Random Acts of Muscle: To Transform and Protect

[Mad Dog]

Reposting this here, because I know a lot of people ignore the Continuous Stories forum. This was inspired by Aardvark's fantastic stories lately, especially The Car Lot: Copped. This also uses the same protagonist I used in an earlier post in the Random Acts of Muscle topic. Hope you enjoy!

Steve cruised down the highway during a blazing hot summer afternoon. He was treating himself to a relaxing vacation, touring the Deep South to experience the culture and scenery. Currently, he was moseying down a half-forgotten backwater highway he found on his map, thinking it would give him the scenic route to his next destination. He didn't want his trip to just be some tourist trap conveyor belt from one city to the next; he wanted to explore! He looked at his fuel gauge and started to worry, however. The needle was starting to dip towards the empty side of things, and he didn't know if there would be a gas station close by in this neck of the woods. After a few minutes of fretting, he saw a sign indicating a gas station coming up. Relieved, Steve pulled off to the side road to get to the gas station, thankful that he wouldn't get stuck out in the boonies with his lousy cell reception, as beautiful and quaint as the boonies may be.

The gas station definitely reminded Steve of an era gone by. If the "CASH ONLY" sign didn't clue someone in to the fact that this place was a little removed from time, the older-looking pumps would definitely drive the point home. But the gas was a whole dollar cheaper than it was back home, so Steve just shrugged and withstood the blistering heat as he started filling up his car. He looked around to help pass the time. There were only two other cars at the station. One of them had a redneck-looking guy filling up his truck and on the other side of him were two African-American boys in a smaller car. The black boys were dressed sort of flamboyantly, one of them wearing a pink t-shirt that barely covered his navel. They were chit-chatting and one of them apparently said something so scandalous that the other whooped and laughed, play-slapping the other and said, "Gurl, you so crazy!" between fits of giggles.

So they were gay, clearly. If the choice of wardrobe and mannerisms couldn't clue you in, the two were holding hands most of the time and there was a rainbow sticker on their car's bumper. Two young black bucks out on a date, maybe, or just taking a leisurely afternoon cruise. Too bad about the weather, Steve thought, wiping the sweat off of his brow. What broke him out of his reverie wasn't pleasant, however. "Damn queers," he barely heard from the redneck, who shook his head disapprovingly. The man clearly wasn't brave enough to tell the two black boys what he thought of them (maybe because they both looked like they could beat the scarecrow-looking redneck up), but still felt the need to say it out loud. "Ain't bad enough they're niggers, they gotta be faggots, too," he said, spitting onto the ground and wiping his nose with his forearm.

This really got Steve's ire up. Homophobia was one thing, he was used to confronting it, as an openly gay man he had to be. But racism? That was a whole other can of worms. Everyone in the South he'd met up until now definitely wouldn't have fit the stereotype of a dumb, backwards redneck, but this guy was taking the cake. He didn't see how the man had room to criticize the two African-American youngsters. First of all, they were cute. The redneck was not. Looked like there was some acne scarring from when he was younger. And the man definitely needed dental work. And that wispy hair that was the color of mouse... sheesh. The guy's exterior definitely matched his interior: unattractive. As the two black boys drove off, blissfully unaware of the slurs that had been hurled against them, the gears in Steve's mind started turning. Okay, he could work with this.

First thing he did was what Steve always did when he was about to make major changes: he froze the world except for him. Steve had a talent... or talents, depending on how you looked at it. He could change anything he wanted about reality, at will. He could even make it so no one would recognize the changes. And he definitely didn't need any accidental witnesses to what he was about to do, so freezing the world in place seemed like a wise choice.

The part that came after was more difficult. What to do, what to do... there were so many things to change he hardly knew where to begin! First off was that awful dental situation... The redneck looked better now that his teeth weren't as scraggly as his hair, at least it was a start. And that hair... why have it at all when it was so mangy-looking? He shrunk it back into the redneck's head; good riddance. His skin needed to be cleared up, too. Well... that was where the fun stuff would really start happening, he thought to himself. He started working on the skin. It was getting clearer and more smooth, but also darker and darker. First he just seemed like he had an olive tone. Then a creamy mocha, then milk chocolate and finally dark chocolate, stopping just short of being truly one of the darkest-skinned men Steve had ever seen. His skin was black, all right.

