Brandon Twice
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Trio of TFs: Brad (part 3)
🕑 Added 2018-12-06 06:54:59 +0000 UTC [This story is inspired by a pic you can see here.]First Encounter
My job was to get the patient’s stats and vitals. I never know why, or who it will be. This time my boss Drew told me to, “Get in, get the job done and get out, no chitchat,” like I’m a fucking amateur. I bristled at the condescension and I considered filing a complaint. Then I saw the patient, sitting with his arms crossed wearing some tighty-whiteys and a skin-tight tank top that probably could have covered me with a tank top. One glance at his arms and I wondered if the tape measure I had grabbed was going to cut it. The peaks on those bis…
There was a smell on him that triggered some flimsy memory from way back. It wasn’t BO, but it was definitely coming from him naturally. He gave me a half-smile as I approached with my clipboard. I introduced myself and his thick hand swallowed mine. I eyed his forearm as we shook, admired the veins and the thickness, and realized that if he wanted to he could pulverize my fingers with just a little more force.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. That fucking voice! Deep, rumbling out of his chest. For a sec I pictured him barking an order at me: “On your knees.” “Grab your ankles.” No way would I have been able to resist.
His pec twitched when I put my stethoscope to it. I was fascinated by it: a warm mound of muscle, soft until it flexed into steel. He chuckled as I listened. “How’s it sound?”
I chuckled back. “Big,” I said. We both laughed at that. With all that muscle on the outside, there had to be something powerful running things on the inside.
“That’s not gonna work,” he said with a shrug as I approached with a blood-pressure cuff. He was right: I couldn’t even get the velcro to attach. We had a larger cuff that we used on legs. The patient’s arm still barely fit. When it inflated fully he winked at me and flexed, blowing the whole thing open. The way I fumbled to pick it up off the floor gave away how flustered he was making me.
“It’s okay to stare,” he said. Did he mean to rub his chest like that or was it an absent-minded gesture? “I’m used to it. Truth be told I’m okay with way more than staring.”
I had no idea how to respond to that.
Get in, get the job done and get out, Drew had said. My boss knows me well, I guess.,
I was down the hall before I realized where I remembered that smell from: gym class. Warm muscles. Humid testosterone musk. It’s all I can think about. I looked down and noticed my pits were soaked. The back of my shirt was sticking to me. I wiped my forehead with my sleeve.
Second Encounter
The patient’s name is Brad. I saw it on his file, sadly the only information I was able to glean. Drew made me sign some non-disclosure things before I saw the patient. It’s not the first time I’ve had to do this but it did make me wonder what I was going to see when I visited Br--the patient. Drew also told me to limit personal contact. “You’re lucky I didn’t write you up for last time,” he said. I didn’t think of a response until I was already out of the room. He used the word, “insubordiation.” I just stood there dumbfounded at that, too. I had no idea why Drew was riding me so hard on this.
They had Brad moved to a new facility. I had to hop in a golf cart to reach it. It was drizzling outside, and cold. I shivered as I swiped my pass card in front of this building’s clunky old door scanner. It took five swiped before I was in the door, shivering and dripping. I forgot about the weather the moment I saw Brad’s amazingly huge physique, pumping itself into even more impressive shape, on the surveillance monitors.
No doubt Drew was watching me and judging, so I only allowed myself about 30 seconds of looking at Brad’s mammoth tights-clad ass from behind as he did good-mornings with what looked like 255 on the bar. I was surprised that the door leading to where Brad was had another pass card reader. The door after that had one too. I’d been assigned to top-secret cases before, but I’d never asked any questions. I was a data collector. Then again, I’d never had a patient as impressive as this one before.
The room I ended up in looked like it was meant for a child. The door I entered from was regular sized, but the door on the opposite wall was half the dimensions like it was made for a dwarf. Despite the regular-height ceiling, everything in the room was half-sized. The observation table was only two-feet high. None of the cabinets were located higher than my waist. Through the window in this room I could see the gym where Brad was working out. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at.
