The Photo Booth: Five Exercises in Transformation (musc)

Nearly every mall in the United States has had a photo booth somewhere on its grounds. These hallowed institutions are as common as gumball machines and movie theaters, sitting empty and waiting for a customer - or a group - to squeeze in and enjoy a few minutes of fun.

Click, flash.

Click, flash.

Click, flash.

And that’s it, you’re done. Print, and enjoy the memories.

The mall photo booth didn’t see a lot of business, and when it did, it was usually a group of kids that impeded the booth’s actions. What the booth needed was a single, solitary soul, not a bunch of them...that was too much clutter. But very rarely do people wander into photo booths by themselves, either for fear of being seen as vain, or lonely.

But at least once a week - maybe even a few times - an individual would find their way into the photo booth, and initiate the creation of more than just a filmstrip.



Pete Baxter was past the point of fearing that people would think ill of him. The sadness that permeated his life was too overwhelming for an eleven-year-old to even process, and Pete was left wandering about, almost like a zombie, barely reacting to anything anymore. His father had left one day, and his mother did the same soon after, shipping Pete off to her mother’s house with barely a thought. Pete was the product of a drunken one-night stand after Dollar Night at a local strip joint. His mom was a dancer, his dad was...well...he SAID he was a professional poker player, but he mostly drank. When both parents absolutely refuse to grow up, nothing good awaits their child. Pete had been almost excited at the prospect of living with his grandmother, until he arrived to find that she weighed 350 pounds and saved everything...everything, like the hoarding shows on TV.

It was misery. Pete was in a new town, and couldn’t find a family member to love him. He made acquaintances at school - people who liked him - but once it came to the going-over-to-houses part, Pete chickened out. He felt isolated, shrouded, forgotten. The days were long, and bleak.

So, Pete started walking to the mall that was about a half-mile from his grandmother’s house. He connected with latchkey mallrats that spent all day there, dropping quarters at the arcade and playing each other for Cokes or a cookie from one of the stands. It was a little escapism...just what Pete needed.

There was really no particular reason for Pete to enter the booth. He was just bored, and the booth was something in the mall that he hadn’t done yet. And it was cheap. Photo booths usually cost a couple bucks at least, but this one was just 25 cents. It was really old-looking - lots of wood and gold leafing - except it had a handprint scanner that activated the thing. Unusually, it had curtains on both sides instead of the usual one, meaning that customers could enter or exit from both sides. The blue curtains also stretched all the way to the floor, instead of stopping at knee-level as was customary.

Pete inserted his quarter - the last one he had for the day - and sat back in the seat as he heard the familiar whirrr of a camera stirring to life.

The handprint scanner flashed red to get his attention. There was a soft beep, as if the booth was asking his permission. Pete thought nothing of it and placed his hand on the device, feeling a slight warmth as the machine was activated. The scanner flashed green, and Pete nestled himself back into position. A slight smile formed on his lips as he waited for the camera to start clicking away.

Pete was expecting a typical flash. Instead, he got a positively blinding one, bathing his entire vision in white and making him see spots. He threw his arms up in surprise and heard the camera click. Dang, what a terrible picture, he thought. The first picture showed up on a screen...sure enough, Pete’s arms completely covered his face. “1/5,” the screen read. Well, good, at least I get four more.

What was odd was how blond the flash made Pete’s hair look. He had brown hair, not golden yellow like the visible strands in the picture. Not only that, but his shirt was buttoned now. He remembered that half the buttons had been missing, so he walked around with it open and a t-shirt underneath. But in the picture, it was buttoned up save for the final two. And hadn’t it been plaid before...

Right as Pete tried to look down, the second flash exploded into his view and he snapped back again, groaning slightly in surprise. He blinked vigorously and thought that the groan had sounded oddly deep, lower than usual. Instinctively, he placed a hand on the source of the sound - his chest - and felt a round, hard shape he wasn’t used to feeling. “Huh...” He was pretty sure it was a pectoral, although that wasn’t a word he really knew. They pushed against the fabric of his shirt, fabric which felt oddly soft and silky. Of course, really high quality cotton feels like that...

That thought seemed out of place. “Huh?”

The second picture flashed on the screen, next to the first one. His hair definitely looked blond in the picture, the color of wheatfields, and not only that, the style was different. He’d seen this style before. It was parted on one side, sort of slicked but also voluminous. One lock rested gently on his forehead. It had a name, he knew. He’d heard it once, it had something to do with, like, a job. As he tried to think, Pete noticed that his shirt was definitely not plaid anymore. There was a faint pattern in the first picture, but the second one was just vibrant, solid white. And the crewneck of his t-shirt, visible in the first shot, had disappeared from the second, leaving his clavicle slightly on view between the open top buttons of the short-sleeved white dress shirt he now wore.

Pete’s thoughts were interrupted briefly by a third flash, and again, he jumped in surprise, making sure to notice that his voice really was deeper when he gasped. “H--huh,” he mumbled, and it sounded so low, like his Dad sounded when they talked. The sleeves of his shirt now covered his arms, and pearlized links held French cuffs around his wrists. Peter was pretty sure the booth had shrunk since he had entered; his legs now pushed against the wall he faced, and the perfect blond coif he sported was brushing against the ceiling. The booth had to have shrunk, he reasoned, he knew he was a five-foot-three eleven-year-old, and all the space he was taking up would mean he would’ve had to have grown a solid foot in height. And that was just ludicrous, right? Who ever heard of a six-three eleven-year-old. He chuckled to himself, but got goosebumps when he heard the low rumble emanating. That was wrong, his voice wasn’t that deep. Something seemed strange, but he couldn’t quite place it...

Maybe I have grown, only a little. His shirt was tight across his chest, which felt brawny and masculine. And when the third picture came up, Peter could see a marked difference in his body type. The breadth of his shoulders took up the whole picture frame. His neck had gotten thicker, and his Adam’s apple was now visible. The shirt hugged his chest tightly and showed off its perfect shape, and even his arms - arms he spent a lot of time carving at the gym - bulged in the Armani shirt’s sleeves.

Peter was only just starting to notice how much his face had changed. His nose was thinner and more delicate, but in contrast to that, his face had widened and lengthened considerably. Right as he was sizing up the gorgeous, Pitt-esque jawbone that he was developing, the fourth flash happened.

This time, there was no jump or gasp from Pe...uh, Pee...Per...P something. He just smiled, revealing two gloriously white rows of ultra-straight teeth. Long, beautiful fingers reached up and flicked his immaculate blond hair, then ran down as he caressed his own face. His prominent brow bone and sculpted eyebrows were set off by emerald-green eyes and high cheekbones. His freshly-shaven jaw looked crafted by the finest artisans. His features had become delicate and chiseled...beautiful.

