Symbiosis

[muscle growth, bodyfat transfer]

Cliff thought Head Coach Summers had summoned him to his office to give him a commendation. He was actually whistling as he opened the door, freezing as soon as he saw the head coach’s grim sneer. Assistant Coach Martin stood to the edge of the room, refusing to meet Cliff’s gaze.

“Have a seat,” Coach Summers said, nodding at the empty chair in front of him. Cliff cleared his throat and did as he was told.

“How are you gentlemen doing today?” Cliff said, looking from head to assistant football coach, struggling to lighten the gloomy energy of the room.

“Cliff, how long you been strength coach of my football team?” Coach Summers asked.

“Ten weeks,” Cliff said. “Ten productive weeks, too. Can’t deny that since I stepped in the team’s gone through a—”

“What—” Coach Summers interrupted, “—exactly do you think I look for in my team’s strength coach?”

Cliff smiled. He glanced back at Martin (the coward still wouldn’t make eye contact), then back at Coach Summers. “Sorry, guys, but… it seems like I’m about to get reprimanded. Here I thought I’d made some serious progress, and I guarantee once the season starts everyone will be thrilled once these monsters hit the field.”

Coach Summers snapped his fingers and Coach Martin rushed to his side with a tablet in his hands. He tapped the device’s screen and a video played: Cliff, in the gym next to the team’s defensive ends, barking as he demanded deeper squats, more intensity, more reps.

Cliff smiled. “I don’t see the—”

“This video went viral yesterday,” Coach Martin said, shifting uncomfortably. “Keep watching.”

The video suddenly zoomed in on Cliff’s sweatpants-clad glutes as he squatted down to demand one more rep from the athlete losing his battle with the weight on his back. “Coach Cakes” appeared on the screen as cartoon hearts fluttered around.

“Coach. Cakes.” Summers spat the words out, shaking his head.

Cliff blushed. “Hey, I didn’t video that. And I didn’t upload it. Not much I can do with camera phones everywhere nowadays.”

Coach Martin swiped the tablet and another video started, this one a slow-motion video of Cliff strutting through the gym in a tight polo shirt, his broad shoulders and powerful pecs bouncing with each step. “COACH TREN” read the caption. Martin slowly scrolled through the comments: “How’d coach get so swole?” “Big man is on the JUICE!” “HEY COACH TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT!”

Cliff shook his head. “You know I don’t even have a social media presence, right? I was unaware these videos even existed.”

“You’ve got a damned social media presence now!” Coach Summers said, slamming his fist down on the desk. Coach Martin jumped in surprise, dropping the tablet, then fumbling to retrieve it.

Coach Summers continued: “You know this coaching staff has to maintain a professional image, right? And here you are strutting around like some prettyboy musclehead—and getting blasted all over the damned internet. You know how that makes us all look?”

Cliff let out a resigned sigh. “I’m not sure exactly how you want me to address this.” He gestured at his ripped, muscular physique—which, at that moment, was squeezing his tucked-in polo and tight khakis to their limit. “This is how I looked when you hired me—which I assume had everything to do with my knowledge of strength training. That’s WHY I look like this.”

“For starters, eat a goddamned donut!” Coach Summers barked, slamming the desk again. “Wear clothes in your damned size! And don’t be so much of a spectacle that you steal attention from the team!”

Cliff’s gaze went from Coach Summers, who sneered back at him, to Coach Martin, who tapped at the screen of the tablet as if there were something important there. The conversation seemed over.

“Well… this has been a productive talk,” Cliff said, resigning himself to the situation. “I’ll keep in mind everything you guys said. He grunted as he grasped the arms of the chair to stand. With a loud pop, the button on his polo fired off his shirt, striking Coach Summers on his right cheek.

“Goddamnit,” Summers growled.

“Guess it’s useless to blame that on my pectoral development, right?”

“Buy some goddamned shirts that fit!” Summers said as Cliff walked out the door.

*

Cliff almost didn’t let his buddy Ian into his apartment. He let the doorbell sound twice before approaching the speaker.

“Buddy-guy!” Ian’s voice came through the speaker. “You looking to score some swolifying potions today my bro-minator?”

