TQuintA Posted July 7, 2021 Author Share Posted July 7, 2021 I write these up in a Microsoft Word document and then copy/paste them here. Thanks for pointing out that I'd doubled up on Chapter 3. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
WrestlejockCT Posted July 7, 2021 Share Posted July 7, 2021 This is so well done--checking daily for the next installment has become a habit. Great job building the anticipation and the characters. Fun ride so far! 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Mdlftr Posted July 7, 2021 Share Posted July 7, 2021 Your muscle growth descriptions are amazing, as are you references to English Romantic poets! It inspired me to reference Keats, especially the last two lines ---- Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? - -- - - - - - - - - "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted July 8, 2021 Author Share Posted July 8, 2021 2 hours ago, Mdlftr said: as are you references to English Romantic poets The story called for the seduction of Byron, but I've always preferred Keats or Blake myself. Burns, if we expand it to British Romantics. Glad to see another poetry fan. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
pecslover54 Posted July 8, 2021 Share Posted July 8, 2021 Let out such a hard laugh at the She Walks in Beauty reference (one of my fav choral arrangements I've sang by Paul Mealor). Great stuff! 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Popular Post TQuintA Posted July 9, 2021 Author Popular Post Share Posted July 9, 2021 Part 2 – The College Con-Artist Chapter 4 Much to my delight and surprise, Flynn and I actually became really good friends. He wasn’t lying this time. We texted all the time, we worked out together when our schedules lined up, and we went out on the prowl about two or three times a month. As he liked to brag, he was, of course, an excellent wingman. After knowing each other for only three months, the number of men I’d had sex with skyrocketed. In fact, I’d been with five of the six strippers from that first night (depends on if you count a handjob in a locked bathroom stall). Thanks to Alphonse, all of the strippers now called me Shakespeare. Some even brought in the Calvin Klein ad I supposedly modeled for and asked me to sign it. Flynn taught me how to read a guy’s cues to play up what he wanted. “These tricks are only for sex,” he insisted. “If you want a boyfriend, honesty is key.” So, I learned how to play the bad boy for men with overbearing fathers, play the shy young ingenue for white knights, play the party boy for the good time Charlies, play the meathead for the muscle worshippers, and at least a dozen other roles. And Flynn pulled twice the number of sex partners I did—and those were just the ones I saw at the bar. He also went out on his own—who knows the full extent of his sex life? My bonding time with Flynn at the gym was also surprisingly fun. The gym was my necessary evil—I only went to maintain my body so I didn’t have to endure that god-awful fizzing. Flynn seemed to be hellbent on becoming the biggest motherfucker on campus. He was a solid brick of a man when we met—easily over 200 pounds. He just kept getting bigger, with a lot of help from an unending supply of supplements—a mountain of which he kept in his dorm room. Flynn also seemed to have an endless supply of tickets to events, the newest electronics, and a new car every six months. I knew better than to ask where all the stuff was coming from. Some of it was obviously stolen, and the rest he’d weaseled one way or another. I knew none of it was gotten legitimately or paid for legally, so I didn’t bother asking follow-ups, especially since I got spillover perks like the best seats at concerts and his hand-me-down phones. Our classmates still treated us hostilely, but we didn’t really care. We had our own world. Apart from the rich assholes on campus, school was going great. I was doing well in all my classes. I’d been promoted to shift manager at the cafeteria. I had even maintained the upkeep on this muscular glory of my body. Before I knew it, two years had passed. It was October of junior year. Flynn was at the gym working out like a fiend to get even bigger for the wrestling team. He was currently floating around 235, trying to make it to 240 before his first match at the end of the month. I was working on an essay for a history class when I got a text from Jonah (we still chatted occasionally and hung out over breaks). “Now a good time to call?” I texted back a thumbs up emoji. The phone rang, and I picked it up, saying “What’s up, man?” “Do you still have that video of you? The one from the night of the three-way?” “The one where I’m a 290 pound mass monster? Yes. Why?” “I started dating this guy Seth, and we were at this party. We started playing that stupid drinking game Never Have I Ever, and Seth said, ‘Never have I ever had a threesome.’ I was the only one who drank. The only one. Seth insisted I share, so I told him. When he learned it was with two guys, he had to know every last detail. I didn’t tell him you or your ex-boyfriend’s name, or any incriminating details.” Jonah was talking oddly. He hadn’t called me “Gerry” once, and he didn’t mention any deposits at all. And there was a strange timbre to his voice. Something was up. “He doesn’t believe you?” “He did at first, but he wants pictures. When I said I didn’t have any pictures of you, he started to not believe me.” “I’m not sending you the video, Jonah.” “I know. I heard your ex ask enough times. I was actually hoping you’d deleted it.” “Why?” A new voice spoke on the phone. “This is Seth.” Ah! The new boyfriend was listening over speaker phone. That explained everything. Seth continued, “Are you really a giant mountain of muscle who had a three-way with Jonah in high school?” “Did I have a three-way with Jonah? Yes. Am I mountain of muscle? No. But I was when I had sex with Jonah.” I gave enough details to Seth to corroborate Jonah’s story, and they hung up. “Weird phone call,” I thought to myself. I looked at the time. I had an hour until my next class, and reliving that night with Gregg and Jonah had gotten me all riled up. So, I pulled up the video on my phone and began watching it. God, I had been magnificent. A bloated meat balloon of pure muscle, flexing my