m/m Transformation Part I: Mutation - Chapter One

[Fulano]

Author's note - this is an ongoing story I started in 2011 and posted on the old site. I managed to write and post 14 chapters of Part I. The 15th and last chapter has languished untouched for years because, well, let’s just say the past few years have been very stressful and challenging.

 

But I’m back and continuing work on Chapter 15. I’m going to post the existing chapters one at a time unchanged from the original. Speaking of which, here is Chapter 1.

 

 

*  *  *

 

 

A few months had passed since my 39th birthday and for the first time I was beginning to feel old. Ten years before, I had promised myself that by 40, I would weigh over 250 pounds, own my own home in Manhattan, and have a partner. So far I was zero for three.

 

I was striking out at my own game, not that I had anything to complain about, at least physically. At a few inches shy of six feet tall and 240 pounds with around nine percent body fat, I was impressively built. But we are never big enough, are we?

 

My name was Jamal and I was somewhat of a mutt. My dad was half Syrian and half Native American, my mom half African and half Samoan. The combination resulted in a Mediterranean appearance with olive-brown skin and green eyes beneath dark eyebrows.

 

I usually sported a thick black beard and after ten years of busting my butt, I had built up a hard, thick musculature that as a bonus was covered in dense, black hair. So yeah, many guys considered me hot. Some might say exotic. I thought I was okay.

 

I worked construction, which I learned early on was unusual for a gay man. Most guys thought it a turn on, but sometimes I would happily push paper in a comfortable office rather than sweat or freeze in the typical New York weather. How did I get into it? A straight friend of mine hired me after high school and that was that. I averaged a decent five-figure income, but certainly couldn’t afford to buy where I lived. Project-based jobs usually don't promise a steady income, but in the end I found it satisfying to have something tangible to show for my effort, so I stuck with it.

 

I was single. In fact, I had always been single, though I certainly had lots of sex. I loved to fuck, and guys loved to get fucked by a big guy like me. Why was I single? The short answer to that was that no one understood me, which is a nice way of saying that I was hard for most to put up with for long. Was I a jerk? No. The problem was that I cared too much, which is a good place to begin this story.

 

I had a studio apartment in the West Village near the Meatpacking District. It was nice enough. Five flights up, good view to the west, lots of light in the afternoon, and yes – a window unit air conditioner, which I was sitting in front of after taking the elevator up and hanging my sweaty tank on the doorknob. My workout had been good, and I leaned back in my old, stained brown leather chair and closed my eyes.

 

My sweat-soaked body relaxed in the cold breeze of the a/c, which was a blessing on a hot day like today. I felt my nipples grow hard from the cold air and looked down at my heavy, meaty pecs.

 

My chest was certainly my strongest body part. I was pretty lucky with my genetics – everything responded well to training – but my pecs were exceptional. They were perhaps a bit too big for the rest of me, but I kind of liked that. I watched as a bead of sweat somehow dodged the thick forest of hairs on the mound of my left pec and rolled down until it disappeared under its shelf. My cock twitched and I thought about calling Hank, my best friend and preferred fuck buddy. But I didn't.

 

Instead, I swallowed the rest of my second post-workout smoothie and turned on the television. It took about ten seconds for my blood pressure to skyrocket.

 

Every time I paid attention to the news, I promised myself I would start ignoring it. The television wasn't an entertainment device. It was a window into chaos. In less than five minutes, CNN reported terrorist attacks across Europe by Al-Qaeda, several murders of gays, blacks and Mexicans in America's more “red” states by assorted extremist groups, Palestinian rockets striking Jewish neighborhoods amid Israel's demolition of Arab housing in east Jerusalem, sectarian strife in Iraq and Afghanistan, the violent crackdown on worker's riots in corporate America's Asian sweatshops, widespread conflicts over water rights in Africa...

 

I wasn’t the brightest bulb in New York, but it didn't take a genius to see that most of human misery was self-perpetuating and completely unnecessary.

