Tattoo* (musc)

Copyright Aardvark 2011, blah blah blah.

This is in obvious tribute to The Barber series by the great Texzilla. If you haven't read it yet, what are you waiting for?

It was 2:00 on a Tuesday afternoon, but that wasn’t stopping the two fraternity brothers from being tipsy.

They weren’t DRUNK, per se, but it was getting warmer out and the downtown bars were more inviting than homework or class, so Blake and Sam had decided to go loosen up for a while. Both wearing polos – Blake’s a light purple, Sam’s a deep green – and khaki shorts with boat shoes and baseball caps, it looked like they had somehow coordinated their outfits.

“Maaannnn, it’s so NICE out,” Blake said joyfully as they walked on the downtown sidewalks, stopping at each shop to look in and usually mock the window displays. “I’m gonna buy you that bra, you’ll look soooo good in it.”

“Not as good as your girl did in it last night when I was nailing her.”

“Don’t joke, that girl’s a ho but she’s MY ho!”

They both laughed, even more when Sam tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and stumbled without an ounce of grace. Blake roared. “Serves you right, asshole!”

“Heyyyy,” Sam said, sticking out his hand and stopping Blake short. “We should get tats!”

“Here?” Blake looked at the sign on the door. TATTOO*, it said, presumably shorthand for ‘Tattoo Star,’ or something gay like that. “No one under 18 allowed ever,” Blake said out loud, reading the small letters below the name. “Guess that rules you out, baby boy.”

“I’m 19 now, I do what I want,” Sam said, puffing out his chest, and Blake laughed. “Yeah, except drink legally.”

“That’s what fakes are for,” Sam said as he opened the door, but Blake hesitated. “You serious about the tat thing?”

“Yeahhh, remember when you said you were thinking about getting the coat of arms put on you? Let’s do it!”

Blake was sober enough to know the booze was messing with his decision-making abilities, and he was drunk enough to not give a fuck. So he followed Sam inside.

“What’s up guys?”

There were four chairs lining the wall to the right, and on the left was the receptionist desk, where a young, skinny guy with tattoo sleeves on both arms sat. He appeared to be the only employee there.

“Hey man, you accepting walk-ins today?”

The man shrugged. “Don’t see why not. Usually walk-ins are Saturday only, but I had two cancellations so there’s no one here. I’ll do you guys, no problem…” He reconsidered for a second. “Actually, it depends what you want. Anything huge?”

“No, just our fraternity coat of arms.”

“Ah, cool man, no, that’s no problem. Shouldn’t take long. Where on your body?”

“Back,” Sam said at the same time that Blake said “Arm.”

“Arm,” Sam quickly said, amending his statement.

“Right or left?”

“I’m a leftie, so I’ll do left,” Blake said, while Sam chose his right side.

“Okay,” the Artist said, producing from under the counter a thick binder full of laminated examples. “I have all the coats of arms in this binder, it’s my University one, so just flip through and find what you want and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Cool man, cool, we just…oh, here it is, second page. That was fast.”

The Artist looked at the file name, pulled it up on his computer and soon had a stencil printed out on the thermal fax.

“We doin’ this in color or…”

“I want mine in color,” Sam said, while Blake hesitated. “I think I’ll just do black and white, if that’s cool with you,” he said to Sam, who nodded but this time did not change his decision.

“I have two chairs, I can just sit in between you two and do both at once, in spurts, if you want,” the Artist offered with a smile, and both boys nodded. “Sweet!”

“K, just need to see some ID for ages, please.”

Both produced their real driver’s licenses – Sam was 19, Blake a year older. Soon, they were in their seats, the artist seated in between them and giving them all the customary instructions and warnings. Sam and Blake couldn’t stop grinning at each other.

Although neither said anything to the other, there was something about the disposable razor shaving their upper arms, and the soap and water being spread on it that almost aroused the two young men. Sam could feel an erection beginning as soon as the paper pressed against the outside of his bicep. He’d wanted a tat for so long, and now he’d have one of his very own.

Blake, likewise, was excited, but also more hesitant. Still, he’d heard of tattoos being addicting, and was curious as to what it would be like to have a permanent adornment. And he loved the frat, so it’d be cool to have a lifelong reminder of all the good times.

Both guys were staring into the brick wall in front of them, afraid to move at all for fear of messing up the Artist. There were small mirrors at each station, but only for checking out the art being done; neither Sam nor Blake could see their faces, just a little bit of their bodies.

If either Sam or Blake had bothered to turn their heads to the side, they would’ve seen the Artist watching the temporary purple ink moving around of its own free will, moving into a different pattern on their skin. Soon, neither boy had a coat of arms on him at all. Blake’s tattoo design even moved up and to the side, to a place closer to his shoulder, although still visible thanks to his rolled-up t-shirt sleeve.

“You guys ready?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and Blake nodded.

The sound of the tattoo machine buzzing on made both the frat brothers instantly spring big boners. Blake even moaned a little, but was thankful that the noise covered it up. Sam slowly, hesitantly moved his hand into his lap to hold down the tenting in his khaki shorts.

The first piercing of the needle took Sam’s breath away, but he’d heard once of someone passing out when they got a tattoo, and he swore he wouldn’t let that happen. It hurt a little, but he knew his skin would get used to it.

He shut his eyes and felt his boner growing longer, and longer, creating a bigger and bigger impression in his shorts and becoming very difficult to miss. Soon, it looked like he was smuggling a salami around in there, and his hand did a laughably poor job of concealing his tumescence. The Artist looked down and smirked. “Don’t worry about it, happens to a lot of guys,” he said, and Sam breathed out in relief.

“Oh good,” he replied, the tremors in his voice smoothing out into something resembling confidence. “Thought it was just me.”

“I’m a little jealous of what I see,” the Artist laughed, and Sam’s face clouded over for a moment before he decided to let the comment slide. “Thanks,” he chuckled with a slight red to his cheeks. “Sometimes it’s kind of a problem. Ever tried to steal a cucumber from the grocery store? Me either, but I get accused a lot.”

All three men laughed. The Artist continued to chortle as he reached down and pumped his seat higher to keep up with the height that Sam was attaining. The young man’s arms and legs were stretching out of his clothes. His polo shirt rode up atop his navel, and his khakis began to dig into his crotch and ass. His sleeves were rolled up, but didn’t even need to be thanks to the new length of his arms. The boy had been just below six-feet when he’d entered, three inches shorter than Blake, but now he was resembling something of a giant. His big feet had to sit on the floor instead of the chair’s metal footrest, and several inches of arm hung off the end of his armrest.

“How tall are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“6’7”,” came the immediate response.


“Dunno where I got it from,” Sam rumbled, his voice getting louder as his confidence bloomed. “Dad’s six-feet, brother’s six-feet, uncle’s six-foot-one, grandpas were both under six, and then me. I just wouldn’t stop growing, kept getting taller and taller.”

“Alrighty, your linework’s done,” the Artist said, clearly speaking about the young man’s newly tall frame, giant feet and big hands. Sam didn’t seem to care a wit about the polo shirt he wore, so small that it was comical, barely covering half his torso and digging into his armpits. He was more annoyed with his Daisy Duke-esque shorts, only because his cock was so big that it hurt being bundled up in such small quarters, especially when it was completely erect. “Just rest for a second while I do your friend.”