Cliff sighed. He had ordered a pizza and eaten two slices, a wild departure from his usual “white rice, chicken and broccoli” meal he usually had after the gym. The grease was giving him rancid gas and bloating his stomach. At least the distended abs were somewhat closer to what Coach Summers had been looking for, he thought.

“Not today, Ian. Thanks, man.”

A minute later, Ian pressed the doorbell again. “C’mon, buddy. You’re my best customer! You going to someone else? What happened to loyalty?”

Cliff rolled his eyes, then pressed the button to allow Ian in the front door. Several minutes later, Ian—in a stringer tank, his bloated fully-tattooed muscles spilling out in all directions—lumbered through his door, turning sideways to allow his wide delts to squeeze in. Ian’s surfer-bro demeanor certainly didn’t match his fully-inked 300 pound freakishly developed body. He set a small case on Cliff’s kitchen table and fist-bumped him.

“I told you, I’m not picking up today,” Cliff said. He explained the meeting with the coach, and the fact that his eye-catching physique had put his job into jeopardy. Ian smirked, his eyes lazily half-open.

“So, bro, it’s like… they didn’t see you when they hired you? Did they like, not realize you’re just fucking jacked and all? Is that not what they want teaching their players—a guy who can bench a fucking truck and build 24-inch arms?”

“I went viral, man,” Cliff explained. “Getting attention for the wrong reasons. I may get fired before we even start the season if I can’t change my image immediately. That means no more gear.”

“Bro! Bro bro bro bro… BRO!” Ian said, licking his lips as he played with the big hoops piercing his nipples. “You’re gonna freak when you see the new gear I got. Fucking FREAK!”

Cliff raised an eyebrow. “Did you not just hear—”

“Bro, this shit,” Ian said, popping open the case, “is called Mother.”

Cliff shook his head. “Not interested, thanks.”

“It’s all about boosting strength, my guy,” Ian said, revealing a glass ampoule filled with a glowing green liquid.

“I’ve got plenty of strength,” Cliff said. “I think what I need now is a dadbod.”

“BRO!” Ian said, clapping a hand on Cliff’s beefy delt so hard the strength coach nearly toppled over. “This shit causes a biological symbiosis!”

Cliff chuckled at the scientific words coming out of Ian’s steak-gnashing jaw. “The fuck are you talking about, Ian?”

“It’s like… you shoot this shit up, right? Then you make gains… but the people AROUND you make the gains. Like your gym bros and stuff. Soon as your muscles activate, your sweat and your pheromones get started and guys around you—your lifting partners, or even the athletes on your team—they start making gains along with you! And you make gains with them. It’s crazy. I put on fifteen pounds in a week, and the guy I lift with? He put on SIXTY! And he never even took the shot! Only me!”

Cliff shook his head. “How the fuck does THAT work!”

“Just take the shot,” Ian said. “Then bust your ass. And I guarantee your players will blow UP. And your coach won’t have a damned thing to say when he’s got 300 pound linemen who squat over a thousand fucking pounds, bro!”

Ian did look significantly bigger, Cliff concluded after looking his buddy over. He shrugged. “I dunno, man. What if this DOES work, and all the guys on the team end up muscled-up bodybuilders in competition shape? GUARANTEE Coach Summers will fire me then.”

“What’s gonna happen…” Ian said, drawing a CC of the glowing fluid from the vial without even asking, “…is your team’s gonna make triple the progress, just by standing near you. And they’ll pass any drug test they’re given. Trust me.”

Cliff stared at the syringe. Before he could respond, Ian swabbed Cliff’s shoulder. Cliff never said yes, but he never protested as Ian jabbed the needle and plunged the syringe. Cliff took a deep breath as a full CC of the glowing liquid entered his bloodstream.

*

Cliff’s first weight room session the following Monday was with the offensive linemen. Before him stood twelve men, the lightest weighing 305 pounds, the shortest standing at 6’3” tall. Cliff wore a baggy hoodie to obscure his physique, hoping to not end up tossed around the internet as a thirst trap again. (Just that morning, he’d had to explain to Coach Summers how he couldn’t do anything about the media already circulating. After withstanding a vigorous shouting session, Cliff promised that nothing NEW would end up sullying their reputation, and Coach Summers reluctantly agreed.)

