Popular Post TQuintA Posted September 14, 2021 Author Popular Post Share Posted September 14, 2021 Part 4 – The Hollywood Hunk Chapter 10 The first of our three scheduled nights together, I knocked on Jason’s door at the appointed time. I was wearing a gray flannel suit and tie (which was made for a man who was overweight, not muscular, but I’d had enough time to have it tailored). It did look a little off, I must admit. Jason opened the door, and said, “Come on in, Miles.” With a small chuckle, he added, “Nice suit. Guess you take the size you can get on such short notice.” I kissed him hello and said, “I’ve got a fun scenario for tonight, but for it to work, I’m going to have to handcuff you to a chair.” He pulled a chair into the middle of the room and daintily sat in it. I moved his hands behind his back and handcuffed him, threading the chain between the slats of the chair. “Can you get free?” “Nope,” he said, struggling to release himself. “Excellent,” I said. I positioned the chair so he was looking at the bathroom door; then, I went into the bathroom but left the door open a crack. “Now you’re going to have to lend me 30 pounds,” I called from the bathroom. I could hear a quiet note of reluctance, but then he cleared his throat and confidently said, “You can borrow 30 pounds.” In the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror. I could feel the suit becoming tighter, especially at the pecs and shoulders as they ballooned outwards. I’d had the suit tailored, but the tailor took my measurements while I was borrowing 30 pounds from Shafe. As I grew bigger, the suit was becoming more and more flattering to my shape and size. My pecs felt ponderously heavy, and my shoulders pressed the suit out into an even more impressive width, pulling the lapels further apart. Jason’s muscles felt warm and familiar, like a lover’s caress, but from the inside. My pecs jutted out just a bit further, and my neck thickened, so I loosened and readjusted the tie so it wasn’t choking me and lay over my pec cliff more appropriately. While I did that, though, I could feel my arms bulging further, thicker, encased in the fabric of the suit, I could see my mass fill the sleeve, distorting the fabric, showing off all the brawn that was underneath. I had to adjust my pants, too, as my ass and thighs thickened. Before, my pants had just fit my mass, but now they were swollen with my muscles, sweeping out into curves and my thighs pressed in further against each other, and my ass pushed further out. My face also thickened just a little bit. It always did when I passed 300. And, I was now 310 pounds of man. Before I went back into the room, I had some finishing touches. I put on a pair of glasses (with no lenses). I combed my hair rigidly into a 1950s side part, and then licked a finger and put a curl over my forehead. Then, I burst into the room, pretending to break open the bathroom door. “I’m here to rescue you,” I said heroically. Jason immediately got the reference and laughed heartily. “Save me, Miles,” he cried, playing along. “Or should I say Clark Kent?” “Miles will do,” I answered, shuffling into his room. Breaking character, Jason said, “You know, I’m not playing Superman.” “I know that. But I don’t know anything about the superhero you are playing. If it was Spider-man, I’d be all over it, but since I didn’t know the specifics of your franchise, I figured I’d go for a tried and true classic.” “If you were really trying to be Superman, you would’ve shaved your beard.” “Please, Superman’s had a beard in dozens of comics. If you’re going to read me for anything, read me for not dying my hair black.” Jason laughed hard again. “If this is too goofy for you, we can just cut right to the sex,” I said. “No, no. Sorry. You clearly put effort into this. I’m game.” “Good,” I said. “Because it’s not Miles who’s here to save you.” I took off my glasses and tossed them to the side. I swung my tie to the side, and tore open my dress shirt, buttons flying everywhere. I revealed a blue Lycra shirt with a Superman logo underneath. My pecs jutted out magnificently, caressed by the stretchy material, full to overflowing, distorting the logo and stretching its shape. I tore off the rest of the suit revealing a pair of tights the same shade of blue, and now a size too small for me. My legs bulged mightily; my ass stuck out proudly. Every sinew and curve of my arms was highlighted; each flex and bulge caused the material to expand and contract. Jason sat there, stunned in silence. He’d never seen me so big, and I was behemoth. “Don’t fear,” I said, returning to my hero voice. “These shackles won’t stop me.” I reached behind him, my pecs pressing into his face. I grabbed the chain of the handcuffs and began pulling in opposite directions. My chest hardened and flexed further into Jason’s face, my arms bulged with exertion, pushing him from either side, almost squeezing him. My face turned red with the effort, and a thin sheen of sweat formed on my forehead. Then, the chain snapped. I stepped back, and Jason moved his arms to the front, each still cuffed, but the chain ripped in two. “You saved me,” he said, awe-struck at the feat of strength. “How can I ever repay you?” He said. As he stood, he slipped off his shirt. At his diminished size, Jason was still a fit man. This was the Jason Prentiss I’d seen in the movies: toned, with just a little mass but a six-pack to die for. “All in the line of duty, sir,” I said. “In that case,” Jason said, slowly lowering his pants and briefs until he stood there naked, “Perhaps you can save me from my loneliness.” “That I can do,” I said, smiling at his cheesy, but porn-accurate, delivery. I pulled off the shirt. As it reached my pecs, Jason shouted, “Oh my god!” and pointed at my abs. I rubbed the cobblestone path with my right hand. “Whenever I take a deposit,” I said, “whoever I borrowed it from, their physique affects mine.” I moved my hand away, and my tighter waist and fully etched, impossibly hard 8-pack were revealed. “You lent me your 8-pack, stud.” I returned to my hero voice, saying “Do not fear, citizen, I shall protect you from your loneliness.” I took the shirt all the way off, and my pecs heaved and bounded. I peeled off the tights, revealing I’d had no underwear on underneath and that my cock was hard. I picked Jason up, carried him to the bed, and joined him on it. “Oh, please,” he cooed. “You’ve done so much to save me. Let me do this for you.” With that, he began licking my abs, giving them a thorough tongue bath, not neglecting a single inch. Once he’d coated my abs in saliva, he lubed up his cock and pressed it into me. I flexed my pecs and arms for him, and he rode me hard and good. Soon, I was coming all over myself, shouting so loudly I was worried they’d call the hotel guards, and then Jason joined me soon after, letting loose the most vile profanity I’d ever heard. We fucked each other twice more, once with me on top, and then began spooning, exhausted and fulfilled. “I’m sorry I ever doubted this game,” he said. “If you’re not having fun and laughing during sex,” I responded, “you’re doing it wrong.” Soon after, his alarm beeped, so I returned his muscle, put the suit back on, and made my way home, nodding and smiling at the man at the front desk who’d seen me the first time I left Jason’s room after a fuck session. He waved at me in recognition, and I went back to my hotel. The second of our three scheduled visits, I showed up to Jason’s room in normal date clothes: a burnt orange sweater that flattered my chest and charcoal black pants. In Jason’s room there was a table we’d been using for our lunch and dinner dates pushed up against the wall. I pulled it into the center of the room, then went back to his door where a room service attendant was waiting. He brought in the food, and then quickly exited. Then, I turned on two lamps on opposite side of the room and shined them at our table. The whole time I was setting up, Jason asked a litany of questions. “No costume this time? No hello kiss? No hint at what’s to come?” Once I had completely set the stage, I escorted him to our table and kissed his hand. “No costume this time, but,” I tapped my ear; I was wearing a blue tooth earpiece. “Are you receiving commands from HQ?” he asked. In my ear, I heard, “You can borrow 10 pounds.” In my seat, while Jason was still trying to figure out what was happening, I suddenly swelled 10 pounds heavier—my pecs pushed out, my arms swelled thicker. Jason smiled in appreciation. “Dinner and a show. You spoil me.” “Before my relationship with Puck fizzled out,” I said, “he showed me that there is an online community of men who would give me their muscles for no other reason than erotic role play fantasies. I haven’t used this community in almost a decade, but I let them know I was back for one night only, and I had more sign-ups than I could count.” “So, how much bigger did you just get?” Jason was looking me over. He could tell I was bigger, but he couldn’t ascertain all the differences or the plan of the evening. “Just 10,” I answered. “Just 10?” He sounded disappointed. “The night’s just begun,” I said, taking his hand. “Let’s enjoy dinner, and see where the evening takes us.” Conversation dove into our normal topics, mostly what we did that day. We tapped our knees against each other’s under the table. It was a lovely dinner. Ten minutes later, while Jason was mid-sentence, I heard in my earpiece, “You can borrow ten pounds.” As Jason continued telling his story about a funny thing he heard in the make-up trailer, I swelled even bigger. By this point, my sweater was getting tight around my pecs, and I was pushing out the fabric so far that it was actually getting stuck between the cleft between my pecs. My arms, similarly, were being strangled by the sleeves. I could feel my pants begin to choke my ass, but Jason couldn’t see that as we sat. “Did you just get bigger?” Jason asked, stopping his story. “Indeed, I did.” I flexed my biceps for him and then bounced my pecs one by one. Jason just stared for a moment, then said, “You get more beautiful the bigger you get.” “Then it’s going to be a beautiful night,” I thought, but said nothing out loud. Our conversation continued on, we finished our dinners, and we were enjoying each other’s company. Ten minutes later, while I was