The Photo Booth: A Collection of Transformations (ap musc mc)

All sequences are written by me unless otherwise noted. Thank you to CallMeCrazy for lending me your wonderful writing ability!

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Robby Davis took one step into the FedEx store, saw the line, turned on his heels and walked out.

He needed a passport photo, but seriously? There were like a hundred people in there. There had to be some other place that took 2x2 photos. Seriously, damn.

He stopped into a few stores and looked around, wishing he could save the twenty-dollar bill he had and spend it on clothes instead of a stupid passport picture. Still, Robby knew he had to save every penny he could if he wanted to go to Brazil. The big senior trip was to Brazil, and everyone was making such a huge deal about it, because usually the senior trip was to a water park or something like that. This year, somehow, Brazil had been selected as the location. Logistically it took a lot of planning, and it would cost a shitload of money, but the richer kids were all going and Robby was so excited when he learned he could go too – it was easy to admit that his family was well off. He had agreed that most of the money could come out of his college fund as long as he raised $200 of his own, which he had done easily.

Robby walked back to the FedEx place. Still packed. He sighed and headed upstairs to kill some more time.

The photo booth made him think. Surely those pictures were about 2x2? That was allowed, right? He could just angle his head straight-on like he’d seen in other passport pics and that’d be good.

Probably need to get change to use it…oh wait, only a quarter? I got that.

He opened his wallet and pulled out of one his two quarters, the only other currency aside from the $20 bill. Robby entered the booth once he heard the quarter clink into its depository.

Before entering, Robby fired off a text message to a few other guys going on the trip. He didn’t know them very well and they didn’t talk much except during planning meetings, but he thought he’d help them out since he knew they needed photos too. Save them a little money.

Robby did his best to be right in the center of the booth’s seat. He adjusted the collar of his polo shirt and pressed down a lock of hair, getting his hands out of the way just in time for the first flash.

Of course, he was blindsided for a moment. Robby’s vision adjusted back and he was annoyed that he’d messed up his shot, but happy to see the 1/5 display. 4 more chances, surely he’d get ONE good one.

Robby vacantly stared at the lens, not even bothering to look at the first picture displaying. He knew it wasn’t a good one, so he just wanted to focus on getting a good second shot.

So, Robby didn’t notice that his green eyes were looking oddly brown, or that his neck looked a little thicker, or that the diamond stud in his left ear had vanished, or that the color of his eyes was matched by the strange deep-brown streaks in his dark blond hair.

He just cracked a smile when he heard the camera warm up, and pop.

Robb had managed to avoid blinking, and he was proud of that for a moment, until he heard a pop and saw a button hit the monitor in front of him. “Shit,” he swore, looking down at the polo shirt’s missing second button. He stuck one hand under each pec and felt their underside. They protruded quite nicely for his only being seventeen years old. Robb unbuttoned the third, and last, button on his polo, to make sure he didn’t lose that one. His hand wandered down and felt the ripples of his young, hard stomach.

Unlike the first time, Robb made sure to look at his picture. He rolled his dark, sparkling brown eyes when he saw that he was to the left of the frame, having misjudged the center. He shifted his weight slightly to what he hoped was the center.

The hair was looking a little out of control, too. The dark blond had shifted to a sable brunet, but Robb didn’t much care about that, nor did he notice that his formerly straw-straight hair had pronounced waves in it, even curling at the tips. All he cared about was it looking presentable, so he licked his hand and brushed back the thick tresses, pushing them behind his ears and letting a few stray waves rest on his forehead. The back neckline had stayed trim and short, and Robb could vaguely remember asking his stylist to give him a cut that would look cool swept back.

He licked one finger and slicked down the bushiness of his dark, thick eyebrows, taming the wiry hairs and giving them one consistent shape.

Then he smiled once more, hoping that the third picture would be right for what he needed.

After the third flash, it was hard for Rob to ignore the tightness of his clothes. His pecs jutted out so far that he could make out the striations in the tight material, and his nipples looked like pieces of candy stuck under the fabric. The big veins on each of his pumped biceps made pronouncements in the short sleeves. He didn’t remember wearing white today, but his shirt was white now. Rob shrugged it off, always easygoing.

But it was the jeans, those damn jeans – they felt skintight. His knees were more than a foot apart from each other, but that was the closest together they could be, due to the mass of his thighs. Even his calves pressed against the inside of his jean legs. His cock was the most ridiculous of all, pushed into the air because it couldn’t sit between his thighs. There was just no room for it there, so it had to fill up the entire crotch of his jeans and then some, like a big softball stuffed down in his pants. It made a perfect spherical shape, so large that it was starting to force the fly zipper apart. An onlooker would say Rob had dressed in his younger brother’s clothes. They were that preposterously tight.

Rob was relieved to see that he had found the center of the bench and that the picture was relatively usable. Usable for a passport, right? Something like that. For what? School? “Too old for, for, uh…escola.”

His skin was even-toned and silky, a deep, healthy brown. Not the same brown as his dark eyes and hair; his skin was like golden-soaked honey, but it was still definitely brown, and naturally so. The nice shade of his skin made his glimmering white teeth really pop. Rob liked that.

He cursed himself as the fourth flash went; he’d forgotten to prepare and had wanted as many choices as possible, and now he’d lost one.

There was a shifting in his clothes, the collar around his neck dissolved and the shoulders dwindled into straps. His shoulders and arms were now mostly bare, along with the majority of his chest. Rod felt cool air on his moist, shimmering skin. Granted, he knew he was exposing a lot of himself with the ultra-tight white tank top, but it just looked so good. His capacity for modesty had never really developed, and he liked to show off. His pecs had such an extreme overhang that the scoopneck of his tank couldn’t cover them, and instead sat underneath, leaving only the tank’s straps to cover his dark brown nipples. The striations of his pectorals intoxicated him. The ripples reminded him of the way water reacts upon having a rock tossed into it. And his pecs were so hard, so fat-free, like two square boulders set atop his ribs.

Rod’s attention moved to his face as the fourth picture displayed. It wasn’t a good picture and that pissed him off, although he didn’t really know why. But sure, he was still very handsome. Since he was in his late twenties, any teenaged roundness had dissipated, making his face longer and leaner, defining his square chin and the chiseled jaw that jutted in toward it at sharp angles. The tip of his nose had rounded a little, the bridge was a little more square. But Rod was all about his lips, which had puffed up into a full, exaggerated pout. Lips stuffed to bursting with sex.

And those big, gorgeous brown eyes…

Rod remembered to smile for the fifth flash.

With the fifth picture brought the most noticeable change of all, as Rod’s already-built body suddenly was rocked with muscle growth. His arms erupted and were forced out to 45-degree angles, their new natural place of rest. His pecs blew out, pushing out laterally as well, making the tank’s straps thin and stretch – straps that dug into the deep divide between his bowling-ball deltoids and round, explosive traps, which had grown so far out of the base of his neck and around his spine that Rod always looked like he was slouching, even when he stood with military posture.

Most of his jeans were gone, as Rod now sported a painfully tight pair of denim cutoff shorts that dug slightly in between the cheeks of his giant ass. His cock stuck out even further than before, practically exposed to the world. Gargantuan thighs were now etched with huge, clear muscles, each group present and accounted for in outrageous fashion.

A heavy five o’clock shadow had bloomed beautifully on his handsome face, as evidenced by the photograph. He had such a dark, thick beard that he shaved every morning and still had the Miami Vice look by the end of the day. Rod rubbed his stubble and ran his hands through his thick swoop of hair. His cock got more and more erect as Rod ogled his own face, and he could see his balls trembling underneath the paper-thin denim. Robby had been wearing boxers, but Rod hated underwear of any kind. The feeling of the denim against his hairless cock took his breath away.

Rod started to massage his big muscled tits and watched the way his gigantic biceps moved. He was so sculpted, like a museum statue had to come to life then doubled in size. Rod began to chuckle as he felt himself up, the callused fingers rubbing against his sweaty, waxed skin. At first, it was Robby’s laugh tumbling out of Rod’s full mouth. But the more he pleasured himself, the deeper the laugh became, as the soft stutter became a huskier chuckle, then a low, smooth whistle, then a bassly rumble like thunder rattling a sky. Rod didn’t even feel his Adam’s apple pushing farther out to accommodate his deeper voice.

The sixth and final flash captured the man right as cum began to leak into his jean shorts, but he had enough self-control to stop before he fully wet himself. He grew further outward into every crack of the booth, muscle on top of muscle, freakishly developed with an outstanding taper.

Rodrigo rubbed his amazingly flat stomach and flexed for himself, checking out his muscled bulk, admiring everything down to his large hands and outsized calves. Sweat rolled down his entire body, accentuating the dark honey tone of his skin.

As the enormous Brazilian bodybuilder debuted to the world, he could feel all eyes fixed on him. Americans were so uptight, always so covered up. With a body like his, why not show it off? Rodrigo saw no problem at all with his cut-off denim shorts, which looked like they were airbrushed on. And he certainly found no fault with the tank, which showed off how wide and massive his upper body was. Everyone moved out of his way as he strutted, like a peacock, toward the mall’s gym.

Rodrigo pushed his hair back from his wide forehead as he sauntered through the gym’s doors. “Hello, hi,” he rumbled to the bodybuilder at the desk, who wore a polo shirt that fit like a grapeskin. “I’d like to workout, please, what’s the day rate?” His English was heavily accented, but perfect.

“Day rate?! For you?!” Marco’s eyes were bugging out of his head at the 5’10” column of pure muscle that stood before him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll get you signed right in. Name?”

“Rodrigo di Castro,” the South American hunk responded with an extension of his huge hand.

“’sup, man, I’m Marco,” the gym stud responded, meeting the grip.

“You are, eh, South American?”

Marco was surprised for a moment, and laughed. “Me? Oh, no, no, I’m American. My mom is Italian but Dad’s as American as they come, my last name’s Holloway.”

“Ah, your coloring is, uh, just so dark, you know? And your shape!” Rodrigo did a front lat spread and pointed to Marco’s outsized pecs. “Your shape is very South American, too!”

Marco laughed and Rodrigo joined him. “Where in South America are you from?”

“Brazil. Rio,” the muscleman responded.

“Cool man, cool, well, let’s give you a tour.”

Rodrigo smiled his big, winning grin, and Marco did the same. The two men recognized each other as similar – overly huge muscles, big swoop of hair, designer stubble - and both knew it was going to be a good workout.


by Aardvark with assistance from CallMeCrazy

“Dude,” Clay said with a playful shove to his friend. “Dare you to take pictures of yourself.”

