Driver Wanted

Driver Wanted

The bold print stood out from the clipping as Andrew made his way onto the lot. The company must have been pretty small. All he could see were a total of three cars and one single story office building. That being said, the cars were very nice, indeed. Their exteriors shone with a fresh coat of paint and cured protective glaze that spoke just how new they were.

He brushed his hair to the side again as he fussed with his parted comb-over and advanced on the building itself. The interior was well furnished with a more modernistic metallic theme. Black carpet and black leather chairs were highlighted by shiny chrome lamps and side tables. He maneuvered around a burnished metal coffee table that sat in the middle of the waiting room, then approached the front desk.

The secretary seemed a little on the young side, but who was Andrew to judge? If he could do his job, then more power to him. The kid couldn’t have been much older than his mid-twenties. He stared at the screen, typing feverishly behind the monitor as the light flickered over his eyes. His mouth drooped somewhat lazily, as if he were struggling to stifle a yawn, and his hair had been completely bleached to the point of looking almost white as it rose in a series of spikes reminiscent of a boy band. It fit his blocky jaw and tight muscles, however. A set of gray sweat pants and shirt hugged to his frame as he spread his legs wide and continued to type, heedless of the new arrival.

“Excuse me,” Andrew finally said. “I’m here for the interview? I called ahead.”

The kid blinked slowly, then lifted his head to stare at Andrew. The boy’s dark eyes rolled over Andrew’s broad shoulders, his pudgy frame, thinning hair, and hazel eyes.

“Name?” he asked in a low stuffed-up voice.

“Andrew Simmons.”

The kid tapped the space bar on his keyboard, then clicked his mouse a few times to draw up a new program. He scrolled a ways, then nodded. “You’re here early.” He reached for a phone and began to dial. “Take a seat. I’ll call the boss.”

Andrew nodded and strode back to a curved metal chair with black cushions to cradle its occupant. The cushions’ promise did not lie, though the curve made it difficult to support his lower back properly, which left him with a certain amount of discomfort that eventually left him leaning forward with parted legs, so he could rest his elbows on his thighs.

“Sir?” the secretary lowed. “Your next appointment is here.” He listened intently and nodded. “Yes, Sir. I told him, Sir. He’s waiting.” He nodded again. “Yes, Sir. I’ll give him the paper work right away. Yes, Sir. I’ll resume the video after. Thank you, Sir.” His mouth split into a broad grin. “Yes, Sir!” he said excitedly, then hung up and snatched a clip board and some papers from a folder nearby. He practically raced over to where Andrew sat. “Boss has some papers for you to review. Non-disclosure, liability, that sort of stuff. You know how it is.”

Andrew nodded. He’d performed enough stunt driving to know the usual risks and protections involved in a job. His gaze trailed over the boy’s form as he took the paperwork and a pen from him. The kid’s legs were carved like granite, and he walked so proudly. It was more like a strut than a walk. His legs swaggered in his stride, and a light bulge in the sweatpants’ crotch was more than hint enough for why the boy chose that particular gait.

The kid smirked and flexed a bicep. “Like what you see?”

Andrew blushed. “Sorry.”

The secretary just grinned. “S’no problem, bro. I like when people stare at my muscles. Muscles are meant to be admired.” He flexed again as a dreamy look came over his face and he began the return trip to his desk. “Admiration leads to motivation leads to activation leads to....” He continued to mutter to himself as he strode to his chair, sat down, clicked out of the program he’d used to look up Andrew’s appointment, and pressed the space bar again. It didn’t take long for him to start gaping again.

Andrew hastily dove into the paperwork and began analyzing the wording. Much like his other standard contracts, there were the usual safeguards for the company, along with a stated amount of income he would receive for his services and royalty payments, should any footage taken in the course of a drive be used for a commercial.

“Mister Simmons.”

Andrew’s head surged to attention as his neck craned up and up and up to stare at the man that stood before him. The kid was a dwarf compared to the brawn that stood before Andrew now. Andrew quickly surged to his feet.

“Sorry, Sir. I didn’t hear you come in.”

The man known only as Boss chuckled. “Kind of the point of the carpeting. I like to see what kind of reflexes my drivers have when something unexpected occurs. Shall we, Mister Simmons?” He motioned with a meaty hand toward a door marked STAFF ONLY. Andrew took the hint and pushed ahead. The door led to a long hallway lit only by fluorescent overheads that flickered occasionally as they passed along.

“My business is broken into what you might call a set of microcosms integrated into a fine-tuned system,” the man explained.

“Um, excuse me, Sir. I’m sorry to interrupt what I’m sure will be a fascinating explanation, but you haven’t told me your name yet,” Andrew cut in.

A scowl played over the owner’s face for a moment, then it broke apart as he laughed. “I haven’t, have I? Sorry. I like to get down to business when I’m dealing with work. The name’s Boston. Boston McTavish. I ask my employees to call me Boss. It’s a joke as well as a good way to break the ice, so we can be on more of a first name basis.”

“And the sirs?”

