Deconstruction

By trylithin

___________________________

It's been nearly two weeks since my promotion, and it feels like I have more work to catch up on now than I did back then.

"Is that the last of them?" I ask, praying that the answer will be 'yes'. Unlike the past two times.

Martin, the crew supervisor, gives me a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, Jack. I'm pretty sure we've got one more, but I'll try to conveniently misplace it for a few days."

"You're the fucking best," I tell him. I mean it.

By now my entire floor is covered by boxes full of old Hardman Construction documents. Not that it's a very large floor to begin with - my office isn't that much larger than the broom cupboard in the hallway, and feels just as stifling.

Martin leans on my desk. He's a big guy, brawny, with a dusting of reddish hair sprinkled across his forearms. "So how've you been holding up? Ready to kick back over the weekend?"

I take a moment to mull the question over. I'm not sure how truthful I should be. Martin seems like a stand up guy, but I haven't known him for long.

As a matter of fact, I haven't even been working here for long. I was offered a paid internship a few months ago which ended with an offer for a probationary position that would become full time if I proved I was capable. At the time, for an accountant fresh out of a no-name college, the offer was a blessing.

Now, well...

"I think it'd be better if I came in on Saturday, tomorrow. Just to do my best to get through the workload," I say, trying for a diplomatic answer.

Martin huffs, idly sifting through the crumpled receipts I've been attempting to decipher. "Everyone knows the books have been in a sorry state the past few years. You don't need to watch your mouth around me. Say what you think."

"Well, I think sorry state is an understatement," I say, before my mouth has a chance to catch up to my brain. I must be more exhausted than I thought.

Martin's nodding in agreement, though, so I don't think it would do much harm to tell him more. It'd be nice to talk to someone instead of filing tax returns.

"To be honest," I continue, "I've been working overtime all week and I still need to come in over the weekend to catch up. It feels like way too big a job for one person alone."

"Wait, so do you need me to arrange an assistant for you?" Martin asks.

"No, more like arrange for me to be the assistant."

Jesus, I really am more tired than I thought if I'm being so blunt, but something in Martin's gray eyes makes the words continue to spill out of me. "I think I'm in over my head. Not just this job, but my whole career path. Like, the whole point is for me to work out what I need to do, but I can't help wishing someone else was here to point me in the right direction."

Martin's frowning. I don't like it. "So you want someone else to do the work."

"No!" I exclaim, because that's not what I meant at all. "The work is easy, even though it's repetitive as hell. I can handle work. It's the whole thinking part that gets me."

"Aw, man," Martin claps me on the shoulder, and I startle. I didn't notice him moving closer, but our eyes are inches apart, our chests almost touching. "Hang in there. It's gonna get better."

I nod defeatedly. "Yeah, I know. It's just... sometimes I wish someone else could do the thinking for me instead."

Martin's hand stills, a warm weight on my shoulder. "Huh," he says, careful, measured, and for a moment it feels like his eyes are looking right through me. Then the moment passes, and he draws his surprisingly broad palm away with a final pat. "I can't promise you anything, but I can pull some strings to get your workload changed a bit," he says. "Would you like that?"

"You mean speak to management? Fuck yeah," I say, but for some reason I can't shake the feeling that I'm agreeing to more than what we've been discussing. "If I get a bit more time, I promise I'll do just fine."

"Not exactly management, but yeah, something of the sort," Martin says. His mouth curls up into a lazy smile, a flash of something wicked playing around in his eyes, and I find myself transfixed by his stare. "Yeah," he says, and the word sends a shiver down my spine. "I reckon you'll do just fine."

---

When I'm getting ready for work, it takes me a moment to notice something's amiss.

I spent most of last night tossing and turning, thinking back to my interaction with Martin yesterday. On the surface, it sounded like two guys just shooting the shit, but I can't shake off the feeling that I'm missing something big.

Fresh out of the shower, as sleep deprived as I am, a good few seconds pass while I try to figure out where my underwear has gone.

My usual off-the-rack boxers have disappeared without a trace. The only thing left is a messily opened pack of jockstraps that I can't even remember buying.

I immediately scour my room, searching my closet, checking under the bed, even searching the laundry basket for yesterday's pair, but... nothing. Just that lone plastic pack of jockstraps.

