A Day to Remember

“Any plans for the weekend?”

Kyle had forgotten he had Monday off. What day was it again? Labor Day? No, that was the end of the summer.

He shrugged at his co-worker as he slung his computer bag over his shoulder. “Dunno,” Kyle said, “probably just sleep. Mill around. Watch Netflix.”

He wasn’t wrong: it didn’t matter if it was Christmas, Thanksgiving, or Passover. Kyle’s only form of “celebration” was relaxation. Especially this year, since he’d used up all his sick days to go on a birthday trip to Italy with his girlfriend.

What are people even supposed to do on Memorial Day? Kyle thought as he headed home. He wasn’t even sure if he knew what was being memorialized. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was sleeping in Monday morning, putting on his comfy sweats, and settling down with a full tub of ice cream and all 7 seasons of Parks and Rec.

Kyle woke up at 5 A.M. Monday morning.

“What the fuck?” He peeked through his blinds. The sun was just beginning to rise. Kyle never got up this early, even for work. Why would anyone get up this early?

But that wasn’t even the weirdest part. When Kyle opened up his fridge, he found no ice cream, no chips and salsa. None of the food he’d bought for the long weekend. Instead, the fridge was stocked with lean proteins: chickens, steaks, shakes, eggs.

“Weird,” Kyle said. He opted for an omelette, though it wasn’t very flavorful without cheese—which Kyle could have sworn that he bought too. This wasn’t the kitchen of a 25-year-old out-of-shape computer technician; this was the fridge of a serious health nut. At the very least, someone who cared about their body more than him.

Kyle put his fork down. He turned back to the fridge to find the egg carton empty. “The hell?” He hadn’t eaten the whole thing… had he? How long had he been eating for?

His watched beeped. “Shit.” He was supposed to start working out ten minutes ago. But no… that can’t be right. I don’t work out! And I certainly don’t set my watch.

But he was feeling pretty full. A couple push ups wouldn’t hurt. He dropped down right there in the kitchen and started cranking them out. One after the other… 20… 30… 50…

His form was astonishing. Kyle hadn’t done a push-up in years. How was this possible? He was approaching 100, and had barely broken a sweat. There was no way his body was capable of this kind of activity. And yet, when Kyle stood up, the only thing he could think was: arms.

He headed back to his room, where a metal pull-up bar hung in the door frame. That was NOT there before, Kyle’s mind was telling him, but his body wasn’t questioning it. Within seconds, he was lifting himself up off the ground. He was able to pull himself up with shocking ease. Within two minutes. He was doing them with one hand.

And that’s when Kyle noticed his bicep. Fuck… it was huge! Bulging and veiny as it curled up in a ball the side of a football, propelling all 210 pounds of Kyle up into the air. Not only that, but Kyle had noticed the texture of the skin change. He stopped lifting and stood in awe, watching as a full tattoo sleeve appeared on his arm.

Where did that come from? But Kyle knew exactly where it had come from: he’d been adding onto it for years. Every time he got deployed, he’d add another section, a memory of the places he visited… the places he served…

“No, no way—I’m not—I’ve never…” Kyle’s head was reeling. These memories weren’t his own. This apartment, this kitchen, this life was someone else’s. This was the life of a 35-year-old Navy Seal. Kyle had never touched a gun in his life.

He dove for the closet. He threw open the doors. Sure enough, his gun cache sat in a large chest bellow a wide variety of Army vests, outfits, and camo gear.

“Fuck me.” Kyle said in disbelief. His voice was noticeably deeper, more commanding. The second he heard it, the second he began to grasp the depth of his newfound masculinity, he felt his body erupt with change.

He fell back on the bed, writhing. He’d known pain before—nothing could hold a candle to Seal training, except maybe being shot in the leg. But this was different. He felt pain, sure. Who wouldn’t when you muscles are exploding with growth, swelling like giant bee stings under your skin as your bones crack and shift, as coarse hair bursts forth from your chin into a grizzly beard?

But along with the pain came a profound pleasure. The pleasure of a good pump, a solid workout, a nice long jack off session with your titanic dick.

“My titanic dick?”

Yes Kyle. You’re never going to have sex the same way again. Guys in your squadron like to call you the viper, because that’s what it looks like when you take off you pants.

He felt the reality of it all—his squadron, his guns, his gear, his life—hit him with the power of a hand grenade. He pulled out his cock. Thick, uncut, veiny like his arms, like his legs, like his colossal chest and heavy pecs. He could practically feel the wet warm of his best mate Paul’s mouth as he went down on him that first time in Afghanistan. He could feel the right pull of Jack’s ass when they fucked that one night in ‘09 before they deployed.

“GRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH”

Hot spunk erupted over Kyle’s hard chest as he let out his first load of the day. It wouldn’t be the last. Memorial Day was a time for celebration, a time for remembering those who’d given their lives, and a time for hot sweaty sex between his brothers and arms.

They were all headed over that night to crack open some beers, shoot the shit, and fuck. As was traditional. Kyle knew he had a lot to do to get ready, but for that moment, he was content basking in the warm morning sun blazing through his apartment window. It reminded him of the hot Afghan desert, the heat coming off his exposed arms, one hand tight around his gun, the other scratching his balls.

He got up, walked over to the closet, and started to get dressed. His vest barely fit him anymore: he’d gotten so much bigger. He slipped his American flag cap onto his head and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. This was indeed, a special day.