 

Why hadn't I hitched up? Apparently, I was “too compassionate.” I let the human-inflicted suffering of others bother me too much. I allowed myself to get too worked up over events I couldn't control. And everyone was right. I did let horror stories get to me. The news gave me nightmares. I lost sleep over each new round of ethnic cleansing. I didn't have any control over these things, but they still felt wrong.

 

And so I agonized over how cruel people were to each other, and after a few months of dating, it drove away potential mates. So I didn’t date. I had sex. I had fun, but didn’t let anyone under my skin because they never lasted.

 

I exhaled slowly and tried to center myself. I changed the channel. Local weather. A cold front was on the way that would end the current heat wave. It was October already, but summer remained in overtime. Then they switched to national news, covering a senator from Oklahoma who was speaking to reporters and saying that America was facing a three-pronged attack from homosexuals, illegal aliens and Muslims and that these groups needed to be eradicated.

 

“Fuckin’ moron,” I mumbled.

 

I changed the channel. A news bulletin announced the execution of a gay man who was found guilty of hate crimes against a Christian group in Texas. He had been captured by three members of a church group while leaving a bar in Waco, taken to the country and beaten, though he managed to fight back and break the neck of one of his abductors. The other men got in their church van and fled. The man called the police on his cell phone – and was arrested.

 

The trial and sentencing had ignited a media firestorm worldwide but to no avail. The Texas governor had refused to stay the execution because she wanted to show that attacks on Christians would not be tolerated.

 

“It is essential that people of faith be free to express their beliefs,” she said. Two seconds later a thirty-pound dumbbell shattered the television screen.

 

“Fuck!” I yelled, as much at myself as at the moronic governor. I jumped up from the sweat-stained chair. My heart pounded in my chest. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

 

It was beyond outrageous. They executed a man for defending himself and called it justice.

 

I was filled with frustration and anger. Extremists continued to gain more and more control over people's lives – and deaths. My stomach cramped, severely, and I doubled over, falling to the floor. My face and neck burned. A voice pierced the thick haze that surround me…

 

“… the mass execution of homosexuals has been resumed by Iran's hardline government…” a man was saying. Despite my sudden disorientation, I realized that audio was still playing through the receiver. My rage intensified and I saw red.

 

Red. Rage, apparently, was red. For even with my eyes open it was the only color that existed and as I writhed on the floor it engulfed my body, tingling as if every part of me had been deprived of blood only to have it restored minutes later. At the same time, the heat in my face and neck spread across my body until my skin burned. Saliva filled my mouth and I vomited. Then there was nothing.

 

*  *  *

 

I was wet. Actually, I was covered in sweat. The voice of a male anchorman filled the room and I opened my eyes, blinking in the glare of the early afternoon sun pouring through the window. I could smell urine and … something else. To my horror, I realized that I had not only lost control of my bladder, but my bowels as well. What the fuck?

 

I sat up, fumbled for the remote, and turned off the entertainment system. Next, I carefully removed my gym shorts and tossed them in the trash. After unplugging the TV, I walked into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror.

 

Receding hairline. Dark, thick eyebrows. Heavy mustache and full beard. Black with a few strands of white. Generous body hair, particularly on my pecs, forearms and legs. My skin glistened with sweat. I shook my head. “You let yourself get so worked up you had a seizure,” I said to my reflection. “Nice.”

 

After a hot shower and a quick lunch, I felt human again, if still agitated. I left a voicemail for Terry, a truly huge power lifter I had dated for a while who was now my doctor, and stood naked in the main room of the studio apartment, cell phone in hand.

 

I needed a distraction. I dialed Hank but got his voicemail. After leaving him a short message, I decided that Plan B would be a beer.

 

No. I needed several beers, and I pulled on an old pair of relaxed-fit Levi's, the belt required to hold them up and a fresh white tank top undershirt. In no time I was out the door.

