Nerdy Vince has a hopeless crush on his hunky coworker, Johnny, which only gets more painful when they have to room together on an extended business trip. Knowing Johnny only hangs with other hunks like himself, Vince unexpectedly finds a way to put on muscle and make Johnny notice him at last.
Added Apr 2021 10k views 4.5 stars (13 votes) 3,406 words
His name is Johnny Elkins, and I can’t stop thinking about him.
I know, I sound like a middle school kid with a crush. It’s embarrassing. I’m a grown ass man, and yet here I am, getting this sudden gush of warmth whenever I see him like a hormonal teenager. Worst of all he’s my coworker, which means I see him all the time. And it never stops getting to me. That smile, the floppy, dirty-blond hair… those shoulders… his eminently lickable pecs gently pushing against his office-casual white polo shirt—I swear, whenever I see them my tongue presses against the inside of my lips, like I might get a chance to pull up his shirt and do what I want with him. His ass is distressingly captivating too, round and firm with muscle. The best possible ass a sculptor could ever craft on a man. Somehow every single pair of trousers he’s ever worn looks good on him from the back. Loose or tight, tailored or sloppy, it doesn’t matter: the fabric is pulled taut and round and eerily flattering, as if there’s some law of the universe that stipulates the impossibility of Johnny Elkins’s butt looking anything but tight, perfect, and magnificent. His legs, too. They’re long and thickly muscled like his torso, and the way his sculpted thighs swell just enough to fill his trouser legs as he walks through the office or sits casually through a meeting—that, in itself, just his thighs in a snug pair of pants, that’s enough to get me hard.
I’ve always aimed my hopeless crushes at guys like Johnny, but this time I’d really done a number on myself. Watching Johnny I knew he was nice to everyone, even me when we needed to coordinate on a particular client deliverable; but he only laughed and palled around with the guys in the office who were like him: tall, muscular, and magnetically beautiful. I was none of those things, of course, and I watched with a kind of awe as various members of this rarified class of men found each other and draped their arms over each other’s dreamy shoulders, plotting nights of alcohol and lurid, testosterone-fueled recreation. In a way his unapproachability felt like a kind of safety. I would never need to tell him how I feel, because there was no reality in which Johnny Elkins would look at a skinny, glasses-wearing nerd like me.
All that changed when Johnny and I were forced to travel together for work. A factory in Wyoming was refitting all its production line with almost our entire product line in their field, and the company was sending two reps for a six-month joint oversight of the equipment migration: one from engineering (Johnny Elkins) and one from data management (Vincent Breckinridge… a.k.a., me). We’d be put up in a business-premium extended stay not far from the factory complex on the eastern fringes of Cheyenne.
I read the email from the logistics manager in horror. “We’ll each have our own rooms, right?” I replied back to her. I got back a curt “Of course” and let out a shuddering breath. Separate rooms in the hotel, working together at the factory site but each dealing with our own tasks—that wouldn’t be too different from normal. I could manage that. Right?
Maybe I could have, but that’s not exactly how it turned out.
The flight out was a harbinger of the trials to come. We sat next to each other in business class, Johnny casually dressed for the trip in a sleeveless tee shirt and jeans, and I was so aware of him next to me that I couldn’t relax. The seats were narrow and his shoulders were wide, and I spent the whole flight conflicted over whether to let his arm press against mine or crowd against the bulkhead avoiding all contact. I crowded against the bulkhead, mostly. Johnny was cheerfully oblivious, tilting his tablet to share his movie when I glanced over to see what he was watching, even handing me an earbud so I could listen. It was Captain America, and when Hayley Atwell impulsively reached for Chris Evans’s chest right after the transformation, Johnny giggled, and it was so endearing I tore my eyes away from the newly augmented Steve Rogers for once and grinned at my big, boyish, not-so-dissimilarly-built seatmate.
When we got to the extended-stay lodgings, it turned out that management’s idea of us having “our own rooms” was a single suite with a large common area and tiny, cubicle bedrooms, side by side with only a thin wall between us. I was still standing dismayed in the doorway of my little room, suitcases in hand, when Johnny emerged from his. “I’m going to take a shower and rinse all that travel off,” he said.
