Going Niche (Complete Story) [Bonus Material Added 8/29/23]

[TQuintA]

Chapter 1

            I don’t know how long the world’s been this way—for decades, maybe centuries, before my grandparents were born, at the very least.  And considering I’m edging closer to my 70^th birthday, that’s saying something. 

            If you’re not lucky enough to have been born into a legacy profession, and any job worth inheriting was legacy, you were pretty much consigned to a life of hardscrabble labor, doing the hard, thankless, mindless drudgery no one else wanted to do, eking a living until your body inevitably gave out. 

            Almost 2/3 of people were born without a legacy, myself included.  It didn’t matter how smart, talented, or capable we were.  Without a legacy, we were nothing.

            For the billions of us without a legacy, there are only two ways to make ourselves a success.  There used to be four, but politics went full legacy when my grandmother was pregnant with my mother, and entertainment professions went full legacy when I was a toddler. 

            One way to become successful without a legacy is to join the military.  Any branch: navy, army, police, air force, etc.  Serve your 50 years, and get a full pension.  Mind you, that’s equivalent to a legacy pension, a pension guaranteed by the government.  No financial woes for the rest of your life, unless you spend like a maniac.  It was written into law to get more recruits.  Most young people balked at the 50-year requirement—recruitment stayed stagnant.  That clearly wasn’t incentive enough, so the Pension Amendment was ratified. Serve 25, get a half-pension.  With some budgeting and careful living, a half-pension is enough for a family of four to live on comfortably, possibly even with some savings for your loved ones to inherit when you die.  That was tantalizing enough to get plenty of new recruits.  Of course, if you serve even one day less than 25 years (such as if you get injured), no pension, and it’s back to the labor forces for you. 

            The other way to become a success is to join a pleasure house.  They are essentially whorehouses attached to entertainment complexes, but those who were beautiful enough to join would live a life of lavish luxury while servicing the guests.  And by servicing, I do mean fucking.  Wanting to increase recruitment there too, much like the military, if you serve your 50 years, you get a full pension.  25 years, half-pension.  And the pension comes from the government, so your house wouldn’t fire you to prevent themselves from being liable for your pension.  And, unlike in the army, as a pleasure worker, you were allowed, even encouraged to collect tips.

            Even though there were pleasure houses filled with pleasure boys, and even though there were pleasure houses staffed with both pleasure boys and pleasure girls, this option was much more popular among women than men.  Men tended to join the military; women tended to join the pleasure houses.  Both could, of course, join either.

            I tried the military at first, like most young men.  I was 18 and thought my intelligence would serve me well and allow me to advance through the ranks.  However, I scrubbed out in basic training because I have terrible aim with a weapon.

            Fortunately, I have always been handsome and athletic.  When I applied to join a pleasure house on my 20^th birthday (after two years in the labor forces), I was smart about it.  I joined one of the bigger pleasure houses that kept a stable of just over 100 men—only men, no women.  This way, I wouldn’t be competing against any women.  Also, I knew they accepted enough men to make it easier to get in, but not so many men that I couldn’t stand out once I did. 

            The day that I applied, I was a taut 170 pounds on my 6’2” frame.  I’d kept up my physique even after leaving the military.  I have a pleasantly prominent jaw, patrician nose, piercing green eyes, and sharp cheek bones.  When I joined, I had thick black hair which I had kept in the military style (because I liked the look), a furry chest and a faint happy trail, but no hair on my back, and only the faintest amount on my perky, inviting ass.  And, of course, blessed with a thick 7.5 inches, I knew my application was a strong one.  With those qualifications, and my willingness to sleep with Tina, the woman who ran the house at the time, I was handily accepted, and the rest was history.

            The way my pledge house ran, ten new boys were accepted as a group each year to replace people who’d been let go or quit over the past year.  It wasn’t an exact science, so sometimes we had as many as 120 boys or as few as 80.  Each group of new recruits was called a pledge class—you were trained as a group, dormed as a group (until private rooms opened up), even named as a group.  It was a universal matter, of course, for pleasure houses to rename its pleasure workers.  That way, they could theme the names, and the clients didn’t have to learn our real names.  Most pleasure houses recycle the same names over and over again.  This way, there’s always a Brad and a Max, etc.  My house, however, would theme the names of its pledge classes.  They did this so that a repeat client could quickly tell how long any particular pleasure boy had been working there.  Everyone accepted in my pledge class was given the name of a river.  I was given the name Nile (because I had the longest dick in my pledge class), and I’ve been Nile ever since.  You could look up what my name was before I came here—it’s a matter of public record—but I’ve been Nile for so long that I don’t care.  I’m the only river remaining; the other two who stuck it out (Colorado and Adige) retired after serving their 25.  I’ve also seen all the deserts, lakes, and so many more go.  The second oldest pleasure boy who still works here is Hawk.  He’s 20 years younger than me, rail thin, an even six feet tall, and constantly changes his hair color to suit his mood.  His role in our hose was the kinky stuff most of us were too afraid to even suggest.  It worked, though.  He’s was the last remaining bird before he served his 25.

            It’s not surprising I’ve seen so many men go. Your house can dismiss you if you lose your looks, if you don’t get enough clients, if you break the rules—if you do basically anything they dislike.  Few people make their 25.  Even fewer make it the full 50, like I plan to. I just have to last thirteen more months, and I get the full pension.

            It takes a lot to survive for decades at a pleasure house.  The luxury all around us makes it tempting to just lie back and take it easy.  If you do that, you get doughy, then no one wants to be your client.  I learned right quick to exercise and take care of myself as if it was my full-time job.  Arguably, it was. 

            Also, as you get older, you have to find new ways to market yourself.  I went from being the new young thing, to a jock type, to an S&M dominant type.  Somewhere around my 40^th birthday, I graduated to the type I still have to this day: big daddy.

            You see, there are resources at the pleasure house to keep you desirable to your clients.  In addition to top-rate gym facilities and the best, healthiest food available to all the pleasure boys, there are also stores on-premises to keep up your appeal: a designer clothing store, a full-service salon, and a well-stocked pharmacy, among others.  The pharmacy is chockablock with supplements, drugs, and other miracle chemicals.  Even surgeries if you get desperate. 

            It’s best not to get greedy, though.  Food, board, and the gym are free as long as you’re a pleasure boy.  Everything else costs.

            The clients don’t pay us for our company; they pay the houses.  The houses justify this arrangement by saying they screen out clients who are diseased, violent, or can’t pay, so they earn their money.  Even without that justification, they would’ve taken all our money anyway.  But, as I said, despite that arrangement, we can collect tips.  It’s against the rules to solicit tips, or even just casually ask for them, but, thankfully, at my pleasure house at least, a tip was considered customary.  Not leaving a tip was a sign of dissatisfaction or contempt.  You don’t ever handle currency yourself, though; the tips go in an external bank account.  It was a common strategy for boys to get as many tips in their bank account as possible to get a nice little nest egg.  Then, they’d quit after five or so years, using that account as a cushion once they re-enter the labor force after a few years of resplendent luxury.  I had a bank account too, but I was playing the long game, aiming for a full pension.  I invested all my tips back into my body.  I spent so much at the on-premises stores that I never really had any savings.  Most of that money was spent at the pharmacy to build up my body.

            By my 25^th birthday, I was a thick, muscular 230.  At my biggest, I was 250.  I usually hovered around 240.  Despite knowing I was gay from the age of 13 (and suspecting it longer than that) I serviced both men and women.  My female clients wanted me big but not too big; they balked when I started getting bigger than professional bodybuilders.  While some of my female clients seemed to love it the bigger I got, most had a threshold of what was erotic.  My male clients never complained; bigger was always better.  Still, the house was operated by a woman, and I had many regular female clients.  So, I never crossed the 250-pound threshold.  Similarly, the main reason I never used the drugs available to me to grow my cock to more than 8 inches was also for the comfort of my female clients.  The drugs were also ridiculously expensive, so most pleasure boys never bought them out of sound economic thinking alone.

            Since my 65^th birthday, I’ve been slimming down some, easing into my retirement.  I can’t get as small as I’d like to while I’m still working, but I’ve been investing more resources into keeping me looking as youthful as I can: hair dyes, skin cream, etc.  I started shaving off all of my chest hair when that started coming in snow white (not grey, but blindingly white).  However, I keep some grey at my temples and wrinkles around my eyes because they hired a daddy, after all.  I also keep plenty of muscle on my frame because they hire me to be their big daddy.  I’m now at a firm 210, the smallest I’ve been in decades, and planning on shaving off another 10 pounds—or even more—by my retirement.  I still have a closet full of clothes for a larger man, but I intentionally wear tight things to make me look bigger than I am.

            Thankfully, I have a roster of regular clients.  I specialize in married couples.  Some have cuckolding fantasies; others want me to fuck both spouses.  I have plenty of solo clients as well.  My most faithful client is also my only age-appropriate client.  He’s a politician, a man I only call Adam.  He’s been my faithful client for 30 years. He’s charming, handsome, and, even at his age, has a reasonably fit body.  He has no real muscle, but he’s an average weight with an average build.  He’s an inch shorter than me but stands like a much taller man.  He has honest, intense blue eyes, shellacked chestnut hair, and a handsome face kept youthful with plastic surgery.  He was my favorite client.  He occasionally brings his husband Edward to our sessions, and I can see why Adam is such a devoted client.  The anemic wimp he married was clearly a marriage of political advantage: Edward was rich as sin, but ugly as a gargoyle and hung tiny as a thumb.  Adam’s tips were always the biggest I got, and his funds have kept me in body-enhancing chemicals and designer clothes the entire time he’s been my client.

            I do admit it was a strain adjusting to the life of a pleasure boy.  Even once you get a private room, you are forbidden from having a personal computer or phone.  Clients could bring their devices to sessions, but you couldn’t have your own.  This prevented you from learning about current events, which was the purpose of the rule.  Additionally, your personal possessions were kept to a bare minimum.  You were allowed to store your own clothes and toiletries, but no decorations or sentimental items to really mark the room as yours. 

            Most viciously, you were only allowed visitors one day a year.  Once a year in early August, the house was given an intense power clean in addition to its regular daily cleanings, and we were all allowed personal visitors on that day from sun-up to sun-down since we couldn’t have clients anyways.  We call it Visitors Day.  Because of this rule, most people lost complete touch with their families and romantic partners.  I, for one, hadn’t had a visitor in decades.  The last one I’d had was a neighbor telling me my parents had died the previous winter. 

            The visitors thing was the hardest, but there were a million other little rules.  I can speak from experience, despite the opulence of the surroundings, it was as strict as the military.  Stricter, in some ways.

            By this point, my days were routine.  After breakfast (6:30 AM sharp; we had all meals together as a house, and snacking between meals was prohibited), we had daily meetings in the morning, usually only lasting ten or fifteen minutes.  The owner of the house would let us know about any construction or maintenance, any specials the house was running, things like that.  The rest of mornings we had to ourselves, so most of the other pleasure boys would use that time to socialize and gossip.  I would normally use that time to work out for a few hours and have a long, leisurely shower.  On rare, special occasions, a boy might have a client before in the morning, but the client had to pay a premium price for it. 

            After lunch, we had our afternoon clients.  There was a fixed one-hour appointment per client, even if the client finished early.  When that happened (and it happened a lot), we were expected to come up with ways to make them feel as if they’d gotten their hours’ worth.  Different boys had different strategies; I tended just to fuck them again and again until the hour was up. 

            We were required to have quick, antiseptic showers between clients—more akin to a hose-down with medicated water than a shower. 

            Then there was dinner, and then our evening clients.  A typical pleasure boy would have 5 or 6 clients a day.  A fully booked one, like me, could easily have 7 or 8.  More if you took couples like I did.  To increase their clientele, some pleasure boys took clients right up until 2 AM, but I was a daddy-type, and daddy needs a good 9 hours every night—10 if I could manage it.  I was in bed by 9 most every night, by 8 if I only had one post-dinner session.  Boys who pushed themselves too hard usually burnt out in a year. 

            If we didn’t have clients during work hours or if our clients cancelled, that was essentially free time.  The same schedule, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year, no holidays except for Visitors Day.

            Once I passed year 48, I thought it was going to be an easy slide into serving my 50, but then my world turned sideways. 

            I was leaving breakfast when Onyx (the new pledge class was all rocks and minerals) ran up to me.  Despite only being 21, Onyx was my buddy.  He’d been around for under a year, but I was his friend from day one.  I was the one who showed him around our pleasure house.  Like a casino-hotel, it had private suites, a restaurant (we could only use these when accompanied by clients, and we couldn’t order any food), an auditorium, and entertainment venues (for the clients who didn’t just want to fuck, not for us).  Clients paid to be serviced, so there was a lot to take in.  I almost never took clients to these services, but different guys had different roles.  Some pretended to be clients’ lovers, boyfriends, or even husbands; I was usually my clients’ dirty little secret.

            I liked Onyx right away because, unlike most of the guys who joined a pleasure house, Onyx wanted to serve his 25, maybe even his 50.  He was just a bit taller than me, had dazzling brown eyes, and hair as black and as thick as mine had been when I started (it’s how he got his name).  Unlike me, his dick was just under 6 inches.  I could tell he was good with it, but it was average in its dimensions.  Like I had once done, he too was thickening up with muscle mass to become a jock type when he was no longer new enough to be the new boy.  He saw me as an aspirational figure, and I saw him as a younger version of me.  He was currently a respectable 165 pounds of proto-jock.  He had the body—including a set of insane cum gutters.  However, he hadn’t quite mastered the attitude yet—he was still relying on his boyish charms with his clients.  He was also smart enough to cozy up to Tony.  The boss of our house, the owner, was a woman in her early 60s named Vera.  Tony was Vera’s son.  So, becoming Tony’s favorite was a smart move because he’d be running things one day.  So, he wasn’t just a pretty face; there was substance there too.

            I liked Onyx so much that I taught him the most important skill he’d need to be a high-performing pleasure boy.  It’s an open secret that really experienced pleasure boys had a technique, sometimes called “faking an orgasm.”  It wasn’t just moaning and writhing in pretend ecstasy.  Clients, especially male clients, typically wanted the fireworks of ejaculation.  Faking an orgasm was an actual orgasm; you can’t simulate ejaculation without props or movie magic.  However, our clients had nothing to do with a fake orgasm.  Those of us who have learned to fake it can bring ourselves to climax quickly through mental discipline and practice—without even any stimulation to our cocks or prostates.  Dedicated regular clients can tell the difference, but especially for one-off sessions, faking it makes the clients feel like they have more sexual prowess than they actually do.

            I passed down the skill to pleasure boys I thought would go far.  And I knew Onyx would go far, so I taught him right away.

            On this particular day, the day my tidy little plan to coast into retirement imploded, Onyx was nervous and excited.  “Nile!” he shouted, running up to me.  “Have you heard?  We’re going niche.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 2

            “Going niche” is what pleasure workers call it when a larger house changes to a specific, narrow demographic tactic: they become a smaller house with fewer workers, and they cater to a specific fetish or kink.  Most pleasure houses that go niche are staffed by 10 or fewer pleasure workers.  Because they have fewer, more distinct workers, the house could charge ten times as much for a session—even more if the kink involved some sort of danger, body modification, or specialized skill.  With fewer workers to tend to, you also needed less staff (janitors, cooks, and the like) to keep the house running, so the profits in going niche were, sadly, too tempting for most house owners to ignore.  According to Vera, most owners would rather own two niche houses than ten mainstream ones.