“I can’t help it if I’ve garnered that much respect. And let’s not forget societal norms.”

Andrew shrugged. “Fair enough. So, Mister McTavish, you were saying?”

“Boss,” McTavish corrected absently. “I was saying we have a series of focuses in my service that exist to integrate into a proper whole. We focus on body work and maintenance for the occasional special order. And as you’ve seen, I put a particular emphasis on body.” He winked at Andrew. “Part of the benefits package includes a fully stocked gym for workouts. Now, back to business. We have a unique model of cars for ride service. We specialize in escorting and transporting a variety of clientele. Though our particular niche market focuses more in the richer quarters of the states, we also have a variety of transport geared toward the average customer on their way to or from work. Many of our customers are converts from other services. This is on account of our exceptional service and professionalism. It is a standard I expect all of my drivers to maintain, whether they are working the ride service or not.”

“If you have such a large following, how come I haven’t heard of you before?”

“We originally started in the west coast. This branch office has only recently been opened to offer our services out here in the east. I have enough men covering things out west that I can afford to come out here and ensure the setup goes smoothly.”

“And I assume this is where I come in.”

“Exactly. I want to see how well you drive and how well you can follow instructions. Assuming you pass, you’ll have the job and all the benefits that go with it.”

“Such as?”

“Full health and dental, for a start, and in the event you really impress me, an opening salary of twenty dollars an hour.”

Andrew raised his brow. “That much.”

“And that’s not including royalties, should you be chosen as the driver for any future commercials or advertisements we put up. And, assuming you excel and bring more customers or prompt enough positive reviews, you’ll get bonuses with your checks.”

“What’s the catch?”

“I need you to be available when I need you. Most of the time, schedules will be worked out in advance, but sometimes we get last minute customers. Most will be looking for transport either to or from a gym.”

The door opened to reveal a massive cement garage and a waiting sleek black muscle car. There were no labels or brands that Andrew could detect. “What’s this?” he asked.

“In a word, progress. In more words, a new model of car unique to my company. I’d like for you to test drive it for me.”

“You’re sure you have enough money for all this? I mean, going into making a new brand of car is pretty expensive.”

“Which is why we’re only using the one for now. Our other cars are easily modified with any extra additions they may require, and then inspected by qualified individuals. This one, however, is all us, and we intend to make use of it. As with the other models, it’s passed inspections and is up to code. What I’d like for you to do is take it for a drive.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I want it to be put through its paces. We’ve already arranged for a course to practice on, and have all the necessary permits. So, are you in?”

“For test driving, I suppose so. For the job, we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Of course, of course,” Boss said. “Now let’s finish that paperwork, so we can get this test started.”

The car rumbled in a massaging purr as Andrew turned on the ignition. The chair had adapted to his body almost perfectly with its various sensors, and the wheel sat easily in his hands. The cool leather gave him goosebumps as he stared out into the forested area.

“Listen closely, Andrew. We want this to be a good clean run. Start off slow, then run it through its paces. You read?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Andrew replied as he reached down and shifted to first gear. The car pulled out slowly and easily as he began along the course. The rough dirt road was level and dry, so there wasn’t a need to worry about testing the shock absorbers this time. Cool AC blew in his face as he began his run at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. His skin prickled as he pushed the gas pedal and heard the engine’s roar.

“Looking good, Andrew. Run her around for the first lap as a warm-up. Then we’ll see how well this muscle car can flex.”

Andrew chuckled. “Whatever you say, Boss.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Andrew stirred impatiently in his seat as he rounded the final curve and passed the starting line. The moment he was free, he quickly picked up the acceleration and shifted the stick. The car roared exultantly as it spat up a cloud of dust and debris. Andrew chuckled at the familiar tingle of adrenaline coursing through his system. “Someone’s anxious,” he muttered.

The car spun smoothly as he took the sharp turns, digging into the track to pull the traction forward. It practically jumped forward as he ramped up the RPMs and switched into high gear.

“Oh, yes.” He smirked as the trees began to blur by. His body tensed as he clutched the wheel and his heart pounded in his chest. He shuddered in pleasure, the noticed an icon light pop up on the dash. “Hey, Boss, what’s with this mark on the dash board?”

“It’s just the driver assist function. Don’t worry about it,” Boss replied.

Andrew grunted as he rolled his shoulders to readjust his shirt. Things were starting to feel a little snug. “Whatever you say, Boss.”

“Damn right, whatever I say,” Boss teased.

Andrew laughed and scratched at his chest. “What’s this bar icon for?”

“Storage charge. The car’s a hybrid. Gas for the harder faster road and electricity for residential driving. The battery’s just charging, while the gas is burning.”

“Oh. Okay.” He scratched his head and the bristles on his high and tight cut scraped as a dull haze settled over him.

“Eyes on the road, Andrew.”