sharing a story about Shafe and Marietta, I heard in my earpiece, “You can borrow ten pounds.” As I spoke, my pecs grew even bigger, my arms and shoulders swelled thicker, and my ass got so full and muscular that I could feel the seam splitting the cheeks into separate globes of power. “It just happened again,” Jason said. “You’re going to burst right out of the sweater.” “Good point,” I said, and I pulled the sweater over my head. I had to wriggle and tug, but the material was stretchy, so it got off comparatively easy to other costumer choices I considered. “In fact,” I said, standing up. This gave Jason the full eyeful of how my thighs had swelled outwards, thickened into columns of steel. I’d never seen his eyes so wide. My pants were harder to get off, but I got them off without his help, and he enjoyed watching me struggle. I sat back down at the table, in my underwear, and then I went to finish the story that my growth had interrupted. “No,” Jason said. “I can’t wait anymore. What is the plan for tonight?” “Well, as of right now, I am 310 pounds. That’s how big I got last time.” I pointed to my thick, padded 6-pack and added, “But none of my depositors had an 8-pack like you, sorry.” “No apology necessary. Don’t apologize for bulk and mass.” “You may have noticed that when we sat down, and every ten minutes afterwards, I’ve gotten just a little bit bigger.” “May have? It’s all I can think about.” “I set it up so that every ten minutes, I get another ten-pound deposit. I’ll keep swelling up bigger and bigger all night.” “Jesus, Miles. How big are you going to get?” “I figured an hour of teasing you would be sufficient.” Jason started doing math. “0 minutes, 10 minutes… so that’s seven. 70 pounds. Sweet lord. Plus, your already inhuman 285, that’ll be…” “355,” I finished for him. “Before tonight, the biggest I’ve ever been—and I mean ever—was 345 pounds. I’m going to get a whole ten pounds bigger than I’ve ever gotten for you.” Jason made incoherent sounds of approval, and we moved over to his couch so we could sit more comfortably. He leaned against my mass, his hand absently stroking my chest and abs, running his fingers through my body hair. I had my arm around his shoulder, and I occasionally ran my hand through his hair or squeezed his pec appreciatively. We could each feel the other’s love radiate from deep within. As we sat there, every ten minutes, I got another 10 pound deposit and swelled just that bit thicker. Just that bit bigger. Just that bit more massive. When the last deposit hit me, I felt like an otherworldly beast. Jason helped me to my feet, and my center of balance was so far off that I stumbled a few halting steps forward when I finally exerted enough mass to stand. Jason walked over to me, and we compared our bodies. My superhero-big boyfriend looked like a little child next to me—I had over 100 pounds of muscle than he did. We couldn’t compare similar body parts anymore. I had to compare my arm to his leg, my leg to his chest, etc., because my body was so thickly dense with muscle that our bodies didn’t even look like the same species anymore. My chest jutted out so far that my chin hit it if I lowered my head even slightly. With every breath, my pecs heaved mightily and bounded a little on the exhale. Each individual pec was practically as big as Jason’s chest, and each was ribbed with sinews and pumped full, plump, and round. My pecs were so massive that my nipples pointed down, and I could see nothing below them unless I leaned far forward. If I flexed my pecs to their full magnificence, they pushed up on my chin and spread in every direction. My shoulders were so broad that I knew there was no way I was getting out of this room until I gave the deposits back. In my peripheral vision, without even looking side to side, I could see my shoulders. They were a fixture in my vision now. My neck too had thickened mightily. I could feel its thick cords, and when I reached up to feel it, maneuvering around my pecs as they got in the way, I could feel it was as slightly thicker than my head. My lats added to my width—they pushed my arms out to an extreme that there was no way I could rest my arms by my side. My arms weren’t helping the situation. Even unflexed, my arms were so thick that they were the size of Jason’s head, and when I flexed, when I forced my thick forearms into the proper angle as they fought my biceps, the muscles swelled so huge that the peaks practically touched my earlobes. The triceps were ridged, the horseshoe shape etched hard in, and they stuck out so far that I felt like I had arms attached to my arms. From this incredibly thick top, I tapered down into a small waist. It had thickened considerably out of biological necessity, but it was disproportionately small for a man as giant as me, if ever a thing had existed. My abs were thick as bricks, the shadows between the individual muscles a deep black, practically Vantablack. My Adonis belt and obliques were straight, harsh lines, drawing attention down my treasure trail right to my cock. I had Jason take some pictures on my phone of my back, just so I could see how swollen, thick, and bloated with muscle it was. It barely looked like a human back: it looked like a side of beef you could buy at a butcher’s market, sinuous and corded, red with pumping blood and effort. It, too, tapered down to my small waist, but from the back, the taper was mind-staggering and impossible to fully process all at once. My shoulders and lats were seemingly three times as wide as my waist. The fact that that tiny structure supported the vast mass of my top demonstrated just how strong my ab muscles were. My ass was similarly beyond human. It was round and firm. It stuck out so far that, when I sat on any surface, I felt six inches taller than I normally did. It felt like there was a cushion of muscle on everything I sat. Essentially, there was. It was rock hard and sultry, and Jason could not keep his hands off it. Jason had larger than average hands for a man his size—most men in Hollywood do—but when he held my ass, they seemed small and dainty. And when he grabbed my ass with all his might, he couldn’t dent it. And when I flexed my ass into full relief, it bowled him over backwards, practically knocking him off his feet. My thighs were thicker than anything he’d ever seen. Even walking across the room, I had to waddle like a penguin just to get my legs around each other. One of my legs was practically the size of his torso. If he wasn't such a muscular man himself, it would have been the size of his torso (or even bigger). And the veins and fibers and sinews were all there, especially when I flexed it into full relief. I had titanicly large legs, and I could see that Jason wanted to be crushed in them. We had multiple fucks that night too, and for all but one of them, Jason took the lead, knowing that I was too blown up and muscle blimped out to engage as fully as I usually did. The one time I did take the lead, I held him up against the wall one-handed—so high up that I could reach his cock while standing. I held him there and blew him until he came. Then, I continued to hold him there while I jacked myself off. I had to lean to the side to get my biceps around my pecs so I could reach my cock. In fact, if I didn’t have nine inches of cock, I don’t think I could’ve reached it. For that round of fucking that night, I must have held him up one-handed for half an hour. When I set him back down, any fatigue I felt was from the orgasm than from holding him up. When we’d fucked ourselves out, I wrapped my giant muscles around him, and we fell asleep. As scheduled, I didn’t give the deposits back until the next morning. Jason said it was the best night of sleep he ever got, swaddled in the giganticness of the man he loved. When I went downstairs the next morning, still in the same clothes I’d worn the night before (although they were stretched out), the man at the front desk smiled slyly and tipped his hat. The last of our three scheduled visits, I was in Jason’s room waiting for him when he got back from the shoot. The room was dimly lit, and there was ambient music playing. “So, this is why Lacey told me to shower on set before I got back to the hotel,” Jason said. “It is indeed,” I responded. I was wearing a rich blue button-down shirt (the top three buttons undone to show off my chest) and sharp black dress pants. And, of course, a bow tie. “Dance with me,” I invited. “I’m not a very good dancer,” he responded, coming over to me. I took his hand and placed my head on his shoulder. “Slow dancing. Just the two of us holding close, slow dancing to the beautiful music. No choreography. Just swaying side to side while holding each other.” “That does sound sweet,” he said. He stepped closer in to me, our bodies pressing together. Instinctually, like a magnet drawn to metal, Jason got as close to me as he could. As soon as our pelvises made contact, Jason jumped back. “What’s that?” he asked. “That’s me. That’s all me.” Jason looked down. The black pants and dim lighting had obscured it, but now that he was looking, he could see the deposit I’d taken from Alphonse. My crotch protruded obscenely, nearly bursting the front of my pants. “You didn’t tell me you could do this!” “Special circumstances only,” I said. “I’ll fill you in on the details later. For now, let’s just dance.” “How big is it?” Jason asked, running his hand over the bulge, feeling the cock beneath it slowly thicken at his attention. “Bigger than any man you’ve ever had,” I said, slightly bragging. “Not King Kong huge, but when erect, a full 12 inches.” Jason breathed heavily, and he involuntarily shook a little bit. “Did you just cum?” Jason blushed a little bit, then looked at me, “Did you hear me swear?” “No.” “Then I didn’t orgasm. But I came very close.” “Good. I do plan on making you cum.” I paused as we repositioned ourselves to dance. “But first,” I continued, “let’s keep dancing.” With my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, our bodies close together, we swayed back and forth to the music. The whole time, my hardening cock ground into his crotch, which stiffened in kind. When he knew the song, Jason sang along, serenading me with his velvety voice. When he didn’t, we just kissed passionately as we swayed back and forth. After we danced for