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


TQuintA

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Chapter 5

            We were still the same height—he hadn’t gotten any taller—but now, in every way but that, my fiancé outclassed me.

            My own cock hardened into an erection, but I just tucked it into the hem of my boxers while I checked to make sure Mason was okay.

            “You okay, sweetness?” I asked calmingly.

            He was still looking at his pecs, the full picture of what he’d been through had not sunk in.  He tried to form several sentences that just came out as inarticulate sounds.  After a bit, he looked me in the eyes and managed a sentence: “What just happened?”

            That voice.  Man, it was sexier. 

            “Is that my voice?” he asked, putting his hand to his throat.

            After lusting after Mason for another second or two, it hit me.  “Gramps!” I shouted and ran into the kitchen.

            “Gramps?” Mason called from the bathroom.  “What does he have to do with anything?”

            I was back in the bathroom, holding an egg.  “Stand still,” I said.

            “What is going on here?” Mason asked.  That voice was making my cock twitch, and I needed to concentrate, so I shushed him.

            I closed my eyes and held the egg against his forehead while I recited a short incantation.

            “Roy?  Honey?” Mason said.

            When I finished the incantation, I cracked the egg on his head, and the goo ran all over his face.

            “What on earth did you do that for?” Mason rumbled.

            Why was he just standing there?  He had egg gunk all over his face, and he was just standing there?  After a second or two, I said, “Wash it off already!”

            “I planned on it,” Mason said, brushing the gunk of out his eye with one hand and turning on the faucet with the other.

            I spurred him on, handing him shampoo and shouting, “Faster!  C’mon!”

            He leaned over the sink to get his hair wet, and I got a better look at how round and delectable his ass was.  It took all my self-control not to just grab it then and there.  And looking at his back didn’t help because I could see his shoulders undulate and his biceps flex as he washed his hair.  I felt a little pre escape my cock, but I was able to resist my baser urges.

            When all the egg was washed out of his eyes and hair, he turned to face me with his ass pressed against the edge of the sink—probably because he didn’t realize how far out it stuck now.  I was relieved of my worry, but my sexual tension was far from over.  His wet hair dripped onto his chest, wetting down his chest hair and tempting me to stare at his beautiful, meaty pecs with laser-like focus.

            I could tell from the look on his face that he was angry but staying calm so as not lose control.  “Explain.”  His commanding tone always did it for me, but at this lower register, now it did it just a little bit more.

            “Explain what?” I said weakly.

            “Everything,” Mason answered, gesturing wildly.  “Start with the breakfast facial.”

            Time to come clean.  All I wanted to do was run my hands over every last inch of his body, but that’s not what he needed right now.  What he needed right now was answers.  At least this drew attention away from my cock.  “Gramps cursed you.”

            Mason stood there silently, gripping the sink behind him, his forearms flexing and writhing, showing the frustration he was containing.  After about ten seconds, he said, “Okay, I don’t know what you think you explained, but your answer explained nothing.”

            “Gramps is a he-witch.”

            “You mean warlock?”

            I shrugged.  “Gramps prefers ‘he-witch.’  He obviously cursed you bec…”

            “Witches aren’t real!” Mason shouted, interrupting me.

            “Then explain how you’re bigger than me,” I retorted, still in awe at his beauty and size.

            That question defused him.  He looked down at his pecs and abs.  “I’m not bigger than you, am I?”  To assure him, I walked him over to our bathroom scale, Mason a little unsteady on his feet, unused to his new center of gravity and thicker legs.  The scale registered 195.  “Would you look at that?  I could tell I was heavier.  I feel heavier.  But I didn’t realize this.  I’m bigger than you.  And you’re big.”

            “I’ve got an eye for these things.  I spent most of my 20s sizing guys up at the gym.”

            Mason pushed away this distraction with a flick of his wrist.  Making sure he understood me, he then asked, “So, your grandfather’s a witch?”

            “He-witch,” I corrected.

            Forming his question carefully, Mason asked, “You never told me because why?”

            With a dismissive tone, I said, “You wouldn’t have believed me if I had.”  Yes.  Let’s keep talking about my 80-year-old grandfather.  That will kill my boner.  It was already starting to.

            Mason looked like he was about to argue, then stopped himself.  “You’re right.  I wouldn’t have.  I just gained 65 pounds of muscle in five minutes, and I’m still not sure I believe you.”

            “And your cock’s bigger,” I said, pointing to his thick rod.  I shouldn’t have done that.  It threatened to wake my erection back up.

            “It is?”  He looked down.  “Holy,” he said, grabbing his cock in his hand.  “I was so shocked by my face and chest that I hadn’t taken full stock.”  Mason looked down at his bulging body and flexed the arm that wasn’t holding his cock.  My heart’s fondest love was holding his huge meat while flexing a bicep larger than mine next to his enlarged and hairier chest.  My erection was back in full force and leaking.  All he could manage was, “This is impossible.”