“Yes, Sir,” Andrew said as he rolled his eyes. He knew what he was doing. The scent of the car’s air freshener washed over him, putting his body at ease as the familiar scent of old spice, or maybe AXE, filled the air. The sun flashed as he took a turn. He blinked and grinned as he barreled through the straightway. They knew the course. They recognized the track. It was easy. He reached over to pat the dash board and sneered at the sight of his muscles tensing against the driver suit. “Ready to really show off?” He sneered as he pushed his foot on the pedal and forced the engine to roar in agreement. “Fuck, yeah,” he muttered under his breath.

The next run, a bout of tunnel vision struck as Andrew pushed himself fully into the track. The car rumbled under his body, massaging it as the seat adjusted to his needs. The static from the bluetooth radio was soothing. This course was his, and he owned it. He never even noticed the tears and pops sounding in his ears. They were only so much static. He had to stay focused.

He raised an arm and chuckled as he glanced at it. His bare bicep launched into the shape of a hill as he flexed. His beard scraped against his shoulder as he allowed himself a piece of vanity.

The muscle car flexed. He flexed. The car showed off. He showed off. He didn’t know how many times he’d run the course now. He didn’t care. It just felt so damn good.

A dull ringing in his ears finally pulled him out of his trance. The bar was flashing white and blue, and the gas meter had dropped to low.

“All right, Andrew. Come on in. We’re done for today.”

“One more circuit?” he wheedled.

“I said you’re done. We need to run a diagnostic, now that you’ve run the car through the course. Besides, the gym is waiting for you.”

He sighed as he pulled up in front of Boss and stepped out of the car. The tatters of his driver suit dangled in the breeze. Andrew didn’t seem to notice.

“Damn, son,” Boss swore as he took in Andrew’s frame. He walked around the driver, testing the tone and density of Andrew’s muscle. Andrew’s pectorals had evolved into two thick hairy slabs mashed together by broad shoulders. He’d gained at least a half a foot in height, and a chiseled six pack pressed out into the air, while his boxer briefs strained to contain the increased mass that had accumulated in his waist, legs, and crotch.

“Call me Drew, Sir,” Andrew said. “I like it better. It’s simpler, you know?” He let out a low deep guffaw.

Boss tapped a glowing light fixture situated between the cup holders and pressed a button on his observation console. A long tube emerged with a gentle hiss. It glowed a bright blue. Boss pocketed it and smiled as he turned to face his driver. “You made this test a complete success. Thank you, Drew.” He clapped the man heartily on the back. “Now, tell you what. I’ve got a special job in mind for you, one that I think you’re really going to like.”

Drew’s eyes glazed over on the contact. “Whatever you say, Boss,” he droned.

Boss sneered. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

Drew smirked cockily in the mirror as he took in his form. The red tank top strained tightly against his muscles. The bleach job in his hair gave him a perfect layered appearance that only added to his raw sexual appeal. He barely suppressed the sneer as the rear doors opened and closed, and the customers gave him directions to where they wanted to go. Just a couple of wimpy kids. They wouldn’t be so wimpy when he was through with them. He pulled out from the curb and pressed the button, just Boss showed him. Then he chuckled as he triggered the system and the lights flared in the back.

“Congratulations, and welcome to the Muscle Cab.”

What advice would you give someone who wanted to write their own jock TFs?

Here’s a few solid tips that you can make use of in your own writing:

1. Make the transformation realistic and believable. Most changes can’t be and won’t be dramatic and instantaneous. It depends on the circumstances, of course, but regardless, make sure that the characters are relatable and have their own personalities and quirks that we can see and hear through your writing.

2. Descriptors are another very important factor when it comes to transformation. Help the reader to see everything, so they know how a person is changing.

3. Have a clear idea in mind for how you want the change to go when you start. Do you want it to be quick and dramatic or slow and gradual?

4. Listen to your characters. Don’t be afraid to stick yourself in their heads and figure out what they would do in a situation, even if it goes against your initial story idea. Often, I find it’s best to follow the characters’ actions and then guide events gradually to reach the conclusion, rather than shoe-horning it into place.

5. Be flexible. A curveball can fly your way at any moment as the story unfolds. It’s up to you to notice these sudden changes and act accordingly.

6. (Please note, this is a personal preference on the matter, and I am biased.) Don’t rely on graphic sexual content. Too many people focus on porn to sell their work. While I understand it can be used as a tool and can be utilized well by others, personally, from what I’ve seen on tumblr, people tend to take it too far. Let the story itself draw a person in. Changes in anatomy are fine, and talking about certain “conquests” may well fit in with a character’s mindset and actions, but don’t actually write out the acts of masturbation or other forms of sexual action. It’ll force you to focus more on the characters, their mental states, etc., and the story quality, if you write in this manner. That being said, I know some prefer to use sex as the catalyst for a transformation, in which case, I know this advice probably wouldn’t necessarily work. That’s in your hands to decide how you choose to write your TF.

7. Make use of all the tools of writing. These include personification, alliteration, characterization through appearance, italics, certain forms of sentence structure, etc. Each of these factors are incredibly important to helping draw a distinctive narrative.