at least twenty minutes, I could tell Jason was getting antsy, so I took a step back and signaled with my eyes that he could take off my pants. He tore his shirt off, throwing it across the room, and then dropped down to his knees. He unbuckled my belt, popped the button, and unzipped. Each step felt deliberate and dedicated. He was taking his time. When he pulled down my pants, they were momentarily caught on the expanse of my ass, but a little tugging got them down. In front of him, Jason saw my cock, still sheathed by my bright red boxer briefs. I hadn’t cum in nearly two days before I took the deposit, so my balls were thick and pendulous, pushing out the fabric of the briefs, causing the front to sag. My cock was still just a chubby, but it was insatiably huge, its impressive girth and length easily seen in the sheath of fabric separating it from Jason. He traced his fingers along my shaft, only to laugh in delighted surprise. “It’s not fully hard yet,” he announced. “Not yet,” I said. “I can change that,” Jason declared. He took the waist of my briefs in hand and slowly slid them down. These too got caught on my ass, but the bigger challenge was getting them over the hurdle of my fat cock. With finesse and care, Jason rose to the challenge, and released my beast. It swung free, nearly hitting him in the face. He laughed again, backing up just a little bit so it had room to move. “This is beautiful,” he remarked, the dimple deepening in his cheek as he smiled. “You haven’t seen everything yet,” I teased. Jason pulled my briefs down the rest of the way, and my balls, pushed forward by my muscular thighs, rebounded and bounced. He took them in his hand, and both could not fit in one hand. He lifted them cautiously, and it took more effort than he expected. “Heavy,” he commented. “And full,” I replied. Jason pressed his nose against my balls, breathing in my musk, tracing a line with his face from my sac to my bush. “Heavy,” Jason said, referring to the scent this time. I flexed my thigh, which brushed against his face. “Everything about me is heavy,” I reminded him. He took the tip of my cock into his mouth. It was significantly thicker than he was used to, but he could fit it in. He began teasing it with his tongue, and tickling my balls with his hands. In response to his devotion, my cock began fully hardening, lengthening, stiffening, which required him to open his jaw wide and stretch his lips. He murmured in joy that the cock was almost too big for him to keep in his mouth. At my normal 9 inches, Jason could deep throat me no problem. At a foot, and excessively thick, my cock proved a challenge. He breathed heavily through his nose, his eyes watering, as he took more and more of me into him. When he had taken 2/3 of me into him, I thought that he had reached his limit, but he kept going. When he bottomed out, I still had one inch sticking out, but he took far more of me down his throat than I thought physiologically possible. Now that he knew where to draw the line, he began taking my cock in and out of himself, exerting pressure, caressing it with his talented throat, skillful tongue, and maddening lips. As he blew me, I was in heaven. My nerves tingled with excitement; my limbic system lit up like the Las Vegas strip. I wanted to participate more in this moment, but for Jason, at that moment, his whole world was my cock. He worshipped it with his mouth and hands with the fervor of a zealot. When my increasingly loud grunts indicated that I was drawing close, he pulled my cock out of his throat and began focusing all his attention on its head with his tongue. My cock swelled as I was about to blow. Jason took it in both hands, leaned back, and then began massaging the head with his right hand. I exploded in an eruption of cum. Jason guided my cock to his chest and abs, and I sprayed all over him, anointing him with my seed as though it were a primeval baptism. So much cum came out of my cock, and Jason just kept rubbing it into his abs and pecs, coating himself. When at last the last spurt dribbled out of me, Jason took a large dab in his fingers and swallowed it. “Delicious,” he said. He rose to his feet, kissed me powerfully, and went to the bathroom to grab a towel. He wiped himself off, wiped me off, and tossed the towel to a spot on the carpet where much of my semen had dripped and pooled. “You’re not going to clean that up?” I asked, intrigued. “Later. I’ll have Lacey send over some carpet cleanser.” He pointed at my cock, which was still standing erect. “Can I ride again, or do you too have a pesky refractory period?” I picked him up and tossed him on the bed. Smiling delightedly, he wriggled out of his pants, scooted to the edge, and spread his legs, presenting his ass to me. I coated my cock liberally in lube and lined it up with his hole. When I pushed just the head into him, he let out a sound of astonishment, much like a gasp he tried to swallow. “Jesus, Miles, you are thick!” he said. Slowly, I pressed myself into him, little by little. When my corona pressed on his prostate, he made a similar gulping nose, and his cock shot up stock straight. “More please,” he said, already panting. “Just tell me when,” I returned. I continued pressing myself into him, and he writhed in pleasure. His ass was tighter than I was used to, enveloping every bit of my cock and sending signals of pleasure up my shaft. It was intense how much pleasure this cock could produce. Inch after inch, I disappeared into him. I was shocked how much of me he was taking. Jason looked to only be in rapture, so I kept pushing. At 11 inches, Jason began breathing heavily. “Should I stop?” I said. “Are you all the way in?” he asked. “Not quite.” “Then don’t you dare stop,” he answered through slightly gritted teeth. I pushed the last inch in. There was more resistance than I’d ever felt, and the pressure was enthralling and magical. When I bottomed out, my bull balls slapping into him, Jason let out a sound of utter triumph and delight. I began thrusting into him, teasing his hole, sometimes pulling all the way out and pushing all the way back in, sometimes only pulling out half-way before thrusting it back in, sometimes only pulling out two or three inches before the downstroke. My stochastic rhythm brought him up to a boil quickly. Soon, he was flailing as a stream of cum burst out of his cock. He cursed more vulgarly than I’d ever heard him before. I wasn’t even sure some of the words he said were in English. When he calmed down, I pointed out, “I’m still ready to go if you are.” “Don’t stop fucking me,” he ordered, so I began thrusting and plowing him in a variety of speeds, durations, and lengths. I even flexed my Kegel muscles occasionally, which always solicited some of the most ardent vocalizations. My nerves were on fire with delight, and soon I was nearing my second orgasm of the night. When I unleashed inside him, the pressure was enough to send him over the edge, and he was twitching and shaking in his third orgasm of the night, intensifying my own as his contracting ass created more friction on my ejaculating cock. That orgasm was intense and memorable. I saw colors. I roared so loudly my throat was raw. When we finished, I lay on his bed, and he put his head on my abs, staring at my cock, lazily tracing his finger up and down its flaccid length, occasionally holding one of my balls with appreciative affection. “Be honest,” I said, “I’m the biggest living man you’ve ever taken, right.” “I told you I was a size queen,” he pointed out, still tickling my cock. “No way you’ve had bigger than me,” I said, sitting up a little. “I’m talking actual flesh and blood human, not a dildo like King Kong.” Jason laughed, coaxing me back down onto the bed. “I’m a size queen who doesn’t date much. I guarantee you that you are the biggest man I’ve ever had. By inches—plural. I’ve had bigger things inside me, yes. But it’s entirely different when something that big is attached to a man, especially a man you love. My toys, even King Kong, are a pale echo of the real experience.” He picked himself up and looked me in the eyes. “You have another go in you before we call it a night?” So, I fucked him a third time with my giant cock. When I left, the man at the front desk saw my smile, nodded, and tipped his hat again. He had a knowing look in his eye. My night with Jason had been so good that I even wanted to call Shafe to brag about it on my drive back to the hotel, but I didn’t. I knew Shafe wouldn’t have minded hearing all the gory details, which is part of the reason I didn’t call him. It would encourage him to tell me all of the details of his relationship with Marietta. Instead, I drove around Vancouver for about half an hour. My windows were down, and I enjoyed the hot August air rushing past me. When I got back to my hotel room, my bow tie—which I don’t even remember taking off—was sitting on my pillow with a short note in Jason’s handwriting: “Thank you.” 39 3 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Mdlftr Posted September 15, 2021 Share Posted September 15, 2021 The muscle growth descriptions are unbelievably erotic: My pecs jutted out magnificently, caressed by the stretchy material, full to overflowing, distorting the logo and stretching its shape. "I'll have what he's having!" 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted September 17, 2021 Author Share Posted September 17, 2021 Part 4 – The Hollywood Hunk Chapter 11 When it was time for us to leave, Shafe got up early and drove me to the airport, but he didn’t get on the plane with me. “Marietta and I have just started something, and I want to see where it goes,” he said. “Best of luck,” I said and hugged him goodbye. When I got back to my apartment in L.A. later that same night—and I do mean when, as in the exact second—I got a phone call from Margaret Whalen asking me to come by her office. “It’s late, and I’ve been traveling all day,” I said. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” “If it could wait until tomorrow, I wouldn’t be waiting for you in my office.” Grumbling, I left my suitcase at the door and dragged myself to Jason’s PR firm. The meek secretary took me right through the room of beige and brown into Margaret’s office. When I got there, Margaret was typing frantically at her desk, her hair done up in a sloppy bun, garish red-framed glasses on her face—I guess she’d been wearing contacts when we last met. Without looking up from her laptop, she pointed to the seat in front of her desk, where a mug of tea was waiting for me. It was nice that there was tea waiting for me; most people would’ve offered coffee. “It might be cold,” she said, still not looking up. “It took you longer to get here than I expected.” “Traffic,” I said. “Isn’t there always?” she said, shaking her head jovially as though she had made a joke. She still hadn’t looked up from her typing. I politely waited for her to finish typing, but she must have been typing a novel. After sitting in silence for two minutes, I cleared my throat. Still looking down at her laptop screen, she pointed to the tea. At this point, I thought maybe the meeting wouldn’t begin until I tried the tea. It was a little cool, but delicious, just the type I usually made at home—Darjeeling—with just the right amount of honey. I think it was even the same brand I usually bought. When I put the mug down, Margaret moved her laptop to the side and looked me dead in the eyes. “Good tea?” she asked. “Excellent,” I replied. “Well, then,” she said. “Does the name Freddie Wade mean anything to you?” “Should it?” “He works the front desk at the Fairmont in Vancouver.” Jason was staying at the Fairmont. The only person I interacted with there was the guy at the front desk who constantly tipped his hat to me. “Oh. Him.” I shrugged. “What about him?” “A prominent gossip blog that I have an in with was contacted by Freddie Wade. He told them that the same man had come to Jason Prentiss’s hotel room numerous times, often leaving the room the following morning, clearly doing a walk of shame.” “There was no shame involved in my walks,” I responded. “He’s offering pictures to this blog.” “They would just be pictures of me in a lobby. Jason and I didn’t do anything even remotely sexual in public. We didn’t even hold hands. And we made extra certain to clean up anything we did in his room to make sure the maids had nothing to gossip about.” “Rumpled clothing can count as sexual to a gossip blog,” she pointed out. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked. “Not even remotely. However, you did do something inevitable. The fact that you’re dating Jason Prentiss is going to become tabloid news in a matter of hours. The only reason the blog hasn’t published the story yet is because they owed me a favor, and I cashed in.” “You keep talking as though I’m in trouble. Jason and I are two consenting adults. We did nothing wrong.” “Absolutely nothing wrong,” Margaret said emphatically. “But Jason values his private life. He values it so much he pays me obscene gobs of money to keep it as private as it can be. And now, it’s about to become a subject of public discourse.” “Why am I here?” I asked. “We have to handle the situation, or the situation will handle us.” That didn’t answer my question, so I tried a new approach. “What do you need from me?” “There are four options. Really, there are only three, but I’m getting ahead of myself. As they will all require your direct participation, I need to know which of the four we’re going with. I can’t force you to do anything, so the choice has to be yours.” “Okay. So, what’s my first option?” “Option 1 is the non-option, the one that doesn’t really count. We do absolutely nothing. Let it ride. See what happens. If we go that route, there’s a slim chance—winning-the-lottery-while-being-struck-by-lightning slim chance—that no one cares and the story dies because some bigger piece of gossip eclipses it. But the far more likely route is that the worst sort of tabloid reporters and paparazzi track you down to get the scoop.” “That sounds sinister.” “Oh, it is. I found out about Freddie Wade 12 hours ago, and I’ve spent much of those 12 hours researching you; I even hired a P.I. Now, I had a head start because I know your name, address, and phone number, but those aren’t state secrets. Give someone eight weeks and enough financial incentive, and they’ll know more about you than you do. In just my 12 hours of research, I found out a lot about you. Where you went to school, your parents’ names, every speeding ticket you ever got.” She paused, then with a weight in her voice, added, “Your typical grocery store purchases.” “That’s how you knew how I like my tea?” I asked. “Yes. Kind of a practical demonstration. I also learned that you shared your hotel room in Vancouver with a man named Gil Shafer.” I heard a click inside my head. “Oh, is that what this is about? He’s just a friend of mine. He has been for 10 years. More importantly, he’s straight.” “You misunderstand. This isn’t about facts. This is about facts that, without explanation, will cause a casual viewer to draw the wrong conclusion. And TMZ only has casual viewers. You signed in at a hotel in Canada with one man, and then were seen having romantic encounters with Jason. And at the Fairmont, you used the name Miles Uhler, but that is not your legal name.” “Yeah. Jason knows that. Miles Uhler is my pen name. I told you this when we first met.” “You don’t see the potential for scandal? Secret names! Mysterious men! It’s got all the pieces to elicit curiosity. If we do nothing, they can track down every last scrap of your life.” “But I doubt they’ll track me down as easily as you did. I trust my friends to keep my secrets. I don’t do social media. I’m a very private person.” Margaret sighed in exasperation. “That’s actually worse. If they can’t track you down quickly enough, they’ll simply make things up.” “Like what?” “You’re a large, muscular man, Miles. The rumors will immediately be steroids. And since Jason just went through that transformation for the superhero movie, they’ll all conclude that Jason’s on steroids too.” “But he’s not. I’m not.” “They don’t care. In a gossip rag, the scent of impropriety is the same as guilt. And then, because you’re both gay men, they’ll accuse you of far worse than illegal drugs. Need I name specifics?” “Ok, so that option is out.” “Glad we agree.” “What’s the next option?” “Likely, it’s equally repellent to you, but I have to put it on the table because it’s literally my job. Option 2 is that we turn you into a star.” “What?” “You’re a wealthy, muscular, and handsome man. You’re a bestselling author of a beloved YA franchise. You’re dating an A-list movie star. I could sell that reality show to Netflix, Bravo, or AppleTV before I went to bed tonight. Maybe all three. We’d call it Mr. Write or some other odious pun. People would watch just for a chance to snatch a peek at Jason. We could even get this Gil Shafer to come on the show, prove that he’s just a heterosexual friend, clear the whole thing up, and make a little money out of the infotainment. Is Mr. Shafer as photogenic as you? I didn’t bother to Google him because I assumed it was another fake name.” “It’s his real name. He’s a sweet guy. We met while I was still in college. He’s a bodybuilder training for Olympia. He’s the one who showed me how to professionally lift and get seriously big. He comes from money, and he’s obsessed with psychic phenomena, the occult, and the supernatural.” Margaret googled him quickly. “Okay, he’d be a main cast member. Every episode would feature a scene of you and Mr. Shafer at the gym working out together—shirtless. In one episode, you’d throw a book launch party filled with fabulous people. In another episode, Mr. Shafer would host a séance. In the season finale, you’d have some Hollywood meeting, and there’d be a cameo in the episode by Jason.” Margaret paused, surprised how quickly that all formed. Then, she added, “I’d watch this show.” “Is this really your favorite option?” “If you were my client, yes. But Jason’s my client. If you took this option, you’d spend less time with him, and he’d withdraw from you because you betrayed his trust. You’d likely break up within three months. Jason’s more profitable when he’s happy. But, more importantly, I like him, and I want him happy. Option 2 would break his heart.” “Good, because I hate Option 2.” After shaking my head, I asked, “Option 3?” “We have the two of you do a circuit of morning shows. The audience gets to see you, gets to see that there’s nothing unseemly going on, and that keeps them happy. It will likely spill over into a puff piece in a magazine or two, and soon, you’re as non-famous as Jim Toth or Romain Douriac. People can find you on Google, but only if they’re already looking.” “Is this your favorite option?” I asked. “I like it better than the other two. But, there’s a possible consequence I’m none too keen on. There’s a chance the two of you become a Brangelina or a Bennifer, and then the press would swamp you if you even set foot out of your houses. Normally, it wouldn’t be a very big chance, but with Jason’s status as one of the sexiest men in Hollywood and a man as striking and handsome as you who’s already marginally famous, the chances go up. The fact that you’re charming, witty, and quick on your feet—I’d call it a 50/50 coin toss. As Jason’s PR rep, I don’t like the odds. It’s not the press we want for him.” “Option 4?” “You show up on Jason’s arm at one very high-profile event, and then kiss him in front of a whole bunch of cameras, and then exit immediately without saying a word. Jason then explains to the press who you are, and because he’s built up this wall of privacy over eight years in the industry, the press know not to ask any follow-ups if they want him vivacious and lively for the cameras. From then on, you can be the silent guy who’s on his arm at the occasional event, and only the lowest of the low will pursue the gossip, and mainstream publications will shame them for trying.” “This sounds risky.” “Because of the groundwork Jason’s already laid, the risk is surprisingly minimal. The only real risk is if you have any skeletons in your closet that might come out somewhere down the line. If you do, tell me now.” I sighed and told her how I scammed Rhodes and Steele out of a hundred grand with my college boyfriend. “What are these men’s first names?” she asked pragmatically, her fingers poised to start researching. “I never learned them. They were just two rich jackasses I went to college with.” “You went to Crocker, right?” she asked. “Yes. You’ve definitely researched