The four boys laughed as they walked up to the old wooden booth. The middle schoolers had all been mallrats for the day, hitting up nearly every conceivable store in the mall. They hadn’t bought much. Jackson had bought a red polo at American Eagle; Clay had swiped a leather bracelet from there. It had only been like 50 cents anyway, Jackson didn’t understand why Clay hadn’t just bought it. The other two guys hadn’t done much but eat and talk. It had been a fun day.

“Why pictures?” Jackson asked as all four looked at the booth.

“I dunno, it’s just something stupid,” Clay shrugged as he opened up the curtain. “Hm. There’s really only room for one person.”

“I’ll go first and give you the photos at the end, you can put them in your wallet and keep them forever and ever and ever,” Jackson said sarcastically, his tone dripping with syrupy sweetness.

Clay pushed Jackson onto the bench. “Ha haaaa, very funny. I’ll even pay,” he said, producing a quarter.

Jackson pulled the curtains shut then turned around and stuck his head out, a floating head amidst a sea of cheap red fabric. “No peeking,” he said to his three friends before disappearing back inside.

He fiddled with his long, shaggy skater hair, making sure the bangs were on one side so that his eyes weren’t covered up – not that he really cared about these photos. But there was no sense in wasting a perfectly good opportunity. He twitched back and forth, rocking on the seat while idly playing with his bangs. Jackson adjusted his hair for what seemed like a good length of time. Right as he opened his mouth to tell Clay that it was broken, the booth sprang to life.

The first thing Jackson heard was the sound of a loud rip, accompanied by a big draft of air. His eyes got as big as saucers, the blue iris sinking into the sharp whites of his eyes. “Was that…” Turning his head to look over his shoulder, he was able to twist enough to see that he had ripped the seat of his pants. That made no sense – he hadn’t even moved! “Shit,” he said, reaching around to finger the torn fabric. It wasn’t even just a slight tear, it was a legitimate rip, several inches long separating the seat of the pants into two distinct globes. Jackson’s fingers alighted on his butt. That didn’t seem right either…first of all, he’d never even had an ass that could support a normal pair of pants. His butt had basically been an extension of his back with a crack in it. But now it felt like he was sitting on a pair of rocks, two big smooth boulders that were dipped heavily into the old bench. His fingers traced the high slope of his gluteal muscles, and he correctly envisioned how his huge booty would look when he was standing: a big, high, round athletic ass that he’d probably have to get his pants tailored to fit.

“Dude,” Clay said from outside the booth. “Let’s just leave it, this is boring.” Jackson had been so distracted by his exposed rear end that he’d momentarily forgotten about his friends, and Clay’s sudden speaking made him gasp in surprise. “Uh, uh, n-no,” Jackson said, “I’m gonna stay in here for a second, I have a, ahhh, uh, a little…problem.”

“You okay? Sounds like you got a frog in your throat.”

Jackson didn’t respond, he was looking at the picture. The coloring was good, it played off of the tan he’d gotten over break. There was a gleam to it, maybe because he was sweating a little due to the heat in the booth. His teenage hormones were gifting him with a few wispy hairs on his upper lip that he made a mental note to shave off when he got home. He had already put on the red polo he bought, with the little white eagle sitting lightly over his heart.

The second flash was better than the first, but brought with it the bizarre feeling of his hips lifting upward by their own volition, as if his ass was actually moving higher on his body. Jacks put his hand back there again and felt the incredible shape; his lower back dipped before swooping back up in the crest of his glute, creating a valley between his back and ass. A bubble butt of the first degree. Jacks was thankful he was sitting down already. He was pretty sure that if he’d been standing up, the sheer enormity of his own ass would’ve pulled him to the ground. That was a strange idea, being pulled down by his own bottom. He wasn't one of those guys with a ghetto booty, wait - no, well he certainly had a butt but it was a solid man ass. What was funny was that it looked like his pants had mended themselves back together, still small around his waist but with generous space for his ponderous ass. Even with the tailoring, the pants looked like cellophane. The waist of the pants sat higher than they previously had, pulled up snugly to encompass the wide ass while tightening snugly around the smaller midsection.

Jacks got his wits about him and pulled his hand away from what felt like melon halves stuffed into his pants. He’d been forced to slouch so that he could reach around, so when he sat up for the first time, he hit his head on top of the booth. “Aw, shit, ow…whu-whu…”

It was like a ticker-tape parade inside the booth. The force of him colliding with the ceiling had somehow knocked all the shaggy hair off of his head. Long golden strands covered his lap and the floor of the booth, like the barbershop looked after a haircut. Panic-stricken, Jacks put his smooth hands to his head and felt equally silky skin, with nary a hair to impede his touch. His dome was completely hairless and stubble-free, smooth as glass. Daddy Warbucks. His hands reached out, furiously attempting to grasp the strands of blonde flickering in the air. Each time he thought he caught one, it seemed to evaporate in the light.

When he’d moved his hands, the armpits of his shirt had both torn out, as if his shirt was too small. And it was new! He could see his nipples poking through, with his shoulders pulling the collar far too open. Jacks pulled on it, trying to make it fit, but it seemed like he wasn’t used to the shape of his body. Thick chest, wide back, relatively small waist – something wasn’t right.

“Seriously dude, c’mon, what’s your problem?”

Jacks looked over at the curtain sternly, suddenly annoyed. Jacks hated when people bothered him. Unless it was with something he could actually do for them, some...service he provided. “Wait your turn,” he rumbled before going back to worriedly running his hands over his head, thinking that somehow the hair might reappear.

“Your voice sounds way deep, bro,” he heard one of those other kids say as the next flash got his attention. Jax sneered at the boy’s voice from outside the box. He thought about opening the curtain to yell at him, but the thought was immediately obliterated from his mind. He needed to stay in the booth.

A feeling of slight claustrophobia crept over him. Jax lifted his arms and was shocked at how heavy they felt, and the way the short sleeves clung to them like glue. Although they looked awesome, Jax couldn’t remember ever looking this huge. Fat wedges of tricep muscles were stuffed up into the back of his sleeves; he could feel the horseshoes rubbing against his flaring lats. His delts were as big as basketballs, his biceps shaped like a football, except larger. The forearms were equally massive, with a network of overt veins covering the large muscles. His hands were giant now, far longer fingers topped much wider palms, and his feet had exploded through his shoes and socks. Bare toes touched the floor of the booth for a moment, before Jax felt leather wrap itself around his feet and cover them. The happy feeling of his feet being warmed was enough to make his big muscles flex involuntarily.

For some reason, his short-sleeved button-down shirt was tucked into the waist of his rather tight trousers. Jax rubbed a hand across his stomach, the convex shape of which was pushing against the buttons of his shirt. It was like he was touching a brick wall. Abs so strong and big that they had become round, jostling with each other for space. People at school were gonna make comments about how big he was. He’d wanted to wear his polo to school, but it was a different shirt now. He kept poking the lower buttons, wondering where they’d come from and hoping they didn’t burst. Jax decided he liked this shirt. It was a little more grown-up looking, but that was cool with him. There was no logo, though, and he liked having shirts with logos.

“Huh,” he growled emptily at his picture. The previously-flat collar of his shirt looked like it had been starched or something, making it fold crisply around his thicker neck. The high slope of his forehead had visibly shrunk, but his brow was noticeably thicker, two substantial black eyebrows establishing themselves as a prominent presence above Jax’s eyes. And his lantern jaw was heavy and hard, a wide U-shaped unit that dominated his features.

As soon as he saw the fourth flash, X’s collar tented up as the button blew off the neck of his shirt, his chest and shoulders pulling his poor shirt in both directions at once. His traps were like loaves of bread baked into full size atop his shoulders. The neck was stretched thicker, wider as his shoulders became terribly broad - the broadest shoulders genetics could give, before being filled out the rest of the way by years of weights. X’s shirt stretched to make room for all of him. His back spread, and spread, and spread, wider and wider like a dragon’s wings, the mottled muscles becoming visible through his tight shirt. The torn sleeves had long since re-formed. His delts and lats had broadened so incredibly far from each other that they were smashing against the sides of the booth. X nearly got a cramp. He shifted his positioning slightly to the side so that he could remain inside the booth.

But it was his chest, his unbelievable pecs, that felt like the real showstopper. Huge muscles grew straight out, pulling fabric dangerously tight over the perfectly-formed sinews. They puffed straight out from his collarbone and crested even further downward to the top of his ribs, each pec the size of an adult human’s head. He put his hands under them as support from gravity and felt the muscles shaking at his touch. As a joke, he tried to push them up, but the rock-like muscles were so huge and hard that they wouldn’t move.

Two more buttons had erupted off his shirt, forcing some of the remaining fabric to slide underneath his chest as a support for the intense weight. X looked down with concern but saw that he hadn’t lost any buttons, they’d just come undone. Except he’d heard them clatter against the floor… “Hm.” It was almost as if the buttons had grown back as replacements. X grabbed his shirt with his thick, strong fingers and tried to pull it together to re-button it, but his chest and shoulders were simply too large. Every time he tried to get the button to connect to its adjacent hole, his pecs seemed to grow just a little bit more. The fabric began catching underneath his chest, and there was obviously no hope of covering up. Looked like he’d be showing off during work today.

X sprang a boner when he saw his picture. His member felt like a cucumber inside his pants, and it was trying to pop straight up, but there was simply no room to – his thighs were so huge that they pressed against each other and left minimal space for his erection. He always had that problem when he sat down, showing off a big ol’ moose hoof to the world. At least he had something to be proud of. Well, something else to be proud of. That package was a juicy filling to the sculpted cake that was his body.

His lips were thick and juicy, their old bow-like shape now far less defined. Just two pendulous mounds of jelly fluff, full and sensuous and as strong as his jaw. Resting on the ridge of his upper lip was a black mustache, the only hair on his head except for his intense eyebrows. His jaw was even thicker now, and his chin had squared off into a large dimpled ledge.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Uffff…jus’ fine,” X drawled in a guttural bass, his large white teeth—twice as big as before—cracking his plump lips into a grin. “Be done in a jiffy, kids.” Damn kids, always bothering him at work.


X rubbed the leathery calluses of his palm against the glassy texture of his bald head. Right as another flash went, he could feel the back of his skull change shape, rounding off. Confused, he ran his fingers down further and clearly felt the sharp slope that ran into his neck.

And then, after a quick stroke of his ‘stache, his hands passed in front of his vision and he held them there, transfixed.