best. My muscles were so thick and dense. Is it perverted to jack off to a video of yourself? If it is, I’m a pervert. Before my better reasoning could click in, I was in my bed, stroking my dick while watching the giant muscle freak version of me on my phone over and over. Each bulge, each flex, I’d stroke a little more intensely. I could feel the pleasure tingle through my cock more intensely as I drew nearer to coming. I was nearing climax when… “Vaughn,” Flynn asked while opening my (locked) door, “do you have a shift…” he stopped dead, just as I orgasmed. “Close the door,” I managed as another spurt of jizz sprang from me. Flynn closed the door behind him. I’d meant for him to close the door with him on the other side, but at least the door was closed. “Sorry, Vaughn. My bad.” “What are you doing here, Flynn? You could’ve knocked. Or, hell, respected that my door was locked.” “You couldn’t hear me pick your lock?” He sounded smug. “I’m better than I thought.” “Not the point.” “Right. Sorry. No worries. Everybody beats off, and I’ve already seen your cock.” “No worries?” Flynn shrugged. “Your orgasm face is normal.” I shoved my dick back in my pants and my phone in my pocket. Then, I asked again, “What are you doing here, Flynn?” More assured that the excitement was behind me, I sat up on the bed. “Right. Do you have a work shift on Saturday? I have two tickets to a concert on the beach.” Flynn sat on the bed next to me. “No shift. Sure. Let’s go.” “Excellent,” Flynn said, patting my thigh. “Now,” he continued, looking down at a phone, “what does Vaughn watch when he beats off? Inquiring minds want to know.” I reached into my pocket. My phone wasn’t there. “You picked my pocket?” “Of course,” Flynn said, insulted that I had to ask. “Whoa,” he added. I could hear the video playing as his face grew wider and wider. “I approve. He is impressive.” “Can I have my phone back?” “Where did you get this? Who is he? I want to look him up myself.” “Give me back my phone.” Flynn’s brows knitted together, and his eyes darkened a little. He looked at me with a mischievous glint and smirked at me. Then, he forced us both to our feet and pulled the bottom of my shirt over my head. “Aha!” “Aha what?” I said, pushing my shirt back down. “This huge fucker looks like you. Your eyes. Your hair. Your nose. Just way more jacked. Way more jacked. And,” he tapped the screen of my phone just below muscular-me’s pec, “your mole.” “What are you saying?” “I’m not sure. You might have a twin brother who always eats his Wheaties. You might have been a roidhead muscle freak before we met. Whichever way, congrats on interesting porn.” “You think he looks like me?” I asked, feigning innocence. For a moment, Flynn said nothing, a stunned look on his face. Then, he said, “Don’t insult me. I taught you how to feign innocence.” He looked at the phone again. “This is you! I was giving you shit. I was going to call you conceited. But this is actually you!” “Can I have my phone back?” He handed me my phone, saying, “Shit, Vaughn. How big were you? Why are you this small now?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “Try me.” So, I told him about The Repository. When I reached the end of the story, a gleeful grin spread across his face. “You better not be lying. This better be absolutely true.” “There’s an easy way to…” Flynn interrupted me, saying, “You can borrow twenty pounds.” It had been years since I’d taken a deposit, but the experience was familiar and intensely pleasurable. My chest surged forward, pressing my shirt outwards. My shoulders broadened, my arms hardened and thickened—both threatening my sleeves. My abs hardened into a protective armor. My legs bulged outwards, testing the integrity of my pants. And my ass thickened into a solid mass of power. I was going to need help getting out of these clothes without ripping them. Flynn, a little diminished, but still bigger than me, stared at me. I couldn’t read the expression on his face, but he pitched a very obvious tent in his pants. I stood up and walked around. My clothes were wrapped tightly around me, and I felt heavy and substantial in a way I had almost forgotten. Unlike any of the muscles I’d borrowed before, Flynn’s muscles were for attacking. I felt ready to fight, spar, and brawl with anyone and everyone. Carrying dynamite like this inside him, it’s no wonder he was so confident. Flynn took off his shirt and walked up next to me. Then he took off my shirt, which he had to struggle to do. My pecs even bounced with the final tug over my head. He positioned us so we were both standing in front of my closet mirror. He made contact with me in the mirror and said, “So… boyfriends?” Before Flynn could change his mind, I tackled him to the floor. Even with the transfer of muscle, he still had 15 pounds on me, but I had the element of surprise. When we fell to the floor, I kissed him long and hard, my left hand venturing south to stroke his hardened cock through his clothes. “I’ve been wanting to do this for two years,” I confessed in between kisses. Flynn put his hands on my shoulders and flipped us over so he was now on top. “You think you can pin me?” He jutted his chin out and pointed to himself just long enough to say, “Wrestling scholarship.” I grabbed his cock firmly and, with my right hand, pinched his nipple. Flynn released his grip, and I had just enough leverage to flip us back over to where we’d just been, with me on top. “I don’t know how to wrestle. I just want to finally fuck you.” With that, I bit his lip playfully, and he melted. “Fuck, Vaughn,” he moaned. “At your command,” I said, and ripped open his fly, probably ruining it, but giving me access to his solid, turgid cock. Flynn’s cock was as thick as the rest of him—too thick to be called anything else—words like “penis” or “dick” just did not do justice to how fully thick he was. It was five inches, but deliciously, teasingly, tantalizingly thick. “Where is all this power coming from?” he asked, almost to himself. I flexed my one free bicep and bounced my pecs. I was dense and swollen with power. “From you,” I reminded him. Then, I lowered myself down to his cock and opened my jaw—wide—to take it in. I devoured every last inch of his dick, licking it, tasting its saltiness. I brought my free hand down and began tickling and