Hunter: U.S.M.C. (musc mc ap)

Several people have requested this. Hope it lives up to expectations I have another story that I'll post soon. I received all the PMs and hope for more - if I don't reply, don't worry, I am still getting them! Everything is being considered...but for now, here's a little soldier change for ya.

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“I am proud to announce that, after the fundraising dinner with Hunter, the silent auction, the raffle, the 5k and the 10k, we have raised over a MILLION dollars for the Children’s Hospital!”

Sean Hardy pumped his fist as he spoke to the huge crowd that was gathered in the street. Hunter raised his arms, as if in triumph. He took the mic from his father. “The kids, parents and doctors are so grateful to all of you! And my family and I are too. Thanks for coming out and supporting us this weekend!”

The family – Sean, Wendy, all the kids and Katie – stood still on the podium as the camera flashes went like strobe lights.

“Sometimes I feel like we’re the First Family,” Hunter whispered to Katie, without breaking his big smile.

She laughed. “Me too. Except people know more about the kids.”


Sean waved to the crowd and began ushering the children off the stage. “C’mon, Harry. Let’s go, guys.”

Henry held Hailey in his arms. Hank and Hugh each took one of Hudson’s small hands in theirs and led the parade into the waiting car.

“I’ll stay and make sure the podium is put away and the place gets all cleaned, Dad.” Hunter slapped Sean’s muscled back.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah! Get Mom and Hailey and the boys back home. Katie and I’ll be back later.”

Sean shrugged and hopped into the passenger seat, next to their driver. “Suit yourself, son. I’ll see you later.”

Katie and Hunter watched the car drive off. He turned to her, eyes glimmering mischievously. “Just us.”

“Dinner?” She grinned. “Sex?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Should we just walk around and find a place?” Another group of gawkers ran over and Hunter and Katie started to sign again.

Pens were thrust toward them and cameras flashed. “Can I have a picture with you two?”

Katie shook her head. “Sorry, we were selling those for donations earlier today, so we can’t right now. You can take them of us but we can’t pose.” She stuck her lip out in a slight pout. “It sucks, sorry.”

Hunter took her hand. “Let’s walk.”

“It’s so bright out here right now, I can’t believe it’s time for dinner!” She flipped her blond hair back and squeezed her fiancé’s hand hard. “Ooooh, this place looks good. I’ve been in the mood for Thai.”

“Wanna try it?”

“Yeah, let’s.”

They walked in. It was a comfortable, new, modern restaurant. The décor was beautiful and authentic. “Hi, there are 2 of us.”

“My God!” The owner came rushing out of the kitchen. “Hunter Hardy and Katie Snow! What an honor! We will prepare our best table for you. Five minutes, five minutes and I will have a private room fully set for you.”

“Great, thanks.” Katie smiled at the man. “I’m going to go to the ladies room, honey, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay. I’m going to go stand outside.”

Hunter breathed in the natural air of the city, the city where he was born and raised. He knew it well. The downtown was beautiful, brick streets and well-kept storefronts. The Marine recruiter was across the street.

“Excuse me.”

Hunter looked down to see a young man sitting on a bench outside the restaurant. He’d been there when they walked by before, but Hunter hadn’t acknowledged him.

Hunter smiled. “Yeah?”

“You…you’re Hunter Hardy, right?”

“That’s me.”

“Wow. Wow! I knew you were in town, didn’t think I’d get to meet you though.” The kid stood up. He was short, slight, pale. He seemed weak, especially to Hunter.

“Nice to meet you.” Hunter extended his hand. “And you are…”

“…Lance Ridge.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Lance. I have to go inside soon, but can I do something for you? Sign something?”

“Oh, no, no. I don’t have anything you can sign. My Mom will be thrilled that I met you, though, I’ll have to call her. She loves you.”

Hunter laughed. “Does she? How come? She a big football fan?”

“Nah, she…” Lance’s pale face blushed. “She says she thinks you’re gorgeous and she loves a dedicated family man.”