The palms were a dusky off-white, but the back of his hands were the color of the Hershey’s chocolate, a pleasant ebony as smooth as cream. X grabbed his forearms, looked at his chest, at any skin that he could see that wasn’t covered by his tight clothes. His skin was undeniably a milky brown, with darker areas around the bulging muscles. Muscles that had grown so large, X thought the booth was going to explode due to his giant mass. He was a super heavyweight of the highest class, except for the relatively tight dimensions of his waist. He thought it was a miracle that his torso was able to support the sheer enormity of his chest and back. His body was assuming comic-book proportions, like the way figures were always drawn but humans never resembled. Except he did. His muscles were so inflated they looked unreal, until one looked closer and saw the incredible striations and concrete definition. Every swoop of muscle looked like it had been chiseled by a sculptor.

Sweat beaded down his beautiful skin, guided downward by the fat veins intersecting his hulking frame. It pooled some on top of his collarbone and pecs, with a trickle finding its way down in between his cleavage. X stuck two fingers in between his chest. His pecs were so dramatically outsized that even his own large fingers disappeared between them, buried up to the knuckle.

“Oh my,” X said with a grin when he saw his picture. “’sup man.” The huge puffy-lips, fist-sized chiseled cheekbones and weighty brow had looked odd before, but with his beautiful black skin, they all made sense. His face had gotten wider and looked better on top of his slight bullneck, the jaw being able to stand out from the thick ropes of muscle that surrounded his neck. All these features were driven home by his new, flatter, broader nose, the nostrils flaring out dramatically above his mustache. He soaked in his textbook-butch face through dreamy eyes. X’s cheekbones had grown so large that they had altered the shape of his eyes, taking the slightly droopy blues and making them into almond-shaped hooded browns.

It was the face of born-and-bred black man, and X liked it. Looked good, looked real manly. The true navy blue of his shirt looked fantastic against his skin. The material of his shirt wasn’t a cotton weave anymore, it was a crisply starched fabric blend that looked sensational on his sweaty, ebony skin. It was tailored around his shredded waist, with more fabric up top to make room for his enormous chest, shoulders and arms – and he still had to wear the top three buttons open despite the extra room.

Expecting to still see an eagle on his left pec, X was surprised to instead find a scalloped breast pocket, with a pen clipped onto it. There was an identical pocket on his right side, too. Above it was pinned a small gold name badge, on the other side was a…shield? X began to panic a little as he tried to think of what he did for a living, or why he even needed to make a living. Each question gave way to another, like why he had a mustache or how he’d grown one, or why his pants were the same color as his shirt, or where his black shoes had come from. Or why his voice was so deep.

The last flash answered all of his questions. Everything made sense now. Of course he looked older, he was 36…almost 37, in fact. Didn’t even understand why his black skin had been confusing, he was proud to be a brother. The weight of his belt on his waist was because of his radio, gun, and various other tools he needed. He wore the navy blue uniform, with the shield and the patches, because he was a cop. The incredible dimensions of his body were because he was the biggest of the heavyweights, a pro of the highest degree.

Xavier massaged his huge pecs and felt them lift at his touch. His uniform crinkled and shook with every movement of his arms, which were bigger than an average man’s thighs. He straightened his name badge, made sure his fly was zipped, tried to get his breathing and erection down. Once he was calm, he opened up the curtains and stepped out.

Those middle schoolers were still there. When Xavier stood up, the talkative one who’d been chatting with him was right at eye-level with his chest, getting a good view of Xavier’s pecs straining at the shirt, threatening to explode through at any moment.

“Ain’t you boys supposed to be in school?” His voice was a freight train in a cave.

“Uh, uhhhh, it’s Saturday, sir,” Clay stammered, awestruck.

Xavier glared down. “You know you was botherin’ me in there.”

Clay took a step back. “I’m sorry, officer, I wasn’t meaning to. I thought, I…” Clay didn’t really know what he’d thought.

The terrifying expression on Xavier’s handsome face instantly changed into a big grin. “I’m just messin’ with you kids, sheesh!”

“Oh!” Clay breathed out for the first time, having been so freaked out by the huge cop that he’d forgotten to inhale air. “Oh, sorry!”

Xavier put one of his massive hands in the pocket of his uniform pants and started fishing around, trying to ignore each time he bumped into his penis. “So you boys bein’ good?”

“Yessir. Officer, uh…”

“Clemons. Xavier Clemons.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you! You won that thing…”

“Olympia,” Xavier said with a smile. “Twice.”

“Yeah, that. Uh, why were you taking pictures of yourself?”

The cop’s laugh was like a peal of thunder. “With a body like this, it’s hard not to.” He started flexing. The boys stared in awe at the muscles rolling and bouncing in all directions, almost as if they were out of control. This beast was three normal men put together.

“It’s fun. Here,” he said, producing three coins and putting one in each boy’s hand. “Have a go on me.”

“Thanks, Officer!”

“No problem. You boys better be good,” Xavier said, placing one hand on his walkie as he strutted away.

“Dude, check out his ass,” one boy said to the other. “Is he smuggling a baby or something around in there?”

“Stop staring at his ass, you freak,” the other boy responded, although as soon as he noticed Xavier’s giant booty, he couldn’t look away either. Both boys watched the muscular black Goliath swagger away, his back blocking out light, his legs swinging around each other. They were so mesmerized that Clay didn’t bother saying anything as he stepped into the booth and shut the curtain.



It had been a good date, Richie thought to himself as he strolled through the mall, having said goodbye the girl already. But there’d been no kiss on the mouth, no hand-holding, no nothing. He was starting to think something was wrong with him. All the other guys at the frat were always bringing girls home and screwing them and dating them, but try as Richie did to get laid, he just couldn’t make it happen.

The conversation was always fine, he would pay, she’d say she’d had a great time, and then she’d split. Every single fucking time. Richie was in his twenties now, though he could easily pass for a high schooler, and he was really ready to date around, play the field, be a pimp.

He was heading for the stairs when he noticed an old wooden booth, something he’d missed the first time around as he’d headed for the restaurant. Indifferent, he looked closer at it and saw some high-tech panels on the inside – a screen and what looked like some kind of red scanner, maybe for a hand… His frat brothers were always jokingly saying that he wasn’t going on dates at all, that he was making these girls up, saying he was going out when in reality he was just killing time somewhere. Richie decided that, as proof, he’d take a picture of himself at the mall, with the lipstick mark on his cheek from the goodbye peck he’d received. That’d shut ‘em up a bit, he thought good-naturedly, knowing they were joking and that he was too. They’d find the “proof” funny.

Richie liked science fiction movies and felt like he was in one when he sat down in the booth. With the curtain shut, the vibe was of a ride at Universal Studios, taking him to some cool far-off locale. The vivid colors of the handprint scanner, and the dark swirls on the screen were really neat. Richie looked for the camera embedded in the wood paneling. Was there one? Maybe it was behind the screen.

The brief explosion of light in the booth was a great surprise to Richie. He had never been in a photo booth that took flash pictures, but maybe that was a new development. Probably made the colors better.

The colors were just normal on his picture, though. His button-down date shirt was a light yellow cotton with thin grey stripes. He’d borrowed it from one of his frat brothers but it fit pretty well. Maybe a little loose in the arms, because he was trim and lean, and the waist wasn’t very defined because he always worse his shirts untucked. The baggy lightwashed blue jeans were from his own wardrobe. Bought two years prior and slightly out of fashion, but like most guys, Richie didn’t follow trends too closely.

Richie laughed a little at his expression on the monitor. Eyes slightly buggy, mouth in an ‘O’ shape of surprise. He had shaved for the date, and could see where he’d nicked himself with the blade a couple of times. One of his frat brothers was dating a girl in cosmetology school, so she’d styled his dark brown hair for him. It was pretty short, so she hadn’t had to do much, just muss it a little and push it back on the sides. His tight, young features were a little flat, with a small nose and closely-set eyes. His eyebrows were just little tufts of hair, barely noticeable. Still, he wasn’t bad-looking. He had nice teeth and pleasant eyes.

Maybe that was the problem, he thought. Maybe he was just too relaxed. He needed to really wow girls, not get a passing grade…this was college, there was no shortage of competition. You had to stand out to be noticed.

Another flash made odd shapes dance around his vision. Ritchie put his fists in his eyes and rubbed. “Damn thing ain’t even worth it,” he muttered. He was readying himself to leave when he saw the second picture and couldn’t resist checking himself out.

The bright light really made his hair look lighter. Strange, flashes didn’t usually do that with him. Ritchie knew he didn’t have light brown, almost blond hair. He thought he remembered shaving for his date, but random scraggly hairs had cropped up across his face in unattractive patches. A few on his cheeks, a few on his chin, one or two above his lips. He needed to shave more carefully next time, no wonder whats-her-face had left. Pictures always brought out his lack of bone structure, because they couldn’t cast shadows on his cheeks and chin – the features weren’t strong enough. Ritchie had often wished he had a more masculine face, but genes were genes.

He couldn’t fix his face, but he could fix his body, so he’d eaten a lot in the past few months and packed on some weight. The yellowish shirt fit his shoulders and chest well, and the open collar revealed a nice, strong neck. A lone hair close to his clavicle stuck through the opening, and Ritchie plucked it off quickly. He was lucky to have a hairless chest, since he preferred the smooth look.

His arms were a little slower to grow but they were bigger, he just needed to give them time. And his leg workouts were paying off, because his dark jeans were tight around his thighs. Ritchie ran a hand across his leg and felt the strain of his quadricep against the fabric, a fat teardrop shoving into the top of his knee. The pants were supposed to be a little loose at the knee, boot-cut, but they certainly weren’t. He’d need to buy new ones soon, and a new shirt, he didn’t care for the one he’d borrowed. Too boring.

Ritchie reached to look at his watch to check the time. It was an impressive watch. Looked expensive, and so sexy, nestled in the thick mats of hair on his forearms. But as he stared at the timepiece, he couldn’t remember where he’d gotten it. He always used his cell phone to check the time, as watches usually were too big for his small wrist. But this one wasn’t at all. His wrist looked bizarrely thick, barely tapering at all where it met his hand, making the wrist bone just as wide as his palm. Kinda…stumpy.

The third flash came and went without much fanfare. Ritch was growing more used to the random lights. He was a calm and composed man, and things like that just didn’t really bother him much. He folded his hands across his stomach and laid his head against the booth, breathing out in a moment of relaxation.

