The Photo Booth: Exercises in Collaboration (ap ar musc mc tf)

It is my pleasure to reveal three new contributors to the Photo Booth universe:

CallMeCrazy (The Jocking)
kdumd (Parasitos, Smokin' New Life)
Texzilla (The Barber, Jekyll Gene)

All three have been absent from writing for some time and I am thrilled that they accepted my request. Not only is there a new story from each in this batch, but they're all planning to write more installments in the future! All had full freedom to write whatever they chose, and I think they've delivered some classics that fit in perfectly with the rest of their catalogs.

There are five stories, alphabetized by author. Two by me, then one apiece by CallMeCrazy, kdumd and Texzilla.

Without further ado...

Read previous part

by Aardvark

“Dammit, Wyatt, SLOW DOWN.”

The little boy stopped and turned around, looking wounded. His father caught up to him and grabbed his arm forcefully, pulling him along.


“Stop complaining,” Kris said with annoyance. “Just stay next to me.”

“Dad, can we go to--”

“No,” Kris interrupted his son before Wyatt could even finish his question.

Wyatt’s four-year-old eyes looked down at the floor, sullen and sad. Dad wasn’t fun at all. All Dad did was yell.

Kris was barely thinking about his kid. He just needed a new pair of shoes and it was his monthly day with Wyatt, so he had to drag him along. Kids were such a drag. The dumb bitch he’d been dating half a decade ago had lied about her birth control and tried to trap him into a marriage, but Kris had dodged that bullet. Didn’t give a fuck if she was pregnant and didn’t much care about the resulting son, either. Sure, it was nice to have someone to carry on the family name, and it’d be fun when Wyatt was older and could take care of himself. They could go hunting together, go to bars, go fishing, play basketball. But now he was barely out of diapers and still needed Kris for everything, and god, it was so annoying. Always this little voice behind Kris, asking for help and saying he was hungry and complaining about being tired. What a buzzkill.

Wyatt bolted away from Kris once again and ran over next to an old photo booth.

“Wyatt! Fuck! Get over here.”

“Mom says that’s a bad word.” In some ways, the toddler was more mature than his dad.

“It is,” Kris said, not apologizing. “Get your butt over here, now.”

Wyatt didn’t respond or move. Kris rolled his eyes. “Do you want to have your picture taken?”

Wyatt nodded, and Kris sighed with annoyance, sticking his hand into his pocket and trying to find some change. “This means you don’t get to complain anymore, got it?”

Kris dropped in five nickels and stepped back. “Well, there, get in.”

The young head shook. “I don’t want to.”

“YOU JUST SAID YOU DID!” Kris went red in the face. “Jesus Christ.”

Wyatt’s eyes got big. “You do it. I’m scared.”

“God, okay,” Kris massaged his sweaty temples. Being 100 pounds overweight, he sweat a lot. He wore an unflattering bowling shirt and his belly jiggled over the stretched-out waistband of his khakis. “If I do a couple, then will you do it?”

The sweet, high voice was soft. “Yeah.”

“Fine. Don’t move, stay right there.” Kris eased his chubby frame onto the seat and adjusted his belly. He left the curtain open so that he’d be able to watch Wyatt.

“See kid? Nothing too freaky abo—nngghhh!”

Kris let out a loud exhale and looked over at Wyatt. “Nothing too bad, flash is a little bright,” he said with just a hint of annoyance. Wyatt didn’t move, but as Kris looked t him, he had to admit his son was pretty cute. Big bright eyes, pink rosy cheeks, thick brown hair with a hint of curl.

So when Kris looked at his picture – the patchy, scraggly beard, bald head, sloping shoulders, extra chins and baggy eyes – he wondered how something so precious could come from something so ugly. And he was only 30! What kind of man looks like this? He certainly didn’t want Wyatt to grow up to look like this. With embarrassment, Kris knew he was not a good father. It was why he hated seeing Wyatt. Wyatt was so cute, so sweet, and Kris was such a fuck-up and always had been. He needed to keep Wyatt away so that the boy could grow up well and not be a loser.

Kris pressed his head into the seat during the second flash, clamping his eyes shut. Maybe Wyatt was right to avoid the booth, it was too bright for him.

“Doing alright over there?” Kris cracked a small grin at his boy. “Ready to get in?”

Wyatt’s big, beautiful blue eyes still showed a little hesitation. He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Kris chuckled as he checked himself out. Man, he’d never thought he’d looked like Wyatt, but this booth was bringing out the resemblance for sure. Probably the lighting. Kris’ thin lips broke into a smile. The full head of light brown hair seemed wrong, but right at the same time. Kind of shaggy but still nice-looking, with the tips curling and giving a nice frame to his head. His beard had thinned out but looked more even. Well, he couldn’t really call it a beard, it was five o’clock shadow…a nice, even coating of stubble, as if Kris hadn’t shaved for five or six days. No patches to be seen.

He felt so light, so nimble. “What’s…what’s going on…” Kris was just noticing how impossibly baggy his clothes were, as if they were four sizes too big, when the next flash hit him hard.

“Oogh,” he said, suddenly feeling the opposite – the clothes were too tight. His bowling shirt’s sleeves had hung at his elbows, but now clung to his delts and only covered half of them. He tried to adjust his cock in his shorts without his little boy seeing, but it was caught up in all the nylon and really hurting. Kris didn’t notice that his reach was unimpeded by his gut, which didn’t really exist at all anymore. Just a flat stomach leading down into a large bulge, visible even in his loose athletic shorts.

His voice was a little higher, a little smoother. “C’mon champ, really, it’s fine.” Kris extended a large hand and Wyatt, after a thought, took it and was pulled onto his father’s lap. It was the first time he could remember sitting there.

Together, they looked at Kris’ picture. His once-fatty neck was thicker, with tighter skin around his jaw and chin, no jowls anymore. His eyebrows had gotten darker and shapelier, and his nose was like Wyatt’s now too, a nice ski-jump above a deep Cupid’s bow in his lip. He looked younger and fresher, despite being the same age. Kris rubbed a callused hand around his short, neat stubble. His neck was shaved smooth now, so the whiskers further highlighted the new definition of his lower face.

Kris brushed the loose curls off of Wyatt’s forehead and smiled for the fourth picture, although Wyatt didn’t.

Wyatt rested his head on Kris’ thick, heavy left pectoral. Pounds of muscle were crammed under the skin, pushing it out like a boulder under his skin-tight compression shirt. His stomach had tightened into a ripped set of abs, visible grooves casting shadows in the Under Armor tee’s fabric.

“See, pal?” Kris’ voice was somehow higher and manlier at the same time. “Not so bad, right?”

“No,” Wyatt agreed, “It’s fun!”

Kris held Wyatt with his two huge hands, hands that were nearly twice their former size, with throbbing veins underneath the paper-thin tanned skin.

“Aw, you blinked, Wy!” They looked at the picture, with Wyatt’s eyes shut but Kris’ large blue ones wide open and sparkling. The father’s straight white teeth were illuminated in a perfect smile. His five o’clock shadow brought out his high, square cheekbones, wide flat forehead and protruding brow, and his tousled, short brown curls were just like Wyatt’s, even with the same sun-bleached blond highlights streaked through them. The style was just more adult. Boy, he was really handsome…stunning, in fact, like a leading man in a blockbuster. His face was just an older Wyatt – or, he should say, Wyatt was just a baby Kris. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? The son was a stamp of the father. His strong genetics made Kris proud.

Wyatt was so adorable, it just melted Kris’ heart. Kris felt so different. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so powerful, so hunky, so strong. And the care he felt for his little boy was just intoxicating him.

“Hey, Wy? Am I acting…is Daddy…” WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?! “Does Daddy seem different?”

Wyatt looked at his father. “Maybe kinda.”

He’s such a little angel. “Is it a good different?”

