Tattoo*: Find Me a Find, Catch Me a Catch (musc)

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“I’m going to go on the record as saying that I’m deeply suspicious.” The Artist looked at the two IDs in his hands. Everything that needed to check out did, indeed, check out – if these were fake IDs, they were damn good fakes. The names, Brogan Sommers and Theodore Holtenkamp, seemed too random to be made up, and the Artist had heard them call each other by name when walking up to the door outside – most people didn’t commit that well to a ruse. The heights and weights were appropriate to the two guys that stood on the other side of the counter: Brogan just slightly taller than his friend, both several inches shy of six feet, and skinny. The pictures were definitely them; unlike doormen at bars, the Artist had plenty of light and time to ensure that the photos corresponded. The state seal hologram was even underneath the smooth plastic.

It was just the ages: these whisker-free, pimply young men – one of whom, Teddy, even had braces – did not look to be the 18-year-olds that their IDs said they were. But other than gut instinct, the Artist didn’t have any real evidence to reject his customers, and besides, who would spend money on a fake ID that didn’t even allow for drinking? What would they use them for, lottery tickets?

Except, when the Artist told them of his suspicions, neither teen became defensive. Instead, they both appeared to get nervous, with Brogan stammering unconvincingly that “The-e-ey’re, uh, real.” That was certainly a tip-off. Most youthful-looking adults would’ve responded angrily to their age being questioned, especially since it probably happened frequently.

The Artist tried to bait them with questions laced into his general small talk, but the boys didn’t slip up. They both said they were students at the local community college, even slipping in a reference to their high school graduation.

When asked what tattoo he had in mind, Teddy produced a picture that looked hand-drawn, and very well at that.

“Ah,” the Artist mused. “A Celtic knot. This one’s symmetrical, which makes sense for a Gemini like you.”

If Teddy knew a trap had just been set, he didn’t indicate so and danced around it admirably. “I’m not a Gemini,” he said, his forehead scrunching up. “I’m a Taurus.”

The Artist looked at the birthdate on the driver’s license: May 3rd. “So you are,” he said, handing the IDs back to the shaky hands. He was pretty sure – and as it turns out, correct – that these boys were sixteen, not eighteen. With no grounds to refuse his services, though, he had to let it slide.

“So, who’s going first?”

“Oh, uh…” Brogan looked at his friend and nervously batted away his bangs, which hung halfway over his eyes. “You go.”

Teddy gulped but nodded. “You gonna be okay waiting?”

“I have magazines,” the Artist interjected cheerfully, and Brogan replied, “Yeah, and I have an iPhone. I’ll be fine.”

Teddy sat down in the chair with his wrist resting face-up on the armrest. With his eyes closed, he barely noticed the Artist gently turn over his forearm and leave the wrist pressed against the black plastic arm of the chair. The tattoo would go on top of his forearm, but Teddy was too worried about getting busted to notice that the needle was about to enter on a place he had not agreed to.

“How ya doing?” Brogan shouted from the chair where he sat, about ten feet away.

Teddy, too nervous to talk, gave a thumbs-up with his free hand, raising it above his head while nodding frantically. Brogan chuckled. “Don’t be gay, it’ll be fine. Does it hurt?”

“The needle’s not in yet,” Teddy replied, but the Artist interrupted. “Actually, it is, see? Not too bad, right?”

Teddy felt the sting once he was thinking about it, but it really wasn’t too bad. People had always said dumb shit that made it sound like it was excruciating. “It’s like getting a shot,” he yelled to Brogan, who looked up and nodded, not really listening, then went back to playing Angry Birds.

Had Brogan been looking up, he would’ve noticed Teddy’s curly hair beginning to straighten. The boy in the chair had a head full of thick brown curls, too loose to be kinky but too tight to be mere waves. It wasn’t long hair, particularly, although it would flip out from underneath hats and helmets. It was certainly looking longer, though, as it completely lost its curl. Starting on the sides and then advancing in a circular pattern to the top of Teddy’s head, each individual follicle pulled itself taut before falling into its natural place. Soon, the kid in the chair had hair resembling a professional woman’s bob, the straggly ends meeting at his chin. The Artist figured it wouldn’t last long, but he couldn’t look at it, because he needed to focus on his needle as its canvas began to extend. It was difficult, continuing to tattoo an arm as it got longer, but the Artist had gotten pretty good at it. Even as they lengthened, Teddy’s thin fingers balled into fists, and he grit his teeth.