Hearing the familiar ‘ding’, he looked at his picture. Ritch noticed his hair first, it looked shorter, less messy and more combed. The color had shot far past blond, into silver gray strands that should have scared him, but they seemed very normal, as did the receded hairline above his forehead. Ritch remembered combing his hair and watching the hair fall out. But the gray hair did nothing to negate his vitality, in fact, it added to it. The parts that weren’t bald were full, thick and healthy.

The hair on top was receding, but the fuzz on his face was coming in just fine. Damn, it was like he hadn’t shaved at all. Silky stubble was sprouting evenly on a squarer chin and thicker cheeks, until the skin underneath was invisible – skin that was getting heavier and more leathery, thickening itself drastically. Good thing the five o’clock shadow look was in, but maybe a box of Just For Men would be a good investment. His frat brothers would make fun of all the silver in his whiskers, but they’d still think the pictures were funny.

All the workouts and eating were really paying off. His chest was starting to stretch out his buttons. Thick, bulky shoulders surrounded his wide column of a neck. His legs were like tree-trunks within sausage-casing pants, and his arms had finally filled in the fabric of his sleeves. It was a tough body, hard and large, like an ex-football player. The concave sides of his hourglass shape released and blew outward, giving his torso the thickness of an old tree trunk. His ribcage was forced to widen as his stomach began to creak and bulge slightly outward.

Ritch looked at his thicker body, his wider face. Nothing was adding up. He looked like he was in his mid-30s now, but he had gotten into the booth being much younger than that, at least he was pretty sure. He felt like he was residing in the body of a stranger. He thought of his dog at home, hoped the canine hadn’t pooped in the living room, except he lived in a frat house, they couldn’t have dogs there…could they have mortgages? Didn’t he have a mortgage?

As the fourth flash went, it was undeniable that the customer within it had done some living. His fully silvered hair was falling out even faster, but the stubble on his face was quickly filling into a trim, lush beard. He’d actually heard a slight “foof” sound as his beard poofed out. The light eyebrows had gotten progressively bushier and untamed, now big smears of black-and-silver hair above his confused eyes. His face was getting rounder still, like a full moon, stronger – older. Ears and nose were larger, and deep ridges had appeared above his brow. The collegiate kid, even the mid-30s man, were a distant memory.

It was a lived-in body in the picture, too. Ritch suddenly shot upward in height and tried to lean back to balance, but his back had become so thickly muscled that he had no more space to lean back and, thus, had nowhere to rest. Bulky legs thrashed underneath him and his glossy black shoes kicked the front of the booth. His shirt had grown a couple of sizes to accommodate the width of his back, but even at its larger size, the dramatic swelling of his pecs was pulling the hem of the shirt up several inches. He could barely keep it tucked into his dress pants.

In the picture, he saw that the button over the top of his chest had opened itself, revealing two heavy boulders with a deep crevice between them. That crevice was filled with a thick patch of silver and black chest hair, curls flowing sensually out of the open top two buttons of his shirt. Ritch’s furry face brightened at the sight of his hairy chest, but the shirt…it looked so shiny. Ritch swore he’d never worn a shirt like this before. The light of the flash was bouncing all over it like a disco ball. Yeah, a disco ball that had barfed on him, that was what his shirt looked like. Super metallic and slippery on his rough skin. Ritch liked the way the broad collar looked on top of his shoulders, and he adored all the hair spilling out of the opening, but the dazzling silver sheen was out of character. Sure, it did look pretty cool. And it made the body he had worked so hard for look even bigger and burlier. He could see the cantaloupe-sized biceps straining at the slick sleeves. His waist had filled in even more and was pushing into the waistband of what had once been his jeans, so he loosened his leather belt and barely winced at the fifth flash.

Rutch now accepted that he was undergoing some type of alteration. It was probably for the best, he thought with a pleasant grin.

He was transforming so rapidly that he couldn’t possibly keep up, and the changes were getting far more dramatic as he surveyed the recent picture. The muscles he was sprouting were dense, heavy and shockingly large. Arms were forced outward by the breadth of his back and shoulders, and he kept dutifully moving them, only to be forced once more to shift them farther outward, leaving them thrust out at 30-degree angles from his shoulders. Shoulders that were so burly and square, Rutch looked like he was wearing football pads under his shirt. The already-massive pecs moved even further outward, blocking his view of his new abdominal gut and minimizing it by comparison. The giant packs of hairy muscle dropped low as gravity did its work, but his shirt held them up ably. There was no give in his chest or trunk as he shifted and shook. Giant square pecs and a giant square torso stuffed his shirt to critical capacity.

The top of his bald head was smooth as a cue ball, but Rutch liked it. He had earned his baldness, it was his crown. The silver horseshoe of his male-pattern baldness was looking great.

His nose had gotten far larger and even beaked out slightly, like an arrow downward into the thick beard that completely covered his iron-strong jaw and chin. The whiskers had grown in full and fluffy, entirely silver except for a few patches of black around his smiling mouth. Like his beard, the hair that was left on the sides of his head was growing longer. Still short in the back but gaining in length on the sides, so that he could comb it and tuck it behind his ears.

His age was getting harder and harder to estimate. His eyes sparkled wickedly, almost youthfully, and he radiated magnetism and sex, but the beard and the body were so grown-up. The 40s were long gone, as maturity puffed out his features and made him an entirely new kind of handsome. Finally, his face was strong and uber-manly. Glimmering wide-set eyes placed under friendly wrinkles and a masculine brow. The thick pelt of hair on his chest had advanced up past his collarbone, and it shimmered just as much as his shiny silver shirt. Rutch ran his hands over the material, letting the memories flow in like water. A part of him said that wearing a satin shirt was kinda gay, but another part loved the way the satin danced with the lighting, reflecting it to a million different places. The silky sheen accentuated his full, powerful muscles. He had satin shirts in almost every color back at his house, it was kind of his trademark, and a little bit of a fetish. He’d started collecting them back in the ‘70s and ‘80s. Except...that seemed wrong too. “Oh, man, uh…” And jeans? Ha, he’d never wear jeans on a date, he thought dismissively. He loved his black pinstriped pants, the stripes warping dramatically around his thighs, crotch and calves, forced into odd shapes by the sheer mass underneath. The stripes were stretched even further as his ass grew in, like an afterthought, swelling into two granite globes underneath him and sprouting a short layer of hair.

He looked so wonderfully mature, he thought to himself with a smile. That was what guys wanted, maturity and stability. Uh, girls. Not guys. He was such a Daddy. Wait, did he have kids? No…but he was a daddy. What did that mean? He was trying to understand, wanting to understand. Trying to get his mind to think elsewhere, Rutch gently placed his strong hands on his round, concrete gut and pulled it upward to sit on top of his belt, which was forced downward slightly by the stomach resting on top of it. He then pulled the pants a little further up so he’d be able to keep his satin shirt tucked in. “Ahhhh.” That was far more comfortable, he thought as he scratched the fur on his chest. Rutch knew he was almost done. He could feel strength forcing itself into every nook of his body, filling it outward, making it sing with life. Experience invaded his mind as his body stuffed itself with meaty, brawny power. The gunmetal-colored satin shirt got tighter, and tighter, and tighter, as beef overloaded his body.

The booth had a really cool feature, it took a picture of the last person who was in the booth, and melded it into the current occupant’s picture. Some scrawny college kid had been in there before. It was fun to watch his hair turn silver, his young features age and completely change, his shoulders and neck bulk up. The booth really animated the beard growth well, it was even able to manipulate one of the kid’s pictures so that he was looking in cross-eyed shock at the thick beard sprouting on his cheeks. Rutch could even see the mentality shift, the expression in the eyes going from boring to confused to confident.

Chuckling out loud, Rutch started flexing at the sight of his superiority to that little blond twink. He curled his arms upward into a bicep pose, a flex that showed off his impossibly big arms. His thick wrists strained at the tight cuffs. It made a great final picture.

The light reflected off his glassy-smooth bald head. Butch ran his strong fingers through his beard. Even though his hands were covered in several decades worth of calluses, the silky texture of his facial hair was always immediately intoxicating. He had trimmed his beard for his date tonight, and it looked amazing. The smooth crown ran into combed silver strands on the sides of his head, which connected to his thick, but neatly manicured, beard.

Butch unzipped his fly and reached into a forest of dense, wiry pubes, adjusting his cock to rest the other way in his briefs. He stood carefully on the Redwoods he called legs, moving slowly at first so that his ass and thighs didn’t tear his pants. He found his stride quickly, wondering why this body felt so new and primal. He’d been alive for a long time, and seen a whole lot, but the body never stopped feeling glorious.

Butch’s powerful ass – like two boulders stuck onto his lower back – heaved from side to side as he swung each powerlifter leg around the other to move. His arms stuck out at angles, unable to rest at the sides as they swung. He finally reached the restaurant and saw his date waiting on a bench.

Butch oozed confidence, maturity, charisma. “Are you Simon?”

The man on the bench – Simon - stood up, buff and bearded, clearly another experienced lifter with the same bulging muscles and rope-sized veins as his date. Their hairy paws smacked into each other in a handshake that would’ve knocked normal men to the ground.

The voice was the biggest change of all. A smooth tenor had become low, rough, sexy rumble, with a gravely edge from decades of yelling, smoking and general living.

Simon wore a super-tight polo and white pants, going along well with Butch’s flashy shirt. Two beefy, bearded, brawny brutes whose flamboyant dress contrasted with their testosterone-drenched bodies. They smiled at each other and were already talking about weights and routines as they walked into the bar and kick-started a very promising night.


by CallMeCrazy with assistance from Aardvark

Brijesh Neeraj was a serious actor. A theatre performer, destined for the great roles of tragedy and torment. A soul born to play the most demented, deranged, tormented, tortured, and terrible men every to grace the world of acting. Hamlet, Lear, Loman. He was dark, brooding, humorless…and employed as a dancing chicken.

Technically, Turkey Tom was a turkey, not a chicken. But Brijesh had no intention of playing an animal, poultry or otherwise. He was prepared for the harsh life of a serious artist but not the harsh reality of having absolutely no money. Even artists had to eat. So, he had taken a temp job that fit his "actor" resume. And apparently, some asshole in that place’s HR department had a terrible sense of humor.

Brijesh was willing to take the insult and do it for awhile. The lowly job gave him a chance to revel in the depths of his depression, to plumb his soul and increase his knowledge of his own emotions. Brijesh knew that, one day, he would be able to remember the humiliation he felt from his job, and he would use it as part of his characterization of the crazed, humbled King Lear.