Wyatt smiled and Kris realized it was his own exact grin, just on a little boy’s face. “Yeah.”

“K, you ready, bud? Here it comes…”

The flash caught two smiles.

Wyatt had to move slightly toward his father’s knee, as Kris’ pecs pushed the boy further away from his torso. At the same time, Kris pulled himself forward on the bench as he shrank to a stockier five-ten.

The little boy was surrounded by thick muscle on all sides. He was nestled against Kris’ enormous pectoral, and his back was pressed against Kris’ arm – an arm of truly eye-popping proportions, literally as large as Wyatt’s entire body. Kris had his hands protectively wrapped around his son.

The bones in Kris’ already-chiseled face pushed outward, giving him absurdly defined features - the definition of man, a superjock. He clamped his eyes shut with anxiety. When they opened, the blue color had become explosively vivid.

The new Kris was just feeling so emotional, all of a sudden. The softness of his body and the hardness of his heart were reversing. All anger and bitterness flowed out of him and into his muscles, pumping them into outrageous size. Veins were like telephone cords under his darkly tanned skin. Once baggy, his athletic shorts now clung to his massive thighs and huge, bouncy ass. His waist only looked wide because his obliques flared out so far, but he could feel his hips pushing closer together, giving him a gorgeous V-taper. The fat over his clavicle had dissolved, leaving a movie star’s collarbone under his bulging traps and jutting pecs. Stretch marks began appearing as his skin struggled to contain his power. In between his two gigantic thighs, his tiny cock had blossomed into a huge, erect piston. Kris loved his cock, because it had provided him with a beautiful kid. The new nine-incher wanted to cum desperately, but he couldn’t – Wyatt was there, and that would be sick. Kris’ eyes rolled back as he held in the sexual explosion. He arched his spine slightly, trying to restrain himself.

Kris licked his finger and wiped some dirt from Wyatt’s pretty little face. He kissed Wyatt’s cheek, his temple, his forehead. The boy giggled from the whiskers tickling.

Kris was thinking of things that didn’t make sense to him, things like workout splits and cutting and bulking, and winning pro cards, and supplements and gear and exercises…with a wince, he put one hand on his forehead and tried to shove the thoughts out, trying to think about his drinking and carousing with buddies…but he never drank, too many empty calories, he loved nutrition and eating healthy, and he didn’t want to cruise for pussy, those days were over because he needed to be home with his son…but didn’t he love bar crawls and strippers? Kris couldn’t get anything straight in his head. He whimpered with confusion. All he could think of was the way his testosterone boosters had revved up his libido so much that he’d just become a kind of mindless fuck machine, and all that fucking had resulted in Wyatt. Wyatt was born of muscle, almost.

No, Wyatt was the kid of a loser…no, jocks aren’t losers…Wyatt wouldn’t be a loser, Wyatt would be a jock. Daddy’s a jock. NO…

“I’m not a jock,” he whined to himself, denying his massive muscles, and the fact that he now looked worthy of magazine covers. “I’m not, I’m not…I, I…I’m fat, I like being fat…I’m not a jock…” But I’m wearing a jock. “I’m not a jock! I’m not, I’m not…just because I’m not a jock doesn’t make me a loser, I’m not a jock!” But I want Wyatt to be a jock so badly. I want him to grow up to look like me. To have my muscles, my size. He’ll grow up in a gym and learn all about training and nutrition and he’ll have huge muscles, like his Pop. I can’t wait to see how he looks with big muscles and a beard and all that. He’ll see me every day and grow up to be like me…but how can he see me daily, he doesn’t live with me…but he does, why wouldn’t my own son live with me? He’s the best thing in my life. I’m such a fuckin’ jock. I want Wyatt to be a jock, because I love him so much and I want the best for him. Wait, no, this isn’t right, this can’t be happening, someone! Someone, help…

The man’s brain rocked back and forth in a desperate seesaw. Sweat seeped out of every pore as Kris struggled. His tan deepened because of it.

And his muscles just kept getting burlier and beefier and bigger.

No! This isn’t me! No, this is good for Wyatt, he’ll be a jock like his Daddy now. I’m not a jock! This is all just a mistake, something’s wrong, I have to fix it…I just have to explain…it’s a big misunderstanding…if I just talk to someone, we can figure it out.

“I think…I…we need to leave,” Kris rasped, mustering the last resistance he had.

“Nooo, can we please stay!” Wyatt made big doe eyes that melted his father’s heart.

He tried to say no, but it came out “Okay, just one more.” Kris heard himself say it, even though he knew it was-


-a great idea. Why had he wanted to leave, again…? The hunky bodybuilder was even more scantily clad now. His once-t-shirt was now a sleeveless Under Armor tank, and his athletic shorts had shrunk into high-cut running ones that hugged his high, round ass and dipped into its crack. Every muscle rippled with unreal size and power. Testosterone roared through him and changed him irrevocably. He could feel it engorge his form and saturate his muscles, rounding them out into cartoonish proportions. The man was one big muscle, now, and his mega-masculine face made him a total stud, built for sex, built for breeding.

Kris’ white tank was essentially see-through due to being stretched out by his gargantuan muscles, a transparency that was enhanced by the dense coating of sweat on his body that soaked his shirt like he was a girl in a wet tee contest. His stank made the booth reek. He needed a shower, but Kris loved his after-workout aroma, and Wyatt was used to it – their whole house smelled like a locker room.

Kris hunched his huge shoulders over Wyatt, cuddling him. He smiled when he saw the precious little feet, the tiny hands. Kris pointed to his own beating heart. It made vibrations in the body-hugging shirt. “Hey champion, see that?”

Wyatt looked at where his Dad was pointing. Underneath the skintight, see-through fabric was a tattoo right over Kris’ heart, near his left shoulder. In a bold, collegiate script were two small words: “Wyatt Kristopher.”

Since he was just four years old, they were the only two words Wyatt knew how to read. “That’s my name!” Wyatt looked into his father’s eyes, eyes just like his own, only older. “Why’d you get that?

“Because you’re my best buddy, and I love you more than anyone,” Kris replied with a genuine smile, and he enveloped his son in a powerful embrace. The boy hugged back with all his might. Wyatt’s body was completely hidden by Kris’ huge, pulsating arms. “You’re my heart,” Kris whispered. “And my heart is yours.”

Kris knew he was a big softie and always had been. Ironically, it’s what had made him a bodybuilder. He was so sweet and shy and soft-spoken growing up, and he finally got tired of being beat up all the time in middle school. It drove him right into the gym, and by the time he was a senior in high school, he was entering teen competitions. Nobody fucked with the muscle machine then, and they never had since.

Kris set his child down and slowly pulled himself out of the booth. The movements felt awkward because of his densely packed muscles shoving against each other as he moved. He opened his arms and Wyatt leapt into them with a happy shout. Kris’ hand acted as a seat for Wyatt’s bottom, and the boy kept his balance by clinging to his father’s drenched workout top, pulling it up slightly to expose veiny lower abs.

“Sorry about my workout running long, pal. Let’s go get me some new kicks and then we can…”

Wyatt was already asleep on Kris’ shoulder.

Kris just grinned, kissed his little future jock, and walked carefully toward the shoe store.

by Aardvark

Boy, was the mall sure empty on Tuesday mornings.

Blaine Elwood shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his baggy jeans as he walked, and huffed a big sigh. Life was so boring. The only thing more boring than walking around an empty-ass mall was being at home or going to school. That was why, every morning, Blaine would leave his house, walk to homeroom at his high school, check in during attendance, and then split. The freshman hadn’t been to school once for the entire semester. His quarterly report card was straight Fs.

It was hard for Blaine to care. He hated academia and knew he didn’t need it to live. As long as he had some job, enough to eat and rent an apartment, he was cool.