8. SHOW, DON’T TELL! I can’t begin to tell you the number of writers who have this problem when they do a story. I did the same thing when I first started. Exposition is a pain and a hard habit to break. You need to learn to balance it with action, including dialogue and actual movement. For example:Malcolm clenched his hands into fists and narrowed his gaze. “Care to rephrase that?” he growled.You’ll note that I included action that indicated a combative posture, followed by the dialogue and descriptor that confirmed the implication. It’s a subtle art, but worth the effort to learn and master.

9. Seek for Inspiration. There is a reason that captions are so popular in the jock tf genre. The picture helps to give an image for the reader to lock onto in the story’s progress. It also serves as inspiration for the writer. I often search for a good picture that fits with the idea I have in mind or inspires me in some way, and then more forward from there.Inspiration may also be found in other ways. A passing phrase, an old saying, a pun, a book or magazine, etc. Look for these different avenues and make use of them as you search.

10. You must do reeeeeesearch! (Uncle says) Cookies to those who get the reference. Joking aside, it’s the truth. Make sure you look up the information you need for the story you have in mind, whether it be the names of certain muscles or muscle groups, exercises, diets, etc. Try to make the details in your story accurate. It makes a huge difference. I often do my research on the fly as I need, when I wish to incorporate an aspect into the story, but don’t know if it will work or simply don’t know anything about it. Google is a saving grace there. Whether it’s on the effects of hypnosis, how to write a hypnotic script, some sort of mythical entity or deity, etc., make sure you know enough about it to make use of it properly in your story.

11. Find something that motivates you! If a story doesn’t motivate or hold you as you write it, it’s very difficult to keep writing. Not impossible, mind you, but it’s a slow process. Make sure you enjoy writing the story. That’s what matters.

12. Tune into the world. You are the crafter, yes, but by actually putting yourself into the world and visualizing it, you’ll better be able to describe it to the readers and foresee where things will go as you write.

Hopefully, these tips will prove useful to you and any other writers interested in doing jock tfs or any others, for that matter. Thanks for reading! :D

Can you recommend any tf writers?

Jocked Guy and BODriver were two of my favorites when I first started looking around tumblr. They have mostly clean content, though some of it can get towards adult. Some of their stories may also have homoerotic themes sometimes. I also used to follow lixpex. I enjoyed some of his writing very much. His remedial gym class series was a good one. It’s a pity tumblr flagged a couple of the posts for it. Though, again, he does also have adult stuff in his tumblr, so look at your own risk.

As for other tf writers, I’m not sure. I have enjoyed some writers on Furaffinity.net. Though I don’t have many names that come to mind at the moment. One of the better ones I’ve read is a writer named CalexTheNeko. He’s very skilled at keeping his writing humorous as he does his transformations, and does serious work just as well. I’d recommend giving some of his content a read.

Blackout

What ... what just happened? Everything felt so dizzy. Brandon stumbled over to a support beam and clutched at it. His ear buts draped down over his chest, only being held by the tight strap on his tank top.

... When did he get a tank top? And for that matter, when did he get so jacked? He huffed and pulled at the sticky fabric clinging to his abdominals. He shuddered at the feeling of the shirt pulling against rock-hard stones.

“I ... I’m big. When did I--?” he froze. “My voice...” It was so deep, gravelly. He looked for a mirror, but he couldn’t see one in the labyrinth of weight machines. Weights clanged rhythmically, pounding against his brain as he struggled to focus. What had just happened?

“Hey, you okay, bro?”

Brad turned to stare at another hulk. Two bluetooth earpieces popped out on either side of his head. The man had to be at least six and a half feet tall. His bright red shoes blended almost perfectly with the floor. Or ... was that just the blurry vision?

“Hey. I’m asking if you’re all right.”

Brad blinked slowly. “I ... I don’t know,” he finally said. “I ... what happened?” He scrunched his brow together and closed his eyes. “My ... head.” He groaned and his breathing became labored.

Two big hands seized his arms. “Easy, bro. Easy. Big bro’s here.”

“Big ... bro?”

The muscle man chuckled as he laid a thick arm around Brandon’s shoulders. “Well, yeah. What else would I be to all you pipsqueaks?” he asked jokingly and gave Brandon a friendly jab to the shoulder.

“I ... I’m so confused.” Brandon put a hand to his head. “I ... I remember coming in, putting on my clothes, then....”

The big man frowned. “How long you been feeling dizzy?”

“I ... just now, I guess.” Brandon’s breathing calmed as the big man navigated the maze of machines. Occasionally, the blur of a muscular form would be pumping dumbbells or doing squats. Some posed with selfies in the mirror. But they all seemed ... well, not quite there. It was like they were sort of ... merging with the gym. He could hardly make out their legs. This man was the realest thing he’d seen since ... whatever this was happened.

The man who identified himself as Big Bro looked carefully over Brandon’s form. “Let’s find you a place to sit down,” he said. The sea of machines seemed almost to part at his advance. A few moments later, a chair appeared out of the sea of red tiles. No, not a chair, a ... bench? Two forceful arms pressed him down and he peered into a set of intense green eyes.

“You’ve been making some pretty substantial gains,” the man noted. “I saw you drinking between sets, so it’s not dehydration,” he murmured. He stroked his chin, then lowered his gaze.