And honestly, he needed money to live. It wasn't selling out to make money every now and again. It's not like he was appearing in some action flick starring some Bulky McSternface or appearing in ads for perfume. He was just barely making enough to get scrape by, just how a true artist should, living in a shoebox with no room for anything but his emotions. Brijesh didn't want the money or even the awards. He wanted true acclaim, to be remembered as one of the greats. Someone who defined cinema and stage.

But he just couldn't take it when the 15-year-olds threw their sodas on him. Fruity sodas at that, so aside from being sticky he was also covered in red and pink colors. He was pretty sure the turkey suit was ruined, and Turkey Tom's had made it very clear that anything bad that happened to the suit was his problem.

He pitched the suit in a dumpster and slumped through the mall, wallowing in misery and embarrassment. His white t-shirt had sweat stains on the pits and collar from wearing the hot suit for so long. In addition, he was wearing a plain pair of black trousers and sneakers. Brijesh didn't shop at the chain stores, he bought cheap clothes from a local shop. The pants didn't fit properly, but they were inexpensive and advertised as vegan friendly. He wasn't actually vegan, just eco-conscious.

There was some sort of event going on in the middle of the mall. A stage was setup and there were some guys in odd costumes milling about. Brijesh just ignored it and hustled toward the stairs. As he neared them, his eyes glanced into a corner and something caught his eye. Looking more closely, he discovered an old fashioned photo booth sitting in the corner. Chuckling to himself, Brijesh moved in closer to inspect it. Photo booths were becoming trendy – which meant they would typically be something he carefully avoided. But a string of photos might make a good shot for portfolio - he could do his own mask of comedy/tragedy. Show a range at a glance. He had talked himself into it before he realized it. Tossing the curtain aside, Brijesh stepped inside and sat down.

There was a red panel that seemed to gently pulse, and a large blank screen. Star Trek meets steampunk. Brijesh put his hand on the panel and leaned forward to look at the screen, not noticing the panel’s color shift to green. He prepared a very sullen dramatic look, something he had spent hours in the mirror practicing though he would never admit it. He would use it one day in his tour-de-force Hamlet, holding up the skull of his friend. “Alas, poor Yorick…” Brijesh could hear himself saying the speech in his head. He held the pose for a few moments before he lost his patience and leaned in to see if the photo was going to happen at all.

An enormous flash flushed the booth, causing Brijesh to pull back and cover his face with his arms. His eyes flew wide open, blinking, unable to see beyond the bright spots floating over everything. He shook his head, the fuzziness fading, and looked at the picture displayed.

The picture that had been taken showed Brijesh looking straight at the camera. His wide brown eyes looked confused and his mouth hung open a little. Brijesh was annoyed at how stupid he looked. More Gomer Pyle than Hamlet. Clearly, using the whole film strip wouldn't work now. He could at least finish up, cut off the top if he got the rest right.

Still, he looked pretty good. He had a chunk of stubble on his jaw - he rarely shaved. His thick, black hair was luxurious and piled lightly on his head, no product or combing. Still, he had pretty hair. His nose was prominent and pointed slightly down. He had very bushy eyebrows, almost a unibrow in fact. Brijesh would never consider shaping them. Still, he had high cheekbones and an angular face, pointed chin and sharp lines. He was secretly proud of his skin, it was wonderfully smooth and the rich caramel color was bright and even. He had a small, lithe body, and anyone with basic ethnic knowledge could easily identify him as Indian, if the name wasn’t enough to give it away. Despite his attempts at a brooding personality and aloof persona, Brijesh ended up looking like a math nerd. He could brood until he was blue in the face, but he would always be seen as a thin brainiac.

It was strange. He had never taken his looks into consideration. Sure, Hollywood hunks needed to look a certain way, but a serious actor could get away looking different....

And then the camera flashed again. The cube was covered in a shiny white light and he was once again blinded. As the fuzziness cleared, Britesh looked at the image. Well, at least this time he had his mouth closed, not gaping open like some baboon. A little sneer appeared on his face when he saw the image. The light from these cameras always made him look lighter. People would think his hair was brown and then he'd go in for an audition and suddenly everyone's wondering who this Indian guy is. Granted, he wasn't as dark as some of his countrymen. People always said he was so lucky to have lighter skin and hair than most - that it made him beautiful. Britesh had never really thought of himself as beautiful. Sure, he had those high cheekbones and his skin really was gorgeous, but lots of things could be improved. His nose was crooked, his face was way too bony, and his lips were so thin they were practically nonexistent. And like it or not, in America, there just aren't a lot of parts for non-whites. He would be typecast as the virgin best friend or the computer technician.

That was why he’d started working on his body, just a little. He didn't want to look like an action star, but being a little bulkier, a little brawnier certainly helped his image. He was a man, and he needed to have the shape of one if he wanted to play the imposing Loman one day. Britesh was pretty vascular, with obvious veins on his biceps that helped make him look a little bigger. Even though he only worked out once or twice a week, the extra time at the gym was paying off quickly. His shirt had a nice ridge were his chest muscles were filling in. And the pants hadn't been nearly so tight a few months ago. His non-existent ass had really responded to the few lunges he’d bothered to do. Hell, the black pants had once been baggy, bought as a social statement instead of a fashionable one. Now he was practically doing the "fat girl wiggle" to get the pants over his bum. It was annoying, having to spend so much time selling his body so that people would actually pay attention to his talent, but that was the business and he had to accept it.

Still, when he looked at the photo, something seemed strange. The light made his skin and hair look so much lighter. He knew a lot of Indian guys who treated their skin to make it lighter, but he was certainly not one of them.

The third flash was the same as all the others, blinding light and few moments of dizziness. Blitsh shook it off without notice. After all, he was a pretty tough guy, and it would take more than a bright light to freak him out.

The picture on the screen wasn't great, but he didn't mind it. Blitsh had such nice dark skin. Super-even tone without even a hint of orange, just a shimmery gold-infused brown. It took a lot of time and money to maintain, so it had damn well better look great! Those awesome granite cheekbones were such lady-killers. He would have preferred to have the total jarhead face, but his slightly angular jaw worked alright – he just couldn’t help but be slightly dissatisfied with it. He often wished his lips were bigger. Their tight minimalism gave him that oddly stern face all the time. Granted, he was stern most of the time anyway, macho, but having a couple extra expressions would be helpful.

Blitsh had grown up looking through comic books of Captain America and He-Man, and wanted nothing more than to look like them. Frequent trips to a tanning salon, along with heavy doses of Sun-In, helped make it happen. His skin had that wonderful deep tan color, and his hair was a sort of honey-blond. Totally unnatural-looking, but whatever. Wait, wasn't he proud of his natural color? His black hair usually looked a little lighter from a flash, but not ever THIS blond. This just seemed…fake. Well, yeah. It was fake. Obviously fake, and everyone could tell. But nobody cared, ‘cause he looked hot.

He realized at a young age he couldn't be an actual superhero, but he could still look like one and be treated as one. His early obsession with muscle had made him good friends with his high school coaches. His football coach gladly fueled his desire to be a muscle beast. His trusty pair of cutoff shorts showed the strong calves he had developed with hours and hours of repetitions. They didn't want to grow, but they had. He’d forced them to. His quads were bursting out of the tight black shorts, partly because he had to hike it up so high to cover his beefy ass. It was a piece of granite and Blitsh made sure to show it off every chance he got. He hadn't spent months of his life doing heavy squats for nothing. He loved his fuckin’ glutes. These babies were a work of art!

Granted, most people were immediately caught by his arms. Blitsh didn't wear a shirt with sleeves unless it was required. Why the fuck would he hide these triumphs of man? Big ol’ biceps that made all the chicks swoon! And man, were those fuckers on the football team envious. Blitsh was a total mesomorph, whatever his weights touched would blow up like the statue of David. Actually, fuck the scrawny-ass David. Blitsh was pretty sure he put that hunk of rock to shame.

His old drama teachers told him he simply didn't have any range. He could play a cop or a superhero but that was all. Which was totally cool by him. Blitsh wasn't the kind of guy with a range of emotions. He was happy, he was angry, he was sleepy, he was lifting. And he hadn't been wanting for work. Not like some of those pansies who laid around coffee shops and talked about their feelings and wrote poetry. Even his teacher was jealous of him. Blitsh couldn’t deliver a single line convincingly, but he was such a hot package, who cared if he couldn't act?

Blitsh was giving a huge smile when the fourth flash went off. Blits just sat and stared ahead, ready to admire the visage that would appear. And he wasn't disappointed. Blits was just so fucking hot. Those high-flaring cheekbones were God's genetic gift, but Blits had paid a good chunk of cash for that chiseled square jaw. It was totally worth it. Add in the little collagen to plump up the lips, and he was a perfect Hollywood heartthrob. The leading man in your Christmas B-list action movie.

Still, it was that perfect golden tan and bright blonde hair that really set it off. He was naturally pale and dark haired, but tanning and lotions - plus a lot of time at the salon - ensured that no one ever saw him beyond his golden glory. Shit, it was a lot of work though. His hair was short, cut in a precise Caesar cut, with just a bit of bang to spike up at the front. There was probably enough product in his hair to preserve it for future generations - just the way he liked it. Unnatural, like a living mannequin. Dying his eyebrows was a bigger pain, but he had them waxed and colored every week. He naturally had such ungodly, bushy nightmares. Fortunately, it wasn't hard to get them in that perfect shape. Thick enough to be masculine, thin enough to not look like a Neanderthal. He had a beautiful smile, made more beautiful thanks to the miracle of teeth whiteners. His teeth were, like, nuclear-levels of white.

Blits was really proud of his body though. In high school, it had been nothing but sports. He'd been good at football and wrestling, and his coaches loved his desire to get huge. His high school football coach had introduced him to ‘roids, and he didn't regret it a bit. Still, Blits had stopped using them long ago. He got unbelievably huge in high school and the first part of college thanks to them, but midway through his twenties his body really started hitting its peak, and he could cut back and still look good. He knew he could be bigger, but that would be bodybuilder size. Not action movie size, which was more like a fitness model.

