Shade Posted August 10, 2021 Share Posted August 10, 2021 Not a single character has felt flat and two dimensional to me. So it’s interesting to see where you’ll take it, and how our protagonist will change. Not often a story on here can keep me so engrossed. 7 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hugeman2 Posted August 12, 2021 Share Posted August 12, 2021 So this story isn't a quick pump session for me, if you know what I mean. So I let Part 2 sit for a bit and then binged! Its very hot in a slow burn way and your character building, wit, and references are just so good. Its a tantalizing story that brings me to the edge of my seat every time I read. So so well done! I await Friday's installment. 2 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted August 13, 2021 Author Share Posted August 13, 2021 Part 3 – The West California Wild Card Chapter 3 I waited three days for Puck to call me, but he didn’t. I would’ve just called him, but I couldn’t. I tried to find his phone number online, but I couldn’t do that either. I’m sure someone proficient in social media or online culture could have, but that’s not me. It was really frustrating. Not sure what to do, I called Shafe to ask him about it. He was coming into town to visit me in a few days, and I figured he’d have some advice. Unhelpfully, Shafe suggested I consult a shaman he knew in the San Fernando valley. I called Jonah in hopes of getting more pragmatic advice—he was similarly unhelpful, basically suggesting I go to every strip club in LA. When day four came, I had a meeting at my publishers to talk about the release of Hollow Maple. After my meeting, I swung by H. K.’s office. The door was open, so I walked in while knocking. “Am I disturbing you?” “Not really,” he said, finished typing a sentence, then looked up at me. “What’s up?” “I met your brother at your birthday party. I was wondering if you would give me his number?” “You want E. C.’s number?” H. K. raised a circumspect eyebrow. “Does he owe you money?” H. K.’s tone was hard to place, and the question marks were exaggerated. “I was hoping to ask him out, actually.” “You want to ask my brother out?” “Yes.” H. K. launched himself out of his chair and sprang to me at the door. He grabbed both of my shoulders and looked me squarely in my eye. “You want to date my brother? Not a hook-up or a fling, but an honest-to-goodness date?” “Yes.” H. K. pulled me into a hug. “Thank God. Yes, I’ll give you his number. And his address if you need it.” He let go of the hug. “Sorry, but E. C. needs a man like you in his life.” “I’m just asking him out on a date. I’m not his personal savior or anything.” “Sorry again. I’m overreacting. It’s just,” H. K.’s tone turned to one of mild disgust, “the last couple of guys my brother has been with have been…” he trailed off, then finished the sentence in his normal tone, “worrying. Everything he’s done for over a year has been…” he paused, clearly looking for a non-judgmental word, and finished the sentence with, “worrying.” “You know I’m going to tell him you said that,” I announced. “As you should. Do you think he’ll say yes? To going out with you?” “I hope so. We hit it off at the party and flirted up a storm. I called him Puck; he called me Muscles.” “You’re Muscles?” H. K. punched me in the shoulder, a dopey grin on his face. “Well, then, yeah. He’s going to say yes. He told me he had met this guy named Muscles. He didn’t tell me it was at my party. I thought you’d be some bruiser from a biker gang. Or something worse. Thank God it’s you.” H. K. held out his hand and gestured that he wanted my phone. When I put it in his hand, he started typing. “This is his number.” Quickly and painlessly, I left his office and went back home. As soon as I got back to my condo, I crashed on my favorite chair and pulled out my phone. Then, I just stared at his number for two minutes. Calling him felt too direct. Texting felt too much like a college move. But, lacking social media, those were my only two options. After a longer chunk of indecision than I was comfortable with, I decided blunt was preferable to amateurish, so I called him. He picked up on the second ring. “Well, well, someone’s forthright.” “Someone else said he’d call me four days ago.” “Yeah, that’s on me. On a lark, I went to Mexico with a co-worker, and I figured it would be best not to call you until I got back.” “You were really going to call me, then?” “Most definitely. I’ve been home all of five hours, or I would’ve called you already.” “Excellent.” “How’d you get my number? Cyber-stalk me?” “I got it from your brother.” “Old school and daring.” Puck sounded impressed. “I bet brother dearest got down on his knees and kissed your feet when you asked for my number.” “No, but he did hug me.” “I was joking.” “I wasn’t. Why was he so eager for me to ask you out?” “I’ll tell you all about it over dinner. You free tonight?” “Yes.” Since I was being forthright, I added, “I have a friend coming in from out of town tomorrow. He’s staying in my guest room. But I’m definitely free tonight.” “Splendid. Let’s say 7? I’ll pick you up at your place.” “That sounds just fine. I’ll text you my address.” “No need. I cyber-stalked you. You’re practically an online ghost, Muscles, but I found your echoes.” I wanted to ask some details about where he planned to take me, but my intuition told me this was another test. I had to agree to anything, or the date would implode before it even happened. Instead, I said a simple goodbye and ended the call. By 6:50, I was showered, groomed, and wearing my favorite date shirt. It was a long sleeve red button down, and it really showed off my arms and my chest. I, of course, left the top few buttons unbuttoned so my chest hair could poke out. I also wore a pair of white linen pants as that worked for dress up fancy and on-the-beach dive. Puck hadn’t told me where he was taking me. He showed up five minutes later, and he was a sight to behold. He wore a deep purple shirt with a floral design in white threading that matched the white buttons. The shirt was diaphanous and mostly see-through. He was a compact and tight man, but with just enough definition to bulge in the right spots. His pants were similarly tight, and they were a bright, neon, toxic green. He also was wearing fashionable sunglasses, and his nails were painted to match his pants. When I opened the door to let him in, he threw himself against the jamb and said, “Your escort has arrived.” “Happy you found the place alright.” Still leaning against the door, he looked me up and down and said, “You look edible, Muscles. Absolutely delectable.” “You look nice too. Want to come in for a drink before we go… wherever it is we’re going?” “Thank you, but no.” He grabbed me by the hand, and began running. I followed after him, barely closing my door behind me. Once we were in the car, Puck asked, “Have you ever been to a Russian restaurant?” “Not to my knowledge, no.” “Neither have I. I just found out about this Russian place twenty minutes from here. Fancy trying it?” “Sure.” “Excellent. I’m sure it’s wonderful.” The food was quite good, but it was the company that made it a night to remember. After a few minutes of talking about the waitstaff, the ambiance, and the food, and after Puck took a seventh picture of his entrée for Instagram, we finally moved on to talking about each other. “Why did your brother hug me when I told him I wanted to ask you out?” Puck swallowed while making a dismissive hand gesture. “He’s one of those overprotective big brothers. The last few guys I introduced him to did not meet brother dearest’s approval. There was the unemployed DJ who was crashing on his sister’s couch. Then there was the twice divorced (from women) surfer who was twice my age. The last man I introduced him to was an overly tattooed guy who had spacers in his ears and described his work as ‘knife puppeteer.’ I never saw his show, so I don’t know what that actually means.” “Eclectic bunch.” “I didn’t date any of them seriously,” Puck continued. “But they were nice enough guys and nothing like the snooty patrons and twink-y dancers I’d dated in the past.” “He’s your big brother. It’s sweet that he’s worried.” “Brother dear thinks my life has gone off the rails and sees you as a sensible choice and evidence that I am coming back to my sanity.” “Has your life gone off the rails?” “Eighteen months ago, I quit my job and became a stripper. That after-school special enough for you?” “What did your job used to be?” He spread his hands out in front of me as though he was presenting the finale of a magic trick. “You hit it on the head at the party. I was a dancer.” “What type?” “I was a member of the L.A. Ballet.” “Why’d you quit?” “Stefano.” “Nasty break-up with an ex?” As Puck spoke, he emphasized important words with hand gestures. His face was also very animated. A passerby could tell he was a dancer. “Even though he’s ten years older than me, Stefano was my best friend in the company. When he turned 35, they kicked him out. Gave him the boot. He’d spent his whole life dedicated to the art. He never made premier dancer, and at 35, they just sacked him like yesterday’s trash. They made it look like he retired, but we all know they fired him.” “That’s awful.” “He was so devastated that he moved back to Florida to live with his mother.” “And so you became a stripper? How are those two things related?” “Stefano always reminded me of a slightly older me. I sacrificed most of my life to dance as well. I spent my teen years at the barre and the first half of my 20s in the rehearsal hall. I went to a performing arts high school. I got a splendid education, but I lived a very sheltered life. I didn’t get to do the things normal people do. I never