Brandon reached up and stroked his own chin, then jumped in surprise at the feeling of the stubble that had grown along his jaw. He always preferred to go clean shaven. Why had he let that slip? Why would  he let it slip? He thought he felt his legs stretching for a minute, but he couldn’t be sure. It was more like a yank than a kick.

“Sorry, bro. I have to check,” Big Bro said as free air danced over bare skin.

Brandon wiggled his toes and stared down in some surprise. His head felt ... clearer.

Big Bro nodded in satisfaction. “Good. No puncture marks.” He smiled good-naturedly. “How do your feet feel?”

Brandon frowned. “Throbbing,” he muttered in surprise.

“Thought so.” Big Bro chuckled. “You got the wrong shoe size, dumbass.” He laughed and rose to his feet.

“Hey! I’m not a dumbass. I’m a ... I’m a ... a....” Brandon blinked in surprise. He ... couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember? Why could he only think of weight machines and sports bars and ... and ...

“Easy, bro. You’re gonna have a panic attack.” The big man patted him gingerly on the back. “I’ll tell ya what. Put these on, and we’ll go see the doc, okay? Gym’s got one right on staff. He’ll be happy to check you out.”

“I ... yeah. That ... that’ll be good.” Brandon could barely keep himself from hyperventilating. His hands shook as he fumbled for the shoes.

“I can tie ‘em for you, if you want.”

“No!” Brandon was shocked at how much his voice carried. The gym ground to a halt at the sudden disturbance. He blushed. “Sorry. No. I ... I can do it, myself.” If he didn’t, he knew he was going to go insane.

Big Bro backed off. “Whatever you say, little bro.” The rhythmic clanking resumed seconds later.

Brandon pulled his socks on and marveled at the way his muscles rubbed against each other as he moved. ‘Is this really me?’ he thought. Then came the shoes. They felt cool and crisp; a little rigid, though.

“Ready to go, little bro?” Big Bro asked.

“I just need to finish this last loop and--.” A wave of vertigo washed over him as he pulled the knot tight. The clanking pounded louder. His heartbeat quickened. “And ... and ... uhhhhh....” The red in his shoes seemed almost to glow, and a dopey smile pulled at his lips. He watched the red bleed from the floor into his legs. He felt a stirring in his loins. His muscles tensed with a nervous energy. He blinked, and suddenly he felt the high back of an adjustable workout bench resting against his back.

“Feelin’ better, little bro?”

Blood surged through his head. His snapback had been reversed now, and he smirked cockily at the behemoth as he let out a drunken laugh. “Huhuhuh. Never been better. Guess I just ... blacked out. Sorry for scarin’ ya.”

Big Bro chuckled. “Dumbass. Now go drop kick that plateau into next week!”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Fuck yeah!”

“Fuck, yeah!”

Big bro grinned. “Back to work, little bro.”

Brandon’s shoes glowed with the floor panels as veins began to creep up his calves. His eyes became glassy as he gave a vapid grin. “You got it, bro.” “Keep this up, and you’ll be partying with me and the other bros in no time.” Big Bro grinned as he turned away, carrying off a pair of red shoes that had torn around the seams. He pressed a button on his watch and smiled dreamily as he walked along past other muscle men working to grow as big as they can. All of them stared blankly as they pumped in time to their regimens. “Yo, Big Bro reporting from Franchise 72. One of the little bros outgrew the shoes. He woke up for a little bit, but I took care of it.” He chuckled. “Bro’s gonna be a fucking beast, the rate he’s going. I’ll make sure he remembers to size up on time next time.” He nodded, then shuddered as his shoes glowed. “Yes, Sir. I will work out. Will set an example.” He grinned as he passed to an empty weight machine that ghosted along the tiles just as rapidly as he approached it. “Big bro out.” He closed off the call and let out a deep brainless guffaw as the music resumed in his ear buds. His heart rate picked up. His muscles tensed. He reached for the grips. And descended into darkness.

You asked yourself that question every day as you sat at your reception desk and welcomed patrons. Funds were tight, and it was a quick and easy job to get some cash on the side. You never pictured yourself working in a gym, but there you were. You often brought a book or some music to help drown out all the heavy clanking, though you would make some exceptions for certain songs that played over the speakers through the building from time to time.

The man was always quiet when he walked in. His gaze remained locked on the weight machines. Sometimes he would carry a gym bag in. Sometimes he would just go straight onto the floor, fresh off a run.

When he wants a machine, he doesn’t ask. People move for him.

When he’s ready for a break, a fountain or vending machine is always free, even at peak time.

His focus can’t be disturbed. Literally, it can’t. You’ve seen it. Some teen tried to muscle in on his session, when he was lifting. He just kept staring ahead as he strained his lats, or spread his wings as your boss likes to call it. The kid grumbled, but backed off. He knew he couldn’t do a thing to this guy.

It’s funny, though. His silence is sort of contagious. Whenever he works out, it spreads like a wave. The other men get this sort of intense expression on their faces, and then they sort of relax and just ... work. It’s kind of creepy, really.