Still, his body looked fabulous. Those big calves and powerlifter thighs fleshed out of the tiny pair of spandex shorts he was wearing. His package bulged obscenely, but he always wore a thong to make sure he didn't flash any head. The spandex sank into the cleft between his giant ass cheeks, the shiny blue fabric disappearing mysteriously into the muscular divide. His shirt was skintight spandex, but sheer white, unlike the shorts. Blits had no desire to hide his immaculate upper body. Years of blood, sweat, and tears had etched those ridges into his stomach, creating that perfectly symmetrical six-pack. He groaned and grunted that bench press up, up, up - each time pouring more weight on and more of his soul into the press - to produce the massive mounds of muscles that graced his chest. So high, so firm, so thick and beefy. With just tiny little nipples off that end that felt amazing when tweaked. The wide expanse of his back was like an African wilderness, filled with hard flat plains, high peaks, and deep trenches. Spread so wide from pull-ups and pull-downs, dug so deep from years of rowing. Lats so wide, traps so high, with a deep indention going down the length of his spine. Flexing his back was an anatomy lesson in physical perfection. Blits had always had trouble with his shoulders. Sure, they were big and wide and set like boulders, but they seemed so average. If they would just get a little bigger, a little wider. So he overcompensated on the arms, biceps curls until he couldn't lift his water bottle anymore. Tricep dips and extensions until the weight slipped from his grasp and slammed into the floor with a resounding thud. Everyone would look, he would let out his loud laugh - perfected into a deep cheerful boom like the cartoon heroes had - and all the other guys in the room would laugh along. Then he'd grab the weight with his big palms and try again. He was totally that guy at the gym, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Blits had only a moment to spare before he realized, with puppy-dog excitement, that another photo was coming. He readied himself with a Prince Charming smile and awaited the fifth flash. He didn't even blink this time, his eyes were used to bright lights flashing around him. People always wanted their picture taken with him. Blitz was an icon of muscular prowess and B-films. Men wanted to be him. And with a few thousand dollars in cosmetic surgery, they could be. Sure, he had some genetic gifts, but those all could be purchased. The jaw was fake, the lips were fake, the muscles were real but with the addition of steroids and growth hormones. He had taken voice lessons for years to reach that ideal pitch that was high enough to sound natural, but deep enough to instantly deserve respect and devotion.

Blitz was a star high school athlete who had dreamed of making the big time! All that was standing in his way was mediocre looks and zero talent. Fortunately, talent was optional, and beauty could be bought. Blitz worked as a bouncer, a bruiser, a sidekick, a football player....but he was in movies. On screen for a moment, maybe got a line or two - until the day when someone bent over a desk finally gave him a leading role. It was that terrible apocalypse film, the one about unicorn-squid aliens who came to earth to feed on synthetic fibers and plastic. And only one man could stop them! Blitz was awful. Abominable, really. But hot. So hot, everyone forgot about his lack of talent and decided he was the perfect spokesman/model/icon.

His hair was permanently bleached, and tuned up every few days. The white-blond cut was so short that he had to get it touched up all the time. Plus the eyebrows, the tanning, the whitening, all the waxing - Blitz hadn't had body hair since high school. His manager suggested he get the blue contacts, as the final piece in his All-American persona. Their cerulean color was not found in nature, but Blitz rocked the shit out of ‘em.

Not to mention the endless days at the gym, pumping iron to the point of explosion. And now he sat in the booth, the ropey muscles at the tip-tops of his thighs exposed from the teeny-tiny speedo-style suit he wore - bright blue with shiny white around the trims, and a man's bikini top that left his abs, arms, and the top of his chest exposed. Basically a huge bra, with his gigantic pecs being the tits inside. The bikini was decorated in red, white, and blue. Muscles stretching the fabric in every direction. The shiny fabric catching the light every way. Powerful shoulders, big chest and back and arms and thighs and ass…everything was just so big! So powerful!

He turned his head to the side, flashed a superhero smile and flexed his biceps for the camera. Blitz didn't blink or move as the final picture was taken. There he was, dressed in his skimpy two-piece suit. The guys said it was kind of faggy, but fuck ‘em, he loved it. It was perfect for his debut as an American Gladiator. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Blitz was joining the cast. Shiny metallic fabric and shiny oily muscles…he was a god among men. He'd even gotten his name legally changed to Blitz for his debut (that had pissed Dad off, but oh well). Now he would be on TV all the time! Plus, he could still make movies and shit! It was probably the most fucking awesome thing that had ever happened to him. Fuck those lame-ass drama students who said he wouldn't make it. They were still wearing their dark clothes and reading poetry and drinking coffee and enjoying their own intensely boring selves while he was off being a - D-list - star! Blitz grabbed the film roll when it popped out. Six pictures of the awesome tank of a man posing and flexing, even throwing a few serious looks. God, he was such a fucking stud. Manicured within an inch of his sanity, just the way he wanted it.

Blitz was charging through the mall on powerful legs, eager to participate in the recruitment matches. He and another awesome brah, Dagger, were gonna do some matches in hopes of getting some of the local guys to try out for the show. Dagger was already there, talking to some athletic dudes he who looked interested.

From behind him he yelled, "Hey Dagger! Are you ready for…the Blitz?!" It was corny, and terrible, and everyone cheered. He jokingly knocked Dagger on his shoulder and told the boys they could take him.

One of the bigger guys looked at Blitz and quietly said, "Dude! I fucking love you. You totally inspired me to bulk up." Blitz sized up the young man. He wasn't nearly as big as Blitz, but he was pretty handsome with a good, athletic base. With a little guidance, he could come a long way.

"Oh yeah? What's your name?" Blitz asked.

The guy was dumbstruck at the manscaped muscleman. "Oh, uh, I’m Brent."

"Brent.” Blitz rolled the name around his dim mind for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Brawn! That’d be a cool name. You know, I'd be glad to talk to you sometime. But I have a piece of advice,” Blitz put his arm around the guy and put his head in close, as if telling a secret. “Talk deeper, man. Pitch it loooow. Really sets the tone." The boy was shocked and excited from having his idol talk so openly to him.

"Yes sir!"


“Yes sir,” Brent said again, quieter but lower.

"Theeeere we go. You gonna try out? Don't tell anyone, but we're gonna hire this year’s winner as a Gladiator next year."


"Yeah dude, you ready?"

“Fuck, I think so!” Brent flexed a little, almost without thinking. Yeah, Blitz thought, get this guy started on some supps and he’d blow right up. Maybe highlight his hair, get him a tan, bleach his teeth. Yeah, Brent sure had potential to become Brawn. He just needed to be Hollywoodized.

“I’ll see you up there then, Brawn,” Blitz said in his sexily vacuous voice. Brent sprang a boner. “Fuck yeah, man!”

Blitz put a tanned fist in the air and grinned in his mindlessly hot way. “Fuck yeah, brah!”



“Ehhhhh.” The man placed his hands on his knees and exhaled through his teeth as he eased himself onto his usual bench for the day. He took a sip of his McDonald’s coffee and watched the mall’s business day begin, as the shops opened and the kiosks rolled out. It was early, so there were only small children with their mothers or fathers, a few handfuls of tourists, and the usual senior citizens. Orson belonged to the last group.

After retiring from the postal service, Orson had decided he didn’t want to walk a lot. He was tired, and walking hurt after he’d had both of his knees replaced. He’d walked for decades as a mailman, and he just wanted to sit now. He had earned it.

But sitting in the house was lonely. The neighbors came by sometimes, and there was a person that his niece across the country had hired to come and check on him. She kept asking him to come live with her, but she had teenaged children and Orson knew he would just be a burden. He’d seen it happen time and time again. Orson had never struggled with loneliness in his life, he had been an outgoing and pleasant man with a healthy social life, but his friends were beginning to get sick…beginning to die. The group was dwindling. His wife was gone. Orson was getting lonelier, and lonelier.

Getting old sucked.

So, although he hated the stereotype, he had started getting on the bus and going to the mall. People talked to him there, and he began making some acquaintances that were like him. They would chat and drink coffee, and during non-peak hours they sometimes even played chess or checkers in the mall’s large food court, where the sun streamed in through the skylights.

Apparently, he’d beaten the rest of the guys there. Orson sat alone and looked around at the people milling about.

His eyes alighted on a very, very handsome man. The body was muscular and robust, the hair immaculately styled, the face finely chiseled – flawless, really. The man’s posture radiated confidence and pride, and he looked like he was ready to take on the world. Orson remembered when he’d felt like that himself.

The blond hunk was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, opened partially to the chest with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into those fancy dark designer jeans people wore nowadays. He was holding hands with a beautiful blonde woman, and in her arms was a tiny little baby, obviously a newborn, so new that its wrinkly skin didn’t quite “fit” yet. Probably just a few weeks old. A brand new little life.

The man was calling across the mall to someone, motioning for them. Orson took a sip of his coffee and felt something smack into his leg. Looking down, he saw a toddler staring up at him from the ground. The little boy had obviously run into him.

“Zane!” The man ran over and helped his son up. “I’m so sorry, sir, he’s just wound up this morning…did he make you spill your coffee?”

“Oh! No, no no, I’m just fine,” Orson smiled. “Are you alright, Zane?”

Zane nodded, red-faced. “That’s a pretty nifty name,” Orson said as the boy was dusted off by his father’s large hands.

“Say thank you,” the blond man said to his son. “Thank you,” the boy said softly, still a little embarrassed.

“Sorry again,” the man said as he picked Zane up into his arms. “Are you sure you’re alright? He just ran straight into you, I don’t even know why!”

They both laughed. When he saw the blond man’s perfect smile, Orson finally placed the face. “You’re Perry Baxter, aren’t you? From the news?”

Perry smiled and extended his hand. “That’s me. This is my oldest, Zane.” Zane smiled and said “hi.”

“Oh,” Orson said, seeing a gleam on the ground. He reached down from his seat and picked up a coin. “I think you dropped your quarter, Zane!”

“Oh, thanks, he got that for chores this week,” Perry said as he reached for the coin, but Zane interrupted and said “You can have it, mister.”

“Oh, well, thank you. Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s okay. Sorry I ran into you.”

Orson enjoyed seeing Perry’s beaming smile of paternal pride. “Thank you, Zane,” Orson said as he tucked the coin into the pocket of his high-rise khakis. “That’s very kind of you.”

“That’ll buy you pictures!” Zane said excitedly.

Orson didn’t understand. “Pictures?”

“He loves that old photo booth over there,” Perry explained. “We used it once and he just fell in love with it, but every time we’ve come here since, it doesn’t work.”

Zane spoke so fast, it was like the sentence was one very long word. “Daddy’s even seen other people using it, but it won’t work when we try.” Zane was glum for a second before brightening up. “It was fun once though!”

They said their goodbyes and Orson watched them walk away. What a beautiful young family. All blondes, almost the same shade. Orson could hear Perry saying “That was a really nice thing you did, buddy,” as the studly anchorman headed back to his wife and other child.

Orson saw them disappear around the corner. He was jealous of Perry and Zane, of how beautiful they were and how happy they were. He didn’t want them to be unhappy, he just wanted to attain that same happiness.

