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

[citizenies]

Oooooh yes thanks for the new chapters

[Mdlftr]

Roy is another unique creation of yours!  He's lean and sinewy, with the self confidence and skills of a much larger, stronger man. This story certainly contradicts the expectations of gay muscle fiction! It keeps you guessing at each point!

Great work! I'm enjoying this very much! 

[TQuintA]

Chapter 10

            We stayed entwined in each other’s bodies until we were asleep.  When my alarm went off the next morning, we were still intermingled like that above the covers.  I pulled my arm out from under him and went on to start my day. 

            As I came out of the shower, I was surprised to find Mason in the bathroom, grooming his mustache.

            “Morning,” he said cheerily.

            “Good morning,” I replied, almost as a question.  “What are you doing up so early?”  I expected Mason to stay in bed—he had long ago learned how to sleep through my alarms.

            He snipped his facial hair while saying, “It occurred to me that, until I get a new routine down, I should mirror yours.  You’re able to maintain this physique while running the bakery, so if I do what you do…”  He flourished with his free hand.

            “I’ll make us breakfast,” I said.  “Try to be quick in the shower.”  I went to slap his ass, but figured that would be a bad idea since he had a pair of scissors near his face.

            “I’ll let you slap it later,” he promised, correctly reading my body language.

            “Copy that,” I said.

            By the time I finished cooking, Mason had showered and dressed.  He had on the most aggressively yellow t-shirt I’d ever seen with the image, all in white, of a rubber duck in the middle of the chest.  And, in true Mason fashion, his jeans were held up with navy blue suspenders.  He somehow pulled it off.  Who am I kidding?  He looked hot.  Then again, I always thought that.

            “These still fit,” he said, running his thumbs up and down them.  Even across the room, I could see they were stretched to their breaking point.

            I plated his breakfast, saying, “Not for much longer if your pecs get much bigger.”

            Over breakfast, he showed me his shopping haul via his Instagram feed.

            “Looks like you and Sammy had a good time,” I commented.

            “The best,” he said.  “I forgot how much fun he was.  He wants to have us over for dinner so we can meet his husband and some of the other guys from the gym.  Can I tell him yes?  It’d be nice to have married couple friends now that we’re engaged.”

            “Of course,” I said, smiling.

            “Oh, and we’ve got to have an engagement party.  I know you’re not Mr. Party Guy, but my friends are slavering for one.”

            “And you want to show off your new body for them,” I added.

            “Obviously,” Mason replied.  “That’s a yes?”

            “That’s a yes,” I said, still looking at all the graphic t’s he’d found at the thrift store.  “I’m pleased you could find children’s clothing in your size,” I commented.

            “Not as much as I hoped,” he said, unfazed by my jab, “I’m going to be doing a lot of laundry these next two months.  But I still plan on getting Gramps to be-he-witch my collection bigger.”

            I involuntarily smiled at his newly coined verb.  “He will,” I said, scrolling.  Thinking of Gramps made me lonely for a second.  I made a small whining sound.

            “You miss him?” Mason asked.

            “Of course I do.”  Then I noticed how many likes some of Mason’s pictures were getting.  “Someone has a lot more followers,” I said through a mouth of oatmeal.

            “Sammy encouraged me to post a bunch of pics from our workout before I went shopping—pics he took.  He assures me I am now a thirst trap.”

            I looked at his feed more closely.  “Why am I not a thirst trap?”

            Mason took his phone back and put it face down on the table.  “Your account is private, and you don’t post shirtless pics.”

            “I feel weird posting shirtless pics.  Dalton still follows me.  He follows both of us.”

            Mason shook his head firmly.  “Not anymore.  He deleted all his socials.”

            “Mysterious.”

            He shrugged and finished off his breakfast.  “At least you’re free to post all the shirtless pics you want now.  Ooh!”  An idea suddenly came to him.  “Get a public account, and post pics of you shirtless and holding a cupcake.  Free advertising for the bakery.”

            With breakfast over, we went downstairs to work.  While I did the prep work in the bakery’s kitchen, Mason went into our office to go over our numbers from the previous day.

            When it was time to open up (6 AM), there was already a line queued at the door and halfway down the block.

            “Mason!” I called.  “I’m going to need you to work counter again.”

            He was at the counter in a flash.

            We were mobbed.  Since showing off his physique had worked for Mason, I decided to show off this morning as well.  Every time I saw Mason flex for a customer, I’d flex for mine.  It became a mini-competition.  Who could work the customers up into a bigger lather?  The first two hours we were open, we had so many customers I almost didn’t have enough time to go back into the kitchen for my second breakfast, let alone remind Mason to have his.

            When the line finally returned to a normal level of business, I turned to Mason and asked, “Is this because you beefed up?  Are they just here to see your muscles?”

            “Maybe some of them,” he admitted.  “But most of these people weren’t here yesterday, and the crowd yesterday had no way of knowing I was a beefcake.  Besides that, our receipts have been ratcheting up for months, thanks to your truly,” he pointed to himself.  “Our four most profitable days have all been in the past two weeks.  They’re coming for your products.  Our hunkiness is just a gift with purchase.”   He kissed me on the nose and asked, “You cool if I leave for two hours?  Doctor’s appointment.”

