Motel Revelations

[identity rewrite, muscle growth, age regression (middle-aged to college), age progression (college to middle-aged)]

Corey’s pulse raced as he heard the big Silverado pulling into the dingy motel’s garbage-strewn parking lot. He peeked through the dust-speckled venetian blinds to make sure it was Coach Randall, allowed himself a moment of giddiness, then steeled his nerves as he calmly sat down on the bed. He reconsidered, turning the sofa chair that stunk of cigarettes so it faced the door as it opened. He wanted to see the Coach’s face when he opened the door and realized it wasn’t Seamus, the university’s star wrestler, who he would be meeting that day.

Corey’s gut went cold when the burly man opened the door with a solemn expression. There was no flinch when he saw Corey, no exclamation of surprise. Corey felt robbed. “Sorry, Coach,” he said, defaulting to the script he’d prepared all day. He removed his glasses and polished them on his shirt, feeling like a Bond villain when he did so. “No sexy tryst with your personal pet athlete today! It’s just you and me here.”

Coach Randall stroked his thick beard and smiled. He strode forward confidently–clearly not the posturing of a man who had just been caught in a scandal. He wore a polo-shirt, stretched tightly around his barrel chest and round, solid arms, as well as a pair of cargo shorts and a fanny pack (neither of which was uncommon attire for the large man).

“Surprised?” Corey said, digging for the juicy parts of the confrontation he craved.

“I knew you set up this whole meeting, Corey,” Coach said. Corey was shocked: after three seasons as the wrestling team’s assistant, the head coach had never before uttered his name aloud. He’d been sure the Coach didn’t even know who he was. “In fact, I was planning on it. Let’s have a chat.”

Corey’s gut went cold. Despite the fact that the well-built coach outweighed him by a hundred and fifty beefy pounds, he had been in a position of power–or so he thought when he hacked Seamus’ e-mail and set up the meeting. For the first time in his gifted life, Corey felt incredibly stupid. He wondered how much of his plan he could salvage.

Coach Randall crossed his thick arms and laughed, his big gut jiggling as he did so. “What a little drama queen you are,” he said. Corey fumed in his seat, grabbing the arms of the chair, ready to burst to his feet–a move that would only have confirmed the coach’s accusation. “Thought you’d bust me here? Blackmail me maybe? Who were you going to tell? Because Seamus is a 22-year old consenting adult. Even the administration knows what their star athlete and their most famous coach are up to.”

“What about your BOYFRIEND?” Corey said, regretting that his voice cracked between syllables. “How do you think HE would feel about you fucking a guy twenty years younger?”

Coach Randall shrugged his thick shoulders. “See, Timothy and I… we’ve been distant for awhile now. I’m pretty sure he’s got as much going on behind my back as I do behind his. He’d be pissed, sure, but we’ve been together twenty-five years. We’d deal with it. Any other tidbits you want to blackmail me on?”

Corey had one more–a bombshell, in the zippered backpack next to his chair–but he wanted to hold on to it for a moment. He had a few questions he needed answered before he moved forward. “So… so… if you knew I was going to be here… knew I was setting you up… why would you even come?”

Coach smiled. He knelt down in front of Corey–taller than the seated college senior, even on one knee–and placed a thick paw on Corey’s knee. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Corey’s cock twitched. In every permutation of this confrontation he’d considered, he had never once imagined Coach Randall hitting on HIM. Truly, the real secret that Corey had discovered while hacking the coach’s private computer was that he wasn’t who he presented himself as, at all.

John Randall had been a scrawny accountant until age 19, when he met Timothy Grange, a graduate student of biochemistry. John had been the experiemental subject of one of Timothy’s projects, a serum that could resequence John’s DNA.

With just a single shot, stick-thin John Randall had grown into a 300-pound man, thick with power. The old John, as Corey had discovered as he unburied old photos, had never shaved a day in his life; the new version was covered in thick hair with a beard that materialized less than a day after being cleaned away by a straight-razor. “Little John” had suffered from two hernias from lifting heavy grocery bags, but “Big John” broke worldwide powerlifting records and paid his rent by modeling his big-as-a-fridge musclebod, covered in hair and manly beef.

John’s entire career, beginning with his first powerlifting meet, would be invalidated if the world knew he owed it all to a breakthrough formula that current-day PED tests couldn’t detect. Timothy’s career would be jeopardized if they knew he had tested his theories on a live subject without his company’s official sanction.

“Proposition?” Corey asked. Coach Randall had never looked him directly in the eye before, never acknowledged his existence for longer than it took to bark a curt demand. Now, so close, smelling the coach’s spicy after-shave and the warm gym-stink his body exuded naturally, he found his desire to take down the coach overwhelmed by something stronger.

“Look, I know you’re unhappy,” Coach Randall said. “You walk around with this sour look on your face, so miserable because you CHOSE not to lift weights or take on sports. I get it! They’re not for everyone… but I see how you look at all those men who DID decide to better themselves… and it bums me out. I know you could be living a happier life if you’d only put in the work to better yourself.”