            “Gramps is a he-witch,” I repeated.  To myself, I said, “Think of Gramps.  Raw sewage.  Dead puppies.  Anything to kill the erection.  For Mason.  He wants answers right now.  I know you just want to plow that ass of his until he cries out in ecstasy with his richer, sexier voice.  But not now.”

            “Gramps put a spell on me?” Mason asked, a quiver in his voice.

            The sadness in his tone helped finally kill my boner, fully and completely.  With relief, I could now just have a conversation with him.  I gave him a towel so he could cover himself up so his hefty cock wouldn’t stare back at me.  “Curse.  Gramps only knows how to do curses.  That’s why I had to crack an egg on your head.”

            Mason let go of his junk, wrapped the towel around his waist, and pointed at me.  “Yeah.  The egg thing.  You still haven’t told me what that was.”

            “I took the curse off you.  No big deal.”

            Mason made inarticulate noises of confusion.

            I clarified.  “You say a counter-curse while holding an egg to someone’s head, the curse moves into the egg.  You crack the egg on their head, and when they wash it off, they wash off the curse.”

            Mason looked skeptical.  “You know how to remove a curse?”

            I nodded confidently.  “Grandma taught me.”

            “Your grandmother died when you were three.”

            “And she taught me to do it before she died.  I could take off curses before I could read or tie my own shoes.”  Mason grew unsteady on his feet, so I said, “Let’s go into the bedroom.  This is a lot to take in, I know.”

            As we walked into the bedroom, I turned to Mason and said, “I know now’s not the right time, but I’ve really missed talking about this stuff.”

            Mason smiled dimly.  He grew a little steadier on his feet, but he was still getting used to his manlier, more muscular frame and his world being upended.  When we got to the bed, he asked, “If you took off the curse, why am I still buff?”

            The question saddened me a little.  If he doesn’t want to be this buff, I’d only get to play with his muscles for a limited time.  Oh well.  I’d have to worry about that later.  “I can’t undo a curse.  I can only take it off.”

            Still standing, Mason contemplated that for a second.  “Is it ridiculous that that makes sense?”  Mason crashed on the bed, and I sat next to him.

            “No.  You’re a smart man.  What other questions you got?”  I goaded him on, waving my hands towards myself.  “Hit me with them.”

            “Can you do witch things?” he asked.

            I reminded him, “I’m an expert at taking off curses.”

            He waved that answer away.  “Can you do other witch things?”

            I shook my head back and forth undecidedly.  “A small handful.  Kinda.  Not very well.  Gramps always said I was terrible at laundry and worse at curses.”

            “Can you show me one?”

            I shrugged.  “I can try.”  I reached my right hand out towards my bedside lamp and said a few words under my breath.  As if magnetized, the lamp turned upside down and flew up to the ceiling, sticking there.

            “Oh my god,” Mason said.  “That’s incredible.”

            I surveyed the lamp with dismay.  Glumly, I said, “Thanks, but I was trying to make it bigger.”  I groaned, getting up from the bed.  “I’ll get another egg.”

            “Why?”

            “If I don’t take the curse off that thing, it’s just gonna stay there forever.”

            “Let it stay there.  I have so many more questions.”

            “Okay,” I said, sitting back down.  Still looking at the lamp, I added, “It’s gonna be a bitch to turn it on and off.”

            Mason turned my head so I was looking at him instead of the bewitched lamp.  “This seems like a good thing,” he gestured at his body.  He pointed to his cock through the towel and added “This seems like a great thing.  Are you sure it’s a curse?”

            “100% sure.  Gramps only knows how to do curses.  He’s not a very good he-witch.  Better than me by a longshot, but that’s not a high bar to clear.  He’s mediocre.  I’ve seen better.”

            “Then, what was the curse?”

            I had to think about that one.  “This is unlike any curse I’ve seen.  When Gramps wants to punish someone, he generally uses an Insecurity Circumflex.  But I don’t think he was trying to punish you, and this does not look like an Insecurity Circumflex.”

            “Curses have names?”

            “Some do.  Important ones.”

            “Do you have any idea what this curse is?” Mason asked, redirecting.

            “If I had to guess, something about you manifesting my dreams.  He saw how cozy we were and how handsy I am.  And then he met Dalton.  He knew in some witchy way that I’d have a sex dream about you, and he used all that to cook up a curse.”

            “You had a sex dream about me last night?”

            “Probably.  I don’t remember the dream I had last night because I woke up to the sound of my fiancé screaming.  But I have sex dreams about you pretty much every night.  And you, but buff and hung?  I’ve definitely had that dream before.  I’m a simple man with simple desires.”

            Mason shook his head.  “That still doesn’t sound like a curse.”

            “Because he’s a mediocre he-witch but a brilliant man, he’s found clever workarounds to do some interesting things like this.  He knew I’d take the curse off right away before there were any worse consequences.”

            Mason raised his eyebrow again.  Worriedly, he asked, “Worse consequences?”

