From Stud to Cub

[soften bodybuilder roommate into cuddly boyfriend]

When my shredded, musclebound roommate Wily returned from the front door with a pizza in his hands, I wondered if he had been joking. “Who’s that for?” I asked, setting down the PS5 controller to figure out what was going on. Wily set it on the kitchen table.

“I’ll leave you whatever I can’t finish,” he said. Ten minutes before, he’d been practicing his posing, holding each carefully choreographed position for minutes as he tried to squeeze extra blood into each of his swollen muscle bellies. Still wearing only his white posing trunks, the 250 pound monster grabbed a slice of pepperoni and folded it before putting it to his mouth.

I was shocked. There was fifteen pounds of cooked chicken and twelve tupperware containers of rice in our fridge, but Wily had asked me to keep my kettle corn and Captain Crunch in my bedroom where he wouldn’t be tempted.

Big Wily plopped his enormous, rock-hard body into the couch, lazily chomping as he shoved more sloppy Meat Lover’s into his mouth.

“Uh, buddy? Did your coach allow you to have a cheat meal or…” I’d been living with Wily long enough to know pizza two weeks out from a competition was unthinkable. I wondered if the galoot had snapped.

“Hunh? Coach? What are you talking about?” Wily said, confused. Then his jaw dropped, and a mouthful of chewed pizza fell down to his enormous pecs with a splat. “What… what am I doing?” he said, leaping from the couch. I found him in the kitchen a moment later, rinsing his mouth from the faucet before washing sauce from his fingers like he’d just committed a murder.

“Why’d you order that pizza?” Wily accused. “Real dick move this close to my show.”

“I didn’t order shit!” I said. True, I was a likely suspect: I’d gotten stoned and eaten a Chinese platter for four by myself the previous Friday, but Wily had gone to his girlfriend’s house. (That is, ex-girlfriend. He dumped her that night. I guess he couldn’t give all his effort to bodybuilding and a girlfriend, so he chose what was most important. From what I heard, it was a nasty scene.) He still chided me when the kitchen still smelled like crab rangoons.

Wily stared at the pizza, then at me. “What, you think I ordered this?” he said. He punctuated it with a pec flex, and I wasn’t sure if it was reflexive or a move to intimidate me. (As if I needed a reason to be intimidated by a wall of nearly naked beef.)

“You did, dude! You just came back from the front door with it!”

Wily seemed bewildered. After a few tense moments, I grabbed the pizza box and brought it to the dumpster outside. As good as it smelled, I didn’t want my evening of gaming to be interrupted by Wily’s pre-competition theatrics. When I came back in, Wily was in his room. He didn’t come out all night. I could hear him grunting inside, most likely hitting yet another grueling abs session (the fourth that day).

We didn’t mention the pizza incident again, but the weirdness returned a few days later when Wily asked me to take his progress pics for his coach. As he hit each pose, a stern expression on his square-jawed face, I snapped a pic at what I thought was the perfect moment. “How are they looking?” he asked.

“Huge,” I responded (anything else would have caused his temper to flare). “Fucking flawless. You look amazing!” Truthfully I wasn’t really looking at the photos, just going through the motions so I could get back to the rolled joint I had in my bedroom.

But when I handed the phone back to him, the big lug sneered. “The fuck?” he said. “There’s a shadow! You gotta tell me when the lighting isn’t right. These are important!”

I sighed and turned to take the camera again, but I froze when I saw that the shadow was on Wily’s body. I leaned in to see thick black hair covering his normally marble-smooth chest. “Wily, you’re… hairy!” I said.

In retrospect, I probably should have had a tamer response, because my elephant-sized roommate nearly shouted me off my feet as he realized that he was suddenly as hairy as a Bear Night go-go dancer.

“How the… how the fuck…” He swiped at the hair as if he could just swat it away, but it was clearly growing out of him. When he turned around I saw huge tufts of thick hair on his massive back.

“Jesus,” I said as I ran my head through the silky whorls. The big guy shivered and jerked away.

“Don’t fucking touch it!” he roared. With thunderous stomps he headed for the bathroom and slammed the door. An hour later he emerged, hairless once more. His skin looked irritated from his furious attempts at denuding his god-like musclebod. He was silent as he passed me to take his hourly handful of supplements. I decided not to poke the bear.