Corey’s foolish hopes that the coach would be leaning in to kiss him (or forcibly shove Corey’s head into his hairy armpit) soon faded, replaced by shame once again. He reached toward the bag at his side, ready to play his trump card: “Oh yeah? Tell me more about ‘putting in work,’ Coach Randall,” he said. But before he revealed the loaded syringe in his bag, the coach unzipped the fanny pack and produced a syringe of his own.

“I’m looking for someone new on my team,” he said. “And Timothy… you know my partner REALLY IS a genius? More than anybody knows.” He held the tiny syringe gingerly in his large hands. “What’s in here could take you… skinny, underdeveloped you… and make you a champion.”

A smile curled across Corey’s face as, once again, the circumstances changed drastically. “Wait… you want me to… take that shot? Turn into… what, some musclebound wrestler?”

Coach Randall beamed, ferociously proud. “I’ve already set up all the official paperwork for the new identity, too. You’ll be taken in as a transfer student, you’ve got a place to stay and a scholarship, we’ve got you this bullshit major–geology, can you believe it?--and you can do your whole college career over again as an absolute stud without a care in the world.”

Corey’s eyes went wide as he observed the glowing blue fluid in the syringe. The one he had in his bag contained an iridescent green. He felt overwhelmed by possibility. “I… I don’t even know how to wrestle.”

“The best thing about this,” Coach Randall said, unsheathing the syringe, “is that it’s knowledge in a bottle. You get the good genetics, the muscles, the superior joints and tendons, reflexes like a chimp on meth… but your brain gets reworked too. You won’t even remember being Corey! I even came up with a new name for you… Jethro Stone. One shot and you’ll have a brand new life and you won’t even miss being you–not like I think you would.” Coach reached out with his free hand and curled his thumb and forefinger easily around Corey’s narrow wrist.

Corey took the syringe and held it up. “I’ve never taken a shot before.”

“It’s easy,” the coach said. He rolled up the short sleeve of his polo shirt and flexed his grapefruit-sized bicep. “All you do is aim for this spot in your arm–”

With quickness that surprised both of them, Corey jabbed the syringe into the coach’s arm and plunged the needle. “Holy shit!” Corey said, his heart pounding. He couldn’t believe what he had just done–and neither could Coach Randall.

“You fucking…” He grabbed Corey’s shoulder’s. The smaller man became immediately aware of the coach’s incredible strength. It wouldn’t take much for the brute to smash Corey through the wall, or snap his thin neck. But Coach Randall’s chiseled face went white and he let go, stumbling back against the bed. “What… what…”

He gasped as his body pulsed, every muscle flexing at once. He twitched, his arms and hands flailing as he cried out. Coach Randall looked different, it was clear, but Corey wasn’t sure how; it seemed to be a thousand subtle differences at once.

His body grew less hairy, the thick rug across his massive arms looking soft and fine before it vanished entirely. His beard actually shrank away until it was just a five-o-clock shadow, then he was smooth-faced. The crags of his age smoothed away as well. His reddish-brown buzzcut darkened until it was jet black, blooming into a mound of curls on his head.

Coach Randall’s legs, still touching the floor, suddenly pulled upward. His arms seemed to compact as well, losing none of their thickness as they stumped down in length. The 6’3” man now looked around 5’10” tall. His eyes looked around wildly as if he were seeing the room for the first time. This seemed to be an altogether different person on the outside; Corey could only imagine what kind of changes were happening to his mind.

The young raven-haired musclehead on the bed suddenly let out a roar–much deeper than the coach’s voice had been just minutes before–his arms curling up into an involuntary biceps flex as he squeezed his eyes shut. The chubby softness around his hard muscles suddenly melted away as his skin shrink-wrapped his well-developed sinews. The hard, swollen belly deflated. “Coach Randall” grabbed at his gut as it dwindled into a set of rock-hard cobbles.

Despite having shrunk in a number of ways, the man now seemed to be larger than before–and more intimidating. He seemed to be carved out of marble, swimming in the size XXXL clothes he’d walked in with but every inch of his body looked swollen and hard as brick.

The scent of after-shave hadn’t changed, but his potent musk had. The pile of tan muscle on the bed exuded a scent stronger than the locker room after every wrestler on the team had lumbered through after a workout. The last change for the man was in his groin: the now-oversized cargo shorts pumped upward as his bulge expanded.

That last detail had caught Corey’s attention the most when it was all over. He slowly approached the bed, confident that the coach–or “Jethro” as he would now be known–had passed out after the rigors of his transformation. He unbuckled the belt and gently slid the cargo shorts down, chuckling when he saw the seven-inches of soft cock lying against his enormous, rippling thigh.

“Geez, Coach,” Corey said as he blushed. “You sure wanted to give me a big cock, didn’t you? Well, I hope you enjoy it.” As the herculean man (who appeared no older than 21, despite his powerful physique) softly snored, Corey started to reassess what had happened, as he would never again get answers from the Coach.