“K bro, man, it still stings a little. I’ll wait for that to go away.”

“Good idea.” The Artist swiveled his chair to Blake, who sat patiently. “Your tattoo’s a lot smaller, so you won’t take as long.”

“Cool, cool.”

The needle on Blake’s skin almost made him cum in his shorts. He bit his lip and tried to think Puritan thoughts, but the vibrations seemed to run right through him and it made him feel like he was getting fucked solidly.

The young man was already 6’2”, and experienced no upward growth. His frame, however, was slightly altered as the ink went into his skin. His neck shrank slightly in length, his shoulders widened enough that he had to sit up in his seat, and his torso developed a natural barrel shape as his waist thickened a bit. Individually, not noticeable, but collectively the changes made his body look quite different. Blake’s natural lankiness, something people always commented on, shifted into a natural power. He was kind of a thick, tough-bodied kid, with a thick, tough cock to match. The zipper on his shorts began to break from the weight of his package, and right as he was afraid that his giant meat was going to escape, the needle went off.

“See? Didn’t take long at all.”

“Oh good,” Blake said with a half-smile, his voice now a booming bass. “Wasn’t so bad, huh man?”

“Nope,” Sam responded with a grin of his own. “Who gets it filled in first?”

“Let’s go with you, big guy,” the Artist said as he prepared the magnums. “You’ve got a few colors on yours, so I might do one then switch to your friend, whatever, we’ll see how it’s going. K?”

“You got it.”

When the red ink began to go into Sam’s skin, the young man dug his toes into his shoes and grimaced a little. He heard a pop and looked down to see his shirt beginning to tremble, then saw a white button sitting in his lap. Another pop, and suddenly he could see his chest rising up, two pecs beginning to form, solid and square. His collar started tearing, and soon his chest had grown had wide enough that he had to move his arms further apart, which he managed to do without interrupting the Artist’s work. Sam wasn’t quite sure what was happening.

It was a marvel, his chest. It just kept growing out further and further, pulling the open collar with it, so forceful that Sam had to work to hold his neck up for fear of the collar yanking it down. Bigger it grew, blasting through the middle of the destroyed shirt, inch by inch. His nipples began to stretch wider, making him even hornier, and soon the beefy pecs were developing the classic divide between them. Solid and heavy, they couldn’t resist gravity and started to drop down. The shoulders of his shirt started to tear from the top of his pecs pushing too far out, creating a monstrous sort of cleavage. Now each far bigger than their owner’s own head, the pecs had to widen out slightly when they could grow no further out to the front. The muscles in his shoulders started to beef outward, and the Artist had to raise his needle for a moment to let Sam’s biceps quiver into far bigger guns, each curve impressively defined for such a tall man. His biceps were literally bigger than basketballs, and while his triceps had a perfect horseshoe shape, they were far too large to be called merely horseshoes: no horse was big enough to wear them.

Sam wanted to smash his cock in between his legs, but his thighs were so large that he couldn’t push them any closer together, and his cock had nowhere to stick out but at a 45-degree angle out front.

“There,” the Artist said to the growing muscle freak, “red’s done.”

Sam just moaned.

“Need a moment?”

Sam nodded, unable to speak, so the Artist turned to the barrel-chested Blake. “Just some black and a little shading for you, my friend.”

“Yessir,” the deep bass intoned.

The polo had still fit Blake before, but as soon as he started to beef up, it was hopeless. Pecs shot out so fast that both buttons exploded off his shirt at once, hitting the wall with such force that Blake didn’t even see where they bounced. Unlike Sam’s titanic chest, Blake’s just kept rising higher and higher, even as they grew outward. His traps swelled right through the collar of his polo, tearing it up top as it shredded underneath his pecs, too.

Blake’s shorts began to dig into his thick thighs as a beefy ass appeared on his frame. It looked like he was wearing a khaki diaper. He moved around so much in his seat that the Artist scolded him. He could hear the khaki tearing from his booty widening out and moving up closer to his back. His legs quivered with growth, diamond-cut muscles popping out all over, including a set of calves that looked like they were about to moo. His feet felt too small for his shoes, so he kicked them off and wriggled his toes wildly about as he felt his nipples grow big and hard.

His waist appeared to be shrinking, but on the contrary, it was the only part of him not changing size. Lats flared suddenly and his shoulders blew up into a mountainous shape, delts inflating quickly enough to rupture seams.

Blake looked at his forearms. He’d never seen arms so big on a human. They were so big that they made his palms look small, and he noticed that all the hair was gone. He must’ve shaved his arms.

“So how long have you two been bodybuilding?”

“Started in college,” Blake answered breathlessly, his muscles beginning to firm up as his back continued to spread wider. Sweat started to pour down his face.

“Need a break, bro?”

“Y-yes, I think so,” Blake cooed, feeling precum leaking into his boxer briefs. “Just a few seconds.”

“Alrighty,” the Artist said, swinging back around to the giant muscleman fidgeting with his clothes. “Let’s get back to business, shall we? Blue,” he said, preparing his ink.

Bzzzzzzzzz went the needle, and although Sam thought he was prepared this time, he quickly grew hot and bothered again. “Oh god,” he moaned, feeling his ass bubble out, the khaki tightening like cellophane around his bowling-ball glutes. Now far too large for the chair, the mammoth man had grown so shockingly huge that he appeared to be two big men fused together. He placed a hand under his pec to feel the bulging muscle, and the overhang completely hid the mitt from view.

He itched like crazy. The long blond curls he’d had since junior high school were shortening into his head, and straightening too. The hair grew neater and more precise, until it had shrunk into a tight golden-yellow flattop, so perfectly cut that it could be used as a level.

As his hair had diminished, his eyebrows had grown heavy, which was good because they were blond enough that, even with their thickness, they were sometimes hard to see. Except they grew quickly visible against his California-tanned skin, so golden that he obviously used a tanning bed, like any good bodybuilder.

The vibrations running through Sam appeared to be adjusting his features. His jaw jutted out in a flash, like it was trying to escape from his face, suddenly so wide that it dominated the rest of his face. Sam could feel a dimple press into his boxy chin, and his eye sockets pushed deeper into his face, framed by his intimidating brow.

Jockier and jockier the boy grew. Although, as the weathering appeared on his face, it was hard to call him a boy at all. The creamy 19-year-old skin thickened from the daily shavings and excessive sun exposure, until it was far more suited to the 33-year-old he now was. Not old by any means, but definitely a man, not a youth.

But the youth that was being lost was made up for in beauty: this man was handsome, hunky. Any word used for describing an attractive male suited him. His facial bones were as sharp as glass, his eyes a vibrant grassy-green, his nose a perfect angle. Cheekbones so pointy that they looked like they could be used as a shelf, same with his chin.

The Artist lifted his needle as a vein thicker than a television cable laced itself around Sam’s arm. He looked at the moaning example of virility in front of him, a face that looked like it had been created by pure testosterone. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Duke Nukem?”

Sam started laughing, a deep chuckle, and Blake laughed too. “Y’hear that, man?” Sam shouted, and Blake replied, “I call him Duke Nukem sometimes! He’s seriously the human Duke.”