me.” “Impressive, by the way. Full scholarship.” She was typing while she said that. “Okay. Considering your graduation date, that would be Michael Rhodes and Otis Steele.” “His name is Otis? I could’ve been calling him Otis this whole time?” “Yeah, they’re not going to be a problem. They started a health foods conglomerate called Metal Colossus.” “They’re Metal Colossus? I buy their oatmeal.” I felt disappointed with myself. “Yes, that’s them. They’re the co-CEOs of that particular health food and supplement empire. If it became public that their first product was a scam, they’d be in serious jeopardy. You’re safe from them.” Without a pause, Margaret continued. “And what was the name of the man you performed this scam with?” “Trevor Flynn,” I said. “No problem there, either. I’ve looked him up online a few times out of curiosity. He’s the head of an investment fund worth hundreds of millions, maybe billions. He wouldn’t want to be associated with this scandal either.” “And you dated him?” “He basically proposed to me.” “And that’s your only skeleton?” “Skeleton, yes. I have other secrets, though. I have some books published under another pen name, but nothing I’d class as a skeleton.” “Any sexual items from your past I should be aware of? No judgment here—I just have to protect Jason.” “I’ve had a lot of one night stands, but most of them knew nothing about me. Some didn’t know my first name.” “Good to know. In the wrong hands, that could be a weapon. Just to quantify, how much is a lot?” “Dozens?” I didn’t count. “Okay.” She sounded a little worried, and a hair impressed. Then, I added, “If it matters, some of those men were strippers. Oh! I dated a stripper for a few months, but he’s currently teaching ballet to children in Florida. I doubt he’d want that fact to see the light of day.” “Thank you for telling me, but I doubt that will raise many eyebrows. People care more about sex acts that are deemed bizarre or shocking.” I shrugged. “I had a three-way in high school.” “What were the men’s names?” “One was Jonah Patterson-Moore. He’s married and has two kids. I’m still friends with him. I’m also friends with his husband Cole. And his kids are delightful.” “We’ll have no problem from him.” “No, we will not. The other man was Gregg Conner. The first name ends in two Gs.” Margaret finished typing and hit enter. “Gregg Conner who played quarterback for Illinois State Gregg Conner?” “Did he end up playing college football? Good for him.” “He had an impressive college career and was set to go pro, but he injured his shoulder and blew his chance to be recruited.” “I don’t think he’ll be a problem either.” “Glad to hear. But from hearing these stories, I really wish you’d said yes to reality TV.” The conversation went on like this for two hours. At the end of it, Margaret said, “To sum it up, here’s my pitch. Jason gets back from Vancouver tomorrow. The movie he shot before he met you is having its premiere. You ride in the limo with him, you help him out of the car like a proper gentleman, and just when the press thinks you’re a new bodyguard, you kiss him goodbye and get back in the limo. The kiss needs to be steamy enough to register as romantic, but chaste enough to be played on morning talk shows.” “If I must, and if Jason agrees.” “Let’s call him.” She took off her glasses and picked up her phone. Jason picked up after only two rings. The conversation went so quickly that even though Jason was responding, she never paused for more than half a second. “Jason, yes, it’s Margaret. Miles is in my office, and we have to go public like we discussed. Yes. He went with Option 4, just like you predicted. The red carpet on Friday. Tuxes. You too, sweetie.” She hung up, put her glasses back on, and looked at me. “It’s all settled. If things go cockeyed and there’s need for more PR, I’ll be in touch. Otherwise, have a sweet night.” In what felt like two seconds later, it was Friday night and I was on that red carpet, kissing Jason, blinded by a million lights. The photo went viral on Twitter for a few hours, but Jason was quick to squelch discussion of his romantic life, and it went exactly as Margaret laid out. Exactly. Eerily so, as if she’d orchestrated it. The following morning—a Saturday—the photo was even shown on some weekend morning shows that referred to me as “Mystery Man Miles.” My closest friends recognized me, of course. I got a string of humorous texts and calls. Shafe texted, “Dude! Ur b-friend is Jason Prentiss? U ! Marietta wants a signed pic!” Natalie asked if we could parlay this news into a movie deal, and I laughed so hard she knew it meant a no. H. K. texted, “You two are adorable together! Dinner Thursday?” Jonah called and, among other things, let me know that, “Cole will be disappointed. Jason Prentiss is his hall pass.” Then, he joked in a mock-threat, “Keep your man away from my man.” Even my parents called. They were more confused over why the news was calling me “Miles,” but there was no hostility from them, so it was a nice call—the nicest I’d had in years. After a week, no one in the media really cared about it anymore. Instead, when Jason went on talk shows—because he had to—they asked about his workouts, if he had any funny stories about his co-stars, insipid things like that. And our life went back to semi-normal. 20 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted September 17, 2021 Author Share Posted September 17, 2021 Part 4 – The Hollywood Hunk Chapter 12 It was a month and a half after we kissed on a red carpet, and Jason’s shoot, which had dragged on long past its initial three-month schedule, was finally finishing up. By this point, we were basically living together. He was my home, after all. Each of us still had our own place, but we almost never slept alone. I’d been writing like a maniac—coming close to finishing the tenth Death Knell and another Vaughn one-off romance. Life felt sweet and perfect. Over breakfast one morning, he dropped a script in my lap. “What’s this?” I asked. “Read it. I have a question, followed by a conundrum.” I read the script right then, in one sitting, and fell in love with it. “You’re playing Scott?” I asked. “I was asked to play Scott, and I’d absolutely love to.” “Great. What’s the question?” “I’m already signed up for the sequel to this superhero film. I’m contractually obligated to do it. The sequel doesn’t start shooting for six months. The shooting for this movie falls right in the middle of that six months. I was supposed to use that six months for things like doing talk shows and taking auditions, and I thought another chunk of it could be a real vacation. If I do this movie, the timing gets tight, and we can kiss the vacation goodbye.” I nodded, encouraging him to continue. “They don’t want superhero-sized Jason Prentiss. They want normal-sized Jason Prentiss.” “Yeah, Scott couldn’t be as big as you.” “So, I’d have ten weeks to lose 30 pounds of muscle for a movie with a 10-day shoot. Then, I’d have 4 months to put those 30 pounds back on.” “You could definitely do that.” Jason ran to the cabinet and grabbed the bag of pretzels he’d hidden in my hall closet. As he began eating, he said, “I know I could, but, honestly, I don’t know if I want to put my body through that hell. I don’t mind putting in the effort to keep the extra muscle mass. In fact, if my agent would let me and if I physically could, I’d blow up bigger than you, even. But to lose and gain so much in one year—that scares me.” He grabbed another handful of pretzels from the bag. I took the bag away from him and put it back in the closet. “I think it’d be worth it to do this movie.” “I do too.” “Where’s the film shooting?” “Here in LA. Well, just outside of the city for budget reasons.” “Then I have a suggestion,” I said. “Every morning, you lend me 30 pounds of muscle, and every evening when you get home, I give it back. Then, at the end of the shoot, I give you back your muscle. Voila.” “I can’t ask you to do that. And it’ll kill our sex life. This would be every day for the two weeks I’m shooting. On top of that, you’d have to take a deposit any time I have an appearance during that whole six month period—I have meetings and press to do. I’d have to look like I slowly lost 30 pounds and then slowly put it back on.” I went through his objections like bullet points. “You didn’t ask me; I volunteered. We’re not doing it for sex. In fact, during this whole process, we won’t have sex while I’m taking a deposit from you. And I’m fine with making it look like you slowly lost and gained. I’ve done it before; it won’t be hard to do it again. You kept me out of the spotlight, and I am very grateful for that.” “That’s the thing, too. You won’t be able to leave the house or anything like that. People will get suspicious.” “I’m wrapping up two novels at the moment,” I reminded him. “I was barely going to leave the house anyways. The only work-related people I meet with are Natalie and H. K., and they stopped asking questions about my muscles years ago. As for friends, my local friends are used to my fluctuating size, and Jonah and Shafe know I’m The Repository. I say go for it.” “Really?” “I would say go for it even if you had to put yourself through hell for six months ‘cause I’d be right beside you helping you through it. This way, at least I can make it easier on you.” When the superhero movie wrapped, we started our plan. Jason essentially moved in to my condo for the first three months; it was just easier that way. He had 70 days to lose 30 pounds of muscle. So, every day before he left the condo, he would lend me some muscle. We started with half a pound, and then increased that by half a pound every day until I was borrowing 30 pounds from him, topping out at 315 for me (and bottoming out at 185 for Jason). Natalie either didn’t notice or didn’t care. H. K. noticed, but he knew Jason liked guys with big muscles, so he teased me that I was getting even more huge for Jason. He wasn’t entirely wrong. It was actually fun being 315 pounds for 8-12 hours a day. I would stalk around the condo, feeling my size that much bigger than I was used to. I even adjusted to typing with biceps so big they fought my pecs. You’d be surprised how fast you can adapt. I’m also not going to lie; I masturbated a lot at 315 pounds. For one, it was a great way to clear my mind when I struggled