I'm very pleased to announce that Collan will be joining the Male Transformation Blog team.
You may have read some of his work in the following Caption This posts;
So please put your hands together and welcome him to the blog, I'm looking forward to reading all of his stories.
My neighbour Gavin had only moved in six weeks earlier, but we were already great friends. He was a weekend biker, owned a Yamaha R1--nice piece of kit. At only twenty-four; ten years my junior I wondered how he could afford all the boys toys he owned.
Needless to say, he proved he had money to spend when he told me that he was going on a three-week holiday to Europe. I asked him if he wanted me to carry his luggage during the holiday, but just he chuckled and told me he needed me to look after the house.
The following day he left, dropping the house keys through my mailbox. I pondered what to looking at the keys, but my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to look around his house.
Inside was a geeks dream, gadgets everywhere--it was like being in a candy store. I walked from room to room, finally coming to a utility room that adjoined the garage. Inside was Gavin's motorcycle leathers, and through a window I could see the bike. I'd had one myself a while back but when I changed jobs I needed something more practical and traded it in for a car. It was always something I wanted to return to; the open road, the speed, the 'oneness'.
I looked at the leathers, discarded and crumpled on the floor next to the boot. On a table was a Simpson helmet, along with some gloves. I was taller than Gavin but close enough that I think the leathers would fit. I pondered on the fact that if I dressed in all his gear, with the visor down they would think I was Gavin. I glanced at the bike again, "Fuck it."
I came home one day to find my best bud Jason, or “J” as everyone else had to call him, sitting astride his chromed out hog in my driveway. Anyone looking at the two of us would wonder how we got to be so tight considering how different we were.
J was a big guy, topping out at 6’4 and built like the proverbial brick shit-house, all muscle and no fat. He was the epitome of a classic 50s biker boy with his always greased back hair, leather jacket over a white t-shirt, jeans, and biker boots. He was easy on the eyes as well, not the typical rough biker people tend to think of when someone mentions a hog. I, on the other hand, was small in stature and build – the David to his Goliath. I was rather introverted and while not terribly bad looking, I was not going to win any modeling contests either.
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It had been four days and I'd not heard from Romeo. I looked at the photo he'd sent a couple of days ago.
He desperately wanted to get inside John McKirkwell, the son of the local multi-millionaire, he knew he'd be set for life in the guise of the youth. The only problem was the security, the house was locked up tight.
Romeo had a cunning plan, get McKirkwell's dog and turn it into a suit--a dog suit. Steal into the house in the guise of his favourite pet, and take the kid when he could.
I was considering a rescue mission, but I had no idea of how to get Bruno back. Since he'd been stolen, even the dog walker had security. I was going over it in my mind, telling myself what a stupid plan Romeo had come up with when there was a knock at the door--a delivery.
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Have you ever been annoyed by those automatic calling systems? You know the ones that have a pause before the irritating robotic voice starts to drone. Brad referred to them as Robocallers because that is basically what they were.
“Hello, you have been selected….” Click.
“Hello, my name is Joe Smith and I’m calling to tell you why I’m voting for…” Click.
At first all he would do is hang up but it got so annoying that if a call came and he didn’t recognize the number or he wasn’t expecting a call he just wouldn’t answer. He figured if it was something important whoever was calling would leave a message and he would take the appropriate action.
This was his pattern until one day when for some unknown reason he picked up the phone on a number he didn’t know. As usual he heard “Congratulations. You have won…” he started to hang up when a sharp pain shot through his ear.
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Mirror, Mirror on the wall….
Once upon a time, as all tales must start, in a land far, far away lived a very handsome prince. He was beloved by all in his kingdom for he was pure of heart and noble of soul. Then one day, as fate would have it, he happened upon a magic gilded mirror. Bewitched by the mirror he became obsessed with his own image. The prince hung the mirror in a secret alcove of his room where he would gaze upon his prize for endless hours. The man staring back at him was truly male beauty personified, his noble uncorrupted soul shining bright as the noon day sun. Day after day the prince would stare into the mirror and it in turn would tell him he was the handsomest of all. Alas he was seduced by the mirror’s malicious need to consume all things pure and soon what once was noble turned cold with narcissism as the mirror devoured his soul. His reflection was no less beautiful than before but no longer did it shine brightly. He became isolated from the very people who loved him so dearly and he found himself alone in his castle, wanting nothing more than to forever gaze upon himself in the mirror. His realm became a joyless place to the people without him. Having succeeded in destroying the noble prince, the mirror became restless to find another pure soul it could seduce. It searched through countless realms and times until…
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Wanted – house sitter to watch home while on summer vacation, great pay. Call 555-674-9980.
The ad caught Greg’s attention. He needed a place to stay other than the seedy motel he had been at since arriving in the city a few days ago. House sitting would afford him the luxury of a place to live while looking for a new job and a place of his own. This would work out perfectly if he could convince the owner he was the man for the position. At nineteen he was a very responsible young man having grown up part of a small family with no brothers and sisters. When his parents had suddenly both died about a month ago he had made the decision to move to escape the confines of small town life; so now after settling all the affairs here he was. He dialed the number in the ad.
I pulled at the back of my head feeling the mask bind with my own face. "Where did you get these costumes from? They're so fucking lifelike," I spluttered excitedly.
"I found 'em," Kurt replied. "In the trunk of a truck I lifted."
I frowned, "You mean they're stolen?"
"Borrowed," he corrected me with a grin. "You'll never guess whose truck it was." I shrugged. "Brett Mathews."
I paled a little, "That fucking bully of a line-backer?"
"Yeah that's the one, he was with Matt Welsh--the quarterback?" I nodded.
I looked down at the physique I'd acquired, "But these costumes wouldn't fit them," I paused realising that Kurt was smaller, but more toned.
"Yeah, that's what I thought, but what the fuck. I struggled to pull it on, was very tight but it sort of squeezed my body to fit. I'm guessing that's how it would work with those jocks."
"So where's the party," I asked flexing and twisting.
"On The Hill, Laura Dickinson's place."
"But that's an exclusive party man, how the fuck do we get in? Even looking like this."
He chuckled, "Leave that to me."
