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


TQuintA

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Chapter 1

            The bell above the door drew my attention as it clanged loudly.  While the door swung open, I handed the customer at the counter in front of me their bread and change, but I was looking at Mason, who was walking through the door. 

            I knew I loved Mason when he first walked through that same door two years ago.  Same height as me (5’ 10”), but all skinny and slight with an adorable hipster mustache and well-groomed scruff.  The second I saw his floofy light brown hair and soulful brown eyes, I was in love, no matter how much I tried to deny it to myself.  He dressed like a dork, but he didn’t care.  And because he didn’t care, I didn’t care.  He had an easy smile, a way that made people feel comfortable, and a whimsical sense of humor.  He has a youthfulness about him, and he’s three years older than me.  All about him is a quiet confidence.  I was hiring an accountant to help save my bakery, but I found the man of my dreams. 

            At the time, I didn’t trust the instant attraction.  For one, I was a solitary man.  I wasn’t entirely lonely, but I was alone.  Sure, I dated, and I was friendly to all my customers.  But I was also guarded.  I had no close friends, and none of my boyfriends ever got to know the real me.  There was physical intimacy, but no emotional intimacy.  The only person I could be myself around was my Gramps.  I had a secret to protect. 

            More than that, before Mason, every man I’d ever dated had been bigger than me, and I’m a buff, lean, and muscular 190 pounds.  I just liked guys who were bigger than me.  Hell, I’d held myself back from getting as big as I truly wanted to be because I wanted a to be a big man in a relationship with a bigger man.  Every guy I dated I’d met at the gym, and I go to a gay gym that has some bodybuilders—had for years.  If you’re picking up guys from a pool of bodybuilders, the chances that they’re going to be bigger than you just go up. 

            I think the fact that Mason was so unlike every other guy I’d dated was part of the appeal. We were the same, but different.  Complementary.  We both loved to joke around, we both were childish, but we both took the business seriously.  If one of us got too silly, the other would bring him back to Earth, and if one of us got too serious, the other would send him into a fit of laughter.  He dressed loudly and garishly, but had an unshakably professional demeanor.  I dressed plainly and pragmatically, but would laugh and flirt with the customers.  Even just how we styled our hair complemented—the hair on his head was free-flowing and wild with a devil-may-care flair, but his facial hair was strictly groomed with no follicle out of place and his mustache tightly curled at the ends.  I kept my dark black hair in a youthful cut with the sides buzzed, kept in place with enough product so it didn’t come loose as I worked.  I tried to keep myself clean shaven (even though I love facial hair) because it made me look younger than my 30 years, but I often forget to shave, meaning I had lazy (and, if I may say so, sexy) scruff more often than not. 

            In my eyes, Mason was perfect. Before we had even exchanged hellos, I knew I wanted him., on some deep, profound, mystical level, like my ancestors were calling out to me, saying, “That one!”  I didn’t even care that I technically had a boyfriend when I met Mason.  I just knew I wanted Mason more than any man I’d ever wanted.  

            Two years later, and the bakery and our relationship were thriving.  A year ago, Mason had moved in with me, into the apartment above the bakery.  All of the businesses on this street have residences above them.  We live in a small city just outside New York, a tourist town really.  It’s big enough to have the amenities of a typical city, like a professional gym and a thriving arts scene, but small enough to have local charm, like a street full of people living in the apartments above their mom and pop businesses. 

            Since Mason had moved in, we shared pretty much everything. 

            Pretty much.

            Almost everything. 

            I still had that one big secret I kept from him, but the secret was protecting him, not hurting him.  Sometimes I felt guilty that I was holding back a big part of my life from him, but I’d never shared that part of my life with any of my boyfriends.  Mason was different, though.  I knew the day would come when I’d let him in on it. 

            Just not yet. 

            Mason had proposed to me the day before.  We were too busy fucking each other’s brains out the night prior to share any life-altering secrets.  As soon as I had an opening, I’d tell him.  If I was ready to marry the man, I was ready to share everything everything with him.

            This day, Mason was dressed unusually.  I was used to him dressed like an overgrown toddler: t-shirts with cartoon characters, brightly colored socks, and blue jeans.  It wasn’t uncommon for him to wear crocs or suspenders.  Sometimes both in the same outfit.  This outfit, though… He was in a very sharp suit: a silvery trim fit number with an ice blue shirt (to match my eyes) and a bold purple tie.