At the moment, most of the mall’s customers were either retirees or stay-at-home mothers with their children. Blaine stuck out rather obviously. He tried to ignore the stares, and his stomach rumbled.

Even though he had braces and would be picking it out of his teeth for days, he bought a pretzel at a stand and avoided the clerk’s questioning gaze.

“So why aren’t you in school?”

Blaine used his usual excuse. “Oh, I went but didn’t feel good, so my mom excused me. But she’s at the doctor’s office across the street with my little sister, so I walked here and I’m waiting to get picked up.” Nothing but lies. Blaine didn’t even have a full sibling.

The clerk smiled. “Oh, that makes sense. Sounds like you caught a bug from your sister.”

“Yeah,” Blaine shrugged with indifference, “I guess so. I’m just bored.”

“No money?”

“Nah. This is it.”

“Well, here’s your change.” The clerk plopped a quarter into Blaine’s hand. “That’ll buy you a game token or something. Oh, that photo booth’s only a quarter, I’ve heard it takes a while too.”


“Yeah, Marco, huge muscle guy who runs Gold’s Gym over there?” The clerk motioned. “He RAVED about it. Funniest thing.”

“Huh.” Blaine looked at the quarter in his hand. “Well, thanks.”

Any smile that Blaine had from his positive interaction quickly dissolved as he walked away and put his defensive air back on. People would look at him and he would scowl back at them.

He hadn’t had any plan to actually use the photo booth, but when he happened to walk right past it, he deposited his coin with a shrug. After he unzipped his sweatshirt and dropped it on the floor, he entered.

But the first flash, shit, it was way too bright. Blaine started looking around for some kind of switch that would dim it. He pushed up the long sleeves of his rugby shirt and inspected the control panel, but didn’t see anything that corresponded.

He felt a draft around his ankles and looked down to see his jeans high around them, like capris. Why weren’t they puddled around his Vans? Blaine wasn’t sure. He liked his clothes baggy, and it was easy since he was only 5’6”. He was still waiting for his next growth spurt. Maybe it had just come on that day…his legs looked a good three inches longer.

A ping sounded and got Blaine’s attention. He looked up at the source of the sound, the monitor.

It was a weird photo. Blaine’s eyes were shut, and the way they were scrunched must’ve made his eyebrows look bushier, and lengthier. And the way his mouth was dropped open…

Blaine flicked his tongue around his mouth. What the hell… Where were the braces? His teeth felt slick without them, and really straight too, from what he could tell. Blaine stuck a finger in his mouth and moved it around, feeling his the formation of his teeth. His whole mouth felt different.

When the second flash blew, Blane was so distracted by his teeth that he barely noticed how bright the light still was. Annoyed that his sleeves had somehow fallen back to his wrists, he tried to push them back up but realized that his rugby shirt had button cuffs. That didn’t seem right. He unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled them up to his elbows, which took some work since his forearms suddenly seemed kind of large. The collar of his shirt felt starchy and too crisp against his neck.

He didn’t notice that his pant legs fit again. Blane was still staring at the hair on his forearms when he heard the display sound. He almost laughed at the picture - the booth had stamped some kind of comical wig on top of his head. The wig was a couple of inches longer than his own #7 buzz, and was neatly brushed back from his forehead, a warm muddy brown instead of his usual strawberry blond. The sides were shorter than the top, and the wig even had sideburns, sharply trimmed in line with his earlobes. The style made him look – and, well, feel – older.

Blane flicked his fingers through his hair. His eyes widened when he found that the length, the cut, the style were consistent with what was showing on the screen. He tugged on the wig to pull it off, but felt his skin pull with it and yelped in pain. The wig was fixed on his head!

He was worrying about the consequences of having a wig sewn onto his head when the next flash took.

He laughed at his alarm. Wig? That was his hair. It was an easy style that looked good, and he was lucky to have such thick hair and such a nice, forward hairline. He swept the hair back into place, making sure it wasn’t messy, and tried to relax a bit.

This photo contraption was obviously intended for children. Although Blene couldn’t recall it being too small when he’d stepped in, it was certainly uncomfortable now. Even at 6’1”, his knees pressed against the front panel, and when he sat up straight, his hair brushed the ceiling.

His white dress shirt hung on his body, a few sizes too big. Blene tucked it into his pressed khakis but all the fabric bunched around his waistline looked bad and unkempt. He pulled his brown leather belt tighter, but that didn’t fix the excess material. Blene stole a quick glance at his feet, to make sure his expensive brown leather Oxfords’ laces were tied. He felt something crawl up his ankles, and pulled up his pant legs to look at his socks, reaching halfway to his knees in an argyle pattern. Blene couldn’t shake the feeling that he was supposed to be wearing low-cut white socks, but white socks with dress shoes was a basic fashion faux pas that he knew he wouldn’t make.

He just didn’t feel right yet…

When he looked at his picture, Blene’s lips turned upward. All his features looked a little…bigger, maybe? Bigger than he was used to. Bigger nose, bigger eyes, ears, jaw, forehead…even the chin and brow. Bigger head in general. Only his lips had bucked the trend, they looked almost thin in comparison. Ears that had once stuck out were now laying flat against his head. It looked so much better.

He missed the fourth flash by a second, and smiled too late. The man in the booth scratched the shirt atop his hairy chest and rolled his shoulders back, pulling his spine straight up. At a very filled-out 6’3”, he was just too big for this booth, but something told him that he had to stay in there no matter what. He ignored his growing discomfort and went back to surveying his clothing.

Oh, good, the shirt looked much better. Blen loosened his belt, it felt far too tight against his waist. Always had had a thick waist and big shoulders, large chest and powerful thighs. He looked at his hands, leathery and large. Ah, how they satisfied him.

He smiled when he saw his shoulders in the picture. His white shirt was wrapped tightly around their mammoth breadth, and his thick neck looked shorter because of the power in his trap muscles. Blen looked at the fifteen-year-old kid on the left side of the screen. Who was that? Certainly not him. No, no, he was definitely older than 15, what a silly thought. Yet he couldn’t remember his exact age, which was strange…Blen knew he was an educated man, very intelligent, and smart men with high IQs should know their age.

Goodness, who is that kid…

The acne-ridden skin had cleared but gotten thicker and heavier on his features. Gravity had pulled his eyebrows low. His face had filled out into a square structure, with a big lantern jaw and jutting, now-dimpled chin. He had shaved the night before, but some beard growth was already visible on his cheeks - cheeks that had grown out a lot stronger. Blen pulled his hand across his left cheek and felt the short, barely-visible whiskers over the pronounced bone.

Blen swallowed. His throat was bone dry. He felt short of breath and moaned with an odd mix of desperation and sexual ecstasy.

There was a flash.

He sucked in all the air he could muster, but it wasn’t enough. The man arched his back and inhaled so deeply that he burst a button on his shirt, then another. Then another…they mended themselves, re-fastening before bursting again. The new man kept breathing in deeper and deeper, desperate for air, completely oblivious to the radical reshaping that was happening to his body. For with every breath, his ribcage expanded and cracked, bigger and wider and rounder and prouder, as his chest heaved outward into eye-popping dimensions. His shirt went up in size again and again to accommodate the growth.

By the time it was over, Glen was sporting the biggest barrel chest he’d ever seen. His enormous shoulders pressed against the sides of the booth, and when he looked down, he couldn’t see his waist from over his bulging chest.

Glen knew he didn’t have a terribly small waist; after all, he was a large, powerfully-structured man, like an Irish boxer, a young Brian Dennehy. Thanks to his wide hips, he had a thick waist, matched by a huge chest and shoulders, a big back…imposing. That was the word: imposing. Everything was rock-solid, round and firm, even his slightly convex stomach. He cut a jaw-dropping, masculine figure when he entered a room. The white shirt was desperately tight now, sleeves pulled taut over his huge, perfectly round guns.

