Hunky daddy musclebear Dennis Allman is a 50-something hair stylist. Nerdy 20-something Blake Henry is 20-something computer geek seriously working the Bill Gates look, i.e., bad hair and worse glasses. Dennis sets out to give Blake a new look. And succeeds beyond their wildest dreams! A personal fave of the author (who has a hairstylist a lot like Dennis!.).
Whoah! Who the fuck was this stud?! The tight bright UnderArmour shirt did nothing to hide sculpted pecs, a clearly discernible eight-pack, arms that must be pushing 19 inches, thick, furry forearms. And delts and traps and a wrestler neck, plus thick quads and big calves encased in denim and stuffed into a pair of unlaced work boots. Maybe mid-20s, clearly a bodybuilder, definitely someone who ought to be competing if not doing so already. A big dude, in other words, although I probably still had a few pounds on him—plus six inches on my waist that he had on his pecs and arms and ooh la la!
“May I help you, sir?” I asked. “I don’t usually take walk-ins.”
The big dude chuckled and that’s when I looked up. Great haircut, dark blue eyes with long thick lashes, high cheekbones, a straight nose, a good strong jaw, and a firm chin, all set off by a short-cropped but full and thick beard, brown—like the hair on his head—with reddish highlights. Awfully familiar but…
“Dennis,” he said. “It’s me! Blake!”
It’s a good thing I was sitting down already because if I hadn’t been my knees would have given way.
“Jesus Fucking Christ, Boy!” I exclaimed. “What gear does Joe have you running?”
He laughed, then danced his pecs, one up, one down, one up, one down.
“Pfft!” he said, then settled himself into my chair. “Some creatine, that’s it.”
I stared at the back of his 19-inch neck and traps that stood a good three inches taller than his delts.
“Seriously,” I said, as I got out the clippers and the scissors. “You look like you’ve gained 30 pounds. In a freaking month! You’re what? 215-220 now? That’s crazy!”
“Thirty-eight, to be precise,” he said. “I was 225 this morning. I’m just having a helluva growth spurt, that’s all!” And then he got that little boy grin on his face. “But check it out,” he said, flashing me a double bi. “These puppies are 19 inches cold and pushing 19¾ when they’re fully pumped.”
I swung the chair around the other way before he could notice I had gone from zero to 9 inches in 0 seconds!
“And where did your glasses go?” I asked. “I really liked those frames!”
“Me, too,” he said. “But I joined a club rugby team and they were forever flying off. I finally decided contacts made more sense!”
Blake? On a rugby team?
“The Grizzlies,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”
Boy had I heard of them. And fucked half of them over the years. Worthington’s only gay rugby team was famous for being brutal on the field, consuming massive amounts of beer after every game, and fucking like bunnies about the time the beer ran out (counterintuitive, I know, but there you have it!)
“So how did that phone number turn out?” I asked.
He look puzzled.
“What phone number…?”
He looked at him.
“Oh, yeah! It was cool but he was bit too, uh, twinky for my taste. I mean, he was really into me but it was clear he wasn’t interested in bodybuilding or anything. Since then…” He reached a hand under the cape and pulled out a 50 business cards held together with a rubber band. “Getting the numbers is no longer the problem,” he said, nonchalantly.
I’ve created a monster, I thought. A big, fucking, built, furry, beautiful monster! Way to go, Dennis!
“So now I’m thinking what I need to do commemorate…” Having fucked 50 guys? I thought. “…having broken 200 pounds,” he continued.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked.
He actually blushed!
“I can’t decide whether to get a tattoo,” he said. “Or have my nipples pierced!”
“Hmm,” I replied. “A couple of thoughts. First, both are nice! Second, tatts are permanent so you really need to be sure! Third, nipple rings can be taken out!”
He nodded at me.
“What about you?” he asked. “Any ink? Any piercings?”
I just laughed.
“Thought about it many times, never worked up the nerve,” I replied. “Also, by the time I was contemplating it seemed like everyone had all of it. I figured maintaining a blank canvas was actually different in and of itself anymore!”
“Blank canvas, my ass,” he said. “You’re built like a tank and you’re furry as fuck. Anyone who wants more than that on a man is out of his mind!”
It was my turn to blush!
“I look forward to seeing what you decide.”
He hugged me again when we were finished. And this time it was a lift you off your feet bear hug! Just as well his was the last appointment of the day because I seriously need to go beat off!
“I can never thank you enough,” he whispered.
Then he was out the door.
The bell tinkled again a month later. I looked up and…
It was out of my mouth before I could process it.
“Really?” Blake asked. “I sort of figured you as all top.”
