From Bruiser to Loser, Part 6 (Conclusion)

Friday, April 2

Pete awoke and looked at his clock. 7:00am. He shoved his comforter out of the way and jumped out of bed.

He was naked except for his jockstrap, and quickly got dressed in the some of the new clothes he had bought yesterday while shopping with his boyfriend, Chad. Pete had outgrown Bruiser’s clothes, much to his surprise, so they had gone to the local Big & Tall shop to find him new threads. He picked up a black tank top and black shorts that snugly fit his new body.

Pete’s first stop was the kitchen, where he drank three protein shakes, and then went down to the basement to work out. Chad had printed a new, more advanced routine for him off the internet, and Pete was making sure not to miss any of the exercises – and he made a mental note he was going to need to buy additional plates so he could keep upping his maximums.

As he hit each set, Pete could swear that his body was growing even larger. At first, he assumed it was the pump he was getting from pushing or pulling the weights, but it was much more intense than in previous workouts. His muscles quivered and pulsed as the blood ran through them, and just like the first time he had sex with Chad, words began appearing in his head.

“Big stud, big muscle.” Pete said it aloud, like a mantra. “I’m growing. Bigger, stronger. Big stud, big muscle.” And then added another part: “Big cock.” He said the words a few more times as cloud of heat enveloped his body, and then went back to lifting.

After the brutal workout, the new big man of the house grabbed the measuring tape to check out his gains.

• Biceps: 23” (“Good Lord, bigger than Bruiser’s ever were!”)
• Waist: 34” (“And hard as a rock.”)
• Chest: 65” (“Holy shit!”)
• Thighs: 30” (“Almost as big as my waist.”)
• Calves: 21” (“Hell, yeah!”)
• Cock: 9” soft (“Wait ‘til Chad sees this!”)

Pete wished he had written down his measurements the first time he’d taken them, as he knew he was bigger. A lot bigger.

After finishing with the tape, Pete went upstairs and made himself steak and eggs for breakfast, which he ate at the kitchen counter while sitting on Bruiser’s stool. Downing the protein made him feel even stronger, and he repeated his mantra once more: “Big stud, big muscle, big cock.”

He looked over at the kitchen clock to catch the time (11:07am), but he also noticed the thermometer next to it. It read 80 degrees.

“I guess it’s going to be a hot one. Maybe I should christen my new swim trunks?”

Pete finished his breakfast and cleaned up his dishes. He went upstairs to his room, brushed his teeth, grabbed the new pair of trunks he had just bought, and went out the back door to get the pool ready.

An hour later, Bruiser awoke and looked at his clock. 12:10pm.

Still sore from the beating Noah had given him two days earlier, he gingerly got out of bed and dressed in the same clothes he’d borrowed a few days earlier from Pete. Bruiser’s gut had grown a bit since that first day and was now sticking out from underneath the front of the shirt like a white fleshy apron.

He staggered to his bathroom to shave and brush his teeth. As Bruiser looked in the mirror, his face appeared even odder looking than it had the day before – in addition to the puffiness and the black eye given to him by Noah, his visage had taken on a dull sheen to it. His eyes appeared a bit glassy, his dimples less inviting, and even his smile seemed less bright.

“I need to get Pete in here to change the light bulbs,” he thought. “Or fucking worse, maybe I need glasses.”

When finished, the former bodybuilder went downstairs into the kitchen.

Bruiser could smell remnants or Pete’s breakfast, but didn’t see any food or dishes out. He walked to the fridge and saw nothing pre-made for him, so he picked up the phone and ordered a couple pizzas. They arrived 30 minutes later, by which time Bruiser had polished off a carton of Rocky Road while he waited.

He took the pies into the living room, sat on the couch, and began devouring piece after piece. He was so hungry he didn’t care that sauce and cheese were spilling onto his shirt.

Bruiser had just finished both pizzas and was drifting off to sleep when a deep masculine called out from beyond the foyer, “Hello?”

“Hello,” he replied.

Seconds later, his father, Bruce Reeves, Senior, walked up from the garage and entered the room. The older Bruce was 45, but he maintained a youthful appearance and was quite muscular, hovering at about 6’2” and 230 pounds. He had a full head of dark hair that was graying a bit at the temples, tan skin, and the same green eyes as his sons. He was wearing a tan linen suit that was so crisp it was impossible to tell he’d just gotten off a 6-hour flight.

And unlike Noah and Chad, Bruce Senior could tell Bruce Junior and Pete apart, no matter how much they had changed.

“Bruce, what the fuck happened to you?”

Bruiser snapped out of his food coma. He wished he could have a different shirt on, instead of one too small to cover his belly and covered in pizza stains, but it was too late now. “Oh, I’ve been a little sick,” he said as he tugged the bottom of his shirt as far as it would go.

His dad frowned. “Sick with what? Gluttony?”

Bruiser shook his head. “I’m just a little bloated right now.”