            I nodded reassuringly.  “Yeah.  If this works the way I think it does, this was the best possible outcome.  If I’d had a sex dream about Dalton instead, you would’ve actually turned into Dalton.  Then, there’d be two Daltons.”  I shrugged and added, “And who wants that?”

            Mason put his burly hand on mine and locked eyes with me.  “What if you’d had a nightmare about me dying last night?”

            Flatly, I said, “You would’ve died.  I called it a curse for a reason.”

            Mason grew incredibly pale.  “Why would Gramps take that risk?”

            I squeezed his hand affectionately.  “I’m not even sure if that’s the curse Gramps did.  But if it is, he would only do it if he already checked what dream I was going to have.”

            Mason’s face grew stern.  “He knows what dreams we’re going to have before we have them?” 

            “Don’t be silly.  Only my dreams.  I’m his grandson.”

            “Only your dreams?”  Mason suddenly let go of my hand.  “Roy.  Honey.  I don’t think I was cursed.  I think you were.”

            “No, Gramps promised he’d never curse me again.”

            Mason was getting upset.  “He’s cursed you before?”

            Trying to console Mason, I responded calmly.  “Only once.  When I came out to him.  He asked if I’d been cursed, if that’s why I was gay.  When I assured him I hadn’t been, with his very next question he asked if I’d be willing to let him curse me straight.  When I refused, he told me that I would have to stay in the closet.  That it was just one more secret I had to keep because we couldn’t draw attention to ourselves.  I laced into him about how homophobic and horrible he was being, and that it wasn’t the 1950s anymore, and then I raced up the stairs to my bedroom and slammed the door shut.  When I stormed to my room, he cursed me.”

            “He made you straight?”

            I shook my head no.  “He realized he flubbed my coming out, so the curse was his way of apologizing.  He cursed me so that I couldn’t even say hello to someone without first saying, ‘I’m gay and my Gramps loves me.’  Seriously.  Every sentence had to start with that. All morning.  ‘I’m gay and my Gramps loves me, please hold the bus.’  Or ‘I’m gay and my Gramps love me, is this seat taken?’” 

            Mason tried his best to hold on to his anger and hold back a chuckle.

            “A girl sneezed on the bus, and I said, ‘I’m gay and my Gramps loves me, bless you.’”

            Mason had to hold back his chuckle a little harder.

            “Because of that, one classmate teased me mercilessly that morning.  And I sounded completely un-threatening when I shouted, ‘I’m gay and my Gramps loves me; fuck you, asshole!’”

            He could no longer hold back the laughter.  The idea was just too bizarre.  “Sounds exhausting.”

            “It was.  Thankfully, it only lasted until I got to school and stole an egg from home ec.  I got his message loud and clear, he apologized, and he promised he’d never curse me again.  And I believe him.”

            Mason, calm again from the laughter, exhaled and said, “I don’t want to be a jerk about this, because that’s an adorable story, but I think he broke his promise, Roy.  He knew you were going to dream about me looking like this, and now I look like this.

            I sat there for a few seconds.  “I’ll get an egg.”

            As I was washing the slime out of my hair, Mason joined me in the bathroom.  “Are you angry at him for breaking his promise and cursing you?”

            Without taking my head out from under the faucet, I responded, “I still think he cursed you.  I’m just doing this to be safe.”

            “Say you’re right.  Why would he curse me?”

            “You said it yourself last night.”  I turned off the sink and began drying my hair.  “He wants me to settle down with someone nice.  And now you’re literally the man of my dreams.”

            Mason made an “Aw” noise, and then said, “That’s sweet.  Weird, but sweet.”  He shook his head in shock.  “Oh my god, he did curse me.”

            “Told ya.”

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Chapter 6

            As I finished drying off, my phone rang an alarm.

            “4 AM.  Time to get ready for work.”  I clicked off the alarm.  “You can go back to bed if you want.”

            “I think I’ll help you make the bread this morning.  There’s no way I’m going back to sleep.”

            “Cool,” I said, pulling on a pair of black work pants and tying the drawstring tight around my waist.  “You can grab some clothes from my stuff,” I added, tapping the top of my dresser.

            Mason suddenly looked defeated.  “That’s right.  I won’t fit into my clothes anymore.”

            I threw on a plain white t-shirt and grabbed a pair of socks and a navy blue kerchief.  “Don’t worry about it.  When Gramps gets back, we’ll ask him to make your clothes bigger.”  I knew how proud Mason was of his t-shirt collection, and I wanted him to keep it.

            “He can do that?”

            “Probably.”

            “Could you do that?”

            “I could try,” I said, “but it would most likely end up stuck there.”  With the hand holding my kerchief, I pointed at the bedside lamp still dangling upside down from the ceiling, the cord just barely reaching the outlet.

            Mason was unpleased.  “Your clothes are all practical ‘I bake for a living’ clothes.  Solid colors, dull and boring.”  He pointed to all of my neatly folded work clothes dispassionately.  “But under the circumstances, I will not be picky.”

