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

[TQuintA]

Chapter 34

            The next morning at breakfast, Slate and I explained our plan to Onyx.

            “If it works, I’m all down for it,” Onyx said.  He had that usual, muted tone to his voice.

            “Any tricks you have for seducing him?” Slate asked.

            Onyx nodded.  “Be young and be me.”

            I laughed, but Slate growled.  We both knew it wasn’t a joke, but I couldn’t help but find it funny.

            “I didn’t seduce him,” Onyx explained.  “He picked me from the new recruits, not the other way around.”

            “True.  Tony likes to be the aggressor,” I said.  “We have to make him think this is his idea.”

            “I don’t know how to do that.”  Slate sighed in frustration.

            “Ask him for something only he can get you,” I said.  “Pretend there’s some piece of contraband or some luxury that isn’t in the house, and ask him for it.”

            “Would that work?” Slate asked.

            “I think it would,” Onyx replied.

            “He would like the sense of power it gives him,” I added.

            “What should I ask for?” Slate asked.

            “Something that segues naturally into sex,” I suggested.  “Something like fancy sheets or some sex toy.”

            “I’ve got it,” Slate said and tore open his pants, wrecking his overstrained zipper.  His cock, still covered by his underwear, rose forth like a spire.  “I’ve been about to burst through all my pants for almost two weeks.  I need pants that accommodate my constant hardon.”

            “That’ll do it,” Onyx and I said together.

            Slate shoveled down the rest of his breakfast and confidently strode out of the cafeteria, led by his ever hard dick.

            A half hour later, Slate sauntered back into the gym, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

            “Gentlemen, I believe I am the boss’s new chew toy,” he declared to us.

            “Really?” Onyx asked, more dubious than relieved.

            Slate nodded.  “I fought back when he pointed the gun—and is it ever a real gun—at my head.  He said it was thrilling.”  He puffed out his chest proudly.  “I lost on purpose, of course.  I’m not insane.  But I fought back.  He killed me twice he enjoyed himself so much.”

            “You never fought back?” I asked Onyx.

            “Didn’t occur to me,” he said.  “He doesn’t pull out the gun until after he’s climaxed.”

            The next day, Slate had a pair of stretchy pants that had no zippers and gave ample room for his footlong erection.

            When Onyx saw that sight, he said, “Okay.  I’ll stop taking the green stuff.”

            After two days of relative peace, Onyx started to return to himself.  He still wasn’t 100% full volume yet, but because he didn’t have decades of the stuff in his system, he was clearly no longer muted.  His reactions were instantaneous and deep—he laughed and smiled as easily as he once had.

            That day at the gym, two days after Onyx quit the green stuff, Tony strolled up to us as the three of us were engaged in an intense back workout.

            “You know, Nixie,” he said sweetly, “all you had to do was ask me not to point a gun at your head.”  He possessively put his hand on Onyx’s swollen, tense shoulder.  “Slate is more than capable of scratching that particular itch, but I value you more than as a mere sex object.”

            It had never even occurred to us to appeal to Tony’s better nature.  We were quite certain he didn’t have one.

            “Care to keep me company during lunch?” he asked.  “I miss you.”

            That was more like the Tony I knew.  Charm Onyx with sweet words, and then pull a gun on him as pillow talk.

            “Back off, Tony,” I said, leaving my machine and forcing my oversized body between him and Onyx.

            “I wasn’t talking to you, Nile!” he shouted at an unreasonable, unbelievable volume.  As loud as a thunder strike. 

            “Well, maybe you should be!” I shouted back at the same volume, thrusting my large chest into his face. 

            Everyone in the gym stared. 

            “You forget yourself, boy,” he seethed.  “I own you.”

            Instinctively, my fist balled up, and I raised it to strike him.

            At a normal volume, he said, “Do it, and I will dismiss you on the spot.”  I could tell from the vein throbbing at his temple that he wasn’t actually calm, but his voice betrayed no remnant of rage.

            I bit my cheek so hard it bled, but I lowered my fist.

            Then, he maneuvered back around me and continued talking to Onyx in a dulcet, soothing voice: “What do you say?  I promise,” he said the word “promise” with especial emphasis, “we will both remain fully clothed and I will keep my gun holstered.”  Then, to clarify, he said, “Both my literal gun and my metaphorical one.”  He squeezed his crotch with his free hand.

            “Okay,” Onyx said tentatively.