“I want explosive power out of you big boys!” Cliff barked as the hulking linemen stood around deadlift, squat and bench stations, rotating every twenty minutes. “I’ve already seen you guys master ‘big’ by shoving pasta down your throats five times a day, so let’s see if we can’t build up some strength so you don’t get tossed around like little doughboys!”

Despite working their hardest (and, honestly, producing some inspiring and PR-breaking lifts), Cliff couldn’t be satisfied that day. Coach Summers’ anger was still burning at the base of his spine, plus the heavy, baggy clothes he wore felt suffocating. Devon Weathers, one of the team’s enormous captains, squatted 765 for three reps. His teammates hooted and hollered, clapping the massive 22 year old on the back, but Cliff shook his head angrily.

“What are we celebrating? I was squatting that much when I was in high school!” he shouted. The team’s enthusiasm died down as they suspiciously eyed their usually supportive strength coach. Cliff continued to circle around the athletes, stopping at the deadlift platform. Luke Meadow, the big Iowan, growled as he pulled 900 pounds off the ground. He hurled it down after pausing for a moment at the movement’s peak. Once again, Cliff intervened as the large men cheered on their teammate.

“You think these are impressive? Our rivals toss these numbers around all the time!”

Next, Brian Wilcox benched 495 pounds for ten reps. Easily the largest man on the team, the 340 pound brute sat up, his barrel chest heaving and soaked, sweat dripping from his short black hair. Before giving him any recognition for the feat, the athletes all looked to Cliff to see how he would react.

“You think that’s a good set?” Cliff scoffed. He shoved Wilcox out of the way (no easy feat!) and got under the bar.

As Cliff started pressing the weight, he had a single moment of clarity: what the hell was he doing? He hated treating his athletes this way. He couldn’t believe he was letting the stress of his job turn him into the same kind of insensitive prick that Coach Summers was. Plus, this was a MASSIVE amount of weight. He had pressed this load before, for a few reps, but it had been awhile since he’d pushed it. He was asking for an injury.

But for some reason, the weight kept moving. The burly men gathered around as Cliff moved nearly 500 pounds with ease for 7, 8, 9 reps… all without seeming to show fatigue.

Cliff was too wrapped up in the intensity he was feeling—the incredibly satisfying sensation of letting his body take over, of blood rushing into his chest and arms, of his muscle fibers twitching and contracting exactly as they’d been built to do. All the stress seemed to leave Cliff. All conscious thought was drowned out by the feeling of his pecs blowing up. Buried in his bulky clothes, Cliff had begun to sweat heavily. There was something about the musk starting to cloud around Cliff, something unnatural in the scent… something chemical.

“Holy fuck!” Wilcox shouted as the athletes counted out Cliff’s 15th, 16th, 17th reps… all without showing any signs of fatigue. Despite his rotten treatment of them that day, the linemen quickly came around to celebrating their coach’s success as he pressed the weight for the 25th time. They were cheering as he cleared 30 reps. Cliff couldn’t hear them; it was like his conscious brain had shut off. He was lost in the feelings of his body.

He only stopped because he became bored. He slammed the weight back on the rack with such ferocity that the whole bench shuddered. He leapt off the bench and roared, flexing as hard as he could, baring his teeth. It was only the sight of cell phones recording him that snapped him out of it. He was supposed to lay low, not draw any attention to himself! And he’d done the opposite.

“Put those damned phones away!” Cliff barked. “And get back to work. Now that you’ve seen what your coach can do, you pussies better do much beter.” He stomped off to the bathroom where he stood in a stall, his forehead against the cool metal of the door, trying to control his breathing.

The fuck happened to me out there? He thought. Sure, Ian had given him “the stuff,” but could it really have kicked in less than 24 hours later?

When he returned to the weight room, he saw the linemen working with increased determination. In any other circumstances, he would have been proud. “All right, men,” he finally said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s hit the showers, then let’s hit a buffet. Gotta eat big to play big!”

The athletes were shocked; Cliff’s usual mantra of “fueling like an elite machine, not like a dumpster,” had seemed to go out the window. Cliff had surprised himself, but after his phenomenal bench performance, he couldn’t deny his hunger. His gut audibly grumbled and he shifted uncomfortably. He wanted fried chicken… and waffles… and lasagna. Fuck, he wanted Chinese food! And now that the coach wanted him to “plump up” he had no excuse to deprive himself.