“Well, that’s awesome. Tell her thank you. So I assume your Dad is a family man?”

“He was, yeah.” Lance looked over at the recruitment office. “He died in Iraq, three years ago.”

“Lance, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks. I’m actually here because I was walking home and saw the recruiting place – he was a Marine – and there were all of these guys walking in. So I sat…” He shook his head and chuckled slightly. “God, this sounds creepy, doesn’t it? But I sat and watched them go in and get all signed up, get the schpiel. I was jealous.”

“You can’t enlist, can you?” Hunter knew just by looking at him.

“Nope. I’m severely asthmatic and I’m anemic too. Plus, when you’re five-foot-six, a buck-thirty…they don’t want you. Not even now, when they’re desperate!” He laughed. “Kinda sucks.”

There was a long pause as they both stood and looked into the recruiter’s office.

“It’s probably for the best, anyway,” Lance continued. “I’m at school, y’know, I’ll make more money this way.”

“Oh yeah? You go to school here?”

“Yeah, yeah! I live at the Meadows, it’s actually closer to campus than the dorms.” Lance made a subconscious gesture with his thumb.

“Cool, cool. I have some buddies from high school who are still in college. There’s actually one who’s in ROTC.”

“Oh, cool. You ever think of being in the Marines, Mr. Hardy?”

“What was that?” Hunter leaned in. Man, this guy was soft-spoken.

Lance raised his volume only slightly. “I said, Mr. Hardy, ever consider the Marines?”

“Call me Hunter. But, nahhhh. The sports thing took off way too early. I mean, I guess I kind of have the body for it. Maybe one of my brothers will do it. And hey, man, you still got some time. You’re, what, 18, 19?”

“21. This is my senior year.”

“Oh, man!” Hunter shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, dude. You…”

“…look younger. Yeah.” Lance shuffled awkwardly. “It’ll be good when I’m older, I guess.”

Hunter checked his large watch. “Well, I have to go of luck with everything, Lance. I’ll be thinking about you.” Hunter shook Lance’s small hand and headed back into the restaurant right as Katie emerged from the ladies room.

Lance walked off. Hunter was so cool! Just a laid back guy. He’d never met a muscled guy who was so nice as well.

As he walked, Lance began to notice how easily he was breathing. It was strange, meeting a celebrity usually makes one’s breath quicken, but he felt so good right now! He never breathed with such regulation. For once, he felt like he didn’t even have asthma. And he didn’t feel undernourished, or anemic, or anything…he just felt normal.

Lance never felt normal. He took a deep, unconstricted breath and grinned. Free breathing was better than sex! It felt so good to just walk and breathe and be the same as everyone else. The air was beautiful tonight, so clean and crisp.

He walked into a convenience store and grabbed a bag of chips for the walk home. He walked up to the counter and set them down, not making eye contact with the cashier. He didn’t like to look people in the eye and he didn’t ever talk above milky-soft tones. Lance Ridge was the walking definition of soft-spoken.

“Just these?” The cashier was a grungy-looking teen named Andy.

“Yeah, yeah…” Lance trailed off and reached back for his wallet. He looked down and saw a pack of gum. It said “Camo Chew” and was in metallic camouflage wrapping. He stared at it, and stared – entranced.

Lance’s little penis got instantly hard.

“Sir?” Andy looked, bored, around the store. “Sir, that comes to $1.54.”

Lance felt himself cum at the sight of the camo gum wrapper. “What the…” Lance shook his head and hoped Andy didn’t notice the mark on his pants. Weird that he just blacked out like that…

“$1.54, sir.” Andy reached out his hand.

Lance barely even thought before he said “…and some Marlboro Reds, too.”

Andy sighed. “Can I see some ID?”

Lance flipped out his license without saying a word. Andy chortled slightly and rang up the chips and cigarettes.

It was only when he walked outside that Lance realized he, an anemic asthmatic, had just purchased a pack of Marlboro Red cigarettes. The more he thought about it, the better they sounded. He was craving one. He’d never smoked a single cigarette in his life, but now his body cried out for the kiss of nicotine. He licked his lips just at the thought of that pretty little white tube touching them.

