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Part 1 – The High School Hero Chapter 1 I’ve never embraced the spotlight. I’ve had many chances at having the center of attention all to myself, but that’s not who I am as a person. I like to be just on the outskirts of the spotlight—close enough that I can feel its warmth and people can see me, but not so close that it blinds me. If I wanted to be magnificently famous, it would have happened. I had many opportunities. Instead, though, I stayed on those outskirts. My life has changed drastically depending on whose outskirts I was staying on. The high school hero, the college con-artist, the West California wild card, the Hollywood hunk—they each changed me in very different ways. But I don’t want to tell my whole life story—every grocery trip, every load of laundry, every DMV line. I do want to give the highlights, though. Because, oh, have I had some highlights. But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I guess I should really start by explaining my nickname. My name is Gerald P. Vaughn, but it’s my most intimate nickname that really matters. I’ve had many casual nicknames throughout my life, but only a select few have ever called me The Repository. My high school boyfriend gave that particular nickname to me. I didn’t know then why Gregg picked me. He was the hunky hero of the football team. I was the editor of yearbook who spent my weekends writing fan-fic of Spider-man and The Hunger Games. He had firm, taut muscles and dazzlingly blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. I had a somewhat slight frame, and mud-brown hair and eyes. He was well over six feet tall. I was a slightly more than average 6’, my only really distinguishing feature being my height. He came from money and was super popular. I worked at a deli part time to help the family expenses and had a small but tight-knit circle of friends. Gregg and I only met because we had the same AP English class. I’d noticed him freshman year, but I don’t think he even knew my name until we had that English class together. At our little high school in Illinois, any student taking an AP class senior year had to take a special one-day seminar at the end of their junior years to give us our summer assignments so we could hit the ground running come September. That’s where Gregg and I officially met. He asked me out, and we dated in secret all summer. He was still closeted, so we couldn’t date openly, but I was still a teenager—so I didn’t really care. I liked having him as my secret. We would spend muggy summer afternoons in my attic bedroom in each other’s embrace. We didn’t do a lot of talking, but we spent a lot of time together. I couldn’t get enough of his athletic torso and pert pecs. He couldn’t get enough of my kisses. Gregg told me I was an amazing kisser. He wouldn’t be the last. A few months into our relationship, a week after my 18th birthday, we finally decided it was time to go beyond the heavy petting and hand jobs and try some serious sex. After the dance of condoms and lube, Gregg prepared to top me. He pounded me dutifully with his girthy 5 inches, but lasted all of two minutes. Apparently, Mr. Football Hotshot was a virgin before he started dating me. He’d had girlfriends, he'd told me, but I guess none of those girls had gotten as far with him as I had. I wasn’t going to hold it against him; I was a virgin before I started dating him too. When he finished, he told me it was my turn. My head was so filled with stereotypes about gay sex and who tops who that I actually didn’t expect he’d give me a turn topping, and I was so excited to try. I put the condom on my eager (and perfectly average) 6 inch dick, and I began working myself into him. I wanted to fuck him hard and good, but given the disparity in our bodies, I didn’t think I could. Then, instinctively, it occurred to me. “Lend me ten pounds,” I said. “What?” he asked in a fog of sex and confusion. “Lend me ten pounds of muscle,” I repeated, adding, “Please.” Perhaps thinking it was some kind of role play, he meekly said, “Okay. You can borrow ten pounds of muscle.” As soon as he said it, his muscles diminished a little. He was still firm and big, but nowhere near as big as he had just been. At the same time, I felt my body become more solid, stronger, taking up more space. My flat chest blossomed a little, my arms thickened, my abs tightened, my ass firmed. His ten pounds were in my body, and I used them to start fucking him harder and more thoroughly. Gregg looked at our bodies, and a look of joy spread over his face as I picked up the pace of my fucking. “You can borrow another ten, as long as you fuck me senseless,” he said, giving into the passion. Ten more pounds