For a moment, I entertain the idea of calling someone - Martin's gray eyes briefly flash through my mind - but really, what would I say? Hi, yes, my underwear's disappeared, and the only thing left is other underwear that I incidentally can't remember buying? I'd get laughed at for a solid minute, that's what would happen.

I fish through the cheap packaging until my fingers snag onto a waistband. I haven't worn a jock since high school, but from what little I remember this looks quite a bit larger than what I need.

I quickly drop my pants, for a moment regretting choosing not to wear boxers to bed last night, and my suspicions are confirmed when I try the jockstrap on. It's made for a man much larger in the waist, and quite a bit larger in front, too. I'm not the skinniest of guys - still trying unsuccessfully to work off my freshman fifteen - but the elastic barely needs to stretch to accommodate me.

Even with the odd fit, the jockstrap is soft, a clean shade of white, and it feels much, much better than what I was expecting. When I wriggle into my suit pants, I have to bite back a moan. I've never realized how much skin is covered by my usual choice of boxers, and feeling it exposed is thrilling in a weird sort of way.

I find myself cupping my sudden hard-on through the fabric, rubbing my palm across the erection straining at the confines of my pants.

I can't help but feel that wearing the jock makes me more powerful. More manly, even. Whatever it is, it feels incredible. I try to think back to the last one night stand I had, a disappointingly short encounter with a curvy brunette, but instead, images of men flicker through my head - strong, bulky, burly - and my dick gives an interested jerk.

I'm palming my erection in earnest now, the friction quickly becoming unbearable, almost burning in its intensity, and it doesn't take long before I erupt, pumping a load of cum right into my jock.

It takes me a moment to catch my breath. God, I needed that.

Then I remember that the now rapidly-cooling jock is the only piece of underwear I have left. Fuck. For a moment I'm tempted to freeball, but I don't really feel comfortable with it. Now I'm perversely glad that the jockstrap doesn't fit perfectly.

I finish getting ready for work, doing up my buttoned shirt over my plain white undershirt and looping my tie into a windsor, wincing whenever the cold, wet cotton of the jock comes in contact with my skin.

It's only when I'm waiting in line at the train station that I remember I left my suit jacket at home.

My stomach gurgles. I forgot to eat breakfast, too. Jacking off really did a number on me. Even thinking back to it makes me horny all over again. I should really do it more.

I pick up a few hash browns and a cheap coffee at the small convenience store in the station, and take a seat to wait for my train.

The jock is sticking to my skin, still slightly soggy. I should be grossed out, but the thought of sitting on the train drenched in my own cum makes me feel strong, virile in a perverse way. It's so arousing that my spent dick is already showing signs of life again.

I don't know how much this jockstrap will hide if I end up getting another hard on here, so I concentrate on eating. It doesn't fill me up at all. My stomach gives another rumble when I finish, and I decide to grab some more food since I've got a few minutes left.

I choke down the dregs of the coffee, making a face at the bitterness, before grabbing two breakfast wraps just as the train pulls in. I find a seat and being to devour them both, ignoring the disgusted looks from the lady sitting across from me. I'm fucking starving.

For some reason, the simple act of eating so much further excites the slowly stiffening erection in my pants.

Speaking of my pants, they themselves feel kinda tight today. So does my shirt, for that matter, and my shoes are the worst of the lot. I try to unobtrusively undo the top button of my shirt, but my tie keeps getting in the way and I find myself fumbling with the buttons.

My fingers feel clumsy, almost swollen, and it takes me a while just to pop one open. When the train finally reaches the station, I'm the first one out the door, futilely struggling with my too-tight collar. I duck into the nearest bathroom, meaning to fix myself up, but I freeze the moment I see myself in the mirror.

My whole face looks swollen.

I gingerly touch my fingers to my sweaty cheeks, prodding at the offending skin.

It's not just my face, too. It's my fingers, my hands, my arms - my whole body looks bigger, wider, and when my hands drop to my noticeably protruding gut it feels much more solid than what I'm used to. I think I'm having a reaction to something I ate.