The open two buttons of his shirt now revealed a deep divide between the two thick pecs he had. His arms were tightly encased in his sleeves, and his abs pressed against the inside of his shirt. P rolled back and forth on his tight bubble butt and immediately got an erection. He reached down and unzipped the fly of his suit pants and fingered out his small boner. As he pumped it, it grew, inch-by-inch. His balls doubled in size, then tripled, as his sexual maturity neared. The foreskin rolled back to become circumcised, and the sensation was too much for P, who was loving every second, accepting what he was becoming. Cum rolled down, over his fingers, and puddled on top of his trouser leg. He put his big, adult cock away, zipped his fly and reached down to wipe the cum off, but right then, the fifth flash occurred, and whatever he touched was definitely not cum. His hands wrapped around something and held it tightly, and suddenly Perry knew that whatever he was holding was the most precious thing in the world to him and no matter how much it wriggled, he wouldn’t let it go.

Perry’s tailored Brooks Brothers suit fit him flawlessly, accentuating his broad shoulders and powerful chest and arms. He felt a weight shifting on his lap but he couldn’t really figure out what it was - he felt sort of high, like there was no gravity. He had trouble focusing. He tried to look down but all he could see was the top part of his chest that looked through the opening in his dress shirt.

Perry shut his eyes and tried to think. He heard the ping of a screen display and looked up to see the fifth picture.

He had aged some more, his beautiful facial structure now more mature, a man in his thirties instead of early twenties. In the first four pictures, he didn’t have his suit jacket on, but in the fifth he did, which he found to be strange since he couldn’t remember taking it off that day.

On one ring finger was a solid gold wedding band. On the other he sported his college fraternity ring. Those two rings were attached to hands that were wrapped tightly around the waist of a child.

A little boy, to be precise, no older than three. Perry struggled to look down but finally succeeded and locked eyes with his son, who stopped squirming for a moment to grin up at his dad. “Hi,” the boy said, and Perry stared incredulously at the child on his lap before responding with a nervous, stilted “Hi” of his own.

He got less nervous as he looked at the child, though. Same blond hair, same sparkling green eyes, same skin tone. Definitely his son. Zane, that was the name...Zane Baxter. Born on St. Patrick’s Day three years previous. Gorgeous, amazing kid. The best boy in the entire world.

Perry found himself thinking back to his own childhood, which had been so difficult, and his oath that Zane would never experience the hardships he had suffered. Zane would have a father that cared about him. Zane wouldn’t cry on Christmas because he didn’t get any presents, or be embarrassed in junior high because he couldn’t afford to buy new pants for every growth spurt. Perry’s awful adolescence was so long ago, and yet he remembered it like it was this morning...the rough years before he bloomed in high school and became unbelievably handsome and charismatic, the full ride to Syracuse for broadcast journalism, the wedding, working tirelessly and finally getting the anchorman gig, and ultimately, Zane’s birth. The poverty and emotional trauma of his childhood had helped form him, he knew - it was why he was so attentive to his boy, and it was why he always looked so sensational. Perry was always well-groomed and immaculately dressed, and anything less than that made him have flashbacks to his boyhood. He never let himself feel shabby. He couldn’t handle it.

Perry slowly leaned down and kissed Zane on the cheek, and there was a final flash as all of Perry’s world was covered in beautiful white light.

“Can you grab the pictures, buddy?”

Zane reached and grabbed the film strip that printed out. There was no eleven-year-old boy in the pictures, no trace of confusion. Just five shots of a handsome man with his fine son. Perry adjusted his white collar, feeling the crinkle of the fabric against his hard body. At three, Zane had only just recently grown tall enough that he could take his father’s hand without Perry having to bend down. The tiny hand was completely contained by the father’s much larger one.

“Can I give these to Mama?”

“You bet, it was your idea,” Perry smiled. “She’ll like them.”

“Does Mama still have a baby in her tummy?”

“Of course, Z.”

Zane looked confused. “But we’ve been gone all day.”

“Well, a baby’s not the same thing as a cake. A baby stays in there longer than a day. You were in Mama’s tummy for 37 weeks.”

Zane’s eyes got wide. “I was?”

“Trust me, dude, when that baby wants to come out, you’ll know. It’ll happen pretty soon, but not today.”

Zane walked on and thought deeply on this revelation, before stopping and pointing. “Daddy!”

It was a billboard for the city’s nightly newscast: “Channel 7 Action News, with PERRY BAXTER,” and there, larger than life, was a huge picture of Perry, looking like the male ideal of beauty: expertly coiffed, with gorgeous features and gleaming white teeth. Even his skin was smooth and tan.

Perry grinned. “Yup, that’s Daddy. You like that picture?”


“Yeah, it’s a good one.” They headed toward Nordstrom. “Daddy needs to get some clothes.”

“What ones?”

“Shirts, shoes. Stuff for work. If you’re patient today, I’ll take you to Build-a-Bear, sound good?”


“Okay, but you gotta be good.”

“I’ll be good! I promise.” There was a pause. “Can you carry me?”

Perry chuckled. They’d been at the mall for maybe ten minutes, and Zane was already putting on his tired act. “Alright, but only for a little bit.”

Zane was swept into his Dad’s loving arms, as Perry walked away from the photo booth and into a life that he loved.



Andy Jensen and Mark Holloway walked out of the pharmacy where they both worked. “What are you feeling like?,” Mark muttered to his co-worker as he perused the mall directory. “Panda Express?”

“Ehhh,” Andy shrugged, patting his small, but visible, belly. “Had it yesterday. Lots of sodium, I need to lose weight, man. Gotta get the girls’ heads to turn.”

Mark chuckled.

“What about burgers?”

“So much healthier. Sounds fine.” Both men were pharmacy technicians, unshaven and a little on the portly side, single and looking. Andy, at 27, was two years younger than Mark, but Andy was six-foot-four while Mark was five-foot-six, making for plenty of jokes on both ends of the spectrum.

“Dude,” Andy observed, “you’re still wearing your coat.”

And sure enough, Mark was. The two friends both wore polos and khakis, but Andy had been sure to remove his lab coat and hang it up before he left. Mark had forgotten. “Dammit,” he said. “Wait for me? I’m gonna go hang it up.”


Mark spun and disappeared around the corner. What should’ve only taken a couple of moments was taking longer than necessary. Andy took a few steps and got a view of the pharmacy, and there was Mark, chatting away with Karen, the prettiest tech on staff. She clearly was just being nice, but Mark was still putting on some moves.

Andy rolled his eyes, but they had an hour, and he didn’t want to eat alone. He would wait, he decided.