lightly pulling his balls. Flynn rocked and twitched under me, unconsciously thrusting himself up into my mouth. I pressed my face into his crotch, my nose buried in his sweaty pubic hair, taking in its pungent, welcoming aroma. I felt his climax already coming, so I coaxed it out of him. When the moment came, Flynn sat up involuntarily, his whole body going into rictus. I swallowed every drop. “Now it’s my turn,” I said, preparing to flip Flynn over, but he put his arms out and resisted. “I only bottom for guys bigger than me,” he said. “Fine. You top,” I said in ragged breaths. I just wanted my climax. I didn’t care about batting order. “Give me a few minutes.” “I’ve waited two years,” I groaned. Then, after a pause, I added, “This is a special occasion. We could always make me bigger than you.” Flynn contemplated, and then nodded. “Okay. Next time, I’m topping, and you’re having some goddam patience.” “How much bigger than you do you want me to be?” “You can borrow 15 more pounds,” he said, a little reluctantly. I watched expectantly as Flynn diminished by 15 pounds. He was still 200; that’s still plenty big. But he looked more like I remembered him from freshman year, his last two years of progress drained from his body. I heard a moan escape Flynn. “You’re getting heavy,” he said. I watched as my forearms thickened and my biceps swelled—even unflexed, they looked deliciously plump. My heaving pecs felt fuller and more massive, now there was more to heave. I looked down as my entire torso thickened; my six pack became less prominent, but my core felt twice as powerful. Flynn grabbed my ass; at least he tried. I suddenly had a lot of ass to grab, and it overfilled his hands. “Fuck me now.” He’d barely finished his words before I flipped him over, pulled down his pants, and revealed his ass. Even smaller than it usually was, it was dense, full, and blockish. I ran my tongue along his crack, the hair on his ass tickling my tongue and lips. I grabbed a condom from my bedside table (which was thankfully in arm’s reach from our position on the floor) and wrapped my eager cock. Then, I held his shoulder down, positioned myself behind him, and inserted myself into him. Flynn murmured inarticulate sounds of pleasure. I was so supercharged from everything that had happened that I knew I was going to fire as quickly as Flynn had. I tried to slow down, I tried to relish this moment, I tried to make it last as long as I could. But, within two minutes, I was clutching his shoulder tightly, my nails digging into his skin, as a low groan of orgasm escaped my throat. In one fluid movement, I pulled out of Flynn, rolled him over, and started kissing him on his cheeks, chest, lips, and neck. Flynn looked up at me, marveling at my size. “You look good, Vaughn. My muscles suit you.” “Thanks,” I said, smiling, “but you can have them back.” Just like that, all of his muscles poured out of me and back into him. We spent that night on the floor in each other’s arms. 44 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
zazu Posted July 9, 2021 Share Posted July 9, 2021 When they met, I thought Flynn would be a terrible boyfriend for him. He still probably is, but you've sold me on it, damn. And you always make sex scenes so interesting, which is honestly hard for authors to do. Bravo. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
JuniorJack Posted July 11, 2021 Share Posted July 11, 2021 I really love the way you write. Thanks for sharing. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted July 13, 2021 Author Share Posted July 13, 2021 Part 2 – The College Con-Artist Chapter 5 The next morning, I woke up, still on the floor, to find Flynn sitting shirtless at my desk, scratching furiously in a notebook. “Morning,” I said, lazily and muffled. He turned around, a little surprised as I pulled him out of his writing. “Morning.” “Thank you for last night,” I said. “I’ve wanted to do that forever. Next time, we’ll both last longer. I promise.” Flynn stopped writing, joined me on the floor, and forced me into a seated position. “Time for serious talk.” “Oh fuck,” I pouted. “Did you change your mind? Do you not want to be my boyfriend anymore?” “You haven’t changed your mind?” he asked, a note of worry in his voice. I shook my head and rubbed some sleep out of my eye with the palm of my hand. “Why would I?” “I’m like binge drinking. Fun in the moment, but followed by regret and headaches.” I chuckled so thoroughly that my chest shook and my ribs hurt. “Flynn, man, we’re 20. I’m not proposing marriage. I’m saying we have some fun with each other, have sex frequently, date some, and see where this goes.” “Roberto had that attitude. He was my high school boyfriend. I landed him in jail.” “What was the crime?” I asked, undaunted. “Grand theft auto.” “Okay. I vow not to steal any cars, no matter how well you blow me.” Flynn pointed to my desk. “Do you know what I was doing all morning? Thinking of ways to sucker people out of money using your ability. I didn’t even wait 12 hours.” “How many did you come up with?” I asked. “Three small hustles. And brainstorms for two big ones.” Flynn stopped himself. “I’m not sending another decent guy to jail.” “I’m not Roberto. I’m not agreeing to any scams; I’m not going to commit any crimes.” “You better not,” he said, practically sighing. Seeing his chest muscles expand and contract as his mountainous shoulders rose and fell, I suddenly grew a little sad. What was he playing at? “You didn’t want to have sex with me until you learned about my ability.” I paused. “Is that the only reason you wanted to have sex with me?” “What?” Flynn looked more confused than anything. “You’re not the only one with ex-boyfriend baggage. My high school boyfriend Gregg only ever wanted to have sex with me when I was taking a deposit. It was fun at first, but then grew dehumanizing. You see me borrow 20 pounds of muscles, and immediately you want to be my boyfriend. It felt…” I paused, searching for the right words, “unpleasantly familiar.” “What? Fuck no!” Flynn looked insulted now. “I want to be the bigger guy. I almost never bottom. Don’t you dare get used to that. That way lies disappointment.” “Then why last night, after two years of platonic friendship, did you finally want to have sex?” Flynn shrugged (and I was momentarily