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The Repository - (Complete Story, 10/15/21)


TQuintA

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Part 2 – The College Con-Artist

Chapter 1

            A whole summer with Gregg’s ten pounds of muscle on deposit.

            Before my graduation night present, the longest I’d kept a deposit was a few hours.  I’d never done long-term storage before.

            Long-term storage is an entirely different experience.

            All of my clothes fit me differently, tighter, especially around the shoulders and chest.  I began turning a few heads, especially at work in my uniform.  Sadly, most of the heads I turned were women’s.  My boss did give me more hours, though.

            I thought, in a matter of time, I would adjust to the ten pounds—I’d been way bigger than 170 before—but this was entirely different.  It wasn’t just sex.  I was brushing my teeth with ten extra pounds of muscle, mowing the lawn with ten extra pounds of muscle, making oatmeal with ten extra pounds of muscle.  And I was not adjusting.  Feeling Gregg’s tightly-coiled muscle in me all the time, my body began to feel slightly off.

            “Off” is the wrong word.  I felt fizzy.  It felt like there was carbonation in me, energizing me, electrifying me.  It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t enjoyable.  It was distracting. 

            I’d find myself occasionally feeling my muscles, rubbing them, just trying to get them to stop fizzing.  I’d wake up in the middle of the night from the fizzing.  I’d get distracted from everyday tasks by the fizzing—even things as simple as pouring a glass of water.

            After two weeks of fizzing, I wanted the muscles gone.  Sure, they looked great on me, but I was sick of fizzing.

            I tried just announcing to the world that Gregg could have his muscles back, but I knew it wouldn’t work.  The same intuitive way I knew that I could borrow muscles, I knew Gregg had to hear me to get them back. 

            And the fizzing continued.  Whenever I took a moment to relax, I’ start rubbing my muscles.  I’d wake up at least three times every night from the fizzing.  The sensation was even interrupting me at work to the point I was asking customers to repeat themselves three times.

            I tried calling Gregg, but he’d gotten a new cell phone number, and his dad assured me that his son was incredibly busy prepping for college football and had no time for the scoundrel who’d broken his heart. 

            And the fizzing continued, drawing my attention to my muscles when I should have been doing things like walking or driving.

            I tried giving the muscles to Jonah, who was excited to try, but I knew it would be a failure before we even started. 

            And the fizzing continued, growing so intense that it took me three times as long to fall asleep, and I was waking up multiple times a night.

            With new resolve, I decided to lose the muscles—the hard way, if I had to.  I stopped working out; in fact, I became a lazy couch potato.  I stopped eating enough to sustain my size; in fact, I practically went on a starvation diet.

            The results didn’t surprise me—on some level I knew what they’d be before I did my experiment.

            I lost five pounds in two weeks—but just of fat and water weight.  I didn’t lose one molecule of muscle.  As I saw myself become more shredded, that part of me that knew the rules of my powers was laughing at my efforts. 

            I couldn’t lose Gregg’s muscles.  Of course, I couldn’t.  They weren’t mine; they were his.  I was just borrowing them.  I physically could not lose those muscles. 

            And Gregg’s muscles were clinging to my muscles.  The ten pounds I’d put on before senior year were going to stick to my bones because Gregg’s muscles were holding them hostage.  I’d starve to death before I lost those 20 pounds. 

            And the fizzing continued.

            So, I consulted the part of me that somehow just knew the rules.  And it shared the solution with me: use the muscles.

            The muscles Gregg lent me wanted to be used and built up.  They wanted me to match their mass with new mass of my own.

            Jonah and I went back to the gym, and I began lifting big and eating big like I seriously meant it.  Spurred on by Gregg’s muscles, I built muscle faster than I should have.  We went to the gym six days a week, and worked out at least three hours a day—no matter if I’d just worked a double shift at the deli.  I had never worked my muscles so hard or so thoroughly in my life. 

            Over the course of two weeks, I grew bigger, heavier, denser.  And all at a lightning-fast pace that shouldn’t have been possible.  The more muscle I put on my frame, the quieter the fizzing became.  By the time I was tipping the scale at 180 pounds, the fizzing stopped.

