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

[arpeejay]

Bravo!

[IronandGold]

Yes! I love that Slate is such a crafty bitch. And telling Nile he had the power to effect real changes? A crafty revolutionary too

[Ro20316]

Tny wont have to worry when Nile retires. He has Slate now someone that ahs changed so much since we first met him and i would love to see him thrive. He enjoys what he is doing and i hope the best for Slate

[actorsarecool]

My perfect little ending to this story would be that Nile is able to bring about industry-wide change and Tony somehow is toppled at the house.  Adam and Edward buy the house and put Nile and Gavin in charge - all the while Nile still gets his double pension.  The house thrives and best of all Nile, Onyx, and Slate get to still be together in the end.  But no matter the ending you have planned it will be great.  Can’t wait to see where this one goes! 

[jwood]

Oh, the cruel irony of Nile being able to have mind-blowing sex with anyone he sees except for the one he loves and sees (in his dreams) more than anything in the world!  The weekly growth is increasing even more, and with Nile nearing 3 times the size of Gavin now (at least, the only image of him we have actually seen), I hope they can still hold on to their love!

[karikaturian]

Reading from one POV makes you forget, after a while, that all that you read is seen through the eyes of that one character and is thus full of biases. So I loved being surprised to see that Slate is actually more capable and smart than Nile anticipated. Great chapter!

[TQuintA]

Chapter 42

            My meeting with Dr. Crane the next day felt completely superfluous.

            “Good morning, Dr. Crane,” I said, taking a seat on the exam table.

            “Please, call me Rebecca,” she responded.  “You’ve slow danced with my husband in public.”

            “Rebecca, then,” I replied.  “Look, let me level with you.  I’m only at this house for five months after the competition ends.  I’m sure you’re a master at what you do, but there’s nothing I want.”

            “Not even a simple facelift?” she asked.  “The top half of your face is crawling with wrinkles, especially at the corners of your eyes.”

            “That’s called being 70,” I informed her.

            “I could make you look 20,” she countered.

            Unmoved, I replied, “My brand is big daddy.”

            “Implants?” she asked.

            Why was she pressing this?  Was it just so that she could say I was a patient of hers and use me in her advertisements, like her husband had done?

            Politely, I responded, “I’m already bigger than I know what to do with, and I haven’t maxed out yet.”  I flexed my massive bicep to demonstrate my point.  The giant ball of muscle swelling into relief on my arm momentarily stunned her.  But only momentarily.

            “I know what would make you even sexier.  How about…” I had no idea what she was going to say, but I cut her off.

            “Even if what you suggested was the best idea I ever heard,” I explained, “I’d want to run it by my fiancé first, and there’s no way I can do that while I’m in here.  Besides, my budget is a delicate balancing act that can’t handle a large, sudden expense.”

            “Botox, then?” she asked.  “Something relatively inexpensive.”

            “Big daddy,” I repeated.  “The wrinkles are part of the appeal.”

            “You don’t have to be so resistant,” she said.  “If it’s simply a matter of payment as you say, we can open a credit account…”

            I stopped her again.  “Yeah, you can stop now.  I see your game.  And I’m not playing.”

            “Very well then,” she said curtly.  “If you’re comfortable being only half as attractive as you could be.”

            “Ma’am,” I said, getting off the table, “I’m the sexiest fucking thing on two legs and am engaged to the man of my dreams.  The hard sell only works on those with wavering self-esteem.”  With that, I was out of her exam room.

            Her sales pitch, however, worked on Slate and Onyx.
            “As soon as the fourth round is over,” Onyx said, “I’m getting calf implants and maybe butt implants.”

            “I’m getting a mesh corset,” Slate said.  “Slowly, over the course of months, it’ll tighten my abs and slim my waist.  She said she could take at least 4 inches off my waistline.  Up to 10 if I respond well.  Can you imagine?”

            “You guys are already incredibly hot,” I pointed out.  “Plastic surgery would be gilding the lily.”

            “We have to think long-term,” Onyx said.  “It’s an investment.”

            “It’s a needless expense,” I said.  “Onyx, your legs are a poem, and your ass is a symphony.  Slate, I have no shortage of dirty masturbatory fantasies about your abs.  Especially after last night.”