I should be horrified. Instead, I feel confused, and curious, and maybe even a little turned on. This isn't how an accountant should look like. This body belongs to someone more commanding, more powerful, more confident, and it's as if that confidence is flooding through me right now.

My dick is standing ramrod straight, clearly delineated through my pants. There's no way I'm going outside like this, even though a tiny part of me seems to be telling me I should.

The stalls are all mercifully empty, and the moment I barricade myself in the closest one I drop my pants. The jock looks a little more at home on my larger legs, which seem to be swollen just like the rest of my body, and I have no idea why that makes me as excited as it does.

When I shove my hand in the confines of the cotton, it's like the rest of the world fades away, eclipsed by the sudden electrifying rush of pleasure from my dick. I collapse onto the porcelain toilet behind me, but the moment I lean forward to start jerking off something draws tight around my neck.

My fucking tie is choking me.

I grapple with it for a few seconds, and the moment it loosens enough I throw it onto the floor. I can't bring myself to care about how dirty it'll get. The only thing that matters is cumming, and cumming now.

As I jack off furiously, feeling the muscles in my arm working in a way I've never felt before, I let my other hand roam across my body, trailing across my inflated stomach, rubbing the line of hair that runs across it from under my shirt.

Unbidden, Martin's forearms flash through my mind, and I find myself wondering how hairy he is. He looks like he'd have a proper spread across his chest, a thick pelt, with a treasure trail pointing straight down to his dick. Maybe he's even got hair on his back, or even sprinkled in his ass.

As if on cue, my own hand slips between my crack, and I nearly come right then and there from how intense it feels. Sweat's pouring down my face, dripping from the tips of my hair, dark stains growing on my dress shirt, but I can't bring myself to care as I shove a swollen finger and then another into my ass.

It's tight, so tight, but the pain is laced with an intoxicating pleasure more addicting than anything I've ever felt in my life. I probe further, and further, and my finger touches something that makes my entire world go white, and when I manage to open my eyes again there's cum all over my stomach, a sticky white, dripping into my already soiled jockstrap.

Holy shit. What the fuck did I just do?

I pull up my pants, and I actually have to suck my stomach in to get them to fit. They're just tight enough to be restricting. The moment I grab the documents from work, I'm heading to the doctor's office to find out what's happening to me.

Luckily, the bathroom's still empty, so I clean myself as best I can using one of the sinks. My whole body's flushed, a splotchy pink, and I splash water on my face in an attempt to clean away some of the sweat. My dress shirt is completely done for. I'll have to send a gift basket to my dry cleaners when I drop it off.

My shoes are killing me now. An unbidden sigh of relief tears out of my throat when I pull them off after a brief struggle, and to my horror, I can't manage to shove my feet back into them, even after I take off my sweat-drenched socks.

I guess the only solution is to make this trip as quick as possible. My workplace is only a few blocks away from here. I could probably run there and back in half an hour.

I grab my shoes, carrying them by the heels. They reek and so do I, but there's nothing I can do about it. I just try to stay far away from any other people as I race out from the station.

Since it's Saturday, there aren't many people out and about so early in the morning. The run to work is pretty uneventful, but halfway through, as I stop to catch my breath, I realize I abandoned my tie at the station bathroom when I undo another few buttons on my shirt.

It's still too tight, digging into my chest and shoulders, and my pants feel like what I imagine a corset would feel like, cutting off circulation to everything below my waist.

When I get to the building, I find the door is, luckily, unlocked. I really don't want to think about how long it would've taken me to get in otherwise.

I head down to my office, on the third floor, lumbering up the stairs as fast as I can. Halfway down the final hallway the top button of my pants flies off with an audible snap. I try the door, fruitlessly jiggling the handle.

It's locked. Fucking fantastic.

I start heading back down to see if anyone's in the supervisor's offices, but just as I reach the second floor landing something in my pants rips.

I glance around, searching for the nearest open door, and when I rush in and close it behind me, I realize I'm in yet another bathroom. How fitting.

When I inspect myself briefly in the mirror, I find that nothing's changed. My skin glistens with the sheen of sweat I worked up during my run here, and my face looks just as swollen as before, maybe even more so. Dark stubble adorns my jaw, weirdly enough - I must've forgotten to shave.