He flipped out the carton and popped one in his mouth, deftly, as if he’d done it for years.

And then Lance Ridge, the man who would rather tear out his hair than talk to a stranger, asked a passer-by for a light.

As soon as the cigarette was lit, Lance relaxed. Smoking always calmed him down. He took in the smoke expertly, let it roll around, then blew it out. Another puff, he blew a smoke ring. That was cool.

In the back of Lance’s mind, he knew the behavior he was exhibiting was extremely uncharacteristic. But he didn’t really care…and in a few moments, he forgot completely, wrapped up in the joy of his delicious cigarette.

The apartment’s block when he was finally finished with it. He curled the cigarette onto his thumb and flicked it onto the sidewalk, stomping on it as he passed.

He clomped up the stairs – funny, he didn’t remember his tread being so loud - and walked into his apartment.

“Mmmmmmm.” He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with slightly stale air, and ran his hands through his thin blond hair. The apartment wasn’t terribly well lit and there was a yellow pallor over the under-furnished room.

He plopped his skinny frame onto the old couch and turned on the TV.

“Nothin’ on. Fuck.”

As he flipped through the channels, images shot by so fast that he barely registered what they were.

Wait, was that…

He pressed back a couple channels and saw an ad for a local outdoor outfitting company. The background was awash with a camo pattern.

“Ooooooh, hello, beautiful.”

He slowly got down on his hands and knees on the floor, crawling slowly toward the TV, like a love slave. The camo stayed on the screen as the commercial flipped by.

Lance started to masturbate. “Fuck.” His voice got breathy. “Fuuuuuck.”

He felt the hot jizz shoot into his hands as the commercial ended, and ground his face into the carpet with his ass sticking up into the air. His toes ground into his shoes and he kicked out violently, sending the rest of his body slamming onto the carpet. He grimaced when his toes hit the couch, which was weird since he’d crawled so far forward.

He lay there, still, for several minutes, panting. When he stood up, he heard a rip in his trousers. “Aw, fuckin’ shit.” When he walked forward, he heard two more rips, one in the middle of his shoulders and another on his right thigh. “Fuck.”

Lance turned on the hot water and washed the cum off his hands. As he looked in the mirror, he noticed his shirt and pants were way too small on him – several inches too small, in fact.

“Goddamn laundromat, shrinkin’ my shit.” He pulled the shirt over his head, which took a lot of maneuvering. By the time it was off, both of the sleeves had been torn clean off and the tear in the back had grown to a foot long.

He reached down and unbuttoned the top of his too-tight pants, gave his neck a quick crack, and tore them off.

He stared in the mirror, blankly. He was wearing a camo jockstrap, like one of those fetish web sites sold. Had he always been wearing that jock? The way the fabric hugged his package made it look…bigger. And when he turned around and saw that strap triangle framing his ass, it looked so pert.

“Fuck, that looks good.” His voice was raspy and low, dehydrated. He stared at the tall figure in the mirror, wearing that manly camo jock, and sprang a boner.

The orgasm that followed drenched the soft cotton of the jock and sprayed cum onto his chest as well. He released a loud groan that turned into a slight roar. “GrrrrAGH…”

Dazed, he stood there, slowly rubbing his soaking-wet jock. Why did he feel bigger? “I’m not bigger,” he told the man in the mirror. He was still 5'11", still 170 pounds. Nothing different at all. Not a huge guy, but he did have nicely shaped muscles. A skinny guy who worked out, that was his body. He fared decently with the ladies and those cute Marine boys. But Lance always did want to be a little bigger…

Something just felt OFF, though.

Lance walked next to the bed, pulled the jock off and let it slip to the floor. He swore he felt his cock unroll as he did it, like it had been stuffed in a too-small container. His balls hurt, kinda. He needed to get a bigger jock, he’d do that tomorrow. Don’t wanna drop the sperm count.