But, for now, he owed it to little Zane Baxter to take some pictures. So he tossed his now-empty coffee cup in the trash, grabbed his cane and hobbled over to the photo booth, dropping himself inside of it. It probably wasn’t going to work, but losing one quarter didn’t matter to him. Zane had wanted him to use the coin for that purpose, so he was going to try.

Orson almost gave up when he saw the handprint scanner. Probably some government thing to get people’s prints on file, he thought. But whatever, as if it mattered at this point in his life.

His vision was so poor that the bright flash barely bothered him. It looked funny in the picture, though, because the light reflected off the lenses of his glasses and left two white circles where his eyes would be. Even aside from that, it still wasn’t a flattering picture. His skin was the color of the Arctic and the light brought out every wrinkle and crag. He was so small and shrunken that his entire frame fit in the miniscule dimensions of the picture. Orson had to lean forward to look at the display, because his eyes were so bad.

The second flash was much, much brighter. Orson snapped his head back, a movement that normally would’ve made him ache, but it oddly didn’t affect him much. The glasses that he now didn’t need slid down a smoother nose and off of smaller ears, clattering to the floor. Feeling embarrassed at how small his shoulders looked, Orson did his best to sit up straight, a position he hadn’t assumed in a very long time. With a loud snap, the curve in his spine suddenly fixed itself, and he assumed a posture so perfect that a yardstick might as well have been pressing into his back. “Ahhh, much better,” he said in an old rasp.

The second picture was so clear. The colors were vivid and sharp. Everything was precise, and in focus. Orson blinked his eyes, expecting his vision to revert again, but it held perfectly. Had he EVER been able to see this good? Even as a child, he’d had glasses. He never remembered seeing the world in high definition.

As perfect as his eyesight now was, Orson didn’t notice that the long hairs in his ears and nose were now gone. His forehead was beginning to smooth out, as if someone was standing behind him and pulling back on his skin. The sudden growth of two strong, high cheekbones had greatly diminished the wrinkles on his face. Even though he had straightened up after the picture was taken, his shoulders already looked wider, his chest higher and fuller underneath his short-sleeved plaid shirt.

“Holy toledo,” he muttered at the sight of his arms. They were full and plump at the bicep, tapering in at the elbow before flaring out again in Popeye-style forearms. The extreme power looked odd underneath the flaky, elderly skin. Orson was absolutely positive that he had never had arms like that.

After a third flash came another picture and even more confusion. Oson’s mostly bald head seemed to be sprouting a fine layer of hair. It was like someone was slowly dimming the light that shone on his scalp, because it was getting darker and darker until it was evenly covered in a short layer of black fuzzy hair, like feathers on a newborn bird. It felt like silk to the touch. “’slike petting a kitten,” he mumbled in a markedly smoother voice.

Also smoother was his now wrinkle-free face, with poreless porcelain skin pulled taut over high cheeks and a strong jawline. Oson was really confused by the young face looking back at him. It was like he was looking at a non-existent grandson, if his grandson’s father was a GI Joe.

The body was a whole other matter. Shoulders that had once been sloped inward now stuck straight out like cliffs from his neck. His traps were mostly flat but his delts were huge, making him look as broad as two men. He had a beautiful, straight neck, like a proud pillar atop his flat, wide shoulders. Below it, his chest had filled out so fast that it had already burst his plaid shirt halfway open. Oson shifted uncomfortably as he felt his sleeves digging into his armpits. His lats pressed against the shirt’s seam and his delts had grown halfway into his sleeves, leaving no room for his big biceps and high, round pecs. If it had had a mouth, the shirt would’ve been screaming in agony.

Not as much agony as his pants, though. The high-waisted khakis already had a lot of fabric at the crotch, since they buttoned at Oson’s bellybutton, but his dick still looked like a giant fruitbasket bulging out of the cloth. All excess flesh at his waist had dwindled, making his waistband fall down to his lap since there was nothing to hold it up. However, his thighs didn’t have enough room in his pant legs, and his ass was so big it had already made a half-inch tear in his khakis. The big quadriceps and glutes were shaking and quivering in their small limitations, threatening to explode through at any second.

That was what happened as the fourth picture was taken. Oston was pretty sure that he was about to die, because it felt like every part of his body had suddenly blown away from the center, like a stick of dynamite had been stuck in his bellybutton.

His body hadn’t literally exploded, but his clothing pretty much had. Shreds of plaid and khaki fabric littered the bench and floor. Even his underwear was gone. He was completely nude. The only remaining part of his clothing was the shirt collar buttoned snugly around his thicker, but still graceful, neck. Oston reached up and tore it off. It was almost hard to reach up that high, though, because his deltoid had to stretch to give his huge arm enough space to reach past the globe-sized pecs he sported.

He was gargantuan. But not in the heavy, bulky way that indicated there was a lot of fat mixed with the muscle. No, Oston’s body was clearly defined, the striations of the muscle painfully obvious under his impossibly tight skin, a roadmap of perfectly-veined anatomy. Young, tough and ready. He was so ripped-up it looked painful, with biceps and triceps so big that it was like a mistake, like some kind of Frankenstein experiment.

Except not, because the rest of him was just as big. Pecs had grown out so far that it was a miracle how high and proud they were, with pointy nipples corking them right at the lowest crest, almost pointing straight down. Oston almost had to peer over his pecs as he looked at his picture. Huge hands, almost a foot in diameter, were resting on top of naked thighs that had to be seen to be believed.

He was an absolute beast of muscle, but his face was just the opposite. The handsome face, with exquisite bone structure, was now more beautiful than ever, with the same flawless symmetry as the rest of his body. His lips had filled into a kissable pout, his eyes had become almost perfect circles. Big moony eyes that broadcast his soul to everyone who saw them. Their dark color shimmered with confused fear. His cheeks were rosy and pink, but the rest of him was darkening into a deep tan.

“This f-feels so…inc, incred…” He tried to say ‘incredible,’ but his throat kept catching…like the way it was hard to talk during sex. He just couldn’t wrap his mind around anything. He felt like he was floating in a sexual sea, getting fucked in every orifice.

But as the fifth picture popped up on the screen, Oston furrowed his dark, shapely eyebrows together as he saw his skin. It was tan, yes, but not the kind of tan a white person gets out in the sun. This tan skin was a delicious-looking honey caramel, rich and evenly toned across his unbelievable body. His wide eyes were such a dark brown, they looked almost black. And his jaw had somehow filled out even sharper, pushing out past being just ninety-degree angles.

Short black stubble had popped up under the angles of his jaw and around his mouth. Not heavy or thick, just the typical shadow of the day, but it somehow looked adorable. The hair on top of his head was still a short buzz, an eighth-of-an-inch at most, but the texture was different and rougher. Oston remembered that his brown-black hair was pretty curly, so he liked to keep it cropped. Even then, the hair visibly swirled in different directions, but it looked really cute. Oston smiled a big pearly smile as he ran his leathery hands through it.

While his hands were rough, the rest of his body was not. His facial skin was still perfectly pure, and the rest of his body was too preoccupied with muscle to worry about having hair. Even his pits were silky smooth.

Oston shifted his naked ass back and forth on the bench, trying to get comfortable. His butt stuck out so far that he had to find the balance between his cheeks, otherwise he sat funny. The shifting movement gave him a boner. “Oh no,” he groaned, horrified. “Pleeease calm down,” he begged it, pulling his dinner-plate hands back from the erection like it was on fire. His big dick stuck straight up in the air, occasionally slapping against his outie bellybutton as he moved. It hadn’t always been an outie, but his abs had gotten so shredded and took up so much space in his flat midsection, they had sort of pushed his navel out.

He was breathing loud and hard, heaving his chest up almost to his pointy chin, his abs puffing out as far as they could to get in all the air. Oston felt incredible. So alive, so alert, every reflex at the ready. It was all happening. Everything was happening. He was happening.

And just like the flash exploded a sixth time, so did Boston’s body with testosterone and hormones. The new youth moaned with excitement as his raging boner released. Like a blink, he was flaccid, his huge cock now bundled up in lycra biker shorts that hid underneath his loose, nylon workout shorts. Briefs weren’t enough to contain him; he always had to wear something heftier, sometimes with a built-in cup. He couldn’t even remember if he’d cum at all. This sex stuff was so new.

Arms the size of telephone poles were attached to a torso so defined, it was impossible to believe. His shoulders stuck straight out from his new shirt. Actually, no, he chuckled to himself, this shirt was old as hell, from freshman football. He’d cut the sleeves off and sliced the fabric all the way down to the hem, just so he could fit his huge body inside of it. His ribs – the grape-like intercostals – and arms were always visible, and the shirt would fall open so far that no one could miss his huge pecs or wide back. His exposed sides showed off how incredible his taper was, with a chest that looked twice as wide as his waist.

It was the body of a muscle freak, but the face was so innocent and sweet, it looked almost strange. The jaw and nose were beyond perfect. Rosy cheeks were flush and sharp as knives, but the eyes were precious and angelic. His hair had a perfect youthful shine, and his heavy eyebrows were always expressive, whether he wanted them to be or not.

“B!” He heard a voice outside the booth, and a fist hitting the side. “C’mon bud, let’s go!”

Suddenly rushed, Boston bolted out of the wrong side of the booth and collided with a senior citizen. The older man stumbled backwards but did not fall, despite the enormity of the kid. A cup of coffee hit the ground and spilled a little.

“Oh!” Boston leapt forward and put his hand on the man’s back, steadying him. “I’m so sorry sir, I didn’t mean…I’m really sorry!”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” the man wheezed, already wiping his hands on his corduroys.

A mustached man in his early 40s came around the side of the booth. “Boston? Hey, what…what happened?”

“I didn’t look as I was getting out, I…oh no, you spilled your coffee, let me pay for that.”

“No, really,” the elderly man said, “it’s fine.”

“No, please, I gotta,” Boston said, pulling two crinkled ones out of the pocket of his loose workout shorts. He had intended to use them to buy a Gatorade, but he could do without. He shoved the bills into the man’s wrinkly hand, and the man looked up at Boston, who smiled kindly. It was a beatific smile, so pure and honest, with dimples deep enough to drown in. The slight babyface and angelic grin differed wildly from the insane muscles strapped to the tall frame.

“Do I know you?”, the senior citizen asked softly, distracted by the beautiful face.

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Sure I do, you’re that Austin kid, best athlete this town has seen in a damn long while. Why, it’s almost an honor being run into by you.”

