Meat Market 2

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From another viewpoint, Dave could see Rabih head into the back room, and once the coast was clear, Dave settled into a chair in an isolated corner of the club and tried to collect his thoughts. None of what was happening made sense – was it some kind of trick? Maybe they were on a Candid Camera show with a big Hollywood budget, and the guys changing had been holograms, or something. Dave leaned back in his chair and was thinking scenarios through when Fred ran up to him, wild with fear. “We’ve got to get out of here, we’ve GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE! Something weird’s happening – Rabih, he…I don’t know what happened to him! His, his muscles…his shirt-”

“Pretty shiny, right? Not my style,” Dave laughed.

The crow’s feet around Fred’s eyes were stretching out from how far his eyes were bugged. “I’m serious! This is scary!”

“Right, I know. We should leave, right? Should we get the other guys?” Dave stood up slightly and looked around, seeing nothing but big walls of people and faces, hard to see in the dim, flashing lights. “I don’t know where they are,” he muttered, plopping back down.

The lights flashed and Dave noticed drops of sweat rolling down Fred’s face. “Fred, man, loosen your tie. You’re panicking.”

Fred reached up and tugged the knot free, removing the tie and placing it in the pocket of his pants. “Damn right I’m panicking!”

“Why are you panicking?”

“I…you know, Rabih, he…”

“You know the doorman?”

“Of course I know him! I work with him! YOU know him!”

“I don’t work here.” Dave calmly took a sip of beer and leaned back in his chair. “You have got to relax, boy. Open up your shirt a little. Breathe.”

“I don’t think I should,” Fred protested even as his fingers began fussing with the buttons on his plaid shirt. The second button felt liberating as the cool air settled on his chest. The third button opening was even better.

“Shit, kid, got some heavage going on there,” Dave chuckled.

“Kid? I’m twenty years older than you, I…holy shit.” Fred looked at the foot-long groove that ran from the center of his collarbone down between the open section of his shirt. It really did look like cleavage, but the two mounds weren’t soft breasts – they were hard, solid, striated pecs. Square and high. And getting bigger.

“Damn!” Fred squeezed the two pecs together in a tight flex, then started bobbing them up and down, making them wrestle with the next button down on his shirt. “Whoo-hoo-hoo, DAMN!” He let out a whistle and ran his hands across the top of the pec ledge, stopping only when his hips thrust violently forward and startled him.

“Oops!” Fred dropped his hands to his hips, in the hopes of holding them back, but they started bucking more and more, pelvic thrusts so strong he thought he might get whiplash. His dick was shaking in his underwear, his saggy butt jiggled in the decade-old cords he wore.

Fred was distracted by the club lights and music, and all the beautiful men and women around him, and most of all by the changes to Ken and Rabih. Now, his hips were commanding his attention, too, and he just couldn’t pick a thing to focus on. He pawed more aggressively with his hands to make his hips stop bucking, but all they did was rub his dick and make it hard, and Fred was doing more to get himself off than he was to prevent it.

Fred’s eyes caught his pecs again, big and solid now. Stone slabs. One nipple was visible through the open buttons of his shirt and he had rings of sweat around his collar and under his arms. He hadn’t been this stressed in years, not since his ex-wife had started banging her Pilates instructor, that closeted piece of…ugh, of all the guys, Fred had never thought that the one he’d been positive was gay would bust up his marriage. Real men didn’t teach fuckin’ Pilates. They did real sports. They grappled and sweat and lifted weights and punched each other in the fuckin’ face and kicked each other in the stomach and threw each other on the ground.

Out of pure spite, Fred put his hands in his hair and started mussing it around, getting it really messy. That bitch had picked his hairstyle, the whole older businessman thing, and had always liked his hair so much. Not enough to stay, obviously, but enough to run her hands through it. Fred wanted a new start. He didn’t want that conservative hair anymore. The brown strands started breaking off and falling away, but Fred felt nothing thanks to the dead nerves. Clumps of his hair snapped off together with each pass of Fred’s frantic hands. His buzzcut was barely even that: it looked like someone sprayed the top of his head brown with a canister of paint. There was enough hair to show the ladies that he had a full head of it. Fred thought he had a bald spot but remembered that he wasn’t balding - his dad had but Fred seemed to have avoided that curse. And maintenance was so easy: he’d bought a pair of clippers and just buzzed it off himself, been doing that since he started living solo.

Another button busted off his shirt and when he moved to look down, his biceps ripped through his sleeves. Fred grabbed his left bicep with his right hand and felt its veiny peak. Yeah, the divorce had gotten him to the gym pretty hard. Had to tighten up, get rid of the gut, make himself sexy again. His abs had come in quick, quick enough to stun his ex when he’d walked into the mediation wearing the tank top that clung to the bricks of his stomach and made his pecs look ten feet wide. His abs just gotten bigger since, harder and deeper, a solid 8-pack. It was important to have a strong core and Fred’s was tops.