He flicked off the light and lay in bed, watching the two small mounds on his chest bob up and down hypnotically. It was so quiet when he went to bed, so peaceful.

His eyes wandered up to the ceiling. His venetian blinds were drawn but the night’s glow shone through them, slightly. The apartment complex had a pool, shimmering in the moonlight. The reflection of the pool water against the dark night was on his ceiling, cut into by the shades of the blinds…

The way it shimmered, the blue and the yellow combining to make a greenish tint…it looked like, like…

The last thing Lance remembered was hearing himself roar like a caged animal and feeling his sheets soak with the force of his orgasm. He threw his hands next to his head, dug into his pillow, arched his back and came like a fire hydrant.

Then, darkness and silence, as he passed out.


“Uuuuuuuuuuugh…feels like I got beat with a fuckin’ rock.”

Lance looked over at the clock. 5 AM. Yup, right on time. Didn’t even need an alarm any more.

Man, yesterday had been a great day. Pretty cool that he’d met Hunter Hardy, huh. He’d been so horny, though – he’d been jacking it all day, and he was hard as a rock right now. When he wrapped his hands around his dick, he noticed how big it felt. Man, had his dick always been that big? It was like jerkin’ a cucumber with two oranges attached to it.

Lance wasn’t firing on all cylinders. It was like the worst hangover ever. He tried to whack it but he just couldn’t, even though his balls felt blue. He grit his teeth and tried desperately to shoot a wad. “Ahhhhh…fuck it.”

He rolled over painfully and felt a shot of pain in his hard dick. When he looked in the mirrors on the closet door, he saw his face. Did he look different? He could swear his brow was thicker, like there was an extra bulk to his jaw. He didn’t look as refined as usual. He looked kind of tough, actually.

But no, it was the same face he knew. He just needed to run a razor over it. And when he stood, it was the same body, 6'1" and 200 pounds even, really buff and muscled. He wanted to work out, and he wanted to do it NOW. Thick pecs, thick arms, thick legs, thick dick. He was just thick all over. Maybe if he worked out, he reasoned, he would blow this damn wad. Nothin’ like a good bench press to get out the aggression.

Lance Ridge opened the closet and saw, hanging, a camo jacket. There was a pause as he stared at the pattern, and then he began to moan, and moan hard, falling back onto the bed masturbating furiously.

The moans became bellows as he roared with pain and pleasure. That pattern just DID something to him. Seeing it made him think of his father and his country, two things he loved more than anything else.


A rope of cum shot straight up to the ceiling. He arched his back and screamed again and saw more cum blow out, everywhere, onto his chest and sheets.

He lay there, breathing desperately. That was some of the best sex ever, and he had been alone. He leaned over and lit a cigarette with a quivering hand, smoking on his bed, naked and panting.

The cig calmed him down. When it was done, he reached up and put it out in his hand. That was a cool trick.

It took work to lean his big body up. He was such a big motherfucker that even a simple task as getting off a bed was tough.

He slammed the closet shut before he saw the jacket again, and was greeted with his reflection.

“Oh, fucker.”

He really, REALLY needed to shave. He had a full beard, essentially. And his body, fuck, that BODY. Big meaty pecs and entrenched abs, that horse cock, those arms the size of hubcaps. His eyes stared stupidly out of deep sockets, his mouth hung open to show a row of bleached white teeth through the beard. He had a good nose, which had obviously been broken – he remembered that bar fight. Stupid shit, but real men broke their noses at least once. And that voice – so low and gravely, rumbling like a subway train. He didn’t look completely familiar, but 6'4" and 240 was his normal body. He remembered all the working out, all the weigh-ins with his buddies.

Lance didn’t walk so much as swagger into the bathroom. The natural roll of his shoulders and rotation of his thighs caused an almost animalistic gait. As he showered the sweat and cum off his body, he felt like he was making an amateur porn flick, all soap and muscle.

Lance lathered up his face and swiped the razor across his big cheek. He felt the whiskers get cut off his face, leaving baby-smooth skin. Soon, he was clean-shaven. He didn’t really like being totally smooth – made him look like a kid, which was sin for a man like Lance - but rules were rules.