distracted again by his rising shoulders). “When we first met, you struck me as a goody-goody. Mr. Plays-It-Safe. Then, I friend-zoned you, and you stuck around. That made no sense. I had to figure you out. I threw the works at you. You used the fake ID. You adapted to casual sex with strangers. You accepted all my gifts, without asking how I got them. “Then it clicked for me. I had you all figured out again. You were taking a walk on the wild side. Sowing a few wild oats. Dancing close enough to the fire to see it glow, not close enough to get burned. I like you, don’t get me wrong. But I thought you’d drop me when you got a boyfriend. Come back to your senses. Settle down with Mr. Straight-And-Narrow. Last night, all that changed.” “How?” “You kept a giant secret from me. For two years. There is more to you than I thought. A guy who can keep a secret like that? That’s a guy who has his head on his shoulders.” “Then what was that whole speech about Roberto and how I’ll end up in jail if I date you?” “One last chance to stay friends. Forget the whole thing.” I pulled in Flynn for a kiss. “You’re the idiot who needed two years to come to your senses.” Flynn smiled, and then tousled my hair. “Get dressed for work, boy,” he cheered. “How’d you know?” Flynn wagged his phone at me. “You text me your schedule. You always text me your schedule.” “You actually read that?” Flynn smiled. “Of course. Had to keep track of you. But I pretended not to read it.” “Are you actually going to visit me at work today?” Begrudgingly, Flynn said, “Cafeteria food? Not since freshman orientation.” He sighed. “For you, I’ll brave it.” I jumped up and hugged him. I felt like a lovesick puppy. Flynn even walked with me to work. I tried to hold his hand a few times to complete the cornball cliché, but he pushed mine aside every time. “When it’s you and me alone. When we’re at the bar. When we’re someplace off campus. Every goofy romantic thing you can think of. I’ll do it. On campus, though, nothing.” “Are you scared of PDA in front of the breeders?” “I’m scared one of the frat bros will pick a fight. I’m scared of me punching him in the face. Losing my scholarship. Ending up behind bars. Meanwhile, he can brag about getting the queer kicked out of school.” “That does sound like a fatal chain of events.” We kept our PDA for non-campus venues, but we settled into couplehood rather quickly. It was easy since we were already close friends. He’d walk me to work when his schedule allowed, we actually synced out workouts to spend more time at the gym together for real, and we fucked like rabbits. True to his word, Flynn preferred to top. And I was okay with that, as if my smile wasn’t any indication. It was just over a month later when things changed irrevocably. Flynn walked me to work, nothing special there. He walked me into the cafeteria, all the way up to the door that says “Staff Only Beyond This Point,” nothing special there. But, when we parted ways, he kissed me goodbye. Special. He’d never done that before. It was a reflex. He wasn’t even thinking. I, for one, wasn’t going to point it out to him. But my customers certainly saw it, especially these two jackasses named Steele and Rhodes. I only knew their names because I bumped into them in the gym from time to time. They were constantly—and loudly—jockeying to be the alpha of their social group (and by extension, the campus), but neither ever completely dominated the other, at least not for long. I thought of them as the consuls of the Roman empire: each had veto power, but they ruled together. Steele was decently muscular and lithe. His face screamed money from his over-coiffed blond hair, to his baby blue eyes, to his aquiline nose and dimpled chin. He looked like a fairy tale prince, and he bragged that his family could trace their lineage back to English royalty. If he wasn’t such an asshole, he would’ve been beautiful. Rhodes was less handsome, largely because he was the school’s best boxer. His arms were works of art, thick, powerful, and fast. But his face always had a cut, bruise, or scar healing, and his nose had clearly been broken numerous times. He kind of looked like a muscular potato, complete with brown hair and pale eyes. He was the heir to some car company or something like that—he wasn’t particularly articulate and I wasn’t particularly listening—and he was bound and determined to be the bad boy black sheep of his family. Of all people, Rhodes and Steele had seen me kiss my boyfriend, and they were not happy about it. A gaggle of students came up to my work station—Rhodes and Steele possessively dangling their arms over their girlfriends’ shoulders. “The poor kid is gay,” Rhodes said. His words slurred together as though he was punch drunk, even out of the ring. “I knew there was something I didn’t trust about you. You been lying this whole time.” “I haven’t exactly hidden that I’m gay. There’s a rainbow flag on my door.” I tapped my pin. “And my nametag.” Rhodes pulled his girl in closer and laughed. “Like I’d ever be caught dead in Hinde Hall.” Steele slithered in to join him. “You’d think a homosexual gentleman would dress better.” He leaned in to his girlfriend’s ear and pointed at me. “He’s wearing polyester.” “I’m wearing my uniform.” “I’ve seen you wear flannel too,” Steele continued. “No one forced you to do that.” “You look like a normal dude,” Rhodes interjected, “but I knew there was something off about you. Something… not quite right about the way you walked around the gym.” “With my feet?” I tried. Rhodes sneered. I cheerily asked, “Is there something at my station you would like for lunch?” “I’ve lost my appetite,” Rhodes snarled. “Is there anything else I can help you with, then?” Steele perked up when he heard that. “Yes, yes there is. Can I see the manager?” “I’m the manager,” I said. “Shift manager. What can I help you with?” “They made you the manager?” Steele disdainfully swirled his hand in the air, drawing an imaginary circle around my body as if the mere notion that I was the manager was somehow preposterous and upsetting. “I have been for a year now. What can I help you with?” “It’s insulting enough to come to this place and see one of my classmates working in a synthetic uniform.” Steele was revving himself up. “But to discover they made him manager out of some