            I’d thought about applying to a niche house when I first started; the tips were rumored to be better.  I did some broad, general research, but I only deeply considered applying to one niche house that was themed around orgies: clients had to hire a minimum of two workers to get an appointment.  Other niches at the all-male houses that I’d given a cursory look were things like heavy-duty leather gear, latex and rubber, extreme piercings and tattoos (and similar body mods).  I understood the appeal, but a mainstream house allowed for more employees and more diversity, so I’d intentionally sought out a mainstream one.  Besides, most, but not all, of the things niche houses offered could be done at a mainstream house.  They didn’t specialize in them, so it was a crap shoot whether or not the pleasure worker was any good at it.  Also, the client might have to supply their own props and costumes.  Thus, the appeal of the niche house to the client.

            “What makes you think we’re going niche?” I asked.

            “Tony told me,” Onyx explained.

            “He really likes breaking in the new guys,” I said.  I’d never had the privilege of Tony’s company because he was currently in his late 30s.  I was well into my daddy days by the time he was old enough to sample the merchandise, and he favored the newbies.  The younger, the better.

            “While we were spooning, Tony said that Vera was giving him this house as part of his legacy.  It’s his to do with as he sees fit.”

            I hated it when the houses changed hands.  When Vera took over 30 years ago, she re-staffed about half the boys.  Since her mother Tina was the woman who personally hired me, I thought I wasn’t going to make my 25.  Vera, though, had the same taste in men as her mother, so I was able to secure my position. 

            I had no such sway with Tony. 

            I wouldn’t have minded taking a spin with him, either.  He was a vain son of a bitch with overly coiffed blond hair, a politician’s smile, pale brown eyes, extremely soft-looking skin, and a decent build.  However, I’d been too old for his tastes his whole life.

            “What’s our niche going to be?” I asked expectantly.

            “He didn’t say.  He’ll tell us at the morning meeting.”  Onyx sighed, breathing heavily.  “I’m worried, Nile.”

            “You shouldn’t be, kid.  You’re his regular pleasure boy.  You’re safe.”  That cheered Onyx up completely.  Then I said my biggest fear out loud: “I, however, am likely to be fired inches from serving my 50.”

            “You’re one of the most popular boys in the house,” Onyx said, trying to encourage me.  “You’ll be fine.”

            “I’m almost 70,” I reminded him.  “That’s 900 in pleasure boy years.”

            “You’re always booked up solid,” Onyx continued.  “And you look 40.  A hot 40.”

            “That’s 500 in pleasure boy years.  Either way, I’m a fossil, and Tony likes his boys young.”  I feared Tony’s penchant for newbies would mean our niche was going to become “doesn’t look old enough to be legal.”  Anyone trying to earn their 25 would have to submit themselves to extreme surgeries to survive. 

            Doing my best not to go into the meeting defeated, Onyx and I took our seats in the auditorium as Tony took his position behind the podium onstage.

            “I’m sure most have you have heard, but as of today, I am the new owner.”

            There was a smattering of insincere applause.

            “Also, the rumor is true.  We’re going niche.  We’re going to become a house of 10, which means 95 of you will soon need to find work elsewhere.”

            “What’s the niche?” Hawk shouted from his seat.  I could tell from his voice he was just as nervous as I was.

            “Soon enough,” Tony said, ignoring his question.  “I should start by saying, from now on, this house is only taking male clients.  My market research has shown that niche houses can charge more if they arbitrarily limit their client base.  It makes the experience feel more exclusive.  One of my other pleasure houses will only be taking female clients, and all of my other niche houses have similarly arbitrary clientele restrictions.  My general houses will still take female clients.  During our transition, we’ll honor the appointments already made by women, and you can continue seeing your regular female clients until we find a better fit for them at another one of my houses.  If you’re not interested in all-male clientele, you should leave now.”

            Two boys (from the stone pledge class) in the back row got up and left.

            “Good,” Tony said, pleased how many men stayed.  “So, our niche is going to be…”  He did a drumroll on the podium to ratchet up suspense.  “Big.”

            “Big?” Onyx asked quietly.

            Tony continued.  “Big cock.  Big muscle.  Big men.  If I could make you all taller, I would.”  The audience remained silent.  “As a fan of big myself, I was shocked—shocked—that there are only eight niche houses on the planet specializing in big, and the nearest one is over 2,000 miles away.  I thought it would be the most popular niche, but I was wrong.  There’s a hole in the market, and I’m going to fill it.”

            Big?  I was one of the biggest guys in the house.  My role was big daddy.  I stood a chance of surviving this cull after all.

            A stone, I think his name was Mica, stood up.  He was this thin, spindly thing.  A twink, a waif, a cherubic little nothing.  I could see the fear in his eyes.  “Are you just going to fire the 95 smallest of us, then?”

            “Of course not,” Tony said.  “It’ll take several months, maybe a year, to fully go niche.  There’s construction to do, advertising, so on, and so forth.  In that time, everyone will get their chances to get big.  I honestly don’t know which are the ten of you who will make the final cut.  I need to factor in variables like growth potential, popularity among the guests, sexual stamina, commitment to the new niche, etc., etc., etc.”

            A murmur of assent and appreciation rippled through the audience.

            “It’ll be a contest.  I only want to keep the best, and the gimmick of a contest will drum up interest and attention as we convert.  Plus, it’ll amuse me, and I am the owner.  The contest will have four rounds.  Each round will last two months, with a brief break of a day or two between each round. Every round has its own rules, announced at the beginning of that round.  60 men will keep their jobs after the first round, 30 will stay after the second round, 15 after the third, and the 10 who make it past the fourth round will be our new permanent staff.”

            Five more men, including Mica, left the auditorium.

            “We’re already down to 98.”  He smiled broadly and added, “The rules of the first round, which starts today, are simple.  Put on 20 pounds of muscle.  The first 60 men to put on 20 pounds of muscle will move on to the second round.”  As an afterthought, he added, “Oh, and don’t think you can cheat or massage your numbers.  We know your current weights and body comps because of last week’s check-ups.  If your body fat is over 15% at the end of the first round, you will be immediately dismissed.”

            “20 pounds in two months?” a voice cried out in protest.  “That’s impossible!”

            “If you can’t put on 20 pounds in two months with all the chemicals in our pharmacy, you’re not going to be successful here once we’ve gone niche.  And before you balk at the prices of the drugs and supplements, that’s what tips are for.  Just ask Nile.”  Great.  He singled me out.

            The rest of the meeting went on as normal, but I was tuning out everything.

            After the meeting, I followed Tony to his personal office.  When he saw me behind him, he said, “I expected this.  Come in.  Sit down.  We’ll talk.”

            “This is ridiculously unfair,” I protested.

            “Yes, it is.  That’s the whole point.  I only want a certain type of pleasure boy in this house, and those that don’t or can’t make the cut have to go.”

            “But you’ve seriously disadvantaged a bunch of guys.”  I tried to think of an example that wasn’t me.  The first one I could think of was an adorable but overweight stone.  He was charming and friendly, but he was a bit chunky for a pleasure boy.  He’d do.  “Like Slate, and the few other chubby guys.”

            “You’re right.  I really doubt they’ll make the cut.  I don’t want them to make the cut.”

            “Then just fire them.  Don’t dangle a glimmer of unfair hope just to snatch it from them.”

            “If they make the cut, they make the cut.  If guys like Slate trim the fat and pack on the muscle, I’m more than happy to keep them.  I’d actually be delighted if a guy got seriously jacked just to spite me.  It would please me.”

            “You don’t have to deprive them of their livelihoods.  You could always just reshuffle the boys you don’t want here to one of your general houses that’s less strict.   Most pleasure boys quit or are dismissed within five years, anyway.  Just do a hiring freeze until the numbers stabilize.”

            “All of my general houses are fully staffed.”  Tony shook his head.  “Just say what this is really about.  I know you don’t give two figs about Slate, or anyone else for that matter.”

            I sighed.  He was going to make me say it.  “You know I’m coming up on my 50.”

            “To be precise, this contest ends about five months shy of your 50,” he said unctuously.

            “This contest you’ve set up is unfair to me.  I’m an old man.  Right now my role is to be the big guy.  Most of your boys can rely on their youth to get customers.  If these young bucks start getting bigger, they’ll get bigger than me, faster than I could.  I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up!”

            Tony looked at me, shocked.

            I continued.  “I’ve been one of this house’s top earners for decades.  Are you really going to do that to me after all the money I made your mother and grandmother?  Money you benefited from and will inherit?”

            “I’m surprised by your attitude,” Tony said, a mixture of confusion and disappointment coloring his face.  “I thought you were going to try to seduce me to get a leg up on the competition.  It wouldn’t have worked—I like my men young.  But I thought you at least respected me enough to try.”  Redirecting his thoughts, Tony added, “You’re a persistent coot who’s proven his worth and resilience over decades.  I expect you to make the cut, Nile.  I have no doubts you’ll be in my top 10.  I don’t know who the other 9 will be, but I’m positive you’ll be one of the 10.”

            “If you’re so certain, why make me do this contest?”  I was frustrated, but keeping my cool because he was, after all, my boss.  “My decades of superior service should’ve garnered me some special privileges by now.”

            Tony groaned, unhappy with my resistance.  “You’re a role model around here, even for the boys who’ve got one foot out the door.  If you don’t compete, they don’t compete.  So I’ve got to make you compete.”

            “Doesn’t that give me an incentive not to compete?” I asked, flexing my still sizable, if diminished, bicep.  “If they don’t compete, they don’t get bigger.  I’m easily one of your ten biggest guys right now.”

            Tony fumed silently.  “Since I need you to compete, I’ll make you a deal.  Make it to the third round.”  He paused, for emphasis.  “Just make it to the third round.  If you make it to the third round, I’ll keep you around as an 11^th guy until you’ve served your 50.  Consider it a grandfather clause.” 

            He hit the word “grandfather” so hard that I knew it was a dig at my age, as I had had sex with his grandmother almost 50 years ago, but I didn’t engage.

            He nodded conciliatorily, then asked, “Deal?”

            “If you’ll offer that deal, why not just keep me around for the thirteen months, no strings?  I bring in a lot of new customers, and I have a bevy of faithful regulars.  Consider it an emeritus position.  I’m not asking to coast.  I’ll still earn for this house.”

            Tony contemplated and then said, “Compared to the guys we’ve got now, you’re big, but you’re not as big as you once were, and you’re definitely not big enough.  And I strongly suspect that if you make it to the third round, the fighter inside you will want to compete in the third and fourth rounds.”  He raised his eyebrows, then said, “How about this?  If you make it to the third round, I guarantee you serve your 50.  If you make it through the fourth round as one of the last ten standing, like I know you can, I guarantee you serve your 50 and a double pension.”

            Double pension?

            “Do you have those funds?” I asked, practically salivating at the thought.

            “I’ve got buddies in government.  I can do some favors, especially if you do some favors.”

            I offered him my hand to shake.  Before he could change his mind, I emphatically stated, “Deal.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 3

            I left Tony’s office to find Onyx waiting for me.  “A lot of the guys are talking.  They don’t want to compete.”

            “Good,” I said flatly.  “That will give us an advantage.”

            “Us?” he asked.

            “You can maintain a fit body all by yourself.  But, you want to get bigger, especially in a place like this?  Get an accountability buddy.  Colorado retired after his 25, and I thought I’d never need a new one, so I’m on the market.  You help me get big; I help you get big.”  As I was talking, I steered us past the throng of disgruntled pleasure boys waiting in the guest lobby into the part of the house only pleasure boys and other employees could enter.

            “How could I possibly help you?”

            I put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Motivation, mostly.  I’m an old man.  I don’t want to put my body through this again.  Give me words of encouragement.  Praise me when I do a big lift.  Compliment me on my size.  Stroke my ego.”

            “Is that it?  I’m an emotional support animal?”

            “You’re also Tony’s favorite,” I reminded him, “so helping you get big is currying favor with the boss.”

            “Ah,” Onyx said, slightly saddened by that reality.

            “Figure I should be up front and honest.”

            “So, this is just about getting in good with Tony.  All I contribute to the situation is words of encouragement and Tony.”

            “If you’re really worried about how you’ll pay me back, don’t.  There are plenty of chores.  I need a spotter.  I need someone to keep me on my diet.  I need a regular off-hours fuck.  Agree to be my accountability buddy, we will keep each other busy.”

            We had reached our destination: the pharmacy.  “If you don’t agree to be my partner, I won’t show you the stack you’ll need.”

            “I’ll be your partner,” he said.

            We walked in, and I was delighted that there were no other pleasure boys currently shopping so I could talk freely.  We walked around with a basket like it was a grocery store.  I showed him the hormones, drugs, supplements, and other paraphernalia he’d need.  I also explained the dosages—my proprietary blend—assuring him we’d tweak the dosages each week as we saw how his body reacted.

            I pointed to a purple container that looked like a beer can.  “Hear me well, young Onyx.”  I picked up the can.  “This is only to be used in emergencies, and never more than one can.  While this junk flows through your veins, you’ll burn fat easily and pack on muscle ridiculously fast, easily five extra pounds in a week.  But it’s a Faustian bargain.  Your muscles will look fake and inflated, like helium balloons.  Also, the side effects while you’re on it are not fun.  Your body temperature raises so you’re always flushed and sweating.  Your voice will get a high-pitched metallic whine to it.  Your body odor will take on a rubbery, sulfuric smell.  And once you stop using it, even after just one can, there are withdrawal symptoms: headaches and tremors chief among them.  Then, if you abused this shit, the second you stop taking it, your muscles will deflate, you’ll likely lose all of the muscle practically overnight, and you’ll replace it with the bad kind of weight.  You’ll end up putting on at least one pound of fat for every pound of muscle you gained.  And while a few pounds of fat can look pleasant on the right physique, this is some unsightly, lumpy, disproportionate fat.  To make matters worse, this fat is stubborn and extremely challenging to burn off.  With drawbacks like that, most guys feel like they can't stop taking it once they start taking it, just to maintain.  And so the house raises the prices—for you and you alone.  After you’re dependent on the stuff, each can will cost significantly more than the one before it.  It’s a scam.  Once you’re hooked on the purple stuff, they milk you for every dollar they can, and then kick you to the curb when you can’t afford any more.  Because the side effects make you repellent to the clients, you’ll run out of money right quick.  And if you get hooked on this shit and then stop taking it, once it’s finally out of your system, all the withdrawal symptoms are worse.  I’ve petitioned them to stop selling it, but they won’t.”

            “Got it,” Onyx said.

            “For long-term success, these two are the most important,” I said, picking up two small vials, one filled with a sickly green liquid, and one filled with a viscous yellow oil.  “These are cutting edge.  As far as I’m aware, you can only legally get them in pleasure house pharmacies or from a doctor if you have an athletic legacy.  If you’re ever low on funds…”

            “Low on funds?”

            “You’re my buddy, not my personal pleasure boy.  You’ll have to buy these things yourself out of your own tips.”

            Onyx nodded, seeing the logic in that.

            “If you’re ever low on funds, don’t skip these two.  The others, you can miss the occasional dose, but not these two.”  I threw the vials in his basket.  “Also, stick to the dosages I recommend.  Especially with the yellow and green, increasing the dosage willy-nilly won’t make you bigger faster, but missing out on them will keep you small.”  I looked around the shelves to see if there were any new and interesting products.  There weren’t.  “If you throw the pharmacist a freebie once in a while,” I said, pointing to a meek, diffident, handsome, yet overweight, man in the corner, “he’ll usually give you a 10% discount.  At least, he does for me.”  I looked at the pharmacist.  “Give my buddy the hook up, runt!” I barked at the pharmacist, shoving his face in my right armpit.

            “I hope he’s as good as you,” the pharmacist replied, his cheeks reddening at the prospect of a new sex partner.