“It was my college nickname,” Sam smirked cockily, flashing a quick glimpse of perfect teeth. “I get it a lot from the nerdy guys.” He paused and grimaced. “Sorry, not saying you’re a nerd, I played Duke Nukem all the time back in the day too.”

“No offense taken, don’t worry.”

The Artist turned back to Blake, whose lavender polo was still struggling to stay pieced together over his eye-popping shape. His chest was so high and huge that it was a miracle it didn’t hit him in the face when he ran, and his ass was so powerful that finding pants to fit it, and his small waist, was a constant annoyance. His thick wrestler’s neck and brawny traps had completely destroyed the shirt’s seams on top.

Blake had his hands on top of his pecs, rubbing slightly as he drank in the sight of his chest. His eyes were a little buggy, equally confused and turned-on.

“Okay, James Earl Jones,” the Artist laughed as he switched needles, and Blake laughed too. “I know, I know, it’s so deep. You should’ve heard the shit I got when I was 13 and my voice changed!”

“I bet it was pretty weird to hear that coming out of a kid,” the Artist said as he went to work on the tattoo.

“Oh, I think my dad was jealous,” Blake chuckled, not noticing the changing color of his skin. “He was always telling people that he was going to hire me to take his phone calls at work.” The white shade rocketed past the color of Sam’s dark tan and into an even deeper pigment. He wasn’t a black man, but Blake was certainly brown as a nut. He had a sort of honey-glazed tone to his skin, a luscious color that looked like it would taste like caramel mocha when licked. It gave his muscles an irresistible luster, defining them so much that any extra tanning was completely unnecessary. Blake always looked contest-ready.

His brows arched suddenly, shaping themselves slightly too well. Blake plucked a little, he had to, otherwise he’d have a fucking unibrow and that was out of the question. If he didn’t shave so much, there was no question that he’d be a hairy guy. A slight redness crept over his exposed chest, where the pelt had been waxed off. Five o’clock shadow swept over his face, a swath of perfect brown silk. He shaved every morning. It didn’t matter.

His face was getting wider, and wider. It had to in order to keep up with the thickness of his tree-trunk neck. Blake’s lips became fuller even has he continued to regale his audience with stories of his deep-voiced youth. The angles of his jaw had grown so far downward and outward that his head resembled a cube. His brow grew out like a ledge over his now-black eyes, and his nose became wider, but stayed beautiful and straight. Blake could feel his skin being pulled tight by the sudden expansion of his cheekbones. Not as old as Sam, but certainly not a college student anymore, Blake looked to be late 20s, right on the cusp of turning the big 3-0.

A platinum-blond haircut looked very strange on the obviously Hispanic bodybuilder. The Artist kept one eye trained on the top of Blake’s head as the blond locks grew out, blackening as they went. With his free hand, Blake pushed back his thick black tresses, feeling the gel slick them down. His inky-black hair was straight as could be, combed backwards like a greaser, a look accentuated by his sideburns being cut to dip into his sharp cheekbones like lightning bolts.

“Looking good, man, looking good,” the Artist complimented his customer, and Blake grinned, not caring if he was talking about the tat or the body and face. “Thanks.”

The strapping blond hulk knew it was his turn again. His erection pointed straight upward now, bigger than ever, but he didn’t give a damn anymore.

“So,” the Artist conversed as he began the white. “Is the polo and khakis thing some kind of uniform?”

“Nah, man,” the muscle freak answered, his eyes shutting with pleasure. “Just a personal…thing…oh fuck…”

The clothes began reforming around the former Sam’s ridiculous body. His collar spread wider, opening far enough to reveal the top and middle of his gigantic chest. A button grew on, then two, then three, until his shirt had grown buttons that ran like a road into the waist of his tight pants. Cut generously to allow for his ass and cock, the flat-front pants were still ludicrously tight over his thighs and calves. His boat shoes lost their texture and glossed over, lacing tightly until they were black, thick-soled work shoes. The green color darkened, even as the weave of the former polo turned into a combination of several materials. One of them had to be lycra, spandex or Under Armor, something like that; there was a slightly reflective quality to the dark button-down shirt, and it served as a perfect accent to the incredible muscular power underneath. The rippling muscles looked incredible within the crisply starched fabric. Military creases on both sides of the shirt tapered inward to accentuate the shape of the man’s body, and the neck within the open, pointed collar was tense, causing ropes of muscle to bulge out dramatically.

Only buttoned halfway, and somehow still tight, it was a wonder that the giant didn’t explode through his clothes with a single step. But the pants and shirt had good enough of a make that they’d held firm for years, growing with their owner, who was bursting with pride at all the muscle he’d packed into his favorite clothes.

“Alright, finished,” the Artist said. “I’ll finish your friend and we can all check out the product together, alright?”


The Latino stud had a huge white grin on his face as the needle went to work. His clothes began to alter themselves in the same way. The darkening fabric became immediately crisp, slightly stiff from its immaculate care and ironing. Shorts became long creased pants, shoes became black, shirt became a tight button-down, hanging mostly open to show off the burly chest within. With traps as big as his, the collar rested almost even with his meaty jawline, which was locked in a powerful, focused clench.


Both men came inside their black boxer-briefs.

The two massive, bodybuilding policemen carefully rose out of their chairs. They were living, breathing fantasies now. Studs. Joe, the tall blond, looked like he was about to hit the ceiling. Gabe looked at his friend’s long legs, wobbling for a moment from the stiffness of sitting. “Easy there, GI Joe.”

Joe laughed. “He calls me that, too.”

Stuffed inside Joe’s left sleeve was an arm so huge that it looked like it could be used a battering ram, or a telephone pole. The tight blue sleeve was wrapped around a delt bigger than a basketball, causing the gold-and-white patch of a police shield to pucker around the muscle. The right sleeve was rolled up, and underneath it was the Artist’s work: a perfect American flag.

“Aw, shit, I love it!” Joe was completely enthused. “Looks fuckin’ awesome.”

Both men’s chests were so large that the scalloped breast pockets of their uniform shirts curved underneath the crests of their pecs. Their gold nameplates were atop their right pecs, and Joe’s – “GALLOWAY” - was bouncing up and down with excitement. It was nothing short of a miracle that his microphone, also attached to the right side of his shirt, didn’t pop off. The cord was stretched tight from running over his monstrous shoulder and chest, the distance between waist and chest almost too great. Around the men’s waists were the thick black leather utility belts that were their livelihoods – taser, radio, flashlight, multi-tool, baton. Most prominent were the gun and handcuffs, hanging from Joe’s right side but Gabe’s left, since he was the leftie.

“Easy there, Galloway,” Gabe chuckled, his buttons nearly breaking with the force of his laughter. “Check out mine.”

Gabe flexed his shoulder as he showed off his tattoo: nestled in the divot between his deltoid and his pec was inked a black bullet, the exact size and shape as the one he’d been shot with while on duty.

“That looks so good, Fernandez,” Joe said truthfully before turning to the artist. “You really did a great job.”

The Artist smiled. “Thanks man, I have to admit I’m pretty happy with the outcome myself. Now, why is it you couldn’t have anything directly police-related?”