The frame of the picture only accommodated about 25% of his shoulders. He was just so broad, and always had been, even as a boy when his parents had joked about having a “little longshoreman.” But while he couldn’t see the entire power of his body, he certainly could see his face. Thick neck, thicker jaw, deep-set eyes and a wide forehead. The strong, square chin had grown in a five-o’clock shadow, and it wasn’t even noon. The lines around his eyes had come in distinctly and were matched by three creases in his forehead, but they only made him more distinguished. Glen was all man: handsome but nowhere close to pretty, drop-dead gorgeous but not exactly beautiful. A man who was proud of his forty-six years on Earth, and did nothing to try to hide them. People asked all the time if he dyed his hair, and he’d respond hell no, if he started going gray, he’d welcome it.

As the sixth flash engulfed him, Glenn was making sure his shirt wasn’t buttoned until the third button down, because there was simply no way to close it around his thick neck and the round crest of his upper chest. Glenn preferred to go tieless but wanted to maintain his genteel professionalism, so he rolled his sleeves back down and fastened the newly monogrammed cuffs around his large wrists. He didn’t notice that the shirt was fancier now: made with far more expensive material, still staunchly white but with blue buttons, and contrasting blue gingham fabric on the inside of the shirt. The checker pattern gave a pop of color from within the collar around Glenn’s thick neck, and from the open part of his shirt over his chest.

Glenn stepped out of the booth and stood happily. He turned back around and bent down to pick up his navy blue tweed sportcoat, wondering why on earth he’d left a $450 piece of clothing lying on the ground. The colossus crouched carefully so as not to allow his huge, beefy bubble ass to explode through the back of his tailored khakis. When he stood up, his rear didn’t give an inch and stuck straight out, as if a boulder had been shoved down the back of his pants. The coat looked like a tent when he held it up, but as soon as he stuffed his huge arms in the sleeves, it looked almost small. Glenn pulled on the notched lapels to make sure the sportcoat rested square on his huge shoulders. He found a monogrammed silk handkerchief in his pants pocket, mopped his brow, and expertly folded the fabric into a pocket-square for his breast pocket, picking with the fabric to make it look just so. As a final touch, he hooked his tortoiseshell-framed glasses on his shirt, right in between his pecs.

I’m famished. He walked over to the pretzel stand and smiled politely at the clerk. “Strawberry banana smoothie, please, and one of these granola bars.” His dignified bass was awe-inspiring. Every word was perfectly enunciated, resonating from deep within his cavernous chest.

“Dr. Elwood?”

Glenn turned around and saw a college-aged girl standing behind him. He smiled and snapped his fingers. “Don’t tell me. Amanda, right?”

“Right! I took International Business Practice last Fall.”

Glenn continued talking as he gave the clerk his credit card. “I remember,” he said with a smile. “You did very well, I recall.”

“Thank you. I’ve already used some of the things I learned in that class. You’re really an excellent teacher.”

The professor smiled. “Well, thank you, you were an excellent student. I always appreciate people who want to learn.” He never had a problem with students respecting him. His looming frame and booming bass ensured that. It was funny, he’d always planned to be a professional weightlifter, and yet here he was, a Department Chair instead. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Just because he was born in the body of a dockworker didn’t mean that he couldn’t be smart, and it wasn’t like he had to stop powerlifting just because he understood business and economics. In fact, it was nice that he could look to weightlifting as a leisure activity, instead of relying on it for his income. That would probably have been rather stressful.

Glenn took his food and slipped a five-dollar bill into the tip jar of the clerk who had, completely unwittingly, initiated Blaine’s transformation into the striking Dr. Glenn Elwood.

The professor picked up his briefcase and stood up straight, putting his former student at eye-level with his huge chest straining against the white shirt. Amanda thought back to the daily ogling she and her fellow students had done to Dr. Elwood. He was so…manly, so attractive.

“Well, Amanda, do you have time to walk for a moment?” Glenn checked his Rolex. “I’m headed out, I have a class to teach in a half hour, but I’d love to quickly hear what you’re up to now.” He smiled warmly down at her and she nodded, and they headed for the exit together.

by CallMeCrazy

Jason Ricard regretted a lot of his life choices. He hated the town where he lived, largely because he hated the college he had chosen - which he had picked because someone said it was such a fun school. Jason thought he was miserable, and so he saw misery everywhere he went. He missed the groups of kids out partying and reveling in their youth, missed any club or friend that might have made his life happier. And certainly, he hated having to go to the mall to buy new clothes.

Jason was genuinely an average guy. Five foot, ten inches tall and weighing about one-hundred and sixty pounds when he came to college. It was pushing one-eighty now. Ah, the wonders of the freshman fifteen. And the wonders of sitting on your ass all day playing video games and eating.

Jason wasn't really paying attention, just trying to scuffle along as quickly as possible. And in his haste, he smacked right into a brick wall. Not an actual wall, the guy was actually pretty quick on his feet, nor made of actual brick, it just turns out hard-worked muscle feels similar. The other guy barely reacted, but Jason was knocked off his feet. Looking up he saw a behemoth glad in a crimson colored track suit with a cream stripe down the side. And over the heart, the college's logo.

"Woah brah!" exclaimed the larger man, who offered Jason a hand up. Jason ignored the man and pushed himself off the floor.
"Sorry," Jason muttered, avoiding eye contact.
"It's cool dude," the man said. Jason noticed that his voice was a higher pitch than the stereotypical football player. His eyes were wide and curious. "You alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Hey, I know you! We have class together. You're... Richard, right?" The bigger man got sort of excited as he spoke.
"Oh, huh. I thought your name was Rich..."
Jason cut in as the other man spoke, "Ri-C-ard is my last name."
"Oh, cool brah!" the bigger said man, nodding his head. "I'm Josh Grakowski." The bigger man offered his hand to Jason, who quickly turned away and marched off. He didn't even notice that Josh seemed kind of hurt at his rejection or that behind Josh stood four other guys of the same dress and build. Most of the guys just rolled their eyes and walked away, but one of the smaller guys darted over to Jason.

Jason's eyes were locked on the tile as he scurried towards a department store. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to see a large black man towering over him. Standing at 6'1" and about two hundred pounds, Kyle Maddox was much smaller than most guys on the football team. But the college quarterback was still large and strong enough to impose on most men. Jason met Kyle's eyes with a startled glance before again shifting his gaze to the ground.

"What?" Jason spat.
"What is your problem?" Unlike Josh, Kyle had the bovine voice that fulfilled the football stereotype. Unlike said stereotype, Kyle spoke like the upper class Northeastern man that he was.
"Problem? I don't have a problem," Jason replied.
"Really, so you’re just a jackass for fun?"
"Christ dude! You were a total dick to my friend."
"Sorry," Jason muttered sarcastically, causing Kyle to get in his face.
"I don't care what your issues are. Just because you’re unhappy, don't take it out on us."
"I'm unhappy?" Jason was shocked and spiteful that Kyle had seen right through him.
"Refusing to shake someone's hand, being a dick because he didn't know your name, and then just storming off like a petulant child. Yeah, you are unhappy. Not to brag, but most guys would be stoked to be talking to the football team."
"Yeah, well, I don't really give a shit about this school."
"Ugh, whatever, dude. I'm only talking to you because Grakowski is strangely sensitive about rejection. You should try dropping the baggage and having a good time. You're only here once."
"Thank goodness for that," Jason rolled his eyes and turned away, relieved to be released from the presence of the fit man.
"Oh wait," Jason stopped and turned around to see Kyle picking something up off the ground. "Here, a quarter for your time. I'm not sure you are worth it, but who knows. Try looking at yourself the way others see you. Grakowski had a great time in the photo booth." He took Jason's smaller hand in his, and stuffed the silver coin between his fingers. As Kyle marched off, his large booty swaying back and forth in the track pants, Jason looked at the quarter. It was one of the new ones, the totally redesigned state quarters. It was the same state as their university. Jason was annoyed at the coincidence, and felt shamed from the chiding given to him by the football player. Who cared if he didn't like college? Who cared if he wasn't having fun? If he was unhappy, that was his business.