            “Right.”  I said.  “See you soon.”

            Ten minutes after Mason left, we had another mini-mob.  This one only lasted 30 minutes, but Danny, Kayla, and I could hardly keep up.  It was madness, but at least it reassured my ego that people were coming for my muffins and not my studmuffin fiancé.

            When Mason returned, he called me over to our office.

            “Clean bill of health?” I asked.

            “They’re going to let me know about my blood test, but the doctor said everything else was tip-top shape.  She barely remarked on my muscle mass.  If my doctor’s not concerned, I’m not.”

            “Excellent.”

            “The receptionist hit on me,” Mason confided.

            “The blond girl?”

            “The tall guy,” he responded, waggling his eyebrows.

            “Oh, he’s hot.  And a shameless flirt.”

            “I know,” Mason said.  “He hits on you whenever you’re in the office.  Even that weekend you had the flu so bad I had to help you to the exam room.  He’s never hit on me before.”

            I patted Mason on the back.  “Congrats,” I said sincerely.  “He saw you as nothing but a sex object.”

            “He said he liked my duckie,” he added, pointing to the design on his shirt.

            “I like your duckie too,” I said, poking his chest with my left hand and running my hand up and down along the small of his back with my right.

            “Before we get sidetracked into office sex again,” Mason said, taking my hands off his torso, “have you heard the gossip?”  Mason’s tone of voice sounded like an undercover spy.

            “No,” I answered, sitting on my desk.  “I never hear the gossip.  If I don’t hear it from you, who would I hear it from?”

            Mason sat on my desk next to me.  “The Dalton mystery deepens.  He’s closing his sandwich shop.  He hasn’t paid his employees in two months, and his father is pissed at him.”

            “It’s not like you to gloat,” I pointed out.  “That’s my job.”

            “Who’s gloating?  We lost a regular customer who ordered a lot of bread.  I think we should canvas some of the other local sandwich shops.  Send some free samples.  Try to replace that account.”

            I suppressed a chuckle.  “I forgot who I was talking to.  We’ll be fine.  You’ve seen yesterday’s receipts.”

            “Yeah.  They looked way too high, even for our increased business volume.  Did you alter those?”

            “Not even a little.”

            “That’s reassuring at least.”  He stood up, punctuating his sentence.

            There was a knock at the door.  “Roy?  Mr. Lombard?”  It was Danny.  “We need one or both of you on counter.  We’re slammed again.”

            As we headed to the counter, I told Mason, “We’ll be fine.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 11

            And life settled into our new routine.  Not that Mason was a shrinking violet before, but now with some extra mass, he became a social butterfly. 

            For instance, Sammy’s dinner party was a hoot.  We met a bunch of nice couples who gave us all the skinny on wedding pitfalls to avoid. 

            While I got along just fine with all the guys (especially the ones I’d seen around the gym), they were a bit standoffish around me.  However, Sammy’s husband Zack and I hit it off instantly.  He had sandy blond hair, dark brown eyes, and a noticeable cleft in his chin.  He was somewhat handsome and fit, he clearly exercised, but just a normal level of fitness, not an athlete or a gymgoer.  He was charming, friendly, and fun.  He was just a laid back guy who, unlike all the other guys there, was willing to put in the effort to thaw my ice.  Also, even though Mason and I were self-evidently the biggest guys at the dinner, he treated us, me especially, like regular guys, and I guess I needed that.  The closest he came to treating us like The Big Guys™ was when he teased Mason and me for not having any bread or dessert.  Mason responded to his teasing by showing off his abs, and Zack dropped his objection.  To top everything off, Zack liked backgammon, bocce ball, and shuffleboard—all the old man games I’d played with Gramps my whole life.  The whole drive home I didn’t stop thanking Mason for introducing me to Zack.

            Outside of that, as soon as Mason had a gym membership the next day, he made that place his own.  It wasn’t just that he took the workouts seriously, increasing his strength nearly every time we went; he became friends with everyone.  Even though he’d never set foot in a gym before the curse, he completely fit into the gym culture within a week.  The househusbands accepted him as one of their own because he was soon-to-be-married and Sammy gave him the thumbs up.  The after school crowd saw him as an aspirational figure when he showed them his transformation.  Out of respect verging on veneration, they all called him Mr. Lombard.  They often asked us (him especially) to take selfies with them and flex for them, oohing and ahhing over his bulging biceps, but never daring to touch.  The mass monsters adopted Mason as a pet because they found his gym outfits too precious, he was generous with the compliments, and they were impressed with how much mass he’d packed on in such a short time.   They were very physically affectionate with him (hugs, arms around shoulders, belly pats, etc.).  I couldn’t be jealous because they became more physically affectionate with me too.  Tank was trying to woo us to work out with them to get even bigger.  We were tempted, but our business came first.  Even the clock watchers, people that I couldn’t get to say hello to me mid-workout, were chatty with Mason because his managerial skills helped them save time in their respective businesses.  With how much more I was talking at the gym (per Mason’s request), we had to start budgeting an extra half hour just to talk to Mason’s friends and let him pose for Instagram pictures.  He even ended up inviting a bunch of them to our engagement party.