            “Have a nice day,” I told the customer, but my gaze never left Mason.  My smile grew larger as he nervously came over to the counter, practically stuttering and stopping with each step.  Odd again.  I was used to Mason being smooth, charming, and confident—verging on cocky.  Today, though, he was trying to hold back his anxiety.  Thankfully, he relaxed a little when he saw my smile.

            “Someone’s dressed up,” I said, eyeing him up and down.

            “You’re cutting the line,” a customer complained to Mason. 

            I realized I’d been neglecting my customers, turned to them, and said, “He’s cutting nothing, ma’ am.  He works here.  He’s my boyfriend.”

            “Fiancé,” Mason corrected.

            “Fiancé.  Right.”  It had been about twelve hours since Mason had popped the question; I was still adjusting.  The only person I’d told was my Gramps.  I smiled at my customer.  “Just a moment, please.”  I turned back to Mason.  “Where were we?”

            Mason leaned across the counter and kissed me.  “You like?” he asked, already clearly knowing I loved it.  I loved him in everything.  Or nothing.

            The same customer, an irksome woman in a bright pink sweater, cleared her throat impatiently.

            “Kayla, get off prep and help the customers for a little bit,” I said, taking the kerchief I used as a hairnet off my head.  “I’m going to the office with Mason.”

            “Got it, Roy,” Kayla said as she swooped in to help the customers.

            I ducked under the opening in the counter (rather than opening it) and followed Mason to our office.  Once the door was closed behind us, I turned around to undo my drawstring.

            “Again?”  He asked, stopping my hands from untying my pants.  “Three times last night wasn’t enough?”  He smirked with sexual tension as he walked over to the other side of the office, putting space between us.  Our sexual dynamic was part of what I loved about him.  He preferred to bottom, I preferred to top.  I was usually the aggressor, and he usually gave the green light.  But he said no just enough to keep me simmering like a teapot, and initiated just often enough to keep me on my toes.  I couldn’t help that I was blessed with a high libido and an 8-inch dick.  Mason himself had a lovely 6 inches and had, in my experience, a higher than average sex drive.  It just was a little lower than mine.

            Since sex was a no-go, I’d settle for some above the clothes fun.  I slinked towards him, ready to practically leap on him—a dangerous prospect as I easily outweighed him by more than 50 pounds, all of it muscle—but he stopped me again.

            “You’re covered in flour and god knows what else, and this is a new suit,” he warned.  Then, realizing he wanted his lips pressed against mine, he added, “Proceed with caution.”

            I walked over to him slowly and kissed him tenderly.  I wanted to throw my firm, large arms around him and cradle him against my proud chest, but I restrained myself.  Mason moaned in delight.  As the kiss neared its end, I slapped him firmly but playfully on the ass, and a cloud of particles erupted from the impact.

            I grinned widely, but he spun around trying to look at his own ass, his recent anxiety threatening to surface again.  “Damn it, Roy,” he said, laughing.  “Did it leave a mark?”  He looked at me the way one would look at a cute puppy that had peed on the rug.

            There was a white outline of my meaty hand on his tiny ass, and I said, “Looks perfect to me.”

            “Really?” he asked.  “I’m meeting your grandfather in an hour, and I want to look my best.”

            I kissed him again quickly and then said, “Gramps will love you because I love you.”

            Mason tensed a little.  “I wish I were so certain, Roy.  The man raised you all by himself.  You call him every day.  It’s weird, but sweet.”

            “It’s not weird,” I said, a little defensively.  I knew it was weird, though.  Everything about Gramps was weird.  But, like me, he kept all of the true weirdness a deep secret.  All of our weirdness.  Mason implying that the nurturing, caring, intense bond between Gramps and me was weird…  Well, if he knew Gramps as well as I did, those qualities wouldn’t even make his list.

            “It’s kinda weird,” Mason said.  “You blow him kisses goodbye over the phone.”

            “He’s my Gramps,” I replied, unsure how that was weird.

            Reassuringly, he added, “It’s more sweet than weird.  If you weren’t a little weird, I wouldn’t be drawn to you.  Weird but sweet is my favorite quality in a man.”

            I blushed a little.