bleeding heart, affirmative action nonsense. It really makes you question the school’s standards.” “If you’re unsatisfied with my service or the quality of the food, I could…” Rhodes interrupted, leaning over the counter that separated us. “There’s nothing you can do for any of us. There are other places to eat on campus, and there’s a whole world out there.” “Good day, ma’am,” Steele called out, and then the whole passel of them were gone. The rest of my shift was uneventful, so I was surprised when the general manager asked me to see him at the end of the workday. Partly, it was because the general manager almost never left his office; he left the nuts and bolts of everyday tasks for the shift managers. More importantly, I could tell I was in trouble. Rhodes and Steele had gotten a large number of students to promise to boycott the cafeteria unless I was fired. They claimed I was rude and unsanitary. My manager knew it was a lie, but with the number of students threatening to boycott and the fact that some of them were the children of the school’s biggest donors, he had to let me go. When I told Flynn, he was livid and wanted to beat Steele and Rhodes senseless. I, however, just got another job at the deli counter of the supermarket in town. It didn’t pay as much, but the hours were better. Then, on my first day, Rhodes and Steele and their whole crew came in to laugh at me. Seriously, that’s all they did. Just laugh. I offered to ready their lunchmeat and cheese, and they just laughed. They came back three more times my first week. The store let me go because the laughter was disturbing the other customers—and they secretly and incorrectly suspected I was in on it, like it was some sort of prank I had masterminded. Flynn was now actively plotting the bloody deaths of Steele and Rhodes, but I just got another job at a restaurant. The pay, the hours, and the commute all sucked, but I needed a job, and I was getting desperate. My first shift, Rhodes and Steele and their fan club were there. “What is this?” I thought to myself. “Some ‘80s movie with rich bullies?” As if he was answering my question, Rhodes tripped me while I was carrying a big tray of dishes, and I went sprawling into the floor, shattering half a dozen plates. I stood up haughtily, and confronted him. “Why do you keep harassing me like this?” “You don’t belong at our school,” Rhodes answered simply. “You never belonged there,” Steel echoed. “I’m not at the school right now. I’m at work.” I really wanted to scream, but I was keeping a stern but civil tone. “You should really back down,” Steele’s girlfriend said in a voice barely above a whisper. Rhodes repeated, “You don’t belong at our school.” “Why?” I asked. “Because I’m poor? Because I’m gay?” “There she goes, making this a political correctness issue,” Steele groaned. “This has nothing to do with politics. People like you just shouldn’t mix with people like us. We come from entirely different worlds, and any attempt to mix them just does us both a disservice.” Undaunted, I pressed on. “People like me who? People like me poor? People like me gay?” “People like you who are constantly crossing the boundaries of polite society. I have nothing against gay people, I have nothing against poor people. As long as they stay where they belong.” “People like you ruin everything,” Rhodes chimed in. It was getting harder to maintain civility. “Is that what this is? I don’t know my place? I act as though we’re equals? I don’t act inferior to you?” “You are inferior to us,” Steele said. There was no malice in his voice; to his mind, he was stating a fact as uncontroversial as “two plus two equals four.” Then, he raised his hand to flag down their waiter. When she showed up, Steele said, “this busboy,” he pointed at me, then added, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, “excuse me. Busperson. This busperson has been bothering my entire party, and she dropped that whole tray of plates. See to her.” I was fired again. I couldn’t get out of that restaurant fast enough. I changed in the employee bathroom and headed back to my car. Steele’s girlfriend came up to me in the parking lot. “It’s not about you. Not really. It may have been at first, but now it’s about their never-ending pissing contest. You stood up to both of them, something most guys on campus wouldn’t do. If you back down, they’ll stop attacking you.” “I stood up to them? This started because they harassed me about kissing my boyfriend, and I didn’t take the bait. How is that standing up to them?” “You didn’t apologize. You brushed off their insults. And you weren’t scared of them.” “That’s all it took?” She nodded. “They’re used to people treating them like gods. So now, whoever makes you crack, whoever gets you to beg him to stop, he wins. Once you surrender, they’ll get bored and move on to some new way to measure their dicks.” “Why should I surrender? They’re wrong, not me.” “Does that really matter? Aren’t you tired of fighting? When you surrender, it’ll be an unpleasant couple of days, but I promise you they’ll get bored and move on.” “Just to give them what they want? That’s terrible advice.” She made a noise of frustration. “I’m saying this for your benefit. Give up. If you don’t surrender soon, they’ll make you lose your scholarship.” All of the blood rushed out of my head, and all of the sounds around me turned into hollow echoes. I was at their mercy, wasn’t I? When she saw that she’d gotten through to me, she went back into the restaurant. Pale and shaking, I drove back to campus. Flynn was in my room. I’d texted him what had happened, and he was waiting to comfort me or disembowel Rhodes and Steele, whichever I wanted. By the time I’d gotten back to my room, my terror had hardened into resolve. After he kissed me hello, I asked, “Can we use my skills as The Repository to scam Rhodes and Steele out of a lot of money? I mean, a lot of it? Like, an embarrassing amount? Like, I don’t have to worry about tuition a lot?” Flynn’s eyes lit up. “About fucking time.” 22 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Popular Post TQuintA Posted July 13, 2021 Author Popular Post Share Posted July 13, 2021 Part 2 – The College Con-Artist Chapter 6 “Really? That easily?” I was shocked. Given the woeful tale of Roberto, I was surprised I didn’t have to