“We’re hitting the dining hall,” Wilcox said, clapping Cliff on the back with big hands. “You gotta come. We gotta make sure you got fed after benching 5-hundo like that!”

“You ever call 495 ‘5-hundo’ again and I’ll slap the teeth out of your mouth,” Cliff barked, but he followed up the threat with a grin. The team cheered as Cliff followed the heard of buffalo-sized athletes out the door.

*

After loading up his third plate, Cliff actually started to get worried. He’d been shy on his first trip through the dining hall line: two pieces of pizza, a few rolls, a slice of cake. The second time up he made two heaping ham sandwiches and dunked them in cups of ranch dressing, eating a large bowl of ice cream after. A large belch later and Cliff had to admit he was still hungry.

He looked around at the athletes, all similarly gorging themselves. Devon Weathers was folding slices of pizza, two at a time, followed by triple-decker peanut butter sandwiches. Luke Meadow was shoveling macaroni and cheese into his mouth and washing it down with a milkshake. Wilcox had actually grabbed an entire pan of meatloaf, lifted it out of the steam table, and carried it to the table.

Cliff had seen the players eat like this—especially the linemen—but there was something different. First, none of their hungers seemed to be sated no matter how much they ate. Second, there was something about their bodies that looked different. Devon’s face, normally round and pudgy, had leaned out considerably. Luke’s body was built like a refrigerator, but his shoulders seemed wider while his waist seemed narrower. Wilcox lifted a forkful of meatloaf to his mouth and his sleeve split, the rippling muscles of his arms much bigger than they’d been before.

As linemen, they had massive, burly bodies and sizable muscles but they also carried a significant amount of bodyfat. But right before Cliff’s eyes, he watched as their bodyfat was melting away, but rather than losing size, their muscles were swelling to fill the space. This couldn’t be possible, Cliff knew, but there was that strange chemical smell in the air… the smell that came from his pits, from his sweaty groin…

“Guys,” Cliff said as he found himself licking his plate clean, still desperate for more food, “I think… something’s up.” Cliff pushed himself away from the table, gasping as he stood up. The baggy sweatpants he’d pulled on seemed tight around his legs and ass. He tried to turn to look at the big caboose he'd sprouted while sitting, but his traps were too swollen to fully rotate his neck.

“Holy shit, Coach!” Luke said, pulling himself away from his gorging session to take a look at Cliff’s swollen body. Cliff couldn’t believe it as he looked down at himself, but he looked like someone had shoved an airhose in his ass and pumped him full of air!

“Coach, you got fucking big!” Wilcox said. As he stood, his shirt tore down the back. He chuckled as he looked at his hulked-to-pieces t-shirt. “Fuck, this was a quadruple XL…” he said. Through the rips in cloth, Cliff could see ripped, competition ready muscles. Wilcox had both size and definition he’d never had before.

All around Cliff, the beefy linemen had swollen up into ripped bodybuilders. Not one of them looked fit for the field; each of them looked like they belonged on a bodybuilding stage. Meanwhile, Cliff looked like a meatball! His torso had swollen to fill his sweatshirt with a rock-solid keg of a belly to match. His formerly loose sweats were skin-tight on him now, his massive behind threatening to bust out the seams every time he moved.

“Holy fuck,” Cliff said, reaching down to feel his gut. It wasn’t soft at all; he rubbed his hands over the swollen expanse of flesh, marveling at the fact that it felt solid like a bicep. He couldn’t even see his gut, however, beyond the shelf his pecs had swollen into. He reached up and cupped the warm, spongey flesh, smiling as he realized he could have balanced a six pack of beers on his chest with ease. “Fuckin’ look at me!” he said.

The formerly rock-solid man had blown up in all directions except up; thankfully, his 6’1” frame had room to expand. He took a step, chuckling as he realized his beefed up thighs meant he was going to be waddling more than walking from now on. Since he couldn’t see past his pecs anymore, he wondered how he was going to tie his shoes. Hell, who the fuck cares when you’re built like this? He thought.

“Coach, you look like YOU should play offensive line now!” Wilcox said, smiling as he eyed up the mountainous man their coach had swollen into.

“Symbiotic relationship,” Cliff said, sniffing his pit, admiring the now-shredded student athletes. “Wilcox, Meadows, you guys come with me. We’re gonna go visit Coach Summers.