 

It was hot, but the sun was refreshing as I walked the several blocks to the Eagle. I greeted a few guys I knew, nodded at a few more I wouldn't mind knowing, and by the time I entered the two-story brick building that the bar occupied I was feeling pretty good. My negative funk had long since evaporated. I pulled off my shirt.

 

Two hours and six beers later I was on the roof top patio, sitting on a bench and leaning back against the brick of the taller building next to the bar. The music was loud, the patio was packed and I stared relentlessly at an extraordinarily hot kid, probably ten years younger than I, who was standing in front of me but deep in conversation with some daddy bear who I didn't recognize.

 

I watched the kid. He was tall – probably about six feet, maybe six one, and sandy blond with a full beard. He listened attentively and laughed easily; moved confidently but naturally. I found myself wondering how the scruff of his facial hair would feel between my thighs as he sucked me off. Time passed and I imagined the bliss of repeatedly ramming my cock between his perfect butt cheeks and into the soft heat of his hole. This little fantasy drifted lazily in my mind as I enjoyed the hot sun on my chest. I could feel myself growing hard – yet somehow drowsy. The sun felt amazing against my skin. I closed my eyes and wondered why I’d never noticed that before.

 

Someone was shaking my left shoulder. I had fallen asleep. “You’re gonna get a sunburn, big guy,” I heard a voice say. I opened my eyes to find the scruffy blond kid standing immediately in front of me. His deep blue eyes were almost hypnotic, but he glanced downward at the wooden deck before looking at me again. Despite the confidence I had observed earlier, he seemed shy.

 

The kid was beautiful. He had removed his t-shirt to reveal his lean, athletic torso. His well-developed chest was covered with a fine coat of blond hair that swirled around his eager nipples. I was so aroused that I was fully erect.

 

“I haven’t seen you before,” I said as I covered the prominent bulge in my jeans with my tank-top. “I’m Jamal.” I held out my hand. “Where are you from?”

 

“Matt,” he said quickly as we shook. “Cleveland. I mean ... I’m from Cleveland.” He’s nervous, I thought before he spoke again. “Well, I should get back to my host,” he said awkwardly. “I just didn’t want you to sunburn.” You mean you just couldn’t think of a reason to talk to me, as dark as I am it would take me a few hours to burn. I smiled.

 

“Thanks,” I said and shrugged my shoulders. “Nice to meet you.” I watched his butt and sighed as he walked away into the upstairs bar. I waited for my disappointment to extinguish the heat in my crotch, but it didn’t. The need to fuck persisted.

 

In the absence of distraction I noticed that we, or now I, had a small audience. Although I recognized a few of the faces, no one particularly interested me. I stood to leave and immediately noticed that my Levi’s seemed smaller. My cock strained uncomfortably against the fabric, which clung to my upper legs as if painted on. My muscles felt unusually full, as if fully pumped after a workout. It was a puzzling, but welcome feeling. I felt unusually strong, but dismissed it as part of the residual buzz.

 

I used my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face, shoulders and chest before walking back inside toward the stairwell. All eyes were on me as I left, which ordinarily would have made me feel self-conscious, but today I liked it. It seemed right. I was an alpha male, after all. My cock twitched but I paused at the top of the stairs. Alpha male? Where did that come from?

 

I jogged down the stairs, enjoying the feeling of my thick muscles bouncing slightly with each step. The downstairs bar was clearing out. Matt stood in a small circle of guys with his lean, muscular back and perfect ass pointed right at me. The waist of his jeans hung very low on the beautiful white globes of his ass – how kids these days liked to wear them. I usually find that look sloppy but on him it was incredibly sexy.

 

He turned around as if sensing my presence and I nodded. My heart pounded and my loins ached. I wanted him, but I didn’t feel comfortable pulling him from his friends. I continued forward until I was out on the sidewalk, where I stopped. I could just as easily go home and try Hank again. If he wasn’t available, there was always the memory of Matt’s backside and my right hand. I started walking back toward the Meatpacking District and home.