            I let the pharmacist go and shook Onyx’s shoulder in approval.  “That’s on you, kid.  He likes being humiliated and insulted, especially about the size of his tiny, tiny dick.”  I gestured to the armful of supplies Onyx held.  “Do you have enough money to get this batch?” I asked.

            Onyx responded, “I think so.”  We walked to the check out, and Onyx asked, “Aren’t you getting anything?”

            I looked around to make sure it was still only the three of us in the pharmacy, then said, “I guess I’ll show you my trick.”  I lifted my left arm, my bicep flexing and thickening, to expose the mole on the inside of my underarm, usually kept hidden between my arm and pec.  “See this?”

            Onyx nodded.

            I peeled it off, revealing the metal port underneath.  “It’s not actually a mole.  When middle age started to creep in, I had a hormonal regulator installed.”  I pointed to the hairy, hollow cavern of my armpit.  “It’s a quick outpatient procedure.  In and out in an hour.  They do it here, in the pharmacy, implanting it with this gun thing.  The regulator is deep in here, under my pec meat,” I said, squeezing my shaven, muscular pec.  “Clients don’t notice unless I point it out.  It’s about the size of a bottle of nail polish.  Once a fortnight, I have this bitch,” I pointed to the pharmacist, “refill it through this port with a concentrated version of everything I need, and it releases a steady stream of supplements and hormones at the appropriate levels over the next 14 days.  My testosterone, and everything else for that matter, is at the same level now that it was when I was 21.  I made sure of it.  Didn’t you wonder how I looked like I was in my late 40s with a big, muscular body?”

            Onyx shrugged, saying, “I thought it was just good genetics.”

            “Those help too,” I admitted.  “The rest is better living through chemistry.”  I put the mole back and put my arm down.  I turned to the pharmacist.  “I’ll be back later.  You will drop everything and reprogram my implant and crank everything up to overdrive the second I do.  Figure out my dosages before I come back, micro- dick.  If you’re a good little runt bitch, I’ll let you smell my asshole.  And if you’re really good, I’ll let you lick it.”

            Gleefully, the pharmacist nodded at my demands.  He then handed Onyx his purchases in a discreet cardboard box.

            As we left the pharmacy, Onyx asked, “He didn’t have a name tag.  What’s the pharmacist’s name?”

            “I haven’t the foggiest,” I acknowledged.

            For a moment, he thought about the exchange I’d had with the pharmacist, and then asked, “We can sleep with the staff?”

            “You aren’t sleeping with staff yet?” I responded, surprised.  “I know you’ve been here less than a year, but most guys figure out that trick without being told.  I fuck the head of laundry to get the best bedding and towels, I eat out one of the janitors to make sure my room is always spotless, I blow my stylist at the salon to get first pick at hair appointments, and I give handjobs to the clerk at the clothing store to get a discount.”

            “It’s not against the rules?”

            I shook my head dismissively.  “It’s actually kind of encouraged.  The staff consider us perks of their jobs.”

            Because he was Tony’s favorite, Onyx already had a private room.  When we got back to his room, I showed him how to measure out his doses and properly inject the ones that needed to be injected, emphasizing to only take them once every 24 hours, or he’d overdose.

            “You have to build up a tolerance to this stuff before we can increase the dosages,” I said, offering him the tablets I’d carefully counted out.  “If you don’t, you could easily hurt yourself.  And if you don’t, you’re just wasting money.  If your body chemistry is anything like mine, and I suspect it is, it should take about a week for your system to adapt.  Then, we can up your doses.”

            He eagerly swallowed the small handful of pills and then dropped his pants, exposing his nicely muscular thighs and pert, round, hairless ass.  Cutely, he covered his cock with his left hand and his balls with his right.  How had he kept a sense of modesty after working as a pleasure boy all these months?  “You seem pretty skilled and knowledgeable for someone who doesn’t have to do this to himself,” he commented.

            I swabbed his ass cheek with an alcohol wipe, enjoying the firmness of his ass flesh.  I clarified, “I don’t have to do this to myself anymore.  Colorado and I used to do this all the time.  I didn’t always have a willing slave in the pharmacy.”  I injected him quickly, without even warning him.

            He gasped, more in shock than pain.

            “Always end with the yellow one,” I instructed as I moved on to the next shot.  “Once we’re done pinning you, we’ll have a quick fuck, and then we’ll go do our workout.”

            “Is the quick fuck necessary, Nile?” he asked as I stuck him with the next injection.  “It’s not that I don’t think you’re hot.  It’s just, I have two clients this afternoon, two more after dinner.  And one of them always wants three or four goes in his hour.  And, according to you, I should be fucking the staff too.  I’ll have nothing left.”

            “Trust me,” I said, moving to the second-to-last injection.  “I have four clients before dinner and two more after dinner.  Once the yellow gets into your system, seven ejaculations in one day won’t be enough.”

            “What?”

            “Among its many desirable side effects,” I said, jabbing him and moving on to measure the yellow, “your sperm production and sex drive will go through the roof.  And the ramped up sex drive,” I said, showing him the syringe full of yellow oil, “is almost instantaneous.” 

            I stuck him, and he moaned.

            “Shit, man,” he said, and as I put the drugs away.  By the time I had them all squared away on a shelf in his bathroom, he was looking at me pleadingly, his eyes with a filmy glaze over them.  He had removed both hands from his genitals and was stroking his own mildly hairy, toned chest.  His cock had thickened and lengthened, a throbbing, girthy, twitching, engorging mass of cock, the tip flaring out and leaking.  I’d never seen him so hard.  He was likely just over six inches now.  And I don’t know if it was the yellow or if I’d just never seen him this excited, but I didn’t realize just how thick his erection was.  Plump and powerful.  “I need to fuck you,” he said, the tremor in his voice betraying just how desperate he was.

            “Of course,” I said matter-of-factly, applying lube to his cock and lowering my pants to expose my own ass.

            I wanted to ask, “Any preferred positions?”  But the second there was no fabric barrier hiding my asshole, he tackled me.  We tumbled to the floor, his cock impaling me to its hilt.  He was, indeed, a thick motherfucker.  I was used to taking clients up my ass, but most of them had pathetic, minuscule dicks.  Colorado and I had been fuckbuddies, but Colorado was known more for his dense, squat, muscular frame and his suave, romantic charm.  His cock was serviceable but just-above-average.  (Though I could attest, he knew how to use it deftly.) 

            Onyx was the thickest thing I’d ever taken.  I’d taken longer as some clients enjoy toys, but with the exception of a butt plug, I’d never taken thicker.  And that butt plug had been a snub, stout little thing, barely three inches long.  Onyx was impressively thick along his whole length.

            While I enjoyed the plush sensation of his carpet scraping my nipples, Onyx jackhammered away without any concern for my comfort or needs.

            My prostate sang hymns of ecstasy each time he passed it, and my asshole tingled and vibrated with its intense stretching.

            Onyx pounded harder and harder.  He was enthusiastically thrusting like a piston—a mindless fuckmachine. 

            When I felt his rhythm become erratic, I knew he was close, so I increased the pressure on his cock, tightening my grip around his fat pole to stir myself on to my own pleasure.

            He groaned in orgasm, releasing his hot seed deep inside of me, the flaring tip of his already large cockhead being just enough stimulation to send me over the edge of my own climax.  My body tingled in familiar euphoria.

            As we both came down from our orgasms, he rolled off me and began panting.

            “That was intense,” he managed, still gasping for air, absentmindedly rubbing his balls.  “I can still feel the yellow junk inside me.”

            “It’ll do that,” I said, rolling on my side, showing off my shiny, cleanly shaven pecs and six-pack abs, as well as my still dripping cock.

            “You have this shit inside you all the time?” he asked, fascinated.

            “Steady stream for almost thirty years,” I admitted.  “At a higher dose than you.  You get used to it.”

            “No wonder you’re one of our biggest earners.”  His breathing was returning to normal.

            As he finished recuperating, I informed him, “It’s the house’s best kept secret.  No one buys the yellow stuff because it has an unassuming name.  Methylhexadecaphosphate or some such nonsense.  If it had a better name, or, better yet, a brand name, the pharmacy wouldn’t be able to keep it in stock.  When I first started here, my most loyal client was a legacy bodybuilder.  He turned me on to it and got our house to buy some so he could watch me blow up—he got sexual gratification seeing me bigger each and every week, getting off on the fact that I was altering my body for him.  The house has stocked the yellow stuff ever since, but I’m the only one who ever buys it.”

            Onyx stood and pulled up his pants, but his cock stayed half-chubbed, as I expected it would for the rest of the day.  “I’m ready for my workout now.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 4

            Onyx and I put each other through our paces.  I was far from my personal bests, as I was 40 pounds lighter than my beefiest, but powered by his first dose of yellow, Onyx shattered all of his records.  And seeing him go for glory had me go for broke.  True to his promise, he motivated me, shouting the praise and admiration I needed to power through a grueling session.  I was almost fifty pounds bigger than the boy, so relatively light weights for me were impressive weights for him.  Still, his glowing words had me going strong, revving me up to lift even bigger.  At different points during our workout, Onyx and I each had hard cocks.

            An hour later, we were drenched in sweat, our muscles sore and pumped.  Even after just one intense workout, Onyx looked well on his way to swole, and I felt bigger.  When we left the gym to shower (I only had time for a quick one, sadly) before lunch and afternoon clients, a throng of other pleasure boys saw us leave.  We were looking thick—my workout clothes clinging to my body from sweat and the fullness of my physique.  They stared.

            “Nile’s taking this seriously,” Krakatoa said (last year’s pledge class had been volcanoes).  Krakatoa was an athletic type with sandy blond hair, solid arms, and a tall frame—a head taller than me.  I could tell he wore contacts in his hazel eyes, and he had the most adorable freckles on his nose.  He then made a beeline for the gym. 

            But Pelée stopped him.  “You really gonna let some mama’s boy who’s run this place for exactly one day tell you how to live your life?  What to do with your tips?”  Pelée, despite being 5’7” (short for a pleasure boy), saw himself as the boss of his pledge class.  He was short but stocky, rugged but handsome.  He had fiery red hair (neon red; he dyed it), and he bragged about being thuggish and even somewhat violent with his clients (never hurting anyone, breaking the rules, or crossing a line of good taste).

            Krakatoa shook his head.  “Tony’s got nothing to do with this.  I’m not going to let an old man show me up.”

            “How old is Nile?” Slate asked.  Slate was the guy I’d name-checked in Tony’s office.  He was as tall as me, but chubby.  He aimed to look “normal.”  His brown hair, brown eyes, and friendly face reinforced that.  He specialized in the boyfriend experience.

            “68,” I said, flexing my left bicep by my head.  “Turning 69 in a month,” I added, bringing my right arm down to show off the thickness of my chest, the narrowness of my waist, and my overall vascularity.  I was so much bigger than these little boys, and they could only guess how much bigger I was going to get.

            “You should’ve seen him in his heyday.” Hawk said.  “He was a beast.  Easily 20 pounds more than this.”

            “40,” I corrected.

            The smaller boys in the crowd gasped.

            Onyx joined in my flexing.  “He’s still a beast.  He lifted more than me with every exercise, and I was lifting heavier than ever.  He benched nearly twice what I did.”  Onyx was exaggerating a little about my bench, but I did ask him to fluff my ego, and it wouldn’t be long until I was benching twice what these children could do.

            “Come on, Pelée,” Krakatoa moaned.  “What’s the harm?  Worse comes to worst, we get buff before we get fired?  That’ll help us find jobs that require heavy lifting.  Besides, do you really want an old fogey making you look like a tiny wimp?”

            The boys in the hall looked from Onyx to me, back to Onyx, back to me, and rushed into the gym, except Pelée who went back to the lobby.
            Onyx and I went back to our respective rooms.  I showered, basking in the pleasant feeling of the hot water cascading over my swollen, taxed muscles.  While I hadn’t missed the feeling of lactic acid filling my body, and while I was dreading the stiffness I would inevitably feel tomorrow, I loved this current feeling—I had missed this feeling.  I wish I had time for my normally long, self-indulgent shower, but setting Onyx on the path to bigness had eaten up a big chunk of my time.

            I dressed in my tightest outfit.  It was a pale blue shirt with white pants, and clearly made for a smaller man.  I had purchased the clothes for when I slimmed down to 200, and I figured this might be the only time I could squeeze into them for the foreseeable future.  It also served as delightful psychological warfare against the smaller boys in the house. 

            Once dressed, I went to get lunch.  I had expected Onyx to get there at the same time I did, but I had to wait for him ten minutes.

            “You could’ve gone in without me,” he said jocularly.  “Just because we’re buddies doesn’t mean we have to be attached at the hip.”

            “I need to show you how to eat, and I need you to keep me honest during my meal.”

            “Sorry I’m late, then,” he said, as we stepped in together.  “I needed a spank break.  I let a janitor watch me.”

            I nodded knowingly.  I told him what sorts of foods to get, and then had him load up his tray.  He came back with what he thought was a lot of food, and then I said, “Double it.”

            “Double it?” he asked, agog.

            “We’re eating to grow.  That takes more food.  And the laws of thermodynamics are against us.    If we didn’t have such highly regulated days in the pleasure house, we’d be eating five or six meals a day.  As things are, we have to do it in three.  We’ll supplement with protein shakes because we can drink between meals, but that’s already a grey area Tony might eradicate as a cost-saving measure.”

            Onyx’s eyes grew wide at the notion of eating six large meals’ worth of food in three meals. 

            “Don’t worry,” I reassured him.  “You get used to it.  Besides, with all the energy you’ve burnt and the chemicals coursing through your veins, you’ll be surprised how much your young stomach can pack away.”

            Obediently, Onyx went back and doubled his order.  I similarly came back to our table with a mountain of food.  I knew it was all wholesome food, but the pile in front of me was intimidating—I was out of practice, I had an old man’s stomach, and I hadn’t upped my doses of any of the chemicals in my regulator yet.

            When I was only halfway through my meal, my gut felt uncomfortably full.

            Onyx (also halfway through his meal) saw me running out of steam, so he looked up at me and said, “Don’t punk out on me, old man.  Not on day one.”

            I was regretting my choice of a tight shirt as it constricted my expanding, full stomach.

            To encourage me to eat more, Onyx tried a different tack: “Whoever finishes first gets to top the next time we fuck.”  He then shot me a devilish smile, urging me on.

            With that goading, I finished the meal.  Onyx had won his turn as top, but I finished every last molecule of food on my plate.

            “I might have to add an appetite stimulant to my stack,” I said to Onyx quietly, patting my overfull, distended belly.  “We need to meet in two hours for protein shakes, and I don’t think I’ll have any room for mine.”

            “Don’t worry, Nile,” he said kindly.  “When the muscle starts piling on, it will all have been worth it.”  Onyx had a little belly too, but he was better able to conceal it and suck it in.

            I laughed politely.  “Still, I think I’m going to alter my stack just the same.  I’m so stuffed, and I have seven clients today.  They’re not paying for a pillow princess.”

            Luckily, as a big daddy-type, the appearance of a little bit of a gut could enhance the fantasy.  The first client, a new customer, was evidence of this.  He worshipped my gut—it was hard, full, and obviously would shrink down to a tight six-pack after I finished digesting.  The client said it looked like a little beer belly.  I don’t think he’d ever seen an actual beer belly.  He was so excited by my gut he said he’d book regular appointments with me after lunch or dinner, just to see me stuffed to the gills.  It would have hurt his pretending to tell him I was full of mostly steamed broccoli and skinless chicken breasts, so I acted like I’d just had a plate of bacon double cheeseburgers and a dozen bottles of Bud.  He was exploding with cum before I’d even gotten my lips around his cock.  Then, I flipped him over and fucked him for the last fifty minutes of our time together—he climaxed three times during that.  He tipped me generously.