I wriggle around in my pants, sucking my gut in as best I can to undo the clasp that's keeping them up. When I do, it feels like my insides have been freed from a vice, and I take a few much-needed gasps of air. It takes a few long moments of struggling to work them down my fleshy legs.

The dying groan of overburdened fabric is the only warning I have before the last few buttons on my shirt give out, popping out from the force of my unrestrained belly, and I work it off clumsily, tearing a few seams in the process.

My entire body feels too large, unwieldy, even when I'm stripped down to nothing more than socks, a jockstrap, and an undershirt, sweat drenched and cum stained. My shirt's ridden up on my larger stomach, stretched across my broadened shoulders, exposing a dark line of hair that looks much thicker than what it was this morning. When I look back in the mirror I can barely recognize the reddened face staring back at me.

My eyes peer from under a protruding brow, set between a large nose that looks like it's been broken more than a few times. My jaw looks wider than normal, even as soft as it is, with the beginnings of a second chin under my own, and the rough stubble that leads down from it is much thicker than what I'm used to.

It's like I'm turning into a completely different person. When I look down at my crotch - or what I can see beyond the solid mass that's my stomach - it looks stuffed to capacity, just as swollen as the rest of my body, maybe even more. When I take off my reeking socks, I can barely wiggle my toes.

Unbidden, a knock comes at the door.

"Everything all right in there?" a familiar voice calls. Martin.

"Uh," I start, clearing my throat, startled by how gravelly my voice sounds. "It's... it's me. Jack."

It takes me much longer than I'm used to to piece the sentence together, my tongue stumbling over the words, leaving audible gaps in between.

"You okay?" Martin's voice sounds again, worried. "You sound like you're coming down with something."

"Yeah, um," I say. For some reason I can't seem to ask him to come in. It's like the words have just disappeared from my mind. "Um..."

"Do you need me to come in?"

"Yeah," I say, sighing in relief. That too sounds much more resonant than I'm used to. It takes me a few moments to remember how to unlock the door - where does the metal bolt need to go? - and another few after that to move it with my too large fingers.

When Martin steps in, I realize with a jolt that I'm towering over him. I always thought he was big, from my 5' 7" viewpoint, but now I realize he's actually quite short. The only things large about him are his muscles, and, as I find out when my eyes follow the lines of his body downwards, the dick clearly outlined through his jeans.

"You okay, buddy?" he asks, stepping forward, and I unconsciously lean into him. I can't help but look at him, at his solid shoulders, at the pecs outlined through his plaid overshirt, and I feel naked next to him, dirty, in my too small undershirt and soiled jockstrap.

"No," I say, and it takes me too long to arrange my thoughts into order. My mind is whirling. It feels like my thoughts are muffled, sluggish, slower than usual. "Something happened. I... I changed."

"Yeah, you did," Martin says, and his hand strokes my belly, following the thick line of hair down to the waistband of my jock. "Don't you like it?"

"What?" I say, not understanding what he means. "I... I don't-"

"I thought that's what you wanted, though," he says, with a frown on his face, and it makes me feel bad, like I did something wrong. "You said you wanted someone else to think for you, right?"

"Yes, but..." I trail off. It feels like it's wrong, but I don't remember why. "I... I feel weird."

Martin reaches into the pouch of my jockstrap, drawing out my too large, too thick dick. It almost looks like a beer can. "I think I can help with that," he says, stroking it slowly, and I nearly come all over him from that alone. "Just turn over."

"But-" I start. I can't help but feeling I'd never do something like that, but Martin's eyes are looking at me, so I slowly turn over, exposing my fleshy ass cheeks to him. His eyes are so gray.

"Yeah, just like that," he says, and he works his pants down, around his knees, drawing out his cock from the confines of his own jockstrap. It's flushed, a pretty pink, and for some reason I want to lick it, to taste it in my mouth. He unbuttons his shirt, exposing the reddish brown hair dusted liberally across his freckled skin, and carefully strips me out of my own sweaty shirt. "You turned out good."

He slowly strokes his hand across my back, moving down to my hairy chest. His fingers rub across muscles I don't remember having, a mass in front of me that heaves as I struggle to breathe, resting on my too large stomach. He caresses the thicker pelt of my chest hair as his other hand works tortuously slowly up and down my shaft. His fingers roam, fondling my newly ponderous ballsack, before trailing further to my ass.