His eyes fell on the photo booth a few yards away. He’d loved these as a kid, but until he’d started working at the pharmacy, it had been years since he’d even seen one. Andy walked around the side to see how much it cost. “Only a quarter?” Shit, why the hell not? Good for a few laughs.

Andy pushed the 25-cent piece in and drew the curtains tightly shut, not too self-conscious but glad that people wouldn’t be able to see that there was a grown man in the booth.


A handprint scanner? Funky. Thought this was some ancient thing. Guess not. Agreeably, Andy placed his large hand on the red glass, which warmed slightly and then, with a ping, turned green.

He could hear the camera warming up, and wondered if Mark was waiting for him, now. Oh well, Mark could wait. Andy plastered on a smile right as the flash absolutely blinded him.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes. There was a camera flash, and then there was having your face shoved into a car’s brightest floodlights, and this felt more like the latter. And strangely, his shirt felt loose. He looked down and saw his polo was kind of...resting...on his body, about two sizes too large. Had he always been this skinny? Where was his gut? With a large exhale, he tried to push it out, but it stayed flat.

The first picture flashed up on the screen, and Andy’s brow furrowed. Something was off. He was pretty sure he’d had a face full of scruffy whiskers this morning, but in the picture, he had a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache around his chin and mouth. His cheeks were completely smooth without even a trace of beard. His fingers reached up and rubbed the facial hair, and to his surprise, it felt just the way it looked in the picture. He was wondering how his cheeks were so soft right as the second flash went off.

Oh good, the shirt felt right again. His arms were tight in the sleeves and his chest pushed the polo’s buttons out. But still no gut, in fact, he could trace faint abs under the knit weave. Kinda nice, he grinned. He rubbed his chest and the muscles underneath tightened reactively, but they bounced instead of sagged. It was like his fat had converted to muscle, or something. And boy, his sleeves really did feel tight. So did his upper back. The shirt felt really loose on the bottom half of his torso, though. He shivered, suddenly, he was cold and couldn’t reason why.

When the second picture popped up, Andrew knew he should’ve been surprised, but he really couldn’t make himself feel that way. He knew his white, freckled skin didn’t go with the closely-cropped kinky black curls on his head, which his goatee’s color now matched. He knew that a white boy like him shouldn’t be able to grow a ‘fro if he tried, but he also knew he could, which confused him. And man, were his shoulders wide. In the first picture, they sloped downward, but in this one they just stuck straight out. Big chest, too - the polo’s neck was starting to tear from it.

He grinned helplessly at how sexy he looked, and he began to chuckle, noticing that the rumble sounded nothing like his laugh usually did. The third flash caught his big smile.

“Oooh, shit,” he groaned in a silky bass, still not used to the brightness. Andrew realized why he’d been shivering - his pants had somehow disappeared. Instead of his plaid boxers, he wore a pair of neon green lycra biker shorts that only went to mid-thigh and did nothing to hide a cock that looked almost ten inches long. “Boy, those are some big thighs,” he complimented himself. The formation of the tear-drop quads was perfect, and he adjusted in his seat to make room for his enormous legs - that still pressed together, even so. It was at about that point that Andrew realized his shirt no longer had sleeves. “Musta ripped,” he muttered, flexing his arms and wondering how big they were. The biceps bulged and rolled under the smooth, sweaty skin, and it made him so horny to look at it. The feeling of his muscles made pre-cum start to leak into his shorts. He rolled back and forth on an absolutely monstrous ass - it felt like he was sitting on two big rocks. His chest pushed out so far that he could see it peripherally - same with his shoulders. Andrew knew this was only an illusion caused by the booth, the same way it felt larger than before, as if he’d shrunk to five-foot-nine - that was the number that was in his head, 5’9”, but he knew he was taller than that. Six-something.

When picture #3 came up, Andrew grinned at it. His polo was shredding around his huge body in the snapshot - he could make out each part of his pecs through the ultra-tight, translucent fabric. He could barely even tell he was wearing a polo at all. His goatee framed his thick, pink lips perfectly and reflected off the rows of glistening white teeth. The two heavy eyebrows that covered his honey-brown eyes were so masculine, they were almost menacing. The light caramel color of his skin made him swoon. He looked down at his legs, and the stains on his bike shorts from the pre-cum made him grin. Sweat leaked out of every pore, and Andrew wiped some off his leg - stealing a glance at his beautiful, veiny hands in the process - and took a lick of himself.


Andre started to cum at the fourth pop of light, but tried to hold back. “Stop it, man,” he scolded himself in his thunderous bass. He was just so big, and he knew it. His thighs had once again doubled in size, making the biker shorts look more like square-cut boxer briefs, but he was okay with it. So were the guys at the gym. He flexed his ass and laughed, then bobbed up one pec, and then the other. Andre imagined some music in his head and went through a little of his posing routine as the fourth picture came up.

“Fuckin’ hot,” he said to himself. Andre’s nose, so thin and fragile in the first pictures, was flatter and wider now - stronger-looking, although still with a defined bridge and round nostrils. It played off the longer facial shape and stronger jaw he now had. His eyes had shifted slighty and now sat further apart on his face, while his eyebrows had changed shape and taken on a sexy curve, accentuating his eyes. His skin was the color of milk chocolate, popping off the bleached white tank he wore. The Gold’s Gym logo was pulled across his two babies - his pecs - and warped slightly from their incredible shape and hang. Andre flexed his right arm and brought it up to his thick lips to give it a kiss. His lips touched the massive vein that intersected his bicep. “Finally did it...21 inches, my man,” he said, right as the fifth flash went.

“Ooooooooh,” he moaned as he came, the big black dick filling his shorts with jizz. Dre’s big hands - which, along with his feet, hadn’t gotten smaller, despite the loss of height - went into his hair and felt the product he’d put into it this morning. He felt the tank stretch to its breaking point as he arched his back happily. Dre caressed his rock-solid body, feeling his unbelievable abs and the stark overhang of his pecs. Weighing in at 230, he was one week out from competition, and boy did it feel fuckin’ amazing.

The fifth picture came up on screen, and the enormous ebony bodybuilder chuckled at it. He was cocking one eyebrow in the picture, looking tough. “Corny-ass motherfucker,” he laughed to himself. Milk chocolate, psshh, why had he thought his skin was that light? He was dark chocolate, baby, not BLACK-black but almost there. His skin shimmered with a coating of sweat. The color and the light made his muscles look even bigger. His eyes had taken on a slight tilt and now his cheekbones jut out, too. His massive bulge responded slightly to the stimulation of his own image, but he had just cum and hadn’t recharged yet. It still looked like he’d stuffed a coconut down his shorts, though. Dre’s occupational learning was reshaping, the knowledge of medicine revamping itself to the knowledge of nutrition, leaving a nutritionist/personal trainer - and professional, card-carrying bodybuilder - sitting in the booth. He tried to think of filling prescriptions, but all he could think about was casein and BCAAs. He tried to think of coworkers, but all he remembered was his gym buddies. He looked at the first picture with curiosity, wondering who that white boy was, wondering if he’d grown up that way, right as the final flash took him by surprise.