            “Great.  So, when you get your second lunch, bring it to my office.  We’ll catch up.  I cleared a spot for you.”

            Then, he moved over to Slate.  “I’ll see you tonight at 10.”  He made a finger gun, pretended to shoot it, and blew on his pointer finger as if to dissipate the smoke coming from the gun’s barrel.

            “Not a problem, sir,” Slate said, saluting like a soldier.

            With that, Tony left the gym.

            “You don’t have to go to that lunch if you don’t want to,” I assured Onyx.

            “I want to go,” he said.  “I like the benefits that come with being Tony’s favorite.  I just don’t want a gun pointed at my head.”

            “You really expect him to…”

            Onyx interrupted me.  “According to you, Tony always keeps his promises.  And he promised no gun play.”

            I had said that exact thing, but, later that day, I couldn’t stop myself from bolting down my second lunch and waiting outside Tony’s office.

            As soon as Onyx came out, I could tell he was all smiles.

            “Hi, Nile,” Onyx said.  “Tony was really sweet.  He lit candles.  He played music.  We held hands.  We had a very pleasant conversation.  I flexed for him a bit.  He felt up my biceps.  We danced when I finished eating.”

            “No sex?”

            “We made out a little,” Onyx said.  “He told me he’d talk to his husband Cliff.  Maybe make this a throuple thing.  I declined, and he asked if we could have more romantic dates like this.”  Onyx smiled.  “I made out with him to stall while I thought of an answer.  Then, when we finished kissing, I told him that since he was in charge of my schedule, he could pay the fee and have a romantic date with me any time he wanted.  And, as long as no guns are involved, I’d even fuck him again.”

            “And if he pulls a gun on you?” I asked, concerned.

            “I leave the house, pension be damned,” Onyx said forcefully.  “I told him as much.  He claims to love me, and I make a lot of money for the house.  One or the other should stop him from pointing a gun at me ever again.”  Onyx kissed me on the cheek.  “Thanks, Nile.  I should’ve asked for your help months ago.”  I knew that Onyx needed significant therapeutic help to deal with his past trauma, but we weren’t going to get it in here.  As long as Onyx was happy and not overdosing on neuron-frying chemicals, I would have to drop the issue.  After the peck on my cheek, Onyx went off to his next client.

            “Come in here, Nile,” Tony said.

            I did as I was instructed, squeezing my giant pecs and shoulders through his too-small door.

            “Spying on your buddy?” he asked, not looking up from his work tablet.

            “I was worried that you wouldn’t be sensitive to Onyx’s past,” I said honestly.

            “Before today, he never told me about his former boss,” Tony said.  “I wouldn’t have engaged in that fetish with him if I knew.”  He put down his work tablet and looked me squarely in the eyes.  “Undermine my authority in this house again and I will make your life here miserable.”  His tone was so chilly the room got colder.

            “I’m here for just over a year,” I reminded him.  “Whatever punishment you can come up with, I can forbear.”

            “You’re not worried I’ll rig the contest so you can’t get a double pension?”

            “I have it in writing that you can’t dismiss me until I’ve served my 50. And Gavin and I will do just peachy on a pension and a half.”           

            Tony looked like he wanted to say something in response to that, but he swallowed it.  “The beauty experts are coming today during dinner,” he warned, breaking eye contact and picking his work tablet back up.  “I didn’t tell the boys so there wouldn’t be a rush on the salon.  I’m only telling you so you can convince Onyx to go.”  He rubbed his face, which I now realized was red with beardburn.  “He needs to trim that beard.”

            “Why didn’t you just tell him?”

            “I haven’t earned his trust back yet,” Tony said.  “You, he trusts to the ends of the earth.”

            I left Tony alone in his office and caught up with Onyx.

            “We’re hitting the salon,” I informed him.

            “We are?” he seemed confused.  He had about 30 minutes before our next sessions, but no appointments at the salon.

            “We are,” I replied.  “And if we find Slate on the way, we’re dragging him too.”

            “Why?” Onyx asked as we changed directions toward the salon, which thankfully brought our path past the cafeteria so we could grab Slate.

            After I’d explained to them why we were going to the salon, Slate said, “Thanks for grabbing me.”

            “We don’t have appointments,” Onyx repeated.

            “We have mouths,” I said.  “And the guy who runs the salon has a dick.”