But that didn't make the redneck black, no sir. His features were all still very Caucasian. Time to go to work, Steve thought, cracking the joints in his fingers. He broadened the nose, making it wider, the nostrils getting a bit bigger as well, The cheekbones needed to sharpen, chisel out the face some more, and the eyes needed to be subtly reshaped, more like almonds... Those blue eyes wouldn't do with his new face, so he darkened them to a luscious, rich brown. And those lips... better puff them out. They swelled into two big pillow-lips, prominent, strong, sexy, and very juicy-looking. Damn, this was shaping up to be a real manly, handsome face! Not too shabby, if Steve didn't think so himself. What could he add...? Oh, yes, a dimple to the strong chin. Perhaps a nice mustache to warm that chilly upper lip of his... Damn! Manly almost to a fault! Not the most beautiful creation of his, but it wasn't intended to be.

Next was the height. The former white bread redneck had been 5'7"... way too average for what Steve had in mind. He increased the man's height, stretching him to 5'9", then 5'11"... 6'1"... 6'3"... Finally he stopped at 6'6", towering over normal men, an intimidating presence... or would be, if he didn't resemble that damn scarecrow. He was still so thin! Steve licked his lips. One of his favorite parts was coming up. It was the part that he had to forbid himself from skipping to... doing it first sometimes screwed up what he was aiming for originally. But it was his passion... Muscle. He loved it. He couldn't get enough. He wasn't personally built for it, and he accepted that (although he didn't have to), he just loved it on other men. Almost to a fault. When he'd first discovered his powers, his hometown looked like the HGH-soaked anabolic steroid capital of the world in a matter of days. He had been a little repressed, to put it lightly.

So it was with his personal bias in mind that he started to grow muscle on the long, lean frame of the former redneck. He did it slowly, steadily, to make sure he had it under control. A few times when he'd gotten too enthusiastic and rushed, the men had turned out with some rather disproportionate muscles. They still looked, eminently fuckable, but who wanted pecs like beach balls on a gymnast's frame? Besides Steve, that is. The redneck's clothes had started to tear with the height growth and as more muscle packed on his skinny frame, it tore some more until Steve decided it was time it got an update, as well. The shirt and shorts started to reform into a short-sleeve navy blue button-up shirt, with matching navy blue pants. And they were looking very flattering on the dark-skinned man as he kept increasing in muscularity. Soon he had a swimmer's build. Yawn, Steve thought. Those were a dime a dozen. This guy was gonna get the deluxe treatment...

And so swimmers' muscles passed the former redneck by, as he graduated to a more muscular gymnast with nice, rounded pecs, strong deltoids, a hard six-pack and strong, bulging arms. Still not enough, Steve thought. The details on the man's clothes were coming in as they grew along with his muscles. Pleated pockets on his chest, epaulettes on his shoulders, pins and patches, tools that hooked themselves to his hips... The look was starting to come together as he entered into the lightweights of bodybuilders, then the middleweights, gaining more mass and definition within his shirt and pants. You could see even through them, now, that the former redneck was a muscular black man. The slacks held his rippling quads while his chest pushed out the front of his shirt, the short sleeves preoccupied with his deltoids while his beefy biceps and triceps were in mostly full view.

While this would've been enough for most people, Steve couldn't leave it there. This man could still be more, much more... The muscles kept inflating with sinew, packing on more striated mass while keeping the intense definition he knew was a hallmark of professional bodybuilders. Vascularity was obvious, too, as fat veins crept over his biceps, even his neck was thickening out, his traps tenting up the collar of the shirt, making space even more limited for that poor shirt. Pecs were reaching critical mass inside of the garment before the buttons holding them back began to snap off... first the top, then the second, then the third! It showed off the phenomenal thickness of these two pillows of muscle, emphasizing the incredible cleavage they had obtained.

His pants looked positively stretched across those quads, fat wedges of muscle hinted at beneath the dark fabric. His ass, no, now it was a booty, pushed out the seat of his pants a great deal, too, creating a shelf behind him to rival the one his pecs created in the front! His lats helped spread out his upper torso, making his ham hock arms splay out in a display of musclebound masculinity. Yet it also created an amazing taper, his waspish waist clearly needing to be powerful enough to keep the abundance of upper beef from toppling over. And still muscle kept pumping into this handsome black man's body until it looked almost cartoonish. The world's most muscle-obsessed comic book artist would've gone agog at the creature that was standing before Steve now. He had wanted a physique that would clearly be superior to the world's most accomplished bodybuilders and here it was. He'd made men as big as this before, even bigger. But it still took his breath away and pumped blood into his nether regions when he saw the results.

The uniform (yes, it was clearly meant to be some sort of uniform now) was nearly complete. The metal insignia was pinned over the massive black man's beating heart. His gun and baton hung at his hips, ready at a moment's notice. He had a small pad of paper and a pen in one breast pocket for impromptu note-taking. The various accoutrements that accented his uniform made one thing clear: this man was a cop. And from the looks of it, a damn intimidating one, too. The only thing missing was his name.