Bruce Senior walked closer. “"Bruce, you’re more than a little bloated.  You look like you’ve put on a ton of fat since I was here last. How big is your waist these days – 48 inches? 50? Have you been working out at all?”

Bruiser tried to suck in his gut, which actually measured 54 inches as of that morning, but his ab muscles didn’t respond. So he tried the next best thing: lying.

"Trust me, Dad, I'm still strong as an ox. A little cardio and I’ll be right back in shape again."

“Prove it.  Do 25 pushups right now," said Bruce Senior.

"Sure thing,” replied Bruiser confidently. He wiped his greasy fingers on his shirt and then grunted as he pushed the pizza boxes away

It took Bruiser about 30 seconds to get up from his couch, and when he finally did so, he was sweating and out of breath.  He slowly lowered himself to the pushup position, not expecting it to be such a chore.

Bruiser heaved with every ounce of strength he had left, growling loudly with each attempt, but his efforts were futile.  After a minute, he gave up completely and thought, “Well, this is a new fucking low.”

“Not even one pushup,” Bruce Senior said. “I finally get you a job and you are too out of shape for it.”

Bruiser rolled onto his side and forced himself up to a sitting position. “A job?”

“Yes, you know, work? What most adults do every day to earn a living.”

“What job?” asked Bruiser.

Bruce Senior sighed. “I bought a supplement company. Nutri-Max.”

“Isn’t that the one with all the old man vitamins?” asked Bruiser, now trying to get up off the floor.

“Yes. But we’re rebranding. New logo. New products. A complete overhaul. Research shows it could make me a bundle, but we need a spokesperson. A real man’s man whose face and body can grace the products and appear in ads. I was going to ask you, but Jesus, you’re a total loser now.”

Bruiser looked down at himself, and it was hard to disagree.

Bruce Senior took another step forward. “And since when are you shorter than me?”

Before his son could answer, Pete walked into the living room and said, “Hey, Dad.” Both Bruce Senior and Bruce Junior turned their heads and gasped.

Pete was now a few inches taller than his father and brother, around 6’5”, and sported an evenly developed 300-pound physique. Unlike some men who had body parts they worked too much or too little, everything about Pete fit together perfectly.

His dark wavy hair was still a bit wet from the pool, and his tan skin glistened as well. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, giving him the perfect five o’clock shadow to frame his sharp jawline, and he had a smattering of hair on his chest, forearms, and legs. The rest of Pete was hairless, which provided ample opportunity to notice the muscle striations across his body.

Picking out the best part of that body was not up for debate, at least from what both Bruces could see. It wasn’t Pete’s sculpted-from-granite arms, delts that looked like he’d packed several shoulder pads under his skin, or broad wing-like lats. It wasn’t the big slabs of pec muscle sticking out like cantaloupes over his deeply-ridged symmetrical abs. And it wasn’t the Tom-Platz-in-his-prime legs that were holding him up.

What both Bruce Senior and Bruce Junior considered to be Pete’s most distinguishing body part was stuffed into his very tight, powder blue swim trunks. The giant bulge in his groin snaked down his left thigh, almost as if it were trying to escape the suit.

“Fuck, I bet it’s at least a foot long when hard,” thought Bruiser.

Bruce Senior couldn’t believe the transformation. The last time he had seen Pete he was a very out of shape 19-year-old who eschewed all physical activity, but now he resembled a Greek god emerging from the sea.

“Wow, son, you sure know how to make an entrance. You look fucking amazing!”

Pete smiled and folded his arms across his chest, which made him seem even more masculine.

“So what’s all this about getting Bruiser a job?” he asked.

Bruce Senior looked over at Bruiser, frowned, and then looked back to Pete. “Well, I was going to offer him one, but he looks like shit. The saving grace is that you look like a million bucks and are exactly what we need.”

Pete flashed a smile at his dad. “For what?”

“Listen, we need a muscle stud for a commercial photo shoot down in Bermuda. The company will put you up in a hotel for the week, all expenses paid, and you’ll earn $50 grand for this first gig. Plus a lot more if everything goes as planned.”

“And you need me to go right now?” asked Pete.

“Yes. This afternoon if you can. You can bring a friend, too, if you’d like. There are two first class tickets waiting at the airport.”

Pete’s smile grew bigger. “I know just who to ask. One last thing: is there a place to work out at the hotel?”

Now it was Bruce Senior’s turn to smile. “Son, I’ll arrange for all the gym equipment you need to be brought to your suite. And a private chef to cook you whatever meals you want.”

“Then you’ve got yourself a model,” replied Pete.

“Great. I’ll print out the contracts. Come!” he ordered to his younger son.

As the two muscular Reeves men walked toward the den, Bruiser could hear Bruce Senior add, “But first I need to know where you got that swimsuit. I’m going to have to pick up one for myself.”

Now alone, Bruiser sunk back down on the couch and listened as his dad’s comment about being a ‘total loser’ echo in his head.