            The engagement party was a blast.  I wish we had waited so Gramps could be there, but it was a raging success.  Mason wore a short-sleeved button-down that looked like it was made of confetti—this shirt was painted on him, and his arms were apt to bust those sleeves at any moment.  In true Mason fashion, he also wore a cardboard party hat with a pink unicorn on it, a monocle from a Mr. Peanut costume, and a fake plastic mustache on top of his real mustache.  All of Mason’s friends and family were blown away by his transformation, insisting the two of us flex for a thousand photos.  It staggered their minds that he was (just slightly) bigger than me, but, as I had assured Mason, no one suspected witchcraft, and everyone rationalized it.  I barely kept my hands off him all night.  Not only was his ass as squeezable as always, but his pecs were so inviting in that shirt that I fondled him every chance I got.  Everyone danced, sang, and partied for hours.  The guests—especially Zack and Sammy—were bummed when we kicked them out at 10 PM, but we assured them we had to go to bed immediately to keep the bakery running and to stick to our fitness plans.  “He’s going to bed immediately,” Mason corrected.  “I’m cleaning up, then going to bed.”

            On top of our blossoming social calendar, the bakery was busier than ever.  After the fourth day in a row that we got beyond-slammed, Mason convinced me we needed to hire some help.  I promoted Kayla to a position of more authority (her official title is “managing baker”) because I couldn’t keep up with demand, teaching her all my recipe techniques and secrets.  And since we needed more counter help, Mason had the inspired idea to hire some of the recent high school graduates from the gym to work for us.  He knew a number of them needed jobs to pay for community college, rent, gym fees, etc., and it didn’t hurt that they already called him Mr. Lombard.  They wanted to call me Mr. Whitaker, and I put a stop to that right quick.  It’s Roy’s Bakery, not Mr. Whitaker’s Bakery.  Mr. Whitaker was the man who married and then abandoned my mother when she got pregnant.  Who wants to be called that?  Hell, I planned to take Mason’s last name.  “Roy Lombard” had a nice ring to it.

            Even with all the extra help we hired, we were raking in a pretty penny.   Zack (who, it turns out, is a real estate broker) even showed us a few properties we could use to open a second store.  We wanted to make sure the surge in business was sustainable before we locked one down, but it was exciting to think about the possibilities.

            And, as if it wasn’t already obvious, Mason took a million photos.  Including a nightly shirtless one just before he went to bed, showing off his hairy pecs and toned abs.  I was a commonly featured guest star in his photos, but I’d never seen Mason be this into Instagram.  As long as the attention didn’t go to his head, it seemed like harmless fun.

            As if all of that weren’t enough, Mason’s sex drive had also kicked into higher gear.  He’d surprise me for a quick blow job in the shower, he’d drag me to our office for a quick fuck during any increasingly rare downtime at the bakery, and we had nearly nightly love-making sessions.  Me and my cock were both very happy campers.

            Three weeks flew by.

            One afternoon, just after we’d had lunch, Mason went in the bathroom to fix his hair and snap a few photos for Instagram, when he called out to me, “Honey, the workout plan that I’m on…”

            I interrupted him, “That we’re both on.  You’ve been copying me.”

            “Okay,” he acquiesced, “our workout plan.  We’ve cut out a lot of carbs and fat, right?”

            “To the bone,” I responded.  “It’s why my four-pack is becoming a six-pack.”  I lifted my shirt and pat my somewhat faint but hard-won ridges.  “I’m not letting you be the only one in this marriage with abs.”

            “That’s what I thought.  That being the case, should I be gaining weight?”

            “I’ve put on a pound or two,” I assured him.

            Mason came out of the bathroom.  He was just in a pair of boxer shorts, and he was looking thick and juicy, and not just his recently meatier cock and balls.  “Good.  ‘Cause I just got off the scale.  I broke 200.”

            “Five pounds in three weeks?”  I was stunned.

            “That’s a lot, right?”

            “That’s a lot,” I confirmed.

            “Is it the curse?  Should I be worried?”  He didn’t sound worried, just pragmatic. 

            I walked over to him and scrutinized him closely.  “I think you’re in the unique position of getting your beginner’s gains on a body already primed with beef.  If this were the curse, it would be witchier than five pounds of muscle in a three-week span.”

            “Good.  ‘Cause I’ve felt my clothes getting tighter, and then the scale confirmed it.  I didn’t want to let you down.”

            I grabbed him with both arms and squeezed him hard.  “You never could.”  I let him go and added, “If you don’t want to add any more mass, I can tailor your diet and workout plan accordingly.”

            Mason shook his head.  “The more mass, the better.  Now that I know your plan is doing what it’s supposed to be doing, I’ll keep at it.”  He rubbed his stomach gingerly.  “Even if it means eating an excessive amount of food.  I haven’t been hungry in weeks.  I always feel unpleasantly full, but I’ll bulk with you.”

            “Clean bulk,” I corrected.  “Tank and the mass monsters will mock you if you leave out the word ‘clean.’”

            “Is there a dirty bulk too?” he asked.

            “Most of them are dirty bulkers.”

