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Weird, But Sweet (Complete Story, 1/18/23, Bonus Material added 1/25/23)


TQuintA

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3 hours ago, TQuintA said:

Well spotted.  I went back and fixed it.

The perils of writing two stories at the same time! Been there, done that!  (And again: MANY thanks!)

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On 11/9/2022 at 8:18 AM, TQuintA said:

He lined himself back up, and I prepared to be boarded.  With a relaxing breath, I took a moment to take in his beauty.  His free-spirited hair and that adorable face on top of such a masculine, overly muscular, regimented body.  He was gorgeous.

            “I’m so far away from you,” Mason noted, fascinated and awed.

            “13.5 inches away,” I said.

OOF.  I love your new ways for characters to experience and verbalize their size.  This above...so hot.  It paints such a vivid image.  To have a dick so massive that you are literally over a foot away from the hole before entering...powerful stuff.

He's getting BIGGG and we love it. 

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Chapter 17

            Life resumed pretty much as normal the next day.  Pretty much.  The biggest difference was that I was constantly being struck by just how massive Mason was. 

            For instance, while I was brushing my teeth, Mason came into the bathroom to take a shower, and I found myself just staring at him, the toothbrush dangling from my mouth.  I watched as the water pooled on the top of his chest, only to cascade down in a waterfall, turning into twin rivers that trickled down the grooves of his abs just to rejoin at the base of his cock, form into one mighty stream and splash down as a torrent.  Between the soap, the steam, and the hot water, it was hard to take my eyes off him.

            Or, when we were at breakfast, his chair creaked when he sat in it.  It was a solid, sturdy wooden chair—Mason had an eye for quality furniture.  And his weight made it creak like it was supporting an ungodly mass.

            Or, when we were getting prepped for our new, increased business volume, Mason stacked five 50-pound bags of flour on one shoulder, had me load up his other shoulder, and carried them from dry storage to the kitchen.  It didn’t even daunt him.

            Or, when he we were standing at the counter next to each other, and his tricep would bounce into mine.  He wasn’t doing it to draw my attention or anything; he was just too big to fit in his own station (and my own size wasn’t helping anything).

            Or, as he tried to negotiate around a corner, and his ass would knock something off a table.  Or his cock bulge.  Or his pecs.  He was bulging in so many directions, he kept knocking things over left and right.

            Or, when he unzipped himself to take a piss, he had to fish around to grab all of himself, pull hard, and reel out his entire girthy member before he could release.  And then, once he was done and had dripped dry, he had to do the whole process in reverse.  I had never been one for watersports, but I could watch Mason fish out his cock and put it back all day.

            And everyone loved the new look on him.  The customers didn’t really flirt with him anymore.  Well, a few did.  The rest, instead, stared at him, marveling in fear and wonder and admiration at this thick, burly monster wearing a Day-Glo orange Snoopy t-shirt.  The few who did flirt with him all begged to feel his arm.  He’d flex a bicep for them, and when they’d try to squeeze it to no avail, he’d lift them up by surprise.  Once he could see they had a good grip, he’d just lift his arm, and they’d come off the ground a little bit. 

            Our employees—mostly 18 and 19-year-olds we’d hired from the gym—were in awe.  They swooped around him, looking at every bulge and slab of muscle.  Each of them had to get a picture with “Massive Mister.” 

            When I pointed it out to him, he called me a hypocrite.  “You’ve grabbed my ass no less than twenty times this hour,” he accused.

            “No way.”

            “Oh, it’s true, and you’ve squeezed my pecs four times, felt up my biceps five, and fondled my junk every time we were alone in the kitchen.  Please tell me you’re washing your hands before you touch the food.”

            “Have I really?” I asked. “I don’t remember doing any of that.”

            “You couldn’t keep your hands off me when I was half this size,” he taunted.  “What chance do you stand now?”  He winked and blew a kiss.  “Keep it up, honey.  I love the attention.”