just spend a weekend hanging out with my friends. I never went to college. I didn’t even have my first boyfriend until I was 22. I wasn’t going to let what happened to Stefano happen to me. So, I left the company to find myself before it’s too late. I’m living life to the fullest. Carpe-ing every diem. Trying things I’ve never done before just to see if I like them. Like dating those strange men. I’d never been with a slacker or an older man or a bad boy. And that trip to Mexico. I’d never been. I’ve lived in L.A. my whole life, and I’d never been to Mexico. So, I went. It’s why I picked this restaurant too.” “That still doesn’t explain the stripping.” Puck took a sip of his drink. “I tried it one night just to try it. It was fun. Dancing, but liberating. Exciting. Nothing so strict as ballet. I make good money to support my carefree ways. Is it a forever plan? Of course not. I’m sure in a few more months I’ll get bored and find a solid, stable job teaching ballet to children. But in the meantime, I’m 26, and I want to have fun while I’m still young enough to enjoy it.” Internally, I laughed. That’s what Flynn had accused me of doing with him. “Sounds exhilarating.” “It can be. Water skiing was a blast. Some things, though, do not live up to the hype. Mexico was a letdown, mostly because I was only there for three days. Not enough time for it to make an impression. Poetry slams? I do not see the appeal. I’m sure the poetry was excellent, but I was mentally checked out the whole time. I found it pretentious and overly artsy, and I danced ballet professionally, so I know pretentious when I see it.” “Gotcha. If I’m going to a poetry slam, don’t invite you.” “That’s right!” He clutched his pearls. “You’re an author. Did I just horribly insult you?” “I don’t write poetry.” “Still. What about you, Muscles? If my brother likes you, it must mean you’re an upstanding citizen.” “Depends on what you mean by ‘upstanding.’ I’m a published author, I went to a prestigious college on full scholarship, I’m committed to fitness, I pay my taxes, and I tip generously. Yeah, by most metrics, I’m upstanding. But I’ve sowed my oats.” “You’ve had sex.” He dismissed me with a flourish of his hand. “Who hasn’t?” Then I told him just how many men I’d slept with, and he seemed impressed. He even applauded, though it may have been sarcastic applause. “You’re a fuckboy? I never would’ve guessed.” “Nope. When I commit, I’m monogamous and committed. But when I’m not committed, I’m a free agent.” “Scandalize me, Muscles.” He leaned in over the table to listen more intently. “Well, if this goes well and we have sex, you won’t be my first stripper. You’d be my eighth. I went through a phase freshman year.” “Impressive, but not altogether scandalizing.” “I had a three-way in high school, and I’m still friends with one of the guys.” “A bit more scandalous.” “I scammed two rich kids out of $100,000 with an ex-boyfriend. It’s why there’s so much money in my bank account and how I afforded my condo before I was published.” He looked delighted. He leaned in further, perched his elbows on the table, bringing his hands together in a bridge that he rested his chin on. “Tell me everything.” I told him an edited version of the story, and he was riveted. “You are scandalous. Even with my newfound joie de vivre, I have never broken a law in my life.” “It technically wasn’t illegal. But, if your brother knew about it, he probably wouldn’t be so excited for us to be together.” Puck was about to ask a follow-up question, but an alarm went off on his phone. “Shoot,” he said. “I forgot I have a shift in 20 minutes. And I was having such fun.” “I could always come with you to work. I’ve never been to a strip club.” “And yet you went through a stripper phase. Odd that. This we must remedy.” As we were getting ready to leave, a lightbulb went off in my head. I turned to him and slyly said, “You forgot nothing. You planned on bringing me to the strip club this whole time.” “Guilty,” he said, rising from his chair. We paid the bill, and Puck dragged me to Grove, the club where he worked. Inside, there were a lot of people sitting at tables—a healthy mix of men and women—and a covey of half-dressed and practically undressed men dancing on a stage and mingling through the floor. I’d no more taken three steps inside when a buff man in a thong stopped me, told me I was cute, and asked me if I wanted a private dance. “He’s with me, Rico.” The buff man backed off, and Puck sat me down in a rather uncomfortable chair right near the stage. “I’m on in five,” he said. “I promise to put a little something in it for you.” He patted my cheek, and then he was gone. While I waited for Puck to grace the stage, I looked around at the men. It was a cornucopia of bulging thongs, shiny and pert pecs, ripped abs, and asses everywhere. While there were dancers and half-naked men pretty much everywhere, the DJ would occasionally introduce a featured dancer on the mainstage. Only the featured dancers got completely nude. Troy was followed by Dominick was followed by Dallas. Each was hot in his own way. And I was surprised by Troy’s thickness and Dallas’s beautifully sculpted abs. But I was here to see Brad. When the DJ announced that the next featured dancer would be Johnny, I figured Puck was working some other part of the stage or floor—maybe doing a private dance. So, I settled in to watch Johnny dance. Johnny came out dressed in workout clothes, like he was some kind of personal trainer. He had close-cropped black hair, a thick black beard, and gorgeous blue eyes. Of course, his face was not the focus of his act; that would be his body. Johnny had some very nice, taut muscles. They weren’t explosive or huge, but they were tough and well worked. He strutted onto the stage like a macho alpha jock who was here to lift weights or start a fight, a persona he kept up the entire routine, no matter how little clothes he was wearing. He did a faux workout routine—pull ups, pushups, and basically anything else calisthenic that causes ab muscles to undulate and flex. After each exercise, he would shed a piece of clothing, much to the audience’s delight. When he got down to just his thong, he bent over to touch his toes and… “Puck?” I asked out loud. Johnny was acting nothing like Puck, and he had completely transformed his face somehow, but I would know that ass anywhere. Maybe he heard me, maybe he didn’t, but as soon as I said that, Johnny did a perfect pirouette. At the end of it, he ripped off his thong, revealing a beautiful and large cock. Even completely naked after doing a pirouette, he kept up that alpha façade. He strutted down to the edge of the stage, right where I was sitting, and thrust his naked cock in my face in time to the music. He was good at his job. I was definitely hard. At the end of his routine—the whole dance had lasted about five minutes—he dove off the stage, practically right into my lap. Then, completely naked, he lifted a leg up and put it on the arm of my chair. His cock dangled inches from my face, taunting me. “Hey, Muscles,” he said in a deep baritone, much deeper than his normal speaking voice, but somehow utterly convincing. “Care for a private dance? I’ll make it worth your while.” “If I got a private dance, I couldn’t stop myself from fucking you right here right now.” I pointed to the bulge in my pants. Puck (as Johnny) sneered, and moved on to another potential customer. I sat in my chair, noticeably erect, not knowing how I was going to get through the rest of Puck’s shift without ravishing him in public. Thankfully, after a minute of me sitting there sweating, a woman came over and tapped me on the shoulder. “You Johnny’s date?” she asked. I nodded, and crossed my legs. “Come with me.” “No offense, but I’m not here to do anything with any woman.” “Trust me.” Hunched over and walking a little funny to hide my erection (my pants were way too tight for this), I followed her. She led me behind a heavy metal door to a nicely but simply decorated room with a lot of folding chairs, a surge protector that had half a dozen phones plugged into it, and a washer/drier. Inside were four or five women, chatting, eating, or on their phones. When the door closed, I could no longer hear the loud music from the club. “This is where the girls hang out while we’re waiting for our husbands and boyfriends. A lot of the guys get too drunk to drive themselves home, so we come and pick them up. The guys use it too when they’re on break and need a few moments without customers.” She pointed to the washer. “It’s actually just the club’s laundry room, but we’ve claimed it as our own. We brought these chairs ourselves.” “You’re not the first gay guy we’ve had back here either,” one of the women said. “You looked like you were suffering out there,” the woman who’d saved me said, pointing to my erection. “I figured you deserved the break too.” The women and I chatted—they told me I should see Zane’s routine because he had an enormous dick; they clued me in about the challenges of dating a stripper, namely the hours and the stigma; they filled me in about the real Johnny, who actually is a macho straight guy. The conversation made this odd night feel a little more normal. They left one by one as their men’s shifts ended. Eventually, I was the only person in the room. When Puck came in—two hours later—he was still made up as Johnny but with a thong on. I tore out of my chair and kissed him deeply while the door slammed shut behind him. When the kiss ended, Puck caught his breath, whistled, and said, “That was fabulous.” He was using his normal voice again. “How’d you get so good at that?’ “I didn’t recognize you at first.” He showed me his unpainted nails. “Acetone.” He pointed to the hair of his head. “Wig.” He took contacts out of his eyes, and they turned back into their usual grey color. “Contacts.” “And the beard? It’s an entirely different shape, and much thicker.” He peeled off two strips that connected his goatee to his sideburns. “Magic.” “I thought you were Brad at work.” “Oh, I am. But I was covering for Johnny tonight.” “That macho act—it was nothing like the real you.” “You can’t dance ballet unless you can act with your body.” “What do you do when you’re Brad?” “Pole dancing.” Puck shrugged as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “I might come and see that. If it’s not too much for me.” “I noticed that. I was going to give you that private dance for free, but I could tell you’d get yourself kicked out, you rulebreaker you.” “Is Johnny’s shift over?” “Yes.” “Mind giving me a private dance back at my place?” He dropped into his Johnny voice again. “Dude, what makes you think I’m gay?” I grabbed his cock through his thong and stroked it until it chubbed up. “This.” He showered and changed lightning fast, and we were back at my condo before my horniness could dim even an ounce. Once inside my bedroom, I tore off my clothes rapidly. “Slowly, slowly,” he cooed. “Strippers don’t rush.” But by then, I was already naked and half erect. “If you wanted to be a stripper, Muscles, you totally could. Your body is spectacular. You’d just have to learn to pace yourself.” I sat on the edge of my bed and smiled. “Condom?” he asked. I slipped one on, a lubricated one, saying, “Just to get ready,” and then added, “I believe you owe me a dance.” “Normally, I’m the only one who’s naked for these dances.” “Who cares normal?” “Who should I dance as? Brad? Johnny?” “You.” Puck raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Nothing normal about this.” He pulled out his phone and began playing a song like the ones they played at the club. Then, with his back to me, he began gyrating slowly, his ass prominently front and center. “You know what I like,” I said as my erection grew ever harder. He ripped his shirt open, his back still to me, but the buttons flying everywhere was a dramatic touch. Then, he turned around slowly, his pecs and abs showing through his open shirt. He began to roll his torso, occasionally dropping down to elongate the roll. Then, he fell to his knees, took off his shirt, and threw it directly at me. It covered my face, so I had deeply inhaled his scent—a musky cologne that smelled warm and inviting, especially mixed in with the soap from the shower and sweat from the hot California day. I could have breathed that in forever, but I was missing the dance, so I peeled it off my face. Once my vision was unobscured, Puck put one hand on each of my knees, then pulled himself up, dragging his torso torturously close to my dick, just grazing the tip of it, causing it to quiver. His pecs also brushed my face, and I caressed them briefly with my cheeks. “Your beard feels majestic,” he said. Then, he put his hand behind my head and pulled my face close to his abs. Once it was there—I couldn’t help but love the sight—he thrust his crotch, and his bulge got so close to my mouth. I practically salivated. He let go and backed up a few steps, showing off the thickness of his thighs. My eyes now drawn to his legs, he lowered his pants slowly, slowly, slowly, just revealing the faintest flash of his underwear, then—bam!—all at once, his pants were on the floor. In a flash of green, they were tossed to a corner, and Puck stood there in nothing but his briefs. He sauntered towards me, swaying his shoulders to accentuate his pecs and abs. He walked right in between my spread legs. Then, just as he almost walked right into me, he turned around, and rubbed his ass into my erect cock. I almost exploded right there, but I grit my teeth and held it in. “You’ve got some control. Nice.” I was thankful for the condom as I was leaking pre like a faucet, but I hadn’t erupted yet. With a fan kick, he got off my lap. He then planted a foot on the bed just outside my thigh. With a leap, both feet were on the bed, one on each side of my thighs. His bulge was directly in front of my face, just his briefs separating me from his cock. “Take them off for me,” he said, thrusting his hips forward. Leaving my hands by my side, I bit the band of his briefs, and pulled it down, caressing his stiffening cock with my beard as I pulled his briefs lower and lower. “Points for creativity,” he said, his voice going up as I tickled his shaft. When I could bend no further down without knocking him off the bed, I grabbed his briefs in my right hand and pulled them all the way down. He kicked them off his feet, and then he lowered himself onto my dick, our torsos pressed together as he slid lower and lower. When I was fully inside him, I put my hand on his erect cock. It had to be over 7 inches. I hoped he would let me ride it someday. But tonight, he clearly wanted me inside him. We ground our bodies together, I stroked his cock with my right hand, and we kissed passionately. It could have been seconds; it could have been hours. Time slurred into a solid mass, and then I was breathing heavily as I shot my load. He shrieked in ecstasy as he shot his. And then, we collapsed on the bed in a pile. 25 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Popular Post TQuintA Posted August 13, 2021 Author Popular Post Share Posted August 13, 2021 Part 3 – The West California Wild Card Chapter 4 I woke up the next morning alone in bed. I expected Puck had left before I woke up, which stung a little. But, it was only our first date. I had no complaints about the previous night. I threw on a pair of briefs and strolled out of my room. To get to my kitchen from my bedroom, I had to walk through my living room, but when I took two steps into the living room, I saw Puck naked, sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the room. He was attentively going through the books on my bookshelf. “What are you doing?” I asked, practically chuckling at the sight. “If I were at a chef’s house, I’d be raiding his pantry. If I were at a singer’s house, I’d be scouring his music collection. If I were at a painter’s house, I’d be looking at the art on his walls. But I’m at an author’s house.” He gestured broadly to my bookcase. “I want to see what you read.” I came over to the bookcase, leaned over, and whispered in his ear, “I’m making oatmeal and tea. You want any?” “Yes to both, thank you.” I left him to go through my books as I made us breakfast. When it was done, I brought it out to my living room (on a tray) to a table near my big window. “I normally have breakfast out here and look out at the view. Sound good?” “Sounds heavenly,” Puck said. He practically pranced over to the table, and sat in the chair I’d pulled out for him. He pulled his feet onto the seat with him, basically sitting in the lotus position on his chair. He’d also brought two books from my bookcase and put those on the table next to his bowl, placed his hand on them, and said, “I’m borrowing these.” He was still completely naked. Then, he dutifully took a handful of pictures of the breakfast table (neither of us in the picture) before he started eating. I joined him at the table across from him and asked, “What books did you grab?” After taking a picture of his breakfast, his feet, and the view for his Instagram feed, he held up one of them. “Midsummer Night’s Dream, naturally.” “Naturally,” I repeated. “And Brideshead Revisited.” He held up the book and showed me the cover, pointing at the author’s name. “This is the man you thought I was named after.” “Yep. Evelyn Waugh.” “Even if the book is terrible, I plan on reading every last syllable. I’ve never met another man named Evelyn my entire life.” “I think you’ll like the gay parts, but they’re only a small part of the book,” I said, sipping my tea. “It has gay parts?” He opened the book and began scanning it. “I thought this was from the 1800s or something.” “It was written in the 1940s.” After a pause, I added, “What sort of books do you typically read?” “Up until eight months ago, I only had enough free time for magazines, Youtube videos, and the occasional chapter brother dear leaves around his apartment. I haven’t read a book cover to cover since The Great Gatsby in high school.” “Feel free to borrow whatever you want. Those two are a bit stuffy if you’re not a big reader. If you don’t like those, I’ve got a wide variety of books on that shelf.” “I saw.” It looked like Puck was about to ask a follow-up question, but he was interrupted by my door opening. Shafe walked through, wheeling his suitcase behind him. He was wearing a sleeveless gray shirt that clung to his mighty pecs and pooled around his tight waist. He also had on a pair of green basketball shorts, and his quads peeked out from them giving a thrilling view of his ripped thighs. I got up from the table and walked over, both happy and nervous. “Shafe! You’re early!” Shafe dropped his bag, closed the door, and dangled a key in front of me. “That’s why you gave me a key. I’m unpredictable.” He hugged me, slapping me on the back as all straight men insist on doing mid-hug, and then looked me up and down. “Not as big as I’ve seen you, but damn good for a desk jockey.” He squeezed my arm. “Decent size.” He knocked his knuckle against my abs. “Respectable tone. Don’t worry. A few weeks with me, we’ll pack some beef back onto this frame.” Slightly embarrassed, I said, “Shafe, this is Puck,” pointing to Puck at the breakfast table. “I’m interrupting a date. Sorry, man.” Shafe moved to leave to give us some privacy, when Puck strode over to introduce himself. When he moved, he moved so gracefully—choreography in every strep—saying, “Nonsense. You interrupted