            “Imagine if they were even better,” Slate said, stroking his abs, having completely missed my point.

            I stood up, pushing my new, larger chair loudly so everyone heard me rise.  “Everyone in this room is a literal sex god.  Getting the surgeries can’t help you during the fourth round.  Don’t let them get in your head.”

            “Easy for you to say,” Triton said.  “You’ve breezed through this competition, and you’re leaving in less than a year.”

            I rubbed my eyes in frustration, my biceps fighting my pecs to reach them.  “Triton, everyone, they’re trying to trap us in debt.  The surgeries are luxuries.  None of us can afford them.  But, they’ll give them to us on credit.  It’s like the purple stuff, but rather than just bankrupting us, they’ll drive us down into the negatives.  You’ll work for nothing.”

            “We already do,” Slate said.

            “Once the competition is over, start saving your tips again.  Economize on supplements.  Don’t buy a lot of new clothes.  Shave your own beards.  They don’t own you.  They employ you.  If they trick you into debt, they’ll own you for real.  If they trick you into debt, you’ll still owe them money after you leave.”

            “But once the competition is over,” Triton said, “how can we keep our jobs if we don’t constantly improve ourselves?”

            I walked over to Triton and forced him to stand up.  “You’re what, 250?  260?  And, what, 8 inches erect?  8 and a half?  You’re the smallest boy in this house.  But, you have a slew of regular clients and brand recognition with that unforgettable purple hair of yours.  Do you know how much time, training, and resources it would take to get a 20-year-old off the street to your level?  You’re the smallest of us, but you’re huge and well-trained.”  I let him sit back down.  “I used to spend all my tips on self-improvement to keep myself in high demand for my clients.  Trust me when I say I understand your logic.  But I was wrong.  There’s a world outside this house, and you have to prepare for it too.  I get that you’re all worried about getting through the fourth round, but once you do, you’ve got it made.  Just don’t break any major house rules and maintain your bodies.  They can’t afford to dismiss you cavalierly.”

            “And if we don’t make it through the round?” Triton asked.

            “Then any other pleasure house would be desperate to snap you up.”

            “But what if I want the surgery?” Slate asked, banging his fist on the table.

            “Then budget accordingly,” I said.  “Don’t let them trick you into debt.”

            “So, you’re giving up then?  Not getting any bigger?” Triton sounded scornful.

            “The competition’s not over, and I intend to win,” I clarified.  “Once the competition’s over, I will spend as little money as I possibly can.  It’s our money; not theirs.  We’re the product, what people crave; they’re untalented administrators.”

            My scolding really changed the tenor of the house.  No longer were the boys terrified animals rushing around the house, worried Tony was going to dismiss them on imaginary charges.  All around the house, men were strutting proudly, their large chests heaving forward, their arms bulging, their crotches stuffed with their manly excess.

            And everyone was doing better in the gym.  Lifting more, making more progress, getting bigger.  My crew especially.  Their pecs were as gigantic as mine had been at their sizes, obscuring their views when they looked down.  Their legs were as thick as mine had been at their sizes, forcing them to waddle slowly when they walked.  Their asses were as massive as mine had been at their sizes, jutting out behind them like shelves of pure brawn.  The whole gym was overfilled with just 15 men, each with burly and rounded shoulders, thick legs, wide lats, beefy arms, and cobbled abs.  Every crotch was full of giant cock and ripe, heavy balls.  The men were at different levels of hairiness, had a variety of skin tones, and styled themselves radically differently, but they were all huge and getting huger.

            “How did you do this?” Tony asked me, agog at everyone’s renewed growth.

            “The men thrive when they’re not scared little boys trapped under your thumb or terrified of your wrath.”

            “Not a one of them has signed up for plastic surgery,” Tony said.

            “Some will,” I reassured him.  “When they can afford it.”

            “I don’t know whether to throttle you or shake your hand.”

            “Neither,” I said.  “Both involve you touching me.”

            I went back to my workout.

            Come Sunday, it was time for our weekly weigh-in.  Onyx jumped on the scale first this time.

            “I just know it’ll be a big week for me,” he said.  The scale registered 451.  “That’s what I’m talking about!” he added, stepping down.