Steve smiled. What a handsome, manly, rugged-looking cop! The physical portion was almost over, but there was one more major change that needed to be done. He'd sometimes forget the next part after the excitement of growing a man so huge. Then Steve would unfreeze everything and realize his mistake, blushing and having to do emergency retouching. He wouldn't forget this time, though: the genitals. This guy still had the same size genitals that the redneck had, and peering with his powers, Steve could tell that was definitely not anything to be proud of. Pretty damn wimpy, really, especially on the frame of such an otherwise powerful man. So he'd do him a favor and upgrade him a bit. He started elongating and thickening the organ, along with making the testicles swell in tandem. Four inches soft... it was progress. At least he was packing what most other men were, now. Five inches soft, now they were getting somewhere... six inches, yeah, real nice and meaty, it was definitely making a statement at his crotch. Seven inches and his balls were pushing out like jumbo eggs behind it. Eight inches and they were fresh fruit and a jumbo hot dog. Nine inches soft and... it looked perfect. Potent, obvious, yet still elegant and masculine at the same time. He would always be packing in his pants and shorts, but it wasn't comedic. This man was just blatantly hung. A huge, muscled, hung black man and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

There, that was the finishing touch on that body, Steve thought. He didn't need a single other change to that gorgeous physique. But he still wasn't done. There was still a spiteful, hate-filled bigot living inside that skull, and it was time to bring it all home. It was here that Steve's powers would be particularly useful in helping change someone. If he had to completely spell out every change he wanted to affect someone's life, he could literally spend a lifetime on one man, tweaking every single aspect of his existence. Instead, he could make broad strokes and the power would take care of the rest. It was very convenient, and Steve would often be pleasantly surprised by the outcome. The only specifics he had for this time was that the man would be a proud, gay African-American bodybuilder policeman. He didn't particularly care how the pieces fell after that. Considering his work done, he unfroze the world to see what his changes had wrought for the formerly skinny, bigoted redneck.

As the world unfroze around him, the black man gasped, a deep noise that promised a deeper voice to back it up. His eyes dilated slightly as the rush of the life changes enveloped him, obliterating his former identity in less than the blink of an eye. He was... what was his name? Oh, right, Tom Jenkins. Tom "The Tank" Jenkins. Officer Jenkins. It's what it said on the front of his uniform! How could he forget something as simple as that. Just another good ol' Southern boy that got kicked out of the house when he was 17 by a very religious mother who believed gays were sick and wanted no part of them, even if her only son turned out to be one. Luckily, he was a resourceful kid and found some jobs he could hold down to keep him fed, clothed and with a roof over his head. He had always been somewhat of a big kid, playing football at high school, and started to seriously get into bodybuilding around the same time he decided on law enforcement as a career. He was still idealistic and optimistic enough to want to keep the streets safe. He was a great cop and as his confidence in being a gay black man in the South grew, so did his physique.

It seemed he had natural genetics for it as he just kept blowing up year after year of lifting weights. It wasn't just handed to him, though. He fought through blood, sweat and tears for the mass he had today. And it was a lot of mass... the biggest pro bodybuilder there was. People doubted there would ever be someone as massive as he was at his height. Normally being so tall was a serious disadvantage in bodybuilding, but his frame just seemed to welcome the pounds as they added. Criminal justice was his first passion, but bodybuilding was a close, close second. Luckily his precinct supported his hobby and allowed him the time he needed to attend competitions and win titles. When he first popped onto the bodybuilding scene, the magazines were calling him "The Other Ronnie Coleman." He got more comments on his obvious poser bulge than his physique. Over the past few years, however, Coleman was starting to become "The Other Tom Jenkins." The Tank on the cover sold magazines, equipment and supplements nowadays, so it was a healthy secondary source of income for him. He was never in it for the fame, though. He just loved muscle; building it, flexing it, watching it... He loved muscle on other men almost as much as he loved it on himself!

Tom thought he was pretty well-adjusted, all things considered. In fact, after he started becoming a bit more well-known as a bodybuilder, his mother found out about him and attempted to reconnect with him. He would've worried about it being just a calculated move now that he was more successful, but after meeting with her, she admitted between sobs that she had regretted kicking him out and she was ready to love him unconditionally this time. He'd teared up, too, and they were closer than ever now. He would call her every day to gab about this and that; he was a mama's boy and he came by it honestly. With his careers as a bodybuilder and a cop both going better than he could've hoped for at the ripe old age of 30, and living with a boyfriend he fucked with his 13" cock and who could be The One, he was pretty content, all things considered.