            Mason went back into the bathroom saying, “You learn something new every day.”  Once he was in the other room, he asked, “Do you think your suit will still fit me?”

            “It’ll be a tight fit, but it should.  Why?”

            “Can I wear it to my meeting at the bank today?”

            I joined him in the bathroom.  “What meeting at the bank?”

            As he continued styling his hair, he said, “We’ve been extremely profitable as of late, so I called the bank this morning to do some refinancing.  Get some better interest rates.  Things like that.  Sammy gave me the idea.  They were able to squeeze me in for a meeting this afternoon.  Besides the bank, I have a million errands to try to cross off my to-do list: I’m going to the local paper because they messed up our ad last week, I want to meet with our wholesaler face to face because he’s trying to rip us off, and if I have time left, I’m going to meet with that wedding planner Zack recommended.  Of course, I’d hoped to do that in my clothes, not your clothes, and I know that you don’t even want to hire a wedding planner.  So I might reschedule or cancel that last one.”

            “Cool,” I said.  “Glad you’re on top of things like this.”

            “Can I borrow your suit?”

            “Of course, but you hate my suit.”

            Mason looked me dead in the eyes.  “It’s the most butch, basic-bro, desperately-trying-to-pass-for-straight suit I’ve ever seen in the color grey.  But, I need a suit.”

            Defensively, I said, “I’m not trying to pass for straight.  I just have boring taste in clothes.”

            “Thankfully, I have an obnoxiously in-your-face tie in a glittery metallic purple tie and a pocket square to match.  I may even wear a flower in my hair.”

            I kissed him on the cheek and said, “There are irises in bloom.  The little garden in front of the butcher’s shop down the block.  You can probably snag one of those.”

            “Julie would just let me have one.”

            I smiled, adding, “Of course.  You’re friends with the butcher.”

            Mason left the bathroom to get dressed in my suit, commenting, “No, I’m not.  Julie works at our bank; my meeting is with her.  Her husband Phil is the butcher.  He can’t stand me because he thinks I’m trying to seduce his wife.”

            As Mason put on my dress shirt, I asked, “Have you told him you’re gay?”

            While he buttoned up the shirt, he explained, “And that I’m engaged to the hunky baker down the street.  He thinks his wife is hot enough to turn me.”  Mason struggled with the buttons over his chest because his pecs were just a little too big for the shirt.  “Guess I’m leaving this unbuttoned, which means no tie.”

            I handed him a larger dress shirt.  “This one’s a little bigger.  It should fit.”

            As he swapped shirts, he said, “I have no hope of making our normal gym time.  So, I’m going tonight at 7:30 tonight.  I’ll bring a protein shake and snacks to fuel me properly, and I’ll swing by on my way to the gym to grab dinner and a change of clothes.  Don’t worry; Giles promised he’d spot me and keep me honest.”

            “Who’s Giles?” I asked.

            “Tank,” Mason said flatly, slipping on my dress pants.  For years, people had speculated over Tank’s real name, and Mason found it effortlessly.  My dress pants barely fit his thighs, clinging to the leg muscles and ass.  It forced his bulge forward, too, making an already big cock appear bigger.  “The most surprising thing about having bigger junk is that I constantly have to adjust it.”  He shifted his cock and balls around, trying to position it in a comfortable resting place.   I desperately wanted to put my hands on his bulge and squeeze.  He was shaking his package around, practically playing with himself through the fabric, as if to taunt me.

            “Tank’s real name is Giles?” I asked off-handedly, distracted by Mason’s display.

            “Eyes up here, soldier,” he said.  “I’m afraid you’ll be alone at the gym today.”

            “And at home this evening,” I said in a fake pout.

            “You could always come with me this evening.  Solve both problems.”

            I shook my head and handed Mason his shiny purple tie.  “I go to bed at 8, you night owl you.  I’d have to work out past bedtime, and I hate working out that close to sleeping.  Also, I try to avoid the gym at that time of day because that’s prime cruising time.  It’s more crowded, and that’s when Dalton will be there.”

            “Consider me warned,” Mason said, finishing his tie.

            “He might take another swing at you.”

            “He wouldn’t dare in front of Giles.”

            “He could always corner you in the locker room or the parking lot.”

            Mason pat me on the cheek.  “Neither of which I use because I change at home and jog there and back.  But it’s sweet you’re worried.” 

            I handed him my suit jacket and asked, “So what am I supposed to do tonight?”

            “Whatever you want.  Hell, call Zack to play tiddlywinks or ride a penny farthing or whatever you and your new best friend do.”

            I rolled my eyes.  “Admit it, you wouldn’t find me half as attractive if I didn’t have a quirk like being interested in old-man games.”

            “You got me there,” he admitted.  “But your undying love of backgammon isn’t the quirkiest thing about you, he-witch.”  When he slid on my jacket, it really highlighted how wide his shoulders were and how narrow his waist was.  He slipped in the pocket square, turned to me, folded his hands in front of his stomach, and asked, “Tell me honestly: do I look like a straight dad taking his family to Easter mass?”

            I looked him up and down.  He looked delicious.  Before answering, I hemmed and hawed a little in fake deliberation, and then said, “I’d still hit on you in the vestibule, but I’d stay away from Phil when you ask Julie for the iris.”