strongarm him into helping me scam these assholes. “That easily,” Flynn echoed. “They have it coming. I have the perfect scheme. And you have perfect timing.” “You have a scheme lined up for me already?” “I’ve got fingers in a lot of pies. I’m always planning.” He pulled a notebook out of his back pocket—it was thick with notes and folded pages, and practically every page had been written on. “I don’t trust the cloud,” he said, explaining why he used an old school notebook. How many schemes was he involved with? “How have you not been arrested?” “Very few of the schemes I do would land me in jail. Less than 1%. Close to none. And those have to be extremely lucrative. Like the car I stole with Roberto. If that had worked, we would’ve made $50 thousand in one night—selling it back to its owner. Another chunk of my schemes, about 10%, no one cares. Like my fake IDs. In a college town, people expect that law to be broken. About 10% are in a legal grey area. They might be illegal; they might not be. A good lawyer can keep me out of jail. Mostly, those are handshake deals. Nothing on paper. If we didn’t have a contract, did I even break a law? Most of my schemes, about 80% of them, are completely legal. Caveat emptor. If my mark had been paying better attention, they wouldn't have fallen for it.” I had no idea what to say, so I just said, “Wow.” “Do you know what my source of most steady income is?” he asked bluntly. “Until two seconds ago, I naively thought it was your scholarship stipend.” Flynn looked confused for a second, and then his face lit up with recognition. “Oh! That was a lie. I have no stipend whatsoever.” “Then how do you make your money?” “Crockr. The dating app.” “Never heard of it.” “Of course not. You’re not the target market. Most of our classmates are elitist assholes. They pay for exclusivity. So, I came up with the idea for Crockr, a dating app exclusively for students and alumni of Crocker. An acquaintance of mine built the app; the idea and marketing are mine. If my customers had read the fine print, they’d see they gave me permission to use their data on apps like Tinder. My app puts their info on other dating apps. Swipes left on anyone who isn’t a student or alumni at Crocker. Sends them the info for the people who are. That’s all it does.” “And that’s legal?” “Completely. Shady as fuck, but completely legal. I make a cool $2,500 a month. Exorbitant membership fees are proof of exclusivity. I’d make even more if I could run the software myself. But I have to pay my staff, and I pay handsomely." “The scheme you’re proposing for me is one of those completely legal ones, right?” “Right.” He paused. “But,” he paused again, “before you agree, we’d need to do something you won’t like. Say no to this part, I’ll drop the whole scheme.” “Alright…” I said tentatively. “We have to tell one other person that you’re The Repository.” “Yeah, I don’t like that.” “Just one person. He’s not a student here. But he’s crucial to the plan.” Before I agreed one way or another, Flynn had me in his car on our way to meet this stranger. “His name’s Gil Shafer,” Flynn explained on the way, “but everyone calls him Shafe. He’s a professional bodybuilder.” “You know a professional bodybuilder?” Flynn just kept getting more interesting. “Ex-boyfriend? Former one night stand?” I didn’t like the strained quality of my voice. “Aww,” Flynn razzed. “You’re jealous. No. Shafe’s straight as they come.” Flynn paused for a second. “Can you borrow muscles from a straight guy? Or is this a gay sex thing?” “I can and have borrowed muscles from straight guys.” “Good. ‘Cause he’s very hetero. An exhibitionist, but hetero.” “And how do you know him?” I reminded him. “He’s a client.” “Client?” Flynn made a noise of discomfort. He’d wanted to be suave and elusive, and I was making him be specific and forthcoming. “I sell him a lot of fake IDs.” “So, he’s a young bodybuilder?” “23. 24? May have had a birthday recently.” “Wait.” Something sounded wrong. “He’s over 21, and you still regularly sell him multiple fake IDs?” “He gets them for his girlfriends. Has a new girl every weekend. If she’s under 21, he’ll always buy her an ID. He doesn’t drink—afraid it will hurt his gains. But he likes taking large parties to the bar. Just opening a tab. He’s a big spender. Comes from money. But when he needs help, he’s more likely to consult a Ouija board than his parents.” “So, what makes Shafe necessary to let in on our secret?” “Our Mr. Shafer is also a fan of motorcycles. Earlier this week, he broke his leg in a small crash. Can’t walk on it for at least eight weeks. Maybe longer if complications arise. Like I said, perfect timing. For us, anyways.” “I still don’t see what makes him necessary.” “For my scam to work, we need some extra muscle to play with. And money. It has to come from somewhere. Shafe has both. Plus, he’s terrified of losing his gains. If you have his muscle, you can’t lose it. Give it back to him when his leg is better. I charge him for the service to fund the rest of the scam. Since he believes in psychics and leprechauns, he’ll accept your abilities without blinking.” “Really? He really believes in leprechauns?” “Honestly, Vaughn, you’ve got me wondering if leprechauns exist.” I’d derailed his train of thought, so I refocused. “I still don’t understand your scam.” Flynn parked the car outside a ritzy condo complex. “Rhodes and Steele jockey for power. It’s why Steele has any muscles at all. Rhodes needs them to box. Steele needs them to piss off Rhodes. I tell them I’m selling a new muscle supplement. One that really helps you pack on size. Then, in a public setting, I’ll tell them that you’re using the supplement. We use Shafe’s muscle to give everyone a before/after. A dramatic one.” “If I show up to the gym a lot more muscular suddenly, that won’t convince anyone. They’ll think it’s a trick.” “My plan is more subtle. Those are broad strokes.” “And what will you actually be selling them?” “Glucosamine with a pinch of whey?” Flynn shrugged. “Whatever’s cheapest on eBay. Our product will comply with all California and federal laws. The label will be truthful. With really tiny fonts. They won’t read it. They’ll be looking at you.” Flynn got out of the car, indicating this part of the conversation was over, and then we headed inside. Shafe’s apartment