have the extra 30 that Sean had, since he was running all the time at Florida. Their faces were also almost identical aside from the age difference. Hunter’s youth showed on his face, his skin supple and his sculpted cheeks pink. Both men’s faces were classically attractive, with straight noses, high cheekbones, big eyes, full lips and a

Sean placed his hand on Hunter’s shoulder and felt the thick, round trap underneath the tank top’s strap. “I can’t put into words how proud I am of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Ya know, with five other boys, you wouldn’t think I’d miss you that much! But I miss you all the time. I want to go to every one of your games. Watching you on TV is shitty compared to being in those stadiums.”

“You’ve got all the kids, Dad. And the gyms. I understand, I know you’re all supporting me.”

“You bet.”



Hunter reached down and grabbed the ball, and the game commenced.

They were worthy opponents of each other, Hunter and Sean. Their tank tops bulged with thick muscle, and their well-trained legs darted back and forth with ease. Size-wise, they were matched.

“You know…” Sean took a shot as he spoke. “…I think it’s time for you to get an agent.”

“Agents are assholes.” Hunter shot over and grabbed the ball as it bounced off the rim. “And they all have too many clients. I need someone who can focus on me.”

“I’d offer…” Sean reached in and swiped the ball from Hunter’s dribble. “…but I don’t have time. Not with the kids, and your mother, and the gyms.”

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t expect you to.”

“But you’re gonna be drafted after your senior year and you need someone brokering deals for you.” Sean took another shot. Swish.

“Shit.” Hunter backed under the basket as Sean shot a free throw, then grabbed the ball at the miss. “Dad, what about getting an agent that focuses exclusively on me?”

“Big bucks, H. Plus, not having other clients means less experience.”

“Yeah. I need someone who could be my PR guy, my manager, my agent altogether.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Sean watched Hunter shoot.

Hunter shook his head as he went to retrieve the ball. “Nah, Dad, don’t worry about that. I’ll do it on my own. Uh, Coach knows some guys.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll just keep kicking your punk ass, then?”

“If that’s what you think you’re doing, then sure.”


“Ya see what I’m doin’? Ya see? I’m gonna fuckin’ smoke this cig, and then I’ll do what ya want me to do, ‘kay?”

Aaron Friedman kicked his leg back and pushed open the kitchen door. He stepped into the smelly New York alley and lit up a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

“Take this up to Hardys or I’ll fire your punk ass.”

Aaron was an all-around creep. He’d worked at the hotel for three weeks and had gotten almost every staff member there to hate his guts. He didn’t focus on anything, was respectful to no one, didn’t show up on time and didn’t give a shit about the job. But he DID show up. He was a punk Jewish kid from Brooklyn, a cross between George Costanza and Seth Rogen. He had a paunch and extra fat all over his short body, a mass of curls with a big patch missing because it had begun to fall out, and slightly off-kilter, yellowing teeth. His life was awash in clichés - smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish and cursed like a sailor. Ross, the roommate, was his one friend, an unsavory pot dealer who dealt out of their shoebox in Queens. His parents had dropped off the face of the map since he had quit high school eight years before, at sixteen. The hotel job was a necessity, the only one he could get before he lost his X-Box 360 subscription.

The fat, sausage-like fingers stubbed out the cigarette on the alley bricks.

The manager shoved the room service cart toward Aaron. “Straighten your tie, Friedman.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The elevator doors opened and Aaron eased back and forth, feeling the taste of the cigarette roll about his dry mouth as the elevator rose up through the shaft.

He rang the suite’s bell and turned around to wait. His phone rang. He wasn’t supposed to answer, or even have it with him, but whatever.

“Speak, Ross.”

He didn’t see the door silently open as Hunter Hardy, shirtless and dripping with sweat, answered the knock.

“No, I’m delivering right now. I’ll be home later. I’m deliverin’ shit to the Hardys! THE Hardys. You know, that faggot-ass quarterback from Florida, the one too pretty to be real.”

Hunter stood, listening, slightly amused. Aaron, never one to think about his job, prattled on thoughtlessly.

“Nah, I don’t think his girlfriend’s here now. The whole place goes crazy when she walks in, we’d know, what a rack. Yeah, I’d fuck her too. Show her how a real man does it, since her boyfriend’s gay, he’s probably too busy worrying about messing up his hair to really screw her. Bet he whacks off to his own reflection. I know. Fuck, I bet they’ll tip big. Maybe we can order…”

Hunter cleared his throat. Aaron instantly flipped his phone shut and spun around.