However, every day the next week I heard the faucet in his bathroom running intermittently for an hour at a time. Wily started wearing a full sweat-suit and sweatpants to the gym every day (as opposed to his usual ultra-revealing midriff tank and short-shorts he usually sported when his bodyfat was this low). I also noticed shaving cream cans piling up in the garbage, but I didn’t say a thing.

*

I forgot to set my alarm the morning of Wily’s competition. Not only did he expect me to be there for him, but I was his ride. When I woke and realized it was noon (an hour after the competition had started) I was surprised that Wily hadn’t just hulked through my wall and pummeled me awake. “Shit,” I said, immediately lamenting drinking Scotch from the bottle the previous night. There were no missed calls on my phone and the apartment was empty. “Guess he just called an Uber,” I said, heading to the front door to do that myself.

I found Wily in his truck, head slumped into his chest, his sweatshirt’s hood pulled over his eyes. The small bit of skin I could see on his face was a dark mahogany, the product of a heavy coat of spraytan that he always got backstage.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Didn’t the competition already start?”

Tears were running down the dark-orange bodybuilder’s face as he turned to me. That was a more shocking image than his insta-hair; I didn’t think Wily had any emotions outside of, “smug,” “horny,” and, “angry.”

“Something’s wrong with me,” he sniffled. I was dumbfounded.

“Uh… do you mean, like… ‘hospital’ wrong? You want me to drive you to the ER?” I offered.

“It’s not possible…” he whimpered. “It’s just not possible.”

After twenty minutes of coaxing, I was able to get him to come back inside with me. He was wearing extra-baggy clothes, very unlike him for a competition day. Back in the house I started a pot of coffee and plucked an Indica edible from my medicine cabinet. I had no idea what chemical was going to snap my roomie out of this, but we were definitely in uncharted territory so I planned on pulling out all the stops.

I knocked on his bedroom door with a mug in one hand and a sparkly gummy bear in the other. “Hey buddy?” I said gently. “I don’t know which way you want your mood to go, but I have two options for you…”

His door flew open and he stood there, spray-tanned from head to toe, wearing only his purple “competition” posers. Instead of the ripped eight pack I’d heard him carving out with weighted crunches every night, however, there was a soft gut.

It looked out of place, like a foam “pregnancy” belly had been slapped on his otherwise flawless form before the tan. I couldn’t help myself; I reached out and sank a hand into its soft warmth.

“Fuuuuuck,” he moaned at the contact. He was taking shallow breaths, seemingly afraid to break his focus on the massive fat deposit that had appeared there.

“When did this… happen…” I said, removing my hand from his pudge.

“Onstage,” Wily whimpered. “It fucking happened when I hit my first pose.”

I didn’t understand. “What are you talking about?”

Between whimpers, Wily was able to (slowly) explain: in front of the entire audience and all of the judges, Wily’s chiseled abs just bloated out like a turtle shell before softening into what looked like the product of a decade of Budweiser and cheeseburgers.

I felt guilty for considering it, but I wondered if anyone had gotten a video of the event.

“But there’s no fat anywhere else on you,” I said, examining him. That statement was true until the moment after I uttered it. As Wily blubbered, his cheeks grew more and more jiggly. His square jaw had a double chin below it just a moment later.

“Definitely take this,” I said, handing him the weed gummy. He shied away from it at first, then reconsidered. He lapped it out of my hand like an animal at a petting zoo. “Now let’s get you to the doctor…”

“What’s a doctor going to do?” he said. His face was an adorable pile of chub now. Inches below, he was still a mass of serious muscle (his bloated gut notwithstanding).

“Well, maybe the doctor could…” I began as I saw black hairs starting to appear all over him. He had a point: what the fuck was a doctor going to do? “You think maybe this is a… I dunno, allergic reaction? Steroid side effect?”

Wily wailed and buried his face in my shoulder. I just patted his still-rippling back (so wide I could barely get my arm around him!) as I felt his big, warm belly rubbing against mine. When he pulled away, he was at eye-level with me. I was used to him being a whole head taller. He retreated for his bedroom again, slamming the door behind him.