            “Thanks.”  With a peck on the cheek, he was out the door.

[TQuintA]

Chapter 12

            As soon as I got back from the gym, I called up Zack.  As it turned out, he was free that whole afternoon, and Sammy was stuck at his sister’s house until late.  So, I invited him over for dinner and a hang out.  It felt awkward and needy to invite him over, especially so last minute, but he said a simple, “Sure,” and my afternoon was saved.

            After I gave him a tour of the apartment (he’d only seen the living room at our engagement party) and answered all his questions about the property (the only one that I knew the answer to was, “Do you own or rent?”), we settled into the kitchen for a backgammon grudge match.

            “You sounded so pathetic on the phone,” Zack said during his first turn.  “What did you do for fun before you met me?”

            “Between Mason, work, and the gym, my bases are usually covered.”

            “Oh.”  Zack’s smile dimmed.  “You’re one of those guys,” he added, obviously disappointed.  “Your whole social life is your man.”

            “Not my whole social life,” I demurred.

            Zack put the dice down on the table.  “Name one friend you have that you didn’t meet through Mason and/or you haven’t had sex with.”

            I thought about it.

            “I’ll wait,” Zack said.

            “Does my Gramps count?” I tried.

            “He obviously does not,” Zack moaned.

            I thought about it harder. 

            After twenty seconds of uninterrupted silence, Zack picked up the dice, put them in the board, and closed it shut.  Then, he added, “Thought as much.  Roy, you’re too fun to be one of those guys.  I’m taking you out to dinner and then a bar, and then maybe dancing.  You’re going to make some friends tonight.”  He stood up and beckoned me to stand too.

            “I have to make dinner for Mason,” I protested.  “I promised.”

            “He’s a big boy,” Zack said in an affected baby voice, stretching out his vowels.  “He can survive one night without you making his din-din.”

            I mulled it over for a second.  “There are some leftovers in the fridge he could have.”

            Impatiently, Zack walked around to my chair and did his darnedest to lift me to my feet, but I was too heavy for him.  In his normal voice, he asked, “Do you weigh a thousand pounds or something?”

            “Can I at least leave Mason a note?” I begged.

            Zack pulled harder, to no avail, saying, “Send him a text from the restaurant.”

            “Can we just…”

            He interrupted me.  “No arguments.  We have to motor.  I know you have to be in bed by 5.”

            “8,” I insisted.  “I usually go to bed by 8, but as long as I’m in bed by 10…”

            Zack interrupted me again.  “Not helping your case there, friend-o.”  He clapped loudly and barked, “Vamanos, guapo.  Rápido.”

            “Well, if you’re going to yell at me in Spanish…” I grabbed my phone, wallet, and keys, and we were out the door.

            Dinner was pleasant, until Zack started grilling me.  “Let’s brainstorm so we can make you some new friends.  What hobbies do you have that are separate from Mason?”

            I shrugged.  “Especially now that he’s going to the gym with me, we do everything together.  I don’t really see the point of separate.”  I was resisting saying the word “witchcraft” out loud.

            “All of that’s true of Mason, but he has his own life apart from you.  What makes you different from Mason?”

            Internally, I reminded myself, “Don’t say ‘witchcraft,’” while out loud I said, “I used to lift weights by myself.”

            Zack scoffed.  “Until you converted him into a fellow gym bunny.  You don’t want to be connected at the hip.”

            “What about you and Sammy?”

            Without missing a beat, Zack rattled off, “He’s got the gym, shopping trips, Sunday brunch, and an obsession with community theater I neither share nor understand.  He has a gaggle of friends from the gym, and his sister is his BFF.  I’ve got golf, bars, the batting cages, and salsa dancing.  I have half a dozen guys from work I hang with, and now I have you too.  Having separate interests is an important part of being married, or you grow to resent each other.  I’m trying to ensure the happiness of your future marriage.”

            I shrugged.  “I’m used to having a social circle of one.  I was brough up by my Gramps.  He was kinda my whole life before he moved away.”

            “Aww,” Zack said, tilting his head.  “That’s kinda weird.  Weird, but sweet.”

            “That seems to be the consensus,” I said, nodding.

            “What sorts of things did your Gramps do with you?”

            I swallowed the word “witchcraft” and said, “The old man games that you and I are both into.”

            “There you go.  Join a bocce ball league.”

            “Does this town have one?”

            “Okay,” Zack said, “fair point.  Start a bocce ball league.”

            I shook my head.  “With what free time?”

            Zack scowled, clearly frustrated.  “Let’s try some word association.”

            “Fine.”

            “Just say whatever word first pops into your mind.”

            “I know how word association works.”

            Zack cleared his throat.  “Mason.”

            “Love.”

            “Fun.”

            “Mason.”

            Zack was taken aback by that answer.  “Freedom.”

            “Braveheart.”

            Zack made the time-out gesture.  “Braveheart?” he asked, confusedly.

            “Yeah.  William Wallace.”  After a pause, I pretend-shouted, “Freedom!” in a Scottish accent.

            “Okay.  Time in.”  He thought for a second and said, “Free time.”