"Excuse me, do I know you?" someone asked. It shook him out of his recollections as he looked down at the slim man in front of him. Kinda cute, but he already had a man.

"Possibly," Tom admitted, smiling sheepishly and blushing. His voice was like if Barry White and a foghorn had a baby and dipped it in molasses. Deep, resounding, and with a sweet drawl. Posing in a skimpy poser on stage was one thing, dealing with fans face-to-face was another. He could be a little shy, but he was working past it.

"No, really, I've seen your face somewhere... you gotta be some kind of bodybuilder with a physique like that..." the man insisted, pointing out Tom's huge guns. He subconsciously tensed them, making them get larger and more vascular with the simplest gesture.

"Yeah, I'm Tom Jenkins. You might know me, I suppose. 'The Tank?'" he offered humbly.

"Oh!! Right! The bodybuilder/cop who won Olympia!" the man exclaimed, suddenly seeming to place his face. "My name's Steve, it's an honor to meet you!"

Steve offered his hand and Tom gladly accepted it, shaking it firmly but not too hard. He knew he could easily hurt a smaller man if he didn't control his strength. "Please, the honor's all mine! It's cool to meet a fan," he said honestly. He tried to be approachable and he swore he'd never get a big head just for being good at doing what he loved. "Just passing through?"

"Yeah, taking the back roads on my vacation," Steve said, chuckling.

Tom chuckled with him, which was an action that could be compared to an earthquake's aftershock. "Doesn't get much more back of the road than around here! But they're mostly good people, they don't hesitate to help motorists who get lost in these parts," he assured him with a brilliant smile that contrasted his luscious dark skin.

"Good to know! Well, I won't keep you, especially in this scorcher," Steve said, wiping more sweat from his brow.

"Yeah, maybe July wasn't the best time for a leisurely stroll through the South," Tom joked, drops of sweat falling down his own bull neck and onto the rounded contours of his pecs, disappearing into his straining shirt. "Take it easy, Steve," he called out as he capped his tank and got back inside his fully decked out police cruiser and drove off.

"Who was the guy you were talkin' to?" a gruff voice beside Tom asked as they drove off. It was Tom's partner, 25-year-old Ezekiel. Zeke the Freak, the guys back at the station called him. Probably because he weighed close to 300 lbs. while still being 5'6" and was as strong as three big men put together! Tom was known as the bodybuilder in the precinct, but Zeke was the powerlifter, and a damn good one, too. He didn't compete, he just enjoyed knowing how strong and beefy he could get. His uniform looked like it was spray painted on, against its will. He was bulging powerfully underneath it and at times looked more outside of it than in. His blond fur sprouted through the collar as a sign that he was all man. And there was a bulge of similar dangerousness to Tom's pressing against the crotch of his slacks.

Tom just chuckled and put his hand tenderly on Zeke's bulging quad. "Don't get jealous, sugar bear. Just a Yankee passin' through on vacation. Recognized me from a magazine or somethin' and just wanted to say hi."

Zeke was mollified by that answer, settling back into his seat after wondering what the two of them had had to say to each other. He wasn't as much of a people person as Tom, but he liked authority and order and was a good cop, it was just that Tom was able to talk to people better than he could. It was part of how they complemented each other as partners, both on and off the force. "Not jealous, just curious, don't be a bitch," he teased. He leaned over and gave Tom a peck on the cheek.

Tom giggled and batted the blond bear away. "Not on the clock, sugar, that's the rule. You can do whatever you want to me when we get back home," he purred, his crotch swelling just thinking of it. Not that his crotch could afford to swell in these pants. He should really focus on the road.

"I know, I know, ya just make me wanna kiss ya, that's all," Zeke drawled, patting the black hunk's quad in kind. "And after I tear you up, I expect the same in return," he added with a wink.

Tom took a deep breath at that, almost busting another button on his shirt from his pecs swelling at the action. He'd be counting the seconds on the clock, that was for sure.

[rdalrt2]

yay for vignettes, the forum needs more one-off stories like this

[muscl4life]

Like I said before it is one hot story, I loved how you changed him physically, mentally and socially, making that guy a very appealing new man.

Congratulations

[cutlerfan]

I like the story! Great transformation writing! Peace!

[Mad Dog]

Thanks! If anyone has ideas on another little scene they'd like to see, let me know!

[Aardvark2]

MD, I'm sorry I didn't notice this earlier, but better late than never, right? Great job, I loved reading it and loved knowing that I partially inspired it! (I certainly recognize a few things ) You write very well and I look forward to reading more of your work!

[Mad Dog]

Thanks! It means a lot that you read it and enjoyed it. Again, if anyone has suggestions for further misadventures, don't hesitate to PM or IM me! :3