melted off his physique. He still looked fit and healthy with a trim midsection, but he looked more like an up-and-coming football player rather than a football star. I, meanwhile, now looked like I’d been working out for years, building my body up to teenaged muscular perfection. My chest was thick and proud, my arms were strong and solid, and my ass flexed into round relief as I plowed Gregg thoroughly. He came for the second time before I came once. But when I did climax, the might I had in my borrowed muscles flexed and tensed, drawing up close to the surface. Looking down at my reduced boyfriend, my body was thicker and meatier than his, a realization that spurred my orgasm to greater heights. I pulled out and rolled over so we could spoon, and as soon as he had his arms around me, I said, “Okay. You can have them back now.” When I said it, my form returned to its normal state, and the arms around me grew strong and burly, Gregg’s arms as I had come to know them.
TQuintA posted a topic in 4th Annual StoriversaryChapter 1 As I slid the white chinos over my ass, I had to struggle a little bit. These were my favorite dress pants because they were tight in that sexy way that hugged my ass, but they’d never quite strangled my ass like this before. I walked over to the full-sized mirror on the closet door and looked at my ass in the pants as best I could. I looked a little thick, like my workouts had been returning some serious dividends. “Danny,” I cried out, turning from one side to the other, “come in here.” My husband came into the bedroom, frantically adjusting his tie and looking a little miffed that I’d called him in. “We’re going to be late,” he said, kicking a half-empty box aside. We’d just moved into this house five days ago from an apartment halfway across California, and we hadn’t finished unpacking yet. He’d just gotten a new job at ChorrTek, a multinational corporation, and they’d paid for us to relocate to the planned community just outside their Palo Alto headquarters. As far as I was aware, the community didn’t even have an actual name: everyone just called it the ChorrTek planned community. I had been sad to leave behind the small number of friends I had in LA—it takes me forever to warm up to new people—but it was the right move for both of us. Besides, the house was beautiful, if gigantic. In addition to two guest bedrooms, there were just a lot of rooms. It had a living room, and a den, and a TV room. When I was growing up, all three of those were the same room. I was pretty sure we didn’t own enough furniture to fill it. “Did these pants shrink, or did my ass get bigger?” I asked, turning around slowly in a complete circle and sticking out my rear end to give him every possible vantage. When I was facing him again, I stopped and held my hands out to the sides for his assessment. “You’re not even dressed yet?” he asked. He picked my long-sleeved blue pullover off the bed where I had put it and threw it at me. Laughing, I caught the shirt and slung it over one shoulder. “You didn’t answer the question.” Danny rolled his eyes in frustration and made a face of pure consternation. “Your ass looks great, RT. It always looks great.” “Still not answering the question,” I teased in a sing-song. “Okay, yes, your ass looks bigger. Keep up the good work, tiger. Now will you get dressed? I don’t want to be late.” I zipped up my pants and put on my shirt. “Get over here,” I said, beckoning him with my hand. “I want to make sure we match.” “What?” he asked, trudging over like a toddler who’s been told to pick up his toys. I put my arm around his shoulder, and held him close to me. He had spent hours trying to wheedle me into a suit and tie, and the only way I’d gotten him to give up was to promise that my outfit would match his. He was wearing a tan suit with a bright blue tie. “Look at us,” I said, pointing in the mirror. Danny was slightly taller than me—an inch at most—and had classic Mediterranean features he inherited from his mother’s side of the family, complete with curly black hair on the top of his head that he spent a lot of haircuts and grooming products to keep as flat as possible, thick facial hair that needed twice-daily shaving to keep him as smooth as he wanted, deep chestnut eyes that shined a little behind contact lenses (because he was too vain to wear glasses), and the appearance of a year-round tan. My Danny was thin, but wiry, with soft, delicate features like a Botticelli. He looked model handsome in his suit. I, on the other hand, had gotten everything from the British Isles courtesy of my father: straight brown hair that I kept cut close to my head, a beard that took two weeks to fully come in, pale blue eyes, and skin that only ever