            “Sleep.”

            “Dreams.”

            “Mason.”

            “Goals.”

            “Bakery.”

            “You’re an obstinate little fuck,” Zack scolded.

            I flexed my biceps. “I’m an obstinate big fuck.”

            Dismissing me, he continued.  “Pleasure.”

            “Mason.”

            “Joy.”

            “Mason.”  These were easy.

            Zack cocked an eyebrow.  “Gramps.”

            “Witchcraft.”  Fuck!  Did I just say that out loud?

            “Witchcraft?”

            Not making eye contact with Zack, looking down at my plate, I quietly said, “My Gramps is a practicing he-witch.  It’s a thing we do together.”  Now that that cat was out of the bag, the best I could hope for was polite laughter.  If Gramps’s horror stories were anything to gauge by, I might have to start running from a torch-wielding mob.

            Zack said nothing, so I looked up to gauge his reaction.  He had pulled out his phone and was typing wildly.

            “What are you typing?” I asked, the tiniest hint of fear in my voice.

            “I’m looking for local witch groups you can join.”  After a second, he added, “Covens?”  He scrolled through a list.  “There’s nothing at all,” Zack said, manipulating his phone intensely.  “Wait.  Found it.  There’s one, but it was buried in, like, eighteen subfolders—and one of those needed a password to enter.  I guess they don’t want people to find it.  But I’m a persistent s.o.b. who’s not above some harmless hacking.”

            “If it’s that buried…” I interrupted.

            Zack talked on top of me.  “It meets the day after tomorrow.”  He handed me the phone.  “They look very low-key, very private.  Into nature, and all that.  Plus, this meeting is a potluck dinner, so you’ll still be home by sunset in time for bed.”

            “I don’t understand,” was all I could manage.

            “Well, I’m pretty sure Mason’s not a…” Zack stopped to get the words right, “…practicing he-witch, or he would’ve mentioned it to Sammy.  Go to the meeting.  Make some witch friends.”

            I handed Zack his phone back.  His reaction was too good to be true.  “You’re not weirded out by the witch thing?”

            Zack made a dismissive sound.  “Nah.  I can see why you didn’t make it your conversation opener, but it’s not that big a deal to me.”

            “You’re taking this way better than I thought you would.”

            He shrugged.  “Not even Sammy knows this, so mum’s the word, but I get my tarot cards read every New Year’s.  Do I think it’s real?  Not in the slightest, but it helps me prioritize my life and make important decisions.  I’d be a hypocrite if I judged you for praying to trees or whatever it is he-witches do.”

            “Huh.”  Was I being patronized, or was Zack really this cool with my witchcraft?

            “You go to meetings like this to find like-minded people.  People who also believe in witchcraft.”  He waggled his phone at me.  “Should I text you the info?”

            “Sure,” I said.

            And so he did.

            “Now,” he instructed, “text the woman who’s running the thing and ask to come.  I think it said her name was Melanie.”

            “Melody,” I corrected.

            “Good.  Text Melody.  Her number’s on the website.”

            “I will when I get home,” I said. 

            “Text her in front of me.  Tonight’s about my buddy Roy making new friends.”

            I took my time to craft a text message, but before I could send it, he grabbed my phone.  Out loud, he read my text: “Pleasure to meet you, Melody.  Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Roy Whitaker, and I’d like to attend your coven’s potluck if there’s room for one more.  As a baker, I could provide…”  He stopped reading.  “It just goes on like this.”  He looked up at me, “You text like an old man writing a letter with quill and ink.  You don’t even talk like this!”

            “How would you say it?”

            While typing, Zack said, “Hey, Melody!  Heard about the witch potluck.  I’m a witch and a baker.  What can I bring?  Name’s Roy.  Smiley emoji.”  With a flourish, he sent the text.

            “That sounds so much better,” I admitted.

            My phone beeped. Zack asked, “Can you make red velvet cake for twenty?”

            “No problem.”

            Zack texted, “No problem.  See you then.”  He looked at me, “Would a broomstick emoji be too much?”  Before I could answer, he answered himself.  “It’d be too much.  Let’s just do a smiley emoji again.  Send.”

            Melody texted back right away.  He showed me my phone.  “Happy to have you .”  He handed me back my phone, then pat me on the back of the hand.  “I guess a broomstick emoji wasn’t too much.  With that done, let’s hit a bar.”

            I shook my head.  “Bars aren’t really my scene.”

            “Strip club?”

            “Even less my scene,” I responded.

            “I know your taste in men,” he tempted.  “I’ll take you to the one with the beefiest go-go boys.” 

            “No, thank you.  But if you take me salsa dancing, I’ll let you lead.”

            “Deal,” he said.

            I was excited to learn to salsa, but it turned out I was all left feet.  I danced with a whole bunch of new people—all of them nice—but I kept stepping on people, so more often than not, I was partnered with Zack.  He was a trooper, but I fell on top of him four times.

            Just when I was about to suggest we head home, my phone rang.

            “It’s a text from Tank,” I said.  “Will you drive me to the gym?”

            “Sure, but…”

            “My ex is there, looking to start some shit.”  I looked at the time on my phone.  “Mason will be getting there any minute, and if I can’t prevent this, he is going to need me.”