Lost in his thoughts once again, Jason ended up in the corner of the mall. There wasn't much else around. But sitting in the corner, angled so you almost couldn't see it, was an old-fashioned photo booth. Jason looked around for a moment, shrugged his shoulders and headed over. He sat down in the booth and looked around. It seemed easy enough. Taking the quarter that Kyle had given him, Jason slipped it in the slot. There was a red screen that began flashing. Jason leaned forward and pushed his hand on it. It turned green, and the machine began to emit a gentle whirring sound, similar to an old computer booting up. His eyes were fixed to the floor, when it occurred to him that he really should look at the screen. He tilted his head up just in time.


The light that flashed from the camera overwhelmed the booth. Jason couldn't see anything for a moment other than white. He blinked his eyes a few times and saw that the first picture was showing on the screen.

Jason was kind of cute. He was very boy next door with his average height and weight. Still, he had a strong jaw and a pretty smile - not that he bothered to do so very often. His shirt was a few sizes too big for him, and sort of hung on his frame. He was wearing oversized jeans that had been popular about a decade ago. Still, he wasn't ugly. The picture had cast a shadow on his face, giving him a darker look. Jason was staring directly at the screen when the second flash went off.

Jasen had to take a moment to find himself after another dazzling flash. Still, the picture that came back looked pretty good. He always liked how dark his hair was, even if he just let it sort of hang on his head. Odd, his hair was normally more of a rich brown, but the light made it look almost black. His jaw line was great, wide and very defined. Sort of jutting out into his cleft chin. His shirt felt different. As he rubbed the fabric over his shoulder, he could feel the striations between the tense muscles. He always had been big on his shoulders. He liked to be broad. It was weird, he thought his shirt was green, but clearly he had chosen a red one today.

He was sitting up straighter too. Shifting from side to side, Jasen tried to find a comfortable way to sit given his oversized ass. That hadn't come from hard work, just pure genetics. It was strange, the fabric of the pants felt different than before. As Jasen was thinking about that, another flash burst forth.

Jacen wore track suits all the time. The fabric wasn't odd at all, he wasn't sure what he had been thinking. It was hard fitting his body into normal clothes. This was faster. He had very wide set hips and shoulders, so he took up a lot of space. It gave him plenty of room to pack on the pounds though, which was great, since he had been hitting the weights since middle school. He was forced to lean forward while sitting the booth. He was already tall, almost 6'2", but the way he spiked his hair up caused it to hit the ceiling. That hunched over posture gave him a really good view of his chest though. He flexed his chest muscles - his pecs - causing the fabric of the jacket to cinch in. Laughing to himself - a sort of deep, heavy laugh - Jacen stripped off the jacket so he could admire his body better. Being so wide had disadvantages when it came to size. His chest muscles didn't really stand out quite as much as it would if he was smaller, but in turn they were huge. And when he stood like this, he could see the thick muscle in all its glory. His arms were great too, super vascular and ripped to shreds. He didn't have great ab definition, just a strong stomach that could take some big hits.

Another flash caused Jace to glance up and flash a big toothy grin just a moment too late. Instead, he was staring at the camera with his big brown eyes wide open. His dark hair and olive skin were some of the highlights of his Mediterranean heritage. Maybe his nose was a little too large, but he had the superhero jaw that drove girls wild. Some guys said he looked like a cartoon character, but they usually shut up once he stepped up to them.

Granting, being 6'6" and 240 pounds made it rare for people to talk back to him. Jace didn't start fights, but he sure did end them. When guys tried to talk shit in the locker room, Jace was pretty quick to take them down. Yeah, he had spent years in locker rooms ever since he started playing football. He was actually late to the game, didn't play until eighth grade. But he loved it. It was the perfect place for a big guy like him. Even with his Under Armor shirt covering his chest, he could still make out the painfully carved details of his pecs. He abs kind of showed through as well, but he had never had great abs. His arms stretched the fabric to its limits though, with his big veins tensing out even further. He had to hunch over far in order for his wide lats and melon sized shoulders to fit. Even the trainers questioned his obsession with his shoulders, but Jace was determined to have gigantic boulders atop his body. Combined with ever-rising traps, Jace didn't have a neck.

Even though they were hidden by the crimson track pants, Jace knew that his legs were a tribute to dedication as well. He had to sit with his legs wide apart, and still had barely enough space for the thighs and his package to sit comfortably. His legs were a giant mass, with enough force behind them to knock a guy to the ground. He was great for rush defense. Most sacks in his high school's history. And that was before his senior year. He almost felt claustrophobic in the booth, touching from ceiling to floor and his legs and shoulders hitting each side. Still, he didn't think he was quite big enough yet. Jace could probably get just a bit bigger, a tad stronger, get off the line a little quicker.


Ace Ierulli's face shone back on the screen. His big white teeth smiled brightly back at him. He really did look like a cartoon superhero with that jaw. Plus his short, spiked, black hair and deeply tanned skin. Naturally dark, and then darker from all the days spent playing football. It was one of the biggest joys in his life. Ever since he had started, Ace had been a great player. He was dedicated to his body, and also to his sport. He studied as hard as possible to win every single time. It had led to intense recruiting his senior year, ending with his picking this school. He loved it here. A great town, great fans, and, best of all, a great team. The guys usually wore their team track suits when they went out in town. Sure, it was nice being treated like heroes, but the town was super supportive of the college in general that it just made it more fun. Ace was an intense player, so the other guys always made sure he got out and enjoyed the college years.

"Dude, what's taking you?" Came a voice from outside.
"Oh, just a sec brah!" Ace yelled back in his bass voice.
"For real, dude. What's up?" Grakowski's head popped in the booth. Ace smiled at the big oaf. Josh had been his roommate since freshman year and was definitely his best bud on the team. They were the matching defensive ends. People said they had a hard time telling them apart. Freshman year they had both shaved their heads, and combined with their matching clothes, it was easy to see why people got confused. That's why Ace grew his hair out.
"Dude! Dude, I got one more. Get in here!" Ace hollered at his boy.
"No way, we ain't gonna fit!" Grakowski replied.
"Sure we will," Ace said as he pulled the other man on top of him. Grakowski was the nicest person Ace had ever met. Ace used to be a real mean guy, tough and aggressive, but Grakowski had definitely calmed him down.

They both pursed out their lips at the camera and made "guido" fists in the air, just like those guys on MTV. It was their money shot. The camera flash again, and the image of the two gorilla men posing made them both laugh. A strip of six photos popped out in front. Five showed Ace Ierulli smiling and making a fool of himself. The last showed the two of them horsing around.

It took a little effort to get out of the booth, but the two boys were laughing the whole time.

"Grakowski! Ace! Where did you go?" The two behemoths turned to see Kyle Maddox and the other guys. Josh and Ace just laughed and high fived.
"We're going to head back soon."
"Aww, shit dude!" Grakowski said.
"Yeah, we gotta make one more stop," Ace replied.
"Alright, we'll wait in the food court. I'm starving anyway."
"Cool brah!" They both responded in unison.
"You boys are so odd," Kyle muttered as he walked away.
"Hey, say my name, boy!" Ace yelled back.
"Ace!" He replied. They had played this game before.
"No, my last name!" Kyle couldn't pronounce Ace's last name. Almost no one could. When his parents immigrated to America, they intentionally gave him an easy first name to compensate for the teasing he would suffer from his surname.