was glossy and clean, but it clearly looked like a straight guy lived there—leather furniture with chrome fixtures, no art on the wall, a sea of black and white and beige. The one exception was the crystals on his coffee table. We found the man himself in bed playing Xbox and cursing at how much he was losing. He was only wearing a pair of black boxers and his leg cast, so it was easy to see the scrapes and bruises that covered his body. He was definitely a bodybuilder—and he was huge for only being 23 or 24. I expect he was lifting since he was 16, and chemical assistance must have been employed. Before he broke his leg, he must have been cutting for a show or something, because he had that skin-tight paper-thin look going on, the bands of muscle visible as he sat there in bed. His pecs swelled gloriously, his shoulders were round and full, his arms bulged delightfully, and his abs were pronounced, but his waist was tight. I’d spent so much time staring at his body that I’d almost neglected looking at his face. He was carelessly unshaven, his face and chest splattered with a sprinkling of reddish-brown stubble. His hair, a similar reddish brown color, was in a messy mop of bedhead. His eyes were a dark, deep brown. His face was severe—all corners and jagged bone cliffs with sunken, almost hollow cheeks. A contest face if ever I saw one. He tossed the controller aside and shouted, happily, “Flynn! My man! Come in and save me from the boredom.” Flynn swooped into the room and hugged him. They patted each other on the back violently mid-hug. “What happened?” Flynn asked—there was a note of concern in his voice. Shafe laughed, a huge smile on his face. “I was flying high from coming in second at that contest. I drove too fast around a curve, and wham! You should have seen the wipeout. It was epic.” Flynn stood up and scanned Shafe from top to bottom. “Looks like. Any other major damage?” “Doc says I’m lucky, but my acupuncturist and I know it was the obsidian.” He pointed to the black stone affixed to a keychain that was sitting on his bedside table. “It did exactly what it was supposed to. Plus, I think my muscles protected me like armor.” He did a double bicep flex and stuck his chest out as far as it would go. It looked like his body doubled in size when he flexed. It was a magnificent show. When he relaxed the pose, he added, “Might as well kiss them goodbye, though. Two months in bed will leave me scrawny and pathetic.” I was still in the bedroom doorway, and, without segue, Flynn pointed at me. “This is Vaughn. Vaughn, Shafe.” I approached the bed as Shafe said, “New business partner?” “Boyfriend,” Flynn responded before I could answer. “Really? We’ve known each other for, what, two years now, and I finally get to meet your boyfriend?” “Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand to shake his. “Flynn said he was into guys, but I’ve never seen him with anyone.” Shafe shook my hand thoroughly. The muscles in his arm tensed and flexed, and his pec bounced deliciously as he shook. I couldn’t help but stare. “Nice to meet you,” he said pointedly, and I snapped my eyes up to meet his gaze. He had caught me checking him out, so he smirked and said, “Feel free to stare, man. I take it as a compliment.” He flexed his free left bicep, refusing to let my right hand go. “You might as well enjoy them before I waste away to nothing in my sickbed.” “There’s a lot of you to enjoy,” I said, taking my hand back. If my guess was any good, he was around 230 pounds of cut prime beef. And I do mean cut. Shafe turned his attention back to Flynn and said, “What really brings you here? I doubt you just wanted to introduce me to the boyfriend. We’re friendly, Flynn, but we’re not friends.” “I have a proposition for you,” Flynn confirmed “I knew it.” Shafe sat upright in his bed and scooted towards Flynn. “Is it a business proposition? Or is it a product, something to keep me entertained while I slowly shrink down to a skeleton?” “If I could help you keep these muscles, what would you say?” “I’d say you thought I was a sucker. I’m not. I’m open.” “No sucker,” Flynn said. “My boyfriend has a special talent. For a fee, he can use it, and you’ll keep your muscles.” “Some kind of charm I can wear?” Really? That’s where he went to first? Not even a drug or a medicine? “Weirder than that. Care for a demonstration? Free of charge.” Shafe shrugged. “I’ve got nothing else to do.” “This will sound bizarre, but do it. Trust me.” Shafe nodded obediently. “Okay.” “Tell Vaughn that he can borrow twenty pounds of muscle.” Without any hesitation, Shafe looked me in the eyes and said, “You can borrow twenty pounds of muscle.” Almost immediately, it looked like Shafe was shrinking. His arms and chest were still magnificent, but far less impressive than they were just a moment ago. In fact, as he dwindled, he looked significantly smaller than Flynn. I, on the other hand, felt a surge of power unlike anything I’d ever felt before. I’d never borrowed a bodybuilder’s muscles before, and they were qualitatively different from anything I’d ever felt. As my pecs swelled, pushing out my shirt; as my arms grew thicker, threatening the sleeves; as my ass bloomed outwards, filling the seat of my jeans; as my thighs engorged, taking on the rounded shape that pushed my pant legs to their limits; as my lats widened and my abs hardened—I felt thick and full in a way that was new to me. I felt dense, and heavy, and sculpted. I had to hold my arms out to the side because my lats were impressively wide for my 200 pound frame, making my waist look even smaller. “Fuck,” was all Shafe managed. “Take off your shirt,” Flynn commanded me. “Show him the results.” I took off my shirt, and looked down at my muscles. I’d only borrowed muscles from athletes before. Not that bodybuilders aren’t athletes, but there’s an artistry to the musculature that’s absent from sports. My muscles, as they bulged from within me, looked more symmetrical, more refined—professional—than I’d ever seen. I hadn’t realized muscles could look professional until I looked down at myself with 20 pounds of bodybuilder muscle. Flynn continued the sales pitch. “While you heal, Vaughn can take your muscles. Give them the workout they need. We’ll start with smaller amounts. Over a week. So both of you can adjust. We’ll