He had on a leather vest, no shirt, and he was big! Really, really fucking Big! The beard was a good three inches longer, putting it a little bit longer than his hair. Usually that turns me off but in his case it made me think of Viking conquerors, pillaging their way across, well, I dunno where! My ass?!
“Just tell me,” I said. “Don’t make me guess.”
He lifted really fucking huge and flexed.
“Twenty-two inches cold,” he announced. “And this morning, right out of bed, empty stomach, 265.”
Sorry, I’m repeating myself but…
Blake now outweighed me by 30 pounds, all muscle and all in the right places. And clearly his waist was still 2-3 inches smaller than mine. You know how many 265-pound guys have a 33-inch waist? Not many!
“I thought you would have noticed,” he said, pulling his arms around to the front and crabbing into a most muscular.
“Noticed?” I said, blankly. I was getting dizzy.
“The tatts,” he said, pointing a big meaty finger at each of the big meaty globes occupying his upper arms.
Oh, yeah! Around each, just where an armband reside, he had matching tribal tatts, heads of stylized snakes chasing each other’s tails.
“Nice!” I exclaimed, then thought about it. “But does that mean…?”
“Yeah, of course it does,” he said, grinning. “But have you checked out my squat butt? You gotta be at least this high to get on this ride!”
He held his hands about eight inches apart.
“You look like a fucking bouncer,” I said as he seated himself in my chair.
“Funny you should mention that,” he said. “I’m manning the door at Spike these days!”
My jaw dropped.
“What about CyberSec?!” I exclaimed.
He shrugged his massive shoulders. It was like watching an avalanche.
“I cashed out,” he said. “I keep up with the research. There will always be another position if I want one. Right now, though…”
I had already gotten down to business with clippers and scissors—a lifted eyebrow on my part, a nod of the head on his told me all I needed to know.
“Well, good for you!” I said. “I’m sure Jake is happy to have a tank like you out front.”
“And I’ve been working on some, how shall we say, ‘crowd management skills?’ Joe, the guy who was my trainer, has a cousin who’s, well, I’ll be frank. He’s a hood. But he knows his way around an alley!”
“Just you be careful,” I admonished. “And who’s training you now if Joe isn’t?”
He laughed at that one.
“Oh, I’m training myself,” he said. “Joe helps change plates and all, along with some other dudes. He’s a strong guy but we’re not in the same league any more. He’s not benching 800 pounds for reps!”
“Jeez, Blake,” I said, shakily. “That’s three times as much as you weigh! For reps?!”
“Besides, there’s some rule about fucking your trainer,” he continued.
I knew Joe. Joe was one of the hottest, best built men in Worthington. 5’10” and 235 pounds, all muscle, 32-inch waist, and a notorious top. Finishing with the hair, I asked:
“What about the beard? You’ll be wanting a trim?”
He crossed his massive forearms in front of his face.
“No,” he barked. “Don’t touch the beard. It will tell me when it’s ready!” Mmmmm’kay! Don’t know where that came from but if he likes the beard, more power to him! “I’m thinking about entering a contest,” he said, as we were finishing up. “But I can’t decide: Bodybuilding or powerlifting.”
“You can win either, of course,” I said. “But think about this: Bodybuilding means dieting down.”
He shook his head vigorously.
“I’m not done growing yet.”
Once again he hugged me. This time it was like being wrapped up in a Grizzly Bear. And then—whoosh!—he put his big paws under my armpits and pumped me up and down half a dozen times.
“Hmm,” he said. “I thought that would be more of a challenge! We need to start feeding you some more!”
I just stared as his broad back lumbered across the parking lot to the topless Jeep parked in the lot. He jumped in and roared off, fucking UR-Stud of Worthington. 105 pounds in three fucking months! What on Earth was going on?
And what would he look like next visit?!
“What?” he asked. “Is it the 26-inch biceps?”
He flexed them. I knew guys whose legs were smaller than those guns. Hell, I knew twinks whose waists were smaller than those guns!
“Or is it the nipples rings?”
He fingered them and my vision blurred.
“Or is it my Viking quality beard?”
It was now reached the top of his pecs. Of course, his pecs were so fucking huge it didn’t have to reach all that far! It was clear that if Blake did a rear double bi you’d still be able to see the top of his pecs, they were that fucking huge!
“No,” I barked. “I can’t believe you’d walk in here with an unlit stogie.”
He paled visibly, chastened.
“I don’t care how big and butch you think you are—and admittedly you’re fucking huge and you’re fucking butch—You.Do.NOT.Bring.Tobacco.Products into my Shop?!”
He lowered his gaze.
“Does that mean…?”
I rolled my eyes.
“It means you go throw that piece of shit away outside somewhere and get your fucking huge ass in here and sit in this chair, chop chop,” I replied. “Got it?”
He got it.