"So, you ever call that girl back?" Ace asked Grakowski.
"What? Uh, no man, I don't think..."
"Fuck dude! You need to play! Stop worrying so much." Ace did worry about Grakowski. He had grown up as the son of two gay men in Nebraska. He was big and tough, but surprisingly sensitive for a man who counted eating competitions and deadlifts as his favorite past times.
"Fine brah. I'll call her."
"Sweet dude!" Ace and Grakowski continued their little shopping trip. It was Ace's mother’s birthday soon, and he needed to find her a present. She always wanted something with his college logo on it. And he was happy to oblige his proud mama.

by kdumd

"Fuck," Doug Bradley cursed to himself as he walked around the mall. His friends had bailed on him again. Well, more accurately, the guys he liked to think were his friends had bailed on him.

This was nothing new for Doug, who despite practically begging to be called "D-pain" often found himself being called "D-bag" instead. Doug was really rather pitiable. He was a 15-year-old only child of an incredibly successful set of lawyer parents. Their career success meant he never wanted for anything--materially at least. But mom and dad were never (ever) around; it was dinner meetings and late nights at the office during the week, and whirlwind trips out of town to woo potential clients and keep existing ones happy on the weekends.

That left Doug all on his own. Being a spoiled white kid from the upper class suburbs didn't really lend him all that much opportunity for edge, so from an early age he lost himself in the fantasy that he was a hard luck case; sometimes he was a trailer park kid who had to watch his alcoholic, unemployed father fuck hooker after stripper after drugged out whore in his own bedroom. Sometimes he was a child of the streets, sucked into the allure of gangs. Other times he was an orphan with no life story at all except loneliness. None of it was true, but all of it helped Doug feel...something.

So as Doug wandered around the Nordstrom wing of the mall, baggy jeans comically trailing his ill-matched sneakers and oddly out of place hoodie, he just kept on cursing his "friends" for leaving him alone again.

He was all set to just walk the few short blocks home from the mall to his multi-million dollar McMansion when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye in center court. In a place where everything screamed new and modern (and expensive), it was an odd throwback. A photo booth.

Doug was curious, so he wandered over. The cabinet of the booth was unremarkable, just like the drab curtain hanging over the entranceway. He pulled it back and peeked inside. "Yeah, photo booth alright," he muttered, half-disappointed. He thought maybe he'd gotten lucky and stumbled upon an arcade game or--god willing--a porn booth.

Doug stepped in and pulled the curtain closed. There wasn't much more to see inside the booth than there was outside. Just the camera lens, a coin slot and a handprint scanner. "Handprint scanner?" Doug wondered aloud. "Fuckin' weird."

He dug deep into the pockets of his hilarious jeans and pulled out the required coinage. After inserting it into the slot, the handprint scanner lit up. Doug took that as a cue that he needed to place his own hand on it, though for the life of him he couldn't figure out why that would be. But, if it killed 10 minutes in his boring, lonely, sad night, it couldn't be all bad.

Now Doug waited. He probably wouldn't smile, mostly because had nothing to be happy about, but partly because he wanted to shoot a tough mug for the camera to propagate the illusion that he was a hardened thug of some sort.

Doug waited, and waited, and waited. He was just beginning to crinkle his face in a mixture of impatience and anger when a blinding white light filled the booth. It came and went without warning, and just as quickly an image filled the screen in front of him.

He was confused. Really confused. The picture on the screen was him--it had to be, who else could it be? But it didn't look like least he didn't think it did.

The image staring back at Doug was somewhat harsh. His face was angular, as if chiseled from stone, a sharp contrast from the rather doughy face he felt like he should have seen. No, this face had seen some action. A scar here, a missing chunk of eyebrow there, it all made him look so...hard.

And then there were the clothes. Doug thought he remembered putting on a rather run-of-the-mill hoodie when he left his apartment--no, his house--for the mall, but now he was wearing just a plain white wife beater. It was hanging off him somewhat, as if it was just a shade too big for his body. "Guess that's what you get for stealing your clothes from K-mart,” Doug thought..."Wait, WHAT?" His mind was a mess of contradicting memories, images battling each other for supremacy...


Another blinding white light. Another image on the screen. More confusion.

Now, he took in the vision of what the camera had recorded...or created. He saw even more pronounced facial features, a set of lips darker and plumper than he'd remembered, and a nose about twice the size he thought it should be. Where he expected to see a nondescript buzzcut, he saw the same hair all lined up, with a sharp 90-degree angle at his temples leading down to an immaculate fade just above his ears. "Aw yeah mayne," he purred in a voice that was simultaneously way more gravelly than he was used to, but also disarmingly smooth.

DeGarrett glanced down to his midsection, which was still being clothed in that white wife beater, but now the beater was a little more worn, a little dirty in spots, and it now clung to him like a second skin. That could be because he suddenly realized he had muscles. Not huge muscles, not like a bodybuilder, but more like a gymnast. DeGarrett looked at his beefier pecs in the image and got even more confused...those shouldn’t have been there. The hairless mocha skin should not have had a pair of chocolate-colored nipples at the end...but just as soon as he thought that, DeGarrett realized something. “Course I’m swole, I been liftin’ all da time.”

His eyes traveled further down his body, and he could see he was still wearing jeans. The jeans were still baggy, but somehow they seemed much more...appropriate now. They led down to a pair of wheat-colored Timberland boots that had to be at least a size 15.


His head bobbed up again. DeGarrett's mind was swimming. "Damn yo, dat's some good purp," he growled, remembering how he'd stood behind the mall smoking a pretty big blunt of some potent weed before he walked in. His now hugely baggy jeans reeked of marijuana smoke.

Suddenly DeGarrett felt...tight. All over. He lifted his arms and saw they were big. Not just big--they were HUGE. Cannonball shoulders atop cantaloupe-sized biceps, with triceps that would put most bodybuilders to shame. De had taken to lifting during his second stint in juvie; being a scrawny biracial kid with nothing more on his record than a badly botched attempt to steal a car made him a pretty easy target for the hardened teenage thugs he was living with, so he decided to give himself an advantage. He did nothing but lift, eat and sleep for those nine months, and that routine kept up after he was sprung (with a generous amount of alcohol, weed and sex added in for good measure), and it had paid off. He could see washboard abs, at least eight of them, pushing out of his tattered beater like a cobblestone path, leading to a caramel-colored Apollo's belt that showed whichever young slut he was banging exactly where to find his massive cock. But somehow this still seemed out of place. He clearly had the memories of what he did to get this big, but DeGarrett’s brain was still fighting it. His dark brown eyes moved back to those pecs, which were now like a couple of pillows hanging off his chest, stone black nipples rock hard and pointing straight down to the floor. As DeGarrett ran his calloused, worn hands over the sensuous muscles, he caught a glimpse of his traps. They, too, were much bigger than he remembered...but at the same time, they were exactly as big as they were supposed to be. They were so big and defined it was almost like he had an extra set of calves atop his shoulders, giving him a bull neck that would make most bikers blush; you could even make the case there was so much muscle there he didn’t have a neck at all anymore.


When the next image was captured, DeGarrett's eyes were conveniently facing the photo dispenser, so he looked at the hard copy to see what would come next.

What he saw caused him to pop a 10" boner that caused his now ludicrously baggy jeans to tent.

His face was that of a straight up thug, the perfect marriage of genetics passed down to him from his hoodrat parents, the perfect consequence of his black father (he had to assume dad was black, he'd never met the guy) and his white mother. His skin, pocked and scarred from years of prison fights and street scuffles, was the color of a coffee bean--not so dark that anyone would mistake him for an African native, but clearly not honky white.

He could tell what he got from his dad; the inflated lips, broad nostrils and kinky dark brown hair definitely betrayed his African-American heritage. That hair was now barely visible from underneath a black do-rag and half-cocked Yankees fitted cap.

DeGarrett's arms began to itch, and he couldn't figure out why until he lifted his tree trunk appendages and beheld. He saw tattoos covering just about every square inch of his upper body, shoulder to knuckles, collarbone to pubic hairline. Most of it was gang-related; during his five-year stint in state prison for robbery, he joined up with the Crips. Because of the caucasian influence in his skin tone, he was able to get a lot more color on his tats than most gang members--and not surprisingly, most of the colored ink was blue.