            Mason continued, “Your grandfather is your entire family.  You’ve told me as much, and I listen.”  Mason began lecturing me to prove how much he listened, counting off important points on his fingers.  “You have no brothers or sisters, no aunts or uncles.  Your father was out of the picture before you were born, your mother died of kidney disease before your first birthday, and your grandmother died of a heart attack when you were three.”  He stopped counting and threw his hands in the air.  “Honey, I’m not just meeting your grandfather.  I’m meeting your entire family at once.  I’m allowed to be a little nervous.”

            With a kindness in my tone, I said, “I’m just not used to seeing this color on you.”

            “He’s never shown the slightest interest in meeting me, and we’ve invited him down eight or nine times this past year.  I mean, you’ve visited my folks five times already, and I’ve never even spoken with your grandfather over the phone.  Then, you tell him you’re getting married, and he drives seven hours the very next day because, all of a sudden, he has to meet me?  That bodes poorly.  I should’ve met with him before I proposed to you.”

            I threw a confused look at him.  “To what?  Get his permission?  Barter for my dowry?”

            “Don’t mock me.”

            “I’m not.  Gramps was excited when I told him we’re getting married.  He’s about to take that two-month cruise for his 81st birthday.”  That was a lie.  There was no cruise, but Gramps would be busy for two months, and it would take too much explaining to tell the truth.  “That’s the only reason he wants to meet you so fast.  Relax.”

            “You could take your own advice,” Mason chided.  “You’ve been an over-eager little boy since he said he was visiting.”

            “Over-eager?”

            “I know every inch of your body.”  Mason prodded my chest.  “Your pecs are pumped, mister.  You went to the gym this morning.  Think I wouldn’t notice?”

            “I go to the gym five days a week.”

            “Yeah,” Mason said.  “In the afternoons.  Mornings are busy for bakers, you leave your evenings free for me, and you go to bed every night at 8.  So, all you have left are afternoons.  You wanted to look your biggest to impress him, and you wanted to have your whole afternoon free to play with him.”

            I was guilty as charged.

            Mason added, “Even though he said he was only coming for lunch, you cleared your whole afternoon.”

            “What’s your point?” I asked.

            Matter-of-factly, as if delivering the verdict of a trial, he said, “This is a big deal to you too.  Therefore, it has to go perfectly.”      

            “It will go perfectly because you’re perfect.  All’s good with Gramps.”

            Mason paced a little.  “That’s another thing.  What do I call him?”

            “Whatever you want.  Gramps is chill.”

            “You’ve only ever called him Gramps.  Is that what I should call him?  Or do I call him sir?  Or Mr. Whitaker?”

            “Why would you call him that?” I asked with a slight laugh.  My last name is Whitaker.  Not his.  His last name is Morrow.”

            Mason stopped pacing.  “Should I call him Mr. Morrow, then?  What’s his first name?”

            “Lucian,” a grizzled voice came from the office door as it opened.  “My name is Lucian Morrow.”

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Chapter 2

            “Gramps!” I screamed and ran over to hug him.  “You’re early.”

            Gramps crumpled just a little under my hug.  I was a beefy young thing in my early 30s, and he was a short man past 80.  “I may have sped a little,” he confessed

            I gave him another hug.  “I’m excited to see you too.”

            “I’d ask if you’re eating well, but you’re bigger every time I see you,” he beamed.

            I flexed my bicep for him and said, “I like to stay in shape.”

            Gramps put my arm down by my side and said, “You like men to lust after you or envy you.  Or both.”

            “So true,” Mason said.

            Then, I turned around and put my arm out, sweeping through the air in a flourish.  “This is Mason Lombard, my fiancé.”

            “Nice to meet you, Mason.”  Gramps extended his hand.

            Without a drop of his nervousness showing, Mason took Gramps’s hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Lucian.”

            “Call me Gramps.”  Gramps patted Mason’s hand and smiled.  The atmosphere changed.  I could feel Mason physically relax.  “Let me have a look at you.  If you’re going to marry my grandson, I want a proper look.”

            Unsure what that meant, Mason turned around as if he was posing for a mall security guard.

            When Gramps saw the handprint on Mason’s ass, he chuckled.  He pointed, turned to me, and said, “Your handiwork, I take it?”

            I smiled proudly.  “I couldn’t resist.”

            Mason tried to see it again, stifling a laugh.  “There’s a stain, isn’t there?”

            Gramps waved dismissively.  “There’s just evidence that my grandson loves you."

            "Roy!" Mason chastised playfully.