"Wait," I say, but I can't think of what I want to say. It feels like my brain is drenched in molasses. Thinking is hard.

"Do you want this?" Martin asks, and he sounds honestly concerned. "Just tell me to stop if you don't."

"I... I..." I say. A small part inside me is screaming that this isn't right, that this isn't supposed to be happening, but for the life of me I can't work out why. I keep thinking about receipts and papers, but the numbers are blurring in front of my eyes, indistinguishable from each other. "I want it."

"Good," he says, and he spits into my ass crack, and his calloused fingers work it in, spreading me apart. They brush over something inside me that makes me feel like I've been hit by lightning, and he strokes my sweaty hair back from my forehead when I contort backwards. "Just use your arms," he coaxes, and I use them to lean against the wall, unfamiliar muscles bulging from under my hair-covered skin, strong, rippling, manly.

He uses his hand to stroke them as his other one works me open, fingers brushing up against that thing inside ever so often and making me groan helplessly. "You've turned out a right brute, haven't you?" he murmurs, and he sounds awed. "Like a giant, hairy linebacker."

"Is... do you... like it?" I manage to pant. I don't know why, but I really want him to say yes.

"Jack," he says softly, digging his nails into my new muscles, before driving the head of his cock into my ass. I want to scream, but all that comes out is a soft breath, and suddenly it feels like something I never knew I needed finally slotted into place. "I love it."

I push back into him, my back shaking with the strain, and he works his cock even further inside of me, a blindingly hot pressure against that place that keeps shooting off sparks. When he draws back, a moan escapes from my mouth, and another one when he shoves his cock back in, backwards and forwards, riding me.

He holds himself with one hand, jerks me off with the other, and his biceps are working, bulging with the strain. His muscles are so big. He's stronger than me. It makes me feel safe.

"Come for me, Jack," he says softly into my ear, before kissing down my neck. "Come for me."

His hand clenches around my dick, and suddenly I'm spurting, coming all over my clothes, all over the floor, and he's erupting too, filling me with warmth from the inside as waves of pleasure ripple through my entire body.

I fall against the wall, and he collapses on top of me. We breathe slowly, together, and when I turn my head to look at him he pulls me into a violent kiss, attacking my mouth.

After a moment he draws back, but I want more. My dick is already starting to get hard again, even though it's really painful, covered with the sticky white of my cum. Martin slowly pulls out of my ass, and I feel a little cum dribble down my bulky thighs.

He slaps my ass, straightening up and leaving my back cold. "Come on, let's find you some clothes," he says.

"Huh?" I ask, but I slowly do as he says, turning to face him.

He's already doing up his shirt, pulling up his pants, and I'm completely naked next to him. He knocks on my head softly. "We need to find you some construction gear," he says. "That's what you're going to do now."

"But-" I say, and it takes me a while to find the word I'm looking for. I have to say it slowly. "I'm an a-ccoun-tant?"

It comes out more like a question, and Martin grins at me. "Nah, " he says, caressing my broad, bare chest. "That's what you used to be, but now you get to be my assistant."

"Oh," I say. I feel like I'm forgetting something important, but I remember I told him I wanted to be an assistant. "Okay."

"Great," he says, heading out of the bathroom and motioning for me to follow. Even though it makes me feel weird to walk around naked with my dick swinging, I lumber after him, not used to how heavy I feel when I walk.

Martin opens the supply cupboard near one of the offices, and takes out some of the clothes inside. Everything is my size, and he helps me do up the buttons on my shirt when my fingers keep slipping. "Now," he says. "For your first job, you're going to help me put up fliers looking for a new accountant. Then we can go home. We'll do more work on Monday."

"Okay," I say, and then I remember something. "Do I go home with you?"

He smiles, and I find myself smiling back. "Yeah," he says, before pulling me down, dropping a hard hat on my head with an affectionate tap. "And if you're really good, I'll fuck you again when we get back."

"I'll be good," I tell him. "I promise."

"I know you will," he says, and he kisses me again. It feels really good. "You've done just fine, just like you promised me before."