            My chest was thick, my arms were firm and round, my shoulders were stretching broad, my quads were thick, and I had a six-pack.  I looked like I’d been lifting weights for years.  I’d outgrown all of my clothes.  My boss at the deli even called me into her office to give me a larger uniform because she was afraid I was going to bust out of the one I had.  She only let it go on so long, she joked, because unhappy housewives were coming in more frequently to ogle the buff young clerk whose arms threatened to explode the sleeves every time he used the slicer.  We’d never sold more cold cuts.

            She was right, though, that I needed bigger clothes.  Almost nothing I owned fit me, and that which did stretched and pulled and showed of all of my beef.  Thankfully, I have an August birthday, so I got all my friends and relatives to buy me new clothes and wouldn’t have to go to college naked.

            I thought when the fizzing ended, that would be it, but no.  I had to maintain the muscles, too.  The ten or so pounds I’d packed on to stop the fizzing—those were just normal muscles.  Those I could lose.  If I didn’t maintain a muscular frame of at least 180 pounds, the fizzing would return to drive me mad again.  Despite the fact that I didn’t want to arrange my life around a gym schedule, thanks to Gregg’s graduation gift, I was going to have to.  Guess I was going to get familiar with my college’s gym.

            As far as consequences go, I wasn’t too upset about this one.  I felt seriously big and heavy, and I could stare at my own physique for hours.  I was also big enough to turn the heads of the guys at the gym.  I never acted on any of the advances, but it was a huge ego-boost to know that if I wanted to become a total sex-fiend, I’d have a large supply of eager partners.

            By this point, though, summer was essentially over, so I packed, said goodbye to my folks, and headed off to school.

            Crocker University was a ritzy private school—a tiny school in coastal California.  It was one of those places where everyone came from old money—the professors and students alike.  I wasn’t drawn to the exclusive, rarified atmosphere; I was drawn to their writing degree.  They had the best, most exciting writing program I had ever seen.  I’d applied as a longshot, but then I got in, full scholarship.  They were impressed by my academic performance, but they were moved by my working class upbringing.  Apparently, noblesse oblige was alive and well.

            I was dorming in Hinde Hall, the hall all scholarship students were required to live in.  Most of Hinde Hall was people who could afford the school, but third floor south was where they kept the poverty cases—all 28 of us in a school of 4,000 (seven from each year).  One excellent perk of such a fancy school was that everyone got their own room in the dorms, no roommates.  Even the poor scholarship kids.  Sure, our rooms were smaller than in the other dorms, but we all had our own rooms. 

            By the end of the second day there, I was entirely moved in, knew where all of my classes were, and had secured a part-time job at the cafeteria to pay for books, supplies, and spending money.

            I quickly learned just how elite (elitist?) the school was.  The students’ behavior was something I didn’t really understand.  When I’d introduce myself to someone new, they’d laugh when I said “Gerald Vaughn.”  Apparently, at Crocker, everyone only goes by their last name.  Only made that mistake five times.  Then, after learning my last name, the next question everyone asked me was who my people were.  I would never give a satisfactory answer.

            As the first few weeks passed, I fell into a pattern.  I worked four days a week, I went to the gym three days a week, and I had classes five days a week.  It was a tight schedule, but I could do it.  The classes were challenging, but my professors were excellent, and I wanted to learn everything they had to teach. 

            I even tried to be social at first.  I did try.  I was confident, witty, and buff—it should have been easy to make friends.  But my brand new clothes marked me out as different.  I thought my button-downs and dress pants were classy, and my jeans and Henleys were comfy-chic. 

            I was wrong.

            There was some sort of unofficial dress code.  All the guys had shoes more expensive than my entire new wardrobe; all the women had purses more expensive than my car.  All the guys wore monochromatic polo shirts and tan khakis; all the women wore tight long-sleeve blouses and mid-thigh skirts—and always in pale pastels. 

            The guys were nice to me at first—with my new bulky physique, they initially saw me as a potential bro, even if, by their standards, I was ludicrously dressed.  Wardrobe they could fix; I had all the other self-evident qualifications.  Then they’d learn I came from a lower-class family.  Oh.  Then they’d learn I was a scholarship student.  Oh.  Then they’d learn that I had a part-time job.  Oh.  I don’t know which they found most offensive, but by the time they learned all three of these details, they treated me like warm garbage.  Especially when I was at work.  They’d intentionally change their orders as I was working on them, they’d ask me to put on a second pair of gloves because they were worried I was dirty, and they’d say things that technically weren’t insults (like calling me “helpful”—emphasis on the help) that were clearly meant to antagonize.