“Okay, tell me,” I said.
“I got my nipples pierced to celebrate passing 300,” he replied, casually. “Which was about two weeks ago. Currently sitting at 320.”
My audible whimper was completely involuntary.
“And I won my powerlifting contest,” he said. “Bench press. 1,305 pounds. Raw.” Really, I swear, I couldn’t help it. I spurted. I stopped midcut and sat at my desk. “Are you okay?” He turned his beer-keg sized neck to look in my direction.
“Just need to excuse myself for a minute,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
When I returned, he gave me a look. “Did you just…?” I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He grinned. “So I made you…” I gripped his ears and tugged his head into place.
“Don’t distract the man with the scissors, goofball!” I barked, then added. “I will neither confirm nor deny your speculation.”
He gave me a self-satisfied grunt.
“Still manning the door at Spike?” I asked.
“They let me go,” he said, sounding aggrieved. “Said I was scaring the customers away.”
“Well, that’s no surprise, really, although I would have thought you would attract just as many as you drove off,” I pointed out.
He rolled his eyes.
“Don’t get me started. You’d think I was Winnie-the-Pooh’s honey jar the way all those little guys buzzed around me!”
I arched an eyebrow.
“Little guys like me, you mean?”
“Naw, littler than you, uh, I mean, you know, ‘little’ guys!”
As I pointed out earlier, I don’t usually feel little but not that many guys outweigh me by 85 pounds, especially by 85 pounds of solid muscle.
“It’s all right, Big Guy,” I told him. “I understand what you’re saying. But what about work?”
“I’m back at CyberSec,” he said. “And if you think I scared the bears and daddies and muscle queens and twinks at Spike, you can’t imagine what I do to my fellow tech nerds.”
I was trying to picture it and failing miserably.
“And how is Joe?” I asked.
“Gone,” he replied. “Said I was ‘too big’ for him! Can you imagine?”
Idiot, I thought.
“Idiot,” I said. “There’s no such thing as too big!”
“I know, right?” he replied.
And then it hit me.
“320, right?” I asked.
He grinned and stuck out a chest that was well over 60 inches, probably closer to 65.
“That’s right,” he replied. “Pretty fucking cool, huh?”
I tried to remember back to the first day he showed up. I could still see traces of the cute nerd in his face but everything else was morphed beyond belief.
“And you weighed how much the day you showed up here the first time?”
“I was right at 160, as I recall,” he said, then paused.
“That’s what I thought. In other words, you have literally doubled in size since you started coming here four months ago.”
“That’s insane,” he said.
“I’m not arguing,” I replied. “Not with the math, not with the results.”
I was silent for the rest of the haircut.
“How’s this going to play out?” I asked.
He stood up. And that’s when I noticed we were no longer at eye level. He had to be an inch taller than when he first showed up. Had I shrunk? Or had he grown?
“I really don’t know,” he said. “But I guess we’ll find out!”
No, wait a minute. That’s not adequate.
Remember that scene in Independence Day when the city-sized alien ship slides into position over Manhattan, the shadow covering the whole island and the populace looking up in awe? It was more like that. And then the door open and this mountain entered. In point of fact, the mountain had to turn sideways because its shoulders were too broad to fit through the ADA compliant doorway (recommended width 32-48 inches!)
I looked up.
The mountain was a good 6’6” tall and a good 5 feet across at the shoulders. Wavy dark hair hung down past traps that reached up to the Behemoth’s ears, a glossy thick beard hung down to his mid chest.
“You gotta make it stop,” Blake said, his voice at least an octave lower than his last visit a month ago.
I sat there a moment.
“Two question,” I said, finally. “First: Are you sure? At this point you’re the most magnificent specimen of manhood that’s ever existed.”
He chuckled. It was like the rumbling of a volcano.
“I’m sure,” he replied. “It’s fantastic and I love it. And I’m afraid if I get any bigger I won’t be able to wipe my ass when I take a dump. Second question?”
“How much do you weigh?”
He looked me up and down.
“I bought a bariatric scale, you know,” he said. “Right out of bed this morning? 506.”
I shook my head. He was the biggest, most muscular man I’d ever seen. Probably the biggest, most muscular man anyone had ever seen. And he wanted me to make it stop!
I scratched my chin.
“How do I make it stop?”
He plunged his kielbasa-sized fingers into the beard.
“My guess is trimming this will do the trick,” he replied. “And, no, I am not afraid that trimming it will cause me to shrink. All of this is permanent.” I arched an eyebrow. He shrugged shoulders, a movement akin to watching bison stampeding across the plains. “I just know.”
He sat in the chair, just barely fitting. His waist and hips were miniscule compared to his mammoth chest and shoulders but even so they were probably a good 50 inches in circumference. Even with the seat all the way down, I had to find a step stool, mostly so that I could reach around.