            The second and third clients didn’t seem to notice the gut.  It had gone down somewhat thanks to the near hour of athletic fucking, but I could still tell it was there.  These clients were a married couple I’d had a few times.  The younger one (Timmy, I think his name was) had my same hair and eye color, and we had similarly prominent chins.  He had a recurring fantasy of his husband being stolen by his father, and the husband (Gregory, I think) was more than happy to play along.  I’d played the scene a dozen times.  I would come into the room from the adjoining bathroom with a towel slung around my waist, fresh from the shower.  I would ask my “son-in-law” if he had stolen my socks, only to find him masturbating to pictures of older muscle men on his phone.  I’d shame him for keeping such a secret habit from my “son,” during which time I’d let my towel slip off.  He’d stare at my thick, dripping, cock, and I’d tell him, “Well, if you’re gonna lust after big, older fucks like me, we should keep it in the family.”  I’d then be the perfect power bottom, ordering him to fuck the living daylights out of me.  This would go on for a few minutes before my “son” would come in, and find us.  He would act shocked and betrayed.  My “son-in-law” would argue it was evidence he’d still find my “son” attractive when he was an old man, so he should be complimented, really.  They’d go back and forth like this until I showed my “son” my thick erect cock and asked, “Could he really resist me?”  I’d then invite my “son,” to join us.  He’d insist that it was sick and twisted.  That incest was a taboo.  Then, I promised I wouldn’t touch his precious cock and ordered him into bed if he knew what was good for him.  The three of us would fool around for a while, taking turns in all combinations and permutations, never touching my son’s cock, and him never touching mine.  Ultimately, I’d send my “son” into the corner for being a bad boy for not letting me have my way with him.  Then, I’d finish off my “son-in-law” by saying, “I’m going to get my stink all over you.  You’re mine now, boy,” just loud enough for my “son” to hear.  He’d then masturbate frantically while his husband and I took turns plowing each other, never breaking eye contact with him.  Each gave a huge tip, as they always did.

            After that, I quickly cleaned up, and then met with Onyx for our protein shakes.  I wasn’t overly full anymore, but my six pack was back, and I was reluctant to jeopardize that because my last client before dinner was Adam, and I know how much he loved my six-pack.  Thankfully, one protein shake wouldn’t completely distort my abs.

            When Adam saw me, he smiled lustfully

            “It’s true, then.  This is going to be a big house.”

            I patted my belly.  “That easy to tell?”

            “Nile, I’ve been your loyal customer for 30 years now.  I am as familiar with your body as I am my own.  I know when you’re eating to bulk.  I can even see a bit of a pump.  From this morning, if I had my guess.  I, personally, would love to see you as big as you were in your glory days.  But, why put yourself through this at our age?”

            I explained my situation, and Adam grinned again.

            “Well, I think I’m going to like Tony’s tenure as king of the pleasure house.  Now, get over here and suck my cock.”

            I inhaled his cock, and he was spurting in minutes.  After his orgasm, as was our current pattern, I would stroke myself to climax while he watched.  Then, we’d cuddle: he fondled my firm, shaved pecs, and I stroked his cheeks affectionately.

            While we were lying there, delicately embracing each other, Adam said, “Can you really pack on as much muscle as Tony wants at our age?”

            I nodded and reminded him of the hormone regulator he and his husband Edward had insisted on purchasing for me.

            “Right.  But, what I mean is, could a man my age pack on some muscle?”

            I liked talking with Adam because he didn’t want me to play a role, put on a dominant act, or pretend to be dumber than I am.  I could just be myself, with two exceptions.  One, I had to tell him he was handsome whenever he hinted, and, two, I could never ask him about an election unless he brought it up first.  Often enough, he volunteered information, but if, unprompted, I showed even casual interest in how an election was going, my tips suffered. 

            “A man in the hypothetical?” I started, after giving his question some thought.  “Depends on the man.  Some, no.  They’ve missed their window.  But a man with the right build and resources?  Most definitely.  Why?  You finally going to get that scrawny beanpole of a husband to bulk up?”

            “I was thinking I would.”  He let the news sit there like a bird that had crashed from the sky.  “My polling numbers are down.  My job in politics is legacy, sure, but I still have to get elected, or all that my legacy will get me is a small desk as a petty functionary.  A lot of voters think I’m too old.  This might be my last year in office.”

            I sighed sympathetically and kissed his forehead.

            I reassured him, “You’re not too old.  You’re beautiful.”

            “I appreciate you saying that, but I also know I’m paying you to say that.”

            I chuckled cordially.

            Adam continued.  “I’ve already had a facelift and an eye lift.  I dye my hair.  And unlike you, I don’t keep grey patches.  I keep myself trim.  But 60 years old is 60 years old.  I just thought that if I packed on some mass, it would make me look more youthful.”

            “It could,” I said.

            “If I increased my tips,” he tempted, “could you teach me how to get bigger?”

            “You already are so generous with your tips,” I said and kissed him again. 

            Adam scoffed.  “Again, I pay you to say that.  I’m not talking to Nile the pleasure boy right now,” he said seriously, sitting up.  “I’m talking to Nile, the savvy businessman who’s had a decades-long career in a field that insists on youth, beauty, and vitality.”

            I sat up with him, also serious.  “Sure, I can help you get bigger.  But you’d have to do everything I said, and a lot of it would be challenging and unpleasant.  And the supplies would be expensive, and some of them would be hard to get legally—which will cost more money.”

            “This isn’t about money.  This is about ego and pride.  I’ve been serving for nearly 40 years in office.  Since politics went full legacy, the record is 40: a record set by my father.  If I get elected to just one more term, I beat my dad’s record.”  He shook his head.  “This is about showing up my old man.”

            I nodded.  “That’ll help for motivation.  Well, if you’re willing to put in the time, effort, and money, I can get you bigger.”

            Adam pulled out his phone and tapped something into it.  “I just doubled my usual tip.”  I couldn’t ask for more money, but if he offered…  Adam continued, “and if I see results I like, that number only goes up.”  He handed me his phone.  “Write down everything I’ll need.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 5

            And so, Onyx and I fell into a pattern.  Lifting, fucking, eating, medicating. 

            When the pharmacist upped my dosages (I now had to refill my regulator once a week), I could barely see straight I was so horny.  My last two clients after that first dose were a blur; I don’t really remember what happened.  I was an unhinged fuckmonster.  My tips were amazing, though, and they both left virtual comments with their tips (a rare occurrence).  One, from a woman, was, “I feel lucky and privileged to have booked him while you were still taking female clients.  I won’t walk straight for a week.”   The other was, “The most energetic fuck I’ve ever had.  I’ll book him again when I’ve lost twenty pounds so I can keep up with him without having a heart attack.”

            I was shocked how quickly I fell back into old habits.  How simply everything was returning to me.  The altered mental state from the deluge of chemicals racing through my system was familiar.  Eating to grow got easier practically overnight, I was getting stronger with every workout, and the aches and soreness felt like long-lost friends.  Not everything was instantly perfect, though.  My post-feeding gut routinely lasted longer than I wanted it to, I was not lifting close to my personal bests, and my muscle soreness and aches lingered longer than I recall they used to.  But, inconveniences like these felt minor, like obstacles I could conquer rather than insuperable barriers.

            And the pattern continued.  Lifting, fucking, eating, medicating.

            At the end of the first week, Onyx and I did an unofficial weigh-in at the gym.  I could see the results.  My lifts were up, my muscles were harder, and my vascularity more pronounced.  I also noticed I could no longer fit into my smallest clothes, the clothes I’d planned on wearing when I fell below 210.  I had to go back to wearing my 210-pound clothes, and some of them were getting too tight.  I was also feeling heavier.

            Onyx said he couldn’t see any differences on his body, but I could.  I had a more trained eye and could distinguish smaller subtleties.  Onyx was right on schedule.

            We decided to share the same scale when we did weekly weigh-ins so neither one of us could blame the scale for whatever our results were.  We could tell a few lookers-on were watching us (most notably Hawk, Slate, and Krakatoa), but no one crowded us or openly gawked.  I noticed that Pelée was absent from the gym.  He wasn’t taking the competition seriously yet.  That would come back to bite him.

            Onyx held his breath and stepped on the scale; it registered 167 pounds.

            “I’ve only put on 2 pounds. There’s only 7 weeks left in the first round.  At this rate, I’ll fall short of the goal.  I’ll have to take that purple crap.”

            I affectionately and reassuringly pat his shoulder.  “Two pounds in one week is amazing under ordinary circumstances.  Keep in mind, you’ve also lost some fat.  I can see from the sharpness of your abs.  It’s probably more like 3 pounds of muscle you’ve added.  And, now that you’ve acclimated to the medication regimen, we can step up the doses a little bit.  You’ll get there.”

            Not entirely convinced, Onyx stepped off the scale.  Before I got on, I reminded him, “Remember, my doses are higher than yours, and I’ve got muscle memory going for me.  I spent most of my adult life hovering around 240.”  Onyx nodded.

            The scale read 215.

            “Fuck!” Onyx said.  “Five pounds in one week!”

            Hawk, Krakatoa, and Slate came over.

            “Seriously?” Hawk asked.  “Five pounds in one week?”

            I got off the scale and did a most muscular, my favorite flex.  “I know.  It looks like more.”

            “At this rate,” Krakatoa said, “you’ll have qualified for the second round one month early."

            “As I plan to,” I said, inviting them to feel the granite hardness of my biceps as I flexed.

            The three lookers-on, admonished, went back to their workouts, more determined than ever.

            And the pattern continued.  Lifting, fucking, eating, medicating.

            Onyx reported how his clients were reacting differently to his body: complimenting it more, groping it more, moaning more when he undressed.  I assured him that was evidence he was growing.  He was also delighted that, with the extra sexual energy from the yellow, he began adding extra appointments. 

            My clients absolutely loved my enlarging muscles.  My regulars remembered me bigger, and my new clients were specifically hiring a big daddy, so everyone was pleased.  Especially Adam.

            He had a weekly standing appointment, and this week he brought Edward, who started our session by shaking my hand heartily, kissing me on the cheek, and then hugging me like a long lost friend.

            “He’s taking your advice,” he crowed.  “He’s like a new man.”

            I looked over at Adam, and he did look different.  His face looked less full and his clothes fit him differently, practically hanging off him.

            “It’s only been a week, and I don’t think I’ve put on any muscle,” he said, valiantly posing with his hand on his hips, “but I’ve lost seven pounds.  I’m down to 158.  I haven’t been under 160 since my late 40s.”  He patted his trimmer midsection affectionately.  “And it’s firmer.  Much firmer.”

            I squeezed his arm.  “You’ve put on a little muscle,” I said reassuringly.  “I’d guess you’ve lost eight pounds of fat and put on one pound of muscle, but I’d need to see a body comp chart to verify.  And, considering you were already decently fit, I suspect you don’t really have much left to burn.”

            Edward was giddy.  “We had sex every day this week.  For the past twenty years, I only ever have sex with him when he brings me to one of his sessions with you.  This week, he’s fucked me ten times.”

            “The yellow stuff will do that,” I said.

            “Best money I ever spent,” Edward said.  “I had to thank you in person.”  He kissed me on the cheek and finished with, “I’ll leave you two men to your fun.  Nile, again, thank you.  Adam, honey, I’ll see you in an hour.”  He then wiggled the fingers of his right hand as a wave goodbye.

            The second the door closed, Adam tore off his pants and said, “Please, suck me off before I explode.  Edward’s just not cutting it.”

            “Don’t worry, I’ll suck you dry,” I said with a wicked smile.  With that, I was on him.

            Eight ejaculations later (six of them Adam’s), he left my room with a dopy, satisfied grin on his face.  We didn’t even have time to cuddle. 

            When Edward came back into the room, he looked at Adam’s placid smile and said, “Why don’t we double your appointments with Nile while you’re going through this change?”

            Adam nodded eagerly.

            “Excellent.  You’ll do one solo session on Wednesday nights, and then, we’ll move your usual Sunday afternoon appointment to Sunday evening.  That way, it’ll be easier to do a double with the both of us.  We’ll update Nile on your stats, and then we’ll all enjoy each other’s company.”

            “You don’t mind the extra expense?” I said.  I’d had overzealous clients burn out on me before.

            “I’m getting my money’s worth, trust me,” Edward assured, nodding.

            Normally, after a session with Adam and Edward, Adam would tip me handsomely, and Edward would leave the customary amount.  This time, Adam’s tip was absurdly generous, and Edward’s was even bigger.

            I was so happy (and had ejaculated so little) that I had to fuck Onyx twice that night.

            And the pattern continued.  Lifting, fucking, eating, medicating.

            As we marched on through our new routine, things were settling into place.  The soreness was under control (I’d had the pharmacist add something for that—sitting on him until he complied), and everything else was feeling bigger.  My arms looked visibly bigger, and my bicep vein that had faded a little was coming back with a vengeance.  My chest felt fuller, harder.  My abs were glorious: pillowy, grooved, and granite-hard.  My clothes were fitting me like a dream, and I felt heavier still.  My clients uniformly loved it.  I even noticed my tips steadily going up.

            At the end of the second week, I could see everyone in the gym (except Pelée) was taking the competition seriously.  Tony was thrilled.  I saw him periodically peeking into the gym.  And he saw what I saw.  Most everyone was looking harder and bigger—except Slate.  He looked significantly slimmer.

            “I can tell there’s some muscle growing,” he said, “but I’ve been doing extra gym sessions of just aerobics.  I’m not getting left behind.”

            At our week two, unofficial weigh-in, Onyx again went first.

            “170.5,” he said, more optimistic than the last week.  “Three and a half pounds.”  He smiled cheerily. “That’s more like it.”

            “Told you you lost a pound of fat last week.”  I ran my index finger down his fuzzy, impossibly shredded six-pack.  His waist was narrow and tight in the way that only a man in his early 20s can achieve.  “And from the looks of these veins and striations, you don’t have any spare fat left to burn.”  He stepped off the scale.  “You were already a shredded proto-jock before the competition, and unless we radically alter your diet, workout, or chemical assistance, I suspect the plan we have you on will keep you at this body fat percentage.  Something like 5 or 6 percent.  Maybe 7.”  I gave his taut core an affectionate pat, reveling at his cum gutters.  They had already been lickable, and I suspected they would only get more so as the round progressed.

            “Enough stalling,” Onyx said, encouraging me on to the scale.

            220.5.

            “More than five pounds in one week?” Onyx asked loudly, shocked at the number.

            Slate and Hawk dropped their free weights.  They’d clearly been eavesdropping.

            I whispered into Onyx’s ear so no one could hear my secret.  “Five pounds is nothing.  Colorado and I worked it out with the pharmacist who worked here long ago.  With the stack I have us both on, we steadily increase the dosage proportionately until we’re consistently putting on 10 pounds a week.  If you push it past that, it quickly starts affecting your psychology.  You get what Colorado called the ‘muscle crazies.’  It’s completely reversible once you lower the dosage, but it’s not pleasant.  In a few months, we’ll both be consistently putting on 10 pounds a week.”

            And the pattern continued.  Lifting, fucking, eating, medicating.

            At my Sunday appointment with Adam he looked starkly different.  I hadn’t had time to take in the changes on Wednesday because he jumped on me the second I closed the door, but with Edward there, he was able to control himself.  He looked lean and fit.  He always looked fit, but now he looked fit fit.  Wiry.  Shredded.  Cut.  Small, but strong.  I assume the clothes he was wearing were new because they fit him snugly, showing off his smaller, more solid frame.  His shoulders seemed a little broader, but that could’ve been an illusion since his waist was noticeably slimmer.