The height difference was ludicrous. Five-feet-four portly inches of Aaron against a six-foot-six pillar of half-naked, glistening muscle.

“Uh, hi, Mr. Hardy.”

Hunter glanced at the name tag. “Aaron, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Here’s your room service…” He looked up in amazement before he added the “sir.”

“Can you push it in the room for me, at least?” Hunter left the door standing open as he swaggered his frame into the first floor. Sean looked down the spiral suitcase from the basketball court and lounge above. “Room service here, Hunter?”


Sean disappeared from sight, but could still be heard. “Need some cash for a tip?”

Aaron set up the spread on the table, wondering if he’d fucked up his chances for a big tip from the hotel’s best customers. He didn’t really care if he’d pissed Hunter off, but he could use the cash.

He knew he wasn’t going to get any as soon as he heard Hunter’s answer to his father. “No, Dad.” The younger Hardy’s tone was ice-cold. “I’ve got the tip covered.”

Aaron looked up and, for a minute, made eye contact. Hunter stared at the punk intensely, and Aaron put his head back down.

“Thanks for setting up the table for me. I would do the work myself…” Hunter trailed off to get Aaron to look up, before he finished, “…but I don’t want to mess up my hair.”

Aaron’s cheeks burned. “Sorry about that, sir. I just, I mean…we….it was just an inside joke.” He spoke fast, his heavily accented voice barely audible.

“Guess I don’t have a very good sense of humor.” Hunter picked up a shrimp and popped it in his mouth. “Look, I know I have a recognizable name, so I’m not a real person to you. And yet, here I am in the flesh. So I’d watch what you say about other men’s fiancées.”

Aaron nodded quickly, mumbled a “sorry” and tried to wheel the cart out. A large, strong hand stopped it.

“Want a tip?”

Aaron didn’t know what to say. “I guess?”

Hunter slipped a hundred-dollar bill into Aaron’s hand. It was as if he’d pulled it out of thin air.

“Sorry it’s not much, but I docked you half. Here’s one more for the road: learn some subtlety and tact.”

Aaron crinkled up the Benjamin, stuffed it in his pocket and got the hell out of there. He heard Hunter slam the door shut behind him.

As the elevator went down, Aaron called Ross. “Ordah a pizza, buddy. I got a 100 dolla tip!”


“You’ve been off your game all night, asshole.”

Ross spoke after seeing Aaron get hit for about the millionth time.

“I know, I know. I fuckin’ suck tonight. Fuck it, I’m out.”

Aaron threw down the controller and grabbed the last slice of pizza from the box between them, tearing into it furiously. He stood up and walked into the filthy kitchen. The whole place was a dump. When Ross and Aaron walked across the orange shag carpet, it would crunch from the old food and petrified dust engrained in it. The décor was ‘70s homeless chic and pieces culled from dumpsters and flea markets. Their TV was the newest piece there because they had to have something compatible with all the gaming consoles. It was worth several weeks of paychecks.

He rubbed the pizza grease onto his white t-shirt that he’d won at a gamers convention, tossed the pizza crust on the counter because the trash can was full, and headed back to the TV.

“Okay, one more round.”

His stomach made a loud gurgle and Ross looked over at him. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah, fuck off.”

Aaron re-entered the game and was dead 17 seconds later.

“FUUUCK. I forgot all these rules! It’s like I’ve never played before.” He dropped the controller on the floor and his stomach made an even louder noise. “I gotta piss.”

Aaron crunched his way into the bathroom. He pulled down the waistband of his old athletic shorts and fingered out his stubby dick, then unleashed a stream into the bowl.

The stream was so powerful it nearly knocked him off his feet, and he braced against the wall for support. “Must’ve had to pee more than I thought…”

He tilted his head back slightly, amazed at how good it felt to piss. He hadn’t gotten laid in two weeks and he hadn’t realized how horny he was.

Aaron looked down and saw a blob of cum splatter into the bowl. “Aw, fuck.” The sensation of his fingers on his dick felt so good. He rubbed them only slightly and saw another shot splat on the rim of the bowl.

He felt a pull on his fingers, and a strange sensation as he came again. Looking down, his eyes were met with his dick.

It looked longer. A lot longer. And as he watched, it was lengthening before his eyes. It felt like his balls were dropping lower, too. And then he noticed that he was uncut.

“What the…”

Aaron Friedman could swear he was circumcised. He remembered playing with the loose skin when he was younger, but staring at his big uncut cock, he felt right with it. Maybe he’d just had a dream that he was cut, actually? He pulled the skin back a little and saw the head poke out as he came once more.