burned, never tanned. However, I was naturally stocky and had a chiseled face and broad jaw, and I’d dedicated the last month and a half trying to get back into the top-notch shape I’d had when I played college baseball. As we looked at ourselves in the mirror, Danny softened a little, and added, “We’re going to knock ‘em dead tonight.” “Just let me splash on some cologne,” I said as Danny groaned in impatience, “and then we can head out.” “You’re stalling on purpose,” Danny said, half-jokingly. “It’s your work thing, darling. I don’t exactly relish going.” “It’s just this one last thing, and then you’re free,” he said. “Yeah, yeah,” I responded, closing the bathroom door before me. At least a dozen different events had been “one last thing.” There was so much schmoozing involved in getting him this job at ChorrTek. It was on the cutting edge of technology, but it was such a boy’s club. I hadn’t seen a single female executive at any of the meetings or functions, and there certainly weren’t any on its website. Danny had to basically swindle them into hiring their first out gay executive. “It’s a welcome party.” “You’re not the only new employee,” I reminded him. “I’m the only new executive,” he chimed back. “They’re essentially throwing the party for me,” Danny explained for the tenth time. “They expect my husband to be there.” Only mildly annoyed, I called through the door, “I’m going to spend the night making small talk with strangers while you try to ingratiate yourself with your new coworkers and bosses. No part of that is fun for me.” “I’m the first gay executive at this company, ever, and they hired me from the outside rather than promote one of their own. It’s a big deal,” he repeated. “Is that so?” I said half under my breath as though this were new information. As I was putting on the cologne, looking at myself in the harsh, overhead bathroom lighting, I looked at myself again. My arms looked thicker, my chest looked thicker, my neck looked thicker, my shoulders even looked a little broader. I looked like I’d put on some mass. I decided to step on the scale. 176. This morning I was just over 170. What the hell? “Is this scale broken?” I asked Danny. I could hear that he’d been pacing in the bedroom because his footsteps suddenly stopped. “What are you on about now?” he asked, his footsteps starting up again. He came into the bathroom without even knocking. When he saw me on the scale, I could see the effort he exerted to prevent himself from making an exasperated grimace. “Why are you on the scale?” “I know I’ve been working out a lot, but this scale says I put on five pounds today. Today. In one day. That doesn’t happen.” I flexed my forearm and bicep of my left arm in front of me, turning it one way and then the other. I looked thicker. Danny grunted. “I should’ve waited until after the party, but I was impatient and I wanted to make a good impression.” That was a confusing response. “I don’t follow.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and showed it to me. There was a new app that had ChorrTek’s logo on it. “All the executives get this app. It’s in-house only, though. They never plan to take it to the general market. It’s the latest in body mod technology. They swear it’s super-scientific. But I’m just the ad guy, so it sounds like magic to me.” “A body mod app?” “It’s the ultimate employee perk. It allows you to make some tweaks.” “And so you tweaked my body?” “Well, it’s tuned to your body. At your check-up to switch over to my employee healthcare, that shot you got was the corresponding hardware. My app can only make tweaks on you. No one else.” “I again say, so you tweaked my body?” “All of the execs at the company have this app and use it to tweak their wives. It’s like real-life Face Tune.” “But you didn’t tweak my face,” I reminded him. “I want to put my best foot forward. I had to use the app eventually, or they’d see it as an insult. It could’ve waited until after the party, yeah, but I got impatient. They’ve only ever used it on their wives. They’re curious to see how it works on a man. It’s not my fault their spouses were doorstops and you’re drop dead sexy. You left very little room for improvement.” I looked back in the mirror and flexed. “I look good with five more pounds of mass.” “Hot as hell,” he said. “With all the working out you’ve been doing, I figured you wouldn’t mind a little boost.” He stood behind me and began kissing the back of my neck and behind my ears. Even though he’d shaved an hour ago, I could already feel some of his facial hair starting to scratch my soft, tender skin. “Dammit,” I said, falling back into his waiting arms. “Can we go to the party now.” I turned my neck and head to kiss him on the cheek. “Alright.”