“Sorry,” the Artist apologized, and Teddy released a loud stream of air through his teeth as a response. Feeling like someone was pulling on his legs, yanking on the waist of his cargo shorts, Teddy stretched upward in the belief that he was sliding out of the chair. A portion of skin bared itself below the hem of his white v-neck, and Teddy felt the draft slip in above his shoes, where another inch of skin could be seen.

The Artist stole a quick glance upward, and sure enough, Teddy’s hair was now only at his ears, and still shortening.

“Real quiet over there,” Brogan said from his perch, and Teddy’s eyes snapped open. Had he been falling asleep or something? Everything felt kind of different, all of a sudden. Teddy casually scratched his chest with his free hand as he talked to his friend. “Hey, uh, man. This is a dumb question, but how tall am I?”

“Why would I know how tall you were?”

“I got measured the other day and I forgot what they told me, but I know I told someone…” Teddy cleared his throat midway through his sentence, it sounded like he had a catch in it. “I was hoping you’d remember.” He forced another cough, hoping whatever it was that made him sound funny would be dislodged. “’scuse me.”

“I think you told me you were at six feet exactly,” Brogan said as he continued to play with his game.

Just hearing the number “six” made Teddy get hard. Real hard. I-had-no-idea-my-dick-could-get-this-big hard. It was like he had a beer bottle sticking out from the leg of his boxer briefs, and his balls felt like they were swollen, a pair of clementines pushing into the fabric. It hurt. Why was his underwear so small? Keeping his head facing forward, he moved his eyes down to look at his crotch. It looked like he was wearing half of a volleyball as an athletic cup. The massive bulge distending from the crotch of his shorts was as wide as each of his young, lanky thighs. Teddy casually moved his hand onto his lap, hoping to conceal the elephantine organ. He could feel heat radiating from it.

With his hand no longer itching it, a small dusting of brown hair was visible underneath the thin white cotton of Teddy’s v-neck, the same color as the plug of hair that had sprouted underneath Teddy’s lips. The whiskers were the same length as the cropped buzz on the kid’s head.


Still looking down at his lap, Teddy absentmindedly wondered why the wrinkles and folds in his shorts were starting to smooth out. It was only a few seconds before he could feel his skin rubbing against the fabric on the inside of his shorts. There was a pop as the seams on the inside legs gave way, revealing inch-wide patches of hairy skin. Teddy wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. It looked like his thighs were getting bigger, and it felt like they were getting bigger, too, as he felt the metal portion of the chair’s arms begin to dig into his legs. More seams burst, this time the outside of the short legs, tearing upward in long gashes to show off a pair of brutally thick legs. His cock, even more prominent now as it rested on top of his enormous quads since it could no longer dangle between them, was a few threads away from blowing through his zipper.

Teddy could feel his ass – basically nonexistent – beginning to fill out, beefing upwards and outwards, pushing clear indentations into the seat of the chair. A lot of horsepower would be needed to propel the fleshy monsters that Teddy passed off for legs, and his ass had all of it. Each globe swelled as big and proud as the hamstring it sat on top of, and Teddy tried to remain calm as he heard his shorts, and his underwear, rip right down the middle and expose his entire ass, visible through the back of the chair.

“This chair’s a little small for ya, huh?”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Brogan responded mistakenly from the waiting area. “He was talkin’ to me,” Teddy boomed, punctuating his sentence with another loud clucking of his throat. Whatever gunk was in there made his voice sound thick and deep. “The chair isn’t very big, it kinda hurts.”

“Oh now the chair hurts? Man up, pussy,” Brogan laughed. “You’re so gay sometimes.”