            From that point, the day progressed normally until dinner.  Slate, Onyx, and I entered the cafeteria with freshly coiffed styles and our sexiest outfits.  I had chosen scandalously tight clothes from when I was a smaller man; clothes that barely fit me.  I had on a pale yellow button down and white slacks; both were made from thin, insubstantial material, so my thicker-than-ever, blindingly white chest hair was easily visible underneath despite its light hue.  While we were eating dinner, the seldom-used PA system crackled to life.

            “The judges for the beauty portion of the third round are in the auditorium.”

            A collective cry of concern went out from the other 27 pleasure boys.  Meanwhile, I thought to myself, “The auditorium?  That means we can’t get naked.”  Until that moment, my plan had been to strip naked in front of the judges—it’s why I wore clothes that were easy to tear.

            “When your name is called, you will head to the auditorium and proceed across the stage.  You are allowed ten seconds maximum onstage.  Once your time is over, you will return to the cafeteria.  Slate, you are first.  Onyx, get ready because you’re going as soon as Slate gets back.”

            “Ah,” I said as Slate got up.  “We’re doing this from youngest to oldest,” I informed the rest of the boys.  “I hope that helps everybody figure out the lineup.  I’m obviously dead last.”

            When Slate got back, Onyx’s name was called, and Slate told everyone what to expect.

            “There are four of them,” he said.  “Five if you count Tony.  There’s this really frail guy in a purple suit and bow tie; there’s a fit, handsome (and obviously gay) guy who is likely a fashion model; there’s a tall guy who’s gotta be as old as Nile; and there’s one woman with close-cropped blonde hair.  All of them were stone silent, even as I flirted with them.  Then I noticed the woman was wearing a lesbian pride pin, so don’t bother flirting with her.  They were taking notes on their personal tablets, and at the end, a second woman came from out of nowhere and took a picture of me.  Just from the shoulders up.”

            When Onyx got back, he confirmed that his experience had been identical.

            One by one, the boys left and came back.  Most boys spent the wait fretting nervously; I used it to concoct a backup plan.  Eventually, I was the only one who hadn’t been called, and I felt performance adrenaline kick in.

            When my name was announced, I leapt up so hard that all the empty chairs on my side of the table went flying back five feet.  I marched carefully but solidly to the auditorium.  When I entered, I heard a collective gasp go up from the judges—even the smartly dressed lesbian.

            I marched confidently to the stage and turned to face them.  I rose an eyebrow seductively, then bent over and did a most muscular.

            That was when my backup plan ratcheted into high gear.  Because of my initial plan, I had worn clothes that barely fit me 20 pounds ago.  As long as I stayed legally dressed, there was no rule against flashing some skin.  My shoulders, biceps, and pecs burst through the shirt as I flexed.  My defined and corded arms were in full view of the judges, as was my ample, furry chest with a glimpse of my shredded abs.  The fashion model (who was incredibly gorgeous) dropped his tablet.  Before I lost the element of surprise, I spun around and flexed my lats, splitting my shirt down the back.  Then, I turned back around, and while I ran my hands through my hair, messing up my recently trimmed hair to give myself bedhead, I flexed my quads one by one, destroying the legs of my pants.  Two of the other judges (the man in the purple suit and the man my age) stopped taking notes.  Only the lesbian and Tony were even taking notes anymore.  With my scant seconds left, I willed myself into a full erection, so an over 12-inch tube of flesh filled my underwear and wrapped around my hip, making a sizable bulge in my shredded pants.

            “That’s time, Nile,” Tony said with a dagger of hostility in his voice.

            The photographer Slate had mentioned came up to take my picture.  As she approached me, I looked the camera right in its lens and pretended it was Gavin.  Never breaking focus, I imagined that I wanted to fuck Gavin, but he was reluctant, so I only had my face (and especially my eyes) to get him into bed.  I heard the woman taking the photo audibly whimper as she snapped the photo.

            With as much aplomb as I strode in, I began walking out of the auditorium, when the lesbian raised her finger and said, “Nile?  One moment.”

            I stopped and turned around.

            “You’re the only of the 30 pleasure boys we’ve seen who didn’t say a word to try to win us over.”

            Internally I thought, “Why would I talk?  This is a beauty pageant.”

            She continued.  “I’d never cast a man for the films I produce if he didn’t have an irresistibly sexy voice.  Can I hear you say something sexy before you leave?”

            “His time’s up,” Tony said.