breakfast. What’s breakfast?” When he reached us, he stopped and said, “Pleasure to meet you.” He stuck out his hand. “Shafe was it?” “Gil Shafer, but everyone calls me Shafe.” Instead of shaking his hand, Shafe looked Puck up and down, scrutinizing him. Shafe wasn’t shocked or horrified by Puck’s nudity, but it did confuse him. My straight friend was eyeing the naked guy I had sex with last night. I prayed Shafe did not make this awkward. Then, finally, he spoke. “Your aura is magnetic. I can feel it radiating off of you.” “Thank you.” “Your energy is perfect for Vaughn. You must be a Sagittarius.” “I was born December 15th.” Puck shrugged. “Is that Sagittarius?” Shafe threw a celebratory fist in the air. “I was dead on. You are such a Sagittarius! And your name is Puck? Like a hockey puck?” Puck patted me on the back. “That’s what Muscles calls me.” Shafe shot me a look while a small, lascivious smile spread on his face. “You call my boy here Muscles?” Puck forced my arm into a flex and then wrapped his hands around my bicep. “He’s got the biggest muscles of any guy I’ve ever slept with.” “You like big muscles?” Shafe asked, flexing his arm, which clearly dwarfed mine. “My my,” Puck said. “Won’t you join us, Shafe? I think we’ll get along splendidly.” “Of course, we will. I’m an Aries.” I got Shafe a mug of tea, and he joined us at the breakfast table. I was still only in my boxers, and Puck was still completely naked. After Shafe took a swig of his drink, he looked at both of us, and then said, “I feel overdressed.” He tossed off his sleeveless shirt, and then said, “That’s better.” His chest looked bigger than I remembered. Hard and round, striated. It was freshly waxed and tanned for his upcoming show. He was shredded to an inch of his life. “How big are you these days?” I asked. “251,” he said, puffing up his chest. “Glad you noticed.” “How do you two know each other?” Puck asked. “Are you exes?” Shafe and I both laughed. “No. We’re just good friends,” I said. “Shafe’s straight.” “Muscles and I are naked, and you just take your shirt off?” Puck threw his hands in the air, half-entertained, half-confused. “You might be my favorite straight person ever.” “If I was uncomfortable around half-naked guys, I couldn’t do my job,” Shafe said. “So, how do you and Muscles know each other?” “I told you I used to hang out with a professional bodybuilder in college.” “This is him?” Shafe nodded, and finished off his tea. “Yep. Back then, though, Vaughn was much bigger.” He grabbed my shoulder, and shook me affectionately. Puck looked at me leerily. “How big?” Shafe answered for me. “I pushed him into going pro himself, but he decided to become a writer.” “How big?” Puck repeated, the lust in his eyes practically shooting out like lasers. Shafe pulled out his phone and scrolled until he found a picture of him, Flynn, and me at a party junior year. He leaned in so he and Puck could look at it together. “Damn!” Puck said when he saw me. “You were gigantic!” I got up and stood behind them so I could see the picture. “Yep. I was about 240 in that picture.” “Who’s the third hunk?” “My ex. I told you about him.” I went back to my seat, and Shafe showed Puck some more pictures of us having fun. “This is the guy you scammed the rich kids with?” Puck asked. “You told him about that?” Shafe asked. I nodded, finishing my bowl of oatmeal. Shafe continued, happy to talk freely. “Then you know Vaughn is the only reason I stayed so big that year. It’s how we became close.” Puck looked confused. With the version of the story I told him, that interpretation did not jibe. Shafe could see Puck needed more info. “Yeah. I was laid up with a broken leg, so I deposited 60 pounds in The Repository.” “You’re The Repository,” Puck said. Well, the jig was up. “Yep.” Shafe kept scrolling. “I don’t have any pictures of him at 300 pounds shredded and competition ready, but for a while…” “300 pounds?” Puck choked on his words he was shocked. So, I explained what being The Repository meant. I explained him the rules. I explained everything. All the details. I ended my spiel by explaining that I hadn’t taken a deposit since senior year of college. “Do you think you still can?” was all Puck asked. “I don’t see why not,” I answered. Puck turned to Shafe and said, “I know you have a show coming up, but can I please see it? What taking a deposit looks like?” “He didn’t know, did he?” Shafe asked me, a little ashamed he’d spilled the beans. “No, he didn’t.” “You mad?” “Actually, I’m relieved. I almost told him myself three times yesterday.” “Please?” Puck repeated. “How big you want to see him?” Shafe asked. “He was 240 in this picture,” Puck said. “That’d be, what? 30 pounds? 40?” “45,” I admitted. “And my definition won’t be as sharp as it was then.” “You’ve let me down.” Shafe sarcastically shook his head. “You can borrow 45 pounds.” Shafe’s magnificence dwindled down to 206 pounds—ten pounds more than I’d been recently. He looked so diminished, with arms that were only large, and a chest that was only big, and abs that were only ripped. But he was still quite impressive. I stood up in anticipation of what was going to happen, but it wasn’t enough. I hadn’t taken a deposit in so long that the rush and thrill of it all almost knocked me off my feet. With Shafe, it always started in the chest, and it blossomed out, growing harder and more defined, wider and rounder, thicker and firmer, pert and prouder. My lats swelled with them, forcing me wider and making my waist look smaller by comparison. My abs tightened and hardened, revealing a six pack—more refined than I expected—thick and distinct ab muscles showing off their strength and definition. My Adonis belt came back too, giving me that V taper I used to take for granted. At the same time, my shoulders grew bigger, harder, forcing me wider and more impressive, the distinct heads of my delts coming into focus. My traps rose, my neck thickened. My arms were already a little thick, but soon they engorged with muscle and beef, my triceps pushed out one way; my biceps ballooned out the other. The definition was sharp and focused—visible sinews, distinct peaks, a delightful vein forced up on my arm. They were so big that they fought for space with my lats and chest. My legs had also become mightier, round and bulging, forcing me to spread them apart a little bit. My calves hardened and bulged. I was huge again. I strutted around the room, exaggerating my waddle, flexing my biceps mightily, and bouncing my pecs. I’d missed being this big, so I was having a great time. Also, I’d never been this hairy the last time I was so big. I loved the way my thicket of hair highlighted my chest and accentuated my abs. Puck was staring, his jaw open, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. Shafe came up to me to inspect. “Your definition is better than you let on. Not what it was then, no, but very impressive.” Seeing just how much bigger than him I was, I had to take advantage of my increased size. I grabbed Shafe in a playful headlock. “That’s your definition. I’d looked even more cut if I’d kept up with it.” “Holy shit, you’re strong,” Shafe said, unable to wiggle his way out of the headlock. I let him go, pat him on the shoulder, and said, “You’re complimenting yourself again. This extra mass is yours.” Puck still hadn’t said anything, but he was covering his cock. Shafe saw him sitting there. “Do you two need some alone time? ‘Cause I could hit the gym I saw downstairs and give you some privacy.” Puck, saying nothing, just nodded. “I’ll be back in a bit.” Shafe strutted out of the room. As soon as he was, Puck raced over to me, and began feeling up my mass. “You are so big.” He pressed into my skin. “And so hard. My god, this is magnificent.” I picked him up off his feet, his knees over one arm, his back over the other, and he practically swooned. “I’m used to being the one picking up someone else. I see the appeal.” I bounced my pecs for him. “You know I’m strong enough to carry you like this even when I’m in my normal, smaller size.” “I did not, but now I insist on being carried everywhere.” “It’s easier at this size.” I lightly tossed him in the air and caught him to show off. “And I doubt the ride would be as pleasurable for you at my normal size.” I flexed my pecs again. “But I have no problem carrying you like a princess.” “Take me to your bedroom and ravish me.” “Yes, m’lady,” I said, and dashed into the bedroom. I threw him onto the bed, literally, and he landed with a delightful bounce. I took of my briefs, grabbed a condom from the nightstand, and soon was kneeling on bed hovering over him. His hands were drawn to my chest, shoulder, and arms. He squeezed my pecs, his fingers getting tangled in my chest hair. I flexed my arms for him, and he nearly gasped when he saw them bound huge. I positioned myself at the edge of his ass, and slowly slid it in. The face he made was one of pure ecstasy. “I’ve never been with a man with muscles this big.” “I’ve been bigger,” I teased. Puck shuddered. I began thrusting, and Puck squirmed delightedly. Once I was all the way in, I began kissing him, practically devouring him, as I thrust in and out. Puck’s hands were everywhere. In my beard, across my chest, scaling the mountain of my arm, stroking my abs. I began thrusting faster, and I saw that Puck was moving less. I was pinning him down against the bed. Not wanting to crush him with my weight, I wrapped my arms around him, put my legs under his, and flipped backwards, kicking our legs behind him so we wouldn’t land on them. I landed on my back, and Puck was now on top of me. “Where did you learn that move?” he asked raggedly. “I dated a wrestler.” Puck sat up, forcing me deeper inside him. Now that he was sitting on