Teddy shot a vicious, offended glare over to his friend, who immediately stopped laughing when he saw the intensity of the gaze. Brogan was sitting to the right side of Teddy and couldn’t see the giant, bare ass on display, but was able to check out the bulging calves extending out of the opening of Teddy’s shorts. Brogan wondered why he’d never noticed the size of his friend’s lower legs, which were far thicker than his knees and made his feet look almost small. Giving no more thought to it, Brogan looked back down at his phone, too far away to notice the increased density of Teddy’s once-sparse leg hair.

Teddy suppressed a gasp and began a frantic, one-handed struggle with his belt. The Artist obligingly stopped to help him. “Got a problem?”

“Can’t…” Teddy opened up his mouth and tried to suck in air. “C-can’t breathe…belt…” Finally, the cheap canvas belt that had come with the shorts was undone, and Teddy yanked it free, his stomach releasing so quickly that it created rips in the waist of his shorts and blew the button off. “Ahhhh,” the young man breathed in and out, his chest rising up and down as his V-neck’s collar began to advance downward, baring most of his fuzzy chest. It felt so good to breathe, so he did, deeply, his chest beginning to bulge slightly outward, nipples corking out to the side. Teddy heard the needle go back on and smiled. He could feel his pecs starting to push through the very, very deep V, like a girl in a club showing off her rack. The upper part of Teddy’s pectorals was forming, then growing, his collarbone disappearing underneath pounds of muscle and power. The V began to stretch, and the square shape of Teddy’s pecs began to round and curve outward, growing too large to stay flat. They really did resemble breasts about to explode through a top, except these “breasts” were giant, weighty sacks of concrete, nipples pointing straight down and away from each other, the muscle behind them as solid as brick. The pecs had grown so far outward that, as the inner pecs puffed out, they had nowhere other option but to push against each other. Teddy could feel the muscles shove together sensually, so he looked down and saw that most of his view of his body was blocked by the ponderous chest he sported. At first, the shadow looked caused by all the lights, but as Teddy looked closer, he was surprised to see an even, moderate coating of curly brown hair, running from underneath his pecs – where he couldn’t see – to the base of his neck, also out of his view. The hair was most thick in the center of his chest, longer curls disappearing into the deep crack running between the two basketball shapes, as round on top as they were on the bottom. The curls thinned out as they ran over the apex of his pectorals, and then they swirled around his big, stretched-out nipples, accenting their pleasing deep pink color. Each pec was in business for itself, looking almost fake in its spherical shape, like globes.

His breathing was excellent, now, thanks to his wider ribcage and thick, broad stomach, resting on top of his destroyed shorts, which were starting to re-form around his legs as something new and longer, most likely pants. Teddy’s 8-pack had formed and then shot dramatically outward, distending into a healthy, rock-solid gut that was still small enough to not be visible from under his pecs. That was Teddy’s rule: as long as the stomach didn’t go past the chest, it was okay.

The V-neck, already grossly inadequate against the big muscled tits, began to be stretched horizontally as Teddy grew his new shoulders. His neck appeared to disappear, save for an inch or two sticking up out of the soaring trap muscles. Another dusting of brown hair grew on Teddy’s delts, which bloated up to the size of his pecs and snapped through his sleeves, so large that it became impossible to tell where chest ended and shoulders began. Teddy shifted sideways in the chair, his shoulders and lats now far too big for the seat. His back had flared out like the shell of a tortoise, or an angry cobra’s hood; so wide that it made his stocky waist look almost small again.