He reached down and awkwardly felt how big his balls were. They felt like big ripe tomatoes. Surely, they weren’t as big as they felt? And when he got hard, he had always been a foot long.

Hadn’t he?

He stepped away from the bowl, partially in confusion and partially in fear, and looked in the mirror. The afro-thick curls framed his head like a crown, but he noticed the first inch off the root was completely straight. He flipped his fingers through it and felt how styled it felt, as if he’d dropped a big glob of gel in it. He could feel the curls un-kink as his straightened, and he swept it back and let a few wavy locks lightly rest on his forehead, Superman-esque.

He looked good as a dark blond. Was his hair always this wavy? He remembered having those curls as kid, but something was off…

“Hey, Ross?”

He stuck his head out into the dingy den. “Ross, does my hair look weird?”

Ross turned his head from the TV and stood up to get a closer look. “Your hair? Nah. But put your dick away.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Aaron pulled the waistband out and watched the snake-like appendage disappear back into the silk. “But my hair? It looks alright?”

“Whaddya mean, look alright? Your hair always looks good.” Ross made a reach for his friend’s head, but Aaron swatted away the searching palm. “Fuck off! Don’t TOUCH it.”

“Sheesh, sorry.”

“I just got it perfect.” Aaron lightly flicked his hairline, pushing the easygoing swept-back style slightly higher. “God, I think it looks great. I love my little pimp dip.”

“That dumb bitch you fucked last week called it that. They’re widow’s peaks, stupid.”

“Pimp dip, widow’s peak, whatever it is, it looks awesome.”

“You’re fucking psycho sometimes.” Ross plopped back down and took up gaming once more.

“Yeah, American Psycho. Patrick Bateman, motherfucker.”


Staring directly into the bathroom mirror, Aaron slid his hand across the side of his hair, like a greaser without (all of) the grease. “Never mind, you wouldn’t understand.”

Ross didn’t respond, and Aaron meandered back into the bathroom. His eyebrows were so thick and bushy that they were a few hairs from a unibrow, but when he looked at his face, he noticed how waxed they looked. In fact, they looked perfect. The dark blond hairs were formed into two perfect arches, spanning the width of his eye sockets, not a strand out of place. He ran his index finger over the soft bristles and it felt like the most erotic thing he’d ever done.

The index finger ran down his face and he felt how perfect and soft the skin felt. The skin was beautifully tan, moisturized, almost boyish until he felt the harder bristles lurking underneath the skin when he moved down to his beard area. It was like dipping his fingers in cream – did he even have pores?

Did he always have skin and brows like this? He didn’t remember ever going to a dermatologist, or having his eyebrows threaded. He didn’t even know how he knew what eyebrow threading WAS.

“Hey, Ross?”

But Ross didn’t answer.


Why were the lights off? Aaron reached across the dark hallway but was surprised to find not just the absence of a light switch, but of any wall at all. He touched something cool and hard, but he didn’t know what it was.


Suddenly, the room was bathed in light. Oh, the voice activation system. Of course.

He realized that he’d touched a huge piece of pottery when he’d previously reached for the wall. The piece was on a tall, ornate table that was placed in the center of the massive room. The room was obviously done by a decorator, with every expensive piece arranged to perfection on the sparkling hardwood floor. Apparently, he favored the art-deco style – and money was not an object.

“Is this my…penthouse?”

The windows were floor-to-ceiling, overlooking New York City. He went over and gingerly placed his hand on the glass, realizing quickly just how high up he was.

“Hey, uh, Ross? You here?”

It was pretty clear that there was only one occupant. From the ornate bedroom to the modern, beautiful kitchen, Aaron stuck his head in every room looking for his roommate. What’s-his-nuts, however, was simply nowhere to be found.

He staggered back into the huge, multi-million dollar living room and felt a sharp pain in his head. He reached up to grab it, instinctively, but realized he would mess up his hair, so his hands hovered above his head. The fingers tightened into fists as pain shot through his body and he grunted and punched the air.

There was snapping noise and he felt a sensation run through his spine, down his legs, through his feet. His legs instantly got longer, leaner, and his arms and torso did the same.

“Hey, dude?” Why was he calling for Ross? That was his old college roommate from freshman. That loser dropped out and lived in Queens. Like Aaron would ever live in Queens.