“It’d be stupid, since most all of us have to go undercover at some point,” Officer Galloway explained. “The Chief isn’t big on visible tattoos at all, says they can be intimidating to civilians, and I’m sure he’s right, so we got ‘em where they can be covered even by short sleeves.”

“I don’t think you gentlemen can avoid being intimidating, even if your skin was pure as snow. One look at those chests…” The Artist drank in the sight of the meaty pecs fighting their way through the open, and closed, buttons of the uniform shirts.

Joe laughed. “But I’m obviously not gonna go undercover as anything other than an American, I mean, LOOK at me,” and all three chuckled. “You’re as American as apple pie, Ford trucks and Uncle Sam on stilts,” Fernandez said with a smile before slipping into a comically over-the-top Spanish accent, “and there’s no hiding that, hombre.”

“Yessir, and I love this country, so the flag was a safe bet.”

Both officers placed their blue uniform hats on their heads as they paid and thanked the Artist again. Joe cracked his head on the doorframe as they walked out. “Motherfucker,” he snarled. “You’d think I’d be better at ducking by now.”

As they hit the street, the sun making their uniforms shine a brilliant blue, they both put on their mirrored aviators.

“You missed a button,” the Latino brick house said to his partner, whose bronzed chest was now nearly fully on view. “We can do two open, but not three.”

“Dammit,” Joe muttered, arching his back outward so that his pecs would sink in far enough to give him the necessary room to cover up. The button held firm but Joe could feel that it was on shaky ground – and he loved that. If that thing burst while he was on duty, he was going to cum again, no ifs, ands or buts. “They don’t make bigger sizes than triple-X, I’ll have to get something custom-made.”

“With all the alterations you get so that it fits your waist, you might as well get it custom anyway.”

Both officers laughed. “That’s not information to be spread around,” Joe said with a faux-dark tone to his voice.

“Is everything okay in that tattoo parlor?” Both Fernandez and Galloway heard the question, and looked down to see two small men, laughably short in comparison to the two Goliaths that were crammed into their cop uniforms.

Officer Fernandez placed a hand on his belt and cocked his hips, smirking through his stubble, while Officer Galloway fiddled with the button in between his pecs as he talked. “Better than okay, it’s great in there. I highly recommend it.”

“Oh cool, I just thought, y’know, two cops leaving a place, maybe something was up.” The speaking man was at eye level with the long fingers that played with the uniform button. He wondered, for a moment, if it would shoot off and blind him.

“Nope, get in there and get tatted up, it’s Precinct-approved,” Officer Fernandez boomed over his shoulder as the cops swaggered away. Walking side-by-side, their shoulders took up the entire sidewalk’s width, their big booties bouncing up and down with each large stride.

“That cop looked like Duke Nukem,” Bryce said to his friend Kameron, who nodded. “They both looked like superheroes, man, I’ve never seen anyone…” Kameron trailed off as he watched the bodybuilders hop into their patrol car. “Their uniforms, like, fit perfectly but also not at all, get me?”

“Get you. I think they were just showing off, the big guy would have to get his stuff made special at least…”

“The other guy’s huge too, he’s just not scary-tall,” Kameron muttered. “But he wasn’t short.”


“Hey guys?” The Artist finally grew tired of the chatter and butted into the conversation. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yeah, we’re your 3:00, we thought we’d come a little early but I guess you…are you free now?”

“Yeah, the cops were my last customers.”

“Were those really their uniforms?” Bryce asked sheepishly.

“Don’t see why they wouldn’t be wearing their uniforms. I’ve seen a lot of bodybuilder guys dress like that.”

“They look like movie cops or something,” Kameron said, practically in a world all his own.

“So what are you guys planning on getting?”

“I wanted the Green Lantern symbol right here,” Kameron said, reaching over his shoulder and doing his best to touch in between his shoulder blades. His flabby chest got in the way.

Bryce piped in. “And I’m getting the Daredevil logo, the Ds, on the side of my ribcage.”

“Bummer about the movie adaptations, huh?” The Artist made small talk as he pulled up images on his computer.

“I liked the Daredevil movie,” Bryce said defensively.

“Oh, of course, it wasn’t bad,” the Artist backtracked. “Just not my taste, I suppose.” He changed the subject immediately. “What’s the story behind these?”

“We met in a comic-book movie forum,” Kameron said excitedly. “These were our avatars. This is actually the first time we’ve met in person…Bryce flew in for the comic convention this weekend, and we’re gonna hit it up together with our new tats.”

“Ahaaa.” The Artist’s reaction seemed subdued to both young men, but free of judgment. “Well, that’s…” - he struggled to find the right word - “…cool.”

Both guys were short: Bryce stood 5’6” and Kameron, 5’5”. In other ways, though, they were quite different, and it was clear that they had met online based on similar interests and not similar looks. Kameron was, to put it cruelly, fat. His t-shirts – double-layered, to hide his omnipresent sweat – did nothing to conceal his breasts and gut, or flatter his figure. He had to buy them big so that they covered his entire torso, and consequently they were extra-baggy in the shoulder area, making him look like he was constantly being reflected by a funhouse mirror. Facially, he wasn’t tragic, just uninteresting. Nothing about his looks was of note. Even his teeth, straightened by braces, were beginning to fall slightly out of line thanks to his lax retainer use.

Bryce, on the other hand, was skinny, his desire to gain weight being hampered by a litany of food allergies that had left him underdeveloped. He was pale and weak, but far more attractive than his new friend. Not a stunner by any means, but his eyes had a liveliness to them that was enhanced by his black-framed glasses, and his polo shirt fit well enough to telegraph at least a little bit of style. Both men were light-haired, Kameron’s in a tight mushroom of blond curls, and Bryce’s in a buzz that looked home-done.

“About what size are we thinking?”

“Medium-sized, I guess?” Kameron held out his hand. “Like, mine about the size of my palm?”


“That sounds good for me too,” Bryce parroted, and the Artist shook his head internally at all the copy-catting between friends happening in his studio today.

“You do realize,” he finally said, carefully, “that these will be on your bodies forever? I know I shouldn’t be saying it, but you just seem so cavalier about-”

“No, no, we’ve thought about it,” Bryce interrupted brusquely.

The Artist sighed. “Okay then, these look okay?”, he asked, about the images on the computer’s screen.


“Okay, I’ll print ‘em and you can have a seat. Now, I tattooed both of those cops at once, just alternating turns, so if that seems like a good idea to you…”

“Oh, that’d be great, man,” Kameron said, the ‘man’ sounding stilted, like he was trying on a speech style not suited to him. “Yeah, let’s do that, bro.” ‘Bro’ sounded even more desperate.

As they took their seats, Kameron and Bryce exchanged a look of utter I-can’t-believe-we’re-doing-this excitement. “Finally, we can show off our tats at the Con, too!”

Kameron had doffed his shirt for the back tattoo to be done. The Artist ran a razor over the area, and the young man in the chair suddenly felt his dick stiffen. His eyes widened a little but he tried not to betray his emotions, even when he felt the paper press against his back. “Oooooh,” he found himself breathe out.