Hair grew in across his knuckles and swirled up his forearms in a beguiling silky sheen, right as the sinews grew magnificently, thickening past mere aesthetic and piling on more muscle until they were too bulky to be believed. Arms built for business, not beauty. Teddy looked down at the artwork being drawn onto his forearm, admiring at how he had somehow made his upper and lower arms nearly the same size. Biceps as big as his head were screwed onto triceps that had to be held at angles so that they could swing freely. Not cut, not defined, just huge, with the percentage of fat just low enough to show off one bulky vein running snakelike down each gargantuan instrument. Teddy placed his mitt-like free hand on his crotch and began to run it back and forth, ignoring the breeze he felt on the top of his head. It was normal, his bald spot. Happens to the best of ‘em. His forehead, already an inch or two larger thanks to the receded hairline, grew out handsomely, taking his brows with it. The thin young brow dropped roughly onto his eyes, which were beginning to gain a line or two around their corners. Brogan looked up and saw his friend’s nose growing outward, not into a beak, but a much more prominent nose than the button that had been there before. His ears got bigger, too, flatter against the #1 buzz of the hair that was left on the shiny head.

Brogan watched, confused. How old was this guy? More lines came in around the eyes, and a deep groove appeared in each cheek, which led into more creases once Teddy broke into a big, braces-free smile. The distance between his nose and mouth increased as the smile faded once more, growing more serious and focused like he usually was. A dark shadow spread from the sideburns, down the widening jaw, over the thinning lips. As Teddy’s head enlarged, the underside of his chin slackened slightly, thanks to the years of gravity. Creases appeared in his neck, right under the trimmed beard that grew in, as dark brown as the curls adorning the wide, swarthy chest. Decades of life were etching themselves onto his face. The acne was whisked away and replaced with an almost leathery texture. More and more handsome he became, the type of naturally tough face that commanded its owner to build a big, tough body to match. The years piled on, beautifully somehow.

Teddy could feel his face heating up as he grew a beard. Why was a beard growing? He’d had a beard for decades, but somehow it felt new, exciting, feeling the whiskers burst out across his face. The way the bristles gently crunched when he moved his lips…maybe that was it…something was different. The thin head of an adolescent had become a square, granite strong man’s head. He could feel his eyebrows crawl into a more dominant presence on his face, feel his nose bridge widening, but none of it scared him. He reached down and buttoned his jeans with one hand, making sure his zipper hadn’t burst. His arms, bigger than a regular man’s thigh, got hotter too, and he realized his shirt had sleeves now. Another deep crease spread across his forehead as his manly brow furrowed. Looking down with anticipation, he could see a pattern spreading across the remains of his shirt, which was fusing together over his tank of a body. He buttoned up one more button, leaving only the top three open around his neck, allowing his hairy chest to barrel outward from the opening. The base of his pecs cast a shadow onto his shirt, and a few white hairs were visible now, mixed in evenly with the brown. A little white on the chin, and in the eyebrows. He was still 95% brown, but it was hard to miss the silvery accents.

“Y’almost done?” The question came with a deepening of the beast’s skin, a dark tan that came from years of being outdoors, not from a bed or a lamp. His round cheeks flushed a natural pink.

“Just a few little touches left.”

“Good,” the man smiled, feeling his body hair rubbing against the skintight flannel plaid of his XXXL shirt. It was a quality shirt, not cheap and certainly not meant for work. It seemed like he was making an effort to dress formally, but flannel and denim would be as formal as he went. His thick-soled brown leather work shoes tapped on the floor as he waited patiently to be done, and he fiddled with the rolled-up cuff of one of his shirt sleeves, the fabric scrunching an inch above each elbow, giving a magnificent few of all the beef that exploded out from the joint in both directions. It was hard to decide what looked better, the titan’s forearms, clad only in his hair, or the biceps that stretched the flannel as tight as giftwrap.


The beast in the flannel and lightwash Levi’s looked at his forearm and saw his design: a bull in mid-charge, steam pouring from its nostrils, horns pointing forward and ready to kill. He smirked, not a full-on smile but a definite indication of satisfaction. “I’m the bull,” he said softly, almost to himself, a deep chuckle rolling from within his chest.

“Makes sense for a Taurus like you. Hey, now that I think about it, I didn’t get your name…?”

“Roger,” the customer responded before drawing in a breath that put his pecs to his chin, for a moment. He didn’t smile but extended his hand and nodded. “Roger. Thanks for your work today, you did a great job.”

“No problem, Roger.” The hands shook, the Artist grimacing from the power in the man’s hand. Hopefully a bone hadn’t just been broken…there was more work to be done.