 

His image remained in my mind with perfect clarity. The farther away I walked the more strongly I felt the need to return, as if I were pulling a giant elastic band that was growing more and more taught. “Oh, what I would give to see that boy naked,” I said aloud.

 

I had almost reached 10th Avenue when I heard someone call out from behind. “Hey! Jamal!” And I turned to see Matt running toward me. My god he is beautiful, I thought as he approached. The slabs of his pecs bounced above his perfect, well-defined abs as he ran. Again my cock grew fully erect, which surprised me because it hadn’t responded that spontaneously in years. Then again, I couldn’t recall feeling that stimulated in years.

 

“I’m just going to say it,” he began once we were face to face.  “I can’t stop thinking about you.” He glanced briefly at the ground before looking up again. Was he genuinely nervous or just a good actor? Either way, I found it endearing. “Are you doing anything? Do you want to, you know, hang out? I’m not...”

 

I didn’t let him finish. I pulled him to me and drove my tongue into his mouth at the same time I wrapped my arms around his tight, muscular form and grabbed the firm mounds of his butt. Immediately his hands were all over my torso, feeling the spread and thickness of my lats, exploring my huge pecs. He pressed his crotch against mine and began grinding, either oblivious or apathetic that we were standing on a public street in full daylight.

 

“Get a room!” A man in a car yelled as he drove by.

 

I laughed and pulled away. “Good idea,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t rape you in public anyway.”

 

“You can’t rape the desperate,” he said.

 

I took his hand and began leading him to my place. “Somehow you don’t strike me as the desperate type.”

 

“Just desperate for you,” he said. “I know it’s cliché, but you really are my fantasy man.”

 

I chuckled and rolled my eyes. I’d be wealthy if I had a dollar for every time I’d been told that. Yet they always changed their mind...

 

“Your jeans are kind of tight though.”

 

My left eyebrow went up and I looked at him. “That’s a bad thing?”

 

He was correct, however. Only hours ago they fit just fine and now they were skin tight – except in the waist. The only explanation I could come up with was that I was retaining a lot of water, but even that seemed unlikely – and inadequate.

 

“You should leave something to the imagination,” he said.

 

“No secrets here.”

 

“No secrets? Okay, what happened to your back?” He had noticed the scars.

 

“Hmm. Later,” I said. “Try again.”

 

“Sure,” he said graciously. He didn’t press the question and that impressed me. “Okay. How much do you weigh?” This was The Question. Guys always wanted to know how much I weighed. How much I could bench. How much I could squat. How big my arms were. What supplements I used. It could be tiresome, but I didn’t mind him asking.

 

“I hover around 240. I’ve been as heavy as 250 before but I can’t break it.”

 

“No way. I’d say you’re at least 250 right now.”

 

I shook my head. “Weighed myself this morning. 238.”

 

“Dude. You’re huge. Your scale is broken.”

 

“You seem very sure of yourself,” I said.

 

“I am.”

 

I smiled. “Well, Mr. Know It All, I have an old mechanical scale in my closet. We’ll just check it when we get to my place.”

 

“Deal,” he agreed. “So what do I get when I’m right?” Some degree of cockiness was emerging through the shy behavior he had displayed until now. I found I liked it.

 

“To get fucked by your fantasy man,” I said.

 

“And if you win?” He asked.

 

“I get to fuck my fantasy boy.”

 

“I like it,” he said, smiling. “A win-win.”

 

“Damn straight.”

 

 

 

Next Chapter: http://muscle-growth.org/topic/1194-transformation-part-i-mutation-chapter-two/

[arpeejay]

I loved reading this story when it was originally posted and thoroughly delighted to see it again! Looking forward to the coming (and cumming!) chapters!

 

-- RPJ