            Before Mason surrendered to my bland and functional work clothes, inspiration hit me.  I ran to my dresser, reached into the very back of the bottom drawer, and came out with a vibrantly red t-shirt.  I unfurled it, and showed the cartoon drawing of an oven with a face saying, “I’m hot!”

            I tossed it to Mason.  “You got this for my last birthday.  I thought it was precious, but it’s not really my style.”

            “Perfect!”

            “As soon as I’ve got my socks and shoes on, I’m going to make breakfast.  What do you want?”  I was already making two breakfasts (both for me).  One more wouldn’t be any harder.

            “I have pants to try on,” he said.  “I don’t have time for breakfast.” 

            I guess he still had skinny-Mason’s appetite.  If he keeps eating like he usually did, he’d be his normal self in a matter of months, maybe weeks.  Oh, well.  His body, his appetite, his choice.  I’d enjoy his muscles while he had them.

            I didn’t say any of that out loud.   Instead, I just said, “Okay.”  Realizing that wasn’t enough information, I added, “As soon as I’ve eaten, I’m going down to get the ovens preheated.  Take whatever pants and boxers you want from my dresser.”

            “Why would I need your underwear?”

            I pointed to his pert round ass.  “If you want to try to squeeze that ass and that package into a pair of men’s small, I’m all for it, just get it on video.”

            “Point taken,” Mason said.

            Mason joined me in the bakery kitchen a few minutes after I got there.

            My shirt was painted on to his muscles.  He was just a hair too big for my shirt, which tells me Mason had bought it to be slightly too small for me.  His arms, chest, lats, and back all bulged to prominence, but then the extra fabric billowed around his waist.

            “Fuck, that’s hot,” I said, my jaw practically hanging open.

            “That’s what the shirt says,” Mason added with a wink, putting on his apron.

            Mason didn’t do much of the actual baking, but he’d helped out in the kitchen before.  He was good at handing me utensils and ingredients, being a second pair of eyes, fetching things from storage, and cleaning up as I baked.  He even had his own kerchiefs, all in neon shades more suited to a Lisa Frank poster—his choice this morning was an oversaturated red that matched his shirt.  He liked spending quality time with me in the kitchen because it was one of the few places I would keep my hands to myself, mostly out of fear of violating the health code.  Didn’t mean I couldn’t look and fantasize, though.

            The first fifteen minutes were uneventful, but pleasant.  Things felt normal.  As I started another batch of bread, I saw my flour sack was almost empty.  This would be fun.

            “Mason, sweetness.  Get me two more sacks of flour out of dry storage.”

            He put the pan he was scrubbing back into the sink.  “Sure thing.”  While drying his hands, he asked, “Where’s the dolly?”     

            I raised an eyebrow.  “Why would you need the dolly?”

            “Those sacks of flour are 50 pounds each, and I…”  It hit him.  “Oh.  Right.  I’ll get you some more flour.”

            Mason came back into the kitchen, pushing the door open with his knee.  He had a sack of flour on each shoulder.  His arms bulged, threatening the sleeve of my t-shirt, and there was the cockiest smile on his face.  “I’ve seen you do this a thousand times, and it always blew me away.”  He threw the sacks down into the prep area.  “That was intoxicating,” he said.  “I used to have trouble lifting one with both hands, and I just hauled two all the way from dry storage.”

            “Welcome to the big guys’ club,” I said.

            “Got anything else you need me to carry?”

            “Maybe later.  Get back to scrubbing.”

            For the next forty minutes or so, things fell back into routine, though I occasionally caught Mason checking out his reflection or flexing his arm.

            “Yes, you’re gorgeous,” I said, when I caught him flexing into his reflection instead of wiping down the counter.  “Don’t get a big head.”

            “Sorry,” he said, going back to work.

            When I had to hit the bathroom, I asked Mason to keep an eye on the dough in the power mixer, trying to keep him out of trouble.

            On my way back to the kitchen, I saw Kayla, whose shift was just about to start, going into the kitchen first.  When she went through the door, Mason had his back to her and was intently staring at the dough.  She called out, “Morning, Roy.  Red’s a good color on you, and those jeans!  You should dress like this more often.  Where do you need me to start?”

            Mason turned around to correct her, and she shouted.

            “Holy crap it’s the other one!  Sorry, Mr. Lombard,” she apologized.  “I thought you were Roy.”

            I walked into the kitchen, loudly pushing the door to make my presence known.  “I’m flattered,” I said.  “Mason’s a handsome man.”   I relieved Mason of his duties and turned off the power mixer.

            Kayla looked at Mason, dumbfounded.  He even let her touch his chest with one tentative finger.  Loving the attention, Mason flexed his pecs, and they grew into sharper relief.  Kayla withdrew her hand sharply.  “Jesus, Mr. Lombard.  Were you bitten by a radioactive spider or something?”