build up to the amount you want to save. Then, he’ll make sure to work out your muscles. Just like you would. Follow your diet and exercise plan to a T. When your leg is healed, he’ll give your muscles back to you. Et voila.” “And I won’t lose any muscle this way?” Shafe pondered for a second. “If he really follows my plan, he could maybe even gain a little muscle.” “You definitely won’t gain anything. Not going to lie to you about that. You also might lose some muscle. Nowhere near as much as you would just lying here.” “This is too fucking good to be true.” “We would have to be careful, though. So no one gets suspicious. People would notice if you dropped all that muscle at once, just for it to miraculously come back.” “Right. I’d need it back for doctors’ appointments, when the cleaning lady comes, when my tarot guy’s here, and on Friday nights.” “Why Friday nights?” I asked. “If I’m stuck in bed, I might as well enjoy being in bed.” “Got it,” I said. “We can pin down a schedule. No problem,” Flynn assured him. “Now, how much is this service?” “Depends on how much muscle you deposit. And how long you deposit it.” “Makes sense,” Shafe said, nodding. “The standard fee is $10 per pound per day.” I did my best not to do a double take, but I didn’t expect Flynn to have a rate at the ready. “If I wanted you to store 60 pounds…” Shafe said as my eyes widened, “…that would be…?” Flynn did the calculations in his head quickly, and said, “Assuming 7 weeks, approximately 50 days, that’s $30,000.” I nearly choked on my saliva. Surely, Flynn had just talked himself out of a deal. “Sold!” Shafe said. The blood pooled in my ears and I grew gravely silent. The price tag for a magical muscle Repository was $30,000, and this guy agreed to it without balking. Shafe beamed broadly. “I’ll have my accountant send you a cashier’s check.” I stood mute as Flynn and Shafe kept talking. “You understand that you can’t tell anyone about this service.” “I’m not an idiot, Flynn.” Flynn got up to leave, and Shafe cleared his throat. “Vaughn, give Shafe back his muscles, then we will be on our way.” Still dumbfounded by what was happening, I mumbled, “You can have your muscles back.” And almost instantly, I was my normal self, and Shafe was his engorged muscle monster self. And I fell silent again. Flynn started to walk out, saying as he left, “As soon as the cashier’s check clears, I’ll call you. Hammer out the details.” When we got back to the car, Flynn turned to me and smiled. “I knew the credulous fuck would want in! I knew he wouldn’t need much convincing either. He started bodybuilding because an astrologer told him to.” I had trouble finding words, so Flynn kept talking. “If he’d done any research on the subject, he’d know you can go about three weeks no gym without losing any serious muscle mass.” I was still speechless. Flynn continued, “If it’s more than three weeks, you can gain back really quickly—muscle memory.” I was still speechless. “How big he wants to get, though, he might see any setback as a nightmare.” I was still speechless. “Besides, rich guys think they can buy anything.” I finally found words, and I just started blabbing. “You just made $30,000. 30,000 fucking dollars in ten fucking minutes. I didn’t make that much in two years working at the cafeteria, and you made it in ten minutes. Who does that? Who can just make that much money so calmly and coolly and quickly? Who are you?” “There’s my Vaughn,” Flynn said, smiling. “I was getting worried.” I did not like being dismissed. “No, seriously. Did you really just make $30,000 in ten minutes?” “Not really. I was promised $30,000. No check yet.” “What are we going to do with that money?” “Investment capital. We buy the supplies for the supplements. Design some bottles. Print labels. Administrative costs. Hiring lawyers to form an LLC. Boring stuff. Not to mention, you’ll need new clothes. And a lot more food.” “I’ll need new clothes and food?” “For this to work, you’re going to be 240 pounds for a few weeks.” “But that’s long-term storage. I’ll be fizzing non-stop.” Flynn stroked my cheek reassuringly. “I got him to share his workout plan and diet. With this info, you’ll know what to do to squash the fizzing. Besides, if you do Shafe’s workouts, it will look like you built those muscles yourself. With the help of our supplement.” “But if I work out like a serious bodybuilder while borrowing his muscles, I’m going to get even bigger than 240—I put on muscle so much more easily when I’m borrowing someone else’s muscles. Last time, it was 10 pounds in less than two weeks.” I could see the outline of Flynn’s dick harden in his pants. “You will look fucking hot with all that muscle. I might even let you top more often.” “I’m going to get really big.” “Likely. Yes.” Flynn acted unfazed, but his cock continued to harden. “How big is Shafe, anyway?” “Right now? Contest weight? 220-230. Somewhere around there. In the off-season, he blows up to an impressive 260.” “I’m going to get freakishly big,” I repeated. “I’m banking on it. We’ll sell even more supplement.” “How much do you plan on selling?” “About 800 bottles, most to Steele and Rhodes. $250 a bottle. Works out to $100,000 profit. Each.” “How will you sell 800 bottles?” Flynn started the car. “It rhymes with ‘pyramid scheme.’” “What?” That was no help to me. “Legally speaking, an MLM. I’ll sell those two asshats bottles to sell to other people. Play on their greed.” “Gregg wanted me to get really big too, you know. I don’t know if I want to focus my life around working out.” “I’m dating a drama queen.” Flynn backed the car out of the spot and rolled his eyes at me. “You’ll still go to class. We’ll still go out. Have fun. Instead of going to work, you’ll go to the gym. Your new part-time job. The cafeteria wasn’t a lifetime commitment. This isn’t either. Yeah, you’ll add some new mass. A lot. Once you give Shafe back his muscles, keep as much of the new stuff as you want. Or as little. It’s your body, Vaughn.” I sat with it for a second. “I guess it’s okay.” I paused. “$100,000?” “Not a guarantee, just an estimate.” “Let’s go for it.” Flynn stroked the back of my neck affectionately. “This is going to be an awesome seven weeks.” 33 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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