What rules was he following? Whatever. It felt right.

He stepped out of the shower, clean and shaved, and thoughtlessly pulled on a camo tank top over his densely muscled torso. Wait, he hadn’t brought clothes into the bathroom.


He got hard, immediately, and stumbled out of view of the mirror, instinctively avoiding his reflection. “Oh, fuck…”

He started to cum. He felt it spill onto his hands, like spilled milk pouring through his fingers. Inside, he begged it to stop, but it coming, blowing out like a waterfall.

He felt tingles all over, as if being prodded with needles. “Stop it.” But right as it was easing up, he looked down by mistake and saw the camo stretched thin – translucent – over his big muscle-tit pecs, and the process started again, excessive semen pouring out of his cock. “STOP, I’m tellin’ ya, STOP IT…”

Finally, the last blew out onto the shower wall. He stumbled forward and leaned his arm against the wall, blubbering. “Fuck me, oh, God…fuuuuuck…”

He looked back in the mirror and saw that the straps of the tank top had snapped, as if his bulky, square shoulders had gotten bigger and snapped them. But what a fuckin’ stupid idea…

The top two inches of the tank had been ripped through by his expanded upper torso, and the rest of the tank top was pulled tight around his bulging abs, like a muscle corset. He twisted and roared and felt the rest of the cloth explode of his body. A man who was 6'5" and 260, all muscle and brawn, had no business wearing a medium tank.

He’d gotten all sweaty again from the orgasm. Fuck, why had he bothered to shower?

His eyes narrowed as he looked at himself. Tattoos? Yeah, tats. “OORAH” emblazoned across his left pec, almost like a name tag in old-military style font. He gave the tattoo and the muscle underneath it an affectionate squeeze, like squeezing a woman’s breast, only more sexual and beautiful because it was his own bulging pectoral.

He threw a flex to look at the row of five-point stars wrapped around his huge 22-inch bicep. One was distorted by the big-ass vein that popped out of his arm, like a rope under his skin. Below the stars, on his tricep, were the letters TJR – Theodore James Ridge. Dad.

The other bicep had a big eagle on it, covering most of his upper arms. His forearms didn’t have tattoos, because of the rules.

What rules?

He rubbed the hair on his head in dumb confusion. The broad, clean-shaven face led up into clipped brown hair, almost skin, until it reached the crown of the head and got longer, a quarter-of-an-inch, with slightly longer hair at the front. Yeah, classic high-and-tight. Real butch. Zero length at the neckline, slightly graduating up into real growth. He spiked the bangs, he liked that, that’s why they were a little longer.

Why was his hair like that? He slightly remembered running his hands through the shag yesterday and noticing how it felt like straw. But now, it was so short, it was like a little patch of steel wool. Well, fuck it. It looked better this way, made him look so big and tough. That’s what he was: big and tough.

He strutted out into the living room, shoulders and ass rolling like the wheels on a car. He cracked open a jug of milk and drank half of it straight from the jug. A man of his size needed so much sustenance.

Lance loved to be naked. His cock hovered above the short counter, threatening to blow like Vesuvius at any second as he cracked eggs into a cup to drink. Another cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling into the air.

He’d left the TV on last night. He could hear the History channel on, men talking about the second World War. His gaze wandered over to the set and he saw a man wearing Marine dress blues talking on the screen.

The cigarette dropped out of his mouth as he gasped and fell against the counter. He bent over and then snapped back up, and he could swear he felt himself grow.

“Finish, finish…stop…”

His dick stood straight up and cum rolled down all sides of it, like melting wax on a candle. He began to scream in agony and dropped to his knees as he shot everywhere on the kitchen floor. It was the biggest, messiest orgasm yet. He started to relish it.


He fell forward on all fours and heard his face literally crack. His head got bigger. His nose flattened along with his brow and his jaw bulged out. Big, tough face to match the hair and body. His brows developed a cocky arch. His chin pushed out farther. “STOP IT.” The sound of his low voice made him cum more and he rolled onto his back. “I can’t…take…it…”

The kitchen was looking increasingly unfamiliar. Had he come home with somebody last night? Where was he?


