The tryst

by BRK   

Sleekly fit baseballer Mark and brawny wrestler Jagger, each hot for the other despite the inexplicably fierce mutual rivalry of their respective teams, arrange a secret hookup in a forgotten supply room behind the old stadium. Only, some of those old chemicals really shouldn’t be disturbed…

Mark Morris, the lithely-built, farmboy-next-door-handsome captain of Romero College’s pin-up-worthy, if not exactly top-ranked, baseball team (the Fighting Yetis—roooar!!), gave the ominously gray double doors a worried look. If the bulky steel chain looped through the door handles, secured with an industrial-grade heavy-duty padlock that looked like it would give Superman a run for his money, didn’t scream “keep out,” the blood-red stenciled letters at eye-height warning UTILITY STORAGE—ACCESS FORBIDDEN sure did, and rather more literally. The creepy, cool air of the neglected back corridor behind the old gym annex made the bared skin of his arms tingle uncomfortably, for once making him almost regret wearing his habitual black compression muscle shirt. He crowded closer to his similarly-clad companion, long-hair wrestling-team star Jagger Wood, letting the naked brush of his secret boyfriend’s darker, brawnier arm and shoulder against his own reassure him.

“Are you sure this is—” he started to whisper, then interrupted himself when Jagger reached out and snatched up the padlock in his meaty hand, causing the chains to bang loudly against the steel door. “Shh! What are you doing?” Mark hissed, looking quickly around.

“Relax,” Jagger said with infuriating chill. Keeping hold of the padlock in one hand, he slid his index finger through the U-shape of the shackle and gave it a hard yank. Instantly, the lock snapped open.

“Whoa,” Mark said, feeling a rush of warm arousal flutter through him, his girthy cock chubbing in his favorite ass-flattering sweats. He met Jagger’s bright, crystal-blue gaze, seeing amusement there under the sexy dark eyebrows, and his balls churned a bit with a sudden spate of lust. “Fuck, Jag,” he breathed, letting his eyes briefly slide down the exposed muscle gracing the star wrestler’s powerful, perfectly-sculpted arms before returning to the other man’s smirking visage. “Fuck, how strong are you?”

Of course, a big part of the decades-old, occasionally rancorous rivalry between the two teams, the origins of which were lost in the mists of time (or, rather, lost in the mysteriously missing 1995-98 volumes of The Romero Weekly Cryptid, leaving a telling gap in the library’s periodical shelves), was the baseballers taunting the wrestlers for being brutes, ogres, Conans the Barbarian, etc.; and the brutes themselves obliged by living up to the name-calling every year—somehow even the guys in the lowest weight classes looked strong enough to lift a car or break an iPad in two bare-handed. Mark had mostly appreciated his forbidden lover’s chiseled mass for its aesthetic qualities, though, until now.

Jagger winked, then let him down easy. “Lock’s broken,” he said, turning to unhook it from the chains. “Everyone on the team knows. We just don’t let the ballers know,” he added, glancing up at Mark with a saucy smile.

“If you say so,” Mark said, not wanting to let go of his very hot fantasy just yet. Together they pulled the chain free and slipped inside, closing the door behind them with a click.

Jagger quickly found a light switch, and the darkness fell away to reveal a jumble of spindly metal shelves full of opened boxes dusty with luridly-colored chemical powders, plastic jugs smeared with greasy ooze, and other dubious materials. Larger boxes and drums were piled indiscriminately all around the edges of the room, blocking access to some of the shelves. A pegboard with mounts for tools covered most of one wall. Half of them were empty, the other half sporting rusty-looking specimens that might have been borrowed from Lazarus’s grandfather. Rickety light fixtures dangled from the low ceiling, looking grimy and dangerously unmaintained.

Mark scoped the room quickly before turning to Jagger with a grin. “Spooky!”

Jagger wiggled his jet-black eyebrows. “I know what boys like,” he said. “Arms up, Ace!”

Mark dutifully lifted his arms and let Jagger pull the muscle shirt off him, the Jagger returned the favor. In seconds the tops were cast aside and the two athletes crashed together, Jagger’s thick, hairy, protruding chest smashing against Mark’s more demure and hairless swimmer’s pecs as their mouths melded in a frenzied kiss, their groins grinding hard as they passionately worked their pleasure into each other. Hands went everywhere, and nary an inch could be found between them from ankles to lips.

“Mff—so hot,” murmured Jagger approvingly, twisting the two of them around and slamming Mark’s back against the steel door before diving in for more ferocious kissing.