            "Don’t get mad at him.  He inherited the wandering hands from me,” he wiggled his fingers as he said this.  “His grandmother, may she rest in peace, had a glorious rear, and it was never safe from my pinching fingers.”

            I laughed behind my hand as Mason raised an eyebrow provocatively and said, “Should I be worried about you pinching me?”

            “My pinching days are long behind me.”  Gramps continued, “My knees, Roy.  Is there a place an old man can sit while we have a friendly chat?”

            “We’ve got reservations for lunch,” Mason said, peeking at the clock on the wall, “but they’re not for another hour.”

            I escorted Gramps to my desk chair and sat him down.  “Take my chair, Gramps.  It’s the most comfy.”

            Gramps settled into the chair, and Mason respectfully took the chair on the other side of the desk—one for visitors that went almost always unoccupied.

            “You sure you don’t want your chair?” I asked, pointing over my shoulder with my thumb at Mason’s chair behind his own, much larger, desk.

            “I’m fine here, Roy,” he said simply.

            I walked over behind him and put my hands on his shoulders.  It wasn’t until I started rubbing them that I realized my hands were still covered in flour and it was getting all over his new suit.  Unaware, Mason leaned his head against the back of my hand affectionately.

            “So, Mason,” Gramps said, “I can see my grandson loves you and that you love him.  But I have to say, you’re nothing like I expected.”

            “Because I’m rakishly handsome? Witty?  Brilliant?”  That was more like the Mason I was used to—I was glad to see him relaxing into himself.

            “Well, you’re plenty bold, I’ll give you that,” Gramps chuckled.  “You’re a skinny fellow.  Roy normally dates boys more like him.”

            “Ah, yes, that,” Mason acknowledged, nodding.  “When we met, he was dating that bruiser who could lift me with one finger.”  He mimed flicking a light switch.

            “He’s not that strong, sweetness,” I said, patting his shoulder.

            “I’m that skinny,” Mason corrected.  “But, I worked my magic, and now Roy’s all mine.”

            “Magic?” Gramps said, raising an eyebrow and looking at me.

            “He wooed me,” I said with subtext Gramps could intuit.

            “Then, you stole him from another man?”  Gramps sounded impressed. 

            Mason answered, “When I want something, I go after it doggedly.”

            “He’s relentless,” I agreed.  “But he didn’t steal me.”

            Mason snorted derisively.

            Defensively, I added, “That relationship was nearly over anyways.  Mason just made me end it a little sooner.”

            “And how did you work this magic?”  Gramps was intrigued.

            “It wasn’t magic, Gramps,” I said quickly and quietly, but emphasizing the subtext.

            Mason lowered his eyebrows and said, “I was obviously the better match and the better man.  His ex only had surface-level, shallow things in common with your grandson.  Also, he has serious anger issues and the most fragile ego of any man I’ve ever met.  Roy and I have a similar disposition and worldview, similar goals in life, and a similar work ethic.  We get along better than he and his ex ever did.  We have so much more fun, too.  I just pointed that all out to Roy.”  After a devilish pause, he finished the story with, “And then I put his hand on my thigh.”

            “Is this confidence of yours justified?” Gramps asked.

            I shook Mason’s shoulders.  “Is it ever.  Don’t let his slight appearance fool you.  This man is a beast.  He singlehandedly saved the bakery with some savage business smarts.”

            “I was wondering how my grandson made this bakery into such a success,” Gramps said with a wink in his voice.

            “I know what you’re thinking, Gramps,” I said.  “But it was all Mason.”

            “Too much credit,” he said.  “Your grandson is an amazing baker, but he’s as good a bookkeeper as he is a housekeeper.”

            Gramps laughed uproariously while I tried to defend myself.  “I cook and do the dishes!”

            “Our apartment isn’t just a kitchen,” Mason replied.

            “I suck at housekeeping,” I admitted.  “I’m gifted in other ways.”

            “Don’t let him near your laundry,” Gramps said.  “He’ll shrink everything.”

            Mason leaned his head in conspiratorially, “I’ve got a video of him trying to vacuum.  It’s hysterical.  I pull it out at parties.  I’ll send it to you.”

            “I’d love to see the video, but I don’t have a cell phone.”

            “Old school,” Mason said in a flattering tone.

            A quizzical look crossed Gramps’s face.  “If you’re his bookkeeper, do you work for my grandson?  Did you propose to your boss?”

            “He doesn’t work for me,” I answered.  “He works with me.”