            “Or something,” Mason said.

            Kayla shook her head in disbelief.  “I should’ve seen this coming,” she said, looking at me.  “Weird shit always happens when your grandfather visits.”  She exhaled sharply, then added, “Where do you want me to start?”

            I gave Kayla her tasks, and then Mason pulled me aside.

            “This is actually happening,” he said.

            “Uh-huh,” I confirmed. 

            “Until Kayla freaked out, I was trying to convince myself this was just a very lifelike, bizarre dream.”

            I pointed to his beefy bicep.  “This is real.  All of it.”  I pulled my hand away before it moved to his ass out of instinct.

            “This changes things.”

            “How?”  I gestured for Mason to hand me the big rubber scraper.

            “We need to think this out.  We need a plan.”  He didn’t sound worried or agitated.  He sounded like he did when he discussed changes to our budget or switching a supplier.  “What are we going to tell people?” he asked, handing me my utensil.

            I scraped down the side of the bowl while I said, “What do you mean?”

            “When I thought this was just a dream, I was willing to go with the flow, see where it took me.  But if this is reality…”

            I interrupted, “It is.”

            Mason continued, “People will have questions about my sudden increase in mass.  ‘My grandfather-in-law is a he-witch’ isn’t a very satisfying answer.”

            I finished scraping the dough and turned it out onto the counter to rest.  “We’ll handle it the same way we handled Kayla.”

            “Kayla’s one thing.  She’s worked here since you opened the bakery and isn’t one to go prying as long as her paycheck’s on time.  But the other, less passive employees?”

            “Will not care.”  Covering the dough with a towel, I went back to my morning duties, and Mason followed me around the kitchen, constantly getting in my path.  “By your own design, most of the employees don’t even know your first name.  They think of you as the boss’s boyfriend.  A walking t-shirt with a mustache who makes the direct deposits and texts them their work schedules.  Hell, some of them think you’re my boss.  If anything, this will make them actually notice you for the first time.”

            Mason seemed happy with that answer.  “I guess.”

            “Good,” I maneuvered around Mason so I could get back to work.  “Now, either help out our get out of my way.  We open at 6.” 

            Mason got in my way again.  “We’re not done here, Roy.  What about the customers?  How am I going to explain this to them?  If I freak them out, we’ll lose business, and sales have been really amazing lately.”

            “You rarely interact with the customers,” I reminded him.  “And if you do, they’ll probably think you’re a new employee.”  I steered around him again.  “Another stud behind the counter?  That might increase business.”

            “Okay, fine, let’s forget the bakery for a sec.”  Once again, he was right under my feet.  “What do we tell my friends?  I know you’re practically a hermit, but I’ve got dozens of friends.”

            I pushed him to the side.  He moved willingly, or I probably couldn’t have forced him.  “Most of your friends are online, and for all they know, you actually look like the thumbnail of Hamtaro you use as your avatar.  Your friends in the real world… well, they didn’t like me when we started dating.  They were worried I’d turn you into a brainless jock until I showed them there was more to me than a rockin’ bod.  As long as you keep that pretty little brain of yours, they’ll just think I was a bad influence.”  I flexed my arm and walked past him.

            “But 65 pounds overnight?”  He said from behind my back.

            I scoffed and turned around.  “You’re at the bakery as much as me, Mr. Workaholic.  When was the last time you saw any of your friends in person?”

            “Two months ago,” he realized.  “But I talk to them just about every day, one way or another,” he added.

            I turned back around to my work.  “They’ll rationalize it. Think you were bigger than you were the last time they saw you.”

            “I know you’re used to witchcraft and curses, but take it from an outsider.  This stuff is weird.  My friends won’t rationalize 65 pounds in a few months.”

            “I’ve seen people rationalize far weirder.”

            “Okay, fine.  Maybe we can trick my friends.  I don’t fully believe you because, you know, we both have Instagram accounts.  But for the sake of argument, let’s say your lie works.  What do we say to my family?  We saw them for dinner last week.”

            I stopped what I was doing and stood silent for a few seconds.  He had me there.  I had no answer for that one.  “We’ll think of something in time for the wedding.  In the meantime, maybe drop the hint that you’ve been working out.  It’ll be fine.  People ask less questions than you think they will.”

            Mason was unconvinced.

            “For now, focus on the bright side.  You’re a walking wet dream we both find gorgeous, it’s easier for you to help out at the bakery, and maybe Dalton will stop trying to take his revenge on you.”

            “Dalton!”  He said, spinning me around—giving me a little thrill from how strong he was.  His face was serious, though.  I guess he’d forgotten about Dalton.  “Dalton will definitely notice.  What will we tell him?”

            “I was thinking ‘nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah.’”

            “Be serious.  Dalton’s going to be a problem.”

            “He already was,” I reminded him.

            Mason face hardened into resolve.  I knew this look.  This was his hard-core problem-solving-mode face.  “I’m going to do some research.”

            “I’m going to finish my morning prep.”

