Hunky College Guy Movers

[muscle theft]

At a red light I caught Brendon leaning out his window, flexing his grapefruit-sized bicep for a couple guys in a convertible. I gave him a shove, then punched him in the arm. “Jesus, Chase! OW!” he said, shoving me back. I guess I didn’t entirely know my own strength, but I assumed his beefy body could withstand more of the blow than it did.

“We can’t get written up again,” I reminded him as we pulled away. The guys in the convertible had their phones out. They snapped photos. Interaction with non-clients was strictly forbidden by Hunky College Movers policy. Brendon acts like they can’t just grab any college guy to do what we do, but I know we’re replaceable and I need this job.

“I need coffee before the next job,” Brendon whines, an odd sound coming out of a 280 pound brute.

“Bro, you can already bench press a truck. Don’t act like coffee is going to make that big a difference.”

“Dude, I’m fucking wiped! Seriously. If you don’t pull over for coffee, I’m just gonna jump out and run to get it myself. Seriously.”

I sighed and pulled over. Brendon grabbed the doorhandle but I grabbed him by his thick delt and held him back. “YOU’RE in one of your moods,” I chided, wagging my thick finger at him. “I’ll go.”

We’re not supposed to be in public spaces when we’re “on the clock.” As soon as I stepped into the coffee shop (stooping and turning sideways to fit through the door) I felt all eyes on me. Clients usually gawk and stare at us (that’s why they hire us; they want freakish muscleguys hoisting their furniture around) but that’s two or three people at one. In the coffee shop, I was being ogled, side-eyed and whispered about by at least thirty people. At least I had a sweatshirt on to cover up our company logo (although it was all over our huge truck outside).

The guy behind the counter went to high school with me. He was a big football jock but he looked like he hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in awhile. I smiled at him, hung my head politely (a move that, when you’re big, seemed to make you less threatening, I’d found), but I could see him sneaking glimpses of me every time he turned around. Maybe he recognized me and was wondering how I put on two-hundred pounds of muscle in the past three years. Maybe he was just jealous, sadly remembering the glory days of being the “big guy” in high school. I tipped him a five for good karma and headed back to the truck with our lattes in tow.

My eyes went wide when we pulled up to the clients house. I knew they were two dudes, but I had no idea they were JACKED! One was bald and wearing a tank-top, ripped to shreds, wide and beefy. The other was a blond in a polo shirt that looked like it might pop at any moment. As I hopped out of the truck, I knew I had a little sparkle in my eye–the same thing most guys have when they see me when I’m working. It’s that glint of admiration for a big man, maybe something primal, reacting to an alpha. (Brendon seems to think it’s breeding instinct, wanting to combine your genetics with a superior man.) Either way, I was surprised when I approached and found that Brendon and I were actually bigger than these two bodybuilder studs! I always forgot that I’m a 290 pound clydesdale until I approached an actually bodybuilder, shook his hand, and worried I might have crushed it.

Their names were Ty and Wayne, a married couple in their 40s moving a neighborhood away. Ty, the bald one, crossed his arms and kept his distance from Brendon and I. Wayne, the blond, was eager to chat us up.

“Do you guys compete?” he asked. “God, how old are you? Wish I had your genetics!”

Ty just muttered, sneered down at his phone while he watched me hoisting a heavy cabinet up on one shoulder, carrying it with ease. “We’re just really into the gym,” I answered, as the “Hunky College Movers” employee manual instructed us to do.

After setting an armoire in the truck, I came out to find Brendon carrying a couch overhead. He was doing lunges down the parking lot, a big grin on his face. Brendon had to push hard to be allowed to wear shorts at work, and he knew just how much his massive ass and gargantuan quads bulged with each step.

“Careful!” Ty snapped. “That’s a $15,000 couch!”

Brendon hopped up and started pressing the couch repeatedly overhead. “Really? Doesn’t FEEL that expensive. Feels light as hell!”

I could smell a “complaint to the manager” (and thus another formal reprimand) brewing, so I tried to make distract Ty with conversation. “You guys look like you’re been training for a LONG time. I’d kill for a training session with you guys some time!”

