Danny takes on a modeling gig that involves a little custom tailoring, and not just of the clothes he’ll be wearing for the shoot.
McKinley was looking at him a little more intently now, his grin almost feral. Though neither of them had moved, the space between them seemed a little less. “Workable,” McKinley taunted back, “and playable too, I’ll bet.”
Then the other man shook his head. “This,” he said more seriously, “is definitely the look that the account execs want for this shoot.”
Abruptly the other man stood up, tablet in one hand, and strode briskly over to Danny, causing the brown leather chaise to recede and then vanish into the blackness. McKinley didn’t stop at the normal boundaries of interaction between strangers, but walked right into Danny’s personal space. He was exactly Danny’s height, and, now that Danny was this close to him, eye to eye, he realized he was finding McKinley to be very attractive. Almost literally, his hands twitched, wanting to wrap around McKinley’s narrow hips. His mouth called to Danny, making his own lips feel almost as if they were being pulled toward the other man’s mouth and tongue.
He kept himself very still as McKinley shamelessly ran his free hand slowly along Danny’s square shoulder, before sliding the backs of his finger down Danny’s clean white shirt front, brushing those sensitive nipples without stopping. When his hand got to Danny’s waist it opened again and slid around to Danny’s firm ass. Danny let him do all these things, hardly breathing, waiting, focusing almost all his attention on desperately willing his chubbing cock not to harden—especially as he was suddenly acutely aware that he was no longer wearing any form of underwear. McKinley’s hand remained where it was, resting on his ass as he consulted his tablet again, and that was not helping at all with his problem.
Danny was reduced to his favorite, never-fail, go-to boner-killer: replaying in his HD head-cinema the Lily Tomlin/Steve Martin sex scene from All of Me.
Mindful of movies, his eyes strayed back up to the big screen, and something peculiar caught his attention, distracting him along a different axis. Despite the fact that both he and McKinley were lit by the same kind of sourceless illumination, the screen only showed him, one image from the front and one from the back—with one exception: McKinley’s hand, and only his hand, showed up on the image of him from the back. It was like a disembodied hand was caressing his butt. Danny stared at the strange imagery, fascinated. “Wow,” he breathed. “That’s … that’s so fetch,” he said lamely, falling back on a running gag he’d had with his friends at his last school. He honestly couldn’t put useful words to what he was feeling or experiencing.
He looked back at McKinley, meeting his gaze, and to his delight McKinley pursed his lips and, dark eyes glittering, said in a withering voice, “Gretchen, stop trying to make ‘fetch’ happen.” Then in unison they finished, “It’s not going to happen!”
They beamed inanely at each other for a second, and Danny’s heart seemed to shift in his chest as he took in the man’s easy smile and comforting good looks. Then they turned together to look up at the screen. They both seemed to be tracking McKinley’s hand on the projected image as it made small, slow, lazy circles around Danny’s left butt cheek. “So I think we can agree that this part—” He gave Danny’s butt-cheek a not-so-gentle slap, which for some reason instantly heated Danny’s cheeks again, though fortunately McKinley’s eyes were still on the screen. “—this part is definitely more than … ‘workable’,” he concluded. Before Danny could offer a comeback to that, McKinley stepped back away from Danny. It was only a couple steps, enough to have a full-length view of Danny himself, and Danny was very pleased to realize that McKinley seemed not to want to get any further away from Danny than that, and hoped to be closer again soon, once their business was completed—once they could transition from “workable” to “playable”, he thought with a quirk of his lips.
McKinley glanced at him over his glasses, furtively, as if he were stealing a look at something beautiful, and that seemed to confirm the sixth-sense feeling he was getting from the man. Danny’s own instant attraction to the handsome and very intriguingly mysterious and disarming stranger was building by the second, so he was more than in accord with such a sentiment. In truth he was a kind of touched by McKinley’s interest. Here was a man whose business exposed him to the best looking, hunkiest men in the fashion industry, men whose job literally was to look good and turn people on. But McKinley was sending him tentative signals that told him he thought Danny was something special.
McKinley seemed to grow self-conscious and looked down again, as if he were a little uneasy about what he had to say next. “The thing is,” McKinley said now, eyes on his tablet, then stopped.