Everything in the gym was half-sized as well, including Brad! When he finished, he set the bar down with a heavy thud and towelled himself off as he approached the tiny door. When he opened it he froze at the sight of me, but seemed to collect himself almost instantly, tossing the towel aside as he hopped up on the little table.
“Pretty sure that regular blood pressure cuff will work today,” he said, sounding like he had just huffed some helium. To him this seemed like no big deal, like he had always been three feet tall. Despite his initial shock when he first saw me, he carried himself with the same air of confidence as when he had been over six feet and nearly 300 pounds of intimidating muscle. He wore miniaturized versions of the clothes he had been wearing the last time I saw him. I wanted to take them off him and inspect them, and maybe try to slip into them.
His waist was the size his leg had been the last time I had measured him. I was fascinated by how much more of his pec the stethoscope covered.
When it came time to weigh him I thoughtlessly reached out to grab him and carry him to the scale on the counter like he was a child. I reconsidered just as my fingers touched him but it was clear what I had meant to do.
“You want to pick me up?” he said with a feisty, defiant tone despite his chipmunk-y voice. “Go right ahead big fella.” He put his fists on his hips, his lats flaring wide. He set his square jaw and flexed. My first instinct was to apologize and set the scale on the floor, but my heart pounded at the idea of getting my hands on that dense little body. I grabbed his bulging arms as if they were handles and attempted to lift him but he stayed firmly in place. He was like an anvil. He scoffed at my pathetic attempt and I apologized.
“No worries,” he said as he hopped off the table and stepped on the scale. “That gym in there? You guys went to too much trouble making everything exactly half the size. Why label the plates as 45s when I know there’s no way they could be?”
I glanced through the window, at the equipment lining the half-sized gym. “It’s psychological,” I said with such confidence that it didn’t sound like conjecture. “To keep you working hard. They don’t want you to lose any of this,” I said gesturing vaguely at his incredibly-shaped body.
He sighed as he looked down at the digital readout on the scale: 101.39.
“I’m just barely this side of a hundred pounds,” he said. “I’ve already lost two-hundred pounds of ‘this’.”
“But you haven’t,” I said. My voice was perhaps a little too breathy, and I regretted speaking at all, but I decided to finish: “You’re still freaking unbelievable. I mean look at your body!”
Brad looked up at me, studying my face for a bit. Then a huge smile spread across his face.
“This voice though,” he said. “I sound like a cartoon character!”
“So maybe you should just communicate by flexing?” My face was hot. I couldn’t believe how easily those words had slipped out.
Brad reached up and cupped his own pecs, feeling their weight as they flexed beneath his fingertips. Then he brought his arms up into a front double bi. Those peaks! Even at half size they were impressive, like little biceps glued on to his biceps. I was shaking as I reached around for the clipboard. Drew was watching and I had work to do. There were a few stats left to record.
“You know what’s funny?” Brad said. “I can’t tell if it’s just that I’m smaller, or if that’s gotten bigger,” he said, pointing at my crotched. I dropped the clipboard to cover the obvious tent in my pants as Brad shrugged his big delts. “Not bothering me at all,” he said. Still, I struggled to redirect my blood flow as best I could.
I froze when I saw the last thing I needed to record: penis size (cm).
“Anything else you need to measure?” Brad said, jostling his groin as if he knew.
Drew was watching. I was cruising for a formal reprimand. What would be worse: failing to record the data completely or nutting in my pants while I held up a tape measure to a half-sized muscleman?
I had Brad take the tape measure. He swiveled his hips just before digging his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and flicking them down. I couldn’t believe the dick I saw swinging between his legs as he stepped out. Even half sized it was incredible. “12 centimeters,” Brad read out. “I don’t know centimeters but I’ve always had the biggest hog on the block. What do you think?”
He put his hands at his side and flexed his hips, causing his monster to swing forward. It was getting hard, too.
I was a professional. I had to get out of there.
I grabbed my clipboard and left Brad standing there bottomless. Later on I got a verbal warning in my voicemail box for failing to return a subject to his proper containment area. I felt lucky that was all I got.
[I liked writing this and got a bunch more ideas while I did, so expect more parts to it.]