            “The body comp scan,” Edward said, showing me a digital file on his phone as though I had asked for a progress report and not simply made an offhand comment.  “This is from his physical a few months ago.”  He showed me the stats.  “This is from his scan the second we left our appointment last week,” Edward said, scrolling to the next page.  “You were right.  He had put on some muscle.  About a pound.”  He scrolled to the next page.  “This was taken early this morning.”

            “I weigh 155.5,” Adam bragged.  “I’m down 10 pends.  I lost even more fat.”

            “And he’s put on 2.5 pounds of muscle over these past two weeks.”

            “Impressive,” I said honestly.  “What’s your goal weight?”

            “190 sounds nice,” Adam said.

            “Are you okay with that?” I asked Edward.  “You’re footing the bill.”

            “I pitched 220,” Edward said.  “190 was the compromise.”

            “I had to give up poker nights, reality TV, and sleeping in on weekends to make time for the gym,” Adam said.  “And it’s been two weeks since I’ve had any food that wasn’t on your list.  I really miss whiskey and pasta,” he continued.  Then, he tore off his shirt, exposing the faintest trail of abs.  “But it’s been worth it, so I’m sticking to the plan.”

            “Well, then,” I said, “I say we celebrate.  How about Edward fucks you from behind while I suck that lovely cock of yours?” I suggested.

            “Yes, please,” they said in unison.

[TQuintA]

Chapter 6

            And the pattern continued.  Lifting, fucking, eating, medicating.

            Throughout that third week, I could feel myself getting thicker.   I had to trade my clothes up to a larger size, and my biceps and lats were starting to collide with each other, which they hadn’t done since I was a much bigger man.  My clients could all see the difference too.  They all commented on how big I looked—and they all tipped accordingly.

            Onyx, too, was getting noticeably bigger.  His clothes were all clinging to him in the right ways—his biceps looked imprisoned in fabric.  He was going to need new clothes soon.  If he could hold out a little bit longer until he got significantly bigger, I could give him some hand-me-downs.  Otherwise, that was another expense he’d have to account for.

            “You know,” I told him one day as he was rubbing me down after a particularly intense back workout, “if you intentionally tear through your clothes at a session or two, you might get some clients to give you clothes as a gift.”

            “We can’t accept gifts,” Onyx said by rote, working his elbow into a challenging knot.  “Only tips.”

            “We can accept gifts if and only if we use them during sessions,” I corrected.  “Get a client to buy you sexy outfits to watch you outgrow them—that’s a gift you can accept.”

            Onyx giggled distractedly.  “I guess that’s what Tony meant.”

            “How is our boss?” I asked.  “He like your growing muscles?”
            “Does he ever!” Onyx said.  “He said he would get me some new clothes if he could watch me outgrow them.”

            “See!  There you go!  Even if it were against the rules, Tony’s the boss.  He’ll break them for his favorite.  I speak from experience.  Vera was a regular rule breaker.”

            “You good with clothes?” he redirected.

            “I have a closet full of clothes from when I was a bigger man.  I’ll be fine until I get significantly past 250.”

            “Speaking of weight,” Onyx said.  He stopped rubbing my dense, firm back, helped me to my feet, and walked us over to the scale.  I took a moment to look at us in the mirror: pumped from the workout, glistening with sweat, all bulges and hard curves.  His jet black body hair was thick but well-maintained, mine was freshly shorn.  We looked damned sexy. 

            Onyx, as our habit had become, went first.

            “174.5,” Onyx said, stepping down.  “That’s practically 10 pounds in three weeks.  I’m halfway there.”

            “Told you you’d make it,” I said, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him affectionately.

            “Your turn,” he said, an eagerness in his voice.

            I stepped on the scale.  I could tell I was bigger just from how I had to position my thick legs on the scale.  Onyx read the display for me: “226.5.” Reverently, he added, “You’re only three and a half pounds away from the goal.  You’ll get there by next week.”

            Tony entered the gym, applauding loudly.  All heads turned and looked.  “And when you do, Nile, you’ll get a reward.”  He looked around at all the expectant faces.  “The first 10 of you to pack on 20 pounds of muscle will get the same reward.”

            “What’s the reward?” Hawk asked.  One day at lunch he’d confided in me that he’d only put on 4 pounds in three weeks and was worried he wouldn’t make the cutoff.  His clients liked him skeletally thin, and his middle age metabolism didn’t want to suddenly pack on meat.  Maybe a reward would reinvigorate him.

            “You all will find out when Nile puts on those last 4 pounds,” Tony answered, as unctuous as ever.

            “3.5,” I insisted.

            “Right,” Tony said dismissively.  “Walk with me, Nile.”  Like my father, and not a man half my age, he put his arm around my shoulder.  Once we’d gotten out of the gym, he started talking almost directly into my ear as we walked.  “I’m glad you’ve gotten into the spirit of things, and that you’re taking my Onyx with you.  Smart move, that.  I also hear that you’ve been giving workout advice to your favorite client in exchange for extra tips.”

            We weren’t allowed to have jobs outside the pleasure home or sell anything to our clients.  Does he think I was cheating him?  “I didn’t…” I started, but Tony talked over me.

            “I know you better than that.  I’m positive you broke no rules.  At worst, you skirted some,” he gave me a one-armed hug, his fingers lingering on my defined, muscular shoulder.  “If you were 20 years younger, I’d bring you back to my office right now.  But you’re older than my father.”  He shook his head.  “Teach my boy Onyx how to skirt those same rules.  I want to see the two of you in the top 10.”

            “I’m really only planning on getting through the second round,” I informed him.

            “Still telling that lie?” Tony said.  “Well, in that case, I’ll give you a leg up.  No broken rules, I’d give this advice to anyone with the cojones and temerity to ask.  Once you hit the goal weight, keep going.  Give yourself a jumpstart for the second round.  Don’t just gain the 20 and then sit on your duff.”

            “Hadn’t planned on it,” I said honestly.

            “That’s my boy,” Tony said, patting my chest as if sealing a secret.   He was impressed by the thickness and hardness of my chest.  “Nile, you’re killing me.  I see why Onyx has been having so much sex with you, even though you’re old enough to be his grandpa.”

            I stopped dead.

            “I know Onyx is fucking you,” he said, turning to face me.  “I can’t be a jealous man.  I’m married, and my Onyx is a pleasure boy.  I also know he doesn’t love me.  Doesn’t mean I can’t love him.  Doesn’t mean he’ll never love me.”

            “You love him?” I asked.

            “If he doesn’t make the cut,” Tony confided in me.  “I’m going to ask him to marry me.  If I asked him while he’s gainfully employed, I know he’d say no.”

            “But didn’t you just say you’re already married?” I asked.

            “Help my Onyx win,” Tony said, walking away.  “It’ll make things simpler if he’s my employee.”

            I caught up with Onyx at lunch and told him what Tony had said to me.

            He shivered in revulsion.  “If I needed another reason to make the top ten.”

            “You don’t like him?”  I knit my brows in confusion.

            “You’ve never had sex with him.  He’s into…”  Onyx stopped dead.  “He orders off menu.”  He shivered again.  “If he did marry me, he’d likely divorce me the second I got crow’s feet or laugh lines.”

            I nodded, reading between the lines.

            That evening was my next status update from Adam.

            When I walked into the room, Edward was beaming; Adam looked frustrated.  Well, his face looked frustrated.  He looked leaner and even more fit than last week.

            “I still weigh 155.5,” he complained.

            Edward sidled over to me and showed me his body comp chart.  “He’s lost two pounds of fat and gained two pounds of muscle.  He’s up nearly five pounds of muscle.”

            “The diet and the exercise are getting to me.”  His cock, unbidden, reached full hardness in his pants.  “And this libido.”

            “Have you looked at these body comp charts?”  I then saw how his torso filled his shirt.  I handed Edward the chart back and ripped open Adam’s shirt.  “As I thought,” I said.  “Six-pack.  You’ve got a six-pack, Adam.  It’s faint, but it’s there.  Do you know few men have a six-pack in their 60s?”

            “I thought I’d make more progress by now.”  He looked my bulging mass up and down lustfully.  “I mean, look at you.  You’re my age, and you’re exploding with meat.”

            “I don’t have an important day job, and I haven’t even hit my old max weight,” I consoled him.  Then, knowing how much he loved it, I grabbed his ass and pulled him into me, his hard cock grinding into my crotch.  His ass was sturdy and muscular.  “Have you felt this ass?” I asked him.

            “I have,” Edward said, pleased.

            “It’s all happening so slowly,” Adam insisted.

            “Considering you’ve lost 14 pounds of fat,” I said, “and you were already lean to begin with, I think we can expect only growth from here out.”

            “I guess,” Adam said, unconvinced.

            Edward saw how hard I was trying to cheer up Adam, so he interjected.  “Adam’s not really upset with you or the fitness plan.  He’s just upset because a 20-something blonde with huge boobs announced she’d be entering the primaries against him.”

            “When are the primaries?” I asked.

            “In three months,” Adam informed me, a defeated tone in his voice.

            “Well, if you stick to my plan, you’ll have hit your target weight in two months.”

            “Really?”

            “I’m sure the press has already started noticing,” I added.

            “It has,” Edward said.  “I’d show you the articles, but I know the rule forbidding outside news sources.”

            I rolled my eyes.  I’d always hated that rule.

            Edward continued, “They say that Adam is clearly on a fitness journey, and one unrespectable rag even ran some pictures of him jogging shirtless.”

            “Expect more of that,” I warned him.  “The opposition from within your party aren’t dumb, but they’re telegraphing their strategy.  They’re running a young, pretty, big-breasted blonde.  They plan on making youth and beauty—eye candy—a major component of their campaign.  We just gotta make you hotter than her.”  I squeezed his firm ass, which was still in my powerful hands, and I could feel the wet spot spread from the tip of his dick; he was leaking pre.  “Now how about I suck that glorious cock of yours to relieve some of that libido?”

            “Okay,” Adam said.

            Edward coughed.  “Why don’t I suck him off while you fuck him with that ramrod of yours?  My little nubbin isn’t cutting it any more.  I use a dildo at home.”

            I nodded, and moved behind Adam, peeling down his pants, releasing his cock and showing off his increasingly vascular quads.  “Feel free to bring any toys you want to a session,” I told Edward.  “I can show you a few tricks that will have your husband spurting like a geyser.”  Adam’s cock twitched at the word “spurting.”

            And the pattern continued.  Lifting, fucking, eating, medicating.

            Onyx was becoming an insatiable sexbunny the bigger he got.  He upped our one-on-one fuck sessions from once a day to twice—in addition to our clients.  And I found him fucking one of the janitors and two of the maids.

            Even with all that, I was his main form of sexual release.  Every morning, Onyx would sneak into my room (which wasn’t against the rules, but wasn’t encouraged, either.)  He’d wake me by squirting a generous amount of lube into my ass.  Then, once he could see I was awake, he’d say, “Ready?”  When I nodded, he would shove his full length into my ass and pound away relentlessly and remorselessly, like he was trying to murder me by impaling my ass with his thick, thick cock.  Usually, it’d only last 90 seconds before we were both exploding in copious amounts of cum.

            “Best way to start a morning,” I said every time, like it was part of a ritual.

            Every night, we’d get together after my final client of the day.  We’d shower together (also not strictly against the rules), and we’d grope each other madly while kissing.  The kissing would always start frantic, like if we didn’t kiss as passionately as possible, we’d suffocate.  Most clients didn’t like kissing, so this was for us.  Then, once we calmed down a little, we’d settle into a slow, romantic fuck, holding each other like a lover, not a client.  If it was his turn to top, he’d lube himself up with shower water and pin me against the wall, my face pressing into the tile.  He’d then slowly, methodically, and skillfully fuck me good, making my prostrate sing until we were both climaxing in unison.  If it was my turn to top, I’d pick him up and lower him onto my cock.  He was getting heavier every day, but this was the only way I could think of fucking him while kissing intensely—without leaving the shower, that is.  I usually came before he did, but I always made sure to put him down and finish with a dexterous handjob.  Regardless of who topped, we’d end by kissing each other’s cheeks and whispering secrets and kind words into each other’s ears.  One night, he confessed, “I thought I was straight before I started working here, but I’m pretty sure I’m falling for you, old man.”  I responded, “It’s unwise to love a whore, but in a different time, in a different place, I could see myself in a happily ever after with you.”

            And I wasn’t kidding about him getting bigger every day.  By the end of the fourth week, he was starting to look seriously big.  He had all new clothes (provided by Tony, I suppose), and he looked pumped and flexed, even relaxed.  The guys at the gym (which finally included Pelée) were starting to look a tiny bit thicker themselves.  They took notice and asked him for pointers and help since they knew I was tight-lipped about the keys to my success.  He just laughed and reminded them this was a competition.

            When Onyx stepped on the scale at the fourth week’s weigh-in, he couldn’t help but shout his weight: “179!”

            He did look it.  He was ripped and bulky—a delightful combo. 

            I pat him on the back, proud.  “Only 6 pounds to go, buddy.”  Then, jocundly, I shoved him off the scale and weighed myself.

            When I saw the number, I turned around and roared into the gym.  Everyone turned to look at me.  “That’s right, little boys.  The old man is now 233 pounds, I gained 23 pounds in one month, guaranteeing me a place in the second round.  So, if any of you think it’s impossible, just remember that an old fogey did it first, and did it in half the time.”

            Tony cheered heartily; I hadn’t even seen him come in.

            He walked over to me as if my muscle increase had been his accomplishment, and then said, “Gather round.  Nile is about to receive his reward.”  Tony produced a syringe full of a liquid that was an acid red color.  “This is cutting edge technology.  Scientists only recently synthesized this chemical, and there are exactly 100 milliliters of the stuff on the planet because of how expensive it is to produce, and it was supposed to all stay at the lab.  I called in some serious favors to get any.  I only have a limited supply of this stuff, and I will mete it out as I deem appropriate.  It might one day be on sale in our pharmacy, but that won’t be for years.  Long after the contest is decided.”

            “What does it do?” I asked, eager.

            “Well, my lovely boy,” he teased.  I hated when he called me boy as I was significantly his senior, but it was part of my official job title.  “What would be the fun in telling you when I could show you instead?”  Before I could assess what he was doing, Tony injected me in the fleshiest part of my bicep and pushed the plunger. 

            I could’ve killed Tony.  He injected me with something I’d never seen before, and he wasn’t even sure what it would do or how it would interact with the other drugs I was already on.

            “I expect big things from all of you,” Tony announced.  Then, he leaned close to me and cooed, “Especially you.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 7

            That week—the fifth week of the first round—was a bizarre, intense week.  For starters, I was rapaciously hungry.  Tony gave me special dispensation to get (healthy, protein-heavy) snacks at non-approved cafeteria hours, that’s how hungry I was.  And I was lifting like a demon.  Halfway through the week, I realized I was lifting close to what I had been before I started slimming down.  Then, I started lifting exactly what I had been when I was at my strongest.  Then, I set a new personal record on my deadlift. 

            I watched as my muscles swelled larger all week.  The red drug had altered my perception of reality, so it felt like it was happening in a dream, but I was obsessed with the changes.  My clothes grew tighter, even as I switched to larger sizes from my closet.  My biceps looked perpetually flexed, even when they were casually at my sides.  My pec cleavage was deliciously thick, the striations and veins on my chest making them look even bigger.  They stuck out so far that they created beautifully tempting shadows on my cobblestone six-pack.  As for my abs, each ab looked thicker, more pronounced.  The trail of veins crisscrossing my midsection showed just how devoid of fat I was as the abs surged larger.  When I vacuumed down, my waist was so tiny it looked physically impossible.  My legs began colliding into each other if I didn’t watch how I walked.  I wouldn’t yet call my strut a waddle, but a waddle wasn’t far in my future.  My shoulders were broadening, my neck was engorging with muscle, my lats were flaring, and my ass threatened every pair of pants I wore. In fact, I quickly had to resort to wearing the biggest clothes in my closet.