“What is ‘the thing’?” Danny prompted him.
“The thing is,” McKinley repeated, rolling his eyes without looking up, “a lot of studies and experience have told us than men—even straight men—” Here he glanced up to meet Danny’s gaze with a crooked smile, before looking back down again and noodling something on the tablet screen. “Men,” he carried on, “respond as much to what’s in the shirt as the shirt itself.” He looked up again and told Danny candidly, as if as an aside, “I had this boyfriend once who kept telling guys that he liked their shirts. And every time,” he went on, “it was because the guy was obviously ripped as fuck and the shirt was hanging off him like decorations for his muscles. The shirt itself,” he said, one eyebrow arched, “was the last bloody thing on his mind.”
Danny smiled. He could relate. He tried not to think about how this, sadly, would not be the kind of attention to which he himself would ever be subjected. If someone complimented Danny’s shirt, it would be because they liked the shirt. His smile turned sour, and to distract himself he glanced over at his dual images on the big screen.
His looking away seemed to make it easier for McKinley to broach whatever it was he was nervous about saying. “So what I want to do,” he heard McKinley say, “is provide the execs with some options in that direction, and see if we can, you know, fill the shirt in a few different ways. Just as a set of options,” he repeated quickly, as Danny turned his head back to stare at him. “What do you think?” he asked, sounding almost anxious.
Danny’s stomach sank. “You want to try different models,” he said, keeping his voice flat and even.
McKinley’s gaze bore into his. “No,” the other man said firmly.
Danny felt his brows draw together. “McKinley,” he said, using the man’s name for the first time, “I’m not built like—like the way you mean.” He kept his gaze fixed on the other man’s warm brown eyes, if only to keep from looking down at himself. “I don’t fill out shirts the way you’re talking about,” he said.
McKinley drew in a breath. “Let’s see, shall we?” he said brightly. He glanced down at his tablet and slid a finger purposefully on something, and to his surprise Danny felt a strange prickle in the air. His frown deepened a little as he stared at McKinley.
McKinley, however, was looking at Danny’s shoulders, which to Danny were so square it seemed when he looked in the mirror to be making right angles with both his neck and his arms. McKinley was actually licking his lips. “Can I—touch? I really want to feel it,” he pressed.
It felt like they were beyond permission now. McKinley had moved into his space and caressed and stroked him without leave or consequence, and it had been a very potent moment for both of them. If anything Danny was missing the feel of McKinley’s warm, strong hands on him. It was part of what they did. But McKinley was waiting, eyes fixed on him. Danny nodded mutely, and watched McKinley’s free hand as it wrapped around Danny’s left shoulder.
Danny shuddered. Already, McKinley’s touch was important to him, sending frissons of pleasure radiating through him from the contact of his warm palm and strong fingers. But something else was happening, too. As McKinley’s hand moved, along the shoulder, around the deltoid muscle and, gently and slowly, down his arm, fingers stroking his triceps through the thick but silky white shirt while his thumb skated over Danny’s biceps—something happened.
Danny felt the muscles of his upper body throb. The good muscles, the muscles that catch the eye and draw the touch of fingers and lips and tongues, all of them were hot and aching and—pulsing. His heartbeat pounded through his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his back. Traps, delts, lats, pecs. Biceps, triceps. Abs, intercostals, everything. His muscles pulsed as if his heart was pounding strength and power into them. As McKinley’s hand moved across his shoulders, he felt his traps and delts strengthen and swell. As the other man’s wonderful caress moved slowly down, wrapped around his upper arm, he felt his biceps and triceps throb and grow, gently opening McKinley’s grasp as his sleeve filled a little more.
A million lightning bolts of pleasure seemed to race through him, not just once but over and over again. Danny gave himself over to the thrilling sensations—not just his muscles clenching with each thunderous heartbeat and then relaxing just that little bit larger than before, but the accompanying pleasure of the soft fabric of the shirt shifting across his tingling skin with each new movement, with each minute expansion, as if the shirt itself were embracing him, immersing in the pleasure of surrounding him, touching him, moving against his skin—and eagerly anticipating holding him closer, its embrace even more snug and cozy because… because …
He was growing.