Roger pulled a worn leather wallet out of the back pocket of his favorite pair of jeans, which were so worn from carrying around the weight of his crotch that they were beginning to fray between the legs. The rubbing of his thighs couldn’t have helped matters. His wallet took a moment to produce because he had to give it a good tug, since it was lodged so tightly in between the small pocket and the boulders that composed his ass. His voice was low and thunderous. “What do I owe you?”

“Well, I gotta take care of him first,” the Artist said with a nod toward the waiting boy in the chair. “Then you can pay together.”

“’k.” Roger’s gruff demeanor dissolved for a moment as he turned toward Brogan. His face broke into a wide, surprisingly white grin as he walked over to the teen.

Brogan looked up in amazement. He’d seen a gorilla at the zoo, and the size was comparable. This man was as wide as three normal men, everything big – arms, stomach, ass, crotch, legs – but it was hard to miss the chest, which was damn near indescribable. There had to be some fat in those pecs to make them the size that they were, but they were so high and mighty that they looked solidly muscular. Brogan had never seen a man whose pecs covered his clavicle. Roger was awesome in the sense that he rendered Brogan dumbstruck.

Brogan couldn’t pull away in time as Roger reached out and tousled his hair aggressively, even giving it an affectionate smack on the side. “Ready to get inked, squirt?!”

Brogan finally showed the assertion that had been so lacking at the start of his appointment. “Get the fuck off me, dude, what the fuck....”

“Whoa,” Roger said, standing over Brogan, who had to lean back to avoid having a stomach smashing into his face like a boulder. “Those are some nasty words for a kid your age.”

“My age? Fuck off man, I’m 18.”

“Sure you are, and I’m 35.”

“His ID checks out,” the Artist said to Roger, who gave a slow shrug, the only speed that shoulders that size could move. The Artist couldn’t see Brogan – he was blocked completely from view by the monster in front.

“I’m 18,” Brogan insisted. “You COULD be 35 for all I know.”

Roger chuckled again, a low bark this time. “Nice of you to say, bud. I was 35 when you were learning to crawl.” He leaned into Brogan, who could smell the musky, manly odor rolling off the giant body in front of him. “Go get your tat like the grown-up you are.”

For some reason, Brogan was fixated on the chest hair visible through the open flannel. “I’m not so sure…” he said, and before he knew what had happened, Roger had collared him by his t-shirt and all but tossed him into the chair.

“You promised that you wouldn’t chicken out,” Roger said in a near-shout. Noticing the Artist put a finger to his lips, Roger quieted down a little. He crossed his big arms over his chest and let the pecs spill over his forearms, slightly covering the new ink. “I held up my end of the deal, now it’s your turn.”

Brogan didn’t remember making any deals with impossibly brawny lumberjack-looking dudes, especially one who had legs literally the same size as Brogan’s torso, but damned if he didn’t feel a pang of guilt over letting his friend – they must’ve been friends – down. He looked up at the intense bearded face that peered down at him, at the chest bursting through the flannel, the pornographic bulge in the denim. Something about this man was starting to…turn him on. He was the most masculine vision that Brogan had ever seen, so stern and strong and stoic. And his smell…Brogan loved Roger’s scent.

Distracted, not thinking straight, Brogan stuck out his arm and offered it up to the Artist, not even realizing that a design had never been discussed. Taking the canvas gently, the Artist pressed a blank piece of paper onto it, which when pulled away left a small blueprint on Brogan’s wrist. The needle went on and Brogan felt Roger’s huge, hairy hands clamp onto his small shoulders, beginning to massage. “Relax, little buddy,” Roger purred, again switching to a sweeter persona. “It’ll all be okay.”

Brogan hadn’t been too nervous – wary, perhaps – but Roger’s backrub made him break out in a sweat across his forehead. Brogan tried to shake his thoughts free from Roger, for a moment, but all he could hear was the needle, the buzz growing louder as it hovered closer to his skin, and the buzz made him think of Roger getting his tattoo.

