Meow-ster Cat-lympia

That first week of living with and filming Nick Walker was near agony. These bodybuilding lifestyle gigs are never that exciting; they only look that way in the completed product because of amazing cameramen and editors like me. Sure, the paycheck for spending every day with that massive freak, filming every moment of his routine and catching every “word of wisdom” on camera, was impressive, but the reality was that I’d be serving a massive (and hungry) ego the entire time. Nick just wasn’t Mr. Personality. It was my job to make him seem more human, more relatable, more inspirational. I was supposed to turn that 300 pounds of solid man-bulk into an influential superhuman.

Not an easy task.

Three days in he called me over between sets to catch a quote. “See, when you train, you train to learn. And you train to succeed. So every day you train, you learn how to succeed.”

He paused, as if his words had a magnanimous weight that needed time to land. I nodded. “Got it,” I said.

“There’s the t-shirt,” he said with a wink. I nodded again, wondering how I would pull off four more weeks of being around this gargantuan feeb.

Outside the gym we got some excitement. A dog, tied up near the entrance, went into kill mode as Nick walked by. I’d seen him pet the dog the past two days, watched the dog wag his tail and slobber uncontrollably as the big lug gave him furious pets with his meaty hands, but at this moment, for some reason, the dog wanted blood.

And Nick leapt back, terror in his eyes. (If you’ve never seen such a hypermuscular freak experiencing pure, abject fear, I’d recommend it. It’s quite a thrilling juxtaposition.)

“Get that fucking dog out of here!” Nick yelled at the gym owner, who scrambled to find its owner. Nick was visibly shaking as we approached his van, even more out of breath than when he’d squatted every plate he could fit on the bar just minutes before.

“Hey, Abe, you’re gonna delete that dog thing right?” Nick asked when he’d calmed down, just outside his house. I nodded. That’s pretty much all I did with this guy.

Later that night, as I reviewed footage from the day, I headed to Nick’s bedroom to ask him if he wanted to see the highlights. His light was on in his bathroom, so I knocked.

“G-go away!” Nick stuttered. I heard the shower running, but his voice came from the opposite end of the bathroom.

“You okay big man?” I asked, knocking again. The door was slightly ajar, and the last knock tilted it open. I found the massive bodybuilder completely naked, rippling body covered in goosebumps, huddled across the bathroom, cringing at the sight of his running shower.

“T-t-turn it off,” he whimpered. Believe it or not, that meteor of mass actually WHIMPERED! I tried to act as sympathetically as I could, turning it off without revealing the incredulity I felt. He calmed down once the water was off, lumbering around the bathroom afterward, frantically rubbing the back of his neck to calm himself down.

“You okay, big guy?” I asked.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” he said. As I left the bathroom, the naked mass monster licked his hand and rubbed it across his chest. He repeated the action, as if this was going to get him clean.

The next day, when Nick showed up with a visible layer of stubble across his normally smooth skin, I knew I had some decisions to make.

“I didn’t feel like shaving,” he explained, but he had a five-o-clock shadow across every inch of his body. The growth wasn’t natural. Something was up, I realized as he approached the bench, squashing his hands across it like he was kneading bread before he was comfortable enough to lie down.

That night, during dinner, when I saw whiskers bobbing off his face as he shoveled down sweet potatoes and steak, I decided it was time to have a conversation.

“So… something’s happening to you,” I said. He stared down, refusing to look me in the eyes. “Question is, are we going to do something about it?”

“I feel fine,” he said. Suddenly he slapped his protein shaker off the table.

When he stripped off his pants and lifted his leg to pee on the corner of the couch, I wondered if I should revisit the conversation. Luckily he brought it up himself.

“I decided I want you out,” he said. He’d climbed up on the counter, his massive bulky body awkwardly squatting down with his thick, veiny arms supporting all of his mass as he stared down at me. “Documentary is over. No more ‘day in the life’ of Nick Meo-Walker.”

I resisted the urge to grin at his misstatement of his own name.

“Uh, sure, Nick, sounds good, but… we have a contract.” Technically, I was to be there for thirty days, no matter what. Sure, if he wanted to hire a lawyer, he could probably find a loophole and get out of it, but the guy’s body was now covered in a layer of velvety-soft grey fur and his ears were turning up. I could only imagine what the little bulbous knob developing at his tailbone was going to be.

He narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously. “No more cameras,” he said. “No MEOW!”

I couldn’t bail out now. This story was just getting interesting! I had to be the guy who captured it all.

“Here’s the thing,” I said, leaning back in my chair. I reached into my pocket and pulled out something I’d purchased at the store earlier. “You’re going through something and you’re going to need help. I’m strictly here to document, but… don’t you want someone around, just in case things get a little beyond your ability to handle them?”

Before he could speak, I produced a ball of yarn and rolled it across the floor. His eyes locked onto it and he stared at me, then down at the ball of yarn. The whole house shook when his enormous body leapt down and chased after it clumsily, on all fours. I found him in the next room rolling around on his back, desperately trying to catch the yarn in his swollen hands. The rubber catnip-stuffed mouse I tossed at him had him. He gave up on the yarn and spent the next hour rubbing every inch of his body against it, stripping his clothes off so he could more skin-to-toy contact.

And that was the end of the discussion of having me out. When I sat down near him later with the camera on, he crossed the room and rubbed his cinderblock-head against me, so forcefully he shoved me off the couch. His big pecs vibrated as a low rumble came from the big brute. I got courageous and reached out to scratch his protruding pecs. He leaned into the contact (again knocking me over) and then, as I lay on the ground, he started kneading my chest with his hands. His fingers were even thicker now and tiny little claws had begun to protrude from his fingertips. He openly meowed into my face now, seemingly unashamed of his state.

And to be honest, I can’t say I could complain about an enormous bodybuilder squeezing my belly with affection, either. My integrity as a documentarian was a little broken, but who needed to know? Nick needed help, I needed footage of the first 300 pound muscle-cat. It wasn’t a bad deal, and I knew I would be able to get whatever I wanted out of him.

When it came time to go to the gym, Nick just lay on his back near the window, sunning his belly. “I want to train in the home gym.” He did have an extensive amount of equipment in his basement. Getting him there was an effort however. The best way to motivate him was with a laser pointer I’d picked up. The mammoth feline man chased after it desperately, losing all thoughts except getting his hands on that red light.

After training, he preferred to take his meals in a bowl. He’d eat half, then walk away, meowing at me, flexing his glutes and flaring his lats threateningly as he nudged me at my editing equipment. He’d even tug on my sleeve with his mouth.

“Nick, you can still talk,” I’d insist but he’d just sneer at me, crawl away on all four of his mastodonic limbs, then come running back. Big lug needed his bowl full at all times. I made sure to get footage of his mini-tantrums of course.

At night he’d crawl up onto my bed (tilting the mattress with his mass), stomping circles around before climbing underneath my blanket. “Nick, you have your own bed!” I’d remind him, but the titanic cat-man would not be denied. With his fully emerged tail twitching back and forth, he’d burrow down into my sheets, his muscular body rumbling as he purred contentedly. All that muscle sure did give off some heat, though. I’d have to throw off my covers just to avoid sweating myself silly.

It was near the end of the thirty days that I realized I may be staying around longer than a month. The changes had more or less ended; Nick was still his bulging, rippling, super-strong musclefreak self, just covered in fur with a twitching nose and whiskers, adorable cat ear, silver and grey patterns of fur that swirled across his musclebound back and a long tail that seemed just as strong as the rest of him. But that one night, I woke after midnight, realizing the bodybuilder wasn’t in my bed anymore. I found him outside, prowling around behind the house, letting out low pathetic whines.

When I got to him, his tail twitched up, and his muscular glutes flexed as he turned around, backing his furry musclecheeks up to me. I knew what was happening–and what he wanted me to do–and staring at those flexing hamstrings, those ludicrously large calves… it didn’t matter how furry he was. I knew what I’d be doing. Poor Nick looked so sad and pathetic as the part of his brain that was still a man realized what was about to happen. But as soon as I got in there, banging that incredibly tight hole, his glutes squeezing so tightly I thought he might pulverize my dick, he was lost in his own bliss.

So was I, in fact. There was just so MUCH of him, so soft and yet rock-hard underneath, his muscles undulated with every twitch. I just grabbed onto his wide lats, gripped the sides of his pecs, and went to town. Nick was so happy for the relief. He fell asleep with his head on my stomach, purring. I looked at my camera equipment across the room, then at the drooling cat-beast in my arms. That’s when I realized I’d probably be switching jobs.