with my writing. For another, I was fucking huge and fucking gorgeous. It kind of felt like playing a naughty game of dress up. Then, my man would come home. Super sexy, svelte Jason Prentiss like I’d seen him onscreen. I’d give him back his muscles, and he’d swell up into my Vancouver superhero. Jason had been worried this would hurt our sex life, but it didn’t. We never had sex when I was taking a deposit, but seeing each other blow up with mass on a regular basis helped our libidos. It was a fun three months. When the shoot for the independent movie ended, though, our fun hit a snag. Jason had come home from the film’s final day of shooting with a solemn look on his face with just a hint of “holding back a pout.” He’d had a similar face when the superhero movie had wrapped, so I just assumed that the face he was making was his “I just finished shooting a movie” face. However, it was his, “I’m thinking deeply” face. Because he was, in fact, thinking deeply. I’d given him back his deposit, we’d had a silent dinner, and then had a silent evening where I wrote and he sat silently—he didn’t even read. He just sat silently. After too long of this silence, I turned to him and said, “Okay, what’s up?” “We have a problem, Miles, and I don’t know how to solve it.” “It can’t be that big of a problem.” “They’ve hired Curtis again to help me bulk back up.” “We expected something like this,” I said. “We’re just going to do the first solution in reverse. I borrow less and less from you every day. And, likely, by the end of it, you’ll have put on even more than 30 pounds.” “That’s not the problem,” he said. “There was a clause… I never thought they would actually … I signed the contract before we even met!” Jason wasn’t finishing any of his thoughts, so I had to drag it out of him. “What clause? What contract? Who are ‘they’?” “I’m hungry again,” Jason said. “Want to see if there are any barbecue places open nearby?” “Jason,” I said, rising my tone like a mild scold. “Answer my questions. It’s probably not a big deal.” “The contract for the superhero film. I wasn’t just signing up for a film, I was signing up for a franchise. That’s why I couldn’t say no to the sequel. The studio will sue me for breach.” I nodded. This was all info I already had. “Okay. Now you’ve explained ‘the contract’ and the ‘they.’ What’s ‘the clause?’” “There was a clause giving them permission to monetize studio expenses.” “What does that even mean?” “Curtis costs money. He’s a very expensive personal trainer. The studio’s investing a lot of money in me. So, to recoup some of those costs, if they can turn a source of expense into a source of income, they’re contractually allowed to.” “I still don’t see the issue.” “They offered Curtis a reality show about his celebrity clients. He accepted it. I’m contractually obligated to appear as one of his clients on the show because of a contract I signed before we even met.” “Why is that such a big deal?” “The way they pitched the show, it’s basically a celebrity boot camp. Me and a few other of his celebrity clients are going to live at his compound for three months.” “You’d be on location for three months?” “I know! When I was on location for two weeks, you flipped out so hard that you took a flight to Vancouver. What’s three months apart going to do to us?” I sat calmly and thought about it. “When would you leave?” “In a week.” I nodded and exhaled deeply. “I think I can do it. Last time, you sprung it on me the night before, so I overreacted. Also, last time, it was the day after you said you loved me for the first time. I wasn’t as confident that our relationship was durable. Now, you’re giving me a whole week to process it. And, since we’ve been together for months, I know that when you come back, we’re still together. I think I can do it this time.” “Okay, fine,” Jason said, still at the same high level of anxiety. “But the problem goes beyond that. While we’re at boot camp, there are going to be cameras everywhere.” That was a problem. “Then I can’t just give you back your muscles—there’d be too much chance of me being exposed." "Exactly.” I grunted in frustration. “This all sounds like they’re chasing one expense after another. Will they really make money off this?” “Reality shows have a shoestring budget. They were paying Curtis anyway, and my appearance fee for the reality show was absorbed into my payment for the superhero sequel. They’re essentially getting me—all the celebrities—for nothing. And at the end of three months, they have a product they can sell.” “Does this mean for three months we can’t even call each other? That I can’t do.” “No, we can talk on the phone. You’re even allowed to visit at a few show-approved times, but the place will be swarmed by cameras, and I suspect the phone calls will be recorded.” “This is a problem,” I repeated, this time out loud. “I can’t go in there already a massive 215. There will be too many questions. And I won’t ask you to take a deposit for three months like that. It’s just not fair to you.” “If we can get you a private phone line, we can rig something up. I swear. I have experience in this. Let me talk to Margaret. I’ll visit her at her office. See if she can do something.” The conversation with Margaret did not go well. “The studio wants to record everything except nudity and bathroom business,” she said, shaking her head. “I could get you on the show,” she added. “By reality show definitions, you’re technically a celebrity. In fact, Curtis asked to have you be one of the clients—he says you motivate Jason to get big, and he also thinks more people will watch if there’s a showmance.” The thought of enduring Curtis’s intense and highly effective workout regime for three months while borrowing 30 pounds from Jason whizzed through my head. Curtis had packed 13 pounds on me in one month when I wasn’t borrowing anything. After three months, I’d be lucky if I came out the other side under 500 pounds. Everyone would find out my secret, and I could kiss my normal life goodbye. Margaret kept talking, “But that’s the opposite of what you two want, so I say suck it up for three months. It’s not fun. It’s not entirely fair. But it’s showbiz.” I went back to the condo defeated. When I got there, to my complete surprise, Jason was not alone. Shafe and Marietta were there too—all three of them clearly having a blast, which completely jarred me out of my funk. Jason and Shafe were on the couch. Marietta was in a chair from my breakfast table she’d pulled over to the couch. She was holding Jason’s hand. “Welcome home,” Shafe said, smiling broadly. “Jason, are you okay with this?” I asked. Jason looked natural, calm, and relaxed. “Of course,” he said cheerfully, practically purring. “In fact, I called them over.” I closed the door, grabbed another breakfast table chair, and pulled it over to join them. “I’ve been wanting to meet some more of your friends,” Jason continued, “and without Shafe, we wouldn’t have had our Vancouver vacation.” “No big deal,” Shafe said, patting Jason on the back. “Without that trip, I never would’ve met Marietta.” “She’s reading my palm,” Jason said to me. “I’ve never had a palm reading. You have the most fascinating friends.” “What’s his palm say?” I asked Marietta. “There’s a weird hiccup in his love line in the very near future, but the line looks solid and thorough afterwards.” “You told her about the reality show,” I said. “I did not,” Jason insisted. “I spent most of our conversation asking about her pet ghost.” “Cynthia was a friend, not a pet,” Marietta corrected. “Sorry. I apologize,” Jason responded. “Does his palm say anything else?” I asked. “He’s a creative person who prefers small groups. He’s quiet and intuitive, can be high-strung or sullen at times, and he doesn’t believe in fate. And he’s going to live until he’s at least 95.” “It’s all accurate,” Jason said. “As far as I’m aware. I don’t know when I’m going to die, but the other stuff is all true.” “I’m happy to see you,” I said to Shafe, “don’t get me wrong,” I turned to Jason and asked him, “but why did you call them over?” Shafe answered. “He called me over. Marietta came with. She didn’t want to stay home alone.” “We moved in together,” she said, dancing a little in her chair. “Can you believe it?” Shafe asked. “It was so impulsive. We didn’t consult our horoscopes or anything.” “We just went with our guts,” Marietta said. “You just left Vancouver behind? What about your house? Friends? Family? Your job?” Marietta laughed. “I had a shitty apartment and hated my roommate. My friends were really happy for me. My parents and brothers live in Winnipeg, so I only saw them on holidays anyway. And I’ll have no problem finding a job as a personal trainer in LA.” I shrugged. “Awesome,” I said. “I’m happy for you, Shafe.” “Right? She’s so awesome.” I turned back to Jason. “But, that didn’t really answer my question. Why did you call Shafe over?” “Just to visit. To talk. To think about a solution to our problem.” He subtly pointed to Marietta with his head. “I don’t know if we can talk in the open, though.” Marietta gave Jason his hand back and pinched his cheek. “You’re so cute.” “That’s the third time she’s done that,” Jason said, rubbing his cheek. Marietta turned to me and said, “I know you’re The Repository. If that’s what this is about.” I looked at Shafe, more nervous than angry. “You told?” Shafe looked at me shamefacedly. “She got it out of me.” “How?” Jason asked. Marietta licked her lips. Well, that answered that question. “Why did she even ask?” Jason continued. “I could tell Shafe was keeping a secret. So, I bent him to my will, and he spilled.” She nudged me with her shoulder. “I’m not telling anyone. Don’t worry.” “Okay, so I can talk freely.” Jason sighed. He explained to them our situation. “You redid the TGS scam!” Shafe said cheerfully. “In a sense,” I said. Jason continued. “If—and this is just an if at this point—if I lend Miles the 30 pounds for three months, he is going to be fizzing uncontrollably. Left to his own devices, he’ll just stack on 30 more pounds of muscle with even mild workouts. He’d be a 345-pound behemoth in no time. As damn sexy as he would be, that’s just too much for every day.” He turned to Shafe. “But you got him into meditation. You could help him find his center, and overcome the fizzing, and visualize peace.” “Easy,” Shafe