Aaron pulled his hands back and tried to step forward, but his whole body felt tight and impossible to move and he felt himself grow again. The ceiling looked lower than it had before, and his shirt was now above his bellybutton.

He started to panic. “What’s going…going onnnNNN…”

He reached above him and sprouted, higher and higher, until his shirt and shorts were painfully tight around his crotch and chest. His body fat had dissipated through his body with his rapid growth, and he looked lanky for the first time in his life, his long limbs flailing wildly. He stumbled back into the bathroom, not used to the new length of his skinny limbs, and commanded the lights on.

His reflection was engrossing, and he stared intently, a Narcissus discovering his pool for the first time. His eyes lingered on the man staring back at him, a man more handsome than he remembered. His skin was a perfectly even tone of bronze, from head to toe. The dark blond ‘do on his head looked almost plastic, as if he’d stepped out of the shower and his hair was still wet. He loved all that gel. When he moved his body, his skin seemed to shimmer. That was hot.

He lifted his arms to his side and felt the muscle tighten, cramp and then relax again. The sensation repeated, over and over, and as he watched he could swear his arms were getting bigger. The sleeves of his white t-shirt seemed tighter than before, and he noticed each arm had a big vein running down the top of the bicep. His hands and fingers had gotten longer, and he balled them into fists to feel the power run through them and up into his shoulders.

“Lookin’ kinda buff…”

The veins pulsated and he had beautiful arms now, cut like no other, bulging biceps and cut triceps leading down into thick forearms. “Mmmmm…”

He licked his lips and pulled down his shorts to cum in the toilet. He wriggled out of his shorts by shaking his hips back and forth, then stepped out of them once they had shimmied down his legs. His legs looked buffed and bronzed, perfect, every muscle defined. He ran his hands over them and felt their softness. “God, they’re perfect…”

He looked in the mirror at his hair and smiled to see two rows of beautiful, overly-whitened teeth, so straight and sparkling that they couldn’t be believed. He knew they were his real teeth, but they almost looked like veneers. His lips had taken on a more seductive shape, their puffiness having disappeared into a slight smirky curve.

“I look like a fuckin’ fag! Some yuppie Wall Street motherfucker…”

But he knew he wasn’t gay, except for the guys he would hook up with occasionally to advance himself in the business world. He just liked taking care of himself. He liked facials and waxing, and…

With a quick realization, he flipped his hands up to his face and saw ten perfect nails, buffed and manicured, clean as can be.

“What the ffff…” He tried to wrap his mouth around saying ‘fuck,’ but realized he was trying not to curse. It was unprofessional and he didn’t want to be in the habit of it.

Aaron tried, and tried hard. “I’m some yuppie! Look at me, I’m…I’m…metrosexual!”

Saying the word just felt good. His parents raised him to care about his appearance, right? Yeah, he just cared about his appearance.

So why did this all feel so weird?

His hands were strong, thick, masculine, with those perfect nails. He ran those hands underneath his too-small tee, feeling his pectoral muscles bunch at his touch, then blow out in an instant. He pulled the shirt up and saw that the thick rug of hair was completely gone, replaced with a buffed sheen, almost like a wax statue. Aaron’s pecs bulged out, thicker and bigger, pushing his half-shirt out so that it hung like a curtain covering his carved abs. He had big pecs for such a small-waisted guy.

The neck of his old, stained t-shirt was stretched by his growing shoulders. He did not have a bodybuilder’s physique; he looked like a fitness model, buffed and bronzed to mannequin-esque perfection. His sloping shoulders took on a proud, square appearance, leading down into his shapely delts and twitching, muscular arms.

His voice was squeaky, sharp with panic. “LOOK at me.”

His body was flawless, with even skin and cut, defined muscle strapped onto his long, shapely limbs. He was six-four, he knew. He was naturally skinny so he had to work with his trainer for hours on end to build himself into the flawless specimen he was staring at now. Six-four, 200 pounds? Yeah, yeah. Awesome.

Aaron saw his face had taken on a more classical appearance, and he hadn’t noticed. The dull brown eyes had shifted to a sparkling hazel with specks of green. His lashes were long, matching his perfect brow. He felt a pull and watched his face widen, but didn’t even react – nothing surprised him now. He watched as the fat distributed itself across his bigger head, giving way to impossibly high, regal cheekbones and a jaw that could cut stone, flaring down into a square, sharp cleft chin. He shaved every day to show off that bone structure, but the lightning-bolt sideburns that ran into that perfect hairstyle gave him an almost-retro beauty.

He stared at himself, obsessed.

“That’s not me. Is that me?”