The ones who work closest to this guy always seem to have the most progress. A look of shock, a big smile, then that blankness of pure focus driven by repetition. It’s always the same.

Always.

Just who is this guy?

You find yourself wondering this yet again as you stare sightlessly at the page on your book. You haven’t turned it in well over an hour. He’s been in your dreams the last few nights. You see him there, pumping weights, pushing himself. And suddenly you’re the one standing in his place as his hands are on you, guiding you, pushing you. You feel strain in your muscles. You feel your skin tighten and swell like a balloon with each pump and silent ministration. When your form is off, he corrects with his hands. The whole time, those intent eyes stare silently into your own. And you watch as that same expression slowly takes over in your reflection in those orbs.

You blink owlishly as a heavy tap on your shoulder pulls you back into reality again. How long had you been daydreaming about that dream? You look up.

“Sorry about that, S--.”

And there he is. Your mouth is suddenly dry. The words stick in your throat. Your breathing comes out in a rasp.

He stares at you questioningly for a time as he folds his vascular arms and cups his chin in a loosely clenched hand. Then he nods. He motions to the gym floor with a curt jerk of the head.

“Sir,” you finally manage to croak, “I’m on shift.” A heavy hand rests on your shoulder. You look up to see that same blank intensity that you have dreamed of beaming down at you from your boss, of all people.

“Go on.”

You swallow heavily. Even your boss bows to the will of this person. The owner of the gym!

You look back at the man. He’s still standing patiently and looking expectantly.

Your limbs shake as you rise from your chair. The whole gym is silent as you step onto the floor together. The man surveys the room as the music thrums and gives a curt nod to the gym goers. The motion immediately picks up again.

You weren’t even aware of your own motion as he guided you to a butterfly press. The seat was already vacated by the time you arrived. You sit and stare helplessly up at the behemoth that has guided you there. He places his hands on either handle, sets the weight, then nods to you.

You swallow again. Why were you doing this? Why were you letting him direct you? Why were you sitting here, instead of doing your job? And ... why is it getting harder to breathe?

Clank.

The man nods in approval and backs to a machine parallel to yours. Two handles link to the cables that attach to the weight plates. It’s already set to his weight, courtesy of whatever gym goer had abandoned it for him. You watch his muscles flare, his veins bulge, his biceps mount. His pectorals clench as his traps tense on the back of his neck and shoulders and his lats spread out. In that moment, you finally understand why your boss referred to them as wings.

Clank.

And he stares ahead as you stare. That same blank expression bores into you as the breathlessness returns.

Clank.

And again.

Clank.

Now you’re starting to feel warm. He continues to stare, and you continue to watch his effortless rhythm flow as the muscle groups in his arms and upper torso ripple one after the other in perfect coordination.

Clank.

How does he do it?

Clank.

Why did he pull you out here?

Clank.

Why couldn’t you take your eyes off him?

Clank.

Why...? Why...?

Clank.

Did it ... matter?

Clank.

Just who is this guy? you question yet again as you slog through the strange quagmire that is rapidly becoming your conscious thought.

Clank.

It’s only then that you notice the strange fact. Everywhere, the whole gym. Every machine is clacking together. The same pace. The same strike. The same rhythm.

Clank.

His rhythm.

Clank.

His.

Clank.

As you feel your face go slack and your eyes begin to glaze over, you finally understand the truth. You hardly notice the effort it takes to press the two bars together. Why should you? You’re following him. He sets the pace. He says when you’re done.

He.

He.

Him.

Just who is this man? He is the King of the Gym.

And you have just been inducted into his kingdom’s ranks.

Clank.

Your mouth opens as the quagmire thickens and sets. One last thought burbles up and splatters on the surface, before it hardens completely. You grunt it out in a low monotone as you push through another press with burning muscles and a mindless intensity.

“Long live the king....”

Who is this guy?

Well, this totally took an unexpected turn as I wrote it, but that’s often how literature works when I write worlds. I let the characters take me where they chose, and this is the end result. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my second homosexual-themed story. The first one was a commission I wrote on FA, and was lighter in nature. This one is also light, but it shows the progress leading up to the point where the relationship becomes official, and I believe is natural and organic. There is no sex. If you guys could let me know what you think, I would appreciate it. Many thanks in advance, and please enjoy the read.

A Helping Hand

How long had it been? An eternity? A few seconds? You couldn’t recall as he lowered his cell phone. You ran a hand casually through your hair. You could feel the air flowing over the exposed kneecap on your left pant leg from your favorite pair of jeans. After all, that had been how Jack found you, down on the ground in a bloody pulp with clothing torn. That man and his voice had been your salvation. He told them to back off.

He stared down twenty men, twenty, and they all just melted into the shadows. He had that much cred.

You remember how Jack had knelt in the alleyway and pulled off his shades.

“You okay, man?” His voice rolled deep and smooth as the pomade he used on his hair. “Let me help you.”

One look at those eyes, and the whole world seemed to vanish.