            When we got to the gym, Mason practically held court.  The after school crowd had been alerted by their buddies who worked for us that Mr. Lombard was now jacked beyond belief, so when they saw him coming, they blared some heavy metal song I’d never heard before and filmed his entrance.  For his part, Mason strutted and preened, flexing in his garish pink and lilac camo shirt and gesturing them to crank the song louder.  They all took turns taking pictures with him, begging to see his abs or for him to flex this muscle or that one.  And then, when each saw me patiently standing there, staring, they ricocheted off him like shrapnel.

            The bored househusbands, thanks to Sammy, had also gotten the heads up, and so all of them were there: the whole brigade.  They were admiring and lusting over him, and as soon as he passed them, they asked me if we had an open marriage, to which I told them all, “Feel free to flirt, feel free to fawn, feel free to fantasize.  The only one fucking him is me.”

            The clock watchers politely waved to Mason, but they were too absorbed in their workouts to make a big stink.  Besides, they knew Mason was no longer one of them: he was now one of the mass monsters.

            When Tank saw us approach his group, he stepped forward.  Apart from his muscles, there was nothing special about Tank.  He was a normal height, had normal hair, a normal face, and wore normal gym clothes (in every shade of navy blue and black that existed).  He had been one of those unremarkable guys who got big in order to get attention and stand out, and now Mason surpassed him.  Seeing Mason come up to him dressed in the brightest, loudest outfit, and easily, noticeably outclassing his size?  I thought Tank was going to throw down a gauntlet, or something worse.

            Instead, Tank put his hand on Mason’s shoulder and said, “I’m so sorry I sent that text Dalton asked me to.  So sorry.  I didn’t think anything would come of it.  I’m so so sorry.  Can you forgive me?”  Of course!  The mass monsters were marshmallows, posing as alpha bros.  They wouldn’t confront a man with a superior physique.  I could even see a glint of fear in Tank’s eyes.  Tank was intimidated by my fiancé.  Tank was intimidated by Mason.  I did my best to hide my boner and promised myself to jerk off to that fantasy later.

            “No worries,” Mason said.  “Can you help me come up with a new workout regimen and diet so I can maintain this body?”

            In a normal context, a 300-pound mountain of shredded muscle would out of necessity have to know how to maintain that body.  However, because Melody’s glamour was in full effect, Tank found it a perfectly normal question. 

            As Tank asked him some questions about the new plan, I went to return to my own workout solo.  But, the other mass monsters wouldn’t let me dare.  They dragged me back to their circle, accepting me as one of them.  I was the smallest one of them, but Mason was so huge, I was essentially his plus one.  It was a good thing too.  I didn’t plan on going about my typical workout; I was going to start pushing myself even harder.  I had to say sharp for my man.  I was going to get as big as I could, and the mass monsters were the perfect inspiration.

            The following day was a repeat, until we got back from the gym.  We showered and changed, and I went back into the bakery’s kitchen.

            “You’re not going to the counter?” Mason asked.

            “I have to make red velvet cake for a potluck, remember?”

            “Oh, yes!  Tell Melody I said hi.”

            “You can come if you want.”

            “No, no.  This is your thing.  I love you, Roy, but the less I know about witchcraft, the better I feel.  I’m going to spend the evening trying on ridiculous outfits and posting them to Instagram.”  He pulled out his phone and texted while saying, “My followers skyrocketed, and I want to give them a show.”  I liked how he had to hold his phone now that his biceps, lats, and pecs were all fighting for similar real estate.

            “Who are you texting?”

            “Sammy and Giles.  If I’m going to do a fashion show, I’m going to do a fashion show.”

            “Have fun with that,” I said, going off to make the cake.

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Chapter 18

            After the coven meeting, I came back home without cake, but with a new book they’d allowed me to keep.  It was a handwritten journal, but as big as a phone book, and with tiny script.  I had great hopes for this book as it laid out a path for a better understanding of my witchcraft.

            As I entered the living room, I saw Mason sitting shirtless on the floor rubbing his shoulder.  “Hey, honey.  How was the meeting?”  He was trying to mask it, but I could tell he was in serious pain: he was bent over, his face was red and sweaty, and he winced practically continuously.