“It’ll be okay,” the Artist said discreetly as he peeled the thermal paper away. The ink stayed for a moment, and for a brief second the Artist wondered whether Kameron had, perhaps, not been chosen. But just then, the purple rushed together like a whirlpool, and the ink crawled down Kameron’s undefined back, disappearing into his waistband. The Artist panicked for a moment, afraid that he would have to conduct a search for the tattoo’s new location, but soon the purple splotch traveled back into sight and anchored itself near Kameron’s right ankle, which was thankfully exposed due to his shorts.

The Artist looked at the new tattoo with surprise. This would be an interesting one.

The same process was repeated with Bryce, hesitation followed by swift travel down to the ankle. The Artist had to ask his client to roll up the legs of his skinny jeans, and the pants were almost too tight to do so, the bunching stopping only right above the purple ink. Bryce thought he’d asked for the ribcage, but maybe it’d be better this way.

Bryce’s new stencil was even more of a surprise than Kameron’s. This was going to be an intriguing few minutes, the Artist thought, and he wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Both new designs were far smaller than originally intended; each area was a little larger than a dollar coin.

Kameron looked over to Bryce and ascertained that his friend was also having difficulties controlling his physical response to the sensation – and excitement – that went along with the preparation.

“What the…why’d I take my shirt off?” Kameron looked at the garment in his hands, confused, and quickly slipped it back on over his doughy shoulders as the needle buzzed to life. Apparently, Bryce would be going first.

A small cry escaped from Bryce’s mouth as the Artist went to work; the sound was an odd merging of excitement, pain and sexual satisfaction. Bryce was strikingly bad at controlling himself. Sam and Blake had appeared to at least have some sexual experience, but it was apparent that Bryce had very little, if any at all, and he didn’t know what to do about the unbearable urges that were racking his body. He didn’t even know why he had them. There was just something about modifying one’s body…the excitement of knowing he wasn’t ever going to be quite the same made Bryce’s little cock harden.

He started sweating immediately. Puberty rushed back to him like it had never ended; he felt the same surges of heat and growth that he had as an adolescent. Bryce’s mouth went dry and he allowed his mouth to drop open, smacking his tongue around his chapped lips like he was dying of thirst.

The Artist had an eye-level view of the boner shifting back and forth within the tight jeans. He could hear the denim creaking from the pressure of the suddenly-heavy cock, and he could see the shape becoming increasingly clear in the crotch area. Swelling out in a spherical shape, Bryce’s package suddenly resembled a grapefruit shoved down the front of his pants. His testicles rapidly filled in until they were as big as eggs, and his shaft kept elongating, and thickening as it went, until Bryce’s pain was more focused in his dick than on his legs. The seams in his jeans began to burst.

Bryce could see nothing but the stars twinkling behind his eyelids. His cock ached like it had gone through a workout circuit, and all the blood rushing to it made him feel woozy. He felt like he was going higher, and higher, and higher in the chair, and the feeling of the Artist’s hands wrapping around his ankles and guiding them to touch the floor almost made him cum. He placed one hand near his tailbone and felt the exposed skin from under his now-far-too-small shirt. The feeling of his fingers on his heated, sweaty skin made him arch his back and moan even deeper than before.

“First part done. There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Bryce couldn’t talk. He opened his mouth but sweat rolled in and stained his tongue, and his erection finally created an inch-long tear in his jeans, which quickly grew into a two-inch tear, then a three.

Already, his manliness had increased tenfold. Bryce had sprouted to a lean 6’2”, and grown a cock that looked borrowed from a porn star. Thanks to his new height, his shoulders had experienced enough natural broadening that his polo’s sleeves had been swallowed by his armpits, the fabric gathering around the delt and trap, making it look like Bryce was wearing a sleeveless half-shirt.

“I feel funny,” he suddenly whined. His voice was distorted: supposed to now be a rather authoritarian baritone, Bryce’s complaining elevated the pitch into the area of his old voice, making him sound like he was doing a bad impression of himself. He cleared his throat and said it again, and his voice – a glorious new voice - was like a war-scarred soldier’s: deep and rough, masculine and sexy, a man who had seen a lot of life and whose experiences were all relayed with every word he uttered. To be honest, it didn’t suit Bryce at all, and it was like he’d had a voice box transplant. “I…this…” The Artist watched his client sputter out syllables of nonsense. “What’s going on here” finally came out correctly, but the question went answered as the Artist slid over to Kameron, who was sitting calmly and quietly, too enraptured by his own tumescence to acknowledge his friend’s little fit of panic.

“Think you can handle it better than him?”

“I bet so,” Kameron replied with a competitive edge to his voice. He could peripherally see Bryce still wriggling about like a toddler in a high chair, dick waving in his pants like it was on a fuckin’ flagpole.

Kameron was chattier than his friend and his uninterrupted verbiage gave the Artist a chance to hear a voice changing in real time. “Y’know, I always look forward to the Autograph Area at these things the most,” Kameron said in his normal, slightly nasal voice. “I think it’s so cool,” he continued, as the nasality in his tone quickly dissipated, “to get a chance to say hello to these actors and artists and all these people that I admire, like, it’s cool to get them to sign something” – Kameron’s voice was now smoothing out, adopting an almost sultry silkiness, like a radio DJ’s or an actor’s – “but it’s even cooler to just see them and say, ‘hey, this makes me a nerd, but I loved your guest spot in Earth: Final Conflict,’ or whatever…” Deeper and deeper the voice slid, down from the tenor range into baritone, until it started to flirt with bass, like someone was turning an adjusting knob on Kameron’s voicebox. With the pitch fully changed, Kameron’s voice quickly adjusted into its new sound: a heroic, full-bodied commander’s voice, the kind Kameron had heard every Saturday morning as a kid. Every cartoon hero had a voice like his: robust and masculine, and just as authoritarian as Bryce’s, although Bryce’s intensity was replaced by Kameron’s smooth coolness. Both guys had been chronic mumblers; now, their diction was perfect, with crisp consonants and flawless enunciation. If the Artist hadn’t known better, he would’ve assumed he was tattooing two trained orators.

With every note on the piano that Kameron’s voice dropped past, his legs and arms seemed to grow another few centimeters. He continued to excitedly chatter about the convention, unaware that as he did, he was growing to the stature that he’d always dreamt of being. As one of the shortest boys in his high school graduating class, Kameron had always hated his height, so the fact that he was now a tall, deep-voiced six-foot-three-inch man would have excited him so much that he probably would have cum in his pants. It was probably for the best that he didn’t know, because his erection was nearly out of control as it was, a long tube steak stuffed into his baggy underwear that was now not baggy at all.

“I do…it does…it’s a little weird,” Kameron said, his confident-sounding voice contrasting with his confused thoughts. “I’m a little dizzy, everything seems…high.”

“Are you high?” That deep, foreign voice from next to him – was that Bryce? – was asking. “Am I high?”

“I don’t think we’re high. I just mean…high up.”

“Well,” the Artist piped in, “you’re both pretty tall.”

“Was I always tall?”

The Artist didn’t really answer. “Were you?”

“I must’ve been,” Kameron stated. “I’m tall, right?”

“Right,” Bryce agreed, looking down at his long legs, poured into these weird skinny jean-capri things. “Me too.”