            “I own half of this place,” Mason said.  “Well, just shy.  Roy continues to possess the controlling interest; the business is called ‘Roy’s Bakery’ after all.  But it’s nearly 50/50.  When I tasted his cupcakes, I knew this place would be a gold mine if correctly managed, so when he offered me a job as an accountant, I counter-offered.  I invested.  I essentially run the behind-the-scenes stuff and turned our bakery into the success it always should have been.  This place is doing so well, I’m thinking of hiring some more staff, maybe even take out a loan to open a second location.  Julie at the bank loves me, so the loan will be a cinch if I can find a property with a cheap enough lease.”

            “He’s taking your credit, boy.”  Gramps teasingly shook his head.

            “He’s being modest,” I insisted.  “I’ve made exactly two smart business decisions my entire life: opening a bakery and accepting Mason’s investment.”

            “And I take it that second decision had less to do with good business sense and more to do with your mustache,” Gramps suggested, looking Mason squarely in the face.

            “Hell yes,” I said.

            “Most decidedly so,” Mason said on top of me.  “He’s begged me to never shave it, not that I would.”

            I leaned in close to Mason and whispered in his ear, “Told you that you had nothing to worry about.  Gramps loves you.”

            “Were you worried, then, Mason?”  Gramps asked.  Quietly and directed to me, he added, “I may be 80, but my hearing’s sharp as ever.”

            “I was indeed nervous, Gramps.  Roy cares about you and respects you so much that if this meeting did not go perfectly, he’d return my ring.”  Mason looked down at my right hand to see the ring only to discover all the flour I’d smeared into his new suit.  With an incredulous chuckle, he asked, “Are you serious, Roy?”

            “I like you better in your ironic t-shirts anyway.”  I turned to Gramps.  “He never dresses this nicely.  He’s trying to impress you.”

            “I dress like this to go to the bank, to meet with our suppliers, when something’s important.”

            “Like meeting your future in-law,” Gramps added.

            “See?  He gets it,” Mason said, trying to brush off as much flour as he could.

            I kissed him on the cheek.  “Sorry.  I just can’t keep my hands off you.”  Affectionately, I patted his face, leaving another pale white ghost of flour dust behind, clinging to his stubble.

            At the same time that I patted him, there was a loud knocking sound.

            “Is your face made of wood?” Gramps asked, obviously joking.

            I looked at the office door and said, “Who is it?”

            “Let me in, Fuck Face,” an all-too-familiar voice said.

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Chapter 3

            Mason groaned, and I said, “Go away, Dalton.  My Gramps is visiting.  I don’t have time for you today.”

            “It’s business, Fuck Face.”

            “Friend of yours?” Gramps asked sarcastically.

            Begrudgingly, I walked over to the door and opened it widely so Dalton could see both Mason and Gramps.

            Looking past me, his eyes honed in on Mason, and he barked, “You stiffed me of my order.”  Dalton Brooks was a brute of a man.  Two inches shorter than me, but a muscular, ripped, and steroid-infused 270 or so (depending on where he was in his cycle), dark and imposing features, hairy like a gorilla, and intimidating as fuck.  He was also gorgeous, and I had firsthand knowledge of just how hung he was.  I stood there for a moment, hoping he would go away.  Instead, he grunted, “Well?”

            “I did no such thing,” I replied.

            “I wasn’t talking to you, Roy,” Dalton grunted.  “I was talking to Fuck Face.”

            Mason stood up and walked over to the door.  With the back of his left hand, he tapped me, gesturing me to step to the side.  Smoothly, placidly, patiently, he spoke to Dalton.  “If you under-ordered again, don’t come in here as though that’s our fault.”

            “Under-ordered?”

            Sympathetically, he added, “Wouldn’t be the first time, Dalton.”

            “How am I supposed to run my sandwich shop without bread?”  Dalton was running his restaurant even worse than I used to run my bakery pre-Mason.  I doubt his shop would ever close, though.  His father owned every building on that block and rented his son the space for practically nothing.  And even if Dalton missed a month or two of rent, daddy would be there to swoop in and save him.

            Mason was unmoved by Dalton’s ire.  “That’s not really my problem.”  Cheerfully, he added, “But, since you’re such a loyal customer, we’re happy to make you a new order before the lunch rush.”