DeGarrett shifted his weight. He felt his massive thighs collide with each other. He loved being this big. His role with the gang was as the enforcer, the guy who could get you to do his bidding without having to ever produce a gun--thought he still carried one, he could feel that clack against the seat of the photo booth when he moved his ham-sized quads.

"Yo," DeGarrett said as he looked at the photo strip one more time. His voice was much deeper now, much rougher, a combination of his urban upbringing and plenty of years smoking plenty of weed. In fact, the perfect word to describe his new voice was smoky. "Whas good son." He giggled out loud, still pretty well blazed after hitting the blunt on his way over.


The final flash was enough to jog him from his revelry. DaeQuan looked at the last photo, and almost became intimidated at his own visage.

Blue fitted cap, 45-degree angle. Blue bandana covering everything but his eyes; next to his right eye, a long scar from a knife fight in the cell block; and below his left eye, three tattooed teardrops, for the three rival gang bangers he'd popped since he became a Crip. Underneath that bandana, DaeQuan couldn't see it, but he knew there was a mouth about half full of gold teeth.

That tattered wife-beater, once white, was now blue, with a heavy platinum chain hanging down from his bull neck all the way to his navel. DaeQuan noticed the newest tattoos he'd gotten, which now went all the way up his enormous, rock-hard traps to just below his ears. He saw a few inches of exposed, tattooed caramel skin before a pair of blue boxer shorts took over from his waist to well below his massive dick. And from there, a pair of dark blue jeans, probably eight or nine sizes too big, belted across the middle of his stone-column thighs and coming to rest atop of a pair of blue and white Jordans.

DaeQuan pulled the photos out of the printer and admired them. He was a thug's thug. He was enormous, he was hard, and he was not to be messed with. He shoved the photo strip into his pocket, where it smushed up against a six-inch thick wad of $20 bills, a couple of dimebags of weed and an already-rolled blunt, which he couldn't wait to smoke.

DaeQuan stood up, and as he did so he favored his right leg, not because it was hurt, but because years of being the hardest motherfucker he knew gave him a confident, powerful swagger that was only accentuated by his astonishing musculature. He checked his pockets one more time--cash, weed, blunt...check--then reached into his waistband and readjusted his chrome .45.

Just as he was going to walk out of the booth, DaeQuan's cell phone rang. It was another Crip.

"Ayo," he said, as he ducked under the curtain and began walking with a gangster lean through the mall. That voice was now so low, so deep and gravelly (not to mention more than a little warbled because of how stoned he was). "Yo mayne I got dis purp shit mayne...yeah mayne, Ima smoke that shit right now..."

DaeQuan knew he'd have to sling some weed tonight, and there was a pretty good chance he'd have to fuck someone up, or worse. But for right now, all he had to do was walk outside and hit his blunt, and nothing could make him happier.

by Texzilla

Derek scurried into the old photo booth machine at the mall. He’d been sitting across from it for a few minutes trying to decide if he spent the 25 cents on picture of himself, could that be considered a sin of being vain and prideful? Plus if he spent the 25 cents, he would only have enough for sandwich from the Food Court for lunch and couldn’t get a soda. Then again, soda was a luxury so maybe one sin would cancel out the other and it would be OK.

Anyway, he had to get away from the Mall security for a few minutes. They were really watching him today. They just didn’t understand. If the people who came to the mall would stop shopping for a minute and just listened to him, allowed him to witness to them about the blessing he’d gained through his beliefs. He wasn’t ‘bothering’ the shoppers, he was making their lives BETTER.

But today Derek was not able to spread his message as he wanted, and for some reason he was missing his folks way back home. Maybe taking a few pictures of himself would show them how well he was doing in the big city. Then they’d know he made the right choice. Maybe they’d see he didn’t make a wrong choice in leaving school to start his preaching on his own. Derek knew his faith and message was more important than anything anyone else had to say.

Placing his well-worn book and pamphlets next to him, Derek slipped a quarter into the slot. Seeing the mirror he quickly checked his short blond hair and was straightening his tie when the first FLASH went off.

That was a lot brighter than he thought it would be?

Derek felt a strange tingle around his back. He reached back to scratch but his suit jacket was a little constricting. Thinking the pictures would still be OK if he had his jacket off he quickly removed it in hopes he would then be able to reach. Placing the jacket on his book Derek found that his shirt looked a bit off. Had he been wearing it with the coat over it for so long that he never saw how short the sleeves were on him? It was off the rack at the second hand store after all. There was a good three or four inches from the cuff to his wrists. And the cuffs themselves were a little on the tight side. Maybe it was because he had to fit himself in this tiny booth and not standing up straight walking about like normal. The booth did seem smaller than when he first came in.

The second flash came so strong again that Derek jumped a little, and felt a slight twinge in his chest. Passing it off for a second as a muscle cramp, Derek was shocked to find the ‘twinge’ started spreading across his whole body. And with the tingle, Derek started to grow. His blue eyes opened as big as saucers as he could see his arms and chest start to increase in size under his shirt. At first he thought the reason he began having trouble breathing was because of this bizarre growth, but then the realized that it was the tie around his neck that was getting tighter. Or in fact, that his neck was getting bigger. He reached up and with much thicker fingers grabbed the edge of the tie and started trying to loosen it. But it was too late, with the growth and the struggling the tie had become a knot that wasn’t moving. This actually started getting Derek to panic more than the muscle growth at this point. With a deep throated growl that he never heard come from himself before Derek gave the tie one last strong yank, only to rip it and most of his shirt off. What hadn’t been ripped off in that maneuver on his sleeves soon ripped off anyway due to the growth in his arms.

Derek should have been scared out of his wits. His thin, well-toned body was now big, muscled. And getting bigger every second. His tank top undershirt was still in place and seemed to be able to withstand the changes happening under it. Derek’s chest filled out as two great plains of muscles and flesh took up residence. Not just large pecs but built up, thick heavy squared-off giants. First building out, then dropping down a little due to the immense weight. Derek might be seeing a miracle happening to his body, but it wasn’t above being able to defy gravity. Lifting the t-shirt up to see the growth full on, Derek saw the 8-pack that was forming on his gut. Before it has been a bit underwhelming. Not fat, but not like this. Perfect rounded off squares appearing from under his chest down to below his pants. His navel nestled near the bottom, the skin on the top pulled across it, taut like a drumhead. Lifting the shirt up to see more of his chest, Derek found the perfectly cut muscle valley between them, deep and defined. The skin had no fat underneath to hide any striations that he had built up.

He had built up? No, wasn’t all this just appearing? The third FLASH knocked those questions out of his head. No, this was from all his hours in the gym. He loved the gym and always had. Even back in his homeland. It was what kept him out of trouble. No, not homeland, it was hometown and wasn’t there something else that he was big into that kept him out of trouble? Derek let that all slip away as he checked out the saucer plates that were now his nipples. Hanging down just a little on the underside of the pecs. From his viewpoint he could see the perfect silhouette of the pec, then the beginning of the nipple mound with the tip pointing out and down right in the middle. It was hard now, but then Ali always liked them when they were hard. No, Derek liked them with they were hard. No, it was sinful to look like this and he had to stop this, he had to...check out those guns.

Removing the last parts of his ripped shirt Derek was able to see the boulders that had been inserted under his skin. Oh yeah. Pumping his arm out then back in again, back and forth. Letting that muscle grow. Letting those veins start to sneak out. Get thicker with blood ‘til they looked like they were going to burst. Until the skin over his biceps looked like it was going to rip off like his shirt had. Ali liked how equally thick and detailed the muscles on his forearms were. That’s what made him stand out from so many other guys at work. He was the whole package, not just pecs and dick.