Clearly, what Corey knew was a powerful enough secret that Randall had desired his silence. Maybe Timothy or the university’s administration were not as aware of Randall’s secret life as he had claimed. And what better way to erase career-ending knowledge than by erasing it from the mind of the man who had it? He wondered if the coach had truly felt benevolent, as if he were giving Corey a new life while he helped himself, or if he just wanted another star player on the team, probably to fuck around with once Seamus graduated.

The adrenaline from the altercation had faded and Corey felt exhausted. He had never gotten to truly drop the biggest bomb of the day, that the “Coach Randall” identity had never been real from the start.

“And now that identity is all gone,” Corey chuckled. He unzipped the bag, once again feeling possessed by an idea so titillating and terrifying at the same time. This was crazy, wasn’t it? He uncapped the syringe, examined the green liquid. Did he really have it in him to do this?

He glanced at the musclebound stud still snoring on the bed. “Jethro” was starting to get hard, even as he slept. “I’m guessing these are different formulas,” Corey conjectured out loud. “Because from what I learned from your e-mail, Timothy gives you a new shot of the serum every month. Was what you just took an advanced version? Permanent and more powerful?”

His hand shook. If he hated it, he could turn back in once month.

The liquid stung as it went in. Instantly Corey’s body went cold, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. “Oh shi-” he said as his hands throbbed. He looked down to watch slender fingers suddenly plumping up. His whole body suddenly itched. As he pawed at himself through his clothes he found the source of this discomfort: reddish-brown hairs covered every inch of himself.

Corey stripped off his shirt and admired the silky rug that covered his once smooth chest. As he stroked the new addition, he felt something new developing: pecs! Never in his life had he had any muscle on his narrow torso, but suddenly he had mounds of meat that he could flex and bounce. It was like controlling a brand-new appendage.

His whole body seemed to be blossoming with size. He flexed his arms as biceps filled in, then stumbled as wider legs pushed his feet apart. It was a struggle to get his pants off before he burst out of them… but when he did, he noticed something new: a fat, thick cock and big juicy balls swinging below. “Wow,” he said, palming the new dick. It wasn’t long, but it complimented the blooming muscles on his body: thick, strong-looking.

His belly swelled out then, blocking his view of the new cock. He could feel it, but couldn’t see it. He drummed on the musclegut, satisfied at its resounding percussion. He felt like he was rising, but his feet never left the ground. Corey’s 5’4” frame elongated nearly a whole foot until he was as big as Coach Randall had been.

A glance in the mirror and he gasped: he had become the coach’s identical twin. No, he WAS the coach! “I’m guessing, since Coach Randall got to choose every detail his body, he preferred to be a bottom,” he said, admiring the powerful dump truck ass, then swinging his hips to flop the little cudgel of a penis back and forth. A moment later, he was sure of Coach Randall’s sexual preferences: ideas were materializing in his head. They seemed brand new but familiar. While Corey’s identity never vanished, new information settled in. Corey knew everything about the coach: his whole history (from powerlifting to coaching wrestling, plus memories like the day he met Timothy, his ATM pin code, and every freckle on Seamus’ naked body).

“Oh, SHIT!” Corey said. He had worried that he would lose himself, but instead he merely gained everything he would need to be the coach. He turned toward the new player on his team, Jethro. “So you won’t remember who you used to be,” the big, lumbering man said as he sat down on the bed, suddenly wincing as his 44 year old joints suddenly throbbed, their age catching up to them. “But I’ll remember everything. That makes this VERY easy…” He reached gently toward Jethro’s angular face. The sleeping musclestud suddenly stirred.

“Wha-what?” he said, sitting up. “Oh, fuck… Coach…” Jethro said, rubbing his eyes. He chuckled. “Man, how hard did we just fuck? Did I pass out after?”

“Yep,” Corey said in the coach’s voice. “Fucked me so good you passed out IN your clothes.”

“Weird,” Jethro said, not putting together why that was strange–or why “his clothes” were several sizes too big. “Are we good? Did anyone find out about us… doing this?”

Corey chuckled. Clearly the coach had programmed Jethro with prior knowledge of a relationship with him so that he could reap the benefits. Corey had other ideas. “Y’know, Jethro, I think what I want you to do from here on out is focus on the team. And I’m your coach, so I’ll stay in charge, but you should be bonding with guys like Seamus.”

Jethro’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”

Corey smiled. It was going to be fun being the coach. And the real coach could relive his glory days–creating an all new history for himself! Plus, he could pursue his relationship with Seamus without violating any rules, moral or otherwise.

And in the meantime, Corey could get to know Timothy, a pure genius who had fascinated Corey ever since he heard the masterful geneticist had married a big dumb bear like Coach Randall. Corey wondered if Timothy would be able to tell that anything was different about him–or, perhaps he would like the “new and improved” Coach Randall, who could actually hold an intelligent conversation with a brilliant scientist like Timothy, even better?