I turned and froze. Johnny was naked. Completely and utterly naked. Walking away from me, with that long, V-tapered back and those endless, sculpted legs, and… fuck, I thought that ass had looked good in clothes, but it turned out I didn’t know just how good an ass could truly look. “Duuuuuude,” I groaned, instantly hard. I’m pretty sure my glasses steamed up a little.
Johnny kept walking, but he twisted his head to aim a heart-stopping smile at me over his shoulder. “What, Vince?” he said. “You don’t mind… right?” Then he winked, grinned even wider, and sauntered on into the bathroom, utterly nonchalant in his nudity and my reaction to it.
I dropped my suitcases with a soft thunk on the bland taupe carpet. I had been sure I’d been subtle and inconspicuous in my crush, but apparently I had been neither.
I was truly fucked. Six months in close quarters with a god, when I was nothing like a god, would be bad enough. Six months of the god showing off because he likes to let the lesser mortals look?
I jacked off twice that night, as quietly as I could, before finally drifting into an uneasy and unsatisfied sleep.
I expected Johnny to go and party after our long hours on the job site. But it seemed the real Johnny was a homebody, and was usually to be found curled up on the big cozy sofa watching movies, gaming, or reading e-book mystery novels. He was shirtless at all times, habitually pulling off his work polo pretty much as soon as we were in the door. His morning shower always involved the same parade of exquisite nudity he’d provided up that first night: one pass across the suite to the bathroom and a second one coming back, damp and glistening, his hefty, soft cock bobbing left and right as he walked by.
At the work site, apart from team meetings, Johnny and I were with our own groups most of the time. I put all my energy into the job, taxing my brainpower to come up with new solutions that would ease the transition. Johnny’s approach was more relaxed and genial, but he got the job done, and of course everyone loved him.
At night Johnny did the cooking, with me stepping occasionally to show off the few healthy dishes I knew how to make. With the table between us as we ate it was easy to imagine I was dining with a grinning, completely naked muscle hunk across from me.
To this routine I added one further element. Our extended-stay lodge had a decent on-site 24/7 gym, usually empty. Two days in I started sneaking out to the gym at 5 o’clock every morning, working out like a fiend to make myself into someone Johnny could see not just as an audience but as a potential partner, sexual or otherwise.
I didn’t know what I was doing. But for once I was determined and fiercely committed. I was also sure my morning workout jaunts were my little secret—until the fourth day when Johnny showed up in a grey sleeveless tee and shorts and casually started working out with me.
I let him guide me like a personal trainer. I worked my ass off for four weeks, Johnny patiently coaching me and trading sets with me. Always he offered me a wink and that odd, friendly smirk as he adjusted the weight stacks between my minimal lifts and his ridiculously heavier ones. He trained hard, and I killed myself keeping up with him. And at the end of it?
I stood in front of the wide bathroom mirror one Saturday night, self-consciously shirtless. I had the apartment to myself, Johnny having agreed for once to go out for drinks with the engineering team, so I had some time alone to assess my progress. Given my goals—to look more like Johnny—I was not impressed. I did some poses, trying to conjure actual mass where I had achieved, by the looks of it, only spectacular definition. I was cut as fuck, with clearly defined but flat pecs, straited but stringy-looking arms, and a faint four-pack that was emerging with almost comical reluctance from my otherwise-dull belly. I knew these were gains and I should be proud, but I was dejected nonetheless. I leaned forward with my hands on the faux marble to either side of the sink, hanging my head. “Not enough,” I muttered. “It’s not going to be enough.”
My eyes fell on the various toiletries cluttering the countertop, mine to the left, his to the right. In amongst Johnny’s detritus I noticed for the first time a decent-sized white pill bottle. It looked like a supplement from the drug store, but there was no label, just the naked white bottle. I picked it up, curious. On the side that had been turned away from view a single word was marked in plain, black Sharpie: MUSCLE. It was Johnny’s clean, block-letter engineer’s handwriting.