Boston was past the point of correcting people on his name. People were always calling him Austin. “Thank you, sir,” he said with a good-natured grin and slight blush. His father, however, still wanted people to call his son by his actual name. “By the way,” Boston’s Dad whispered to the older man, “It’s Boston. With a B.”

“Ahhh,” the older man said. “Massachusetts, not Texas.”

Boston laughed. “Exactly.”

“Why Boston?”

“My wife grew up there,” Boston’s dad answered. “And it’s where this guy was-”

“DAD,” Boston cut off his father before the word “conceived” was uttered.

“So you’re not from there?”, the man asked Boston’s father, who responded with a smile. “Nooo no no, I was born in Spain. I’m an American, came to the US when I was still a baby, but I’m Spanish-born.”

“I’m Boston Viera,” the musclebound teen-dream said with a handshake. “Sorry again to run into you. I feel really bad.”

As they walked away, Mr. Viera gave his son’s large ass a hearty swat. When Boston was growing up, his father would muss his hair affectionately. But now Boston was six inches taller than his 5’9” father, so Mr. Viera had switched to a spank. “You handled that really well, Bos.”

“Thanks Dad.” Boston walked with a slightly awkward tread, with his back slightly hunched. Barely 18, he was not at all used to the outrageous body that he had developed over the past three years. Just didn’t have a handle on it yet. From a skinny junior-high twig to a monstrous muscle hulk, the change had been so rapid that his muscles hadn’t had time to be “lived in.” It would take a couple more years before Boston felt like he belonged in his own body. He was thankful for his dad and how much his dad had helped him get mammoth. They were super close. Close enough that Boston had felt comfortable admitting that he had a painful erection and needed to sit in private for a second, so he’d gone in the booth while his dad stood guard.

As the Vieras headed for a quick workout before stopping off at the sporting goods place to stock up for the upcoming seasons, the old man watched them walk away and felt a slight twinge of jealousy. That kid was a genetic freak, but it looked like his father was keeping him humble. “Good for them,” the man whispered under his breath, before looking at the two dollar bills in his hand. He had two bucks, but the coffee was only $1.75 after the senior discount.

He’d have a quarter left over…



Stephen had passed by the old photo booth lots of times. He worked in the office building across the street from the mega-mall, so numerous afternoons had been spent lunching with coworkers, or solo, at the food court. Having never once seen anyone using it, the photo booth’s removal had actually come up as a topic once or twice over lunch. It just seemed to be taking up space and collecting dust.

So, Stephen was justifiably amused by the fact that he was sitting in the old thing. His coworkers were tied up in a meeting that he’d been able to escape, so he’d agreed to wait for them so they could all have lunch together. Apparently, some kind of big to-do was going on and they’d all missed the memo, because the mall was stuffed with people. Every bench and table was in use. There was a giant tent taking up half of the parking spaces, putting the rest of the lot at capacity. Stephen wondered if he’d been caught in some time warp and it was suddenly the day after Thanksgiving.

The photo booth’s small seat was the only option he saw for resting while he waited, other than squatting on the floor, which was a little undignified. He sat on the bench and played a game on his phone.

Stephen didn’t see the first flash. After all, he hadn’t put any money in the machine, so he wasn’t expecting anything to happen. When the lights seemed to flicker, he just assumed that a bulb was on the fritz.

All he knew was that one moment he had his phone in his hands, and the next he didn’t have his phone at all. Steven was left staring at his suddenly empty palms. Palms that were chapped and ripped and callused, but that barely registered: he was too busy looking for his phone. Steven bent down and scanned the floor of the booth, then he turned his attention to the bench. It had to be close by. He’d just dropped it.

He turned to the left and a shoulder seam of his sweater burst open, then when he turned to the right, the other did the same. Another large rip was rendered in the middle of his back. Steven’s shoulders were looking rather broad compared to the rest of him, and his traps were swelling up through the neck of his shirt.

Steven noticed the second flash, but he was still too busy looking for his phone to really care. The real problem was how deeply uncomfortable his clothes were. He always wore the same thing to work: a sweater with a dress shirt underneath—the collar of the shirt pulled through the neck of the sweater—and a pair of pants, either jeans or, in the case of today, khakis. Six-feet and slim, his sizing hadn’t changed much since college. Maybe he’d grown a bit in the waistline, but his clothes certainly had no right to feel like cellophane. Steve started noticing the multiple tears in his sweater and was soon tugging at them, ripping it off like a child tears away gift wrapping. His white shirt was struggling to stay put around him, and he could see skin-revealing gaps in between the buttons. Hoping to at least save the shirt, Steve opened three buttons just in time for his pecs to explode outward, like two huge kernels of popcorn suddenly popping. Oddly ignorant of the immense changes to his chest, Steve was instead undoing his cuffs and rolling them up his arms, in hopes of preserving his sleeves. His forearms reacted exactly like his pectorals, blowing up so dramatically that it was simply impossible to believe. Steve’s hands were twice their original size, giant fingers as strong as steel fumbling with the small buttons.

That was when he noticed the picture. Ignoring his cleavage and far-too-tight shirt, Steve instead chose to notice his hair. It wasn’t the right length…just a short crewcut on his head. Steve couldn’t remember if he liked it shorter than that, or longer. He swore that it had been long enough to comb it to the side this morning, which he had done right after his daily shave. Too bad he already was sporting an oddly black shadow on his cheeks and chin, and especially under his nose. It was odd that his whiskers had grown so fast—and so dark—was he one of those guys who had to keep an electric shaver in his desk at work just to keep the shadow at bay? Steve couldn’t remember. He had never been very hairy, he was pretty sure.

Another flash brought him back to his clothes. Far too tight, even by his standards. He began to undo the rest of the buttons, but his shoulders and arms suddenly inflated like there were secret balloons under his skin. His yoke was so large, he looked like the linemen he’d see in NFL games. Two traps jutting straight from his jawline, into deltoids the size of basketballs. An odd look for a desk jockey. Stev knew there was no way to get his arms out of his sleeves without tearing the cheap white fabric. “Might as well have some fun with it,” he said to himself, so he began flexing, chuckling as the seams started to break. Another surge of growth peaked his biceps up to ludicrous heights, the snow-capped tips of his mountainous arms blasting right through the fabric itself.

The shirt was gone, reduced to a pile of buttons and scraps that would soon disappear, like the hair on Stev’s head was currently doing. The big man awkwardly itched his scalp as the hair receded inward, his crewcut shrinking into a dusting before leaving his dome as smooth as Mr. Clean’s. But hair on top of his head was merely being relocated, as Stev soon realized. His eyebrows grew into untamed bushes, and he could feel each individual whisker growing out above his upper lip. Stev stroked his mustache with his thumb and index finger, parting it down the middle just so. The more he stroked, the more the ends grew, and grew. Short in the center but long on the ends, the whiskers had turned from brown to raven-black. At Stev’s command, the ends curled into perfect handlebars, and his mustache was complete, the stubble on his cheeks and square chin a perfect complement to the carefully maintained twirls on his mustache.

Stev was worried about his shirt, or lack thereof. He had often gone shirtless helping his Papa on the farm as a boy, but things were different now. Maybe lunch would have to wait. Maybe…wow, big nipples, he noticed suddenly. When did he have nipples this big? Were they stretched out because of his pecs? Oh, that had to be it, it made sense that they’d stretch out. Stev started to tweak them, noticing the small rings of black hair around each nipple.


Like a reverse whirlpool, the black hair suddenly swirled out from the hard nipples. Stav grew thick black hair on his fingers, on his forearms. A thick line rested perfectly between his eight abs, and a dense pelt grew in above his now-hard cock. It felt like ants crawling all over his chest. Stav looked at the baby-smooth skin beginning to shadow, each little curl slowly growing out luxuriously, until a black rug had spread across his entire chest. Stav’s fingers kept yanking on his nipples. “Come on, my little babies,” he said authoritatively, his voice beginning to change. “Come on and grow bigger for me.”

The warm feeling returned to his chest, and Stav felt his pecs bulge out further, just the slightest bit, a tentative response as if they were unsure if it was alright to grow more. “Come on, my babies,” he said again, an accent creeping into his words. He tenderly cupped each pec like it was the head of an infant, and soon he was growing again, until each pec was larger than a gym’s 25-pound plate. Stav felt the warmth spreading, into his shoulders, down through his back into his ass, up into his cock, coursing into the thighs and calves and feet. He grew, he re-shaped, each muscle perfecting itself with absurd devotion. His skintight leather pants squeaked as they rubbed together. His studded leather boots stomped over and over into the floor.

“Ooooof,” the changing voice moaned. “Unnnnghhhhh…”

The black leather of his pants began to accent itself on the sides with a red and orange pattern. His brown leather belt became black as metal studs shot into view. He stopped wanting lunch or his phone, he stopped worrying about his shirtless torso. All he could think about was muscle, strength and hair.


Stav stuck his fingers on each side of his lip and felt the handlebars curling around them; soon the whiskers had grown enough to wrap around twice. The waxed hair shone in the lights. Stav pumped his hips as they widened, he moaned as his rib cage expanded. He needed to look as big up top as possible. Big, beefy, barrel-chested, brawny…beautiful…

His brow grew in like a canopy over his eyes, his eyebrows taking on an arrogant arch. The tip of his nose rounded, but most of all, his jaw shrank in length and grew in width, boxing his face out like a lantern as his beaming mouth readjusted into its new position. The smooth, rosy texture of his skin began to harden as his face became tough and dominant. The mustache was looking less and less out of place. His chin was like a brick sticking the wrong way out of a wall, large enough to rest a finger on it. It dimpled at the same moment that gold studs bloomed out of Stav’s earlobes.

“OHHHFFFUCCCKKKK-“ His pecs heaved up to his chin as he arched his back, roaring with ecstasy, and the final picture caught his head as it fell back with his release.

Gustav immediately felt shame. It was perverse, doing such lewd acts in public. Good thing the curtains were closed. He pulled out his strip of film and tore it up with his huge hands. Adjusting the gold metal cuffs snapped around his thick, hairy wrists, Gustav then looked at his reflection in them. Masculine, stoic Slovak features stared back at him, but soon a small smirk had formed on his face, cocking his handlebar mustache to one side. Ah, Papa’s farm had been good to his body.

With one final tug to his tight leather pants, yanking them high enough to avoid exposing the crack between his two global glutes, Gustav stepped out of the booth to wild applause. Little impromptu shows like this one were one of his favorite parts of working for the Circus. The hairy Eastern European beast of a strongman knew his job well, and he was ready to do it.

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