said. “His aura wants him to be huge,” Marietta said, disagreeing. “Be that as it may,” I said, glossing over Marietta’s pronouncement, “my frontal lobe wants me to be able to keep up a modicum of self-control, and I am terrified of people finding out about my ability.” Marietta shrugged. “His Will might overpower his aura. I’ve seen it happen.” Shafe chimed in. “Listen, because of you two, I met the love of my life. I’m all for this if it’s what Vaughn wants.” Meditation to stop the fizzing? It sounded ludicrous, but I had never tried it. The last time the fizzing got bad, I entirely abandoned meditation. “Let’s try it. We’re in this problem in part because I pushed Jason to do that indie film. If I go into this with an open mind, it might just work.” That’s what I said out loud. Inside, I was awash in emotions. I didn’t want Jason to leave for three months, afraid it would hurt too much. I was worried about taking such a large deposit for three months, too. However, there was another emotion, a positive one, and I clung to it. There was an excitement within me that reveled at something very important they overlooked, something which would lead to some excellent vacation sex when Jason got back from shooting Curtis’s show. 25 1 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Popular Post TQuintA Posted September 17, 2021 Author Popular Post Share Posted September 17, 2021 Part 4 – The Hollywood Hunk Chapter 13 The morning Jason was to leave for Curtis’s reality show, we had a sweet, soft, sensual goodbye fuck. It was practically spiritual. Then, he said, “You can borrow 30 pounds,” and was out the door before he could stop himself. I was so caught up trying not to cry in front of everyone that I barely noticed myself swell up. From the looks on Shafe and Marietta’s faces, though, I was a sight to behold. “Unbelievable,” Marietta said. “Show us the new mass.” “Sure,” I responded. My shirt was feeling a little tight, so I already wanted to take it off, and that’s when Shafe got an eyeful of the 8-pack Jason had given me. “Oh, come on!” Shafe said, pointing at my extreme definition. I’d never heard Shafe so fed up. “It’s really hard to be your friend sometimes.” “Nice,” Marietta said, apprising my giant size—my massive pecs, my massive biceps, my massive everything. “Not too nice,” Shafe said, a little jealously. “Babe,” Marietta said, slapping Shafe on the back of the head. “He’s not into women. Get over yourself.” “Right. Sorry. I just feel so small.” Shafe looked down at his 255-pound physique. I outclassed him by 60 pounds. “I’m not used to being this much smaller than another guy.” “Well, it’s your job to stop me from getting any bigger.” That morning, Shafe guided me through a deep meditation. It was hard getting into the lotus position—my thighs were just too massive, so I sat on the floor with my ankles crossed. Even sitting there, I felt big. Even sitting there, my muscles got in the way of each other, forcing me to take up space. Shafe had me feel that sensation, to embrace that sensation. He wanted me to feel my muscles, actually get into them. Feel the blood run through them. Their weight. Their density. Their gravity. And I was supposed to acknowledge which were mine, and which were Jason’s. “We welcome our guests,” Shafe said. “We honor our guests. But they are guests.” I was breathing slowly and calmly, and I could feel Jason’s muscles. Where they sat in my body. They were different from me. They were in me, but they were not of me. And they felt like him. Like I was holding him in my arms. It was all very trippy. When the meditation was over—just a half hour to start, not to push it—we began hammering out details of the upcoming three months. Working out would just be tempting fate at this point, so I had to give up my gym schedule. With borrowed muscle, I wouldn’t lose any mass or definition, so it would have been working against my goals, not for them. We had to fill that time somehow, though, so we set up a schedule to keep me in the moment. By the end of that first day, I had a strict schedule to follow. The majority of my workouts were replaced with extra meditation. I also ramped up my writing schedule to finish the two books that were close to completion. To give myself a tangible, observable goal, I determined to deep clean the condo, cleaning behind and under things that never got attention. The next morning, I got a card from Jason. In it, he said he missed me already and that he’d send me something, just a small something—a card, a note, a small gift—every day to show me I was in his thoughts. The sentiment warmed me. God, I missed him too. And it’d only been a little over one day. The schedule and the meditation worked for the first three or four days. It was working, but I could feel the fizzing. It started on day two, but between my chores and my writing, I was able to push it out of my mind. The fizzing was stronger on day three than day two, and stronger still on day four. But as the fizzing grew, so too did my resolve. I thought I was going to make it. On day five, at the crack of dawn, I jerked awake because the fizzing had redoubled with a vengeance. I stumbled into Shafe’s room; my muscles were visibly vibrating, and I was barely able to walk. “Marietta, help me,” he said. Between the two of them, they managed to get me over to my meditation corner, my body fighting them all the way. I just wanted to bolt from them, go over to my weight set, and start lifting. That was my all-consuming thoughts. There was a primal force in my head repeating the same two words over and over. Lift. Grow. Lift. Grow. But I fought back. Shafe started the meditation, and I tried to push out all thoughts. But I just wanted to lift and grow. My body screamed for it. It screamed to ease the fizzing by just giving in. To lift. To grow. “Go into the sensation,” Shafe said in his calming voice. “Feel it fully. Why is your body reacting this way?” I wanted to scream, “Because I’m not lifting!” Instead, I tried to push out the discomfort out of my head, and went into the fizzing. I could feel it, reaching out for Jason’s body. It wanted to be back in his body. It wanted to go home. That’s what the fizzing was. It was the muscle trying to leave my body. If I didn’t trap it with new muscle, it would vibrate harder and harder, trying to go back to its depositor. Through fits and starts, I explained it to Shafe, and he nodded, understanding. “I’ll be right back,” Shafe said. He ran into my bedroom, and came back out with “Krixby #1”—the photograph I’d taken of Jason. He showed me the photo. “This is where the muscle wants to go, right?” I nodded. “Let it go there. Send it there in your mind. Think about Jason and how you’re helping him. How you’re doing him a favor because you love him. Think about Jason.” Holding that photo, looking at Jason’s face, I came back to myself. My quivering stopped, and the fizzing subsided to tolerable levels. I could still hear the words in the background. Lift. Grow. But they were whispers, not shouts. “Thank you,” I said to Shafe as I stared at Jason’s photo. And that worked for another three days—meditating while thinking of Jason. But the fizzing grew steadily stronger, and it was taking longer and longer meditation sessions in a more frequent number to stop my morning shakes. If I wasn’t focused on a task, I could even hear myself muttering out loud. Lift. Grow. Then came our next big challenge: I had a lunch meeting with H. K. I would have to leave the house and focus on the meeting and not do or say anything strange. We got up extra early that day to give me the extra time to quell the fizzing, but after an hour of trying, my muscles were still shaking. I just wanted to lift and grow. I had less and less time to get ready for the meeting. And rescheduling the meeting wouldn’t solve the problem; it would just move it to a later date when the fizzing was even stronger. Jason still had two and a half months left on the reality show. “Just let me lift enough to get my head on straight,” I said. “Just that. When I stop muttering and shaking, drag me away from the weights if you have to. I can’t just sit here. I feel like I’m going to explode!” They decided it was the only plausible solution, so for the first time in almost two weeks, I got to work out my muscles. The lifting was exactly what I needed. After just half an hour of lifting, I was calm enough to leave the house. To my bad luck, the meeting was boring, and the whole time, I had to keep shaking my leg. To keep myself as focused as I could, I pulled up a picture of Jason on my phone, him smiling, his eyes closed, his dimple prominent, mid-laugh. I looked down at it every chance I could and feel the warm love rush through me. Eventually, H. K caught wise. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I miss Jason,” I said. “I miss him so much I can’t sit still. I’ve been fidgeting all morning.” “Fine. The meeting’s over anyways. Go home and call Jason.” I left his office faster than a kid on the last day of school. But I didn’t go home. I didn’t even know where I was going until I found myself at a gym. Without any input from me, my body had navigated itself to a gym. I bought a day pass, and I went to the back where the serious lifters were, and I lifted for two hours before Shafe and Marietta tracked me down. When they found me, Shafe put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Our plan isn’t working. Not even a little. I didn’t have the heart to tell you this, but twice this week, I woke up in the middle of the night, and you were lifting. You were out cold, asleep, and lifting. Now, you run away from us to work out at a random gym.” I sighed. I’d been sleep-lifting? That’s a thing I do now? Shafe continued in his friendliest tone. “Just put in the work. Lift. Grow. You’ll be freaky huge, but Jason will love you freaky huge, and when the time comes, if you don’t like being so big, we’ll help you get back down to a reasonable size.” Marietta pinched my cheek. “Your aura wants you to be huge. Stop fighting it.” And so I stopped fighting it. Between Shafe, Marietta, and what Jason told me about Curtis’s workouts, we pushed ourselves to the absolute brink. I was either eating, lifting, writing, or sleeping. I did nothing else. Every day, the fizzing subsided a little more, and I