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Chapter 8

            The outfit was, in fact, perfect.  I’d bought it when I was still dating Dalton because we’d sometimes do role play with our workout clothes.  I’d never actually worn it, though.  In fact, I’d left Dalton for Mason a week after I’d bought it.

            On me, the outfit would’ve been scandalously tight.  I’d bought it two years ago as a costume for sex, and I’d gotten a little bit bigger since then.  Since Mason was now bigger than me, it would be even tighter.

            I finished getting into my own gym clothes quickly so I could wait for Mason in the living room where there’s better light in the afternoon.  When Mason came out, my jaw nearly hit the floor.

            His legs were encased in black leggings that stretched over his muscles so tightly that it had faded to bluish grey.  Mason’s package was robed in a special pocket just for his junk, and he filled it beautifully.  He saw me gawking, so he turned around and showed off his luscious ass, the seam running between the cheeks and the stretchy material highlighting the roundness and firmness of his rear.  He turned back around, and I was in awe of his upper half.  It was a tight, short-sleeved shirt with some spandex fibers to make it stretchy.  It was light grey, that gripped his pecs and accentuated each of his abs while showcasing his broad and round shoulders and tight and trim waist.  His powerful arms threatened the cuffs of the short sleeves, and his neck stretched the neck hole, but the shirt was designed to withstand punishment. On the front was white text saying “Fitness Monster” in horror movie font.

            “Are you sure this is the right outfit?” Mason asked, looking down.

            “I’m sure,” I said, resisting the urge to race up to him and fondle his pecs.  If I grabbed him now, we’d never make it to the gym.

            He twisted and turned, demonstrating just how narrow his waist was and how thick his legs were.  “I don’t know.”  He sounded a little weirded out.

            “Because it’s too sexualizing?”

            Mason was still looking down.  “No, it’s not that.  It’s not really what I’m used to, no, but I get that jeans and suspenders aren’t really appropriate for a gym.”  He still looked off-put by the outfit.

            “Because it’s too tight?”

            “No.  I’d prefer tight to loose, and nothing we have right now will really fit me right.”  He inspected the outfit further.

            “Then what?”

            “It’s so bland and butch.  I appreciate the attempt at a cute caption, violent though it may be, but there’s no color.  I’m in black and white.”

            That was his objection?

            With a half-smile, I commented, “You’ve seen my clothes, Mason.  I don’t stray far from neutrals.”

            “Or the bruise palette,” Mason said optimistically.  “I was kind of hoping for a purple or a blue, even a muted one.”

            I thought for a second, then said, “The most colorful gym-appropriate thing I could offer you is a solid tan t-shirt and hunter green basketball shorts.”

            “Am I joining the army?” Mason asked.  He shook his head and admitted, “Given my choices, you picked the right outfit.  I’ll just go clothes shopping after our workout.”

            He grabbed his wallet to get ready to leave, only to realize there were no pockets in his outfit.  He shook his wallet at me accusatorily and said, “I knew there was a reason people change at the gym.”

            I grabbed his wallet and tossed our stuff (wallets, phones, keys) into the backpack I used as my gym bag.  “You asked to do my workout just as I do it.  The run there’s my warm-up, the jog back’s my cool down.”

            “Your gym’s over two miles away,” Mason pointed out.

            “I did call it a workout,” I reminded him.

            “Not my point.  I’m just upset the whole town’s going to see me wearing this.”

            I slapped his ass and put on my backpack.  “If it’s any consolation, you’re fucking hot.”

            “Obviously,” Mason said.  “But that’d be true no matter what I wore.”  He grabbed a second backpack and tossed two random books in it.

            “What’s that for?” I asked.

            He slung his backpack on.  “I’m doing everything you’re doing.  My bag seems to weigh about the same as yours now.”

            And we were off.

            I’d gone hiking and running with Mason before.  Pre-curse, those were his only two forms of consistent exercise.  So, I knew I was easily half again as fast as him.  I’d planned on matching my speed to his, but he kept up with my normal pace—he didn’t even seem to notice that he was running faster than normal.  I had a hard time looking ahead because every time I caught a glance of Mason in the corner of my eye, I could see his pecs bouncing in that tight shirt, or see his arms flex mid-stride, or see a drop of sweat trickle down his lickable face.  I just wanted to stop and ogle.  If I hadn’t been using all my blood to run, watching jacked-Mason run to the gym would’ve given me the father of all boners.

            When we arrived, the gym was more crowded than I expected, but it was still half empty.  It was only 2:30, after all.

            “I’ve never been to any gym, let alone a gay gym,” Mason said after signing in.  He looked around at the functional design, especially all the exposed metal in the weights and machines.  “Shinier than I expected.”  Then, eyeing the men in various states of undress and workout, he added, “I can see why you come here.”

            “Welcome to church,” I said spreading my arms to the side like a tour guide.

            “I expected more people.”