Dre looked at the film strip as it printed out, and slapped his thigh with laughter. Five shots of him posing and flexing like a damn fool. He eased up onto his feet and walked out of the booth. Actually, Andy Jensen would’ve walked out - Dre Jenkins swaggered, because that was all his body could do. His ass and shoulders rolled as he sauntered, swinging his powerful legs around each other and feeling slightly self-aware at the noise his shorts made when they rubbed together. He was itching to workout, but his partner wasn’t here yet, so he’d wait. But Dre didn’t want to wait for too long...

What Dre didn’t know was that as he had exited one side of the booth, Mark was looking around on the opposite and flung the curtain open right as Dre shut the other behind him.


Obviously, the booth was empty. “Dammit. Where’d he go?” Mark noticed the handprint scanner. “Cool,” he said out loud. Never seen one of these up close. Too interested to ignore it, Mark placed his hand on the scanner, just to see how it felt. To his great surprise, it pinged and turned green, even though he hadn’t put in any money. Must be broken, he reasoned. He knew he’d seen Andy go in, but now figured that Andy had left because the booth didn’t-

The flash knocked his world upside down and sideways. Mark half-collapsed onto the booth’s seat in surprise. “What the...”

His first reaction was confusion. Confusion at how the camera had gone off, for one, but also confusion as to why he felt bigger, and why an inch of his stomach was visible. Had his shirt spontaneously shrunk? Oh, and his pants too? Not only had his clothing gotten smaller, but so had his waistline. Once paunchy, now flat. Hairless, too? Where was his treasure trail? He looked waxed. What was going on here?

The TV screen, previously dark, lit up with the picture. Mark leaned back in surprise. His clothing really HAD shrunk, because his shoulders looked too tight in his polo! Everything else looked the same, except wait...his hair was longer. A few inches longer, actually - what had once been a crewcut was now flopping across his forehead. Mark reached up, utterly dumbstruck, to feel the soft strands that swept past his hairline. He gave it a tug right as the second flash blew.

His eyes clamped shut reflexively and he exhaled with a sharp “uhh.” His clothes had shrunk AGAIN, he realized with frustration. Markus had been a chubby kid, so he was used to outgrowing clothes, but as an adult he’d leaned out (save for the pudge). The feeling of his clothes not fitting was not a welcome memory, and he didn’t like it, not one bit.

Except this feeling, well, it wasn’t all bad. Markus wasn’t jiggly, in fact, his body felt very taut in his polo and khakis. His arms pressed against the banded sleeves of his polo shirt, and his chest felt prouder - it had taken on a stronger, manlier shape. The more Markus thought about it, the less uncomfortable he felt. He even flexed his chest quickly, and he could hear the fabric stretch when he did so - then, to his great surprise, the last button popped off his collar, leaving the polo neck stretched open against the growing expanse of his pecs.

Before he had time to realize what was happening, Markus was greeted by the second picture. He wouldn’t really notice anything different, except since the first picture was displayed right next to the second, he could spot some alterations. His unshaven jaw now was coated with designer stubble instead of scruffy growth, and the reddish-blond of his whiskers was one solid, choco-brown color. “Jeez, George Michael called, he wants his look back...” Markus thought his eyebrows had changed shape, but that would be crazy, the camera just made them look thicker and more arched. It was just the lighting that made his browbone look more prominent, and it was just the thick stubble that made his jaw look chiseled and square, like a movie star’s. And his shoulders, wow, what beauties...trap muscles flaring like wings out of his neck, into big bowling ball deltoids that made his polo look like it had cap sleeves.

Wait, what’s a deltoid-


The first thing Marcus did was flick all the hair out of his eyes and shove it back with his hands. There was some kind of oil in it or something. He wiped his hands on the seat of the booth, but noticed how much bigger they looked suddenly - and tan, really tan. He held them up in front of his face and the motion made little tears in his polo’s sleeves. Damn, he had some big guns. Marcus flexed and the veins went crazy, and he winced - still sore from the last workout.

Marcus didn’t know it, but his polo had gone up from medium to XL, yet it still was skin-tight. The collar was wide open against his huge chest and thick neck, and his shoulder movements made wrinkles in the cloth. He could see his nipples poking out. He balled his hands and rested them on his narrow little hips, then rolled out his shoulders, chuckling and posing.

By the time picture #3 was displayed, Marcus was so absorbed with the growing glory of his body that it took him a few seconds to notice the screen. “What a stud,” he whistled, knowing full well that the booth was just tricking him. Some kind of virtual reality thing, but it felt so great. And it made him LOOK great, too, with that square cleft chin and wide, sharp jaw, and a nose just big enough to be masculine but also narrow enough to fit beauty’s conventions. The stubble was completely even and dead sexy, like silk caressing his face. His teeth were perfect, thanks to the braces his parents had gotten him in grade school (not to mention all the whitening over the years), and his eyes were so beautiful: a winning hazel peering out from that awesome brow ledge. This thing was making him look like a rugged, virile hunk, and he loved it. Marcus touched his cock as he stared at his model face, and he felt himself grow hard, and keep growing, and growing, out of his underwear and across his pant leg. One hand rubbed the sandpapery texture of his short beard, and right as he was thanking his lucky stars that he’d fallen into the booth, the fourth flash released.

He could feel his huge dick straining with blood, and his desire to cum was making him almost lightheaded. The khaki pants he wore felt like sausage casing around his overly muscled thighs, and his XXL polo was like a second skin, even around his 32” waist. Most of his clothes were specially made or bought online, since there were few stores for men with his body. He looked down at his physique, vaguely remembering the dieting and the training to bring up to this point. He was almost ready. Chest was almost fifty-five inches now, arms were up to twenty, shoulders were five feet across. Marc’s flesh tone was a shimmering bronze, just like he liked it. He reached up and tried to style his hair a little but it was tough without a mirror.

He got a good look in the picture, though. The long brown strands were combed and slicked back from his sharp widow’s peak, just like he loved it, like a retro Brylcreem ad. Real greasy and sexy, and the way the light bounced off of it onstage was delicious - like lightning. The hair rose up nearly an inch from his forehead, not bouffant but almost. It was his signature style, and everyone had to admit that it perfectly meshed with Marc’s ultra-masculine, yet oddly beautiful, features.

His polo shirt wasn’t green anymore, it was black, with the Gold’s logo holding onto the flawless hang of his left pectoral. His waxed, buff chest was partially visible through the open neck. Marc smiled and felt his dick move within the poser he wore underneath his khakis. He began to go through his routine in his head, longing to start it...maybe after work, where was work? The pharmacy? No, no, not that...