felt a little more like myself. Every day, I also felt a little bigger. I noticed that my shirts were getting tighter on my chest and shoulders, and my sleeves all rode up past my arms. I noticed that the doorway to by bathroom was getting awfully small as my shoulders began grazing the jambs on either side. I noticed that I saw my chest a little bit more every day, even when I wasn’t looking down, and that it was crawling up closer to my chin every day. I noticed that my ass wasn’t fitting into my jeans anymore—I could only wear workout clothes or pants with a lot of stretch. I noticed that my waddle was getting especially exaggerated. I noticed that my quads were curving out so far that they bumped into shelves and furniture if I didn’t pay attention. I noticed that when I left the house, people looked at me differently. I used to get looks of awe, respect, or lust. I still got those looks, but more and more people were looking at me with shock and even horror. I noticed that furniture and floorboards that never creaked started making creaking sounds underneath me. Marietta and Shafe noticed their own growth. Shafe was the biggest he’d ever been without bulking, and Marietta was lifting more than she’d ever even hoped to lift, getting PBs every day. Even H. K. noticed. He made me do a drug test. When I passed it, he apologized and said that he had to and that he was worried about me. I told him it was because I missed Jason. That I ached without him nearby—which was true—and that working out numbed the pain—which was also true, but for a different reason. H. K. remembered his night of too many whiskeys and said, “I get it. We all overindulge when we missed our loved ones.” As I grew heavier, harder, and denser, I thought I had things under control. I’d have added the 30 extra pounds soon enough, and then things could return to as normal as they ever were. Then, I got the phone call. I didn’t recognize the number, but I picked it up thinking it might have something to do with Jason’s show. “Shakespeare,” a voice said. Alphonse? “My possessive ex-boyfriend tracked me down to New Mexico, and I need your help, or he will not leave me alone. Sorry to do this to you without your permission. You can borrow all my extra genital size—all of it. I’ll call you again as soon as he’s gone. Sorry again.” “Alphonse?” I said into my phone, and then I felt the bulging in my pants. My cock pressed out further, harder, thicker, denser. And my balls grew heavier in my sac. They pushed out the front of my tights, pulling down the waist line. I had a footlong cock again. “What is that?” Shafe said, pointing at the massive bulge in my crotch. “A deposit from Alphonse,” I said. It had only been seconds, and I could already feel the extra testosterone swirling around in my system. Fuck. That pushed everything into overdrive. I lifted harder, I lifted more, I lifted heavier. I could feel myself harden from granite into marble into steel and swell to new and mammoth proportions. My smaller clothes wouldn’t even come close to fitting me now. Even my biggest clothes were painfully tight on me. My beard thickened. My facial hair grew faster. My chest become more darkly covered with hair. My armpits, already a mossy forest in a cave of hollow muscle, began excreting my musky scent more readily and more thoroughly. I had to shower twice as frequently just to keep myself feeling sane. I even think my voice got a little deeper. And my sex drive ramped up. H. K. thankfully didn’t notice my extra bulge at our next meeting (he was too distracted by my heaving pec shelf thrusting through my unbutton-able shirt). I was also distracted; he looked absolutely delicious. The whole meeting, every time he drummed the desk with his fingers, I just wanted to put those fingers in my mouth and suck on them. I wanted to tear off his clothes and fuck him in his chair while it spun. I was no safer at home. Shafe was looking swole and sexy. My ramped up workouts had motivated him to work out even harder, and his muscles were thicker than he thought possible. He’d broken 260, and his body fat was still in single digits. And I would just stare at him during workouts. Looking at my straight friend, I wanted to ravage him. I was erect nearly constantly, and I beat off four or five times a day. And the fizzing was back, now located mostly in my cock and balls. I couldn’t focus on anything that required higher brain functions for longer than three minutes. I stopped writing. I had no idea when Alphonse was going to take his cock back, and the only surefire way I knew to make the fizzing stop was to augment myself. On some level, I knew that if I grew my cock three more inches, the fizzing would stop. In my more desperate moments, I considered pills, creams, and salves. I researched pumping, jelqing, even surgery. There was no satisfactory way to increase the size of my cock, and even if there was, I didn’t want a cock that was over a foot long. A foot of cock was a lot of responsibility, and it took a lot of maintenance to keep it sated, especially with Jason gone. On top of that, it was just hard to manage. I had to aim carefully when I pissed, I had to fold it just so to get it out of my way. Growing it even longer would just exacerbate the problem. Lacking a better solution, I just masturbated more and worked out more. None of my shirts fit me anymore. None. And my pants had stopped fitting before that! I walked around the condo with a pair of overstretched boxer briefs, my cock clearly visible wrapped around my hip. If Shafe and Marietta hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have bothered with that. I felt like an exhibit at the zoo. Shafe and Marietta did their best to keep me grounded, but they could see I had been reduced to my base animal instincts, and so they gave me space and made sure I didn’t hurt myself. Days blurred together. My life was a slurry of eating, lifting, and jacking off. After I had been living like this for what felt like an eternity, Shafe put a phone next to my ear and said, “It’s Alphonse." "Alphonse, you can have your cock back,” I said so quickly that I was worried it was unintelligible. But it worked. My cock shrank back down to its normal size. Well, its normal 9-inch size. But I felt normal again. Once I was back to myself, I assessed what had happened. Three weeks had passed. Three weeks. I was a mass of 370 pounds of muscle. And my balls were bigger. All that extra testosterone in my body had permanently enlarged them. They weren’t the crotch-stretching monsters they’d been for three weeks, but they were most assuredly bigger. The condo had changed around me too. Some furniture was destroyed, there were twice as many weights as I remember there being, and there was a hole in the wall. Shafe told me he and Marietta had bought the weights to help keep me calm, but the destroyed furniture and the hole were all me, done in a blind rage. The furniture I’d destroyed in a temper tantrum when I’d eaten through all the groceries and had to wait for new groceries to be delivered. I’d apparently fucked the whole into the wall. I spent that afternoon coming down from the hormone-haze I’d been on. I could focus and think like me again. Later that evening, Shafe spoke to me, concerned. “You really need to find a way to handle the fizzing.” I was sitting on the floor because I couldn’t fit in my computer chair—my thighs were too thick to fit in between the arms of the chair. I was trying to type to catch up on my writing, and I could barely type, especially because I was on the floor. “It will destroy you.” “Tell me about it,” I said, trying to look down at my swollen body, but seeing only the bulging globes of my furry chest. “You can still feel the fizzing, right?” he asked. “I know it’s bearable because of the extra mass, but it’s still there, right?” I nodded, my beard grazing the top of my chest. “Let’s meditate.” Shafe joined me on the floor and guided me through another meditation. This time, when I accessed the fizzing, I focused on not fighting it, but just feeling it. I sat with that feeling for two hours as Shafe led me through, keeping me breathing, keeping me grounded, keeping me tethered. And then, I don’t know how, but something clicked. The fizzing wasn’t just the muscle trying to return to its depositor. It was also me trying to keep it, trying to hold on to it. But, it wasn’t mine. Weirdly, though, I didn’t have to fight to keep it. It was freely given to me. I could share it. I’d always intellectually known it wasn’t mine. But it was mine, sort of mine. It was mine to share, a subtle but important distinction. And I had to feel that. I opened my eyes, and the world was parallax. And the fizzing was gone. I could borrow whatever I wanted now for however long I wanted it, and I wouldn’t feel the fizzing. I just knew it. 39 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
zazu Posted September 17, 2021 Share Posted September 17, 2021 I am highly intrigued and highly aroused. Bravo. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ploder4 Posted September 18, 2021 Share Posted September 18, 2021 Let's experiment... have 10 people give him 30 lbs and 2 inches each. Lol 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ChronoSeth Posted September 18, 2021 Share Posted September 18, 2021 Love the mental implications part. He became a true meathead if only for a brief time! The first and the last mental changes that would occur I think. I found Illia Golem to be quite the good comparison. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hoga Posted September 18, 2021 Share Posted September 18, 2021 Amazing story.. I particularly loved when he broke the handcuffs. I would also love to see more written about his strength levels at the different weights. Going to the gym and benching 500lbs, new PRs, etc. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Demandred Posted September 19, 2021 Share Posted September 19, 2021 I think the most recent chapter is one of my favourite bits of writing in a very long time. I love reading about the inevitable loss in the fight for control (even if it's gained in the end). It's so well written and enjoyable to follow along, as with all your stories! 3 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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