            “Let the man talk!” the model who’d dropped his tablet said. 

            “He’s had his ten seconds,” Tony insisted.

            “He’s not onstage,” the man dressed in purple pointed out. 

            “Be reasonable,” the eldest judge said in agreement.  “You’re being irrationally pedantic.”

            “All I need is one sentence,” the woman clarified.

            “Fine,” Tony acquiesced.

            What could I say that a lesbian would find sexy?  And in one sentence?

            “I assure you, miss, like all of me, my tongue is generous, strong, skilled, and girthy,” I teased.  Then, I wagged my tongue at her and walked out of the room.

[Mdlftr]

New one for me:   "...skilled, and girthy..."

I like it!  And I'm not even a lesbian!

Great writing, TQuintA!  Still bringing it home!

 

[arpeejay]

"I've got it,” Onyx said and tore open his pants, wrecking his overstrained zipper. His cock, still covered by his underwear, rose forth like a spire. “I’ve been about to burst through all my pants for almost two weeks. I need pants that accommodate my constant hardon.”

^^^

I assume that the first sentence is a continuity error and that Slate is actually the speaker here, yes?

Now to finish reading!

[arpeejay]

Quite possibly the best chapter end sentence in the history of Muscle Growth Fiction! Bravo!

[ploder4]

15 hours ago, Ro20316 said:

But why is Slate offering himself when he has seen what has happened to Onyx?????

Slate has similar kinks.  He probably knows how to defend himself too.  Although tragedy could still happen. 

[TQuintA]

57 minutes ago, arpeejay said:

I assume that the first sentence is a continuity error and that Slate is actually the speaker here, yes?

Well spotted and so emended.

[jwood]

I must confess I've been thinking way too much about the growth potential

Like, hypothetically, if I were 180 lbs with a 6 inch dick, but my growth potential were 90/20, would I be successful in the big niche house?

[TQuintA]

7 minutes ago, jwood said:

would I be successful

With that growth potential, you wouldn't get much more muscular,  I suspect maxing out around 200 pounds, maybe (at the outside) 240.  But your genitals would easily end up over two feet--maybe three.  There'd definitely be a market for those attributes.

 

My question is, why would you want to work at a pleasure house?

[jwood]

48 minutes ago, TQuintA said:

With that growth potential, you wouldn't get much more muscular,  I suspect maxing out around 200 pounds, maybe (at the outside) 240.  But your genitals would easily end up over two feet--maybe three.  There'd definitely be a market for those attributes.

 

My question is, why would you want to work at a pleasure house?

Good to know there's a market!

If I had to imagine myself in this universe, I would not want to work there.  I would probably not have a legacy, either, so it would be a "last resort" kind of thing, like the year I worked retail at the mall.  I would be terrible at the job, and I would be scared as heck, thinking I'm doing everything wrong.  However, if I discovered I had potential, I would have more confidence in my abilities... or maybe I just have a deep-seated fantasy about being bigger, and being able to get there would put me in a state of utter bliss and get me one day closer to retirement!  (Because who really wants to work, anyway?)

[Mdlftr]

Re: the question of working in a pleasure house as a sex worker.

It's all about customer service.  You have to sell yourself to every customer on a one-to-one basis.  In this universe, the numbers are so extreme that these workers would be top tier in any scenario.  

What is interesting is that these sex workers apparently have NO mental stimulation or source of news or access to technology, other than what their respective clients may reveal or share.  I'd think in reality that there would be a terrific risk that the sex workers would become relatively boring to engage with, other than when a customer was engaging in sex with them.

With no access to news or media, how would the sex workers stay abreast of current trends? How would they know what was and was not fashionable?  If  you were limited to what you knew of the world when you entered the pleasure house in your 20s, how out of date would you be?

For example, Niles is almost 70 in 2023.  That means he was born in 1953.  At age 25, assuming he entered the business at that time, it was 1988. [edit: 1978!  Think long, shaggy hair, Qiana nylon shirts, striped pants!]  Think mullets, loudly colored bodybuilding clothing, lots of tan and oil and a "barbarian brothers/Conan the Barbarian" vibe for your musclemen.

How are you /Nile going to update yourself from that vibe if you never get to see media or newspapers or cell phones or anything other than what your clients bring/show you?  

 

Note: this is nit-picking about a fantasy universe.  Just for discussion, not a judgment on the fun aspects of the story itself.

Anyway, how does Niles stay au courant?