“Well, you went second with the linework, so I’ll put you first with color,” the Artist said to Kameron, who eagerly nodded his assent as a small wet spot of pre-cum appeared on his shorts. And as the little dots of yellow tattoo ink began to melt into Kameron’s ankle, Kameron looked like he was melting into the chair. The 6’3” body wriggled and thrashed up top – even in his throes, Kameron remembered to keep his leg perfectly, impressively still – as it appeared to get lankier, and lankier, and lankier. The jiggling gut flattened into a taut stomach, the moobs disappeared into nothingness. Muscle definition etched itself across Kameron’s pasty skin, shadows appearing like the sunrise. For the first time in his life, Kameron could be able see that he had triceps and lats and quads. As the fattiness in his neck was sucked away, the young man’s face looked as it would have without bloating or roundness, and Kameron, for the first time, had a jaw, and a chin, and cheeks.

The skinniness lasted for only a few short milliseconds. Kameron’s huge shirt was sitting loosely on his body when the front – stretched-out from the presence of his departed breasts – began to fill in again, but this time with muscle. A whole lot of muscle. The chest that Kameron was growing looked nothing short of fake. A massive unit, Kameron’s new chest could’ve been cast from iron with how strong it was. Wider, and wider, and wider it spread, his pecs pushing out past the armrests of the tattoo chair, his nipples shifting further apart from each other until his growing biceps pressed up against them. Most impressive was the square flatness of his chest; on most bodybuilders, the pecs would have rounded out at this point, but Kameron’s new genetics were such that his pecs looked as square as they could be, the angular edges meeting in a striated, ultra-defined middle. Kameron’s shirt began to rip from his new chest, first revealing two pointy, pink nipples, stretched big and wide over the huge, sweaty boulders, and then tearing further to show the shadowed underside of his pectoral shelf. The pecs rose up and down as Kameron tried to breathe.

“No wonder,” the heroic baritone intoned, “they say this is addictive.”

The fat, sweaty boy was disappearing, piece by piece, into the body of a superhero. His arms exploded through the large shirt’s sleeves, veins snaking up and down the watermelon-sized arms and delts, forearms swelling bigger and bigger as black hair sprouted across their surface. His elbows were swallowed by the powerful muscles that grew across his arms. His pecs were absolutely gigantic but were matched, ounce for ounce, by his deltoids and biceps. Kameron’s neck was knotted with muscle, his shoulders pushing out through his collar, his lats jostling for space within his skintight tee. Every movement created a new rip in the cheap cotton, and when the muscleman sat up straight, his back flared right through the shirts, leaving only a pair of tattered collars resting around his shoulders like necklaces. The rest of the shredded shirts fluttered to the floor.

Kameron looked down at the bricks that lined his rigid midsection, abs so strong they looked like they could take a missile, and so perfect that his waist looked composed solely of abs and obliques. It seemed wrong, he knew he was a fat kid, there was no way that the lighting was so flattering that it could make him look like He-Man. But his abs, so gorgeous, the way they were downed with just the smallest amount of black fuzz, which gave him extra definition. Even his hands had doubled in size, and Kameron cracked his fingers as more pre-cum poured into his briefs. He felt the Artist stop for a moment, and at that exact second, the heart-shaped calf muscles of an expert weight-trainer drew themselves across his long, bulging legs. His powerful ass, too, was heart-shaped, and dangerously close to exposing itself outside of his decimated shorts.

“You look like you need a break now,” the Artist said to the bursting column of virility that sat in his chair. Kameron’s chest nearly hit his chin as he gasped for air, and his tattered clothes collectively covered about one square foot of his magnificent body. Feeling naked and vulnerable, he gasped a quick, low “yes,” he did need a moment. As he moved over to Bryce, the Artist could see Kameron elongate the densely packed muscles in his neck, stretching far enough to kiss the spherical deltoid that capped his huge arm. The stunning width of his beautiful shoulders placed it almost out of reach of his lips.

Bryce’s face was flush and quivering, his eyebrows far too thin to stop the beads of sweat from rolling into his eyes and mouth. “It’s…really hot in here…right?”

“It might get hotter,” was the cryptic response, but Bryce was talking over it and didn’t hear. “Fuck, I’m so fucking boned, I mean, hot…yeah, I meant hot, I didn’t mean to say…shit, I-I think I may be delirious.” The dualism of the ruggedly masculine voice and whiny, confused tone was amusing.

“You seem fine to me, maybe just a little warm,” the Artist assured him. “Let’s see how you feel after a little more work is done, okay?”


Bryce felt his hands reaching outward, even though he wasn’t instructing them to; it was an odd series of spasms that made him look down and see an alarming difference between the size of his hands – huge and pulsing – and his small, limp wrists. His hands were so massive and manly that it was difficult for his arms to support them, so he plopped his forearms back on the armrests and tried to wriggle his broad shoulders into a comfortable position. It was impossible, though, with his shoulders starting to swell like they were…Bryce didn’t know why the sleeves of his shirt were ripping off, as his traps began to bulge up and his deltoids pushed further away from his neck, growing like fruit on the vine. And his face was looking more and more out of place atop a neck as thick as Grecian column, muscles twisting around it like roots, forcing his jaw forward to make room for all the sinews running up behind his ears. One look at Bryce’s yoke now, and his deep voice was understandable, even expected.

Bryce shifted his arms away from his body, but even then his biceps were bulging out so quickly that they kept pressing against the area under his arms. Growing into jaw-dropping dimensions, the biceps curved out in such a way that suggested peak genetics in addition to rigorous decades of perfect weight training. One giant vein intersected each of the crescents that looked jammed underneath the deltoids. Bryce’s hands, capped now by forearms the size of regulation footballs, no longer looked small or out of place.

“I feel like I’m moving all over the place,” Bryce panted, worried that all his squirming would mess up the permanent design being drawn on his leg. “I swear to you that I’m trying to sit still. I promise.” And he was right – despite his ass being planted in the seat, motionless as could be, his muscles were still wriggling like snakes under his skin, giving him the appearance of impatient fidgeting.

With the force of a rocket being launched, Bryce’s arms flew outward from the seat and up over his head. With a reflex of pure surprise, the young man clasped his giant hands together over his head, revealing that his upper arms were each now bigger than the head that they framed.

Hs chest had grown out so quickly that it had shoved his arms out too fast. It was lucky that the Artist was in front of Bryce: if he’d been on the man’s side, he would have gotten a fist square in the face. The dimensions of Bryce’s chest increased rapidly, as if concrete was filling them up. Like Kameron, these pecs were big but with no fat to accentuate their curves; just two square-shaped rocks balancing above an impossibly flat stomach. The middle of the pecs was so built-up that Bryce’s nipples – stretched due to the mass of his chest - were forced to poke out to the side, looking like the pressure behind them was such that at any moment they could pop open like broken stoppers. Bryce allowed himself to reach down and massage his chest, which seemed to only accelerate the growth of the pecs. His hand was forced outward by the surging muscles. His grip filled up with the weight of his pec, like a cup overfilled with water.