            “Ahem?” Slate said.

            “11 and a quarter,” Onyx said.  Then, he added, “You’ll know when I reach a foot.”

            Slate took his turn on the scale.  “369 and 15 inches,” he boasted, stepping down.

            “Can any of your clients even take that thing?” Onyx asked.

            “Not a one,” he bragged, “and they love me for it.”

            I stepped on the scale.  “539,” I said. 

            “And?” Slate asked.

            “14.5,” I said flatly.  “You’re a half inch bigger than me, but I’m a whole person more muscular than you.”  I flexed my grotesquely huge biceps.  “A whole buff dude more.”

            When Tuesday came around, Tony reminded everyone that the journalist would be coming that day, and they were not to speak unless spoken to, a spiel he’d given at least ten other times.

            At the end of the meeting, I followed Tony to his office.  As we walked there, he said, “Don’t do anything to embarrass me.”

            “If Adam and Edward are telling the truth,” I said, “you’ve done nothing illegal.  There’s nothing to worry about.”

            Olivia was waiting for us outside Tony’s office.

            “Miss Hascombe,” he said civilly to mask his ire.

            “Mr. Fielding,” she replied just as civilly.

            “Good morning, Olivia,” I said, trying to inject some warmth in the conversation.

            “Nile, you look even bigger,” she replied, her tone indicating just how impressed she was.

            “30 pounds more muscle since you saw me last,” I said, flexing my pecs.

            The pleasantries over, I began her tour of the house.  I wanted to show her everything, but she wanted to start at the pharmacy.

            Obliging her, we made a beeline there.  The pharmacist was unhappy that I wasn’t there to humiliate him, but he went about his business.

            “This place is well-stocked,” she said, mystified.

            “Well, right now, it only has 15 customers,” I reminded her.  “The shelves weren’t so full when there were 100 of us.”

            “Where’s the purple stuff?” she asked.

            I took her to it.  She picked up a can and scanned it with her phone.

            “I don’t believe it,” she said.  “It’s legal after all.”  She put the can back on the shelf.  “At pleasure houses only.  This stuff has been outlawed for sale at any place that isn’t a pleasure house for 40 years.”

            “I’m unsurprised.”

            She looked around the pharmacy.  “This place would be well-stocked even if there were a thousand of you.”

            “It’s one of the house’s greatest sources of profits,” I explained.

            That confused her.  “The house doesn’t pay for your hormones, medicines, or supplements?”

            I shook my head.  “Never has.”

            “But they’re a work expense.  They should pay for them or provide some sort of allowance—at least a partial remittance.”

            “They don’t,” I said flatly.

            “Okay, maybe things like supplements or hormones could be classified as luxuries, if they’re penny-pinchers, but what about things like aspirin or bandages?”

            “We pay for those too.”

            “Deodorant?  Toothpaste?”

            “Those too.”

            “You’re kidding me,” she said, dumbfounded.  She began scanning items—every item.  Left and right.  “They’re price gouging you.”  She scanned a can of shaving cream.  “Wow.  They’re ridiculously price gouging you.  Everything here has been marked up at least 50%.  Sometimes as much as 200%.”

            “Where else are we going to shop?” I asked by way of explanation.  “It’s basic supply and demand.”

            “I was under the impression that they paid for everything, that that’s why people took the gig.  You know, a life of luxury while you sell your time,” Olivia said, taking pictures of the entire pharmacy, including the price tags.  “What else do you have to pay for?”

            “Clothes, grooming at the salon, things like that.”

            “You have to pay for your own clothes?  Clothes you use in the service of your clients?”

            I nodded.  “Want to see the clothing store?”

            “Yes, please,” she said.

            “We’ll have to take the freight elevator,” I said.  “I can’t fit in the normal elevators with another person anymore.  It would support our combined weight, but I take up too much space.”

            Olivia was shocked to see the opulence of the clothing store.  Then, she looked at the prices.  “They’re overcharging you here too.”  She picked up a baseball cap like a pleasure worker might use when pretending to be a frat bro.  “This hat,” she scanned it with her phone, “has been marked up 500%.” 

            “Where else are we going to shop?” I asked again.