top of me, I put my arms behind my head to relax and enjoy my view. He rode me up and down, staring down at me the whole time. To give him a show, as he rode me, I flexed my biceps one by one, even kissing one to show him how big they were next to my face. He began bucking harder, so I joined his rhythm, bucking up with him, causing my pecs and abs to bulge from the exertion. When Puck came, he squeezed my cock hard with his anus and cried out. It felt great, but it wasn’t enough to send me over the edge. So, after he crested, I sat up, grabbed him with my right arm, swung my legs off the side of the bed, and stood up, still inside him. “You said you like being carried,” I said. He nodded, grabbed me tight, and began kissing my neck and chin. When I got to the bedroom wall, I pressed him in between me and the wall, and started thrusting him up and down hard. He shook and shrieked, rolling into a second orgasm. I could feel the pressure building up, so I picked up my speed and thrust rapidly. When I came, I grunted loudly, animalistically, in his ear and started kissing the top of his shaved head, rubbing my beard against it. Even though we’d had a thorough fuck session the night before, this orgasm felt like it was my first in years. I unloaded copiously and deeply. As soon as it finished, I got my breath, and then I walked us to the bathroom—Puck still in my arms, my cock still deep inside him. I brought us to the shower, where I finally let him off my cock. The shower was just—just—big enough for the two of us. So, I tossed the condom in the trash and turned on the hot water. I picked him up over the edge of the tub and into the shower, and once we were both inside, I handed him the body wash and said, “Now, you will wash every last inch of my musculature.” “Yes, my liege,” he said, nodding his head in a slight bow. He rubbed me down good, paying special attention to my pecs and ass. I don’t think my pecs had ever been cleaner than when Puck washed them. He finished up in the shower, dried off mostly, put on some clothes (Puck put on the clothes he’d worn last night; I put on some gym clothes that would still fit me at this size, and we went back out to the breakfast table. Shafe was there, drinking another mug of tea. “Did you enjoy the shower?” he asked. 34 5 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
arpeejay Posted August 13, 2021 Share Posted August 13, 2021 If Vaughn doesn't come out of this as a permanent 400 lb. mass monster I'm gonna cry. Be forewarned! My trembling lower lip has undone more than one! 2 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted August 17, 2021 Author Share Posted August 17, 2021 Part 3 – The West California Wild Man Chapter 5 “Did we take forever, or are you back early?” I asked Shafe, sitting next to him at the table. “Probably both. My workout was depressing me because of how little I could lift. It’s a bad trip to be this size. I look like a pathetic little twig.” “Oh, you can have your muscles back,” I said empathetically. I shrank back down, my clothes now a little too big for me, the way I’d preferred my gym clothes the last few years, and Shafe swelled back up into his mighty mountain range of muscles. “Thank you,” he said, and began fondly stroking his pecs. “I missed them.” Puck joined us at the table, sitting on my lap instead of the open chair, and asked, “How much of our sex did you hear?” “Most of it. But it’s not the first time I’ve heard Vaughn go at it. He and his ex once got extra loud at a party I threw. The girl I was with that night—she was competitive. The two of us tried to see which pair could have the louder sex. They won.” “I had forgotten that until you mentioned it,” I admitted. “It’s a great story,” Shafe added, punching me lightly on the shoulder. “Am I really that loud?” I asked. Shafe said nothing, but raised one incredulous eyebrow. That gave me my answer. Then, changing the subject, he asked, “How long have you and Puck been dating?” “This is our first date,” we said simultaneously. “Damn. Some first date.” “You’re telling me,” Puck said. “It was a night of firsts. We did a whole bunch of stuff we’d never done before.” “I’m on a ‘live life to the fullest’ kick,” Puck elaborated. “Oh yeah? What did you do last night?” “This is the first time I’ve slept with a guy on the first date. He’s also the first muscle guy I’ve ever dated,” Puck said. “I learned just how much I like that, in part thanks to you, Shafe.” “He took me to my first strip club,” I added. “You’d never been to a strip club?” Shafe was genuinely surprised. “Nope.” Shafe shook his head, disappointed. “I let you down, man. I let you down. If I’d known, I would’ve fixed that years ago.” He turned to Puck. “You took a guy to a strip club on a first date?” “Well, I work there,” Puck said. “As a stripper.” Shafe looked at me, grinning. “Did I tell you he was a Sagittarius, or did I tell you he was a Sagittarius?” I just nodded as if that meant anything to me. “That sounds like a lot of fun. In fact, this whole condo has an opener vibe than it ever has before,” Shafe said. Then, off-handedly, practically thinking out loud, he said, “I should try something I’ve never done too.” Puck seized on it. “Name it,” Puck said, leaning in. “I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular,” Shafe replied. “Ever kiss a man?” Puck said leadingly. “No, I have not. You want me to kiss you, Puck?” Shafe leaned in. “Then, I’ll kiss you. I’m not scared of you, I’m not scared that I’m secretly gay, and the kiss won’t mean anything.” “Oh, no. I was suggesting you kiss Muscles.” “Pardon?” I said. “Of all the men I’ve kissed, Muscles is the best kisser.” “You a good kisser, Vaughn?” Shafe asked. “I’ve been told.” “Prove it.” Shafe leaned back in his chair and opened his arms wide, inviting me. “I’ll call your bluff. Besides, I’ve never kissed a straight guy.” I got up, sliding Puck into my seat, and went over to Shafe. For a moment, I just leaned over him, almost daring him to chicken out. Then, I held the back of his neck with my left hand and his cheek with my right. I pressed my lips against his, and I explored his mouth with my tongue, delicately and methodically. To my surprise, Shafe leaned in, and kissed back. After easily fifteen seconds, I released Shafe and went back to my seat. “And the verdict is?” Puck asked, sitting back on my lap. “Not bad,” Shafe said. “Definitely an intense, passionate kisser. I didn’t care for the beard. That was uncomfortable and, no offense, a huge turn-off.” He rubbed his face where my beard had scratched him to soothe the skin. “I think if I was going to be into dudes, I’d be into… what do you call them? Twinks. Someone less hairy and a lot smaller than me. But it wasn’t a bad kiss. I’ll stick with chicks, though.” Shafe went back to his tea. I was stunned. “I blame you,” I said to Puck. “You get people to do things they wouldn’t do in a normal state of mind.” “I stand guilty as accused.” He looked at his phone. “Shit. Is that really the time? I’ve got to run, or I’ll miss my ballet class. Shafe, a pleasure to meet you. Muscles, I’ll call you later for another date.” Puck gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and raced out of the condo. “I like him. You should keep dating him,” Shafe said. I spent most of that day catching up with Shafe and hanging out with him, playing some insipid video games together like we used to back in college. We even did a workout together—Shafe pushed me harder than I’d pushed myself in years. It felt right and normal, easy. As promised, Puck did call later that afternoon. “Are you busy on Thursday afternoon?” he asked. “I’d planned on doing some writing, but I can push that.” “Excellent. We are going out on Thursday.” “Shafe will still be here then, so if you want to have sex afterwards, we should do it at your place.” “Bring Shafe along. He’ll love this date.” “Just because we kissed doesn’t mean I converted him.” “Not what I meant. See you Thursday. With or without Shafe.” I hung up and turned to Shafe. “Puck and I are going out on Thursday afternoon.” “Weird time for a date.” “He’s a stripper. He’s busy most nights and weekends.” “Right. Makes sense.” “Anyways, he invited you to come along.” Shafe looked at me quizzically. “It’s three days from now, two days after your show tomorrow. If you’re in, I think it’ll be fun. I suspect he’s got something outlandish in store.” “If you say so. But if it gets threesome-y, I’m ducking out.” “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I, of course, went to Shafe’s show the following day. He won, handily. There was no competition. He went in overconfident because his psychic predicted he’d win, but that didn’t diminish his thrill of victory. He was so jazzed from winning, that between then and Thursday, it was like one big party. The condo rarely had fewer than ten people in it hanging out, and four separate women left his guest room happier than they’d entered. It made it challenging to get my work done, but I did own headphones. When Thursday came, Shafe was more than excited to tag along on my date. Puck picked us both up in his car. He was dressed super-casually (for Puck) and he’d told us to dress comfortably. I had no idea where we were going. I didn’t until we got to the site. “Hang-gliding?” I asked. “I’ve never been, and you two seemed like the perfect people to try it with for the first time.” “Sounds like a blast,” Shafe said. “I’ve been skydiving, but never hang-gliding.” “Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked. “This place specializes in beginners. We take a safety course, and then we go hang-gliding in a super easy place over an open field with a medic standing by. The website shows 12-year-olds and senior citizens doing it. Two manly men like you will be fine.” “Alright, then,” I said. Shafe didn’t stop whooping the entire time, and Puck livestreamed his glide, steering his glider back and forth in bizarre patterns, much to the safety advisor’s chagrin. To me, though, it was an almost religious experience. Flying over the ground, even just for the short time we were up in the air, I felt invigorated. I could’ve cried it was so breathtakingly beautiful. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. When we had extricated ourselves from the safety equipment, Shafe, entirely too overexcited, began trying and failing to do cartwheels. Puck came over and embraced me tightly. “What’s the hug for?” “You get me.” The three of us sat in the field for a while, enjoying the warm afternoon sun. “You’re picking the next date,” Puck said. “And I expect to be wowed.” “This was amazing, but I’m not an outdoorsy kind of guy. Whenever I pick a date, it’s going to be an indoor date.” “Fine by me,” Puck replied. “I’m not all that much of a nature lover myself. Wow me with an indoor date.” Changing the subject, I asked, “What would you two say if I started lifting again? I mean, seriously lifting? Packing on some serious muscle? I kind of want to get big again.” “I’d say go for it,” Puck said, shrugging. “Why not?” “I’d ask why you got so damn small in the first place,” Shafe said, practically grunted. “You’ve got this awesome talent. I’d be the biggest man who ever lived if I had your skill.” “There’s this voice inside my head telling me not to draw attention to myself, not to let my secret out. I don’t think I’d be big forever. But I think for right now, I want to be big again.” “You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, and yet, you’re a twice-published author,” Puck said. “How many authors are extremely famous? Like, five. The rest are just everyday people.” “True enough,” Puck acquiesced. “Besides, neither book is under my name.” I shook my head. “The last two times I bulked up, I did it for someone else. I want to get bigger for me this time.” “Then don’t even bother asking Shafe or me,” Puck said. “How big are you thinking?” Shafe flexed his arm and waggled his eyebrows. “A guy like you could catch up to me again in no time.” Shafe bolted upright excitedly. “I’ve got a few months ‘til my next show. Why don’t I stay here and train with you? I’ve missed my lifting buddy.” “Just so we’re on the same page—my life can’t just be about working out. I’ve done that once. It wasn’t for me. I have to keep up with my writing responsibilities, and I plan on dating this guy extensively.” I patted Puck on the shoulder. Shafe nodded. “Naturally. You’ll have plenty of time to write, and I’ll get my own pair of noise-cancelling headphones and find where the straight girls hang out in your very gay neighborhood.” “If I understand the rules of this Repository thing,” Puck said, “I have a suggestion on how to maximize your efforts.” 23 2 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Popular Post TQuintA Posted August 17, 2021 Author Popular Post Share Posted August 17, 2021 Part 3 – The West California Wild Card Chapter 6 Once Puck laid out his plan, it sounded ridiculous to me. He’d been inspired by Flynn’s algorithm, but Puck put his own spin on it. According to him, there were people online who would freely lend their muscles to me for a week or so, just for sexual role play if nothing else. I would use that week to pack on as much muscle as I could, and then give it back to them. “And online means anonymity. You don’t need to reveal your name or face, or anything like that. You can even use a burner phone to arrange the calls. Most guys will think you’ve hypnotized them or something. And you can set a minimum amount to lend, like 10 pounds, to help you with your muscle quest.” I agreed to it, tentatively, but I thought it would never work. When Puck showed me the first applicant later that same day, I knew that his plan would work. “The internet is a wonderful place, Muscles. You really should give it a try. If I was on this muscle growth journey with you, I’d become the biggest Instagram thirst trap you’d ever seen.” “Again, I don’t want to be famous.” Puck rolled his eyes. “Thirst traps, like authors, aren’t really famous. Besides, if you’re that worried, I do have a wide collection of wigs, and I’m good with makeup. But if that’s too risky for you,” he took a picture of me, shirtless, leaning against the wall. When he showed it to me, my head was completely cropped out of the picture. “There’s a surprisingly large call for photos of just men’s bodies. To some guys looking to jack off, faces get in the way.” That was it, then. It was decided. We started an online account for me. One on a muscle role play web forum under the name “the_Repository,” complete with a folder of carefully curated photos of my muscle, none showing my face. We were getting ready for the first phone call (to a prepaid, disposable cell phone), and Puck set up the appointment. At the pre-appointed time, the phone call came in. “Is this the_Repository?” “It is,” I said. “So, I just tell you how much you can borrow, and you borrow it?” “That’s right. That’s how this works.” “Fucking weird role play, but you have no idea how hard I get to the thought of a guy stealing my muscles.” “I’m just borrowing them.” “Can we pretend you’re stealing them? “Sure.” “You can borrow 30 pounds of muscle,” he said, tentatively. As soon as he finished, I dropped my voice an octave and said, “That’s right, pathetic bitch. You think those muscles are yours? Fuck no. They’re mine. I’m taking them, and that’s the end of it. You don’t deserve these muscles.” “Oh my God, it’s true!” he cried out in moans of delight—clearly climaxing—as I hung up. Shafe and Puck were staring at me. “He wanted some role play,” I explained. “Isn’t that what they signed up for?” As I said that, though, my muscles were swelling up, bulging, pushing, coursing with sinew and power, and hardening into a thick shell of meat. My body shaped altered, thickening everywhere, with little polish or refinement. This depositor clearly lifted just to get bigger, not for some sport or the aesthetics of bodybuilding. This guy’s muscle felt entirely different from anyone I’d ever borrowed before. I suspected this guy regularly used (even abused) steroids. These muscles were angry. It was weird, and somewhat flooded my system. And when the muscles finished depositing, I was 225 pounds of brawn. “Right,” Shafe said plainly. “Workout time.” That first week was mostly figuring out how things would need to be structured. I had to develop long-forgotten skills and habits: working out to get bigger and not just maintain, sticking to a strict schedule, eating all the required meals, dedicating myself to the effort. But my lifts rapidly improved, and as the days passed, I could feel my clothes getting tighter, my muscles bulging harder, and my body getting deliciously heavier. Shafe knew I could put on muscle quickly when I was taking a deposit, but he didn’t know just how quickly. At the end of those first seven days, when I gave an ecstatic customer his muscles back, it was time for my first weigh-in. In just those first seven days, I put on 7 pounds. Shafe was convinced it was actually closer to 10 and that I’d also lost some fat. He was probably right. Over the next two months, life fell into a routine. After breakfast, Shafe and I would meditate, then we’d spend the rest of the morning working out. This worked out best for all of us because Puck’s ballet classes were also in the morning. And when he didn’t have class, he’d just read. He hated Shakespeare because it made no sense to him, but he like Brideshead so much more than I thought he would that I got him to read a bunch of 19th and 20th century books with queer undertones, plots, or characters: Maurice, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, etc. I only picked books I thought he’d like. After a full morning, we’d have a big lunch, and Puck would frequently join us. Of course, Puck made it hard to eat lunch because his favorite seat was my lap, doubly so now that I was thickened with muscle. He also was one of those people who had to take pictures of every meal he ate, especially if it was pretty. Then, in the afternoons when I didn’t have work obligations, Puck and I would go on dates. It was a challenge finding things he hadn’t done before that I thought would make good dates, and some of my ideas. like the aquarium, were a huge miss. The fish left him unimpressed and bored. Some of my ideas, like the arcade, were a huge hit. If he’d spent his teenage years in a dance studio, I expected he never spent an afternoon at an arcade. It turns out, he’d never even been to one. He was like a five-year-old, bouncing from one game to the next. Puck’s date ideas were no less hit or miss. Ultimate frisbee was just not how I personally want to spend an afternoon. But the couple’s massage was amazing. Even when the activity was a miss, we enjoyed each other’s company, spending more and more time together. Sometimes, Shafe would come along. He ended up being the only of the three of us to like ultimate frisbee. But, usually, it was just Puck and me, and Shafe was left to his own devices. Most evenings, Puck had work, so I’d get some more writing done, or Shafe and I would hang out. On two memorable occasions, I went out with Puck at night. Once, I went to the Grove to see Brad do his pole dancing routine. It was scintillating and erotic, but I had to wait in the laundry room with the wives afterwards to calm down. I almost exploded on the walk to the room. The other time, I went to a gay club to see Sasha Goodtime do her thing. She can get a whole room going. Honestly, as