He couldn’t just enjoy the wild, gut-wrenching sensations and turn his brain off, because it was too stimulating an idea to ignore. The thought itself was as beautiful a sensation as his muscles throbbing and growing against the fabric of his tightening shirt. He was growing.
At first he thought it was McKinley’s hand that was doing it, and that the muscles of his body were responding to an imperative straight from the other man’s long, stroking caresses as his hand moved steadily, unhurriedly, from neck to shoulder to arm and down. But Danny’s torso was growing all over. His other shoulder and arm were swelling in parallel to the ones being touched. His pecs brushing along the fabric of his shirt-front were providing more stimulation than anything else, and below them, far from McKinley’s hands—though he sincerely hoped not for long—he could feel his abs hardening and tightening. His cock, too, was hardening and tightening, though that at least was a natural process he was familiar with, and Danny couldn’t be embarrassed by it any more. Let any man not experience torrents of mind-blowing pleasure like this and not get hard as a fucking fire hydrantThe stimulations seemed to peak and them subsided, falling gently off, and Danny was able to focus his gaze, realizing as he did so that he was staring into McKinley’s eyes, not straight on as before but from very slightly above. The difference was small, maybe an inch at most. And yet—to have McKinley looking up at him, even if just by a very little bit, sent a new thrill up Danny’s spine. But far beyond that was the way McKinley was looking at him. It was the same way he was touching him, stroking still up and down his left arm with his opened-up hand: awestruck and aroused. His lips were parted, and his eyes were dark with lust and want.
“McKinley,” Danny breathed. He heard a tremor in his voice and swallowed. He said the man’s name again. “McKinley.”
“Look at yourself,” the other man said, roughly, as if speaking was something he had forgotten how to do. Danny blinked at him, not comprehending, but the other man cocked his head minutely in the direction of the big screen off to their right, though without taking his gaze away from Danny’s. With some difficulty Danny wrenched his own stare away from McKinley’s chocolate brown eyes and turned his head to find the giant images of himself that seemed to be projected onto nothing.
He looked stunning. The shirt hugged his thick pecs and round, bulging shoulders and draped beautifully below them, the tailored bottom half drawing in to slide around his tight waist and into the snug black trousers. His body was perfectly sculpted—not massive like a bodybuilder, but strong and beautifully enlarged in exactly the right places, from the way his long raven hair now fell nicely across thick, protruding traps that pushed up the white shirt fabric to either side of his collar, to the way his sleeves filled muscle as he moved and bent and twisted his arms, pulling tight against muscle in a way that had always caught his breath whenever his eyes tracked muscular guys in long-sleeved shirts, to the way his lats pushed out from his torso against the taut shirt to give him a beautiful V that the happy shirt was more than made to accentuate and emphasize. It was a dream, and going with it and not questioning it made the inevitability of the dream ending and the body going away something that he didn’t have to think about.
McKinley seemed physically unable not to be touching him now, and Danny couldn’t blame him. The chief hindrance seemed to be that he had only one available hand, but he solved that problem by simply reaching up with his other hand and letting go of the tablet computer as he did so. The tablet moved a little further up out of simple momentum, and then Newton took a holiday and the tablet simply stayed there, suspended in midair, almost instantly forgotten as McKinley turned back to him and spread his freed-up hand across his newly heroic, amazing chest. They shivered almost in unison from the pleasure of McKinley’s touch on Danny’s thick, shirt-tightening pecs. Danny’s whole body responded to McKinley’s touch. He wanted to card his fingers through the man’s dark, close-cropped curls, but he held back.
“McKinley—” Danny said again, looking at him hard. The other man looked down and cut across him, speaking down, as if he were talking to the hollow of Danny’s neck.
“Your … normal body,” McKinley said, speaking quickly and still a little huskily, “what you came in with, is fixed as your baseline. It’s coded as Program 0. This,” he went on, and a little quaver crept into his voice as he let his hand move against Danny’s chest, “this is the first preprogrammed alternate warp, the Gymnast. I’ve coded it against your profile as Program 1.”
“McKinley,” Danny insisted. He raised his right hand, feeling a little thrill as the fabric bunched and tightened around his expanded upper arms, and tucked a finger under the other man’s chin, raising it gently so he could look into the man’s eyes.