            Frustratedly, Olivia said, “They should give you a stipend for basic necessities.”  She took a million pictures.

            “Yeah, don’t say that too loud,” I said, pointing at the sales clerk.  “He’ll report you to Tony if he doesn’t like you.”

            “Hey!” the clerk said.

            “You know it’s true.”

            The clerk exhaled loudly through his nostrils and went back to work.

            “They spy on you?” Olivia asked.

            “Some of them,” I answered.  “Especially if you threaten their livelihoods.”

            “Let me try this a different way,” Olivia said.  “What don’t you pay for?” she asked, putting the hat back on the shelf.  “Again, I understood that was part of the appeal of working here.”

            I nodded.  “We don’t pay rent.  We don’t pay to use the gym.  We don’t pay for utilities.  We don’t pay for most of our food.”

            “Most?”

            I explained the cafeteria schedule and the new phenomenon of midnight snacks.

            “You can at least take leftovers back to your rooms if you get hungry later, right?”

            I shook my head emphatically.  “Everyone does it, but it’s against the rules.”  Then I explained all the rules regulating our behavior in the house.

            “You’d mentioned a lot of this at the dinner party.”  She looked somber.  “It sounds worse when you’re inside the house.  And it sounded unpleasant when I was dining in luxury at a senator’s mansion.  Can I see your room?” she asked.

            “Sure,” I said, and escorted her back to my room.

            When she saw it, she took in a sharp breath.  “It’s so small.  My garage is bigger.”  She took a picture with me in it for scale.  “You call this luxury?”  She was confused.  “There’s no carpet.  Gray cinderblock walls.  One tiny window that’s so high up you can’t even see anything through it.  A bed and a closet, a small table for a nightstand, and an understocked bathroom.”  She snapped dozens more pictures.  “No personal effects, no books, no tablets.  What do you even do in here during your off hours?”

            “Work out, fuck, sleep.  Some boys gossip.”  I quickly added, “There’s not much to gossip about.”

            She turned to me and adamantly said, “This is a prison cell, Nile.”

            I laughed.  “It’s nicer than the room I had before I came here.”

            “How?”

            “For one, it’s temperature controlled, never too hot or too cold.  For another, I don’t share it with three roommates.  For a third, the bed is very fancy.”

            “It’s mid-range at best,” she informed me.

            “Like I said,” I insisted, “very fancy.”

            “Can you ask for a nicer bed?” she asked, pushing down on the mattress.

            “I’d have to pay for the bed, and extra for delivery, and a little more extra to have it set up, and even more extra for the removal of the old one.  For a while, I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor.”

            Slate stuck his head into my room.  “Nile, it’s lunch time.”

            “Wanna see the cafeteria?” I asked.

            Olivia nodded, still pale from seeing my luxury suite.

            “You’re the journalist?” Slate asked.  He stared at her like a homesick sailor would look at land, paying special attention to her breasts.

            “Yes she is,” I replied.  “You’ve seen her boobs.  Now, off with you.”

            Chided, Slate left.

            “He thinks you’re pretty,” I told her.

            As we walked to the cafeteria, she asked, “I thought this place only took male clients.”

            “It does.”

            “But that man was staring at my breasts.”

            “Because he’s straight.”

            Olivia stopped walking.  “I’m confused.”

            I got her to start walking again.  We were almost there, and I was hungry.  “I’m the only gay pleasure boy left at this house.  Onyx recently discovered he’s bi, but the rest are all straight.”

            “But they have sex with men.”

            “Money’s a great motivator,” I said, opening the cafeteria door.  “This room is nicer than most of the other rooms that the clients never see.  It was recently remodeled.”

            She went up to the counter and looked at the trays.  “You weren’t kidding when you called it a cafeteria.  I expected a restaurant.  Tablecloths.  Menus.”

            “There’s a menu,” I said.  “For breakfast, there’s a choice between eggs and oatmeal.  For lunch and dinner, there’s a choice between chicken or fish.”  Then, I smiled.  “Once a month we get beef.”

            “This is your food?” she asked, disgusted, snapping a picture.