Half an hour later I held up the mirror. We were back to the razor cut that started it all, long on top, short of the sides, the beard trimmed and sculpted with Edwardian precision.
“Jesus,” I said when I was done.
When he first walked in, the kid had looked like Bill Gates with his sloppy haircut and dorky spectacles. Now though…
It wasn’t just his hugeness. His face was the same but it was more. The jaw, the eyebrow ridge, the nose, the cheekbones, more pronounced. The eyelashes longer, deeper set eyes with smoldering intensity, fuller lips. Masculinity personified.
“You make Tom Selleck, Sam Elliott, Carl Hardwicke, and Tom Katt look like little sissies,” I said, licking my lips.
He moved the mirror side to side, up and down, trying to take in the new Haircut and Beard Trim from every angle. “Who?” he said. I rolled my eyes. “I keep forgetting how young you are,” I replied. “Two famous actors and two famous gay porn stars from back in the day.” He smiled that little boy smile of his.
I was rock hard.
“I think you know the answer to that.”
He stood up. And up. And up. He now stood half a foot taller than my 6 feet and broad as I was—and I had gained 15 pounds of muscle in the time I’d been cutting my hair—he was literally twice as wide. He went to the door and turned over the OPEN sign.
“Isn’t it about time you took me upstairs?”
“And don’t give me any crap about client relationships,” he said. I spluttered. “Or any of that ‘but I’m old enough to be…’ nonsense,” he added. “You’re a fucking hot daddy and I’ve beating off to you since I first walked in the door.”
I let out a deep sigh. And nodded.
“Good,” he said.
Then he reached out, put his hands under my pits, and lifted me up to his level where he proceeded to give me the longest, most intense kiss of my life. I gasped when he finally let go.
“You liked that?” he asked.
“Another 5 seconds and I would have spurted,” I replied.
He shook his head.
“Can’t have that!”
Then he hoisted me over his shoulder like I was a feather pillow and raced up the stairs. I was seriously wondering how they were going to manage being trampled by 750 pounds of beef but they managed better than I thought they would.
Somehow he knew exactly where to take me.
“Put me down,” I said, when we arrived in my bedroom. Perhaps because it was my bedroom, I automatically assumed command. “Now strip,” I told him, while reaching in my dresser drawer for my tape measure. On the second thought, I grabbed a second one.
Then I looked up.
If you have ever been around a big bodybuilder you know that they exude presence. Having a chest that’s wider than most men’s shoulders, arms the size of a normal person’s thighs, all that stuff, just sort of creates its own gravity, pulling you in. Now imagine someone twice the size of a professional bodybuilder. Blake’s shoulders were, in fact, 5 feet across. His chest was 100 inches in circumference.
Do the math.
100 inches is 8 feet 4 inches. He his chest measurement was 25% greater than his height!
His waist was 50 inches but you couldn’t pinch the skin on his abs, each of which was the size and density of a crushed beer keg. Then here were his quads. 54 inches. Which were just 10 inches bigger than his biceps. That’s right. 44-inch biceps. Bigger than the average man’s chest. Which were perfectly balanced by a pair of 38-inch forearms, each of them bigger than my waist.
He cleared his throat.
“You know, uh, I haven’t actually…”
“Gotten around to measuring this thing?”
It’s pretty much the last thing I look at on a man. I always check out the muscle and the fur first, then I spare a glance for what’s in the pants. My recollection was that Blake showed a nice basket but it wasn’t eye-popping. This, though…
It stood straight up. Very up. Up to his overhanging pecs up! And about as thick as the rest of him. Per his request, I checked. 14 inches long. 10 inches in circumference, thickest just below the head, giving it an overall cobra appearance.
“Good thing I’m a bottom, huh?”
I gave it a squeeze.
“Good thing I’m a top,” I replied. “But if you think you can get out of giving me a ride on this monster, you can think again.”
He gave me a glance.
“Are you sure?”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” I answered. “And, Big Man, I’ve got plenty of will!”
And then I showed him just how much will there was. Six hours and 10 orgasms later…
“What now?” he asked.
“It’s up to you, I suppose.”
He was straddling my hips without sitting on them, each of his quads bigger than a competition bodybuilder’s chest, his shoulders the width of the bed. He looked around the room.
“We’re going to need a bigger place.”
“Assuming, of course…”
My instantaneous hard on told him all he needed to know.
“Especially,” he said. “Since I don’t think I’m growing any more…” I sighed. He leaned down and put a hub-cap sized hand on either side of my pillow, his massive arms and mountainous fur-covered pecs obscuring the view. “And I think you’re just about to start!”
“Start what?!” I asked.