hot as a naked Puck is, for entertainment value, I actually preferred his drag act. On the evenings and nights Puck didn’t have work, we’d try out sex ideas that Puck never had before. Handcuffs did nothing for him, but leather made him leak like a faucet. Spanking was an absolute softener for Puck, but he adored role play, especially if he pretended it was his first time with a guy. Puck got more out of our sex life when I was overblown huge, borrowing someone else’s muscles. It was always me on top, though. Puck was an avowed bottom and had already tried topping with an ex. “It’s not my thing,” he admitted. When Puck and I were fucking, Shafe would often spend these nights out of the condo. The first time, he simply said, “You guys are great, but I have to do something heterosexual, like, right now.” Living with Shafe was easier than I thought it would be. He put crystals all over the house, there was always incense burning in his room, and he daily pestered me to get a Feng Shui expert in to redecorate, but apart from those minor annoyances, he was the perfect roommate. Respectful and tidy, a consummate workout partner, and it didn’t hurt that he was hot and spent most days shirtless. The workouts were definitely going as planned. From the second customer onward, I’d only borrow 15 or so pounds—we only needed the first week so large to jumpstart things. After the second customer (I could tell from the way his muscles cried out for exertion that he was a former jock who had let himself go), I was up 16 pounds from my starting weight of 195, and I was absolutely shredded from the diet Shafe had us on. After the third week, 24 pounds. Shafe was both jealous and motivated, working out harder than I’d ever seen him—and he’d just won a bodybuilding contest. He even began wearing a red jasper ring to help with his gains. After those first three weeks, I put on 9 or 10 pounds every week. To catalogue my progress, Puck took a million pictures, but only at times I wasn’t borrowing someone’s muscles. And even then, he’d crop out my face. Week four’s depositor was a model of some sort—his muscles wanted to show off; I spent that entire week naked. At the end of it, when I gave back his muscles and wanted to dress again, it was clear to everyone that I had to buy some new clothes. We made a day of it. That was really all we did that day; we went to at least a dozen stores. Shafe came along to make sure the clothes were durable and that I’d have room to grow into them. Puck, however, was in absolute heaven: a life-size hunk to play dress-up with. He got me to try some out-there styles—mesh shirts, Lycra, colors and patterns I couldn’t even name. Most of it showed off my ever-expanding pec cleavage. And he (mostly) respected my preference for shirts with sleeves, even if my ever-swelling biceps were eventually going to make that a problem. He also made sure at least half of the clothes were office appropriate, even if my chest hair did show through most of them. Puck was so worked up seeing me in a leather harness and assless chaps that we ended up having a furtive fuck in the changing room. One day during week 5, I showed up to my morning workout, and Shafe pointed out that I had sky blue nail polish on and glitter on my chest. “Some sex thing with Puck?” he asked, drawing attention to the obvious hickey on my throat. “Some sex thing with Puck,” I confirmed. After week 5, when I weighed in at 238—practically back to my college weight—Shafe gave me a hand-numbing high five in celebration. “How big you plan on getting?” he asked, just the slightest note of nervousness in his voice. “I’ll know when I get there,” I said honestly. Puck was excited to see me as big as I was in college, only now with a beard and a hairy chest. He loved pulling on my chest hair when we fucked, gripping it tightly as we made passionate love. I was excited to see how much bigger than him I was getting. When we met, I easily had 20 pounds of muscle on him, and now I outsized him massively. I’d never been the bigger guy in the relationship. Well, I’d been the bigger guy, but only during sex. Now, even without a deposit, my actual muscle mass was significantly bigger than the guy I was dating. I was the big guy. When we had lunch, when we went out, when we were just hanging out, I was the big guy. It was a heady experience, and I was loving it. And every time Puck called me Muscles, it gave me a little chub. Unless we were having sex. Then, it made me thrust a little bit harder to show him just how apt my nickname was. After week 7, I weighed in at 257. Shafe looked proud and despondent at the same time. “You did it, man. You got bigger than me.” We stood next to each other in the mirror in the gym, and we had a flex off. My arms were bigger than his, my chest was denser and perter than his, my ass was rounder and harder, my abs were more chiseled and firmer. I was wider and thicker and more defined in every direction. My face even looked more severe than his did. My beard already gave me a masculine edge (Shafe kept himself clean-shaven), but now that I was so ripped and shredded, I had that hollow look I had in college back. Shafe was still taller than me, but that didn’t really matter, considering I outclassed him just a bit in every other conceivable way. “This big enough?” he asked after I diminished him—a professional, award-winning bodybuilder—with my presence. “Let’s go one more week,” I said with a crooked smile on my face. I pushed myself the hardest I ever did that week. This last guy was some kind of competitor: a boxer or some other sort of athlete. His muscles really pushed me to one-up everyone and everything around me. I was constantly eating, and sweating, and lifting. My muscles were pumped so routinely that I needed help getting undressed, and I was always somewhat sore (on top of the background fizzing). By the end of that week, after I gave back the deposit, I was 267. As I burgeoned with muscle, I’d noticed the world shrinking around me. Doors got narrower; I even occasionally bumped into doorjambs. I over-filled my car seat; I had to move my arm when I closed the door so my shoulders didn’t thrust it back open. My writing desk seemed to also be getting smaller each passing day. And it wasn’t just the chair, though that was growing impossibly, deliciously tight. Typing with thick, meaty fingers and biceps that fought for space with my pecs was intermittently erotic and frustrating. Even some staircases were just too narrow; the stairs in H. K.’s office building were impossible—I’d get trapped. So, I always took the elevator even if I was only going to the second floor. On top of all that, my chest and ass kept bumping into things if I didn’t play close attention, especially as I went around corners at stores. I also noticed that my body was fighting with itself for space. My arms always stuck out to the side, my thighs had to roll around each other when I walked, giving me a bit of a permanent strut, or maybe a slight waddle. And if I looked down too quickly, my chin would bump into my chest. I was getting seriously gigantic. The evening I hit 267, Shafe and I were sitting on the couch, enjoying our evening, goofing off and playing video games while Puck was at work. My couch was made for three or normal adults to sit on. With just him and me on it, we filled it. There was no room for a third person, and our shoulders bumped into each other when either of us moved slightly. “This is big enough,” I said after I knocked the controller out of his hand for the fifth time. “For now, at least.” Half of the clothes I’d bought forty pounds ago still fit because they were extra stretchy, left me half-naked, or looked good on me skin tight, but Puck and I went on another shopping spree to make sure I had enough work-appropriate clothes, especially ones I could put on easily without assistance. As we walked around the clothing stores, people marveled at my sheer girth and bulk, especially this one sales clerk. There was really only one formal clothing store that sold clothes in my size, and I swear that sales clerk drooled when he saw me. Puck was in absolute heaven with my decision to stop at 267 because it meant that he was exactly 2/3 my size. He liked that proportion. It made him feel small and petite. He’d often have me flex my arm next to his just to see how much more giant than his mine was. He tried to wrap his arms around my chest, and it was just too thick and wide—he couldn’t reach the other side. Also, no matter where we went, he loved to sit in my lap and rub my pecs and play with my chest hair. All the clothes he encouraged me to buy came with a splash of chest hair. After our shopping spree, Puck decided that he and I needed to go out that night to celebrate reaching my new permanent size, so he called out of work (Johnny owed him a favor, after all). Puck was waiting for me to finish getting ready, sitting in the living room. He was wearing a denim jacket over a pink leather shirt and tight black leather slacks that showed off his heavenly ass. He also had on a leather cap in a contrasting shade of cream. “Where are you guys going?” Shafe asked him, confused by the outfit. I came out of my room wearing the leather harness we’d bought a month ago. It barely fit me, and it squeezed my massive, hairy pecs out and proud. I also had on two studded leather wrist cuffs. I did have matching bicep straps we bought 40 pounds ago, but my massive guns bust through them when I put them on. To complete the outfit, I had a new pair of assless leather chaps that were a fucking struggle to get into, but my monstrous ass poked out through the back delightfully. When I got to the couch where Puck was sitting, he pulled a collar out of his jacket pocket and wrapped it around my neck, which was so thick the collar barely fit. Then, he attached a leash to my collar, turned to Shafe and said, “I don’t think you’d like where we’re going.” 39 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