Fred opened the rest of his shirt and pulled it apart to look at the sweaty washboard. Even his obliques were bulging with each twist. A large, hairy hand reached into Fred’s waistband and stuck a five-dollar bill under it.

Fred looked up at Dave’s leering smile. “Y’got nice abs, son. Mind if I touch ‘em?”

“Weirdo. The guys at the office are gonna make fun of us. But sure, have a feel.”

Dave’s eyebrows smushed together at this statement, and it was clear that he didn’t quite understand what Fred meant, but he reached out anyway and ran a rough hand over the wet grooves of Fred’s 8-pack. “Perfect, perfect, damn. You got perfect ab genes there.”

Fred flexed his stomach and veins crawled out all over it, from the waistband upward. Dave laughed at this. “I remember when I could do that. My abs were almost like that in college, then they started really thickening up, see?” Dave yanked up the hem of his shirt and exposed his stomach. It still had clear abs, but they were thick and heavy and bulged out like a gut. His abs were like a stone wall and balanced precariously on top were two giant pecs, each the size of a full melon. Dave’s polo was tightening around them, even clinging to their underside, and a moderate covering of reddish-brown hair was growing in over the round peaks and through the open collar.

The whiskers growing over Dave’s lips were far redder, just a few shades shy of crimson. The whisker pattern crawled down around his stronger jaw and squarer chin, coming in as a tightly-trimmed beard that ran up into an immaculately squared-off red buzz, almost like an overgrown flattop. Every short hair bristled with clean precision.

Fred shook his head back and forth and ran a hand over his buzzed scalp. That gesture brought his arm up to his eye level and he got a good look at the giant bicep bulging through the shredded cotton. “Whoa,” he smiled, popping a flex.

“Whoooooa!” The muscle appeared to be elongating on the limb, the squared-off edges pushing down to his elbow and going up to the delt. And the peak just went higher and higher, right before his eyes, as if it were reaching for the ceiling. “Yeahhhh!”

It took a moment for Fred to realize that the bicep was stretching out on his arm because his arm was getting longer…and his arm was getting longer because his body was getting longer. His pants became uncomfortable in the crotch, and downright painful in the ass, with the hems sitting around his ankles.

That was when Fred decided that maybe he’d leave after all. He buttoned up his shirt halfway – as high as it would go – and awkwardly tried to pull his pants up. The tight dress pants clung to every muscle and dipped in between his ass cheeks like a pair of leggings. They were slung so low on Fred’s new body that his pubic bone was visible. He looked ridiculous – and hot, and that was ridiculous too. He was some middle-aged burnout, he wasn’t supposed to have rock-solid pecs and giant arms and a stomach to starch his pants on. And the muscles were so tight – not pulled down by gravity, not lined with a small layer of fat. Everything was high and taut and rippling. Shredded. He had to weigh at least 230 pounds, and all of it was muscle.

This was wrong, this was wrong!

“I’ve got to get out of here, I-”

“What’s the rush, kid?” Dave stood up to his full height – at 6’4”, he was an inch or two taller than Fred – and blocked Fred’s exit with his chest and an outstretched hand. “You seem tense. Not to sound creepy, but you owe me.”

Fred followed Dave’s line of vision and looked down at his own shirt, seeing the green currency stuffed into the opening. 1s, 5s, 10s and even a 20 were lining his sweaty pecs.

“I…I…” A button fell off Fred’s shirt, but the fabric didn’t pop open. Two more fell off and Fred realized the sides of his shirt were merging together, and not only that, it had attached itself to his pants too. He reached to pull them apart but his pants didn’t have a belt anymore, or loops - he was just wearing one solid piece of clothing, and it was changing fast. His arms had been bare but now his shoulders were too, save for two thin straps that were wedged in the dip between his monstrous traps and round delts. The straps ran down directly over his big nipples.

Dave’s polo continued to tighten in every place, the bigger he got. His back looked like a jet-liner, with a running strip running down the center around his spine. His traps bulked up so high that his neck was almost consumed by them. Legs were stretching his chino pants to the limit and his ass was so muscled up it could double as a seat cushion. Dave wanted to reach behind to pick out his wedgie when he realized that he couldn’t – the mass of his shoulders, arms and back wouldn’t allow that kind of motion. With that realization came another one: he couldn’t have a wedgie when he wore a jock strap. And so, the back of his briefs split apart and ran into a clear V-shape holding up his ass cheeks, leaving Dave in his customary XXL jock. He cupped his bulging cock and sat back down in his seat, grinning.

Fred was grinning too. He knew he shouldn’t be, but he couldn’t help it. He watched his pant legs snap tightly to his legs like glue, every muscle etched in the lycra. The ends of the pants crawled up past his knees, past his thighs, tightening around his crotch and ass like a pair of briefs. It felt so good.

“It’s a singlet!” Fred realized this out loud, with a proud smirk. His singlet. It was a low-cut one, scooping down to the middle of his abs, and he’d ordered it way too small to start with – and now he was even bigger, a solid 240, just pure shredded mass. The undersized garment made his dick look huge and his ass pop out like a truckbed. And his pecs stuck out so far that they held the straps underneath away from his body for a few inches.