            “Got it,” Zack said.

[TQuintA]

Chapter 13

            When we arrived at the gym, the twunk at the front desk was shocked to see me.  “Twice in one day?”

            “We’re not here to work out,” I said, grabbing Zack’s shirt by the shoulder to indicate he was with me.  “Where is he?”  My voice had an edge to it, intimidating Zack and the receptionist.

            The twunk pointed, and Zack and I followed the finger.  We walked through the crowded gym to find Dalton in the locker room. He was the only person in there.  Usually, there were easily a dozen people in the locker room at any given time, more so at cruising time, but it was just Dalton.  He was scantily clad in a tank top that exposed both his pecs and workout shorts that clung to him and left nothing to the imagination.  Something was up.

            Dalton was all smiles.  “Hey, Roy.  Good to see you.  And you’ve brought a friend.”  He got really close to me.  Inappropriately close.  “Like that’ll stop me.”

            “Dalton,” I said.  “Tank tells me you plan on attacking Mason tonight.”

            Dalton shook his head.  “I told him to tell you that.  I plan on leaving your precious little Fuck Face alone.”

            What?  “Then why did you…?”

            “It’s you I want.  That’s why I cleared out the locker room.”  Dalton began flexing and posing sultrily.  He grabbed my hand, using it to stroke his muscles with the tips of my fingers, tracing every ridge and vein in his arm and chest, lingering in the hairier patches.  He felt hard.  Sweaty.  Vital.  My fingers were lit up in the familiar, yet unfamiliar, feeling of his brawn.  “I’ve been on a new cycle this past month,” he bragged.  “I closed my shop, used that money to buy the best shit I could find.  Dedicated all I had to lifting and getting bigger.”  On the word “bigger,” he went into a most muscular.  Reflexively, my hand grabbed at his pec, but it was just too big for me.  “I know you like your men big.”  He flexed harder.  “Well, I got bigger, stud.”  He flexed even harder.  Dalton did look huge.  Whatever stack he was taking had blown him up—he was easily ten pounds bigger than I’d ever seen him.  Maybe more.  His lips were a little puffy and his gut looked bigger, but he looked good and he looked giant.  He ran his lips along the ridge of my ear, whispering, “Let’s say we fuck in the handicapped stall like we used to.  For old times’ sake.”

            “I’m engaged,” I reminded him, trying to step back, but I couldn’t because he was still holding my hand.

            “Oh, I know,” he said pulling me closer.  “To Fuck Face.”  Letting go of me, he put his hand on the small of my back and slowly inched down towards my ass.  My cock twitched excitedly.  “He can’t satisfy you the way I can.”  With one hand, he twisted a nipple.  With his other hand, Dalton lowered the waist of his workout shorts, flashing me the root of his cock.

            With both his hands occupied, I took my opportunity and snaked out of his grasping range and stepped away.  “As long as you leave Mason alone, I have no problem with you,” I announced, a hitch in my voice and a tent in my pants betraying how turned on I was.  Despite the temptation, I pivoted around.  “Come on, Zack.  Let’s go.”

            With that, I stormed out of the locker room.

            “Are all the men you’ve been with that muscular?” Zack asked as we headed back out.

            “I have a type,” I said.  By the time we got to the front desk, Mason had shown up.  He was in his workout clothes, but he still had an iris in his hair.

            “Roy!” he chirped, running up to me.  “You decided to come with me after all.”

            “Actually, I had no intention of coming,” I admitted.  “But Dalton tricked me here, just to try to seduce me in the locker room.”

            “He probably wanted me to walk in on the two of you together,” Mason said matter-of-factly.  “Giles asked me to meet him in the locker room, for some weird reason.”

            “Roy was unbelievably faithful,” Zack reassured.  “Dalton did not make it easy.”

            “Hey, Zack,” Mason said.  Then, to me, he added, “I expected nothing less from you.”  Cheerily, he added, “Or from Dalton for that matter.”

            “How are you not mad at Dalton?” I asked.

            “He’s just acting out.”

            “He calls you Fuck Face, he tried to punch you, he yells at you all the time, and he just tried to seduce me into cheating on you in front of you.”

            “He’s just acting out,” Mason repeated.

            “His actions are beyond the pale.  We should just…”

            Mason cut me off.  “He’s the injured party.  I stole you from him.  I knew you two had a committed relationship, and I pursued you anyway.  He has every right to hate me.  He had you, and I took you.”

            “It’s been over a year!  There’s a statute of limitations on this sort of thing,” I insisted.

            “He had to see us happy together every time he bought bread, and we just got engaged, which had to reopen the wound.  As soon as he finds a new boyfriend,” Mason said, “he’ll move on.  Until then, be patient.  He’s aggrieved.”

            “You’re too nice,” Zack said.  “If someone treated me or Sammy like that…”

            Mason took the iris out of his hair and tickled my face with it.  “I’m in a good mood.  I had a good day.”  He kissed me, tickling my lips and cheeks with his mustache and stubble.

            “Be careful,” I said, pointing down at my crotch.  “I was faithful, but Dalton got me worked up.”