“Wily? Buddy?” I asked, taking a gummy myself. “What if… what if we just say fuck the competition, and you come out here and watch a movie with me?” No response. “I’ll order you a pizza, too! A big old Meat Lover’s like you ordered a couple weeks ago!” The doorknob turned. He emerged from his room in his sweatshirt, filling out the front in a way he never had before. The legs of his sweatpants dragged on the ground. When he passed me, I saw an inch of buttcrack peeking out from the space where his paunch had separated his top and his buttom.

“Let me put on your favorite movie,” I said, putting in the Fast and the Furious part 9. “And I’ll go get some Oreos from my bedroom. That sound good?” I couldn’t believe I was suggesting junk food to cure my roidhead roomie’s woes, but he just nodded his head. When I got back, I was shocked to see a thick, bushy beard had sprouted on his face.

As he shoved Oreos in his mouth, crumbs gathered on his plump belly. He was smiling, though, so I considered it a success. Despite the fact that the guy who looked like a Greek God just weeks before had somehow squashed down to a chubby cub, I couldn’t deny the fact that Wily was still hot like this.

I sat on the couch a few feet away from him, giving my pudgy buddy a little space to spread out. I kept glancing over, expecting some new change, but things seemed to have settled. His muscles had all shrunk and gone soft; his stomach was now round; his beefy face had a six-month’s-growth beard that was catching bits of cookie. Just imagining that this guy was the same man I used to fantasize about smothering me with pec meat made my dick jerk. I scooted a little bit closer to him on the couch.

When I returned with the pizza, I saw Wily transfixed by the screen, a dollop of drool hanging from his mouth. He had paused it. John Cena was onscreen, leering with his muscles bulging. Wily licked his lips.

“Why’d you pause it?”

“I’ve never noticed…” he began. He adjusted his groin. He seemed lost for words.

I did my best to help him out. “John Cena’s pretty fucking hot isn’t he?” I offered.

“FUCK yeah!” Wily said.

This was perfect. I scooted up next to Wily on the couch and threw an arm around him. He nuzzled into me as I fed him a folded slice. He had gotten even shorter now, barely coming up to my shoulder. It wasn’t long before I stood and yanked down my pants, tossing them aside.

“Fucking hot in here, isn’t it?” I asked as I had a seat, readjusting the bulge in my boxers. Wily stared at my groin with laser focus before standing and shedding his own pants, revealing his thick hairy legs. A few more minutes of John Cena were all it took to make me turn to Wily and grind my bulge against his. Our guts rubbed together, squishing as I leaned in to kiss him. He still had pizza in his mouth.

Then he was sucking my dick. As his head bobbed up and down I saw his phone, on the coffee table, light up. His background was his physique--the one he used to have--flexing at a photo shoot. I couldn’t handle seeing that rock-hard stud next to the little meatball he’d become. With his beard rubbing against my balls and taint, I fired my load deep down his throat. He swallowed like a champ.

He was my little spoon as we cuddled on the couch. Every so often I’d reach around and slip a finger in my mouth. “Big alpha stud” Wily just sucked my finger in, swirling his tongue around it sensually. It was like I’d scored my own teddy bear.

When the movie ended, Wily realized he’d gotten a voicemail during our incredible fellatio session. His ex-girlfriend’s shrill voice shattered the cozy mood as he put it on speaker.

“Hey babe, listen… I heard what happened today at your show and I just wanted to say, that was because of me. I did this weird spell thing that was supposed to teach you to find true love, but I think I messed it up. I’m really sorry, but it’s not permanent. Just don’t… uh, do anything sexual with anyone. That’s not me being a crazy ex, I swear. If you cum it makes it permanent.”

As we listened to the message I’d been fondling his fat little cock, relishing the way he squirmed and bucked his hips. As it ended, I slowed my ministrations, but his hand grabbed mine and hurried me along.

“Do it,” he whispered. “Make me cum.”

I gave him a few more good twists before his body lurched against mine, filling my palm with his spunk. As he melted in the afterglow, I stood up and headed to the kitchen to wipe away the load dripping from my hand. We were out of paper towels, but I did find Wily’s purple posing trunks on the floor. After using them to wipe up his fresh load, I tossed them in the trash.