            My clients loved it.  They paid for a big daddy, and daddy was getting bigger.  Seriously, noticeably bigger.  One client (who turned out to be the last female client I ever had) had me toss her around the room just to show off how strong I was.  She climaxed a second time just watching me flex.

            And, if I was rapaciously hungry, I was beyond rapaciously horny.  My clients loved this too.  One client commented he felt like I was going to devour him (in a way that made him tip me more).  I was cumming a minimum of twelve times a day, easily, and it was just barely taking the edge off.  Onyx, kindly, let me top every day that week, and I treated him the way he normally treated me.

            And my cock.  Everyone commented on my growing cock.  My clients, Onyx, the other pleasure boys, even Tony.  I was almost always hard, and my cock, already a large 8 inches, was steadily increasing in size every day.

            The whole week, I felt like I was running a marathon, like all my systems were supercharged.  I hardly noticed what was going around me.  All I wanted to do was eat and lift and fuck.

            When I came out of my adrenaline fog seven days later, I saw that the other men around me lifting like maniacs, eating to grow, all trying to get one of the coveted spots in the second round.  They all looked substantially bigger.  Slate was looking particularly snacksome.  I don’t know what pharmaceutical concoction he’d been taking, but he was definitely going to cut all his excess fat.  Krakatoa was similarly looking nice and think.  Pelée and Hawk had changed the least—but even they looked a little bigger.

            As for my man Onyx, he looked fit to burst from his clothes.  His arms were thick, his pecs were prominent, his legs were curving with muscle, and his ass was filling out.  And his attitude could match it when he wanted to: strutting around the gym like a proud rooster.  He was no longer a proto-jock.  He was a full-on jock.  He was pretty sure he’d hit his twenty pounds, so he let me weigh myself first.

            250.

            I stumbled backwards off the scale.

            “Why so surprised?” Onyx asked.  “You’ve been getting bigger all week.”

            “This is my former max weight,” I explained.  “Back in my late 40s, I hit 250.  Most of my female clients hated it; they said they felt like they were being crushed, even if I was on bottom.  Vera, who used to be a regular client of mine, didn’t like it either, and she was the boss, so I scaled back down to 240.  250 is the most I have ever weighed, and the last time I was here, I was twenty years younger and probably had a few pounds of fat.”  I slapped my abs.  “I’m hard as a rock, tight as a drum, and as big as I’ve ever been.”  My cock, at full attention, leaked a glob of pre.  “Well, I guess my newly grown cock makes me bigger than I’ve ever been.”

            “How big is it?” Slate asked reverently, giving up any pretense he wasn’t eavesdropping.

            “I haven’t been measuring it,” I answered honestly.  “I didn’t want to become fixated.”

            “Nine inches,” Onyx said flatly.  “I measure him this morning when I woke him up.”

            “Seriously?” I asked.  “It grew an inch in a week?”

            “It’s half an inch thicker, too,” he said, rubbing his jaw as though I had made it sore.  “Now, my turn.”  Onyx stepped on the scale.  “184,” he announced.  His voice was triumphant “One pound shy.  That’ll be child’s play.”

            “Nonsense,” Tony said from the door of the gym.  According to Krakatoa, during my stupor, Tony had developed the habit of sneaking up on us in the gym, just to stare at the muscular bodies growing more muscular at his command.  “The goal was to put on 20 pounds of muscle.  You lost a pound of fat; your body comp chart proves it.”  Tony produced another syringe of the acid red mystery drug.  “Enjoy the ride,” he said to Onyx as he injected him.  Then, he beckoned me to his office.

            Once we were there, I found the pharmacist waiting for us.  He did a quick blood test to confirm the mysterious red chemical had worked its way through my system. 

            “Under laboratory conditions,” Tony said, shooing the pharmacist away, “one 1,000 mcg dose of the Red Miracle, as the scientists have started to call it, produced five pounds of muscle growth and half an inch in cock growth with no documented negative side effects.”  He looked at my enlarged, still erect body.  “A pleasure house isn’t exactly laboratory conditions, so I assume you augmented it with your own drugs.”

            “I had no choice,” I said, pointing at my armpit, enjoying the feeling of my arm bulge and flex.  “Hormone regulator.”

            Tony made a hmm sound in approval.  “If the Red Miracle ever becomes commercially viable, I might insist all my new boys get a hormone regulator to keep them on a steady supply until they’re ripe.”  Tony got lost in his thoughts as he fantasized that.  “Just so I’ve said it out loud, your snacking privileges are now Onyx’s.  Good work, Nile.  I knew you could do it.  And thanks for making Onyx the second of my boys to clear the first round.  Now, off to lunch.”

            I was more than happy to leave Tony’s office.  The man was smug.  But, he was also a man of his word.  I told Onyx about his newfound snacking privileges over lunch, and he told me that Tony had watched him get a body comp scan that morning.

            “He could’ve told me I’d made it through the first round then,” Onyx said.

            “He wanted an audience,” I pointed out.

            Then, the Red Miracle kicked in, and Onyx couldn’t shovel food into his face fast enough.

            I left him to his gorging, finished my lunch, and then went to my afternoon clients.  They were pretty vanilla (though one kept calling my newly nine-inch cock “a delicious cucumber.”  That was a little weird, but hey, he was getting his fruits and veg, and I was getting tipped.

            When I went to see Adam that evening, my clothes tight and bulging, he and Edward were all smiles.  “161 pounds,” they said in unison.

            “Up two and a half pounds from last week,” Edward informed me, showing me a body comp scan.  “I figured I should remind you since last week you were out of it.”

            “They gave me a new drug,” I said.

            “We know,” Adam said.  “You told us last week.  How out of it were you?”

            “Entirely,” I confirmed.  “Last week zoomed by because of the drug.”

            Adam nodded, saying “I believe it.”

            “Yes,” I said.  “But the results seem worth it.  I am as big as I was in my 40s,” I added, flexing my meaty bicep.

            “Well,” Adam said, undressing, “if it brought back the Nile I remember from twenty years ago, I’m all for it.”  I unzipped my pants, releasing my nine-inch whopper.  I’d been growing a bigger dick all week, and fucking with it all day, but this was different.  This was the first time I was coherent and in front of someone who was intimately familiar with my previous size.  The look on Adam’s face was one of awe and admiration.  I felt compelled to wrap my hand around my lengthened shaft.

            That was when it finally clicked just how big I was.  I had an embodied understanding of my cock—it was a part of my anatomy I used in my livelihood, so I was used to it feeling a certain way.  It went out past my fist more than I was used to, which made it look even bigger.  My fingers couldn’t entirely wrap around it (they could just barely touch at the tips if I stretched them), which made it look even thicker.  With all my newfound strength, especially my core strength, I hadn’t realized just how heavy my junk was.  With my other hand, I hefted my balls, and they felt gigantic.

            The display had Adam ready to go.  “You should’ve told me on Wednesday,” Adam intoned.  “I would’ve insisted you top me.”

            “This last week was a red haze,” I apologized.

            “Let’s rectify that,” Adam said, bending over the side of the bed.  “As soon as I’ve cum the first time,” he said to Edward, “you can suck me off while I wrap my lips around that thing.”

            “Offering me a blow job?”  I said, sliding into Adam’s tight hole.  Adam had been a regular client for 30 years.  I knew just how his asshole felt around my dick.  Fucking him with a bigger dick made me feel huge and manly.  His asshole felt small, tight, and entirely cramped.  My dick felt thick, powerful, and impossibly huge. I continued speaking as I thrust all the way in. “If I’d known all it took to get you to give me a blow job was an extra inch in dick,” I hilted to the shaft, “I might have grown it years ago.”  Teasing him, I added, “I might just get even bigger, then.”

            “Bigger?” Adam asked, his voice vibrating as I bucked into him again.

            “We’re going niche,” I reminded him.  “And I have to live up to my namesake as the longest river.”

            At that, he was already climaxing.  I had barely started.  “Don’t worry, stud,” I assured him.  “After my blow job, I’ll fuck you again if there’s time.”  I looked over to Edward.  The growing stain on the front of his pants told me he’d climaxed without even touching himself.  “You good, sparky?”  I asked.

            He nodded delightedly, his breath catching from his recent orgasm as he said, “That show was worth the price of admission.”  Watching a larger version of me fuck a more muscular version of his husband was, indeed, a sight to behold.

            I removed my dick and washed it off in the suite’s sink.  When I got back to the bed to offer Adam my glory, I saw he was in the exact position I’d left him.  His eyes were closed, and there was a huge smile on his face.  He was awake, but placid.

            “Do you have the energy?” I added.

            At that, he popped up and started to suck my cock.  Edward, dutifully, coaxed Adam’s legs onto the bed to give him access to his husband’s cock.  The sucktrain lasted longer than the first round, but that, too was over sooner than I thought.  Adam seemed to have a hair trigger today, but more than that, he gobbled down my cock so greedily, I thought he might actually swallow it.  The nerve endings in my glans danced as he caressed them with his eager tongue, and responsive throat, and he had me over the edge in five minutes flat.

            Unsurprisingly, he had enough energy for another fuck from me.

            Afterwards, while we were spooning, Adam stroked my face affectionately and said, “I love your wrinkles.”

            “They make me look old,” I said.

            “The creases around your eyes, the deep grooves on your forehead, the smile lines on your lips.”  He touched each imperfection as he named it, highlighting one of my shames and failures.  “It makes you look real.  Alive.  Vital.  My face,” he touched my hand, which was on his cheek, “looks artificial.  Fake.  I’ve had a face lift.  An eye lift.  Filler.  Trying to look young.  Instead, I look like a wax statue.”

            “I think you’re beautiful,” I said.

            “I think you’re beautiful,” Adam said.  “Your lived-in face on top of that mighty body.  You look like a real man.”

            “Your body is coming along nicely.”

            “God.  You’re beautiful,” Adam said again and kissed me.

[TQuintA]

Chapter 8

            Slate approached me the next day.  He pulled me aside, conspiratorially, when I was on my way to the morning meeting. 

            Onyx and I had had breakfast together, but he had the Red Miracle in his veins and was desperate for a quick wank before the meeting.  I was still getting used to having a bigger cock and balls tugging at my groin and filling my pants, and Onyx had spent all of breakfast regaling me with how masculine and sexy and horny he felt.  It was practically all he could say.  I asked him how the oatmeal was, and he said, “So big.  So horny.”  He could hold a conversation for spans of 15 seconds, then his eyes would glaze over and he’d mutter something about his muscles or cock.

            So, I was partially distracted that morning.  If I hadn’t been, I might not have said what I said.  Still, I said it, and there’s every chance I would’ve said it without being distracted by my masculine prominence or Onyx’s drug-induced mumblings.

            “I know you’ve already tapped Onyx as your heir apparent,” he said furtively, looking over his shoulder, “but I am really hoping you’ll give me some help.”

            “Depends on what help you’re asking for,” I said, readjusting my semi-hard meat.

            “Nothing sexual,” he said, misreading my body language.  “I’m straight, and until recently, most of my clients were female.  They wanted a pleasure boy who looks like a normal guy and who won’t treat them like crap.  Now that we’re not taking new female clients, my tips are drying up.”

            I prompted him to continue.

            “Well, I know we’re not allowed to solicit tips…” poor Slate looked too scared to finish that sentence.

            “How can you get more tips without asking for them?” I suggested.

            Slate nodded.

            “Do you have any regular clients?” I asked.

            “Since we went all-male, I only have one left.  A guy who asks me to call him Rex.  He wants to be treated like a good puppy.  Head rubs, belly scratches, compliments.  Things like that.  If he’s a very good boy, I let him blow me.”

            I hadn’t been asking for details, but whatever.

            “Tell Rex what your goals are.  If he really is a good puppy, he’ll help you meet them without you mentioning money.  If just telling him what your goals are doesn’t work, let him know that if you don’t meet your goals, you’ll be kicked out of the house.”

            “Awaken his inner guard dog,” Slate said.

            “Sure,” I demurred, not entirely sure what that meant.

            “Smart,” Slate said. 

            “As for one-time clients, go above and beyond.  You do the boyfriend experience well.  So, go above and beyond to sell the fantasy.  Give them flowers from the pleasure house’s indoor garden.  Sing them songs that includes their name.  Make one up if you have to.  Act like it’s been months since you’ve seen them and you’re so happy they’re safe.” 

            “Ah.  Play to my strengths.”

            “Happy clients tip better,” I reminded him, once again distracted by the weight in my crotch.          

            Then a thought hit me, “Also, use the fact that you’re actually a straight dude to your advantage.  It’s a common gay fantasy to convert a straight guy.  So, play into that.  You’re still really young, and we stopped taking female clients very recently.  Act like they’re your first male client.  Once they’ve ‘converted’ you, they’ll be so eager, the tips should rain in.  It’ll only work for a month or so, but it should get you through the first round.”

            “Is it really a gay guy’s fantasy to turn a straight guy gay?” he asked.

            “It was never my fantasy,” I pointed out.  “But as a member of the tribe since my teen years and a pleasure boy for nigh on 5 decades, I can assure you that there are gay men who get off on straight dudes becoming gay.  I’ve played the role a dozen times myself.  I also had scores of women who liked ‘converting’ me.  If the tips are good, just play into it.”

            Slate nodded again, taking a mental note.  “Any advice on what to do with the tips once they come in?”

            I tapped on his stomach with my knuckle.  He still had some pudge to lose, but I could feel the hard muscles underneath.  Also, his arms, chest, shoulders, and legs all looked bigger.  “Whatever you’re doing is working.”

            Slate sighed.  “I have to confess, I eavesdrop every conversation you and Onyx have.  I cribbed from your stack.  But you once mentioned some purple stuff.”

            “That’s only for emergencies,” I admonished.

            Slate grabbed his smaller, but still chubby (for a pleasure boy) stomach.  “This might be an emergency,” he said; then, as if to drive the point home, he put his arms on my shoulders and gave a quick, but forceful shake.

            Just that little contact was giving me a stiffy, so I readjusted myself again.  To cover up my quick-to-rise erection, I explained why the purple stuff was a bad idea.  I stopped just short of the scam to bilk pleasure boys out of our tips because he was already so stressed about money, but I explained every horrible side effect.

            He nodded yet again, and then asked, “Is there anything in the pharmacy you’d recommend to help shed fat?”

            I shook my head.  “That was never my personal burden.  I struggled more with building muscle fast and fighting the realities of aging.”  Not wanting to leave him with nothing, I suggested, “Find a guy who’s had success with weight loss, and trade something for the info, even if it’s just advice you stole for me.  Maybe talk to one of the moons.  That pledge class joined four years ago; that was the year they finally gave us permission to order desserts with dinner.”

            “Thanks,” Slate said, and headed off to the meeting.

            “Thanks,” Pelée said as he passed, patting me on the arm affectionately.  Had he been listening?

            Dismissing that possibility, I went into the morning meeting.  To my surprise, Onyx was already in there, saving me a seat.

            “You’re late.  You’re lucky Tony’s late too because he had to change his shirt,” Onyx said by way of explanation, flicking his zipper to fully convey the message.  “How did you put up with this for a week?  Tony just blew me, and I already feel ready to nut again.”  Then, he started to mutter under his breath about how big he felt.