“You for real?” Meadows said. His face was now broad and angular, his cheekbones standing out in a densely muscled face that had been soft just an hour before.

“Hell yeah,” Cliff said, pawing at his face, admiing the new thickness he felt there. “I think he’ll be happy to see how this team is progressing.”

*

On the walk to the Coach’s office, Cliff stripped off his sweatshirt (with Wilcox and Meadow’s help, of course, and even then it was a struggle to tear it off his swollen body). Shirtless, he was a broad mound of chubby muscles. His abs were still visible on his distended gut, but it jiggled with every step he took. Cliff was now twice as wide as he’d been that morning. Both athletes walking with him had stripped their won shredded shirts off as well revealing Mr. Olympia-quality physiques.

“Coach, you think we’re gonna get in trouble for this?” Wilcox said, making his rock-solid pecs bounce, then bringing up his arms into a double biceps pose. “I mean, I’m gonna need all new equipment, maybe even a new jersey.”

“I don’t know if Coach is gonna want his o-line to look like this,” Meadow said as he tried something he’d seen muscleguys do on the internet: digging his thumbs into his ribs and spreading his powerfully built lats so his muscles flexed out like wings. He chuckled when he realized he was too wide to fit through doors now.

“You’re strong as fucking oxen,” Cliff said. He had to twist his whole torso back and forth just to keep his big body moving. “And I bet you’re fast as fuck, too. We’ll have to put all that muscle mass to the test, see how fast you are on the field. But I’m betting…” Cliff raised an arm (now big as a leg) and took a long sniff of his pit. “…you’ll outperform most everybody else.”

“I think I’m getting bigger,” Wilcox said as he flexed his calves, marveling at their thickness.

“It’s your pits! Your smell,” Meadow said. The two 6’5” athletes suddenly stopped, dropping to their knees to bury their chiseled faces in Cliff’s armpits.

“That’s right boys, breathe it in,” Cliff said. He could feel it now, the shift between them. As they became stronger, so did he. They were absorbing his bodybuilding genetics just as he absorbed the bulk and strength that made them such outstanding linemen. Just the feeling of their faces digging hungrily into his pits. He groaned as his pecs clenched up, then extended even further from his body. His lats swelled up, pushing his arms away from his body. His feet slid apart as his quads fought for space against each other.

“That’s enough, boys,” Cliff said, trying not to get lost in the intoxicating sensation of his massive body. Not only did he take up so much space now, but he felt so powerful now. No wonder these giant lineman stomped around like they were kings of the world; how could you not when you confidently knew you could flip a bus?

*

Cliff actually hadn’t meant to rip Coach Summers’ door off its hinges, but once he realized it was loose in his hands, he did his best to look like the destruction had been intentional. Squeezing through the door was an effort, but a shove from Wilcox helped him get through.

Summers was dunking a donut into coffee when Cliff barged in, a rippling meatball of muscle, his face so thick and round that he looked like the overfed older brother of the jacked hunk he’d been that morning. Wilcox and Meadow were equally unrecognizable, now covered in veins as the bodyfat on their 300 pound bodies dipped below 10%.

“Great to see you Coach!” Cliff said, grabbing Summers’ desk with one meaty paw. It felt light as cardboard as he shoved it aside. The portly head coach was actually shaking as Cliff stepped up. “I thougth a lot about what you said. What do you think of my new look?”

“Who the fuck are you—”

“I’m your strength coach, and these are your starting offensive linemen. I figured you’re either going to fire me or give me a raise, but you gotta say… I look the part of a football coach now, don’t I?” He grabbed his belly, slick with sweat, and drummed his fists against it. “My boys here are hungry for practice today. Run them all you want. They’re strong as hell, fast as fuck. Maybe not as chunky as your typical lineman, but wait until you see how hard they hit.”

Wilcox pounded a fist into his palm while Meadow grunted and flexed his arms confidently.

“Holy… holy shit, this ain’t possible…” Summers said as he pointed with a quivering finger. “How… how’d this even happen?” One eye closed as he sniffed the air. “And… and what’s that smell?”

Cliff chuckled. He hadn’t intended to share his “gift” with the coach, but what better way to get him on board?