Benjamin Howe walked into the Lamplighter, sweat dripping from his quaking chin. Slowly, hesitantly, he made his way past the men at the bar- each massive man glaring at the skinny young fuckup. For years he had screwed up deals. For years he had pissed off the members. For years he had insulted the legacy of his father. This time. It was different. The air in the room was noticeably tense as he shuffled to the black velvet curtains, breathing heavily and shaking visibly. Their eyes shot daggers at his back, as he pathetically stood there, delaying the inevitable. Benjamin slowly walked through to the back room, and was met with a sight he dreaded.
Mack was the beast of the League. He towered over every single man, and tripled their size. For 38 long years, he was the loyal, obedient enforcer for Benjamin's father: silently and ruthlessly carrying out whatever orders came from the top. He was feared, but he was respected. He had paid his dues, he had hearts and minds of the League, and without question what he says goes. He stood there, his sheer size compared to the skinny little brat was David and Goliath. Benjamin sniffled, letting the last remnants of today's cocaine rush into his sinuses.
"Mack... I should have known that my father would sent you to greet me. Am I supposed to be intimidated?" The hulking man remained in place, crossing his arms with a silent glare. "Of course, sit and stare. That's what you always do." Benjamin defiantly walked around the mountain, and there was his father, sitting in his chair. His mere presence commanded the room, his authority unquestionable. The emperor of the underworld, and the king of the riches it afforded him.
"Benjamin. Come sit." Benjamin stood frozen in place, his face scrunching into a subtle grimace. "Benjamin. Get your fucking ass in this chair now." He didn't need to raise his voice for his order to be obeyed. Benjamin slunk toward the orange chair, timidly taking his seat. His father stared at him, the two sitting in absolute silence for what seemed like ages. Only after the father slowly moved his hand to his glass, sipped his whiskey, and placed it back on the table did conversation begin. "What happened with Dominic?"
"N... nothing happened with Dominic. I went, I dropped off the cash, right where we discussed." He squirmed in his seat, his father remained as still as stone. Benjamin sat forward in his chair, receding into his typical groveling that had served him well so many times before. "I can't be responsible for Dominic losing the money. I mean, hell! He couldn't be bothered to..." His father brought a single finger to his mouth, immediately silencing him. Benjamin put on a brave face to weather the incoming storm.
"Son, where did you put the bag?" His eyes burned with a fiery rage that his face refused to display. Merely a furrowed brow and stoic expression told Benjamin all he needed to know.
"On... on Ford Street. Under the bench... Like we talked about." His father leaned in, the leather of his jacket creaking as he moved.
"When did you do it?" Benjamin felt the sweat from his brow pouring down the sides of his face. He racked his mind trying to remember, scrying through every last thing he did that day, until he blurted out the answer.
"N... Nine... Nine o' clock this morning." His father sat there for a moment, before closing his eyes. His head lowered in disappointment, the room swelling with a thick hush. He raised his head, and his eyes were reddening from the fury.
"Nine o' clock... Nine o' clock tonight, you fucking moron. Why the fuck would we leave a bag full of money at a bus stop in broad daylight?" Benjamin felt his blood rush from his head. His ears began to ping, and he felt pins and needles on his forearms. He'd fucked up. And he'd fucked up bad. "Do you know how much money was in that bag, you asshole? Two million fucking dollars." The calm tone of his voice felt more terrifying than any screaming would ever accomplish. Benjamin hoped for the yells, the insults, the typical enraged response he'd gotten over the past five years. No matter the failure, he knew the routine: his father would give him the verbal lashing of his life, lob the threat of this being his final chance, and sending him out on some pointless job of little consequence. This time was different.
"D... Danny told me it was the morning! I wouldn't have done that if he hadn't told me! Besides, Mack is in charge of that, what the fuck were you doing instead of making sure the orders were right?" Benjamin pivoted to a performative outburst. Bombastic tirades of projection and avoidance, as always, it was someone else's fault. His father sat there, listening to every shrieking word that spewed from his lying mouth, until he had sufficiently tuckered himself out.
"You know, Benjamin..." His father leaned back in his seat, crossing his leg atop his knee. "I have endured your fuckery for five years. Five years. I held your hand like a dipshit child every day, making excuses for whatever botched job you fucked up. Making excuses for my son. The one who sits at the bar, bragging to every man that you're gonna take this chair from me one day. That they'll all be sorry they laughed at you, that they'll all see you're not some slimy little shit." He raised his hands in the air. "Well, did you show them?"