I stared it the bottle, while my defined-but-not-swole doppelgänger in the mirror did the same. Was this the secret of Johnny’s fantastic physique? Was he still taking these even now that he had achieved the kind of hard-muscled, well-proportioned body any man would envy? I had been thinking Johnny had put on a couple of pounds since we’d arrived in Wyoming, but I’d put it down to the effects of our intense morning workouts. But what if it was that, plus whatever was in this bottle?
I shook the container. Three-quarters full, I guessed. Unscrewing the lid I reckoned there were maybe a hundred and fifty smallish, half-blue gel capsules with white contents. That told me the dosage: one a day for the rest of our trip.
I tipped one of the blue capsules onto my open palm and considered it before impulsively popping it into my mouth. I washed the pill down with some water from the tap, then carefully put the pill bottle back where I found it. I grinned at the not-so-big me I saw in the mirror. “Muscle, here I come.”
That night I woke up sweating so profusely the sheets and pillow were damp. I lay there a while, bleary and unable to focus. Finally I got up and stumbled to the bathroom in my boxers, splashing handfuls of cold water on my face. As I looked up, face dripping, my vision cleared enough to take in my mostly-naked body. It was the same as before—defined and fit but still, to me, scrawny—but it looked… radiant? Like I was seeing the faint luster of some kind of passive fever-energy infusing my meager muscles, waiting only for a catalyst to become active. My morning wood also caught my eye, majorly tenting my underwear. I smirked. At least I knew what kind of stimulation that particular muscle was waiting for.
It was around four, so despite still feeling a bit woozy I decided to pull on my workout clothes and head to the gym early. Thanks to Johnny I now had a schedule, so I got to work on my Sunday chest and shoulders regimen. Something was wrong, though. The weights weren’t offering the resistance they should have. I kept having to drop the pin lower in the stack than normal on every machine, and my set counts weren’t even winding me, so I kept piling on more. None of it made any sense, and in the state I was in I was getting angry at the machines for not behaving like they were supposed to; though I was just as off in the number of sit-ups and crunches I needed to do before it felt like I had done any at all. My pecs, traps, delts, arms, and abs started to warm, then burn, but I kept going. With my brain out to lunch I just kept plowing through my regimen, adjusting it to make it work. My morning wood came back, too, with a vengeance. I ignored it and kept going.
Finally I was on the incline bench for dumbbell flyes and I realized I had dropped the weights to the mat and was just lying there, dazed and sweating hard. I stood unsteadily and almost crumpled to the floor. Okay! Time to go home. As I wobbled out of the gym I belatedly realized Johnny had never joined me.
I soaked myself in a long, hot shower, feeling the burn in my muscles fade to an ache, then fall away. I gathered the strength to soap myself, and as I ran the bar over my abs I felt hardness—rows of bumpy hardness. Wow, I thought, that was a heck of a pump if I was feeling it in my abs. I cycled the soap higher and hit an unexpected protrusion. I looked down and saw that my knuckles were knocking against my pecs, which were still flat but not as flat as they should have been.
With the water still running I stepped out of the shower soaking wet, still holding the soap, and wiped the fog from the mirror with my free hand. My mouth fell open. I was ripped. I had pecs. Actual pecs, not just the square outline where pecs should be. Below them, a visible six-pack was surfacing. My delts looked small but round and filled with promise, and little swells were rising between my delts and neck, like bread set aside under a towel to rise. I grinned, elated at the sudden results. I would have gotten hard, too, if I hadn’t been already.
I wore my tightest tee shirt all day, hoping Johnny would notice. He seemed more focused on whether I was looking at him, as usual. That was okay. I would make him notice.
That night I took another pill.
A week. Maybe two. It’s a blur. More pills, more muscle, I can’t think about anything else.