            “This is the nicest part of the pleasure house,” I insisted.  “We don’t have to shop, cook, or clean.  We get served our meals.”  I pointed to the piles of food in front of my fellow workers.  “And we can have as much as we want as long as we eat it here.”  I took a tray of chicken and a tray of fish.  Giddily, I pointed out, “You can choose both: chicken and fish.”

            “The cafeteria is a perk to you?” she asked.

            “What do you think, guys?” I asked the room.  “Is the food a perk of a pleasure house?”

            The crowd assented raucously.

            “At least you get to use the entertainment facilities on your off hours,” she said, taking a tray of food and joining me at my table.

            I laughed so hard my sides hurt.

            “We’re not even allowed in those facilities unless we’re on a date,” I told her when I could breathe normally again.  “They lock us in the dorm at night.”

            “But what do you do on your weekends?”

            I laughed again, even harder this time.  “You should be a comedy writer,” I said.

            “No weekends?”

            “We get one day off a year,” I said.  “It’s the only day we’re allowed to have visitors.  They use it to power wash the house.”

            “That’s something at least,” she tried.

            “Most of the guys hate it,” I corrected.  “No tips that day.”

            “Your one vacation day a year isn’t even paid?”

            “That would imply they pay us,” I told her.  “They don’t.  Our clients do.  No clients, no pay.”

            “You signed up for this?”  She sounded completely shocked.

            “Beats our other options in the labor forces,” I answered.  “You should interview the staff—the janitors and kitchen staff especially.  They have it worse.  Most of them would trade with us if they could.”

            A cafeteria worker in our eyeline wordlessly nodded his assent.

            “I might just do that later,” she said.  “Today, though, I’m here to learn about you boys.”  Then she looked at the room and asked, “Is Nile right?  Is this place better than your options outside the house?”

            Everyone nodded.

            “I’m curious.  What’s your favorite thing about this place?”  Most of the guys said their rent-free rooms, which absolutely shocked her.  Slate had said nothing, so she pressed him.  “And you?”

            Slate chuckled and said, “Nile already told you.  Once a month we get beef.”

            She stared at him agape.

            Slate clarified, “I can’t afford steak on what they pay in the labor forces.  A steak once a month?  That’s some high-class, ritzy shit.”

            By then, I had finished my food, so I asked her, “Do you want to see the gym, or a pleasure suite next, or maybe where we train the new pledge classes?”

            “Do they really lock you in at night?” she asked, a fearful tone in her voice.

            “Not into our rooms,” I clarified.  “Just into the dormitory as a whole.”

            “I want to go,” she said.  “I want to go now and sit in my nice, soft armchair, crack open a beer, smoke a joint, and mindlessly watch something on my tablet to try to forget everything I’ve learned today.”

            “Your prerogative,” I said.  “But I have so much more to show you.”

            “I’m going to go.”

            With that, Olivia left.

[arpeejay]

<-- raises fist!

"Power to the People!"

I know you weren't REALLY trying to write a dystopian meditation on 21st Century American Capitalism but you have done a damned fine job of it even so!

[Ripped]

1 hour ago, TQuintA said:

“I want to go,” she said.  “I want to go now and sit in my nice, soft armchair, crack open a beer, smoke a joint, and mindlessly watch something on my tablet to try to forget everything I’ve learned today.”

Emphasis mine. Either she'll drop the story to keep the status quo, have an "accident" the puts her in a coma or the grave, or she'll publish the story to which nothing will change.
(sorry...not in a "happy" frame of mind rn.)

[HawkShark]

See now this is a dystopian setting I can watch/read/consume and not be left depressed. My usual escapism preference is Star Trek style Fully Automated Luxury Gay Space Utopian Communism, but a dysopian setting where the masses are starting the movements to improve their lot in life is almost as good. Let's hope @Ripped is wrong and Olivia writes the kind of expose that really rankles the masses. 
This chapter really reminded me of the Black Mirror 'Fifteen Million Merits' episode (Being on the bikes sucks, but cleaning after the people on the bikes is worse), or perhaps generally the plight of the Belters (and generic earthers) in The Expanse... If this whole thing gets revolutionary as @arpeejay hopes it might even toe into Hunger Games territory, which after the big Senatorial dinner might be intentional. 

As always thanks for the thought provoking and incredibly hot storytelling @TQuintA!