He swallowed and said, “I thought you liked me the way I am.” He was surprised at the lump in his throat that tried to get in the way as he said it.
A broad grin spread across the other man’s face, and some of the cockiness that had been submerged under the man’s flood of lust and need resurfaced visibly as the grin turned wicked, his eyes glinting. “Oh, Danny,” he said, and Danny realized that McKinley was now speaking his name for the first time. He felt a warmth start deep in his guts and spread outwards, collecting especially in the back of his neck for some reason, and somewhere in the middle of his chest. “I wanted you. My hands wanted you, my mouth wanted you. My dick wanted you.” Danny burst out laughing, and McKinley bit playfully at Danny’s jawline before moving back just enough to meet his gaze. “Didn’t you feel it? The moment you came in, didn’t you feel it?”
“Your dick?” Danny teased.
“You know what I mean. Us. Passion. Connection.”
Danny didn’t have to think about it. “Fuck yeah.”
“Well, then, this,” McKinley said, patting Danny’s swollen chest, “this is the ‘workable’. It’s part of what we’re doing here together. And that—you—that’s the ‘playable’.” McKinley drew in a breath and confessed, “That body, this body, another body—you know that stuff’s beside the point. You felt it. It’s Danny that matters to me.” Danny nodded. He had felt it. And all of a sudden, Danny couldn’t wait anymore. McKinley’s beautiful, adoring face was too close. He shifted his hand to slide around McKinley’s neck and drew them together, covering the other man’s mouth with his. They kissed gently for a moment, sending sparks of wondrous pleasure through him. Then McKinley opened for him, and the kiss deepened, turning the sparks into fireworks even as a distant saxophone growled its approval.
It was several minutes before they broke the kiss, and when they did so, both of them panting, Danny realized that their arms were wrapped tightly around each other. Deciding to test his new muscled he squeezed hard, causing McKinley to gasp, his eyes widening. “Don’t do that when you’re on Program 7,” he wheezed, and Danny eased his hug without letting go, keeping his arms firmly wrapped around the other man. “I might not make it.”
Danny took in his words and then gaped at him. “Seriously?”
McKinley nodded. “You have no idea.” He was silent and still for a moment, his eyes on Danny’s. “There’s … there’s more going on here than … than I think you realize,” he said at last. “More than I can tell you about—at least,” he amended, “not right now.” He regarded Danny shrewdly as he settled into their shared embrace. “I don’t suppose you actually read that contract you signed?”
Danny made a face. “I’m a model,” he said. “You know that means I can’t read.” McKinley shook his head smiling. “Also,” Danny went on, looking around critically into the empty void, “where’s my cocaine? My rider specifically stated I was to be provided with a quart of cocaine.”
“Danny—” McKinley interjected with faux exasperation, as if he were used to putting up with the “talent” and their demands.
“Pounded into little candies,” Danny persisted, aiming a petulant glower at the other man. “Like Smarties. I specifically stipulated little sticks of cocaine Smarties.”
McKinley raised his chin at him, lips quirking. “How about I stipulate that you suck my cock?”
Danny’s own rock-hard cock surged automatically at the suggestion, and even his newly thickened, shirt-filling muscles tingled in response, as if the new growth was laced with boner flesh or something. Danny’s breath caught and he had to almost choke out his response, which was a breathy, “Can I?”
McKinley stared into his eyes, visibly caught between roaring lust and something more, something warm and protective. “I think we should—” McKinley started to say, but then he stopped. Instead he said, “Danny, I was serious before. Maybe you shouldn’t—”
“I trust you,” Danny broke in firmly. It wasn’t even a question for him. “You’ll take care of me. And,” he admitted, and still mostly serious even though his lips curved as he added, “I really, really want to see what Program 7 looks like.”
McKinley nodded, then nodded again. Danny wondered if he was lost in the idea himself. Danny shoved his dick against McKinley, nudging him with his own current priorities, and a new and very salacious grin bloomed on McKinley’s very handsome face. “I think we might need to postpone tomorrow’s shoot,” he said finally, eyes shining. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
For more on BRK commissions click here or go to commissions.metabods.com (Credit: Aaron Amat)
Share your upgraded-guy story at submit.metabods.com