            “There would be if we came early in the morning with the before-work crowd (mostly corporate lesbians) or in the evening, which is peak cruising time.  In the post-lunch lull, we only get four types of people, really.  They each congregate in different parts of the gym.  They’ll leave their territories to use the machinery, but then they return to their neutral corners.”

            “You make them sound like high school cliques.”

            I shrugged.  “They kinda are.  I don’t know what it is about this gym, but people tend to congregate in groups.”  I pointed to the treadmills where five waifish twinks were talking to each other animatedly while barely walking at a snail’s pace.  “Over here are the bored househusbands.  They come more to gossip and stare at the scenery than actually exercise.  They’re all recently married and miss their single lives.  They’re catty bitches, but they’ve got all the tea and are fucking hysterical.  When they inevitably adopt children in two or three years, they’ll move to a suburb, and we’ll never see them again.”  One of them eyed Mason and me up and down lasciviously.  “They arrive and leave in packs and keep mostly to themselves but will eyefuck you to death.”

            I pointed to some scandalously young shirtless men working out as close to the mirrors as possible.  Their muscles were noticeable but small and underdeveloped, and they were lifting ferociously.  “Over here is the after school crowd.  They’ve just turned 18, and they’re sick of being scrawny and ignored.  Most of them have just come out of the closet.  They celebrate every pound gained with ten minutes of flexing.  They immediately post every workout to TikTok, and good on them if it keeps them motivated.  They’d get here even earlier in the day, but the local high school lets out at 2.”  One of them, without even pausing his lift, blew a kiss at Mason, so I pointed to my index finger, and the teen immediately looked away, pale as a ghost.  “These guys will do anything to get laid, but they’re terrified of wedding rings.  I feel protective and fatherly towards them because I used to be one of them.  But, of course, that was pre-TikTok.”

            I pointed to the largest men in the room.  They were all swollen with brawn and dripping with sweat.  They grunted loudly and lifted heavy weights, some I could only dream of lifting.  “Over here are the mass monsters.  Your aspiring and professional bodybuilders, strong men, people whose livelihood depends on being muscular.”  I pointed out the largest of them all.  “He is the de facto leader of the mass monsters, a thick, squat, roided mass of man-meat referred to as Tank.  No one uses his real name.  Pay him respect.”

            “Is he the owner or something?” Mason asked.

            “No.  The owner is a handsome and buff man in his 50s,” I pointed to a photo by the front door of a jacked man with salt and pepper hair. “His name is Carey Sullivan.  He owns a dozen gyms in the tri-state area.  You’ll see him around the place sometimes, shamelessly hitting on the men, but likely you’re off his radar because you’re over 30.”  I pointed back to Tank.  “Tank is just the biggest guy at the gym; that’s why he gets our respect.”

            “Got it,” Mason said, nodding.

            I continued.  “Unless it’s cruising time, the mass monsters have a laser-focus.  They’re here to work out, not socialize.”  One of them strutted past us on his way to the rest room, spreading his body wide to make it take up even more space than it already did, grunting aggressively with each step.  “They want you to be intimidated by them, but they’re mostly sweethearts, teddy bears, and kitty cats.”  The guy who’d stomped past us accidentally bumped into one of the househusbands, and immediately said, “I’m so sorry!  My fault entirely.”

            Mason chuckled and asked, “Is that the group you’re in?”

            “I was for a while, mostly to hit on guys, but I’m kinda small to fit in as one of them.  Especially since I opened the bakery, I fit best with the fourth group.”  Mason and I joined a small band of people in the back of gym, and I made us protein drinks from the mix I’d brought in my backpack.  The gym had a full-service juice bar replete with healthy snacks, but they overcharged.  This part of the gym was sparsely populated with people of various sizes, gender presentations, and levels of fitness.  They only thing they had in common was how they were intensely concentrating on their workouts like it was a standardized test.  There was no talking, and all of them occasionally threw glances at the time blinking in red digital numbers on the wall.  “Over here are the clock watchers.  Our jobs and personal lives give us a very specific window to do our workouts, but none of us would give them up.  Some are here on doctor’s orders; some are clinging to past glory.  We’re mostly small business owners or actors who pay the bills by waiting tables.  We all value our fitness, but we have to bend over backwards to fit it in.   Because our schedules are all so different, you can find a group of us here in this corner at any time of the day, but never more than ten of us at a time.”  I’d finished making our protein drinks, so I handed one to Mason while I turned to two familiar faces and waved.  In a friendly voice, I called, “Jake.  Arthur.  This is my fiancé Mason.”  They said nothing and made no eye contact.  “People think we’re cold and standoffish.  We’re not.  We’re just on a schedule.”  I downed my protein shake and tipped Mason’s back so he chugged his as well.  As soon as I was finished, I said, “Speaking of schedules, let’s get to work.”

            Mason grimaced at the taste of the shake and followed me to the free weight rack.

            “Today, we’re doing arms and chest,” I said, handing him a weight.  “This should be a good starting weight for you.”