arpeejay Posted August 18, 2021 Share Posted August 18, 2021 More, please! 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hardmuscl4life Posted August 19, 2021 Share Posted August 19, 2021 That was awesome... what a great story. many thanks, george 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted August 20, 2021 Author Share Posted August 20, 2021 Part 3 – The West California Wild Card Chapter 7 Shafe left two days after I stopped growing, insisting that I had to keep up my new bod because he vowed to come back as soon as he was even bigger than me. The goodbye wasn’t sad because it felt more like an “I’ll see you later.” He even left some of his belongings in the spare room, semi-claiming it as his home away from home. And just like that, I lived alone in my condo again. Suddenly, it felt empty. I’d lived alone for years and only lived with Shafe for two months, but now alone felt… lonely. Even tasks like getting my mail reminded me I was living alone. Of course, it was not helped by the mail I received. I got a save the date for my 10th high school reunion. That made me feel old. I’d get coupons for free tarot readings. Shafe got us on that mailing list right quick, but now that he was gone, they were just reminders of his absence. The most painful were the flyers for restaurants advertising dinners for one. Even though I was seeing someone, those felt pointed like personal attacks. The two months Shafe lived with me, I hadn’t spent much time with my L.A. friends, especially with all the lifting I’d been doing to get bigger and my new relationship with Puck. I was sure I would shake off the loneliness in no time. Thankfully, the routine I developed was now second nature, so I still saw a lot of Puck, I had a plan in place to stay on top of my workouts, and I was still making excellent progress on all of my writing. The exercise and meditation (yes, I was still doing that), helped keep any negative thoughts at bay. A few days after Shafe left, Natalie called me into her office to talk about what was next for my career. She was shocked at how big I was. She coughed so profoundly she nearly hacked to death. Like my advisors at Crocker, she suggested I slim down. When I said no, she shrugged and said, “I would’ve been a bad agent not to say it, but it’ll be the last time I say it, kid.” She gave me some places I should be submitting short stories to, and she suggested I start developing a screenplay or two since I lived in LA. At the end of the meeting, she said, “I’m not gonna tell you how to live your life, but you should show H. K. your new look. They’re releasing two of your books in a month. He might pitch a fit.” To keep her happy, I set up a meeting with H. K. for the next day to make sure I wouldn’t give the company cold feet. When he saw me, his eyes bugged out of their sockets. I also saw him look down at his own arms and chest, covertly comparing his healthy but normal-sized body to my monstrousness. I could almost hear his ego deflate. After a second or two of that, he snapped back to his professional self and said, “Wow, G. P. You got even bigger.” “Yes, I did.” I pulled my arms to the side, forcing my chest to jut out, threatening the buttons of my shirt. “How much bigger?” I shrugged. “A hair over 80 pounds.” “In this short a period of time? You’re not on steroids, are you?” “Nope. I’ve always put on muscle fast. I’ll take a drug test if it matters to you.” “For now, I’ll take your word. But it may come to that.” “I just wanted to make sure that this won’t derail any of the plans for promoting my books.” “We’re not really using you for Hollow Maple,” he said, “except for a few print interviews where they won’t even be in the same room as you. But Death Knell...” he trailed off. H. K. twiddled his fingers on his desk and fidgeted in his seat while thinking. “No. I don’t think it will,” he concluded. “Though, you’ll probably want to pick some more muted clothes for any interviews with the press that arise,” he added, pointing to my lemon yellow shirt. “I like this shirt,” I said honestly. “Your brother picked it out.” “You and E. C. are still dating?” he said, trying to hide the excitement in his voice. “Yep. He hasn’t mentioned it?” “Not once since my birthday.” “It’s going extremely well,” I reassured him. “Is that why you’re getting all… big? For my brother?” “Nope. I just like how it feels and looks.” I flexed my arms again, pushing out the fabric of my sleeves. “Well, thanks for giving me the heads up.” It looked like the meeting was about to end, when H. K. stopped me by clearing his throat. After a pause, he said, “G. P., would you call E. C. your boyfriend?” I thought about it. “Yes. And I suspect he would call me that too. We’ve been dating exclusively for two months now.” Surreptitiously and quietly, he added, “And he’s not doing drugs?” “I wouldn’t be with him if he was doing drugs,” I said. “That’s what I thought,” H. K. replied. A bit more assertively, he continued. “And he’s not a prostitute or a rent boy, or whatever it’s called?” “No,” I said. “He’s just a stripper.” H. K. looked physically relieved. “I know I’m just his older brother, but I feel responsible for him, and I want to make sure he’s okay since he gave up ballet. He’d put so much of himself and his life into it, and then he just quit.” “Oh, he didn’t quit ballet,” I said. “What?” H. K. gripped his desk tightly, his fingers practically digging into the wood. “He quit the L.A. company, but not ballet. He still goes to lessons four days a week. He’s not doing the full commitment of a professional. It’s closer to 15 or 20 hours a week, but he still takes classes.” H. K. slinked back in his desk chair. “I cannot tell you how happy that makes me. For the last year and a half, I thought he was just floundering.” “He doesn’t plan on going pro again ever, but he’s told me that he’ll eventually become a ballet teacher. He just needs some time to enjoy his youth. He got scared because of what happened to Stefano.” “This is about Stefano?” H. K. asked in an exaggeratedly sharp tone. “Yeah. What did you think this was about?” “I had no idea. He said nothing. He quit his job, which had been his passion his whole life, out of nowhere. Just one day, he up and quit. Then he shaved his head, grew a beard, and became a stripper. And he’s doing all of these other off the wall things. And dating these sketchy guys. I mean, beside the stuff he’s telling me he’s doing, I’ve seen his Instagram account. I thought the worst.” “He’s still doing off the wall things. With me even. But I’m the only guy he’s dating. He’s just having some fun before it’s too late.” “Why didn’t he tell me this? I was so worried!” “I shouldn’t say this, and I’ll deny ever saying it in front of Puck, but he gets a kick out of making you worry. He thinks it’s funny.” “Glad my high blood pressure makes him laugh.” The meeting ended, H. K. invited Puck and me to his apartment to have dinner some night, and I went home. Puck was sitting on the floor near the big window, reading. “Did you narc on me to my brother?” “By telling him you’re not on drugs? Yes. And, yes, I told him you’re still taking ballet classes.” “Well, there goes that fun.” “You’ll think of new fun.” Puck stuck his tongue out at me and then went back to reading. That first week Shafe was gone and I was no longer rapidly fluctuating size, Puck and I settled back into our lives. One day, we invited some people (including Lizzie and Janelle) over for brunch. The next day, I was so wiped from my workouts that day that we spent the entire evening reading under the same blanket in my bedroom. The next night, Puck confessed that he’d never had the time to be a couch potato, so we binge-watched some Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Puck sat on my lap the whole time, cuddling up to my massive pecs. The day after our TV marathon, I was washing our dinner dishes and mentally working on some notes for the next chapter of my book. As soon as I was done washing, I was going to go right to my desk to write. With a placid grin on his face, Puck came over and took a picture of me doing the dishes. “Blessed domesticity,” Puck said looking at his picture. I smiled at him, then went back to my ruminations. All of a sudden, he came over to the sink, grabbed a plate from my hand, and threw it to the floor. “What the fuck, Puck?” I screamed. “We have now stayed in for three nights in a row. We have a steady, predictable schedule. We’re going to my brother’s for a dinner party. We did brunch! We’re too comfortable. We’ve become boring.” “We’re not boring,” I said, defending us. “We’re boring,” Puck said, ignoring my objection with a dismissive hand gesture. “I don’t know how it happened so fast. Just last week, we were exciting. This week, I’m taking a picture of you doing dishes! Was it because Shafe left? Was it because you told my brother this isn’t my forever plan? Was it because my brother approves of you?” He looked me dead in the eye and added, “I refuse to be boring!” “Okay,” I said. “What exciting thing do you want to do?” He thought for a second, and then his face lit up. “I’ve been noodling about your ability as The Repository. And I have a sinful, sinful idea. We’ll have to tell one more person about what you can do, but I guarantee you he’s trustworthy. And if I’m right, we’re going to do something with your abilities you’ve never done before.” 16 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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