            I reassuringly placed my hand on his head and tousled his hair.  Before I could speak, Tony took the stage, and the morning meeting started.

            That whole week, it was impossible to ignore Onyx’s growth.  Every day, some muscle group looked insanely swollen: his chest, his arms, his legs.  Every day there was a new bulge, vein, or striation.  Whatever we’d worked out most intensely the day before seemed reinfused with sinew.  He even burst through a pair of gym shorts during one particularly grueling leg workout.  And he kept me apprised of his cock’s lengthening; whether or not he wanted to, he would moan about how big his cock was getting.  As if I couldn’t feel it getting bigger every time he fucked me.  And he was now fucking me three times a day, not two.  The boy was insatiable.  Once, I suggested topping him, and he rammed his cock into my waiting hole and said, “Maybe if you were my boyfriend or my client.  Right now, you’re just my plaything.”  Then, Onyx was reduced to grunts and growls until he climaxed.

            As distracting as Onyx was, I couldn’t ignore my own continuing growth.  My biggest clothes were constricting, my chest looked mountainous, and my shoulders felt impossibly wide.  My body was harder and denser than I’d ever felt.  I was hitting personal bests on all of my lifts.  I now even held the all-time house record for one-rep deadlifts.  All of my clients absolutely loved it.  How big I was, how firm I was, how much my muscles bulged, how I expertly used my longer, thicker cock.

            By the time of my weekly weigh-in with Onyx, the gym looked like it was full of serious lifters.  In fact, three other guys (a volcano, a rock, and a moon—I’d never learned their names because I had incorrectly pegged them for boys who wouldn’t last a year) had made weight and got their own shots of the Red Miracle.

            Onyx, who was back to his normal self, jumped onto the scale, boasting, “209.5.”  He grinned, looked at me proudly, and said, “That’s how big you were when we started this thing, Nile.  I’m big enough to be a big daddy.  Well, my cock’s only grown to 7 inches, but that’s still big enough to be a big daddy.”

            Because I’d shrunk down to 210, I’d forgotten 210 was pretty fucking big.  Seeing that much meat packed onto Onyx’s frame showed me I had unequivocally been a big daddy, even when I saw myself as small.

            I gently nudged Onyx to the side and stepped on the scale.

            257.5.

            The most I’d ever weighed. 

            I had just turned 69 the day before, I was practically a septuagenarian, and I was the most buff I’d ever been in my life.

            Slate, who was looking particularly trim and jacked, gave me a reencouraging thumbs up.  Hawk smiled.  Krakatoa stared agape.  Pelée glowered.

            When I saw him for our Sunday evening appointment, Adam was gleeful.  He was so enthusiastic to see the biggest Nile had ever been, he had completely forgotten to give me a status update and immediately leapt into my arms.  Edward, however, separated the two of us to show me Adam’s progress.

            “164.5,” Edward said.

            Adam began posing and flexing.  “I’m essentially the same weight I was when we started, but this 165 looks very different from my 165 pounds six weeks ago.”  The sleeves of his shirt bulged and strained.  Not so much that they threatened the shirt’s integrity, but enough to show the mass underneath.  His shoulders looked broader.  The fabric pooled a little around his waist.

            “What’s with the shirt?” I asked, pinching to the excess fabric.  The outfit looked all wrong.  Too old-fashioned.  Too ill-fitting.  “I’m used to you in fancy, bespoke, tailored duds.”

            “It’s the same shirt my dad wore one the morning he won his last election.  He thought he was so masculine and intimidating.  It looks very different on me.”  He ripped it off, showing his carved, defined torso and proud six-pack.  “He never had one of these at 60.  Hell, he never had one of these,” he said.  “Ever,” he added for emphasis.

            Edward nodded.

            Adam continued.  “My polling numbers are trending upward, and I’m sure it’s the muscles that are doing it.”

            “The picture of Adam jogging shirtless went viral,” Edward said.  “That’s what inflated his polling numbers.  Hard to be mistaken for an old man when you look like that.”  He pointed at Adam.

            “You and I might be the only 61-year-old men with six-packs on the planet,” Adam crowed.

            “What makes you think I’m 61?” I asked.  If he had said “60,” I probably would’ve ignored it.  But 61 was so specific.

            “You told me your age once.  That you were the same age as me.”

            “I lied to you, sorry.  Or oversimplified.  We’re not the same age.”

            “How much older than me are you?”

            “Almost a decade, kid,” I admitted, leaning into the “kid” since I knew his advancing years were a sore spot.

            “Really?”

            “My 69^th birthday was just this week.”

            “We must celebrate that,” Adam said.

            “We’re not going to keep these six-packs if you suggest cake,” I joked.

            “There’s only one way to celebrate a 69^th birthday,” Adam said suggestively, pushing me onto the bed.  He then opened my pants, my cock springing out, freed from the overly confining fabric.  Once I was fully erect for him, he opened his own pants to let out his cock.  Before we proceeded to blow each other simultaneously, I said, “Aren’t we excluding Edward?”

            Edward, who was behind me, moaned as I heard the telltale signs of self-gratification.

            “You know he enjoys watching,” Adam derided.  Then, his lips encircled my cock as my lips encircled his.  We were locked in that embrace for minutes.  His newly muscular thighs pressed into my ears, my gigantic, hard thighs nearly squashing his head.  Given the number of times I’d blown Adam, I could identify its taste as easily as most people could identify an orange’s.  Today, though, it was different.  There was a faint smokiness to Adam’s cock.  I was used to a specific umami tang, but his cock now had a smoldering undertone, almost a spiciness.  I expect it was the change in his diet, for when he came the first time, his semen was viscous and proteinaceous, which, in my experience was the typical savory profile of a man on a bodybuilder’s diet.

            I hadn’t cum yet, so Adam increased the speed of his tongue, the eagerness of his lips, the pressure of his sucking.  He also began tickling my balls.

            Since he’d already climaxed, I didn’t want to overburden him with sensory overload, so I toned down my ministrations and instead began stroking his legs, feeling their thickness, a masculinity and bulk I was not used to from Adam.  Feeling what my advice had done to his body turned me on, and soon, I was cumming full steam.  Involuntarily, I increased the pressure of my squeezing thighs, which must have been a major turn-on for Adam because he was then cumming a second time, and his cock was completely outside my mouth.

            Our orgasms complete, Edward joined us on the bed.  While the three of us spooned, Adam gently stroking my chest, he said, “If you’re 69, then you must be coming up on your 50 soon.”

            “One year left,” I said.

            Adam pouted for a moment, then said, “I thought I had ten years of your company left.  I guess I’ll have to make the most out of this year.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 9

            That next week went pretty much the same.  All 10 syringes of the Red Miracle had been awarded, and a dozen or so guys just left the house, convinced they’d never make the cut.  The rest of the guys stuck it out because they were mostly all on their ways to the body comp goals (even Slate!).  And the few that weren’t (poor Hawk) kicked themselves into high gear.  I was in hog heaven surrounded by all these increasingly muscular men.

            At that week’s weigh-in, Onyx—who was looking truly thick—clocked it at 215.5 pounds.  He looked both cut and beefy.  His biceps were his especial beauties.  I think he over-trained them to keep them juicy.  I don’t know if it was for his own ego, his clients’ enjoyment, or Tony’s behest, but his arms were extra meaty.  And, at 215.5 pounds, they would have been plenty thick to begin with.

            As for me, I was starting to feel seriously heavy.  I’d started the week bigger than I’d ever been, and I was just getting bigger.  I now held the records for most of the house’s lifts, and my legs were so girthy that my walk was quickly growing past strut to full-on waddle.  My pecs protruded in front of me.  My biceps were thick and sculpted.  My lats were pushing them out further to the sides.  My shoulders were so wide that I looked like I had on shoulder pads made of corrugated stone.  Every last inch of me was striated, vascular, and hard. 

            And that hardness was bizarre.  I’d had my share of older male clients over the years, and part of their distinctness was a sort of softness that comes from aging.  My body was rock hard.  Granite.  Verging on metal.  My body was harder than I ever remember it being.  It was my favorite thing about this new body.  Its solidness, its density, its stoniness.

            As if all of that weren’t self-apparent evidence of my increasing size, all of my clothes were scandalously tight (even my gym clothes).  On Monday, I had gone to the clothing store to buy bigger clothes, but, as it was stocked with high-end designer clothes (even their flannels and sweatpants were designer), they had to order new sizes because I was larger than their largest clothes.  Let me repeat that: I had them order new clothes because I was bigger than their largest sizes.  Thankfully, the new clothes should arrive within one to two weeks.  I could hold out until then.

            I felt big.

            I was of two minds about this. 

            On one level, being this huge terrified me.  I was a nearly 70-year-old man.  I wanted to slow down, take my well-earned break after decades of meticulous scrutiny and laborious exertion, and just relax.  I never felt so old as I did at the end of a workout because just carrying my excessive bulk around was beginning to feel like a workout.  What would my life be like when I was broke 300, as seemed inevitable as the competition raged on?  What would my life be like after I served my 50 and no longer had access to the cafeteria or pharmacy?  They were some scary thoughts.

            On the other level, I absolutely loved it.  My clients clung to me like I was a mountain they could scale, I had more strength than I’d ever had, and everyone around me was starting to look small.  This wasn’t just my clients, who were starting to seem like toys and were as light as a feather, but the other men in the house.  And they were all, excepting Hawk, men in their prime getting bigger and beefier.  Here I was, three times their age, showing them up and getting more muscular and stronger than these little pukes could imagine.  What would it feel like to grow so large I was their supreme alpha god?  What would it feel like to be so massively big I’d make a man my current size to feel weak and pathetic?  They were some scintillating thoughts.

            As I said, two minds.

            When I stepped on the scale at the weigh-in, the number surprised me.

            “265.5.”

            Slate and Onyx applauded.  I stood there in awed silence.  The goal was to put on 20 pounds in two months.  There was still a whole week left in the first round, and I’d put on more than 50.

            And showed no signs of slowing down.

            I went back to my room to shower before lunch.  My shower was beginning to feel small.  Onyx and I could no longer both squeeze into it to fuck, and even just by myself, it felt smaller than I remember it ever being.  It had been a full body workout today, to prep for the weigh-in, and so every part of my body was red and pumped to the hilt.  It was partly due to the pump, but I was filling more and more of my shower. 

            Feeling particularly big, I got out of the shower and put on a shirt.  As I stretched it around my bulbous chest to button up the front, the back tore in half.  Just ripped in one loud shred. 

            I put on another shirt, and my arms rent the sleeves of this one.

            I must have been especially pumped from the workout, so I put on my biggest shirt.  My arms were tight in these sleeves too, but the fabric held.  Relieved, I pulled the two halves in front to button it.

            I couldn’t.

            My pecs stuck out so far that I couldn’t get the shirt over them.  I could get the two sides of the shirt somewhat close to each other, but not close enough to fasten it shut.

            Determined, I pulled a little harder, and this shirt burst too.

            I had just destroyed my biggest shirt because I was too big to fit into it.

            My biggest shirt.

            Worried, I grabbed my largest pair of pants.

            I couldn’t even get them past my thighs.  My thighs were too swollen with muscle for my largest pants.

            I had noticed my clothes getting smaller, but I didn’t think I’d outgrow my nice clothes all at once.  If it hadn’t been a fully body workout, maybe I wouldn’t have.

            I grabbed my largest tank top—the one I’d just had a brutal workout in—from the hamper.  It was slick with oily sweat, but it should fit me.

            I put it on, and it did still fit.  However, my pecs, traps, and back threatened to snap the thin straps. 

            I grabbed my largest workout shorts from the same hamper.

            They still fit, but my legs and ass threated the fabric with its imminent demise.  Onyx had been putting extra effort into his arms; I’d put extra effort into my ass.  It showed from how round, hard, full, and muscular it was.  My ass and legs were so huge that they forced my large genitals into an obscene bulge up front.

            Why had no one told me in the gym?  Then I remembered Onyx’s wide-eyed stare, the terrified deference most men gave me.  Pelée’s snickering.  I was about to burst out of these before my grueling pump, and I hadn’t even noticed.

            I had on sweaty, smelly gym clothes, but I was covered.  I wasn’t wearing underwear or socks, but I didn’t dare bend over in these shorts, and I was decent enough to leave my room.  I slid on a pair of slippers and made a beeline to the clothing store.

            “Emergency,” I said to the clerk.

            “Looks it,” he said, rubbing his nipple with his pinky.  He was a tall, slight 20-something with pink lips and a fair complexion.  I knew him well.  My mere presence always aroused him because I was liberal with the handjobs, but I was too worried to lean into our dynamic in my current clothing crisis.

            “I need new clothes,” I announced.  “I’ve outgrown everything except my gym clothes and these smell like rank, day-old sweat.”

            His eyebrows raised up delightedly as he licked his lips.  Clearly, he enjoyed my stank.  “If we wait a few minutes,” he said, eyeing my crotch bulge and breathing in my funk, “I bet you’ll outgrow those too.”

            “What do you have in my size?” I asked.

            He looked at my pecs, my legs, my bulge, and, of course, my ass, and then surveyed the fashionable couture on the racks.

            “Nothing,” he said.  “After your last visit, Tony authorized me to stock larger sizes because we’re going niche, but there was a shipping error, and they won’t get here until next week at the earliest.  Probably not until after your special order.”

            I got uncomfortably close to him, my pecs jutting into his convex chest, the stench of my soaked gym clothes filling his nose.  “Look, kid, if you’re holding out on me because you want a handjob first, that’s all you gotta say.”  I cupped his crotch and ran my thumb along the length of his quickly stiffening shaft through the fabric.  “I’ll play ball.”

            The clerk shuddered from overwhelming arousal and said, “Oh, fuck, I fucking wish I had some fucking clothes for you.  I got nothing.”

            I took my hand off his crotch and stepped back.  “I have clients this afternoon and this evening.  A full slate.  Including my most valuable regular.  These clothes would repulse them, and I can’t just walk around naked.”

            He looked at my swollen pecs and thick legs, and then he licked his lips again.  With an aroused catch in his breath, he said, “No one would dare stop you.”

            “It’s against the rules,” I said.  “We’re only allowed to be naked in designated areas.  Corridors are not among the designated areas.  I’m not going to get myself dismissed for breaking the rules.”

            The clerk picked up a handset from the wall—a line that went directly to the boss’s office—and explained to Tony what the situation was.

            With a pleased smile on his face, he hung up and said, “Tony will be here shortly.”

            Five minutes later, Tony came sauntering in, his face pasted with a shit-eating grin.

            “Nile, my boy,” he said, dripping with self-satisfaction.  “Oh, my dear boy.  I’m so proud of you.  You thought the young bucks would knock you out of the competition, but just look at you.”  He whistled wolfishly, appreciating my physique.  “Do me a favor.  Bend over and touch your toes.”

            “Why?” I asked.

            “Because I asked you to.”

            I did as he instructed, and the ass of my shorts tore completely open.  My ass was exposed to the elements.

            “I thought so.  You don’t just need new clothes to wear in front of the clients.  You need new everything.”  He began clicking wildly on his phone.  “Gym clothes, jammies…” he moved around me to stare at my ass through the hole.  “Underthings.”  He slapped my overdeveloped ass.  “I can put an overnight order in, but it’ll cost you.”  He showed me a figure on his phone.  It was astronomical.

            “I can’t afford that,” I admitted.

            Tony lowered his eyebrows shrewdly.  “So we cut the pjs.  You can sleep naked.”  He corrected the order and showed me again.

            “I still can’t afford that,” I informed him.

            He said nothing.  From the look on his face, I could tell he thought I was bluffing.

            “It’s your fault you didn’t order big ones in time.  That shows bad planning, Nile.”