Benjamin sat there, stunned. Though his mind was racing with excuses and deflections, no words left his mouth. He heard the heavy footsteps behind him, the boulderous man skulking in from the shadows. He felt two hands on his shoulders slowly tighten their grip, until they fell numb under his dirt covered hands. His father sat resolute, unmoved by his quaking fear.
"See, boy. We can't have you fucking up another deal. No more nights at the bar slamming every girl there. No more thousands of dollars wasted on your blow addiction. No more embarrassments, son. You're done." Benjamin squirmed under Mack's grip, but his strength could not compare to the force of his clutch.
"Dad... C'mon... I got this! I've always had this! Let me prove it!" The old man merely shook his head.
"No more chances, boy. You got no respect. You got no drive. Not to mention you're a fucking liar. Did you really think I would just wave off two million dollars? That I wouldn't watch every one of your little bank accounts? You've either got the best god damn side hustle I've ever seen. Or. You been pocketing our money. My money." He was caught, the trap had closed around him. The gig was up. And all he could do was tremble at the sight of his father's gaze.
"I made a decision, kid. I think you've got some hard fucking labor to do. And Mack here is gonna personally see to it that you do it, and do it right." The heat from the hulking man radiated against the back of his head and neck, the power he exuded was tangible. In fact, so tangible it was, that Benjamin had fallen too deep into his fear. He'd lost sight of his surroundings, to the further disappointment of his father. He didn't notice the syringe until it was piercing his neck.
The concoction came on strong and fast, feeling limp and slow. The sounds around him became lugubrious and muffled, his sight slowly blurring. Mack slowly made his way around the chair, crouching directly in front of his quickly slacking body. His father stood up, patting his enforcer on the shoulder with stoic pride.
"Here's the thing, Benjamin. You've run out of shots. So I have to make sure that our interests come first. And as my son, I have to make sure that our reputations stay strong and unquestionable. And you..." He turned his glance upward to his slumping son. "You won't fuck this up for us. That's why Mack here will be... taking over for you."
Mack stood upright, slowly striding toward Benjamin. Though he wanted to plead, to beg, to weasel his way out of this, his mouth would not comply. The enforcer put his hands under the young man's shoulders, effortlessly pulling him to his feet. He stood unmoving, blank as a mannequin while Mack circled him. The thump of the boots echoed in the dark room, 250 pounds of muscle will have that effect on a person's footfalls. His father stood by his chair, picking up his glass of whiskey once more.
"I won't have my son humiliate me again. Perhaps in a year, you might finally get the picture." His father took another sip of his drink, and as he gave a single nod the footsteps stopped, and he felt an immediate burst of tightness in his back. It felt as if he were socked, and the fist punched a hole through his body. His eyes shot downward, glancing in horror as the outline of a massive hand protruding from beneath the skin of his chest. A second jab, a second hand pushing out of his torso. The two hands quickly shot upward, lifting him a foot off the floor, hanging like laundry on a line.
Benjamin could only watch helplessly as the hands slowly made their way toward his shoulders, pressing down his arms like sleeves. Each inch they plunged downward, his skin stretched wider, his muscles grew larger, his veins throbbing. Like putting on a glove, the hands slurped into his own, his fingers growing larger and tighter, his palms expanding until two huge calloused mitts. Just by looking at them, he knew they were Mack's. Those fists have put the lights out of brawlers in one swing, those arms the size of tanks. They now cracked their knuckles beneath his skin.
His powerful biceps were quickly put to good use as his hands pressed against his chest, pressing against Mack's pecs until they too began to sink into him. His shoulders broadened, stretching over the 6'6 giant's, while his pecs ballooned out with thick, hard muscle. His abdomen stretched wider, encompassing Mack's as his abs swelled with mass. The orange shirt quickly tore down the sides, the buttons flying every which way as it ripped to shreds. His shoulders rolled back, swallowing the man's back within his own and quickly closing him in seamlessly. The skin stretched tight, encompassing his invader into his chrysalis, leaving Mack's sweaty leather vest the only covering wrapped around him.