            “Never mind that,” I said, rushing over to examine the injury.  “What’s wrong with your shoulder?”

            “I pulled it or tore it or something.”

            “Doing what?” I asked, unsure of what if anything could cause this much pain.

            “Trying to lift the fridge one-handed,” he admitted sheepishly.  “Thought I could do it, but I only got it an inch or so off the ground before this.”

            Rolling my eyes at his overconfidence, I flipped to a relevant page in my new book, read it, and walked out into the kitchen.

            “Did they give you a book?” Mason asked, gritting his teeth and leaning over more.

            I came back into the living room and rubbed butter on his shoulder while reading an incantation.  As soon as I finished, Mason’s posture straightened up.

            “The pain’s gone,” he said.

            As I brought the butter back into the kitchen, I said, “Turns out I’m a healing he-witch.  It’s why I suck at curses.  I’m a natural at healing spells, though.  They just… make sense to me.”

            “I’ll say,” Mason agreed, rotating his arm.  “Then it was a good meeting?  Made some good friends?  Had a wonderful time?”

            “God no.  I learned some useful stuff about my family, and I got a neat parting gift, but it was a terrible meeting.”

            “That bad?”

            I nodded gravely.  “That bad.  I know now why my Gramps never told me about that coven.”

            Mason had expected me to explain, so he leadingly and quickly asked, “Why didn’t he tell you?”

            “Because he loves me,” I said flatly.

            Mason was dumbfounded.  “It was really that bad?”

            Really that bad.”

            “How?”

            “You told me you wanted to know as little as possible.  Besides, if I told you, you’d never shop at Janikowski’s again.”

            Mason got to his feet and started to protest that I didn’t answer his question, but then he said, “I’m just going to trust you.  Should I stop shopping there on principle?”

            I thought about it.  “I’d stop going to their barbecues, but the store should be safe.”

            My use of the word “safe” made Mason confident he didn’t have any follow-up questions.

            “What’s the book?” he asked as we went into the bedroom to get ready for bed.

            “My mother wrote it,” I said, putting it on my bedside table.  “She was a healing witch too.  Turns out, she was studying to be a doctor.  They’re her spells.”

            “Lovely,” Mason said, taking off his pants.  “Why didn’t your grandfather tell you that?”

            “He almost never talks about her.  I had to sneak out and visit her grave to find out her middle name was Margaret.”

            “Your Gramps didn’t even take you to visit her grave?”  Mason sounded scandalized.

            I shook my head.  “Graves aren’t that important, not to witches.  My mother’s not there.  Just her body.”

            “Still,” Mason’s voice was tinged with vicarious sadness, “it’s nice to have a place to visit.”

            “I’ve been a few times—six or seven,” I reassured him.  “I think Gramps is a bit of a hypocrite about graves because there’s always fresh flowers there.  Every time I’ve visited.”

            Mason was a little puzzled.  “If he’s visiting her grave, why wouldn’t he take you with him?”

            “One of many questions I will ask him after his abjuration,” I answered.  “I probably should’ve asked it long before now.”  I made a sound of mild discomfort.  “My mother’s just a sore spot with Gramps.  I mention her name, and he clams up.”

            “Understood.”

            “Maybe I can learn more about her now that I’ve got this,” I announced, pointing to the book.  “I’ve noticed,” I said, undressing myself, “that all of my mother’s spells involve food.  Butter, salt, eggs, flour.  It’s like a very specific cookbook.”

            “Food?” Mason asked, buttoning up his nightshirt.  I loved watching the fabric magically distort around his prodigious chest.

            “Yeah.  I think, when I became a baker, I was unknowingly following in my mother’s footsteps in a way.  Only, I make bread, and she used the same ingredients to treat vertigo.”

            “That’s sweet,” Mason said.  “Weird, but sweet.”

            “Aren’t I always?”

            Mason paused for a second.   “Bread cures vertigo?”