            I internally fumed but externally kept my cool.  “I ordered new clothes earlier this week.  I shouldn’t be penalized for a shipping error.”

            “You could’ve bought bigger clothes at the start of the competition, like a smart little ant.  Instead, you acted like a grasshopper.”

            “I’m not psychic.”

            Tony shrugged.  “The carrots are cooked.  You either pay for a rush order, or you can hide, naked, in your room until your special order or the new shipment comes in.  Of course, if you do that, you lose several days of clients and all the tips.”

            That was a low blow.

            “Even if I sleep in the nude, the overnight order will leave me broke,” I said.  “I was just starting to make some huge tips, and this will completely wipe out my savings all in one go."

            "Then you’ll just have to make more tips.”

            I know Tony was goading me (and sounding eerily like his mother), but there was logic in that.  I’d never had savings before.  I could do without them again, especially since I only had to make it past the second round to get a guaranteed pension.  But without my savings… I didn’t know if I could get past the second round.  I also didn’t think my budget could survive the chemicals I needed to get my muscles bigger, a constant supply of new clothes, and today’s financial setback.

            “The clothes are already expensive; the drugs are already expensive.  I don’t know if I can afford an overnight order for a whole wardrobe on top of that,” I admitted.

            “How much do you spend on hair dye?” he asked flatly.  “Skin cream?  Other youth treatments like that?”

            He had a point.

            “Go grey, old man,” he continued.  “Stop fighting the wrinkles.”

            “I wouldn’t go grey; I’d go white.  And my wrinkles…”

            “Are part of your appeal,” he interrupted.  “You know your brand as well as I do.”

            I knew when I was defeated.  “Put the overnight order in,” I said. 

            “Done,” he said, pressing a button.  “Your order will be delivered to your bedroom first thing tomorrow morning.”  He tapped his phone against his cheek, thinking.  “Now, what do we do about today?”

            “I have no more money,” I said honestly.

            “I was thinking of something more fun.”  A light twinkled in his eye.  He asked me, “How demotivated do you think the young men would get if you strutted around naked?”

            The clerk, who I’d forgotten was there, leaned in, saying, “They’d die.”

            Tony picked up the clerk’s handset, typed in a code on the keypad, and the seldom-used PA system crackled.  “Attention all pleasure boys and pleasure house staff.  This is Tony.  As a reward for his incomparable commitment to our house going niche, Nile has earned a special reward.  For today and today only, he can go anywhere on the premises without any clothing.  Congratulations, Nile.  That is all."

            Tony hung up the PA.  Then, he looked me in the eye and said, “Now, go out there and make them all feel small.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 10

            After a quick re-shower to wash off the smell of my gym clothes, I strutted into the cafeteria to get my lunch.  When I walked through the doors, all heads turned to stare at me in my naked glory.  They could see every vein, striation, bulge, and sinew.  Since I had carte blanche to go au naturel, I hadn’t even bothered trying to squeeze myself into underwear.  My overgrown cock and balls were on full display.

            Just by glancing around the room, I could tell which pleasure boys were into men and which only had sex with men because of the money.  All the ones into men got hard at the sight of me.

            Most of the lesser pleasure boys were afraid to approach me.  A few did, though.

            Slate gave me a high-five.

            Krakatoa approached me to say something, but he was so in awe he couldn’t close his mouth.

            Pelée left the cafeteria in disgust.

            Hawk came up to me and just stared, agog, at my cock.

            “If you keep looking, it’ll only get bigger,” I said.

            “I’m just…” he started, then went back to the counter to get a second helping of food.

            I got my lunch (the cafeteria worker did everything she could not to look at my nudity) and joined Onyx at our table.

            “Tony doesn’t like breaking the rules,” Onyx said.  “Not even for me.  How’d you wrangle this?”

            “I outgrew everything in the clothing store.”

            “Everything?” Slate asked from a neighboring table.

            Since he was listening anyways, I waved him over to the table so he’d join us.

            “Everything,” I repeated.  I then told the whole story.  Onyx was amused but unsurprised.  Slate was practically a worshipper.

            He held his hands near my abs.  Then, reverently, he asked, “Can I?”

            I nodded, and he began rubbing the cobbled wall of my abs.

            “Shit, man.  I’ve never had abs.  And no part of me has ever been this brick-like.”

            “You should feel them when I’m not mid-binge.”

            “I’m straight, Nile,” Slate insisted.

            “You’re the one who asked to feel me up.”

            “I don’t want to fuck you,” he clarified.  “I want to be you.”

            “You won’t be saying that soon.”  I turned to Onyx.  “To afford my new clothes, and all the new ones after that, I’ve decided to stop with the hair dye and anti-wrinkle stuff.  I have to prioritize getting bigger.”

            “I keep forgetting you’re 60,” Slate said.

            “More like 70,” I corrected.  I lifted my arm to show the thicket of white hair in the cavernous hollow of my armpits.  “All my hair is this color if I don’t dye it.  Even my pubes.”

            “Fuck, man, if I look half as good as you when I’m 40, I’ll feel like a stud.”  He moved his hand from my abs to my pecs.  “Your pecs are huge, man. In a few more ponds, I bet you’ll be able to lick these beauties.”

            I bent over and dragged my tongue across the tops of my thick pecs, just missing Slate’s fingers.  “Already can, man.”       

            Slate took his hand back, and just said a simple, awe-filled, “Fuck.”

            I finished gorging myself until my gut swelled, and went into my first afternoon session.  He was the one who liked to worship my belly.  He didn’t even notice I was naked when I came in.  He was just on me, sucking my cock, caressing my big gut, and asking me to describe all the daddy-things I’d done that day.

            My second client definitely noticed I was nude on entry.  By then my abs had tightened up again.  This client was early-20s, maybe late teens—a frail, delicate bleach blond thing with an angelic face.

            “Holy fuck!” he shouted.  “You’re naked!”  He put his hands over his eyes.  “I’ve never seen another man naked.  No one.  Not even myself.”  That had to be an exaggeration.  What did he do: shower in the dark?

            “What do you think?” I asked, taking his hands down.

            “Thank god I’m actually attracted to men,” he answered with a relieved sigh.  He looked me up and down, appreciating every rough-hewn muscle on my body.  “You’re gorgeous.  And immense!”

            He said his name was Nathan, and then explained that he was getting married in a month.  It was an arranged marriage.  His family had no legacies but had amassed some not insignificant wealth.  His mother had been a pleasure girl, his father a soldier.   They knew the only way to secure their fortune was through their children’s strategic marriages.  Nathan’s husband-to-be was an older gay man, only modestly wealthy, but with a legacy that even adopted children could inherit.  He’d insisted his betrothed was a young, blond, male virgin.  He’d arranged it with Nathan’s parents when he was still 10.  Hence, he’d been sheltered to the point of knowing if he liked men.  Also, it wasn’t an exaggeration—he really hadn’t seen himself naked in any way that counted.  From the age of 10, he was forced to bathe blindfolded, and he was monitored 24/7 by household servants to make sure he never cheated.  The poor boy had never even masturbated.

            Nathan explained.  “Pleasure houses are like non-spaces to my intended.  Sex with pleasure boys, for some reason, doesn’t count as sex.  And, since I just turned 18 today, I’m allowed to see myself naked again, but only at a pleasure house.”  I didn’t tell him what was obvious to me: these rules existed so his intended could sleep with as many pleasure boys as he wanted after the marriage without it legally being considered infidelity, and thus grounds for divorce.  

            Nathan continued.  “Because the wedding is only a month away, I figured I’d hire the oldest guy in the house to show me a few things about pleasing an old man.”

            “Tip #1, don’t point out the age difference.  Especially don’t say ‘old’ twice in the same sentence.”

            Nathan nodded at the wisdom in that.

            I then stripped him naked and showed him his nude form in the mirror.  He had a decent cock and a fit, young, naturally hairless body.  He looked between us in the reflection—taking in what was the same and what was different.

            “I’d seen some diagrams in textbooks,” he said, enamored at the majesty of the male form, “but it’s entirely different in the flesh.  More captivating.  Alluring.”

            After that, we moved on to the basics of sex.  I showed him how to hold a cock, pleasure it with his mouth, and take it up the ass.  Nathan was an eager, hungry, and flexible learner.  By the end of our hour, he’d come three times (likely his first three orgasms ever) and wasn’t half-bad at getting me off, either.

            “I assure you,” I said, “most men aren’t as well-endowed as me.  If your intended is like most men, though, tell him his cock is huge.  Even if he’s pathetically tiny.”

            Nathan smiled wanly,

            I continued, “On the wedding night, no matter how big or small his cock is, tell him he’s bigger than me and that he’s a better lover than I am.”

            Nathan nodded again and asked, “Do you have an appointment available next week?  So I can learn more?”

            “Sure thing,” I said.

            Nathan left me the biggest tip I’d ever received from a first-time client.  If I exclude Adam, it was likely my biggest tip ever.

            The rest of my appointments that afternoon were routine.  They were shocked, but pleased, that I came in nude.

            Walking from my last afternoon appointment to dinner, my cock dangling in front of me, my thick legs rounding each other slowly, giving my massive ass a waggle, I picked up a crowd of staff following me—mostly younger men.

            When I realized more than ten people were following me, I stopped in the hallway, turned around, put my arms to the side, and said, “Behold.  Take as good a look as you want.”  The women, shocked at being caught.  The men stayed and stared.  Half of them stared in awe like Slate had (wanted to be me), but the other half looked at me like my clients do (wanted to fuck me).  I did a few poses for them, flexing my muscles into bulging relief.

            One man, who probably didn’t even know he was speaking, said, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

            “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I said.  I then conjured up the most erotic images I could in my mind, and my cock steadily grew to its full 9 inches in length.

            If eyes could fall out of heads from opening your lids too wide, half of those men would be eyeless. 

            To give them one hell of a show, I faked an orgasm, cumming all over the carpet right in front of them and moaning loudly.

            One leapt on the cum to lap it up.  Another spontaneously came in his pants.  Yet another wiped the drool from his mouth.  Two of them grabbed hands and made furtive glances at each other, then snuck off together (likely to fuck each other while thinking of me).

            Delighted with their reaction, I turned back around and marched the rest of the way to the cafeteria, still fully erect and dripping a little, and swaying my ass to tease the crowd of men still behind me.

            When I walked into the cafeteria cock first, as naked as at lunch, all eyes turned to face me.

            “Now you’re just rubbing our faces in it,” Pelée said.

            “If that’s what you want,” I responded, “you need only ask.”

            Pelée left the room, disgusted, without even eating dinner.

            I walked to the counter, and the line parted around me.  I got to the table before Onyx did, and he had gotten to the cafeteria before me.

            As my erection subsided, Onyx and I fell into easy conversation, as if I always ate dinner in the nude.  Slate came up to the table and said, “Mind if I join you?”

            “As long as the straight guy doesn’t mind sitting next to my exposed cock.”

            “Dude,” he said, “I’m a pleasure boy too.  I’ve taken cocks up my ass.  I’m straight, not chickenshit.”  He sat down next to me.  “Did your cock get that big from the Red Miracle, or was it always that big?”

            “I was always big, but the Red Miracle made me bigger.”  I omitted the fact that there were chemicals in the pharmacy that could enhance the size of a man’s phallus.  Partly it was because I knew their price tag and his money woes; partly it was because we were in competition, after all.

            Conversation fell back into a normal flow, but I couldn’t help but notice everyone in the room was staring at me.

            “You should hear how they talk about you when you’re not in the room,” Onyx said.

            “Really now?” I asked.

            Slate nodded.  “Half of them are scared of you.  Half of them hate you.  Half of them want to fuck you.  Half of them want to be fucked by you.”

            “That math doesn’t bear up to scrutiny,” I said.

            “If I were better at math, I wouldn’t be a pleasure boy,” Slate said. 

            “It’s overlapping halves,” Onyx clarified.  “Some of them are only afraid of you but don’t want to have sex with you.  Some of them hate you and want to top.  Etcetera, etcetera.”

            “Are some of you really scared of me?” I asked the room.

            Half the heads in the room nodded, afraid I would hurt them if I didn’t answer.

            “Listen,” I started in a friendly tone, my eyes smiling.  “We’re all pleasure boys here.”

            “That approach will just make the ones who hate you hate you more,” Onyx scream-whispered.

            Fine, then.  A different tack.

            I stood up and cleared my throat.  In a practically military tone, I commenced my speech.  “I am clearly the biggest motherfucker in the room.  One or two of you used to be buffer than me, but that just ain’t the case anymore.  Until one of you little fucks dethrones me as the Big Dog, show me the proper respect, and I promise I won’t fuck you up.  Grovel on my knees before me, and I just might enjoy a fuck with you.”  With that, I sat back down and enjoyed my dinner.

            “That’ll actually help,” Onyx said, impressed.

            The rest of dinner passed by uneventfully.

            Right after dinner was my weekly appointment with Adam.

            He was delighted to see me nude.  Even before I was through the door, he gave Edward a knowing look, and Edward immediately said, “Of course, you were right.  He’s outgrown all the clothes at their store.  I’ll increase our standard tips so he can buy more clothes.”  I was glad to hear it, but with my savings eradicated, that windfall would only partially cover my growing costs.

            I closed the door behind me and got a good look at Adam.  He was starting to look aerobics instructor fit.  His clothes all looked tight, and he was looking muscular.

            “Well,” I said.  “Don’t make me wait.”

            “168.5,” Adam said.  “I’m bigger than I was at the start of this journey.”

            “All told,” Edward bragged, showing me the body comp chart, “he’s lost 14 pounds of fat and gained 17.5 pounds of muscle.”

            “I’m proud of you, you beautiful man you,” I said, walking over to hug him.

            “I’m still going for 190 pounds, I made that commitment to Edward,” Adam said.  “But my polling numbers for the primary have gone up.”

            “He’s being modest,” Edward interjected.  “His numbers have skyrocketed.  As he gets bigger, there have been multiple videos of him working out shirtless circulating online.  All of them have gone viral.”

            “I suspect you leaked those videos,” I said, smirking and elbowing Edward.

            “I would’ve been a bad husband not to,” he confessed.  “If voting day were tomorrow, he’d win the election in a landslide.  That’s the election mind you, not the primary.”

            “I don’t have to worry about the primary anymore,” Adam cheered.  “What’s-her-boobs dropped out.”

            “The pollsters say that Adam’s physical fitness journey was the single largest contributing factor to his meteoric rise.  He was already popular because of his years of experience and stances on the issues.  The muscles just pushed him over the top.”

            “What’s-her-boobs dropped out!” Adam repeated.  “I’m running unopposed in the primary.  The opposition party is pissing themselves at my polling numbers.”

            “That’s fantastic,” I said.

            “My dad would’ve killed for these polling numbers,” Adam said.  “I am going to fuck you senseless, Nile.”

            He tore off his clothes, and I got to see the fruits of his hard work.  Adam had some decent pecs, his arms and shoulders looked seriously thick, and his thighs and ass looked like every day was leg day.

            True to his word, Adam fucked me senseless.  With energy and stamina like that, Adam could’ve had a promising career as a pleasure boy.  He had the body and good looks to match.   Adam knew me well, knew what I liked.  He twisted my nipples as we fucked, he varied his rhythms, he complimented my size, he was bound and determined to make me cum.  Adam, as a regular client, was aware that more experienced pleasure boys could fake an orgasm, and he wanted to make me genuinely cum.  He could tell when I was authentic.

            After 15 minutes of concentrated attention, Adam had me climaxing like a burst fire hydrant.

            Edward exploded soon after.

            Adam fucked me like that four times in his session.  For the first time in my half-century career, I felt like the client.