I’m in the bathroom, naked, awed and hard. It’s like a time lapse, my memory retaining only these moments with everything else in soft focus. I’m watching my pecs swelling out from my chest, burgeoning with mass and weight. One finger thick, then two. Shoulders growing, spreading up and out at the same time. Abs tightening, the chiseled cuts driving deeper. Arms dilating and hardening, filling with power. Thighs and calves transforming, each muscle defining and separating. I feel my ass, too, no longer demure, firming, rounding, desperate to feel a cock between them. My own dick looks too big, feels too insatiable. I start jacking off to my own reflection, spitting cum on my own mirror-abs.
I don’t remember much else. Gym. Self-worship in the mirror. I stop wearing shirts in the apartment—mine won’t fit anymore. For work I have to steal a couple of Johnny’s polos when he’s not around. Colleagues at the job site looking at me funny. I fill in forms, write the emails. I’m not thinking about new ideas. They tell me what’s left to do. I do it. I’m laughing at jokes, palling around with other muscle guys on the team. We go out to a titty bar. I don’t care. Some of the guys are looking at my titties.
I feel manic. I talk to Johnny nonstop about my workouts. Learning to fix cars back home. My crush on him. Captain America. Weird things I noticed at the plant like how all the interior doors are green. He seems troubled about something. Uncertain. He doesn’t work out with me. That’s okay. I can go earlier. I work out naked and hard, the gym doors locked when I remember. It’s awesome.
Everything is awesome.
I’m watching myself grow. Like a time lapse. Growing and growing. That’s the most awesome thing of all. The most awesome thing ever.
I blink myself awake, my head spinning. I’m lying on the floor in the gym, naked and covered in sweat. My head aches like it’s splitting open. Loud noises are coming from somewhere.
“Vince!” someone shouts. More banging. “Vince! Can you hear me?!”
I turn my head, my vision clearing just enough to make out Johnny watching me worriedly through the glass door of the gym. He’s smacking the side of the door with his hand. “Vince!”
I wave to him, then let my hand drop.
Somehow Johnny forces the door open—flimsy lock, adrenaline Hulk strength, I don’t know. He rushes over to me, grabbing one of my towels to dab away some of the sweat on my face. “Vince, baby,” he said. “Vince, you gotta stop.”
I gave him a weak smile. “I’m growing,” I said.
“I know, babe,” Johnny said, cupping my face with his other hand. “I called my guy Jerry who gives me those supplements. They’re supposed to only maintain definition, but he’s heard about reactions like yours. It’s been mind-blowing to watch.”
I grinned. It was.
He caressed my cheek with his thumb. “But you gotta stop.”
I looked up into his eyes. They were brown and very pretty. He looked so concerned, so I reassured him. “I did it for you,” I said. “So you would see me.”
“Oh, Vince.” He bent and gave me a soft, brief kiss. “I always saw you.”
I shook my head—only once, though. “You like guys with muscle.”
Johnny’s shoulders sagged. “I hang out with bro types. I like you. I always liked you.”
I couldn’t make sense of this. “But… you never…” I said, distressed and confused.
“I’m not a gay, Vince,” he said, sounding pained. “You’re the gay. I thought you’d make the first move.”
I barked a laugh. “I… I could have just asked to touch you?” I found the strength to reach up and press my hand to his face.
“More than that,” Johnny smirked. “I was waiting. Fuck, Vince, I showed you my ass every day for a month!”
I laughed again. This time it was a little hysterical. I let my hand slide onto his sculpted shoulder. It felt nice. He smiled.
“So all this muscle…” I said. I started feeling up my now-massive pecs with my free hand, finding the pokey nipple that lately had been acting like it wanted to be a remote detonator for my oversized and overeager constant monster boner.
Johnny shrugged, and it was sweet to feel it with my hand on them, a taste of the power in those shoulders. His smile turned crooked. “I don’t mind.” But he added seriously, “But you need to stop and let your mind and ability to concentrate come back. Though Jerry says the urge to work out probably won’t ever go away.”
Good. “You’ll work out with me?” I asked.
“More than that,” Johnny said again, before bending to give me another kiss, and this time it was deep and slow. And it was just the beginning.
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