Flash number five.

...the gym was where he needed to be, and Marco was starting to worry about his punctuality. He knew he had a potential client to meet in a few minutes, but he had to finish up here first. His thoughts of pharmaceuticals were being washed away and converted into an obsession with his body. He didn’t go to college for pharmacy, he went for exercise science, to learn how to look perfect and make others that way too. Thoughts of nutrition and diet, of sets and reps, of angles and posing - he had them all instantly, letting his knowledge adjust.

Of course, he reasoned, he had the genetic advantage a lot of people were missing. Dad was a big Oklahoma boy, Mom was a sexy Italian siren. His uncles were all huge too - he had been born into muscle. Marco Holloway was one handsome man, and he could thank his parents for the face that managed to be simultaneously All-American and exotic. The one gene he was missing was his father’s height, but that was okay, 5’9” was a great height for a bodybuilder anyway.

And that’s what Marco was, he suddenly realized as he looked at the fifth picture. The way the polo stretched across his gargantuan muscles, it was obvious that he was a professional bodybuilder. Sure, he ran the gym too, but that was pretty easy - he’d always had a good head for business. His body was overly tan and outrageously muscled, just the way he liked it. And working in perfect harmony with the symmetry of his body was his gorgeous face, with its swoon-worthy smear of stubble and hazel bedroom eyes. Marco was the full package. He started to tuck in the tight polo - had to show off the V-taper! - when the final flash took him over.

Marco finished tucking in his shirt as the strip printed out. He was grabbing it right when Dre stuck his head through the curtain. “Don’t take all day, Elvis, takin’ pictures of yourself, vain-ass motherfucker...”

Marco laughed. Dre called him Elvis sometimes because of the greaser hair, but even his buddy admitted - when pressured - that he looked great with it. “You ready for our workout, D?”, Marco mumbled in a resounding baritone that was miles away from Mark’s old voice.

“I’m gonna kick your ass, pretty boy.”

Marco stood up and, with his massive chest, bumped Dre out of the booth. The two best friends were the same height at five-nine, same age - thirty-one - and almost the same weight, except Dre was five pounds more. Marco had the bigger chest, but Dre’s ass and legs had the advantage, which made for some intense competition in the weight room. Neither of them really did the off-season thing - sure, the diet would get a little less strenuous, but they loved staying big and buff and sexy.

“Didn’t realize Spanx was making polos now,” Dre teased.

“Shut up,” Marco grinned, his white teeth breaking through the stubble. “Gotta meet with a client really quickly, show him around.”

“‘k, but we’re going big on chest today, no pussin’ out.”

Marco did a chest pose and Dre did the same. They shook their heads and said their mantra in unison, “No excuses.”

“Y’know,” Dre said, clutching his eight-pack stomach, “I could use some fuel.”

“Shit, y’know, me too. I got ten minutes, that’s enough time. What about burgers?”

“You crazy? I need to cut, man, gotta get the judges’ heads to turn.”

Marco chuckled, preening at his reflection in the plexiglass of the mall directory. “How about chicken breasts, then.”

“Mmmm, I do love me some chicken.”

“Of course you do.”

Dre grinned. “You racist pig,” he joked, punching Marco in his rock-hard shoulder. Marco laughed and put his arm around his buddy - a difficult task given how impossibly wide both men were - and they swaggered off toward the food court.



His name was Drake Devlin, and that was the coolest thing about him.

“Oh, you don’t look like I expected,” people would always say when they first saw him. Drake didn’t have much to show for having such a cool name. Although he was a few months shy of sixteen, he looked closer to eleven or twelve. As the latest of the late bloomers, he was short and laden with copious baby fat: big rosy cheeks and a tiny pudgy gut to go with his loose blond curls and coke-bottle glasses. His looks kept him shy, and to his detriment, that shyness was often misinterpreted as aloofness. Up until he was thirteen, he’d been a normal, social kid. Then puberty hit everyone else and his friends became young men seemingly overnight, and though they were still nice, they had nothing in common with Drake anymore and slowly drifted away. Now, Drake watched his old friends play football and date girls and blossom into their masculinity, while he wandered the halls of school hating himself, feeling like a child among nothing but adults.

His parents tried to help him out, but Drake, in typical teenage fashion, resisted every one of their attempts and let himself wallow in self-pity instead of doing something about it. Today, he’d been dragged along to lunch at a Mexican restaurant with his parents and some family friends. The promise had been made that there would be people there his own age, but to Drake’s non-surprise, it wound up being six adults and him. After he was done eating, he excused himself to hit the mall’s arcade. Playing games was more fun than listening to discussions of politics, even if he was alone.

Drake’s pocketful of quarters jangled as he walked up to the arcade.

“Sorry, dude, closed for a birthday party,” said an arcade employee who looked to be about Drake’s age.

“Aw, seriously?”

“No worries, their reservation is only good for ten more minutes. They might still be in there, but once time’s up we can let customers in. Come back then.”

Drake sighed at the inconvenience. “‘kay.” What to do for ten minutes...

Well, he sorta had to pee. He walked across the concourse to the men’s room and took his sweet time relieving himself, then washed his hands thoroughly. He even dried them with the dryers instead of towels, because that took longer.

Checking his cell phone, he saw he’d burned all of two minutes.


His eyes fell on that ugly photo booth, the one they’d made up to look old but obviously was pretty new. It was really the only option he saw, except for a carousel that he wouldn’t be caught dead on. Better than wandering around.

Drake put in a quarter and sat down, drawing the curtains neatly behind him. He brushed a couple of curls out of his eyes and sat for a minute, waiting, before realizing he was supposed to scan his hand.

Seems weird. What’s that have to do with taking my picture?

Drake hesitated but couldn’t really see anything wrong with his handprint being scanned, other than the fact that it seemed kind of pointless. With an internal shrug, he placed his right hand on the red screen and removed it when the red shifted to green. Then, he looked for the camera, and spotted it right as the first flash popped.

The light was so instant and so stunning that Drake’s head snapped backward and hit the back of the booth. Startled, he leapt up and darted through the curtains, out of the booth. He shook for a second or two from the surprise, and touched the back of his head to ensure that it wasn’t bleeding. It wasn’t, much to his relief, but there was definitely a knot forming already.

“Stupid piece of crap,” he muttered as he walked away. If every flash was that much of a shock, there was no way he was sitting through a whole session. No wonder it only cost a quarter.

But as Drake walked, he felt increasingly uncomfortable, and the discomfort was quickly growing into pain. His stride felt off and his hips hurt - so did his knees. He ached all over and finally had to lean against a wall as he limped along. With his vision still adjusting back to regular light, Drake began to wonder if he’d gotten a concussion or something.