            “No, but I apparently can treat chronic vertigo.  As long as I have an assload of yeast.”  I sighed.  “Sorry.  You said you wanted to know as little as possible, and here I am yakking your ear off.”

            Mason kissed me as he headed to the bathroom, and as he groomed his mustache, he looked admiringly at his mighty biceps twitching in the mirror.  As he stared at his muscles, he said, “Before I forget, Giles brought my workout plan over before my Instagram fashion show.  I told him you’re trying to get bigger, so he worked up one for you too.  I read them both.  They’re going to be brutal.  He’s ratcheted us up to six days a week.”

            “Well, growing muscles is all about tearing and repairing those muscle fibers,” I said consolingly.

            Wait.

            Tear and repair.

            Repair.

            Repair means heal.

            I have a knack for healing magic.

            “This changes everything,” I thought, saying nothing.

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3 hours ago, TQuintA said:

   “Well, growing muscles is all about tearing and repairing those muscle fibers,” I said consolingly.

            Wait.

            Tear and repair.

            Repair.

            Repair means heal.

            I have a knack for healing magic.

            “This changes everything,” I thought, saying nothing

This is very clever. It’s gonna get extremely interesting 🤔 

I’m thoroughly enjoying reading this!

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TQuintA - yet another one of your stories that I’ve fallen madly in love with.  Absolutely perfect in every way possible.  I can’t wait to see where this one goes.  Awesome as always. 

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Chapter 19

            As I was making breakfast the next morning (to Tank’s demanding specifications), Mason came in, rubbing sleep out of his eye.  “Morning, sleepy-head.”

            “Morning,” he muttered.  When I put a mug of coffee in front of him, he perked right up.  “I love you.”

            “Was that to me or the coffee?” I asked.

            “Don’t make me pick,” he said, taking a deep pull from his mug.  “My least favorite thing about building these new muscles is how much sleep it needs.  Sleeping more somehow seems to make me more tired.”

            “You’ll get used to it like I did.  It’s part of the price.”  I consulted Tank’s diet plan to see if it was okay to add any salt to Mason’s breakfast (I suspected it wasn’t and proved myself right).  “Don’t focus on your least favorite part.  What’s your favorite part?”

            “Honestly?”  Mason thought about it.  “The heaviness.”

            “Really?”  I was genuinely surprised.

            “Really.  I like how substantial and big I feel.  How much space I take up, and how I feel myself taking up that space.  I’m so heavy, I feel like there’s a whole second person hanging off me at any given time.  Things designed for normal humans are shrinking around me, even doorways.  You can hear me coming when I walk, I rattle windows, and I thunder down staircases.  And the whole time, I feel that grounded, earthy, utterly erotic weight.”

            “Well, you do weigh as much as two normal men,” I pointed out.

            “And the weight of this bazooka of a dick?”  He smiled.  “It’s just pulling down on my groin all day, like someone’s giving me a very slow, very slight, very deliberate hand job at all times.  And the weight of my nuts?  It’s like carrying stones in my pants.  But it’s all me.  It’s a sexy thrill to have such presence.  Such weight.  You never told me how hot it is.”  His voice rumbled in its new lower bass.

            “I’ve never been as big as you,” I replied.  “But your point is taken.  I too like being a hung, muscular man.”  I dumped his breakfast on his plate.  “Be careful.  It’s hot and excessively bland.”

            Mason looked shocked at how much food I put in front of him, then nodded and dutifully began eating.  I joined him at the table.

            “You know,” I said, “I thought your favorite part of your new muscles was going to be the attention.”

            “I do like that, especially in person,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of spinach.  “But the attention is hit or miss.  The weight is constant.  Even sitting here right now, or lying down in bed, I feel how much more room I’m taking up, gravity’s extra focus on me.  Extra attention doesn’t make me feel that way.”

            “Your Instagram fans will be disappointed.”

            “I’m actually thinking of ending my Instagram account,” he remarked.  “Or going private.  Something like that.”

            That was out of the blue.  “Why?”