The rest was a heady blur.

One moment, you felt your arms trembling under the struggle to lift a bar to you chest. Your breath caught. Your eyes widened. You had no idea what you were doing in a gym. You should’ve been at work! You were going to get fired!

Then came the reassuring touch with a grip of iron as you were turned to face those deep dark eyes.

“Let me help you.”

Next came the shoe store. The air reeked of tobacco smoke. You wrinkled your nose and blinked owlishly. A grinning Jack looked down at you, holding a box with the familiar scent of freshly polished leather. He pulled off his shades, knelt down, and pulled out one of your socked feet. Naturally, you looked down in bewilderment. Jack’s grin widened.

“Let me help you.”

You came to in the gym again. Your shirt was soaked. But ... was it really your shirt? You didn’t remember having the tank top. It draped over your body and clung occasionally to your torso as it absorbed more sweat. You gaped confusedly in the floor-length mirror as your arms continued to pump dumbbells almost robotically. It felt like you’d done this before. But ... how could you have? You hardly had time for the gym. Why did this feel so natural?

You stared at yourself, then at the figure that stood behind. Two hands clapped on your shoulders as those dark eyes stared into the mirror, and you stared back at their reflection. You heard him whisper in your ear.

“Your form’s coming along nicely, but it’s not there yet. Let me help you.”

You blinked and woke staring down at a strange white substance in your hand. The bathroom counter was an expensive polished granite that nudged coolly against your exposed torso. You felt the soft fibers of a new towel embracing your waist. You barely managed to utter one syllable, before he was there, guiding your hand like a father would a child.

“Like this,” he said with that knowing smile that seemed so alien, yet ... felt so familiar. He guided your hand to your head, and you felt him pull it along your hair as you worked the substance in. He chuckled warmly and raised a toothy switchblade comb. “Here. Let me help you.”

You felt the comb running through your hair as your muscles tensed and bulged beneath your skin. They weren’t nearly so large as Jack’s, but there was tone there, and they had grown since ... since ... how long had it been? You flicked the switchcomb shut with practiced ease and slid it into the worn pocket of your jeans. You looked around passively and took in the ambiance of a department store. The door leading to the changing rooms stood ajar, as if waiting for you to enter. And there he was, walking forward with hangers clutched in both fists and grinning all the while. Black shirts, tank tops, even some compression gear all dangled and swayed with his gait as he pushed ahead and you followed behind. It ... felt right, normal, for some reason. Since when had you felt so ... attached to this man? You didn’t even--.

You heard the clatter as he placed the hangers on the hooks inside the cubicle and emerged with that same warm smile. You had to say something before he could do ... whatever it was he did.

“Who are you?”

Jack smiled as he pulled off his shades. “Jack. Nice to formally meet you.”

You don’t know why, but your lips twitched into a smile and ... you extended your hand. “John.”

Jack seized it in a crushing grip as his smile widened into that grin again. “You didn’t run.”

You shrugged. The act felt ... familiar, and flashes of memory involving heavy weights and staring at a mirror ran through your mind. You let out a noncommittal grunt. It was hard to think, staring into those eyes. Something about...

“Here. Let me help you out of those clothes.”

The familiar clank of weights rang in your ears as you swam back into awareness. You breathed easily as you pushed up and down again and again. It felt natural, and you were still somewhat foggy, so you just let your body do what it wanted. Your clothes felt tighter, but that didn’t seem to matter. You resisted the urge to smile as you stared up into the familiar set of shades. Maybe this time, you’d get to surprise him.

“Hey, Jack,” you grunted. You smirked when you saw him jump. “Gotcha.”

Jack laughed. “John, you son of a bitch. Don’t scare a guy like that.”

“I think I’m entitled to a few jump scares every now and again, aren’t I?”

“Touche.” Jack shook his head. “So, ... you don’t mind all this, then?” he finally asked, almost hesitantly. It was the first time you saw any sign of uncertainty on his face.

You took a set to ponder that in silence. You weren’t sure how you knew it was a set, but you did. You could wonder abut that one later. “I suppose I should, but ... Idunno. I just don’t.” If you could have shrugged, you would have.

Jack pulled his shades off slowly and smiled. His eyes watered with unshed tears. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“Then why don’t you help me get one?” you ask as you put the bar on its rack, sit up, and turn to face him. “That’s what you do, right?” Your heart pounded, but not from the exertions at the gym, however long they might have been. You ... were enjoying this. Why were you enjoying this?

Jack swiped at his eyes and let out a laugh that was half sob. “Y-yeah.” He stared into your orbs. “You ready?”

“You never asked before.” You smile.

“I never met you before,” he shot back with a smirk. “Let me see if I can help you understand.”

This time, you came to clutching a familiar figure by the shirt collar. He wasn’t smirking now. His eyes were wide with terror as your teeth clenched.

“You knew this was coming. You were warned about killings, Tom,” you heard yourself say. You felt your fist connect with his torso hard. Tom gasped, then groaned. “The boss sent me to make an example of you.” Your heart raced. A thrill of pleasure coursed through you. But ... why?