Looking down on his “little buddy,” Roger could see Brogan’s hair changing color at the root. A brown-blond became the sunniest of yellows, and highlights streamed across it, like sunlight streaking a wheatfield. Brogan reached up and batted his bangs away, something he did every few minutes, but this time the bangs didn’t fall back down and combed themselves in an arc over his forehead.

With an audible pushing noise, Brogan grew the most perfect of jawlines, an angular swoop hanging down from behind his ears and jutting into a prominent movie-star chin. His cheekbones appeared and flared out past his temples, making his now-maddeningly blue eyes widen into round, sparkling mirrors. The bump in his nose filed down as his nostrils actually shrank, and his upper lip dipped inward, forming a Cupid’s bow, while his lower lip grew out slightly into a pout. Perfectly shaped eyebrows were at the base of a flat, smooth forehead.

This Brogan put male models to shame. He was just hopelessly perfect, commanding attention even in his currently dazed, high state. His tongue flicked out to lick his full pink lips, and he clenched his jaw to ignore the pain. Brogan Pitt, they called him, Brad’s little brother. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties now, his perfectly dermabraised skin clean-shaven and buffed.

Brogan was surprised to feel Roger’s lips kiss the top of his blond head. He felt the burly hands slide down his chest – was Roger hitting on him? Well, everyone hit on him, but few were this brazen – until they were nearly to his waist, and Brogan was already planning what he’d say to reject the handjob he thought was coming. Instead, though, he felt Roger buttoning the bottom of his shirt, then the next button, then the next. Brogan liked wearing a white t-shirt and an open, loose button-down over it, and he put his hand on Roger’s to stop him. “It’ll look better this way,” he heard the bass whisper in his ear, and to his surprise he responded, “Okay.” Soon the shirt was buttoned all the way up, leaving only the top button open.

“Mmf,” he groaned, suddenly uncomfortable, and the groan grew into a longer, embarrassing squeal. He felt like he was floating in the chair. Roger put his thumbs on the back of Brogan’s neck and started rubbing in circles, trying to calm the younger man down. “You’re okay, pretty boy.” Brogan’s feet kicked, and kicked, as his pent-up energy begged for release. He tried to keep his arm stable, but finally asked the Artist to stop for a moment.

“Not an issue,” the Artist said, leaning back and taking in the beautiful face in front of him. Brogan stood on shaky feet and put his arms above his head to stretch. It felt good, and better, and when Brogan sat comfortably back down in the seat, he wasn’t aware of his new 6’3” height. At three inches taller, he could no longer be Roger’s “little buddy.”

“Let’s keep going,” he said, his voice dramatically different, a creamy tenor interlaced with a baritonesque resonance. “Hey, pal,” he said to Roger, “do the upper shoulders, would ya? I’m feeling so tight.”

The Artist knew what was coming, but neither Roger nor Brogan seemed to have a clue. Brogan tugged on his shirt as his shoulders began to appear. A peak above his arms – the top of the delt – began to pull up his sleeves, but at the same time he was getting considerably broader. The teenage slopes suddenly rose up into sharp, flat squares, before his traps grew up and pushed his collar up to his jaw, which was still tersely locked. The shoulders grew past the width of the chair, and soon his chest was growing too, not the monster set of pecs that Roger had, but a squared-off pair of beauties that created a shelf in his tightening shirt. The crewneck collar of his white undershirt was no longer visible, and when Brogan finally opened another button to relieve the pressure, it was revealed the he was no longer wearing an undershirt at all. His nipples hardened and created two obvious dots in the fabric. The cleft between his hard, marble pecs had become deep, impenetrable.

With such a small tattoo, there was no time to waste, and the changes started to overlap. Brogan’s cheap plaid shirt swirled into a far more formal powder blue color, the fabric thickening into an expensive quality. Every individual muscle in his arms swelled – inflated – as the details in his forearms became their own lesson in anatomy. After a warning pulse of growth that had filled his sleeves to the brink, his biceps bulged anew and tore through. He looked at them in surprise, almost disapprovingly, but smiled when he saw the peaks grow and the veins come in handsomely. His eyes – the same color as his shirt – sparkled when he saw the fabric mend itself to contain the bulging pistons.

