Stunt Work

[6 word request: Stand-In Can Borrow Actor's Size Anytime]

Chuck Hertz’s trailor looked more like a fortress. It was clearly the biggest on set--not surprising, from what I heard they were paying the guy--and they actually had a gentleman out front working security for it. I flashed my badge, introduced myself as Chuck’s stuntman, and they let me through. Or rather, after they had a production assistant doublecheck my identity, then made phone calls to three different producers to grant permission, they let me through.

I was respectful the whole time they made me wait. It’s not that I don’t look like a stuntman. Stuntmen come in every shape in size, the only commonality being that we all can take a beating and get up begging for more. I just didn’t look like Chuck’s stuntman. I came up to the shoulder of the suited gentleman with the headset bouncing Chuck’s trailer. I wear a size medium shirt most of the time. At first glance, my “special skills” aren’t apparent, and I like that word about them isn’t getting around. It helps me keep a low profile, which I like.

The air conditioning in Chuck’s trailer was on full blast. Speakers I couldn’t see were blasting early 2000s butt-rock in every room--heavy guitars and growling into the mike. It fit with what I knew about the guy: defensive end in the NFL who retired after two years to get into pro wrestling. A square jaw and a symmetrical face made him marketable, and 260 pounds of muscle and a shocking amount of athleticism for a man that size made him a star. Movies were the natural next step for the big lug. It was the same story with every big name action star I stunted for.

Chuck was in a seat swiping a thick finger lazily across his iPad while an assistant--an olive-skinned guy about my size--used a massage gun on Chuck’s big meaty shoulders. With al that man crammed into that little chair, I was surprised the legs didn’t snap.

“Chuck?” I had to shout to be heard over Disturbed or Breaking Benjamin or whatever he had blaring. Chuck looked at me, then looked back at his assistant, who pointed a finger at the door behind me.

“Mr. Hertz isn’t allowing any visitors,” he said in a slightly feminine voice. I would have flirted but I needed to maintain professionalism. He turned his focus back to Chuck’s massive traps and clicked on the massage gun again.

“Yeah, I gathered that, from the security outside. I’m Chuck’s stunt guy. I wanted to get a feel with him before we started working together.”

Chuck looked at me and smiled. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“I loved you in Marine Hunter,” I said, adding, “and Dark Galaxy an unbelievably underrated movie.” What I didn’t add was that the stunt work on both of Chuck’s prior movies was sub-par. That’s why this studio had called me in, that is.

“Yeah, to be honest,” he said, tilting his thick neck so his assistant could focus on another sore area, “I don’t get why we need a stunt guy at all. Eight years in pro-wrestling, I did all my own stunts. What have they got here, me jumping out of a helicopter? Some fist-fighting? Flipping a car? I can handle all that.”

I smiled. “They need you to look pretty from beginning to end,” I said. “Can’t do that if an accident burns half your face or if you snap your leg.”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “You know how many times I got injured in my football career? Two, and that’s from pee-wee to the NFL. I sprained an ankle and a wrist while I was wrestling. Sometimes I wonder if I’m unbreakable!” He laughed, then looked behind him. When prompted, his assistant laughed as well.

“See, that worries me,” I said. “No injuries means you’re more likely to take a risk. When you break a leg fucking up a landing, you’re more likely to twist left when you should roll right. That’s why they have guys like me to take care of that stuff. You’re a performer; I’m what I like to call a ‘crash professional.’ “

Chuck shrugged. “I mean, whatever the studio wants to waste their money on. Thing is, where the fuck are they gonna find a guy to stunt for me?” He stood up. The assistant seemed sad to break his focus on Chuck’s thick upper back.

If you’ve never seen a professional athlete in person, you’ve never really experienced their size before. On your screen, on your phone, you can’t really take in just how big some of these fuckers are. Chuck was 6’5”, and he looked like his weight was around 280. I was glad to see he was back to packing on size. Too many guys go the “family movie” route and drop a bunch of size to seem more approachable.

“Well, see, that’s why I’m here,” I said with a grin. “I have a pretty rare ability that makes me the perfect fit when it comes to guys like you.”

Chuck collapsed back into his chair. The assistant aimed the gun at the huge horseshoe of Chuck’s tricep that threatened to split the short sleeves of his polo shirt. “So what are you, stunt coordinator? CGI guy? You gonna digitally add 60 pounds to some guy so he can pass off as me?”

Early on in my career, it really irked me when studios wouldn’t warn actors exactly what my job was going to be. I was still getting starstruck by guys like the Rock and John Cena, even big pretty-boys like Armie Hammer and Jason Momoa. I wanted to be their buddy, and I hated how upset they would get as soon as they figured out how this was all going to work. But I was a seasoned stuntman at that point. I actually kind of got off on it.

I liked that it happened with no warning. I liked that Chuck probably had plans to hit the gym later. Maybe have a lady stop by his trailer to dump out some of the testosterone clouding his brain. But none of that was going to happen now.