He laughed and realized all those voice exercises he’d done had paid off; his voice had a rich depth that commanded respect, laced with beautiful articulation.

“I’m HOT.”

He touched his face, running his fingers down his lips and feeling the deep cleft of his chin.

The stud in the mirror was an image of classic beauty. Aaron remembered the hours in the gym, the thousands spent on the upkeep of his face, molding it all into the perfect male image. He looked like a mannequin come to life, every hair in place, manscaped into the masculine ideal. He almost intimidated himself.

He felt his boxers pull up on his big balls and stumbled back in sudden pain. “Ow!”

The fabric tightened around his hard dick and cut thighs and butt, and he felt it wedge itself into his tight crack. He knew this wasn’t something he would’ve done before, but man, it felt good.

The fabric lifted itself and he felt the silk caress his supple skin as he fingered the strap of his new, shape-enhancing blue thong.

“I don’t wear…”

He remembered the drawer full of thongs in his bedroom and realized he did. They kept him at constant attention, every time he moved. He loved feeling the silk on his big dick.

Aaron ran his big hands over the silk but realized he wasn’t feeling his underwear anymore. His hands touched the soft fabric of dress pants, slightly clingy at the top, they wrapped around his small, carved waist, showing off the beautiful shape of his thighs and running down to the top of the black dress shoes he wore on his large feet.

Each pocket had something in it. He reached into the right and pulled out a BlackBerry, put it back, then pulled out a leather Coach wallet from right.

He flipped it open and the clear passcase showed his New York driver’s license. But it wasn’t his picture, it was some ugly shlub. FRIEDMAN, AARON JAMES. Friedman? He wasn’t Jewish, he was Protestant, a total WASP from Connecticut.

The picture warped in front of his eyes, the ugly creep giving way to the image of beauty and sophistication. “Yeah, there it is…” The slight smirk of confidence in his driver’s license picture was a turn-on in and of itself. Man, he was such a sexy motherfucker, the way the open blue collar led up that strong neck into his chiseled jawline and beautiful face and hair. Go figure he would turn a driver’s license picture into a photo shoot.


“That’s more like it. Except…” He blinked and made sure he was reading it correctly.


“Aaron James. Aaron…James…” The sound of his name turned him on. He unzipped his fly and unloaded into the toilet, cum splattering everywhere on the gold toilet seat.

His pecs had got so squared and thick that they had torn through his too-tight white tee. The collar was intact but the center was torn, the big pecs pushing out through the opening like cleavage. He reached up and pulled the rest open, tearing the shirt in half as buttons popped out down one of the sides. Aaron pulled the bottom downward as the fabric stretched to fit his tall body perfectly. He tucked the shirt into his pants and buttoned the bottom three buttons. He felt his pecs and shoulders get bigger, wider, as the sleeves stretched down his arms and cuffs, linked together, flipped out. He spun the cufflinks and felt his body grow in response, his buffed body bulging with cut muscle. Yeah, he was 215 pounds because he was naturally barrel-chested. That’s right. The shirt fit him perfectly, tailored to show off his small waist, then the open shirt showing his waxed, sculpted chest and broad shoulders. He was a living wet dream, a metrosexual fantasy.

The pocket and cuffs had his “AFJ” monogram embroidered on them. He reached down and picked up his tailored suit coat and slipped it onto his gorgeous body. The slightly padded shoulders and tight waist and sleeves didn’t at all hide his Men’s Health musculature, in fact, they accentuated it. The change was complete. Aaron stared at himself, narcissistically sighing at his own beauty.

“Aaron James.” The words rolled out of his mouth with a haughty smirk. Even his name was sexy.

There was a vibration in his pants and his dick went crazy for a second. He pulled out the BlackBerry and saw his boss was calling.

“Hunter! I’ve got three more teams interested in you. I want to get an ad campaign going as soon as you’re eligible, let’s talk companies, let’s talk endorsements.”

“I have some ideas, man.”

“Can we use Henry in them?”

“I told you, no family yet.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll be at your hotel in fifteen minutes.”

“Great, thanks.” Hunter hung up.

Aaron adjusted the pocket square that matched his sharp white shirt, which he pulled open a little more to show off his chest.

“Lookin’ good.”

Aaron the Narcissus chuckled slightly to himself, adjusted his hair, and buzzed down. “Get my car ready, I’m going to Mr. Hardy’s hotel.”

His well-heeled shoes clacked across the hardwood floor, Aaron spun his keys around his finger, and was out the door.

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