            From behind me, I heard, “Oh!  You can’t touch me, but you’ll make out with this muscular rando in the middle of the gym.”  It was Dalton.

            “Dalton,” I said, turning around.  In doing so, I unblocked Mason from his view.

            “Fuck Face?” he shouted, almost as an accusation.  Mason was so startled he dropped the flower.  “This buff jock is Fuck Face?”

            Mason nodded with an expressionless face.  “Hi, Dalton.  I can explain.”

            Dalton shook his head violently, getting right up close to Mason, crushing the iris under his foot.  Less than six inches away from him, he started screaming.  “You don’t explain anything!  I just want you to die!  I want you to keel over and die, you fucking worthless Fuck Face!”  He was screaming so loudly everyone in the crowded building could hear him over all the clamor of a busy gym.  Most people stopped what they were doing.  Some stared.

            I stepped in between Mason and Dalton, forcing them apart.  “Keep it down, Dalton.  We’re in public.”

            “Fuck you too, Roy!” he shouted, pushing me to the side.  He locked eyes with Mason and said, “You just get everything you want, don’t you?”  His words dripped acid.  Dalton tore out of the gym before Mason could say another word.

            Zack stood wide-eyed, as did the receptionist and a few of the patrons of the gym.  Everyone else resumed their business, some awkwardly so.

            “You okay?” I asked Mason.  He looked white as a sheet.

            “I feel weird,” Mason said.

            “I don’t blame you.  I’d be a little shaky if someone yelled at me like that.”

            Mason shook his head.  “Not weird like that.  Different weird.”

            “I don’t follow,” I said.

            “Get an egg, now!” he said and raced to the locker room.

            I turned to Zack and said, “Follow Mason.  Make sure the locker room stays empty.”

            “Why does he want an egg?” Zack asked.

            “Zack, follow Mason,” I instructed forcefully.

            “Right.  On it,” Zack said.

            I ran up to the gym’s juice bar.  I’d never gotten any food from there, but it was my best bet.  “Please tell me you have eggs.  I need raw eggs.”

            “Sure,” the guy behind the counter said.  He handed me a carton of eggs from the fridge.

            “Charge my account—Roy Whitaker,” I said, tearing off to the locker room.

            By the time I got there, Mason had already stripped naked and was twitching and convulsing.  His body was moving in erratic jerking motions that practically threw his body parts, only to have them spring back just as jaggedly.  Zack looked like the slightest thing could send him into a blind panic.  “I tried to help him, but he pushed me away.  Then he started taking off his clothes.”

            “It’s so hot in here,” Mason moaned.

            “Should I call an ambulance?” Zack asked.  “The human body shouldn’t move like that.”

            “Wouldn’t help,” I said.  “Keep the door shut,” I instructed him.  I held an egg to Mason’s head, said the counter-curse, and cracked it.  Mason was still twitching and convulsing.

            “What’s going on here?” Zack asked, his voice strained.

            “Witchcraft,” I answered.  “I think Dalton cursed him.”

            “Dalton’s a witch?” Zack cried.

            “If you’re pissed off enough, you don’t have to be,” I explained, worried.

            “I don’t understand anything that’s going on here,” Zack said, a tremor in his voice.  He was clearly concerned about Mason.

            Mason staggered over to one of the showers and scrubbed the egg off his head, twitching inhumanly the whole time.  “I still feel weird.”  He twitched violently.  “The egg didn’t work,” he said, his voice shaking.  The twitching stopped, but Mason held his stomach.  “It’s starting.”  He looked at me helplessly as all the blood rushed from his face.

            “I’ve got you,” I said.  I ran up to him in the shower stall and held him tight against me.  “I’m right here.”

            Quietly, Mason said, “I’m scared.”

[citizenies]

Gah I want more already ~ great work as always can't wait till the next parts

[DawnFire98]

17 hours ago, TQuintA said:

He rubbed his stomach gingerly.  “Even if it means eating an excessive amount of food.  I haven’t been hungry in weeks.  I always feel unpleasantly full, but I’ll bulk with you.”

            “Clean bulk,” I corrected.  “Tank and the mass monsters will mock you if you leave out the word ‘clean.’”

            “Is there a dirty bulk too?” he asked.

            “Most of them are dirty bulkers.”

Just out of curiosity: what is the difference between a "clean" and "dirty" bulk? 

At some time I thought that a clean bulk just entails eating right/sticking to your diet while also eating A LOT, while in a dirty bulk you might not be so strict and have "cheat meals" like burgers, fries or donuts.  

I am neither a bodybuilder nor do I work out regularly (...yet). I just find it fascinating and wanna include it in my stories

[Ro20316]

Looks like Mason is easy to Cursed lol.

Dalton just saw how "Fuck Face" got to be the "perfect" man for his ex. He is incredibly hurt by it.

Things are getting wild and i love it.

[Two]

I am enjoying the slice of life narrative. I do love me some transformation sequences of course, but it's interesting  to explore how a fairly realistic character would go about his daily life afterward.

Regarding the cliffhanger, I'm not too worried. My money is that Dalton inadvertently cursed Roy, not Mason, by saying "You just get everything you want." And one of the things Roy wants is for his partners to be bigger than him...