Roger’s hands moved down the back at the same time that the back widened out to match the beefy width of his new chest. Brogan could feel his spine suddenly being hugged by thick slabs of meaty muscle, his lats mottling themselves as they broadened into an airport’s runway. The shirt grew tighter still.

His waist came in thicker than expected, still narrow but not the flat bricks of a male model. These abs were strong, tough, and ripped to hell. Brogan let his big hand fall over them and his lips curved into a small smile at the touch. The abdominals jostled for room within his midsection; they were like a marble column in a museum, on which the art of Brogan’s perfect chest was balanced.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, his breath catching in his throat. Roger could see a lengthening dick’s outline in the fabric of Brogan’s changing shorts. It looked like a snake slithering down the inside of the now-pant legs, the fabric starting to pucker from the size of the package underneath. Brogan felt a pulling on his shaft as his foreskin grew back on, his balls bulging into the size of a small gourd, his underwear straining to hold him. He was leaning forward to receive the backrub, and Roger looked down the wide expanse of Brogan’s V-shaped back to see the top of Brogan’s underwear arc up into a whaletail. “Nice thong.”

“Hey, watch where you’re looking.”

Roger couldn’t not look at the ass coming in, two dimples etching themselves in the base of Brogan’s back as he grew in a strong, bubbled butt. His dress khakis began to groan from his booty’s cumbersome shape and size. For such a long-legged man, he sure had a glorious ass. High and tight and round. Perfect for the thick thighs that were coming in. Again, not as big as Roger’s, but much more cut, the quads interlocking with the hamstrings in a well-choreographed dance of muscle. In fact, Brogan’s whole body was classic beefcake: chiseled and bulging, like a bodybuilder on the beach posing for a calendar.

“How’s it comin’, Doc?”

“Doing great, looking good,” the Artist said, looking at the muscles pouring out of the tight blue dress shirt. “You’re nearly there.”

“Excellent. Glad to hear it.” This sentence was punctuated with a giggle as the blond muscle stud felt Roger beginning to nibble on his ear. “Stop it, you’re gonna mess the guy up,” he scolded, and Roger began running his tongue around the ear in response. Brogan didn’t know why it felt so good. This was strange, getting a big boner from the touch of a fellow man’s hands. He liked girls too, right? Why didn’t he have sex with them? He loved dancing with them in clubs, exploring their sensuality. They always commented on how handsome he was, on how big his feet were.

Feet that had just exploded through old Nike trainers, toes cracking as black socks grew over them and black leather slip-ons placed themselves over the size 13s. Big feet, big dick, that was the joke. Brogan felt his head get pulled back by a strong force, and he looked up into Roger’s smiling, bearded face, leaning down into his. Brogan’s eyes bugged out of his head as their lips connected, but soon his lids fluttered shut.

Brogan’s well-muscled body started to swell as he kissed Roger. His tan began to deepen, his blond hair lightening. Another several years of obsessive dieting and training began to show up in his perfect muscles. The Artist dodged the button that popped off from between Brogan’s bulging pecs, but was hit square in between the eyes by the button bursting from Brogan’s straining khakis.

The formal clothes went up yet another size and repaired themselves again, now looking more in place on the big muscled body. Not a boy dressing like a man anymore, but a man dressing to show his sexual manhood. Shirt tight and form-fitting, but not indecent or painted-on. Pants tailored and pressed. Shoes gleaming. On a normal man, they would have hung loosely and incorrectly, but on this rippling pillar of brawny beef, they were splendid.

The Artist heard a little growl come from one of the kissing men. Their tongues slipped into each other’s mouths. Roger’s whiskers rubbed against Brogan’s chin, which seemed to activate some growth. The perfect chin grew a perfect goatee, whiskers spreading up in a trimmed rectangle to connect to the mustache that had just come in. Whiskers that were turning white, just like the former Brogan’s hair, which had shortened into a precise businessman’s cut, like a stockbroker, immaculate and combed through with gel. The blond swirled away, replaced by the color of freshly fallen snow, so white it seemed to gleam and sparkle.