It happened instantaneously, like always. The assistant’s massage gun was suddenly just pounding at air. Chuck was sitting way lower in his seat, drowning in his clothes, blinking as he gazed around stupidly. To him, everything just got a lot bigger. The seat that he barely squeezed his muscular ass into was now roomy enough to fit two of him. His shoes had fallen off, socks still in them, and he couldn’t figure out why his clothes were so baggy.

The assistant’s eyes hit me before Chuck’s did. I had been wearing a baggy t-shirt and oversized sweatpants on purpose, knowing I was going to be twice the size by the end of the day. Still, my XXL shirt felt like it would burst apart if I laughed, while the sweatpants felt like they were going to cut off my circulation. I reached down and tore holes in them to relieve the pressure. There was still the matter of the huge bulge up front, barely contained, but I would have to bear with it until I stopped by wardrobe.

Chuck’s assistant’s eyes lit up with something familiar. I was willing to bed my original hunch about him was true. But little Chuck’s face flashed with fear--which I’m sure was an unfamiliar emotion for the big lug. He stood up, grabbing his still-belted pants before they hit the ground, and shuffled toward me, feet tangled up in his dragging pant legs.

“What the fuck did you do?” he shrieked in a voice that was about as high-pitched as mine had been a few moments before. Very gently--but firmly--I grabbed little Chuck by the shoulders, lifted him up and put him back in his seat. His phone had started to ring.

“That’s probably your agent about to explain things to you,” I said--DAMN, my voice was a rumble now! Felt good belting it out, almost as good as the Rock’s had been. “This is how I’m going to do your stunts.” I smiled. “Don’t worry, they’ll dye my hair so it’s the same color as yours. They really just need someone your size to make it look perfect.”

“How is this even possible?” Chuck squeaked. He started to stand but I held up a hand, which was enough to keep him seated.

“Look, I know this is a shock,” I said, shifting uncomfortably in my too-tight pants. I heard the back of my shirt starting to tear as I moved. “It’s not my fault nobody warned you about this, but if you check your contracts, you’ll see you signed an NDA about this. Don’t worry, nobody will know you’re renting out your size to someone who can do your stunts for you. You can stay in the trailer while I’ve got your bulk so nobody leaks a pic of teeny-tiny you to social media.”

As I started to leave, I smiled at the way my newly heavy footsteps made the whole trailer shake.

“Where are you going?” Chuck yelled.

“Screen test,” I said. “We have some stunts to rehearse. I have to get used to being your size before we pull them off.”

Later that day, after strutting around as the biggest guy on set for awhile, intimidating the shit out of anybody with a set of balls (all smaller than mine, as I discovered in the restroom), I headed to wardrobe, where they tossed me a smaller shirt and clothes to change into. I released all of Chuck’s size, deflating out of the costume, and got reacquainted with my usual body as I got dressed. As much as I loved looking down at everyone, noticing how much my absurdly huge muscles were flexing with the most casual gestures, and hoisting massive weights like they were nothing, it felt nice to be back to normal. My usual body was so much lighter. It hurt less. It didn’t take up so much space and people weren’t always staring at it.

Chuck never left his trailer after I stole his size. He probably spent the day screaming in his wimpy voice at his agent, at the producers and the director, before they told him to shut the fuck up. I would imagine they didn’t regard him with the same reverence they had when he was the large superstar alpha stud. I’m sure he was incredibly thankful to be big again.

“What’s the first thing you do when you get big again?” I once asked the Rock at the end of a movie we did.

“I jerk off,” he had said in a low voice, grinning coyly. “Every time. No better way to enjoy being big again than by grabbing my big dick with my big hand and going to town.”

I can’t imagine Chuck would have felt any different about it.

*

My boyfriend Frank was in the bathroom when my phone vibrated. Our rule was, “No work calls in the bedroom,” and I shouldn’t have brought it in with me. But when I got home from work, he swept me up into his big hairy arms and carried me upstairs, kissing me deeply the whole way. He tossed me on my bed and my big bear of a boyfriend leapt on me, pinning me to the bed with his bulk. God damn his beard smelled so good! What a night. In all my years of stunt work, that pounding was one that would always stand out.

Since Frank was in the shower, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to check my phone. Then maybe I could sneak in with him and soap up his big muscular back, maybe followed up with him fucking me against the steamy shower wall. 

It was Telly Wallace, Chuck’s agent.

“Hey, Chip,” he said. His voice had a greasy charm that I’m sure worked well on people that were new to the business, and women who were already two drinks deep. “Look, Chip, how fast can you get down to the set?”

I sighed. It was my day off. Frank and I had plans later.

“Not sure,” I said, refusing to commit to anything. “Why, what’s up?”

“Chuck’s kind of pitching a fit,” he said. “Did you get the e-mail last night? The stunt coordinator should have briefed you on everything.”

No, I wanted to say, my grizzly bear of a boyfriend was fucking me in half.

“Yeah Telly,” I said, opening the e-mail as I stalled for time. “I sure did. Wasn’t sure how soon everything was going into effect, though.” As I read the e-mail, I learned what he was talking about: to save money, all of my stunt work was going to be filmed first. Chuck’s scenes would be filmed later.