            The entire workout, Mason never complained.  I pushed him hard, too.  I was lifting to pack on mass for our wedding, so I was lifting until failure, pushing my weights as high as they’d go.  For someone who’d never even set foot in a gym, Mason was a trooper.  I could see his face turn purple as his muscles filled with lactic acid, and I could see his veins strain and thicken as he pushed himself harder and harder.  I had to correct his form a lot.  I mean, a lot a lot.  He had the body of a seasoned gym rat, but he was still a complete newbie.  I will confess, though, sometimes, I just corrected his form so I could feel him up.

            Because the whole thing was hot.  Mason’s already big muscles bulging, pumping from the exertion, reddening and hardening, wrapped deliciously in his tight shirt, growing a darker grey from the sweat.  And, as I suspected, he was stronger than me.  All of his lifts were heavier than mine.  He was a savage.  Even if Mason never came back to the gym, the memory of him pushing himself so hard and bulging and sweating…I might just have a new shower fantasy.

            As we jogged home, Mason and I still had enough lung capacity to hold a conversation.  We hadn’t talked at all since the workout began, not really.  I’d explained how to do the exercises most efficiently, but other than that, barely a “Good job, sweetness,” or a “you can do it.”  I am a clock watcher after all.

            “What do you think?” I asked.

            “I see the appeal,” he responded.  “It’s almost Zen.  The repetitive ritualized tasks, the cloistered atmosphere, the special garb.  I see why you call it a church, but it’s actually a monastery.”

            I narrowed my eyes, “That was oddly analytical.  Did you enjoy yourself?”

            Mason shrugged.  “It’s not my favorite thing, no, but I hated it way less than I thought I would.”

            Oh no.  “What did you hate?”

            “It’s unimportant.”

            “No, it’s not,” I turned around and jogged backwards for a little bit.  “You just said you hated it, and I want my fiancé happy.  What did you hate?”

            “I barely hated it.”

            “What did you barely hate?” I asked insistently.

            “I felt out of my depths.”

            “It was your first time.  You’ll get the rhythm if you make it a habit.”

            “I hated that we couldn’t have a conversation.”

            I thought about that one, eventually offering, “I can be more vocal.  I’m usually trying to get back home to you, but if you’re there, I can stay longer.  Make it a couple’s thing.”

            That should’ve made Mason cheery, but instead, he had a sour look on his face.

            “What is it?  I can tell you’re holding back.”

            With a grunt, Mason admitted, “I felt so weak.  Everything was so heavy.  I thought with these muscles, things would feel light.”

            I couldn’t hold back a snicker.  “If the weights feel light, you’re doing it wrong.  The point is to lift heavy things, even just a little too heavy for you, to build up your strength.”

            Mason shook his head.  “I felt weaker than I did 65 pounds ago.”

            “Are you serious, Mason?  You lifted more than me in every exercise.”

            Mason stopped dead, so I headed back to him and jogged in place.  “Why’d you stop?”

            He looked me in the eyes.  “I lifted more than you?”

            “Heavier weights, every exercise.”

            He furrowed his brows.  “You’re just lying to me so I’ll come to the gym with you.  You’re boosting my ego.”

            “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

            “I’m stronger than you?”

            “For now,” I said, turning around to face front.  As I jogged away, I taunted, “But if you don’t keep lifting, I’ll pass you in no time.”

            Mason was jogging again and quickly caught up.

            When we got home, I’d hoped for a sweaty post-workout fuck, but Mason jumped right into the shower.  As he washed, he called out to me, “Pick out your least boring clean button-down and some matching jeans for me to borrow.”

            “What do you need them for?” I asked, hoping to keep him naked a little longer.

            “Like I said earlier.  I’m going clothes shopping.  With Sammy, if he hasn’t changed his number.”

            “Who’s Sammy?”

            “Sammy Lane.  Well, I guess it’s Sammy Mercer now.  He took his husband’s last name.  He was the bored househusband who undressed us with his eyes.  I recognized him.  He’s a friend of mine.  We used to work at the same company.  We chatted while you were taking a bathroom break.  I haven’t seen Sammy since I went freelance, so he didn’t have any questions about my muscles.  He was down for an impromptu shopping spree.”

            Only Mason could spend two hours in a place for the first time and leave with a new best friend.  I put my hand on the shower door.  “You want me to come with?”

            “You can if you want, but I know how much shopping bores you.”

            I really wanted to think of an excuse to get him to stay, just so we could fuck if nothing else, but all I managed was, “If you’re going to the mall, I could find something to amuse myself.”

            “Thrift shops, honey.  Thrift shops.  Like Janikowski’s down the street.  I don’t need a whole new wardrobe, just enough to last me two months ‘til Gramps comes back from the cruise.”

            “You sure?” I asked, pouting slightly.

            “Oh,” Mason soothed.  “I know that tone.  I promise we’ll have sex before bed tonight.”

            He knew me too well.

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