Dave’s polo shirt was Under Armour, he always wore UA polos, showed off his pecs and his back taper. He loved the way his ab wall was pressed into the tight material, and he tucked the fabric underneath his protruding stomach and into his pants. This jock dancing for him had the weirdest face. His body was absolutely perfect, the kind of body you’d see in a museum, or drawn in a figure class. But he had this weirdly big nose, and looked sort of…old. Dave couldn’t put his finger on it.

The jock looked a lot handsomer when Dave noticed his jaw. Damn, had that been there a second ago? Looked like it was made from marble. Two perfect right angles meeting in utter symmetry, divided by a dimpled chin. And the jock had the cockiest little sneer…where had that been?

Dave didn’t know that while Fred’s face was tightening, Dave’s was getting looser. The area under his chin gave a little. His nose grew out, his eyes developed crinkles. He was far handsomer than before, but also harsher looking, and visibly older. As the energy of the club swirled about them, it was clear that the dancing jock in the singlet was attaining his youth once more. Thoughts of his ex-wife were replaced with thoughts of a big-boobed sorority girlfriend. He had schoolwork and practice to worry about now. His 40s, 30s, 20s…all gone, until Fred was left a massive 19-year-old stud, white teeth beaming, giant muscles coated in sweat and lycra.

Dave’s eyes got wider as he watched the dancing jock. The younger the man grew, the more beautiful he became. His eyebrows were perfectly shaped, running along his brow ridge, and his cheekbones protruded enough to hold geranium pots. The pasty white skin on his face – and body – turned a sun-soaked gold. Dave crossed his arms over his barrel chest and twirled a strand of chest hair around his thick finger as he watched. The red strand got stuck in his wedding band and he winced when the gold ring accidentally ripped the hair out.

Fred threw his head back and rubbed his chest with his large hands. When he looked down, and saw the handsome bearded hulk in the Under Armour polo staring at him, he went white as a sheet, unable to keep his composure. Fred’s dance – a series of sexed-up gyrations – started to look more like fearful shakes.

The bearded man’s eyes narrowed into slits. Maybe it was all the light playing tricks on him, but he’d know that silhouette anywhere. In all his years, he’d only seen two or three wrestlers with a body that perfect. “Dylan?”

“N-no!” The jock in the singlet gave a nervous, horribly confused laugh. “I’m Freddy! My name is Freddy!”

“No it’s not. It’s Dylan. You’re Dylan Novak. Oh shit, boy! SHIT!”

There was genuine tumult in the jock’s mind. He felt like Dylan, he remembered his Mom and Dad and little sister calling him Dylan, but he knew he was Fred. Freddy. Fred? Freddy was a stage name. Or was it? He couldn’t think…he just wanted to be worshipped, it was all a big misunderstanding, he just liked showing off how hot he was, it wasn’t really a sex thing for him, at least not with other people. He never danced with other guys. He just got off on showing off. Dylan…Fred…Freddy?

“I’m Freddy,” he insisted, hoping against hope. “Freddy!”

“You better stop lyin’ to me.”

The façade cracked, and Fred started to crack into pieces too, with Dylan underneath becoming clearer. “I’m sorry Coach! I just needed money! I’m not gay, I…I just…”

“You better be happy that’s not a school singlet or you’d be in a heap of trouble.”

“Wait…Coach Doyle…what are you doing here?”

There was an interminable pause. The gorgeous young jock, Dylan, quickly stopped shaking altogether. His muscles appeared to pump up slightly with superiority. “Aren’t you married, Coach?” Dylan knew the answer to the question. It was a tactic, a strategy. He’d gotten good at instant strategizing from all the wrestling. Now he had dirt on Coach Doyle, and life was about to get a whole helluva lot easier. A handsome young stud shaking his ass wouldn’t be a huge surprise…but a married, establish community figure watching that young man shaking his ass could be quite a controversy.

“Yes! Yes! I am! I’m married!” Now it was Coach Doyle’s turn to freak. “I just…I was curious, y’know, I didn’t know that you, that I…” The music exploded in a loud frenzy and cut off Doyle’s words.

“WHAT?” Dylan shook his head, pointed to his ears, then moved his fingers upward toward the blaring speakers. “I can’t hear you!”

The coach extended a hand, and when Dylan took it, he was pulled in right next to his coach. “My office tomorrow at 9, we’ll talk, got it?”

“Yes sir!” Dylan was still nodding as Coach Doyle spun around and headed straight out of the club. The coach could feel the smile of the young wrestler burning into his back. Fuckin’ Dylan Novak, as if the kid didn’t have the world on the string already. Perfect body, perfect face, great wrestling talent. Probably was gonna go pro, or do the Olympics…maybe both. As if he needed any other advantage in life. Now he knew about Coach Doyle’s fuck-up, Coach Doyle knew about Dylan’s dancing, and the two of them were gonna have to do a whole lot of mutual back-scratching to keep it under the rug.

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