“Hey, cold!” Mark protested with a laugh, pulling his bare shoulder blades off of the chilly metal with a jerk. He tried to trundle the two of them forward away from the entrance, but his tennis shoe caught on a beat-up 55-gallon drum of something, sending them off balance and careening into the nearest set of shelves—which promptly collapsed backward under their combined weight, knocking one of the lighting fixtures off the ceiling and sending them crashing loudly to the floor with everything other the shelves crushed beneath them or raining down on them, so that they were covered head to toe in dust, goo, and debris.

Mark lay on top of Jagger, staring down at him in astonishment in the flickering mayhem. He was about so say something when he felt the alarming tug of electricity coursing through him—the whole wiring setup for the lights on this side of the room had been pulled down from the ceiling, and the broken fixture was sending live juice through the collapsed metal shelves and straight into the two of them. Quickly, Mark jumped to his feet, pulling Jagger up with them. They stood looking around at the swath of destruction and them at themselves for a moment, then started to laugh.

“Good thing we were going to need a shower anyway,” Jagger purred as they drew toward each other again, Jagger sliding a hand possessively around Mark’s waist as Mark, still chuckling, tried to wipe a smear of effervescent blue-gray slime off the larger man’s bristly cheek.

“I think we’re going to need some lye and a wire brush,” Mark muttered. He could feel Jagger’s thick erection pressing against his hip, and his own hard-on had him feeling hot and flushed all over. He heart was pounding like crazy, too. Who knew making a mess would be so sexy?

Giving up on trying to clean Jagger’s face, Mark moved in and started mouth-melding again, Jagger responding just as eagerly. Everything seemed amped up, and not just because the buzzing of the broken light fixtures around them. His blood was feverish and rushing through him. His dirty, goo-slicked skin felt hot everywhere, and Jagger’s similarly soiled body seemed even hotter. Hell, Jagger even tasted like dark, uncanny sex, in a way Mark was sure he had never experienced before.

Fuck, he was burning up. If he didn’t act now the sachet of lube in his pocket was going to sublimate, and Jagger would end up trying to fuck him with nothing for lube but spit and snark.

As they humped and pushed against each other, though, groping each other’s asses and working up to fuck-desperation, Mark felt a seed of doubt enter his lust-saturated thoughts. Was… was Jagger losing his hard-on? It seemed impossible: after all, Jagger’s thick, blunt-helmeted, instantly-stiffening tool was always up for it, day or night, car, dorm, or arboretum. And yet…

Mark pulled back with a frown, looking down into Jagger’s gleaming blue eyes, half-blown with lust. Oddly, in this light he was looking more swarthy-cute than barbarian-handsome, though the flickering of the damaged lights made it seem almost like he was slipping between subtly different states of transformation. “Jag, babe, is everything okay?”

Jagger smirked. “Everything’s perfect... babe.” That last was a dig, Mark knew. They hadn’t really gone for endearments so far, having been too wrapped up in the thrill of sneaking around and making sure their teammates didn’t know they were fucking the enemy—though it sounded like Jagger was happy to use sweetie-talk as long as he could pretend he was teasing his farmboy, baseball-playing lover. Normally Mark would have responded in kind, but he was distracted by the way Jagger’s voice didn’t sound quite as low and rich as he normally did.

Something was wrong. His own throbbing hard-on was feeling weirdly massive and achingly hard, but Jagger’s was falling uncharacteristically short. Confused, Mark slipped his hand around between them to the front of Jagger’s sweats, eliciting a cocky grin from his lover as Mark felt up the wrestler’s equipment. The good news was that Jagger was definitely still extremely hard. The bad news… the inexplicable news…

Wait. Wait. He was looking down into Jagger’s eyes. He was looking down into Jagger’s eyes?

He took a big step back from Jagger, breaking the moment. Mark now stood in the center of the room, gaping at his lover. Everthing was the wrong size, the wrong way around. It felt like he himself was filling the room, while Jagger was somehow shrinking from brutish dragon-slayer to freshman pledge. “What the fuck is happening…” Mark rumbled agitatedly.

Jagger, likewise snapped free from his lust-haze, gaped round-eyed at Mark. “Dude… you’re a beast!”

Startled, Mark looked down at himself, only he found he was not truly able to comprehend what he saw. He was massive. Heads-brushing-the-ceiling monolithic. From the looks of it, every inch of him—every foot of him—was jam-packed with tons of heavy, steel-hard, inhuman muscle. His shoulders alone were broad and powerful like aircraft carriers, as wide in each direction as his whole shoulder width had been before, and the V-taper down to his narrow waist was crazily steep before widening again for the long, equally muscle-intensive legs painted with familiar red sweats that were now ludicrously small, with almost his whole calves exposed on both legs and the seams straining to hold in his impressive thighs. He felt heavy, ponderously heavy, and yet he was so strong and so buzzing with inexhaustible energy that he was certain he could run, jump, and leap like a gazelle. A fucking quarter-ton gazelle.