His tree-trunk legs kicked out and smashed through the cupboards. He felt the wood splinter around his feet.

He desperately crawled across the floor and switched off the TV, leaving a trail of jizz and sweat behind him. He felt like he was being torn apart, but he would not cry. No way, man.

Then it all stopped. It was like a cloud was lifted and he saw the sun for the first time.

He was in some stranger’s apartment. He eased up and pushed himself onto his feet. He cracked his knuckles, his jaw, his neck, ready for a fight.

He lit a cigarette. “Alright, who’s fuckin’ with me? Who the fuck do I gotta kill?”

He casually walked around the apartment. Man, everything was so small here, like some shorty lived here. Who wanted to fuck with Sergeant Ridge? Mess with the bull, get the horns in your ass.

He strolled by the mirror as he went into a room that looked like a bedroom. “Helloooo.” Yeah, there was the body – THE body, the legend. Not many men wore 370 pounds on their six-foot-eight body as well as Lance Ridge. He gave his pec – which bulged out with heighth and depth, like it had two basketballs stuffed in it – an affectionate muscle squeeze. “Fuck yeah.”

Obviously, the pussy had somehow gotten Lance to the apartment, but he’d wimped out and ran for it as soon as he realized who he was messing with. Lance reached into some drawers and pulled out a pair of sweatpants, tore off the bottom and diligently worked them onto his huge legs. He looked like the Hulk and his purple pants. The waist fit well enough, but the legs were so tight around his thighs and huge dick that it was hard to walk. He found an XL tee – probably the wuss’s Dad’s, or somethin’ – and also tore it in half. The half-shirt barely covered anything – even his nipples were visible – but it would have to do.

“Fuck, I’m gonna be late.” He saw his keys on the bedside table – fuck, had he slept with that nerd? How drunk had he been? – and grabbed them, along with his smokes.

The camo Hummer was parked outside. “Heyyy, baby.” It purred to life as he started it. The roads looked unfamiliar, but the more he drove, the more familiar it got.

He was driving down a country road. He took a long blink, and suddenly, the camo Hummer was driving through the crowded streets of DC. He thought nothing of it.

Pulling up to the townhouse, he stumbled into his house and pulled on a white shirt, clumsily buttoning it. He hated to cover up The Body, but work was work.

He stepped into black dress pants and pulled the suit jacket on over his tight white shirt. The buttons rippled as he moved, stressed from the muscle packed under them. His cell was on the kitchen counter, thank God. He dialed work.

“This is Ridge. I’ll be there, I’ll be there. Just runnin’ late. Somethin’ came up.”

He stopped to admire the face in the mirror. People told him that he looked like John Cena, and he did, but Cena looked like some pussy next to the masculinity in Lance’s mug. What a hot fucker. No wonder his clients paid him so much for his company – but the guys at work couldn’t know about that.

The drive to work went by fast and he ran up to the checkpoint, stubbed out the cig, flashed his badge and darted through the corridors. “I’m here. I’m sorry, I’m here.”


Hunter pounded through his workout at his Dad’s gym. Grant was doing training with a client and also shooing away the gawkers that would occasionally accumulate around Hunter.

He looked up at the TV and saw the President of the United States, handsome and knowledgeable, addressing the nation. And there, behind him, stood one of the biggest and toughest and most masculine men in the world.

Lance Ridge, Secret Service. He’d been a Marine for ten years, changing from a slightly overweight high school grad to a shit-kicking drill sergeant. Hand-picked from the USMC for the Secret Service because of his sheer size and strength and ability. Quick as a fox, built like a truck. The perfect soldier. He loved his country and its leader.

Hunter grinned at the screen, at the familiar clear chord leading up to Lance’s small ear, at the way the suit bulged with muscle, at how Lance’s neck was slightly bigger than his own thick head.

“Best of luck with everything, Lance."

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