Suddenly thinking about ‘his package,’ Ali stood up - as best as he could get his 6 foot 4 frame in the little booth to stand up. Almost as if on cue, yet another FLASH went off. Ali didn’t even bother thinking how all this was going to show up in the pictures. Unfortunately, with the action of standing up, his black neatly pressed dress pants also ripped to shreds. Must have been because he had been sitting in one position during this weird growth. No wait, how could all this be growing right now, when he had been a bodybuilder since the afternoon the gym opened in his section of Cairo where he grew up? Oh wait, his pants weren’t in shreds, why did he think that, he was wearing his black workout shorts. Cause...oh yeah…he had been coming from the gym at this mall when he stopped off at the photo booth. Ali liked the black gym shorts he wore, with the deep cut up the side all the way to the waist. They showed off his legs the best of all his clothes. He always got the best tips the night he danced wearing these at the club. Part because of the way they looked, part because of the way they smelled after a long work out. Couldn’t deny how massive his legs looked in them. Well, his legs were usually the biggest of all the guys at the gym or at the club. Must have been genetics or something, ‘cause while other guys struggled to get their legs as big as their chests, Ali was having trouble getting his chest to keep expanding to balance out the tree trunks for legs he had. All perfectly etched muscles, that great teardrop just above the knee, the few rope like muscles that would disappear under the jocks he’d wear. Like the black jock he was wearing now. Not old ripped tightie whities, why did he expect to find those when he all but lived in black jocks? And calves like no one else over in this country had ever seen. Another reason he liked wearing the shorts so much was that he didn’t have to worry about finding long pants that would fit over his lower legs.

Standing up, suddenly Ali found he sort of needed to adjust his junk. Taking one of his massive mitts he reached into his shorts but grabbed something that didn’t seem right. Pulling out his dick he saw a very small, very pale circumcised cock. That wasn’t right…it should look…FLASH…there it went for the final flash. With that the last stages took off, all branching out from Ali’s dick. It grew big. Very big. Not just longer and thicker but a fantastic mixture of both, with just as many veins shooting down it as his arms. His balls filled up and hung down like Grade AAA eggs. It looked like the tip of his dick was going to keep growing when in fact it was the foreskin coming back. The sheath of flesh stretched down till it hung a good inch off the edge.

Once the foreskin grew out, the color started growing in, starting with Ali’s dick and spreading up and over his entire body in a slow wave. Going from a sickly pure pink tone that never saw the outdoors, to a deep caramel brown with black highlights that was made for long exposure to the rays of the sun. His balls, dick and nipples were almost black once the wave hit and passed. The flesh on his chest now deep brown and healthy. Almost that if one was to lick it, it would taste of cinnamon, with a deep under layer of maybe jasmine and other exotic spices. His arms followed with his biceps not getting quite as dark, but they stood out all the more due to being just slightly lighter in color. Looking all the way down, Ali saw that instead of polished black dressed shoes, his long size 14 feet were now as dark as the rest of him. His toes wiggling as the toenails darkened in the flip-flop sandals he wore. At this point Ali didn’t even think it strange that his tank top was turning as black as his shorts and sandals were.

Ali sat down again on the little bench and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Something was wrong there. That wasn’t his face or his hair. What was someone from Cairo doing with almost white yellow hair, and that button nose, where did his chin go? The last bits of his skin darkening raced up his face and when it entered his hairline, that’s when the blonde started to turn black. Not just a normal black, but almost a blue black. Like Superman, the guys at the club would tell him. His short clean-cut hairstyle grew out as it grew black. Long threads of hair just poured out of every root. Down until the curly black hair reached well down his back. With his large calloused hands he smoothed it back till it lay flush with his head and clipped it in back. Ali liked it to be as smooth against his skull as possible, so when the light hit it right, the effect was like lightning racing across his hair. The cascade of curls tickled the back his neck as it hung down. A cocky grin hit his face as its needed adjustments started. Eyes turned from sparkling blue to a brown black that made it almost impossible to tell the difference between pupil and iris. His nose lengthened and got a bump on top - thank Allah, he thought. How was he supposed to breathe through that button-like thing before? Cheekbones became more pronounced, rising up so that, along with his brows growing out more, they cast a mysterious shadow across his eyes. Lips became fuller and also darker. No longer sweet and pouty little boy lips. The bigger change came with his jaw. With all these changes he had gone through, there had been no real pain, only some odd tingling. Now there was some pain, but it felt right, felt good. His jaw jutted out more, squaring off, becoming even with the cheekbones, not sunken in like before but pushing out from his face a bit. And at the end a chin like a knot of wood appeared, with a cleft in the middle. Ali turned his head sideways, checked both sides. Yes, that was how it should look, not unlike his Father’s and Uncle’s back home. He did not wear the full beard though, they’d asked him not to at the club. Ali reached up and felt his chin, even though he shaved that morning, with his facial hair shouldn’t he still have his typical rough shadow by this hour?

As on cue with all the other changes, as soon as Ali found something missing on him, it started to come in. Black wiry hair began sprouting up all over his body. While the other guys shaved their bodies down, they liked Ali for his hair. His face took on a shadow of hair that could work like sandpaper. Down his chest, growing thicker in the middle then spreading out like a phoenix on fire across his pecs. Rings of hair circling each nipple. The hair continued to trickle down, leaving a trail from the pecs down to his privates. Ali could feel the hair sprout from his lower legs and go upwards. He could see the thick black fur grow in, almost hiding the caramel skin underneath.

Ali checked his face in the mirror one last time before heading out. Looked good. He straightened the little V-growth of hair under his lower lip. Adjusted the gold chains that had appeared around his neck, making sure the one with the cross was sitting on top. Made sure the several hoop earrings in his left ear were set and checked the cross earring in his right ear. Ali had to admit he felt bad wearing the crosses, since they really didn’t mean anything to him. He wore them for now as part of the illusion he was trying to give everyone. Not like Derek used to. Why did he think of that name? Was that a name of someone he knew? No, was that his name….why did he just think of himself as Derek….when his name was….well, the full name was Ali Abu. Ali Abu el Yazed was what his passport and working papers said. Except the guys at the club and at the gym all called him “Tony.” Stupid having to pass himself off a an Italian for now but, as the club owner said, as exotic as having someone from the Middle East was, it wasn’t the time in the US right now. Best to play it safe. So many people in the US believing the stories that Muslims were coming over to infiltrate and hide out planning attacks on the US. Got so bad that THIS Muslim who just wanted to live his life had to start pretending to be someone he wasn’t just to be left in peace. For now he could play the game. Pretending to be an Italian stripper wasn’t so bad. He could still do his prayers at the club. And the bosses promised him that once things settled down - and please Allah, let them one day settle down - he could ‘come out’ at an Arab. For now, inside the walls of the club, he was Tony.

The strip of pictures slipped down into the little slot. Ali checked them, yeah, they were OK. Nice sexy smirk in each one. Stepping out of the booth he slipped the photo strip into the waistline of his shorts, securing them there between his skin and his jock. The top couple of pictures poked out. Amazing what guys at the club would pay for a 25-cent strip of cheap photographs once they were told it was the only one made. The last guy had paid him so much for the pictures that Ali could pay his rent for the month with it.

Ali reached into the booth and grabbed his coat, the long cloth coat he wore when he went to the gym. Didn’t like giving all the old ladies, and some of the old guys, who hung out at the mall a peep show of all his extreme Arab muscle while walking to and from the gym. It was OK to be a sex god at work, but a place like the mall he wanted to be respectful of others who went there just for shopping, not ogling mounds of perfected flesh. He grabbed his address book that has all his appointments in it, and his much loved and well-used copy of the Koran. He had just enough time to get home, do evening prayers and head off to work. Ali loved getting on stage and making the guys in the audience believe.

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