            The girls were nicer for a little bit longer.  But when I didn’t respond to their flirting and when I couldn’t buy them things, they lost their interest in me too.  They weren’t openly hostile like the guys were, but they weren’t friendly either.  The girls played more social games: ignoring me when I said hello or asked them something in class, talking about me behind my back while I was still in earshot, and icing me out of group projects in class.

            This was all in the first month of class.

            I never even had a chance to come out to them before they rejected me, so I was ostensibly back in the closet.  Then again, everyone was.  Surely, in a college of 4,000 students, there had to be at least a hundred gay, bi, and otherwise queer people, statistically speaking.  But none of them were out.

            The only openly gay person I met my entire four years at Crocker lived in third floor south of Hinde Hall. 

            Flynn and I actually met at the gym.  He saw me doing bench presses alone and just strode up to me, asking if I needed a spot.

            “Thanks,” I said.  “I could really use the help.”  Then I looked up at him.  He was a broad, hairy fuck.  He looked like a solid rectangle of sinewy muscle from head to foot.  Blocky head with a wide nose and wide jaw, wide neck, wide shoulders.  He was thick too: thick muscular torso, thick muscular legs.  Black hair curled off him like tendrils.  I couldn’t help but stare at him.  Overtly, perhaps with wide eyes and a leering grin.

            “Well, well, well,” he purred, his face turning into a smirk.  He looked me up and down with eyes the color of a chocolate milkshake.  “I guess I’m not the only gay rooster on this chicken farm.”

            I couldn’t help but laugh.  “Really?  Gay rooster?”

            “I won’t say ‘cock’ before I know your name.”

            “Guess I was being obvious,” I admitted.

            “Just shy of drooling,” he confirmed.

            “Gerald Vaughn,” I said, standing up and offering my hand.

            “Flynn,” he responded.  “And I went by my last name before I was a student at this country club.”  He shook my hand tightly.

            The workout was one of the most erotic experiences of my young life.  Flynn kept showing off—he could lift more than me in whatever he lifted.  He would flex his ass as he sauntered to the next exercise.  He’d lift the tail of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, revealing the faintest of four packs on his solid, solid torso.  He was clearly giving me a show.  So, I returned the favor, flexing my pumped pecs, eventually taking off my shirt to show off my red, sweaty, swollen beauties and six pack.

            We finished our workouts together, then went to the juice bar to chat.

            When he realized I was a scholarship student like him, he asked, “How come I haven’t seen you around third floor south?”

            “When I’m not at work, I’m at the library studying, the writing lab, or here.”

            “Let me guess, with soulful brown eyes like that, you’re a poet.”  He laid it on thick.

            “Novelist.  I’m hoping to break into YA fiction.”

            “And you came to Crocker?”  He was mocking me.

            “They have the best writing program in the country.  Just because YA is for teenagers doesn’t mean it has to be terribly written.”

            “I suppose not,” he said, inching closer, our knees touching.

            “What are your plans for Crocker?” I asked, trying to keep it light.

            “Getting a business degree.  Men with Crocker business degrees run this country.”

            “Going to be a captain of industry?”

            “I’m going to be filthy rich.”

            “What’s your scholarship for?” I asked.

            He shook his head in faux-disapproval.  “Way to deflate a guy’s ego, Vaughn.  Reminding me I’m currently poor.”  He sighed, then continued.  “Wrestling.  The only good sports team this school has is wrestling, and they are paying for my degree if I uphold that winning tradition.”

            What is it with me falling for the jocks?

            Flynn leaned in so he could whisper in my ear.  I could feel his stubble rub up against my cheek.  “Let’s skip all this small talk and go fuck.”

            I was instantly hard and leaking.

            “Please, let’s,” I said, and then the alarm went off on my phone.  “Fuck!” I said, a bit too loudly.  “I have a shift starting in half an hour.  That’s just enough time to shower, change, and run there.”

            “Can you blow it off?” he asked, emphasizing the word “blow.”

            “Not if I want to keep my job,” I answered.  “But, oh, are you tempting.”