Ty, who only came up to my pec, glanced at my enormous body with disdain. “Looks like all you need is Tren and Dbols,” he scoffed, storming away.

“Don’t mind him,” Wayne apologized. “The move has us just kind of… stressed out.”

On the ride over to the new location, I slammed my fist into Brendon’s abs (forgetting, of course, that though I may be whale-sized and strong as hell, Brendon’s stomach was like steel plate). “The fuck was that four?” he laughed, enjoying how much I’d clearly hurt my arm.

“Quit all that showboating shit!” I said. “That bald dude is gonna talk to Mr. Titus and we’re both gonna get canned!”

“The blond is hot,” Brendon said, stroking the bulge in his shorts, shifting his musclestud body around in his seat. “Did you see how much he loved me carrying that couch? Dude needs a BIG man to satisfy him, guaranteed.”

“Buddy, if you’re not careful, that Ty guy is gonna kick the shit out of you,” I warned. Brendon beat his big fists together.

“Would love to see him try.”

Brendon managed to behave better as we loaded the furniture into the house. We had billed for a six hour move, but we finished it in four. Ty, still no happier with us after we (flawlessly) moved his home, signed the paperwork in a hurry, probably eager to get rid of us.

“Where the fuck is Wayne?” Ty asked as I headed to the truck. I wondered the same about Brendon. My blood pressure spiked when I saw my work partner stumbling down the hallway with Wayne right behind.

Brendon’s work shirt was on inside out. He had a lightfooted gait as he lumbered back to the truck, running on his tiptoes like he had a bee in his butt.

That fucking idiot. I only prayed Ty hadn’t figured out what the two of them had been up to.

Back in the truck, my hands shook as I clenched the steering wheel. “You FUCKED him?”

“Well, he fucked me,” Brendon said, moaning as he reached down and touched his glutes. “I always thought it would be hard to bottom with an ass this big, but that Wayne guy has a HEE-YOOJ cock.”

“We’re fucked,” I said, shaking my head. “That bald guy hated us. We’re so fired. We’re so fucked.” I kept repeating that mantra the whole way back to the office. Meanwhile, Brendon kept muttering, licking his lips, and fondly remembering the excellent dicking he’d just received without any concern for our future employment.

“How was the move?” Mr. Titus asked blandly after we parked the truck in the garage.

“Good,” I said quickly. “Great. Went good. Pretty good.”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “He’s downplaying it. They were SO happy with our performance that they, uh… gave us a tip.”

Mr. Titus didn’t even look up. The phone rang. I went rigid, knowing that was Ty with a complaint that would seal our fates. Mr. Titus just nodded a few times, then hung up. “Hey, guys, your donors are in the swap chamber ready to change back.”

“Aw, I was hoping I could keep all this for a few extra hours,” Brendon said, grabbing his massive pecs and giving them a squeeze. I got him in a herculean headlock and dragged him to the swap chamber.

Brendon’s donor was a bodybuilder named Terry Wainwright–normally a MONSTROUS black guy whose physiology looks like it’s going to burst at any moment. My donor was Billy Barnes, a humongous curly redhead who I heard does adult films where he works out naked then fucks little twinks.

At that moment, however, both Terry and Billy looked more like accountants. Each of them was the size of one of my legs, only about five feet tall. They looked like they may get hernias lifting a toilet seat. They stripped down before entering the swap chamber just so they didn’t ruin any of their clothing. Brendon and I stayed in our uniforms.

The little guys stood on the red panels while Brendon and I stood on the blue panels. Mr. Titus, in the control room, hit some buttons and there was a white flash. The little guys grunted as their bodies inflated like balloons. Meanwhile, Brendon and I sank down, the whole room seeming to grow larger around us. I had the sense to grab my pants before they became too huge to stay up, but Brendon just let his hit the ground.

It was literally a weight lifted off me every time we went back to normal. It felt easier to move around. My body felt less like a burden. I was so much more flexible, I could move more quickly… but Brendon always looked crestfallen as we changed back to our regular clothes.

“What do you think they do when they’re small?” Brendon said as he smoothed back his short dark hair before slamming a baseball cap on his head.

“I talked to Billy once,” I replied. “Turns out he actually kills time at the gym. He says it helps his training mentality. Says it’s like running with a parachute on.”