He caught sight of his reflection in the glass of a store window, and he stopped. Drake stood and stared dumbly at his reflection, then he rubbed his eyes and looked again.

It was obviously some kind of funhouse mirror thing, because he was all warped. Well, actually, he was still proportionate, but he’d been stretched out. His long sleeves looked three-quarter length now, and his jeans looked more like capris, as if he’d grown eight or nine inches. Reedy limbs poked out from the too-short fabric. He was used to seeing chunky cankles and thick wrists, but he looked almost lean in the reflection. Drake stumbled back and looked down, horribly confused. He gasped when he realized that it wasn’t just the glass - his clothes really had shrunk, somehow, and their shrinking made him look a lot taller.

He darted into the first store he could get to - anything to get him out of the public eye. This was so embarrassing. Poor Drake was still having trouble getting his bearings. The store he was in was lit poorly, and it had really loud music playing, which only served to further disorient him. He rubbed his eyes but the sweat on his hands stung and made him wince. Nothing seemed to be helping.

He felt something bump into him and he looked down on a pretty blond girl dressed in a tank top and jeans. She must be really short, was all Drake could think. He wasn’t used to looking down on people.

“Ohmigawd, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there,” she apologized in a sweet voice, extending her hand to his shoulder for a light touch.

“It’s okay,” Drake muttered in a hollow voice, liking the contact but unable to look her in the eyes. The room spun. “Can y-you help me?”

He meant it as “help, I need clothes stat,” and she seemed to pick up on that. “Of course,” she replied. “Here, follow me to the back room.”

The girl was a blur, but Drake was able to stumble and claw his way through the store and finally reach a stockroom. There were clothes on the shelves - the store’s backstock - and he reasoned he could find some pieces that fit him.

“I’ll go get my manager, it’ll be just a moment,” she said kindly. Drake finally was able to smile at her, except one side of his mouth froze a little and it wound up being more of a half-smile - like a smirk. He could tell she liked it. She giggled and smiled back, almost flirtatiously. Weird.

He didn’t think much of it, though, because right when she shut the door, some kind of flash went off and Drake collapsed against a table, groaning from surprise. “Fuuuckkk,” he mumbled.

But now, his body felt a lot more - familiar, maybe? Like he’d adjusted a little. His joints didn’t ache anymore and his head had stopped pounding and throbbing. Quick glances around the room revealed little info, although he liked the clothes that the store sold. Kind of preppy but with an element of class, the vibe was natural, relaxed and all-American. Hurrying before the manager showed up, Drake peeled off his shirt and pants and stood in his underwear, staring at his body.

What’s going on...

He’d gotten SKINNY. His muscles were small and weak but definitely visible, not hidden by fat. His underwear sagged around his little waist, and his limbs looked long and lean. It puzzled him. The only thing that looked bigger was his dick; he was popping a boner and it felt like a steel pipe attached to him. The weight of it seemed immense.

Shoving those thoughts away for a moment, Drake knew he needed to cover himself, even though the lighting in this room was really flattering and made him look better than he ever had before. He didn’t hate looking at himself, for once in his life.

“Jeans,” he said out loud, wondering why his voice sounded deeper. Must be the echo.

He grabbed the first pair he saw and slid them up his legs. They fit unbelievably well. They hugged his ass and made it pop out like a little shelf, and they caressed his thighs tightly but loosened a little around the knee. There was something internally sexy about them. There was some weathering around the fly, made it look like he was getting a lot of action, and it curved outward too, enhancing his bulge. Nice.

His feet padded across the floor as he looked for a shirt to wear. He saw a navy button down and was reaching for it, but a strange clicking distracted him and his head snapped up right as a flash of light stunned him.

Drake fell against the shelf but popped right back up with lightning-fast reflexes. Why had he been reaching for a shirt? He didn’t want one, and he wasn’t supposed to be wearing one anyway. The jeans looked good enough...better than that...delicious, edible. His butt and cock looked so appetizing in them. Drake smirked down at himself. Still long and lean, but not quite so skinny. The young man’s workouts were really starting to show. His 6’1” frame held a nicely shaped back, two solid pecs and a beautiful octet of abdominals. He was white as a sheet, but it almost didn’t matter because of his appealing shape.

He caught sight of a mirror and ran over to it, eager to look at his growing beauty, knowing that he was hallucinating somehow. I’ll live it up until I wake up in the hospital with the concussion, at least. I’m probably unconscious in real life. In this dreamlike state, he had become more attractive. His pug nose had widened at the bridge and the tip was square instead of round. His eyes were wider-set and hid under two bushy brows that contrasted with his shock of pointy blond hair. His jaw was wider now, much more square, and the angles were visible since he’d lost his neck fat.

It was funny, Drake always thought of himself as looking really young for his age, but now he looked too old to just be 16. Everything was so defined and chiseled. It was, Drake slowly realized, kind of a jock’s face. Like one of those rich boys who grows up playing...

Flash. Yeah, he definitely had that hot jocky face. Not the face of a meathead, mind you, but the face of the Ivy League quarterback. Upper-class and aristocratic, but also masculine and way sexy. Windblown blond hair stuck out above his flat forehead. His smile was big and gleaming and cocky. Brilliant sky-blue eyes were framed by solid bone on all sides that gave them a lovely shadow, and his clean-shaven jaw was sharp as a diamond. It had changed his facial shape from a circle to a square. His lips had inflated into an expressive, pouty shape.

And god, his body. His fuckin’ hotass body that football had started and weights had refined. Two big square pecs jutted out beneath his broad, magnificent shoulders. He didn’t train the traps because he didn’t want that big yoke, that was for the bodybuilders and their mass. Drake was all about the beauty, so he kept his shoulders looking real square and flat. His arms looked like living marble, with the veins pulsing underneath. And his pride and joy, his abs, were eight symmetrical bricks sticking out from a defined archway.

“Hot,” Drake preened in his sexy baritone. “Hot.”

He cocked his waist to one side and hooked one thumb in the waistband of his jeans, giving a pout. Shifting his weight to the other side made his dick move in his nylon briefs, and he almost came right then. He stuck one hand in his hair and tousled it, grinning.

One worry crossed Drake’s mind as he prepared for work, and that was that he’d forgotten to tan. He was just starting to wonder if he had time to grab some sunless tanner from the drug store when the fifth flash went off in his head, and he was suddenly covered from head-to-toe with the most delectable layer of golden-bronze skin. It elevated his muscles to godly status, making them pop and shimmer in the light. He crossed his meaty forearms over his chest and watched the pecs rest on them. He grinned his big pearly smile and massaged his denim-covered cock.