            “My Instagram fans have pedestrian taste.”  He made of face of disgust at his own word choices.  “Even saying that out loud, I feel like a judgmental ass.  I’m really not trying to judge them—you like what you like.  But what they like bores me.  There are a thousand other thirst traps on Instagram who can give you Basic Muscle Dude Realness.  There’s a market for that.  I get that.  That’s just not what I want to be.”

            “What do you mean?”

            Mason answered in earnest.  “Take, for instance, that fashion show I did last night.  I gave them 50 different outfits.  In one night.  I uploaded photos of 50 different outfits and told them to vote on their favorite with their likes.  I made it a little election or competition.  They had twelve hours to vote.  And, Roy, I gave them the widest variety of outfits.  I was innovative and original and provocative.  Do you want to see what won their votes?”

            “Of course,” I said, moving my plate to the side so I could take his phone.

            “That came in third,” he said.  It was a photo of him standing in front of a closet of clothes (my clothes, not his) in a pale blue, button down Oxford shirt and darker blue tie, with a light tan vest and slacks in a complementary shade of darker tan.  He was also wearing a thick, chunky wristwatch and adjusting a sleeve button by his wrist.  His hair was combed into a severe part and had none of its typical floofiness.  He was turned partially to the side, which almost—almost—obscured the obscene bulge in his pants, but the bulge would not be denied.  He looked like a stock photo of a fashion model—only a gigantically muscular fashion model with something shoved down his pants.

            “It’s hot,” I said unconvincingly.

            “Of course, it’s hot,” he replied after swallowing.  “It’s a picture of me.  It’s going to be hot, even if I wasn’t Mason the Barbarian.  But the wardrobe looks like it’s from a stock photo of a fashion model.”

            “Oh my god,” I said.  “I had that exact same thought but didn’t say it out loud because I thought it would hurt your feelings.”

            “You can be honest, honey.  Especially since we’re so like-minded.  Scroll to second place.”

            Second place was a photo of him dressed entirely in black.  A tight black V-neck t-shirt that showed off his pecs and chest hair, black jeans, a thick black leather belt, and black boots.  He was even wearing black sunglasses, and his hair had been slicked back with so much product that it looked nearly black.  His cock hung noticeably down his right leg, making an unignorable bulge, and from the shape of the impression his balls were making, I could tell he was going commando.  He was walking down the stairs from our apartment with his lips turned down into an aloof, disdainful look, as though being sexy and huge was such a tiring burden that walking down a flight of stairs was no longer a worthwhile task.

            “Again, hot, but this man looks like he has never known one drop of happiness,” I said.

            “This is why I proposed to you.  You get me.”  Mason pointed to his phone.  “Scroll to the winner.”

            First place was a photo of Mason stepping out of the shower, his hair, mustache, and stubble dripping wet, his chest hair matted down to his pecs and abs, a towel strategically hiding his cock.  I could tell they’d faked the shower—Mason’s nipples are never erect after a shower, and he gets a reddish tint to his skin after immersing himself in hot water.  They must have just poured a bucket of cold water over his head.  The look on his face was his “Are you ready to fuck me?” face—a face I knew well.  Someone less familiar with it might mistake it for, “Are you ready for me to fuck you?”

            “You give them a nude pic with bedroom eyes, it’s going to win,” I explained.

            “It’s so boring, though,” Mason said, standing to get a second cup of coffee.  “Any halfway muscular man would come up with a picture like this.  I almost didn’t post it, but Sammy and Giles insisted.”

            When he sat back down, I dutifully slid his mug away from him and replaced it with a protein shake.  “Tank says you only get one cup of coffee.”

            “I’m not marrying Giles.  I’m marrying you.”

            “If we start picking and choosing what parts of his diet plan we follow…” I said, intentionally trailing off.

            “Fine,” Mason said, obediently drinking his protein shake.  “Do they make coffee-flavored protein shakes so I can at least get a psychosomatic second cup of coffee?”

            “I’ll look into it,” I said. 