Brendon shook his head. Our donors had legs so big they almost walked with a waddle, their lats so thick they could never truly put their arms down–the way Brendon and I were when we were on the clock.

“That must be psychologically weird,” Brendon mused. “I mean, I wonder if he gets intimidated by guys who aren’t even as big as he is now. Or if he gets bullied. Imagine, being that big but getting bullied because some college kid is running around with all your hard-earned muscles?”

“We all gotta make a living,” I said as I punched out. I had pizza and beer at home in my fridge and I couldn’t wait to relax; even though the muscles I used to do all that moving weren’t mine, the aches and fatigue stayed with me when I gave all that strength back.

For the next two weeks, I kept waiting for Ty to call in to complain, but we heard nothing.

“The way I see it,” Brendon said as we headed back to the office after a move, “I was kind of the victim there. He was taking advantage of me. I mean, why hire Hunky College Guy Movers if you don’t want to try to fuck the hunky college guy who shows up?”

“We’re cheaper and faster than a lot of moving places,” I countered as I parked the truck. We hopped out and headed back inside. Mr. Titus had his coat on.

“Bad news, guys, I gotta head out early,” he said.

“Why’s that bad news?” Brendon asked, absentmindedly beating his pecs with his big fists (a habit he’d developed in his “large form” that actually drove me nuts, although I kept my opinion to myself).

“Because only Brendon’s donor’s here. Chase, your donor is going to be late. You think you can handle swapping yourselves back and locking up when he gets here?”

Brendon got a devious smirk on his face, but I held up a hand. “No problem, Mr. Titus. I’ll take care of it.”

When Mr. Titus left, Brendon grabbed me by the lats. “Dude, fuck that. If your donor’s late, you should go out and have some FUN. Pick a fight, get laid, maybe just make a TikTok where you’re huge and superstrong and go viral! Any ex-boyfriends you want to humiliate? Get them to lick whipped cream out of your musclepits or something!”

I had to knee Brendon in the balls to bash the frenetic energy out of him. He yelped, grabbed his stomach as he coughed, and backed away as I countered him with good sense. “Dude, we’re going to do EXACTLY as we’re supposed to. These muscles aren’t ours to play around with!”

Terry had walked in and was looking up at us sheepishly. He had overheard our conversation and was clearly worried that he’d be stuck as a pipsqueak. “Don’t worry,” I assured him, dragging Brendon by the ear to the swap room. “Brendon was just about to give you your muscles back.”

I knew how to operate the swap chamber myself, so I had the two men stand where they were supposed to, flipped the switches, and watched as Brendon got tiny and Terry got huge.

(It’s funny how I think of Brendon and my normal size as “tiny” now, clearly a side effect of my time as a superhuman meat mountain. Brendon and I were 5’9” and 5’8” respectively, 150 pounds each, good-looking, fit, average-sized men. But it was hard to look at our normal bodies as anything other than “too small to carry a king-sized bed by myself” after so many ours on the clock.)

“Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” Brendon said, his hands roaming along my veiny forearms (which were thicker than his whole arms).

“Relax, hornball,” I said, slapping his hands away as Terry left, his gym bag slung over his shoulder

“FUCK! Jesus, Chase!” Brendon yelped. I apologized. He was more fragile now, I realized, and I was clearly far stronger than he could handle.

“Can you do, like, pushups while I sit on your back?” Brendon mused, an eyebrow raised. Then his face fell. He was looking beyond me, to someone behind me in the office. “Oh, shit…” he muttered.

I turned around. Ty was standing there, his face red, a crowbar in his hand. “You… fucking… shitheads…” he said, stomping forward.

Ty swung the crowbar at me. I flexed my pecs and absorbed most of the blow (although it still hurt quite a bit), then knocked it out of his hand.

“Look, CALM DOWN,” I said, grabbing him by the arms and lifting him up. I’d used my strength to move furniture but never to actually engage in fisticuffs. I had to admit, lifting a guy who could have snapped normal-me in half gave me a primal charge. I was instantly aware of–and afraid of–the potential to become addicted to all of this.