Benjamin hung there, grotesquely bloated in his upper body with muscle while his pipecleaner thin legs dangled limply above the floor. He would scream, he would shout, he would abuse, if only his lips would move. He would scream at the pressure of Mack's bulbous bulge pushing against his bony ass, spreading his cheeks and pushing into his hole. It thrusted forward futher into him, until it pressed outward in a orb in his pants. His hands moved to his pants, sliding the zipper down, as well as the top of his boxers to reveal the globe undulating at the base of his cock. All it took was some pressing and pulling at the apex, and Benjamin could feel Mack's beer can sliding into his manhood. His cock swelled while it bulged out, his shaft stretching thick with heavy girth as his slit opened wide. Out from the gaping hole slid a silver metal ball, quickly followed by the rest of Mack's Prince Albert piercing along with a steady flow of his pre. His scrotum dropped as his grape sized eggs were filled with a heavy sac and kiwi sized balls.
Mack fell backwards onto the chair, letting Benjamin's legs rest upon his massive quads. Bending down, he grabbed the loser's left foot, pulling toward the toes of his gigantic boots. The scrawy limb stretched downward until his heel touched the tip of the steel toe, and as if he were pulling on a sock, he shoved the boot forward into his foot. The leather of his boot and the damp fabric of his ripe socks seemingly wrapped around the side of his foot while Mack's toes slid further into his heel. The feet expanded outward, a manly pungent scent started to waft from them while they stretched outward, growing until the boot had surrounded his now size 16 feet.
His right foot followed after, and his calves and quads were pressed downward, inundated with brawn and meat. Mack's dirty black jeans slipped around the burly shanks, tying his leather belt tightly around his waist. From the neck down, Benjamin was completely worn by Mack. Dressed in his dirty clothes, filled with his sweaty muscles, swollen with his immense stature. His father stood up leisurely, taking his time to make his way toward his invaded son.
"You're gonna learn tonight what I expect from you, Benjamin. Take it all in." He leaned down grasping his face in his palms. "Goodnight, boy. We'll take it from here." With that, his father placed his hand around the back of Mack's head, and pushed the two skulls together. Benjamin felt the man's face slide into the back of his cranium, and after a moment of pressure it forced itself forward, the last of the enforcer suctioned into him. His face immediately became distorted as noses entered noses, eyes into eyes, tongues into tongues... Gurgling erupted from his throat as the vocal chords were overtaken, his hair was washed in a midnight black, and as his eyes shifted from dark brown to a bright blue, Benjamin was pushed aside. His persona, his consciousness all relegated to a mere spectator.
Rodney looked at his new son, piloted by the only man he knew would never let him down. For 38 years he had impressed, delivered, and proven himself- today was the final test. 'Ben' stood tall, the build of a hard headed brawler with the face like James Dean. With his newfound youth, 'Ben' felt the vigor of life radiate within him. He looked down at his new body; not so much as a smile graced his face, instead exuding the virile intensity of a man habituated to using force to ensure respect. His now father nodded knowingly at him, his tasks as 'Ben' having been long outlined and planned. The herculean man silently turned and exited the room, pushing past the black velvet curtains to an uproar of cheers.
---
For twelve months, Ben was the closer, the muscle, the leader of his men- not once losing sight of the larger picture, nor the directions of his father. The men quickly acclimated to their young prince, never a single utterance of dissent or disrespect came from their lips. They respected him, they loved him, they wanted to be him. He guided them with an iron fist, unwavering persistence, and brilliant strategy only ever achieved from a lifetime of the lifestyle. When he so much as entered a room, beer was poured, shots were downed; though all he would contribute is quietly sitting with his father watching the revelry.
Within five months, he was covered in tattoos from head to toe. Within ten months, he was covered in all over his body. Within eleven months, he had the men willingly submitting beneath his boot: sucking his musky cock, worshipping his muscles, sniffing his ripe feet, and welcoming his dick into them at every chance. His dominance stirred such high regard with his subordinates, that nearly every night one was begging at his toes.
No job went awry. Money was made. Deals were struck. The father and son quickly monopolized the market, striking down whoever stood in their way and embracing those who bowed a knee. And as the 365th day of Benjamin's punishment came and went, it was clear that the new Ben was here to stay. He was destined to take over once the torch was to be passed, and with him in charge, the future was bright.
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