Catharsis, your brain replied. And you remembered where you’d seen this man before. He’d been the one to draw the knife on you in the alley. He started everything. He could have killed you. He already had killed.

And killers deserved no mercy.

The world went red. When you came to, the man had a split and swelling lip. His eyes were already darkening with bruising. Blood stained his white wifebeater and chest, and crusted under his nose. He blubbered, and you saw the distinct wet patch over his crotch. Your lip curled in disgust as you shoved him to his knees.

“You’re going to the cops, Tom,” you told him. “And you’re gonna confess. You’re gonna tell them every last dirty deed you’ve ever done. And you’re gonna do it willingly.”

Tom spat blood on the floor. “No,” he said hoarsely.

“Yes,” Jack’s voice purred as he approached.

You felt Tom shake under your harsh grip. You felt a surge of exultation, followed by a pang of guilt. You were enjoying this. Why?

“I’ll do better. The cops won’t be able to trace what happened,” Tom promised.

“Oh, I know they won’t, Tom, because they’ll close the case after you tell them exactly what you did in great detail.” Jack pulled off his glasses with a deliberate slowness. “Let’s go over what you’ll say, shall we, Tom?”

“No. No,” Tom blubbered, then screamed as he struggled weakly against you.

“John,” Jack said.

You followed the unspoken command. Your body already knew what to do. You grabbed his head, forced him to stare ahead, and pulled his eyelids open.

By the time it was over, Tom was a mute husk on the floor, staring blankly at the wall. Another street punk scurried forward at Jack’s summons. He looked fearfully at Jack, then you.

“See that he makes his way to the station,” Jack ordered. “He won’t remember us, just what he did. His mind will fill in the blanks with the right memories to keep the cops away. I’ll be in touch for Tom’s replacement. Don’t get any ideas in the meantime.”

You’d never seen a street thug turn yes man so fast. You smirked, though you were pretty sure if you saw a mirror, it would look more like a sneer.

The air was cool as the pair of you walked out of the old warehouse and into the night.

“Jack,” you finally said, “what was that back there?”

Jack started. “You were awake?”

Things were falling into place. The way the gang had dissolved in the shadows when first they met, the new clothes, the gym sessions, ... the expensive bathroom.

“Jack, are you a kingpin?” you asked.

Jack stopped, but he didn’t turn around. The air was tense and silent as he let out a heavy sigh. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

“And ... and me?” you ask as you stride up next to him. “What am I?”

Jack swallowed heavily. His jaw clenched. “Right now, an enforcer, my body guard....”

“And?”

“I ... don’t know.” He laughed. “I honestly have no fucking idea. Isn’t that hilarious?” He rested his forehead in his palm as his shoulders shook. His dark leather jacket shone dully in the streetlights.

You waited.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t have to see all that. Not till you were ready,” he said, once the paroxysm of laughter had passed.

“Jack, be honest with me.” You stood before him and pulled off his glasses to stare him in the eyes. You had no fear of them. You never did. “Am I a thug or am I something more?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” he whispered hoarsely.

You pulled him close and held him in a warm embrace. The cold leather raised goosebumps on your exposed arms. The blood was already dry on your tank, anyway, and you didn’t feel all that squeamish, whether due to the training or simply the shock had set in.

You felt the tears as they dropped onto your skin and seeped into the shoulder strap on your shirt. Tanks were easier to dispose of, after a bloody beat down, and left less evidence behind. Again, you weren’t sure how you knew that. You just did. You had a pretty good idea who taught you, though. You waited until his breathing was back under control and he’d wiped the evidence of his emotional lapse away. Then you pulled back.

“Then let’s find out together. You help me, and let me help you.”

“You’re ... you’re sure of this?”

“Would I still be standing here, if I weren’t?”

He winced slightly.

“That bad?” You smirked and raised a quizzical brow.

Jack let out another half-laugh, half-sob.

“Come on, Jack. Help me one last time.” You took his hands in yours. “So I can help you.”

Jack swallowed heavily. “There’s no going back, after this, you know,” he warned.

“Do I look like I’m having second thoughts?”

Jack’s breath shook as he steadied himself. “All right.” He raised his eyes to look at you. “One last time,” he agreed. “Let me help you.”

You heard the fresh scrunch of leather in your ears and smelled the fresh scent of the polish that preserved the material. The world was dimmer now as you peered out the dark shades that lay on your nose. A rough scruff of a beard scraped against your neck as you rested your free hand in your pocket and ran the other through your hair. Jack turned to look at you and the smile that twitched at your lips after you finished your walk down memory lane.

“You back?” The way his lips trembled, you knew he wanted to say something more.

You took a moment to take in your clothes. They were almost the same as Jack’s. Your jacket had a few more zippers than his, but from what you could see of yourself reflected in his shades, you knew the two of you could easily have passed as brothers.

Could have.

You let your body drive again as you reached over and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, then pulled him in for a kiss.

You weren’t brothers.

You smirked as you broke the contact. “Yeah, babe. I’m back.”