Two abdominals pressed deeply into his midsection – then four, then six, then finally eight, the grooves almost bottomless. A road map of veins spread out from the waist of his destroyed skinny jeans, which had torn so many times over from the weight of his package that they looked more like a loincloth than a genuine article of clothing. Finally, his underwear unable to sustain the pressure, Bryce’s engorged cock flopped out onto the seat like a shipwreck. Balls the size of eggs bounced on their own, spasming with sex, and the Artist had to raise an eyebrow at the ridiculous sex organ on display right at his eye level. As warm muscle poured itself into every area of his thighs, the spread of his hamstrings and quads forced his cock against the seat and underneath his legs. Growling with pain, Bryce forced his hand in between his legs, even though it was far too large to fit easily. Pawing with panic, he finally yanked his cock up through the muscles and let it, and his balls, rest on top of his Redwood-sized thighs. “Unhhhh,” came the guttural growl, simply from touching the hot member. His legs and dick were red from the heat. The raggedy remains of his clothes – his polo’s neck stretched so far down that the last button was stuck underneath his pecs – were matted with sweat to his glistening, perfect body.

They were both too enormous to be fitness models, but the Artist was used to seeing a least a little body fat on heavyweight bodybuilders, and these men had absolutely none. Their bodies were dusted with sparse amounts of dark black hair, which greatly enhanced their already superhuman masculinity.

Consequently, it was no surprise that, as he went back to work on Kameron, the Artist saw the tight blond ringlets quickly darken into a luscious black shade. This hair was so black that it reflected light: blue-black, shifting tones with each movement of the man’s head. As the hair lost its curl, the bluish ringlets falling down around Kameron’s head, it began to become wavy as it grew in length. Moving on its own, the sides styled themselves backwards over Kameron’s ears, and the top swept itself back from a beautifully straight hairline. A precise part – clearly done with a comb – appeared on the very left side of Kameron’s crown.

The Artist smirked for the first time as he saw the lights of the shop reflecting white and blue off of the gleaming black follicles. Looking at the distinctive, distinguished style, he was beginning to understand Kameron’s tattoo.

The smirk grew into an amused grin as he caught sight of Kameron’s face in mid-transformation. The puffy, undefined features of a nerd looked bizarre when capped with a jutting chin, sporting a cleft so deep that it looked as if a coin could be deposited in it. It was like a stereotypical Poindexter geek had gotten an extremely ill-advised box-shaped chin implant.

Kameron’s lopsided nose straightened itself out with one well-placed crack. The tip chiseled into a small square as the nostrils diminished in size. It even shrank in length, slightly, and the convex slope was filed down into a beautiful angle, which served all the more to make his chin look spectacular.

When Kameron’s face started looking really, truly different was when his eyebrows changed. The thin, overly-fuzzy wisps above his eyes took on a very clear shape: the end of the brows seemed to meet the caruncles of each of his eyes, before dramatically arcing upward to meet at a perfect arch on the other end of his eye. It was a dazzlingly confident, masculine brow, every bit as black as the hair on his head. If his eyes hadn’t been clamped shut, the new color of his irises would be revealed as a nearly inhuman blue, shining from behind long black eyelashes.

Kameron’s jaw was locked tightly, his teeth grinding into each other. His fists were balled so tightly that the Artist was afraid a punch was about to be thrown, but Kameron didn’t stir. “Are you in pain?”

“Hurts a little,” came the short reply, Kameron obviously too preoccupied with his bodily sensations to even worry about he design he was receiving. He was about to say something else when his jaw suddenly snapped forward, the bones bursting outward until it looked like the would break through the tight skin. Combined with seductive angles of his brow and the deep cleft in his chin, Kameron’s new, hypersquare jaw made his face the stuff of dreams. A ropey muscle flared out from each angle of his jaw and made a V-shape down to his prominent collarbone.

“Wow,” the Artist blurted out without thinking, “you’re really handsome.”

Kameron’s modified lips had a slight downturn, giving his face a look of constant deep thinking, but the corners turned upward at the compliment and his eyes blazed open in a firestorm of perfect, harmonious blues. The Artist gasped.

“Um, thanks,” came the slightly sheepish response as a red blush spread through the sculpted cheeks. How could a man so attractive be so shy?

The contrast between gorgeous, square-jawed Kameron and Bryce’s narrow, pinched features was palpable. Very similar in the body department – broad shoulders, chests fit to bursting, shredded abs, bulging thighs and cocks like soda bottles – but facially, as different as could be. Kameron was a perfect Hollywood 10, so handsome that most people were frightened to talk to him, while Bryce looked like his head had been fused onto a bodybuilder’s body in some freak Frankenstein experiment.

“Want me to finish you up quickly? A little blue around the edges, some shadowing, or…”

“Do me, I’m ready,” Bryce interrupted, his voice as eager as his husky tone would allow. “Let him rest.”

Kameron stuck a large, veiny hand out to the side, toward Bryce. “Hey, give me my glasses. Why are you wearing them?”

Confused, Bryce removed the black rims from where they were perched on his nose. “I dunno, man, was I holding them for you?”

“Maybe, don’t remember,” Kameron said as he slipped the specs onto his face. It would be expected that the studious eyewear would make Kameron look a little like his formerly nerdy self, but on the contrary, they somehow made him even more perfect, accenting his jawline, his flawless nose, the smirking curve of his lips, and the shimmering sheen of his hair. Most improved of all were the eyebrows, peeking out from the top of the frames, as if daring others to comment on his intimidating splendor (and perhaps his moderately out-of-date taste in eyeglasses).

The glasses exchange gave Kameron a chance to see Bryce’s jaw suddenly enhance itself to the same cartoonish proportions of his own; a heavy, angular thing that increased the size of his head by a great deal. Kameron stared, not reacting, just watching his friend’s looks improve by the second. Bryce’s eyes looked downward where he could feel his bones shifting, just in time to see his chin grow out like a balcony. Like Kameron’s, the chin was a boxy cap for the magnificent, diamond-sharp jawline. Bryce’s was clefted as well, although less overtly than his friend’s. However, his chin was wider than Kameron’s, giving the bottom of his face a squared-off quality most often seen in comic books.

Bryce’s face continued its transition, the face he grew up with continuing to phase itself out, until the unnervingly handsome man sitting in the chair was unrecognizable as the man who had sat down. Like his companion, Bryce’s hair turned a stunning, deep blue-black, reflected by devastating blue eyes. His eyebrows arched higher, his nose filed itself down. The movie-star jawline was now equaled by a pair of high, square cheekbones that created deep diagonal lines on the sides of his face. His mouth tightened into a tense, unreadable expression.

As the hair on Bryce’s head styled itself into a slick businessman’s cut, it formed a new triangle in the center of his high, flat forehead: a widow’s peak, creating a natural part for his straight, shining locks.

The Artist looked up to see Bryce’s lips quivering as his teeth straightened within. He stepped back and looked the square-jawed, blue-eyed, black-haired stunners sitting in his chairs. Everything about the men broadcast dominance and masculinity, and their incredible beauty was exponentially increased by their perfect, musclebound bodies.

“I have to ask…,” the Artist said, although his mouth dried up when both handsome heads tilted up to look at him. With those brows, the eyes looked like they were about to erupt in blue laser beams, and the Artist was struck speechless.

“Ask what?” Bryce finally goaded, impatience lining his tone.

“Are you two brothers?”