            New order?”  Dalton was heaving so forcefully that his chest was practically bursting out of his black polo.  The logo of his shop was on the left pec—it had long since distorted, and the whole spectacle created the illusion that his logo was also breathing heavily.  “Look here, Fuck Face, you’ll give me what I ordered now, or…”

            Mason interrupted firmly without raising his voice: “We can go through the song and dance if you want.  You insult me and stomp your feet until I show you the purchase order, receipt, and delivery slip, all of which you signed.  I’ve done it a dozen times before.  If you really want to play, sure, I’ll play.  But it’ll probably take an hour.  Maybe more.  I have lunch plans, and your restaurant doesn’t have enough bread.  So, let’s say I shortcut this whole thing and have Kayla put in a rush order.”  After a second, he raised his eyebrows invitingly, nodded reassuringly, put his hand on Dalton’s upper arm, steered him away from the office, and ended with a friendly, “Okay?”

            Dalton fumed.  I swear I could actually see smoke pouring out of his nose.  Then, he said, practically a bark, “A rush order would be fine.”

            “Kayla,” Mason called out, pointing at Dalton.  “Take his order next, thanks.”

            Dalton fumed again and said, “You have flour in your beard, Fuck Face.”

            “It’s stubble, not a beard,” Mason said evenly.  “And, it’s a bakery, Dalton.  Flour happens.”  To Kayla, he added, “It’s a rush order.”  Then, Mason guided Dalton away, closed the door, and rejoined Gramps.

            “Masterfully done,” Gramps said.

            “He takes good care of me,” I bragged.

            “Why does that horrible man call you that horrible name?” Gramps asked.

            Mason inhaled sharply.  “Remember that boyfriend I stole Roy from?”

            “No!”  Gramps looked impressed.

            Mason nodded.  “He hasn’t called me Mason since Roy dumped him for me.”

            I made a slight groaning noise.  “I didn’t dump him for you.  I was going to dump him anyways.”

            Mason looked at me sternly and raised his eyebrows.

            “Fine.  Fine.  Don’t let me save face in front of my Gramps.  I admit it.  I totally left Dalton for you.  I had no intentions of dumping him until you turned my head.  But, in my defense, Dalton was just a good time, not the love of my life.”

            Gramps whistled to get our attention.  “You handled Dalton like it was nothing, you got my stubborn-as-a-mule grandson to admit he was lying without saying a word, but you were afraid of me.  Something doesn’t add up here.”

            Mason turned on his heels.  “No, you’re slightly mistaken.  All due respect, Gramps, I wasn’t scared of you at all.  As I said before, I was scared of losing Roy.  You’re Roy’s hero.  If you didn’t approve of me, the marriage was over before it began.  I couldn’t face losing Roy.  I want to spend the rest of my life with this man.  That’s why I proposed.”

            “Welcome to the family, Mason,” Gramps said.  He rose out of his chair and spread his arms wide.  “Now give an old man a hug.”

            Mason and Gramps hugged tightly, and I internally celebrated.  “Now you two go get changed and washed up.  I’ll stay down here and wait.”

            “You sure you don’t want a tour of the apartment?” Mason asked.

            “I’ll see it after lunch.  Now, get changed.  My grandson promised me you’d be in an ironic t-shirt.”

            “Can’t we at least get you a drink or something?” I asked.

            “Tea would be lovely.”

            “Come out into the customer area and people watch.  I’ll bring the chair so you can wait in comfort.”

            “If you insist.”

            We left Gramps with a cup of chamomile and went upstairs to change.  Even though I knew it would make me take me longer, I decided to take a quick shower.  “When you’re done dressing, go downstairs to keep Gramps company,” I said from the bathroom.

            “On it,” he said, and I heard the apartment door closing.

            I needed a shower because I was hot and horny before I saw Mason stare down Dalton.  I don’t fully know why, but watching Mason utterly destroy that brute of a man always got me going hard.  In the shower, I turned to one of my favorite fantasies.  It starts in my bedroom with Dalton coming in uninvited and approaching me—he’s just come from the gym, and I can smell his musk from across the room.  His muscles are slick with sweat, causing his bushy chest hair to mat down.  He strips out of his workout clothes, revealing his hard muscle gut and his thick cock.  He struts over to my bed, flexing his muscles, causing his pecs and biceps to bulge.  Every twitch of muscle fiber showing me how much bigger he is than me.  Bragging about how even his cock was bigger than mine (by a quarter inch, but that never stopped him bragging).  While he’s doing all this, he says I should take him back because he’s a real man and that my erection is evidence that I’m still attracted to him.  Then, Mason swings the door open and comes inside, dressed like he just came upstairs from work.  He doesn’t say anything.  He doesn’t get violent or threatening.  But his mere presence is enough to intimidate Dalton and scare him away.  Without picking up his clothes, Dalton runs out, shivering, naked, and cowering in fear from just Mason’s existence.  Once Dalton’s gone, Mason smirks at me confidently.  “Hi, honey, I’m home,” he says.  He then points at my erection and asks, “Dalton still thinks he has a chance?” 