Ty kicked me in the balls, so I tossed him backward. He landed flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him. As I stood again, I saw Brendon with the crowbar in his hand.

“You want to fuck with someone?” he said. “Fuck with me! I’m the one who rode your husband’s dick.” He raised the crowbar above his head.

“NO WAY, DUDE!” I said, snatching the weapon away. In an adrenaline-fueled rage I grabbed the ends of the crowbar and bent it in half, tossing it aside. Ty was back on his feet then.

“You’re a fucking RUNT!” Ty shouted. His face contorted as he recognized who little Brendon was, the realization of the Hunky College Guy Movers’ secret business model hitting him hard.

“Yeah, and your husband fucked my scrawny ass!” Brendon taunted. He turned around, slapped his own butt (which, even at average size, was still pretty ample) and ran toward the back room. I lunged forward, trying to grab Ty, but I was too big and slow.

Frustrated, I grabbed the desk in front of me and hurled it aside, stomping forward like a juggernaut. At the last moment I remembered to use the door handle; I’m quite certain that, had a cooler head not prevailed, I would have crashed through the wall like a wrecking ball.

“Where the fuck are you?” Ty said. He was in the swap chamber, looking around.

“Look, big guy,” I said, approaching Ty cautiously. “Let’s you and I have a talk.”

“You fucked my husband!” Ty spat, red-faced with rage.

“No, your husband fucked Brendon, and yes, I admit that’s super-unprofessional of us…”

“UNPROFESSIONAL? You guys steal muscles and fuck actual bodybuilders? Who the fuck do you think you are!”

At that moment I heard rustling in the control booth. I glanced back to see Brendon flipping switches. I looked down to see that I was standing on a red panel. Ty was on a blue panel.

“No, wait–” I started, but then there was a flash of light.

My whole body tense, a full-body cramp. I felt my feet sliding apart as my legs got thicker, my arms rising as my back swelled out. “Fuck, jesus, hnngh…” My pecs suddenly rose up until I could touch them with my chin. My traps were so massive I could barely move my neck.

I felt like a sumo-wrestler as I struggled to move, wiggling my feet around. My arms and legs nearly felt inflexible. With great effort, I was able to turn. There was a skinny little bald man in a pool of his way-too-big clothing, shocked.

“What… how…” he said, rising to his feet. His pants stayed on the floor, his belt still buckled. His tank top hung over him like a dress. He had lost over a foot in height. He seemed half as wide. He couldn’t stop staring at his skinny limbs, patting down his narrow body, searching for all the meat that was missing.

“NOW it’s a fair fight!” Brendon said, charging in at full steam. He tackled Ty and the two started exchanging blows.

“Damn! OW! Stop!” Ty yelped as Brendon’s punches connected.

“Jesus, what is this, a slapfight?” Brendon laughed, mocking Ty for his sudden weakness. In the meantime I tried to get near them, feeling like I was wearing twenty layers of clothing. Every step was a struggle. If I fell over, I wasn’t sure I was getting up, and my center of balance was off from my ridiculous pecs and what I assumed was a giant set of glutes behind me.

I finally got to the little guys, wrestling ineffectively on the ground, and snatched Ty up in one bloated hand. Brendon kept punching, so I grabbed him in my other hand. The two swung and kicked the air, but each was essentially neutralized now that I held them.

“Chase, bro, you’re like… seven feet tall!” Brendon said once the rage had died from him.

“We gotta fix this,” I said. Moving my lips felt like an effort. My face was so packed with muscles I could hardly open my mouth!

Just then the lights flickered. We heard a few electric pops from the control booth, then the whole room went dark. Emergency lights flickered on.

“Power surge,” Brendon said as he looked around.

“P-power surge?” Ty squeaked. “You guys gotta fix what you did! I can’t stay like this!”

I dropped the two squabbling runts and tried to turn my big body toward the control room. I could see some things sparking. There was smoke in the air.

“Oh… shit…” I grunted, just as the door to the swap chamber opened.

It was little Billy. He stared at the scene lit only by the emergency halogens. He cautiously approached.

“Hi!” he said meekly. “I’m, uh… ready to get my muscles back now?”

I didn’t know how to tell him that I wasn’t sure if that was going to happen.