Jagger was walking around him, taking him in from every angle like Mark was a prize specimen at a Roman slave auction. “Look at you,” he crooned. “Fuck, babe, you could play handball on this back!”

Somehow, in the midst of his confusion, Mark found it in him to be amused. “Please don’t,” he said.

Jagger came around in front of him again. Mark noticed he had the side of his waistband clutched in one fist—he was enough sizes smaller now that the sweatpants wouldn’t stay on his hips, and so divinely alluring that Mark couldn’t keep his eyes off him. The transformation had traded bulk for ethereally beautiful muscle, his skin almost seeming to glow with an intoxicating amber splendor that crawled deep into Mark’s pounding heart and stiffened his already raging erection even more than he’d thought possible. Jagger’s own hard-on was still visible, making a clear protrusion that pushed out the center of his sweats an inch or two, but Jagger seemed not to notice or care as he grinned at the monster wang shoving uncontrollably out of Mark’s ridiculously undersized sweats, the bulge of enormous balls just as startling underneath.

“I approve,” Jagger drawled, his voice a smooth tenor now. He used his free hand to caress the slightly bent club of a cock, now literally as big as Jagger’s arm and twice as thick, and an unmovable as a high-rise girder. “We’re going to have a lot of fun with this.” He leaned forward and lick a long stripe along the exposed part of the shaft, and Mark gasped at the thrill of intense pleasure that flooded through him from the simple gesture.

Mark entire vision was filled with his man. “You’re so… so beautiful,” he blurted. The strangeness of a word like “beautiful” applying to Jagger, of all people, made him laugh. “Are you okay with it?” he asked, though the question seemed inadequate to encompass all the changes the ex-brute had experienced.

By way of answer, Jagger let go of his waistband, allowing the sweats drop to the floor and fully reveal the body of a young god. Mark took him in, marveling at how eerily sexy this new Jagger was. He stood proud, limber, athletically strong, dreamily proportioned, sun-kissed, small-dicked, and utterly, captivatingly perfect. His own cock flexed wildly, spitting precum, and Mark knew somehow that Jagger’s resilient body could be coaxed to take all of his massive manhood deep, deep inside him. “I might have to drop down a few weight classes,” Jagger said airily, unconcerned. “Maybe you can take my place in the top tier.”

Mark huffed, a low, sepulchral noise. “I don’t think anyone would be willing to wrestle me now,” he said. “At least, not by the rules.”

Jagger eyed him, cheeks pinking. He was clearly as impossibly turned on as Mark was. “You might be a bit big for baseball now,” he said distractedly.

Mark nodded. Neither of them was paying attention to this conversation, despite the budding awareness of how much their lives would change. “Maybe we’ll have to start an all-varsity fucking team,” he said. All at once he grabbed Jagger up of the floor and pulled up to kiss him, his feet dangling as he stroked and serviced everything a fat, ultrasensitive nipple in one hand and the curve of Mark’s ginormous cock with the other.

Mark broke the kiss and held Jagger up in front of him, staring hard into those still-blue eyes. “I…” he said. “I can’t wait to see how much cum I can cover you with now,” he growled. “And, someday,” he added, a feral gleam in his eyes, “how much cum I can fill you with.”

Jagger shuddered and came, spitting a few arcs of spunk pathetically onto Mark’s chest. “Yes,” Jagger said, swallowing. “That.” Then he grinned, adding roughly, “Now, let’s get those sweats off you so we can see all the ways I can drive your crazy bod to ecstasy.”

“That sounds,” Mark rumbled, “like an excellent plan.”

It turned out they weren’t quite done changing, though there was only a last phase of refinement left to be spread out over the next few days. No one could isolate the combination of chemicals and reactions that had caused the change, though plenty tried—some by running endless tests on the two very happy and popular boys, and others by sneaking into the off-limits store-room to conduct their own experiments before the room was suddenly and mysteriously cleared to the walls two and a half weeks later.

Jagger and Mark did find their lives changed, but all of it was in ways they didn’t mind dealing with—to say the least. And there were a few long-term impacts on the college itself, including the sudden and congenial end of the longstanding feud between the wrestling and baseball crowds. After all, how can you have an excellent all-varsity fucking team when the two halves are at each other’s throats? So in the end Mark and Jagger got them to bury the hatchet—and, it need hardly be said, a few other things got buried as well.

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