“Immediately,” Telly said. “Sorry, I thought the e-mail was clear. You were going to be starting today, filming for the next three weeks.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. I heard the squeak of the shower shutting off. Frank was going to kill me. I could counter, of course, that my work alone paid for our penthouse, but I wasn’t in the mood for a fight. I was as disappointed as Frank was going to be. It had been weeks since we’d had a day to ourselves. “I mean, I can leave for the studio now…”

“See, here’s the thing,” Telly said, lowering his voice. “Chuck’s kind of having a meltdown about this. He’s making some demands the studio isn’t happy with, and he’s threatening to break contract. We were wondering if you could…”

The silence hung as I realized what Telly was asking.

“...I mean, I just figured if he wasn’t quite so big, maybe he would be more willing to play ball.”

“Are you saying you want me to take his size and keep it?” I asked. What an interesting prospect: six weeks at Chuck’s size. That muscle and bulk did feel incredible, and the cock alone was a thrill.

“Well, we were wondering…” Telly said, his tone taking on a note of pleading, “...we don’t have anything to film today, but we were wondering if you could drive down here to… y’know, shrink him down… just to take the fight out of him for the day.”

I chuckled. “I don’t need to drive down there to do that,” I said. “Once I’ve done it once, I can do it from anywhere.”

“Well, then!” Telly said elated. “How soon can you do it? Uh… now maybe? Before he destroys his whole trailer?” I could hear shouting in the background and things smashing.

I heard our bed creak as my new bulk settled in. Our California King looked so much smaller like this. As I stood, the man in the mirror looked like an intruder--I wasn’t used to seeing anyone shaped like that in this space. It always took me awhile to adjust to the way my face looked, warped by the transferred muscle.

I heard Telly cackle on the other end. “Yeah, much better!” he said. “How do you like that, you little shit?” he yelled away from the phone. “You gonna settle down now or do you want to feel what it’s like to get suplexed yourself?”

Telly hung up without saying goodbye. I didn’t relish doing this. Later on in the day I would stop by Chuck’s trailer and ask him to train me at the gym. We could make it a regular thing. I remember the tantrum Bautista threw the first time he ended up a bald little weakling and I strutted around with all of his muscle, but when I asked him to help me train, he felt like his brawn was still somewhat his. If I played a little dopey in the gym, he felt like he was in charge of big me. It helped ease the pain of suddenly being a small-fry after being a lifetime of being the biggest man in the room.

I opened the bathroom door a crack and whispered, “Hey, baby, I have a surprise for you.”

“What?” he said, turning off the water. I felt the humid air rush out of the crack of the door. “Honey, either come in or close the door. You’re letting all the steam out.”

I opened the door slowly. Frank’s whole body tensed when he saw me approach. It felt so strange to look down on my apeish boyfriend. He was my heroic ogre, the big man who carried me through life, but now I was a few inches taller and easily thirty pounds bigger.

He dropped his towel and doubled his fists but I just gently grabbed his wrists.

“Chip, what the fuck?” he said as I reached under his arms and effortlessly lifted him up to set him on the bathroom counter so he could look down on me once again.

I had used my powers on Frank just once. He wanted to know what it was like to be small, to bottom for me. He had made me promise never to do it to him again.

“It’s for work,” I explained. “I’m going to be like this for six more weeks.” I grabbed his hands and guided them to my rock-hard, barrel chest. I made my big pecs bounce, then let his hands slide down my eight-pack.

I could see Frank’s dick spring to attention, despite the fact that he was still just getting used to this. I had never brought my job home with me like this. He never visited the set when I was bulked up. He opened his mouth but I put one muscular finger to his lips, then leaned in and kissed him. He grabbed my massive arms as I did so.

Fuck! It felt good to be this big, to bring all these muscles into the bed. Muscles were always Frank’s thing. He was the big one, the competitive powerlifter, the personal trainer, but he had never had a body like Chuck’s. Now that body was mine.

“Whose… is this?” he asked tentatively as I wrapped a thick paw around his hard dick.

“Doesn’t matter I said,” leaning in to kiss him again. “It’s mine for six weeks.”

I made my pecs bounce one at a time. Frank couldn’t keep his eyes off them.

“You feel like bottoming, big man?” I asked as I hoisted him up and threw him over my shoulder. His hands were feeling all over the massive muscles of my back while his dick poked ramrod hard into my shoulder.

This time I threw him on my bed, then with one hand, flipped him so he was face down.

“Chip,” Frank moaned into the pillow, “be gentle, big guy.”

Damn, I thought. “Big guy.” No matter how often I heard that, I would never get tired of hearing it.

For one moment I flashed on big Chuck, now a weak little shrimp getting tossed around by his agent. It would be good for him, I thought. It would build character, grant him humility.

Or maybe it would make him more of a bully when he was big again. I didn’t care. I would cash my paychecks and fuck my boyfriend with Chuck’s body without a second thought. I would call him “big guy” but he and I would both know who the real big guy was.