            I was about to hand Mason’s phone back to him, but instead, he said, “Not yet.  Look through the entire fashion show.  Tell me what your favorite is, even if it’s the shower pic.”

            I began scrolling.  Mason wasn’t kidding about the variety.  There were pictures of him in a variety of costumes with matching poses.  And not one was a repeat.  He was dressed as a cowboy, a French maid, a stereotypical ‘80s geek, Peter Pan, a prom queen, a Victorian gentleman…he had an astounding array.

            “Where’d you get these clothes?” I asked, scrolling through.

            “Some were clothes I already had, like my Peter Pan Halloween costume.  The winning outfits (where I was actually dressed) were brought over by Giles from his personal closet.  He said they’d make me ‘look alpha.’  I have never in my life looked alpha and wouldn’t know how to achieve it without active help.  The rest were from Sammy’s doll collection.”

            “They didn’t think it was weird you fit into doll clothes?” I asked.

            “They did not,” Mason answered, pleased.

            “I found my favorite,” I announced, showing Mason the photo.  He was in a black-and-white striped old-fashioned bathing suit—a one piece designed for a man in the 1920s.  His junk bulged profusely, but it was positioned in a way that it didn’t look obscene, instead looking like a mound on a mannequin (even if an impossibly large one).  His hair was its usual free and wild splendor, his mustache thickly waxed, and the curl at the end of was sharper and more pronounced.  There was a sign behind him written in a circus font saying, “SEE THE STRONG MAN, 25¢.”  In the foreground, he was bending a disposable aluminum pie plate in half, and from his posture and the intense flex on his muscles, he made it look like that was an incredible feat of strength even though a toddler could have done it.  He looked squarely into the camera, one eyebrow raised provocatively, as if saying, “Dare you believe my awe-inspiring power?”

            When Mason saw which one I picked, his face lit up with joy.  “You picked one of the funny ones!”  He was elated.  “I was convinced you were going to pick one of the sexy ones, like the silky purple bathrobe or the leather jacket, but you picked one of the funny ones.”

            “They’re all sexy ones,” I said, finishing my breakfast.  “This one just happens to also be funny.  That’s the Mason I’m marrying.  No matter how big you get, to me, you’re always an unflappable oddball.”

            “I should put that on my business cards,” Mason said.  Then, gesturing as if he could see the card in front of him, he said, “Mason Lombard.  Co-owner, Roy’s Bakery.  Certified Accountant.  Muscle Freak.  Unflappable Oddball.”

            “Too cluttered,” I said.  “Drop the accountant thing.  The only books you do anymore are ours.”

            Mason chuckled, and then finished his breakfast.  When he saw me pack up another three helpings of the breakfast for our second meal (two for him, one for me), he despondently said, “Please tell me the extra one is for you.”

            “It is not.”

            “Two more bland, boring meals before lunch, and then a bland, boring lunch.”  He shook his head.  “My stomach will explode.”

            “Don’t forget the protein shakes.”  I put my hand on his shoulder reassuringly.  “Price of admission.  Gotta eat big to stay big.”

            “At least we’re having lunch together.”

            I shook my head no.

            He looked at me quizzically.

            “I’m grabbing lunch with Zack.  I texted him last night.”

            “Lunch without me?”  Mason was clearly confused that he wasn’t invited.  Not insulted, confused.  “Would I be a third wheel, or intruding on boys’ time?”

            “I need to discuss something witch-y.  Gramps is in his abjuration, and I’m not dealing with Melody’s coven unless I have to.  Leaving exactly Zack I can discuss it with.”

            “You can discuss it with me,” Mason protested.

            “You want to know as little as possible,” I reminded him. “Plus, it’s kind of a surprise for you.”

            Mason was flattered.  “A surprise for me?”

            “Don’t get your hopes up too high.  It might not pan out, and it’s not like a new car or something like that.  Finish your protein shake.”

            “Fine.  I’ll wait.  You boys enjoy your lunch.”  He kissed me, picked up his half-empty glass, and went to get dressed for work.

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