Chapter 15: Submission
The steamy air hit them like a wet fist. Ethan blinked, sweat already stinging his eyes even before the shower spray. The echoing clang of locker doors, the slap of wet flip-flops on tile, the low thump of some bass-heavy pop song filtering in from the common room – it all felt jarringly normal against the impossible reality clinging to his skin. The brutal morning drills replayed in his aching muscles: Brick’s barking commands, the sharp crack of shoulder pads colliding, the terrifying ease with which he'd lifted Dale clean off his feet during a tackling drill. Solid. Like lifting a sack of flour, his own traitorous, deepened voice had rumbled approvingly in his head, echoing Brick’s earlier praise. He’d felt Dale stiffen at the thought – or had it been spoken aloud? The boundary was dissolving faster than soap in this relentless humidity.
Brick loomed near the entrance, arms crossed over his massive, tattooed chest. "Hit the showers, ladies. Five minutes. Smell like men, not libraries." His gaze lingered on them, a slow, appraising smirk playing on his lips. Mauler snickered, slamming a fist into his palm. "Gotta scrub the nerd off ya."
Dale flinched, pushing damp strands of hair off his forehead. He wouldn’t meet Ethan’s eyes. His movements were stiff, awkward in the unfamiliar bulk that now padded his formerly lanky frame. They found two empty stalls side-by-side, the thin plastic partitions offering the illusion of privacy. The scalding water hit Ethan’s shoulders, a welcome burn against the deep throb of new muscle. He braced one hand against the cool tile, the other instinctively exploring his changed body beneath the flow.
His fingers traced the hard curve of his deltoid. Defined. He felt the thicker mat of hair on his chest, the coarser texture of it, leading down to a denser trail below his navel. His abdomen… he could see the faint outline of muscles he’d never possessed. He turned slightly, catching sight of his reflection warped in the chrome tap. Wider shoulders. Fuller arms. His neck felt thicker, straining the tendons. The pendant, nestled against his sternum beneath the spray, pulsed warmly, almost smugly. This is good, the internal voice – deeper, rougher, almost Brick’s timbre now – insisted. Strong. Ready. Panic warred with a frightening surge of pride.
A sharp gasp came from the stall next door. Ethan froze. "Dale?" he called out, his voice a low rumble that startled even himself.
Silence for a beat. Then, Dale’s voice, strained and noticeably deeper, filtered through the steam. "It... it feels like someone else's skin." He sounded close to tears. Ethan heard the frantic scrubbing of a washcloth, too hard.
He took a deep breath, the humid air thick in his lungs. The partition didn't reach the floor. He could see Dale’s feet, planted wider apart than usual, water swirling around his ankles. Driven by a morbid curiosity and a desperate need for shared reality, Ethan crouched slightly, peering beneath the partition into the next stall.
Dale stood with his back mostly turned, head bowed under the spray, water sluicing down the dramatic V-shape of his back – broader, thicker, layered with muscle Ethan hadn't seen even yesterday. His waist was still relatively narrow, emphasizing the new width. But Ethan's gaze snagged lower. Dale was frantically, almost angrily, scrubbing his groin area. And despite the vigorous washing, there was no hiding the rigid, heavy thickness between his legs. It was undeniably larger than before, flushed dark, standing out starkly against his thigh. It pulsed visibly, seemingly unaffected by the cold tile or Dale’s frantic attempts to subdue it.
Fuck, look at that. Built for action. The thought slammed into Ethan’s mind, not his own hesitant whisper, but Brick’s predatory approval, amplified and internalized. Good equipment. Ethan felt a hot, answering jolt in his own groin, a heavy ache blooming that had nothing to do with the water temperature. His own body thickened, responding instantly to the image and the invasive thought.
Dale must have sensed the stare. He whipped around, eyes wide with panic and shame behind fogged glasses. He instinctively covered himself with the washcloth, but the tenting fabric and his mortified expression confirmed everything. His gaze dropped instantly to Ethan’s own groin, where a similar, undeniable erection strained against the thin fabric of his briefs. The air crackled, thick with steam and shared humiliation.
"Stop looking!" Dale hissed, his deeper voice cracking. But it wasn't just embarrassment Ethan saw. There was a flicker of something else – a raw, startled hunger that mirrored the unwelcome heat coiling in Ethan’s own belly. Want it, the internal voice growled. Dale’s? His own? Brick’s? The lines were irrevocably blurred.
Look at him. Built now. Ours. The possessive growl echoed in Ethan’s head, terrifyingly external. Dale flinched as if struck, confirming he’d heard it too. His knuckles whitened on the washcloth.
Before either could process the violation, the plastic partition rattled violently. Brick stood there, a towel slung low on his hips, his expression predatory amusement. His eyes raked over Dale’s exposed state, lingering appreciatively on the visible evidence of his arousal. "Problem in paradise, Data?" His gaze flicked to Ethan, taking in his own flushed state. "Looks like the program's working overtime. Good." He leaned closer to Dale, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rumble that vibrated in the steamy air. "That’s the fire, kid. Channel it. Use it on the field. Good boy."
Dale froze. The shame on his face warred with something else – a terrifying, involuntary reaction. At Brick’s words, at the proximity, a shudder ran through him. Not just a flinch. His back stiffened, his head tilted back slightly under the spray, and a low, involuntary groan escaped his lips. Deep, resonant, and utterly submissive. His arousal visibly surged against the washcloth.
Brick grinned, a flash of white teeth. "See? Told ya you'd get it." He clapped Dale hard on the shoulder. Dale didn't pull away. He just stood there, breathing heavily, water plastering his hair to his skull, the washcloth the only flimsy barrier, caught between horror and a horrifying, conditioned response. Brick turned his smirk on Ethan. "Five minutes. Locker room. Don't make me come back." He sauntered away, whistling.
The steam pressed in, heavy and suffocating. Dale slowly lowered the washcloth. He still didn't look at Ethan. His erection hadn't subsided; if anything, it seemed more prominent, a blatant testament to the confused, programmed arousal Brick had just stoked. He stared down at it, then at his own hands, now thicker, knuckles broader, tracing the unfamiliar contours of his newly thickened thigh. His voice, when it came, was a hollow rasp, stripped of its usual quiet intelligence, resonating with the bass notes forced upon him. "What the hell... is happening... to me?"
Ethan had no answer. Only the relentless heat of the pendant against his skin, the ache in his own traitorous body, and the chilling echo of Dale’s submission in the steamy air. The locker room beckoned, a gauntlet of knowing smirks and crude assessments. They were changing, alright. Faster, harder, deeper than they’d ever imagined possible. And the fire Brick praised felt less like passion and more like a slow, terrifying immolation. He shut off the water, the sudden silence broken only by Dale’s ragged breathing and the insistent drip-drip-drip from the tap. The cold air hit his wet skin, but it did nothing to quench the deeper, more dangerous heat within.