Near the end of the year we often receive tedious amounts of the usual requests asking for bigger muscles, less fat, and all the sorts of things that they value from a sense of socialite superficiality. The customers are genuine enough. They truly believe they want these changes for themselves, and though I have long come to terms with the notion that all transformations done here at the Foundation are rather superficial by nature, I have little sympathy for a social climber who becomes the victim of an unsatisfactory experience during their time with us.
For example, a young man approached the front desk earlier today demanding a transformation. He appeared to weigh less than a hat-rack and had the pole-thin build to match, but he was adamant on being served. I informed the twinkish gentleman that we were fully booked until well after January unless he wished to pay for our premium rush fee, a price at which he balked at. He insisted that he be transformed today at the normal rates, explaining that everyone in his social circle had already come to us early, wisely avoiding the holiday rush, and now sported magnificently muscular bodies. If he arrived at the New Year’s party as the last twink in his social circle, he’d surely be the laughing stalk of the celebration.
The slightest amount of sympathy started to affect my judgement, his earlier impoliteness still weighed heavily on my mind, plus I couldn’t ignore his lack-luster reasoning. I knew that he wouldn’t accept a refusal without the help of security, so in loo of a ruckus I formulated a sadistic plan. With a wry smile, I expressed concerned understanding for the twink’s situation and offered to check the books for an opening. I referenced the catalog and barely restrained a sardonic giggle upon finding exactly what I’d expected. The Stew was still waiting for a final VIP attendee, and I was one of the few administrators who could designate such a slot for a very special customer. I informed the young man of the prestigious opportunity I managed to render, marking the slot filled as I did so, but he was too busy texting to be bothered with thanking me.
The Stew was a recent addition to the Foundation and a club of great popularity among our veteran clients, but the new customer scoffed at the scene. Before us loomed a luxurious dance hall, tall ceilings glittering with golden linings and walls decorated with antique fineries. The savory sounds of a sultry jazz tune echoed from the band on stage, filling the room with a strange sense of nostalgia for a time long passed. It was the other guests, however, that had prompted the customer’s revulsion. Set into the dance floor of the darkened, steamy hall were several rows of lavish hot tubs, each filled with at least several men. All of the bathers were nude, and the youngest among them appeared to be in his late forties.
I drew close to the young man and offered the explanation that he wasn’t the only one looking for a change around this time of year. He glared in response, but I saw the disgust in his expression slightly soften. We drew closer to one of the tubs, and from the bubbling, foamy water came a pungent mixture of fruity aromas mixed with the heady scent of perspiration, a smell that made the young man gag. The several older men, each with a healthy gut, laughed at reaction, regarded the younger man with assessing eyes.
The customer asked where he might find a swim suit, and I informed him that wearing one was recommended against, informing him that the transformation process performed better when he was bathed evenly. He gave a nervous glance to the nude gentlemen in the hot tub, anticipating gazes peering up to meet him, before requesting one anyway. He was further hesitant when I provided a skin-tight white swim brief, vocalizing that it was a hardly an improvement, yet he donned the swimwear in spite of his complaints. His boyishly toned body exposed, he vaguely blushed as he dipped into the water, smiling nervously upon seeing the flirtatious grins of the other men in the tub.
It was when that I said my goodbyes, saying I had work to get to, that the young twink expressed his first concern for my presence. He asked if I couldn’t stay, and his eyes pleading, taking darting glances to the other men in the tub sizing him up. I explained that it was impossible, but assured him that he was in good hands before withdrawing. Among the clouds of steam, the customer had no way of knowing that I’d merely retreated to a dark corner of the club, eager to bear witness to the young man’s metamorphosis.
It took a few minutes for the men to start talking, but eventually I saw the new customer engaging with them. The older men were rather cordial, laughing and smiling, despite the younger man only providing his lack-luster mannerisms in response. A bearded man with particularly flabby arms in the far side of the tub reached onto the dance floor for a small panel alongside the tub, adjusting a number of knobs and buttons, and a plume of steam arose with a fresh flow of bubbles rising to the water’s surface. Another of the large men grabbed one of the many ornate glass bottles collected next to the tub. I smiled to see him select the deep green container in the shape of an apple. He plucked the stem-lid from the fruit-bottle and liberally poured the emerald liquid from within onto the churning waters, immediately causing a wave of green soap bubbles to roll outward from the spot, immersing the men up to their necks in foam.
The younger man seemed aloof to the these variances, continuing the pattern of disinterested responses in the older mens’ attempts at conversation, but as the minutes ticked by and he spent more time soaking in the tub, the new customer had grown increasingly passive. It almost seemed a trick of the steam, but his face seemed to take on a like age to his tub-mates the more freely he conversed with them. The slightest suggestion of wrinkles began to surface on his forehead, and grin lines seemed to form at the corners of his mouth. These bowed in mirth as laughter escaped his mouth upon hearing a lewd joke from one of the older gentlemen. It was a hardy, belly-quaking laugh, and the young man threw his head back to emit it. The bellowing chortle that echoed through the ballroom was deep, masculine, and riddled with a certain raspiness that is so often associated with age.
The new customer faltered upon hearing himself, the laughter still bouncing back at him. An expression of confusion replaced the smile as the man with the apple said something to the startled newcomer. I assume it was an attempt at explanation, and a poor one at that, as the man suddenly startled and began madly feeling himself to confirm what the man had told him. There was a cry as his expression burst into pure shock and he rose from the tub.
The new customer dripped into the foamy water as he stock of his new form. His old, pruney hands caressed a bulbous belly that easily measured a foot in depth. Rotund and spherical, it hung from his body like a ripe apple without the least amount of sagging. The rest of his body, however, was not allowed such a luxury. His pectorals had begun to sag like two deflated balloons, his nipples pointing down to his freshly bloated gut like signs to a new attraction. The slender arms and legs that had previously helped to define his form were new encircled and engulfed in hanging layers of fat.
Seeing his shocked expression, the rest of the older men in the tub laughed knowingly. This club was popular among the veterans of the Foundation. They all knew what it felt like to get a transformation they hadn’t been expecting, and it was always entertaining to view a virgin pop his metamorphic cherry, so to speak. The new customer regarded them with shocked horror at first, despite their assurances that it’d all be fine, but then another puff of the tub’s steam wafted into his face. His expression became clouded, and then the aged smile resurfaced. Upon imbibing the strong scent of green apples and manly musk, his mind grew feeble and malleable. He began to laugh with the rest of the men as he felt over his rotund body with pudgy, old hands.
The bearded man from the tub took the newcomer by the hand, and unfamiliar with his newly aged joints, weakened muscles, and considerable weight, he complacently allowed himself to settle back into the warm, bubbly water with a tremendous splash. The rest of the men laugh, and the new old man offered a blushing smile in return. The bearded man, having not yet released the new comer’s hand, drew close enough for his rough, gray facial hair to tickle to the other’s chin. They stared into each other’s eyes, nervously smiling, before they lustfully began making out, diving in like starved men.
The surrounding men watched bemusedly, hands suggestively shifting in their laps below the water’s bubbly surface, as the pair sensually engaged each other. Their hands explored each other and themselves with a passionate desire, caressing and worshiping the unseemly mass the waters had given them. They wanted each other only as badly as they wanted to grow bigger themselves, leading them to yearning ardor that surpassed love. In a way, sweating into the tub together, the two giant fruits, wrinkled and robbed of their youthful juices though they may be, were joined in the stew of the their own passions, closer together than any usual lovers could be.