The stockroom door opened. “Oh, there you are,” he heard the manager say. “We were wondering where you went.”

A few minutes later, Drake was standing at the front of the store. His exceptionally chiseled body shone underneath the lighting, and his jocky smirk was all the advertising the store needed. Soon, a line had formed out the door and around the corner, just to catch a glimpse of the hottest hunk they’d all ever seen.

“Hey,” he’d say casually as each customer entered. “Welcome to Abercrombie & Fitch.”

And, like clockwork, each customer - whether old or young, man or woman - would smile sheepishly and ogle him. Sometimes, they’d ask his name. “Drake,” he’d respond, putting on the charm like his supervisors wanted. “What’s yours?”

“Can I have a picture?”

“Sure thing,” Drake agreed. The girl was nerdy looking, definitely not the Abercrombie type. He put his arm around her and she tried to smile to cover how turned on she was by his scent, by his body, by his beauty.

When the camera flashed - the sixth time he’d been surprised that day - Drake spaced for a moment before coming right back down to earth. Now utterly comfortable with himself, the young model made conversation with people and adored the attention that he got. Lots of dorky kids walked in, and he felt for them - he’d been a dork once, a real late bloomer. Joined the football team as a kicker just so he could say he did it, but worked out with the guys and sprouted like a weed, not only his height, but also his muscles and his beauty. Went from kicker to QB, just like that. Not good enough for college, but who cared when he’d become so fuckin’ hot? He was 21 now, a girl in college had drunkenly dared him to submit his picture to A&F, which he did (drunkenly) - and he wound up being on all their bags. He signed with an agency, did a flurry of work, and then A&F came calling again and sent him flying from city to city to pose in storefronts. Made bank doing it, and today, he was in his hometown, which was really fun. Drake couldn’t wait to hit the clubs tonight with his old high school buddies.

“Can I have a picture with you, handsome?”

The woman didn’t wait for an answer but threw her arms around him.

“Mooommm,” he hissed into her ear as his dad took the picture. “This is embarrassing. I asked you not to come.”

“Nonsense, I changed your diapers and taught you how to walk,” she whispered back. “You look amazing, sweetie.”

He blushed deep pink. “Thanks. How was lunch?”

“Super fun. Wish you’d been able to stay longer.”

The store manager motioned for Drake’s parents to move on, so his Mom squeezed his hand. “I’m not going to kiss you on the cheek, don’t worry,” she whispered as she walked away, making her son grin.

Drake’s parents stood at the side and watched with extreme pride as their son worked his considerable assets and charms. His living was his looks, and boy, was he great at it.



“Shit, shit shit shit shit,” was all Aaron Johnson could think as he ran.

When did this mall start getting security? He’d never seen a single mall cop around, and then as soon as he decides to steal a box of cigars, bam, there’s TWO of them right on him.

Aaron was a small, wiry kid, with quick reflexes and sticky fingers. Over the course of his eighteen years of life, he’d developed a little shoplifting addiction. He really had no reason for it - his family wasn’t loaded but they had money, and he’d been raised relatively right. It had started in high school, grabbing a free soda here or there, then he started getting bolder, lifting a shirt or a pair of jeans. He and his buddies wanted to smoke stogies on the golf course behind their frat house, and as a freshman pledge, he’d been charged to acquire the cigars. They didn’t ask him to steal them; in fact, Aaron knew the frat would probably get pissed at him if they knew, because it reflected poorly on them. However, the box was a little - okay, a lot - out of his price range, but he had to get an impressive brand. Taking back some cheap shit would be embarrassing. So he picked it up, stuffed it in his wadded-up hoodie and headed out of the store. The employee hadn’t done anything to stop him, but Aaron obviously had been spotted somehow, because one moment he was walking and the next thing he knew, he was hauling ass.

He was faster than the security guys, thanks to track in high school, so he rounded the corner with some solid distance between him and his pursuers. Aaron didn’t want to go in a store for fear of being on more security footage, so he darted into a little old-time-looking photo booth, after ensuring that it didn’t have outside TV monitors. If they didn’t check here, he’d be safe.

Aaron took out the box of cigars and set it on the floor between his feet. He sucked in some air and put on his solid blue hoodie, zipping it up to the top so that it would cover his t-shirt. There wasn’t a lot of room in the booth, so while he slipped one arm into the sweatshirt’s sleeve, he placed the other hand on the handprint scanner to brace himself.

Aaron didn’t see the scanner change color, because he was too busy trying to change clothes without rustling the curtains. He had just gotten the hoodie zipped up when he got temporarily blinded.

“Shit!,” he exclaimed under his breath as he jumped. “Scared me.” Aaron rubbed his eyes and looked down at the box between his feet. He was consumed by guilt and shame, and he knew what he had to do. He picked up the cigars, walked right out of the booth and headed for the cigar store.

As he walked, Aaron’s feet felt oddly heavy. He picked up one leg and shook it behind him in between strides, then the other. Still, it sounded like he was stomping, and he couldn’t figure out why. He felt strange - his head felt really cold, and his depth perception had been affected by the bright flash. Everything seemed farther away than it actually was. The one thing that felt better was his back, because he was walking with his shoulders back and his chest out, and his spine was ramrod straight. It made him feel better and less ashamed.

As he strode into the store, Aaron felt a wave of confusion hit him. The store felt different - smaller. Like he was bigger. He’d been at eye level with the store clerk, or so he thought, but now he was almost a full head taller than the guy.

“Hi,” Aaron said a little awkwardly, in a low, resonant voice that had a rasp to it. Still getting my breath back.

“Hello,” the shopkeeper replied. There was a long silence and the man behind the counter leaned forward with a slightly confused look on his face. “Uh, is there something I can help you with?”

Aaron realized that maybe the man hadn’t recognized him as the thief, and maybe mall security had just happened to spot him on their own. But he had to fess up and come clean. He couldn’t live with a guilty conscience, it wasn’t in his nature...although it had been before...

“I stole these,” Aaron muttered with considerable shame as he placed the box on the table. His voice had dropped even lower in his chest, and he had a hard time whispering. His voice had a natural projection that was difficult to rein in. “It was wrong of me, and I apologize. I’m prepared to accept any punishment that you deem to be fitting.”

Since when do I talk like that?

The clerk looked even more confused. “You...stole them?”

“Yes,” Aaron nodded grimly.

“I’m confused.”

“I don’t know why I did it either, sir.”


“No,” the clerk replied, “I mean, I’m confused because I rang you out for them. You paid cash, I asked you if you wanted a bag, you said no, and you put the receipt in your pocket and walked out with them.”

Aaron stuck his hand into his jeans and pulled out the piece of paper. Sure enough, it said he had paid cash only ten minutes before.