The faultless faces both broke into mind-scrambling smiles, white teeth shimmering in ideal formation. Their response was a back-and-forth between the two of them, something they’d rehearsed for years:

“Everyone asks that!”
“We’re not related, but don’t we look alike?”
“People say we must have been separated at birth.”
“We’ve been asked three times just today.”
“It’s the jaw, right?”
“Or the eyes.”
“Or the hair.”
“Well, maybe the muscles.”

Now they were just complimenting themselves, but it was hard to blame them. They continued bantering while the Artist tried to spot some differences: Bryce’s face had more of an intensity to it…Kameron’s chin had the deeper cleft…the eyebrow shape was only slightly different, and maybe Bryce’s brow was a little lower, plus he had the widow’s peak. He had the bigger chin, but Kameron’s jaw was slightly more prominent. On and on it went, until he decided he’d finish up Kameron first, then move on to Bryce.

The Artist bent down to look at Kameron’s tattoo, when he realized it was already finished. A small, colorful symbol right above the sexy ankle, and it was perfect for Kameron – it suited him completely. The Artist moved his head over to look at Bryce, and he realized that, without thinking, he’d finished Bryce’s tattoo too: it was only two colors and he’d been so distracted by the muscle, the faces – not to mention Bryce’s dick flopping around on the seat – that he’d worked a little too fast.

No matter, he thought. He began to bandage both tattoos at the same time, working expertly, popping back and forth, noticing his clients’ quivering cocks sticking straight up, about to blow.

Watching their clothing shift and change was exciting. The pulverized remains of their clothing started to spread across their muscles like liquid, reforming as new garments. The room started to get warmer as more and more skin was covered.

Bryce reached up and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, looking over to see Kameron’s t-shirt collar reversing itself, points growing up around his thick neck as buttons spread down his front. Kameron reached down and started opening his shirt, liking the way his pecs peered through.

Bryce opened another button on his shirt, massaging his hands around his neck, feeling the point collar of his white shirt rubbing against his tanned skin. He could feel his chest pushing at the seams of the shirt, and so he opened another button. Looking down, he noticed his buffed fingernails, leading down into the French cuffs of his dress shirt. He saw the cuff links catch the light but was distracted by the sensation of something wrapping around his midsection, and he realized he now wore a form-fitting five-button vest. A yellow silk tie, the color of spun gold, unrolled from his hand, and the man looked down, wondering if he should knot it around his neck – but that would require buttoning up, and he loved the white shirt heightening the shape of his powerful shoulders and beefy chest. The open three buttons left a wide swath of visible, muscular flesh above his vest.

The hunk felt his pants ride up higher, shaping around his heavy ass and shaking cock, until the waistband was even with his bellybutton. Any tailor would have to work magic with his small waist and titanic thighs, and that was exactly what had been done: his suit pants fit perfectly. Smiling triumphantly, he looked over at his best friend, and was impressed with what he saw: the square-jawed beefcake wore a classic white dress shirt, also with French cuffs. The cutaway collar sat open, its wide angle running parallel to the perfect jawline above it. The blue eyes sparkled with erotic joy behind the glasses.

Jackets began to form. For the former Bryce, black was the perfect color, the lightest of pinstripes showing off how wide his back and chest were, without making him look like a thug. The man who had once called himself Kameron preferred glen plaid, and he couldn’t believe how well this suit fit him. He looked over at his friend, whose suit began to assume a slightly iridescent sheen. Laces and leather wrapped around their kicking feet. The man in the glen plaid got brown leather loafers, complete with tassels, while the man in the black suit wore gleaming black lace-ups, a slimming, angular shoe that was freshly shined. Cum started to leak into their suit pants, and they began to laugh – rich, harmonious, bass-enhanced laughter – as they looked at their muscular, suited forms. Everything about them screamed power.

The man in the black suit pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow, before stylishly placing the silk back in his pocket. As he dabbed himself, the Artist could see his meaty biceps bunching and rolling within the sleeves of his jacket.

“Ready to see?”

The bandages unrolled above the rolled-down dress socks and rolled-up pant legs. For the black suit, a yellow-and-black symbol. For the plaid, a red-and-yellow one, with blue accents.

Batman on one leg, Superman on the other.

The businessmen’s pearly smiles were overjoyed. “I can’t believe we finally did it,” the one in the black said to the other, who nodded. “We finally did it, Bruce.”

The Artist looked at the man in the pinstripes. “Your name is Bruce?”

Bruce nodded stoically, but with an unmistakable mirth in his eyes. “And he’s Clark,” was the response, Bruce nodding his head toward his friend.

“Clark and Bruce, I’ll be damned.” The Artist looked over at Clark, who leaned down to inspect his leg closer. “You look just like Superman, except for the-”

Before the Artist could finish his sentence, a lock of hair sprang out of Clark’s even hairline, hanging in a slight curl over his forehead.

“The spitcurl,” the Artist mumbled, now completely bowled over at Clark’s stupefying resemblance to Clark Kent, complete with the black-rimmed glasses.

“Damn cowlicks,” Clark muttered when he noticed the curl in the mirror, which he could only look into leaning down. “I’ve had this thing since I was a kid. I don’t think concrete would hold it down.” He stared in the mirror a little too long, obviously admiring his face. Bruce reached over and grabbed one of Clark’s suit lapels, pulling him up. “Alright, pretty boy, we get it, you know you’re a stallion.”

They stood up, white shirts pushed open by their chests, suits fitted to their massive frames like gloves. They were astounding, some of the studio’s best work. The Artist tried to imagine Kameron and Bryce wearing the slick, bespoke suits and open-collared white shirts, and it was a hilarious mental image. But it was no laughing matter on Clark and Bruce, who seemed to both physically glow from their utter perfection.

Clark looked at the foot-long divide visible between Bruce’s square pecs. “You gonna put your tie on?”

Bruce leaned down and placed the rolled tie in his briefcase, which he then latched up. “Nah. Feels good to be a little open, even though it leaves me colorless.” The stark black-and-white of his clothing was fitting for the intense man, though. Feeling very studly, he leaned back and placed his hands on his vest, running his hands down his front until he reached the second button of his suit. His fingers deftly hooked the button inside its hole, which showed the expert make of his suit: it fit perfectly, everywhere, from the expansive shoulders to the lithe waist. “You’re asking me about my tie, but did you even bring one today?”

“Nope,” Clark responded with a shy grin, placing a finger in between his bulbous pecs. When he moved, subtle glimmers of red and blue stripes were visible in the lush make of his suit. “I like leaving it unbuttoned, because then people don’t ask if I’m hiding the ‘S’ underneath.”

“But now you ARE hiding an ‘S’ underneath,” Bruce responded, and Clark had to lift up his leg to look at the bandage. “Bruce, I’m so fuckin’ glad we did this.”

“Me too, pal.” Their hands slapped on each other’s backs as they headed for the door, stopped one last time by the Artist’s question: “What do you both do for a living that allows you to dress so well?”

“I’m a reporter,” was Clark’s response, while Bruce’s was more vague. “Industry work…philanthropy.”

As the door shut behind them, the Artist had to laugh. Clark and Bruce, both drop-dead gorgeous, big as bodybuilders. The reporter and the philanthropist. Two nerds had become real-life versions of the fictional men they idolized. Human superheroes.

“Loooove my job,” he whistled as he headed to clean up.

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