            I respond, “Forget Dalton.  Come over here and suck my cock.”  In my fantasy, I’m so aroused by Mason that my muscles then swell until I’m easily 250 pounds, and my dick stretches even further than my normal 8 inches, closer to 10.  Mason’s eyes light up, and his mouth is on my cock in seconds.

            The thought of Mason dominating Dalton, then turning around and submitting to my thick cock always does it for me.  Of course, picturing myself at my fantasy stats makes it all the more erotic.  It was a rush, and in five minutes flat, I was cumming.

            When I had finished cleaning and came back downstairs, I was shocked by the scene I walked in on.  Dalton was threatening Mason, shouting about the bill for the order he’d just made.  Mason remained unfazed and unintimidated.  It was almost as if my masturbatory fantasy had come to life—the power dynamics of it, at least.

            “You overcharged me, Fuck Face.”

            Calmly, Mason responded, “Rush orders cost more, Dalton.”

            Dalton looked around; I suspect he was looking to find me.  I was just outside the door, a large group of customers between us.  Not seeing me, Dalton grunted, “I’m going to get so much pleasure out of this.”  Dalton pulled his fist back to punch Mason.  I moved as quickly as I could through the crowd to tackle Dalton, but by the time I got there, Dalton was face-first on the floor.  Mason was looking down at his fallen body.  Gramps was smiling contentedly, but said nothing.  At least they were both okay.

            “How did you…?” I asked Mason, surveying the scene as I got there.

            Mason was still cool and collected.  “I took one small step to the side.  Dalton missed, and gravity did the rest.”

            Without saying another word, Dalton got up and raced out of the bakery.

            I was so glad I’d taken the time to masturbate or I would’ve popped a stiffy right then and there, even in front of Gramps.

            “It was only a matter of time before he took a swing at me,” Mason said.  “I’m surprised he waited this long.”  He turned to Gramps, sitting quietly in his chair with an empty teacup, and said, “Enjoy the show, Gramps?”

            “It was elucidating,” he said to Mason.  “Dalton waited until he thought my grandson wasn’t here before he tried to punch you, but he wanted to do it in a public place.  That’s very elucidating.  Now,” Gramps said to me, “look at this adorable t-shirt.”  He gestured to Mason.

            Mason showed off his t-shirt.  It showed the Pillsbury Dough-Boy wearing sunglasses and a large silver dollar-sign necklace and holding two fistfuls of cash.  In bold blue text underneath, it read, “It’s all about that Dough, Boy!”

            I’d seen the shirt before, but Gramps smiled expectantly, so I smiled too. 

            Mason said, “I figured this was thematically appropriate since we’re paying for lunch.”

            With that, we were off.

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A most excellent start!

And that growth scene was wonderful.  I usually like slower growth, but I love the realistic way you wrote the growth scene, with Mason basically panicking and Roy trying to free him from his clothes while simultaneously in awe of the muscle in front of him.  

Great work, as usually.  The quality of your stuff never disappoints.  The way you mix humor and romance and sexiness is fantastic. 

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I’m a huge fan of your work and I have been eagerly awaiting your next story. It’s definitely been worth the wait though, because as usual, you don’t disappoint.

 I’m already invested in this story and the characters, they feel so alive and that’s what I enjoy the most about your stories, other than the muscle growth of course! lol 

I’m genuinely looking forward to reading the rest.

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I missed out on experiencing The Repository fresh off your presses, so to speak, because the title didn't catch my eye.

I'm not making the same mistake again. I look forward to this new creation, with all its weirdness and sweetness.

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What a set of chapters. Mason and Roy are soulmates they love each otehr but Roy has kind of a fetish and his grandpa is making sure he is taking care of.

Now now why do i want a This new Mason to Dominate Dalton and Roy at the same time?

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