“Almost…almost…” The Artist was finishing up the last character on the hunk’s thick wrist. The muscles pulsed with their own life, carving themselves into a sculptor’s dream. Roger was built for brawn, and his white-haired stud was built for beauty. Both big and powerful, but in far different ways.

It took the needle being powered off to break the makeout session. Roger pulled away and the white-haired muscleman looked at the Artist. The same gorgeous, flawless face as before, just older. The skin a little looser and thicker, with the white goatee giving the needed addition of maturity to the perfection. The 16-year-old boy was now a sophisticated, hunky 51.

The small black Roman numerals across the shaven wrist were the date of the previous day. “So, what happened yesterday,” the Artist asked.

The man in the athletic-cut powder blue dress shirt opened his mouth to speak, but Roger butted in, eyes gleaming eagerly. “Can I tell? I’m just so damn proud.”

The classically handsome man smiled. “Sure,” he said, his voice now richer and deeper than it had been in his youth. “I love how proud you are.”

“My husband finally won his pro card yesterday. Six-foot-three and he still did it.”

The Artist looked at the gold bands around the two men’s ring fingers.

“I’m not up-to-date on terms. That’s in bodybuilding, right?”

“Yes sir,” the man named Barry responded, flexing his pecs, filling his shirt near-to-bursting with muscle. “Better late than never, I always say.”

“I’m taking him out to dinner tonight to celebrate,” Roger said in his husky tone, sliding his big hand into the open two buttons of Barry’s blue cotton shirt.

“Nicest restaurant in town, and you wear flannel,” Barry said with loving disapproval. “This is my man dressed up, can you believe that?”

“You’re always going on about the flannel,” Roger said, cupping his husband’s pec in his big hand. “I thought you said I looked good in anything.”

“You do, honey, but I just want you to wear that white shirt I bought you, just once. You’d look so handsome in it.” Barry leaned in for a quick kiss, the men’s huge chests pressing together. “I love the way your arms look in it, and you can see your hair through the white…oh, he looks so good in that white shirt.” Barry threw his arms up in resignation, nearly tearing his own shirt in excitement. He began unrolling the cuffs and produced a pair of silver links from his pocket, locking the French cuffs together over his wrists. “It’s a battle I’m not gonna win,” he shrugged to the Artist, who laughed.

Barry looked over at Roger, whose mouth was tight. “I didn’t mean to piss you off,” Barry apologized. “I’m sorry. You know I love you.”

“Tell you what, I’ll wear it for the dinner party next weekend,” Roger said, a little peeved at being called out. “But no ties, and I’m not trimming my chest.”

“Oh, you know I don’t expect you to wear a tie. I can’t wear ties. Look at this neck.” Barry flexed his neck and filled the open blue collar for a moment. “Yours is even bigger. You’re sexier alive and not choking to death.”

“Thanks,” Roger laughed, stealing another quick peck.

Barry got his white sportcoat from the back of the waiting room chair as Roger paid with his credit card for their tattoos. The Artist could see Barry keep looking at his bandaged wrist, supremely proud of his accomplishment.

The hulking husbands held hands as they left, a stark contrast to the bickering teenaged shrimps that had entered. The Artist saw them kiss on the sidewalk before heading down the sidewalk.

He looked at his equipment, sitting next to his chair. “You never fail to surprise me,” he murmured to the needles and paraphernalia that surrounded the area.

Having no appointment for the next hour, the Artist went out for an early dinner and locked the door behind him. During his hour break, he even saw Barry and Roger, Barry’s arm slung around Roger’s huge shoulders. Roger leaned in and whispered something to his husband, and the Artist smiled when he saw Barry tilt his head back and laugh. They walked into the French restaurant down the block from where the Artist ate. When he walked by, he saw them inside, enjoying wine and each other, lost in their own little world composed of nothing but muscle and love.

To be continued?