            “I respect a working man,” he said.

            I handed him my phone.  “Give me your number.  Rain check.”

            He programmed in his number, handed me back my phone, and said, “Don’t leave me waiting.”

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Part 2 – The College Con-Artist

Chapter 2

            Flynn and I started texting each other, and quickly learned how conflicting our schedules were.  We decided to sync our workout schedules as soon as possible. 

            In the meantime, we texted each other a dozen times a day.  We swapped photos (some artsy, some silly, some flirty).  And we struck up a genuine conversation.  We had the exact same taste in music, we both loved bad reality dating shows, and we both steered clear of social media.  And we learned a lot about each other.  He learned about my geeky leanings and past as a fanfic author. I learned that he wasn’t just working class; he came from a poor family—Dickensian poor.  He asked for my cafeteria schedule, planning to visit me during my hours.  I learned that his scholarship came with a weekly stipend so he didn’t need a part-time job.  We also learned where we were different.  He didn’t get most of my literature jokes, we had diametrically opposed views on spicy food, and he is a master of gifs (a language I hadn’t really mastered yet). 

            Mostly, it was so refreshing just talking to him so we could be gay.  We both refused to be cowed by the bigots at Crocker.  Spurred on by Flynn, I tried to clue these idiots in to my gayness, and Flynn found relief in flaunting just how gay he was.  And he always seemed to one-up me.  Instead of just having my name on my cafeteria nametag, I also put a rainbow sticker on it.  Instead of just putting his name on his wrestling locker, he labeled it “The Gay Guy.”  I went to class in a low-cut pink t-shirt that showed off my pec cleavage, daring everyone to look.  Flynn showed up to wrestling practice in a mesh shirt and short shorts.  I put up a rainbow flag on the outside of my dorm room door.  He put a nude fireman calendar on his.  

            Somehow, the rest of the student body still hadn’t picked up I was gay.  I gave up trying to clue them in.

            After a week of texting, Flynn and I decided it was time to meet up again in person.  As luck would have it, we both had Friday evening off.  I had a shift at the cafeteria than ended at 7, so I came back to third floor south and tried to sneak in a quick shower before Flynn was to show up at 7:30.

            I came back to my room from the shower, my body hot, wet, and steaming, a towel wrapped haphazardly around my waist.  My six-pack was shown to full relief, and my sparse (but increasing) chest hair looked dark and full because it was wet. 

            When I got to my room, I was surprised to find Flynn sitting on my bed.  I could smell his Aramis from the doorway, and he hadn’t shaved since this morning, so he had a sexy five o’clock shadow going.  He was dressed in a tight-fitting white Henley—if it was a size or two smaller, it could’ve come right from my closet.  His pecs pressed into his shirt so firmly that I could see his chest hair peak through.  He was also wearing tight black jeans that hugged his massive quads and a leather jacket that screamed “hot date.”  He was edible.

            Flynn, for his part, was also enjoying his view.  “Fuck me,” he said, eyeing me up and down.

            “That can be arranged,” I responded.

            “You should only ever wear a towel.”

            I closed the door behind me, locked it, and said, “I could wear less,” and dropped the towel.

            Flynn smiled broadly, and leaned back in my bed.  “I have been waiting for this all week.”

            I crawled on top of him, grabbed his face, and began kissing him passionately.  My tongue danced in his mouth, and our lips caressed each other sweetly.  A few seconds into our kiss, Flynn pushed me away.

            “Fuck.  No.  Stop.  We’ve got to stop.”

            I sat up, kneeling over him.  I was completely naked; he was fully clothed.  “Did I do something wrong?”

            “No.  That was the absolute best kiss I’ve ever had in my life.”

            I leaned back down to start kissing him again, saying, “Then, what’s the problem?”

            He extricated himself from underneath me and backed away towards my door.  “I really like you.  You’re hot, you’re buff, you’re smart, you’re ambitious, you’re courageous, you’re hardworking.  And you’re an amazing kisser.”

            “I really like you too.  Why have we stopped?”

            “You’re boyfriend material.”

            “Okay.  Thanks.  That doesn’t…”

            He interrupted me, and blurted out, rapid-fire, “I don’t want a boyfriend.  Not now.  I don’t want a boyfriend.”  Then, he slowed down, adding, “I thought this was going to be a quick fuck.  Maybe a weekend of fucking if you were good.  And then I’d ghost you for the next four years.”