“Now I’M confused,” Aaron muttered, pressing a hand to his temple.

He immediately pulled it back. He knew he had long shaggy hair like a lot of college freshman who don’t like paying for haircuts. But when he touched his temple, he felt...nothing.

“Do you have a mirror?” Aaron’s voice had dropped once more, and he grabbed his throat, trying to figure out some logical explanations.

The clerk obviously didn’t want to let the weird guy behind the counter, so he held up his finger, went into the back room and produced a small wall mirror that the employees used to gussy up before work. Aaron grabbed it greedily and stared into it, dumbstruck.

There was no black shag at all. There was barely anything, in fact. The hair on the back and sides of his head was...gone. Completely. The top of his head was covered in a mere quarter-inch of brown fuzz that shimmered blond in the light.

It was a high-and-tight, and he didn’t know where he’d gotten it.

Aaron looked down and began to think that maybe he was taller. He’d grown up as the short one in the family, the only one under six-feet. But he was pretty sure he was six-feet fact, he was almost positive that he was six-four.

Aaron looked back up at the mirror, slightly alarmed. The glass caught the reflection of one of the store’s lighting fixtures, and Aaron shut his eyes quickly. When he opened them, he saw nothing but white.

It took Aaric a second or two to regain his bearings. He stared at the high-and-tight he sported in the mirror, and he held back a smile. Why hadn’t he gotten this cut before? It looked good. In fact, hell, it looked great. Aaric looked down on his hoodie’s camouflage pattern and tried to remember it being different. A further look downward revealed that his Nike track shoes had exceptionally thick, black soles, and their shoelaces were black instead of white. As he stared down at them, a rip on the sides restitched itself together. Aaric looked back up at the clerk and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, sir. Here’s your mirror back. I’ll get out of your store.”

“Don’t forget your cigars.”

“Of course not,” Aaric said with a curt, sly smile.

A lanky six-four version of Aaric strutted out of the store. He unzipped his hoodie to mid-chest and scratched around his collar, being sure not to drop the box of cigars he held under his arm.

As he headed back to his starting point, the young man was unaware of the continuing reshaping of his body. As he walked, his muscles began to pump up. His t-shirt got tighter as his chest widened out, his pants started loosening around his waist as his abdominals tightened into a solid, shredded unit. Inch-by-inch, he slowly grew wide lats and broad shoulders.

Aaric squeezed his bigger bulk back into the photo booth just in time to experience the third flash.

“Whoa,” the deep bass rumbled in surprise, having forgotten just how bright the flash was. As the light came back, it revealed that his jeans had shifted into camouflage pants that were tucked into his sneakers, which still bore the swoosh logo but had become a deep black color. His jacket no longer had a hood attached to it, and the fleece had changed to a bulkier camo material. The neck of his t-shirt had lowered to nipple level and his broad chest - which was getting beefier and broader with every breath - peeked over the scoop.

Eric inhaled and exhaled, still not quite sure what was happening to him. He got a better idea when the third picture showed up on screen. In the first, his face was long and flat. Now, two pictures later, huge cliff-like cheekbones jutted straight out from underneath his piercing olive eyes. In the first picture, they were blue. Cool effects, Eric thought. Whatever photo-doctoring program the booth had, it was pretty state-of-the-art. His face had lost a considerable amount of vertical length but made up for it with added width. Eric now possessed a solid, uber-masculine jaw that flared out like it was made of solid granite. He loved how masculine he looked - it was a face that looked like it had been made by dynamite blasts.

Something caught Eric’s eye. He pulled back the opening of his jacket and saw a series of black lines adorning his right pectoral and wrapping around his shoulder and back. Looking closer, the the lines each ended with little bullets, as if dozens of curved bullets were leaving inky black trails across his skin. “Cool,” he said, beginning to think of the nine other tats he had around his enlarging body.

By the time the fourth flash came, Ric was really starting to pack on the muscle. What had started as a reedy college freshman was now an overly-muscled giant. His t-shirt was now an old tank top that barely covered his titanic chest - his nipples were covered by the tank’s thin straps. He let his jacket hang mostly open to show off his incredible body. His nose now had a wide bump in it from being broken so many times - he could only breathe through one nostril after that last bar fight. Ric chewed off the tip of the cigar and lit it expertly, letting the smoke dance around the small booth and not even thinking of the mall’s smoking ban. The smoke appeared to seep into his skin and deepen it to a leathery, permanent tan from the years he had spent outdoors. Ric left his teen years behind and smoked himself into his twenties , puffing away as scars formed all around his bulk. His chest kept growing outward, his shoulders kept getting wider and wider, and his sneakers reformed into thick black boots. He stroked his dick with his free hand and grinned cockily at his huge member. Balls as big as lemons were stuffed into his jock strap, and shit, was he proud of them.

Ric almost caressed the glass as the fourth picture came up. The manliest man he’d ever seen was on there - his mouth was tightened into a sneer, and his green eyes glint predatorily. He was still wildly handsome and relatively young, and he got so much action that he’d almost become addicted to fucking. His face was all angles and crags, yet beautiful, memorably so. Despite how chiseled his features were, he looked a little younger than his twenty-eight years.


Rich Johnson neatly adjusted the black beret that draped onto his forehead, then affectionately touched the dog tags that hung neatly in the center of his chest, right in the middle of his mammoth pecs. He always kept his face clean shaven, but his chest hair was getting itchy, so he scratched it with his huge, scarred paw of a hand. His arms were as big as watermelons and almost couldn’t reach the itchy part of his chest. He spat on the ground of the booth and heard the ping of the monitor, indicating the fifth picture was up.

He couldn’t see it due to all the smoke, but that was okay, he knew exactly how he looked. One hot, tough, manly sonuvabitch. The deeper he went into his cigar, the deeper he let his memories go. He thought about when he dropped out of college, left the frat for the army. He thought about growing and growing and growing into the hulking Army drill sergeant he was today. Every fact he could possibly need to know about being a soldier poured into his head. His love of his country overcooked his brain as he wrapped his chapped lips around his stogie and inhaled.

By the time the sixth flash came, Rich Johnson had hit 230 pounds of rock-solid mass. He could bend the bumper of a car with his huge hands and powerful arms. He won every arm-wrestling contest in the barracks. By the time the newly transformed sergeant emerged from the booth, he was so impossibly powerful and attractive that no one in the mall even dared to wonder why he was in the booth in the first place. Although most of his body - save for the chest - was covered, there was no question that nothing but muscle lurked underneath his clothes. What a great booth, he thought. Haven’t done one of those since I was a kiddo. He acknowledged mall security as he left, respecting their work just like they respected his. Rich inhaled deeply, spat into the trash can and walked authoritatively out of the mall and into his new life.

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