            “All those plans we made—to work out together, for you to visit me at the cafeteria?”

            “Lies.  Lies I said to keep you on the hook so we could fuck.  I didn’t mean a single one of them.”

            I was confused.  “Why confess now?”

            “I’m not going to screw over a guy like you.  I actually like you.  We should be friends.”  The idea came out of his mouth before he knew what he said, and it struck him as the smartest thought he ever had.  “Let’s just be friends.”

            “If you really like me and want to have sex with me, let’s enjoy each other’s company and see where it goes.”

            Flynn shook his head.  “Nope.  I have too many plans to have a boyfriend.  And I have some serious ex-boyfriend shit.  I’d fuck it up, and I’d fuck it up fast.  I may have already fucked it up.  I’m sick of fucking guys up.  I don’t want to lie to you or lead you on any more than I already have.  Maybe, someday if we’re both still single, we can try the boyfriend thing—‘cause you’re exactly what I want in a boyfriend—but let’s wait until I can be a good boyfriend.  You deserve someone better than me.  And until that day happens, and it will likely never happen, let’s just be friends.”

            “Okay…” I said, not knowing what else to say.

            “Great.”  Flynn looked physically relieved.

            “So, friend, can I put on some pants, then?”

            “Sure,” he laughed.  “I’ll wait in the hall if you want some privacy to get dressed.”

            I walked over to my dresser, saying, “You’ve seen everything already.”  Then I pulled out my boxers and a pair of jeans and added, “Wait a second.  My door was locked.  How did you get into my room?”

            “You just noticed?”

            “When I first got back from the shower, I was just so happy to see you that I didn’t bother questioning it.”  I zipped up and belted my pants, and pulled out a navy blue button down from my closet.  “Now that I’m not going to get laid, my brain can focus on other things.  And I have no idea how you got into my room.”

            “Where I grew up, you couldn’t pass second grade if you couldn’t pick a lock.”

            I stood there with my shirt on but unbuttoned.  “You picked my lock.”

            “Yep,” he said, nodding.

            “So, you’ve lied to me for a week, absolutely refuse to date me, and broke into my room.”

            He mentally went over the list of his transgressions.  Out loud, he said, “Yes.”

            “Was there anything else you were lying to me about?”

            Flynn scanned his thoughts again intently.  “Not that I remember, but probably.”

            “Huh.  You’re completely untrustworthy.”

            Flynn thought about that.  Then, simply and sincerely, he said, “Yes.”

            “Is there any reason I shouldn’t just kick you out?”

            Flynn smiled and reported, “Three reasons.  I’m an excellent wingman.  I’m friends with the bouncer at the best gay bar.  And,” he reached into his back pocket, “I have two fake IDs.”

            “Is one for me?”

            “Yes.”  He handed me my fake ID.

            “This says my name is Bruno Von.”

            Flynn scratched his head embarrassedly.  “I didn’t learn your first name.”

            “You misspelled my last name.”

            “A-U-G-H?” he asked.

            I nodded.

            “I flipped a coin,” he admitted.

            “And Bruno?  Do I really look like a Bruno to you?”

            “The name Bruno is fucking sexy, and I thought this was a one-night thing.”

            “My name’s Gerald,” I said.

            “Yeah,” Flynn shook his head disapprovingly.  “You’re Vaughn, but I’ll spell it right.”  He put his hand on my shoulder.  “You’re too hot to be Gerald.  I’ll get you a new ID. With your real name.  For the next time we go out.”

            “Let’s get through this time before we plan a next time.”  I started to button my shirt, and Flynn stopped me.

            “Foolish boy,” he said, pulling my shirt open.  “If you want them to buy your product, advertise it.”

            While putting on my shoes, I announced to Flynn, “You know, there’s a voice inside my head telling me not to go to a gay bar that I’ve never been to with a man I don’t trust who broke into my room and admits to lying to me.”

            “A voice called common sense.  But you will not regret tonight."

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Looks like Chapters 2 and 3 are the same?

But regardless, this series is fantastic already. I'm not just looking forward to seeing him grow, but seeing HOW he grows and how he feels about it. Which is quite exciting.

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