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

[TQuintA]

5 minutes ago, Mdlftr said:

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

I actually hadn't thought through the larger implications of my previous comment.  When I wrote it, I said "at a pleasure house" because I was singularly focused on the fictional world I created.  I do hear now how my comment comes off as criticizing sex workers in the real world.  I wish I hadn't done that, for I honestly think sex work should be legal and destigmatized.  There are a number of rational, real-world reasons a person turns to sex work, and my question makes the choice sound inconceivable in a puritanical way.  Similarly, even though it is a fictional world, my characters have a lot of relatable reasons for working at a pleasure house, one or two of which I explore in passing in Part 4.

 

As for how Nile stays au courant---well, the clothing store and salon in the house update their fashions to stay abreast of modern trends.  Otherwise, Nile doesn't stay up to date.  Some of his clients are nationally or even internationally famous, and he's never heard of them.  If it's not from 50+ years ago or a work of literature that he read in the library before it was destroyed, he's never heard of it.  Thankfully for him, most of his clients don't want to discuss anything more than "who tops?"  Also, because it's a fictional universe that I created, the legacy system in this society is so highly regimented that the world hasn't changed that much in 50 years.  Which is a criticism of that society; it's stagnant.

 

One of the reasons there's such a high turnover rate at the pleasure houses is how stiflingly boring it is inside the walls for the pleasure workers.  That, coupled with the reality that the potential appeal of these workers diminishes as they become increasingly disconnected from the outside world all but assures that a tenure like Nile's is statistically staggeringly infinitesimal.  Most workers quit or are dismissed within five years.

 

I adored your comment and how much people are apparently thinking about this fictional world of mine.

[TQuintA]

Chapter 35

            I was sure I had the third round in the bag, so the next two weeks passed in a blur.  Lifting, fucking, eating, medicating.

            Slate had continued his high doses of dimefidone, intent on having a larger cock than me, Onyx was back to his former pleasant self now that he was no longer being threatened with firearms by a man who claimed to love him, and I was motivated by my impending nuptials to get inhumanly huge.

            It was exhilarating to watch everyone, especially my crew, swell up with muscle.  The smallest of the remaining 30 pleasure boys, Triton, was just over 6 feet tall and had a handsome, always shaven face with deep blue eyes and a mop of floppy, straightened hair dyed purple.  He was pushing 250 pounds of lean, cut muscle.  He was benching 500 for reps, his 8 pack was impossibly shredded, his Adonis belt was severe and breathtaking, his cock was a disproportionately thick 7.5 inches (constantly erect due to dimefidone), his shoulders were ridiculously thick and broad for his height and weight, and his biceps were like iron. 

            And he was the smallest of us.

            My crew, by comparison, were impossibly large.  At the end of the week five weigh-in, Slate had slabbed on so much meat he was exactly 320 pounds.  Much to his delight, that was the week his cock caught up to mine: 12.5 inches.  By week six, he was 329.5, with a 13-inch cock (eclipsing mine).  I had to tease him that my cock was thicker, but his was finally bigger than mine in at least one way.  At nearly 330 pounds, Slate was getting more and more godlike.  I could fall into the crevices of his eight-pack.  They were so deep and thick they were black with shadow.  His body fat was so low that every inch of his body was etched in stone.  His proud pecs, his bulging bis, his awesome ass.  All of him was thick with brawn and strength, his body a relief map of cliffs and crags. 

            But nothing was more enticing than his abs.  He frequently caught me staring at them, and even let me feel them up a few times.  They were diamond-hard, pleasantly coated in a fuzz of light brown hair, and tauntingly ridged.  Just running my fingers over them was a pleasure.  And he must have upped his testosterone once again.  His neck was even thicker, he had more body hair, and he just smelled like more of a man.  His face had gotten so intensely hot, especially his bearded chin and razor-sharp cheekbones, that I would momentarily forget about Gavin, so blinded by his beauty I was.

            Onyx had continued developing with muscles as well.  He was the biggest guy in this house who wasn’t named after a river.  At the week five weigh-in, he had thickened into a mouthwatering 384.5 with a 10.25 inch dick.  He redoubled his workouts that week and ate like a man who’d been starved near to death, determined to break 400 in week six.  He came close.  At the week six weigh-in, he was 398 pounds with a 10 and 3/8 inch dick.  He was disappointed not to be in the 400-club, but he was monstrous.  His pecs, shoulders, lats, bis, and tris made him look inhumanly wide.  All of him fought for space with the rest of him. 

            He had begun pivoting his upper half as he walked.  He would swing forward the left side—shoulder, pec, and arm—when he stepped with his right foot, and swing the other side when he stepped with his left foot.  When he moved, his body was a cavalcade of twitching muscle fibers, stabilizing all the mass that was packed onto his frame.  His pecs were so thick that his coarse black chest hair and juicy nipples forced their way to display themselves through any fabric covering them.  His neck, shoulders, and chest were so huge he didn’t bother buttoning the top three buttons of any shirt anymore, displaying even more chest hair.  His ass and thighs could crush boulders (and were themselves the size of boulders).  I know from our twice daily fucks that his strength and stamina were incredible, and his body was dense and hard—even harder than Slate’s abs.  And, of course, he hadn’t stopped paying special attention to his biceps.  If his thighs were boulders, his biceps were mountains.  Their circumference defied mathematical principles of human anatomy, and their strength beggared belief.  I could dangle from one (with all my weight) and he could still bounce it under my hands, even lift me up higher.  His arms were divine.

            I had not been left behind in the explosive growth.  I had promised Adam I’d be 500 by the dinner party, and I had promised Gavin to get disgustingly, blimpishly muscular.  I threw myself into my workouts.  If, at the end of a workout, I wasn’t exhausted with muscles on fire and my heartbeat firing like a cannon in my ears, I did another fifteen minutes.  And all that work paid off.  At the week five weigh-in, I was 441—still the sole member of the 400-club.  I was 120 pounds more than Slate, much to his chagrin.  My cock had matched his 12.5 inches, so he was aghast that I had increased the weight disparity between us.  At the week six weigh-in, my cock was only (only?!) 12.75 and 9 inches thick, but my massive, behemoth muscles were 457, furthering the distance between us.  When I noticed Onyx throwing his shoulders and pivoting his chest when he walked, I looked to see if I was doing it too.  Of course, looking down, all I managed to do was wedge my wide, masculine chin between my thick, bulbous pecs because they stuck out so far that my world ended at my chest.  Slate assured me I’m doing an even more exaggerated version of Onyx’s pivoting because my ever-widening lats are a bigger part of the equation.  According to both of them, my back is now so overdeveloped with sinew and muscle, that the back of me looks as buff as a bodybuilder's front, my back bulging with thick, dense, defined flesh. 

            I was so huge that there are some rooms on campus I could no longer go into because I was just too wide to fit through the door, and they had to add a third hose-man to my post-client showers because there was just so much of me to wash in a short period of time.  My biceps had gotten so big that, just by themselves, they could overfill the chest of some of my smaller shirts (from when I was 210).  My thighs had become so impossibly wide and my ass so monstrously developed that I took up three seats at the cafeteria table, precariously distributing my weight so I wouldn’t crush the furniture.  And the hair~!  The fur!  Ever since I had upped my own testosterone doses, I had noticed my voice getting deeper, my features getting thicker (especially my neck, jaw, and brows), and so much more hair.  There was such thick coat on my abs that spread like a snowfield up and over my behemoth chest, and if I didn’t visit the salon as regularly as I did, it would meet up with my thick, full beard. My hairstylist had taken to calling me The Yeti.  When I saw myself in the mirror, my face was so handsome, my physique so imposing, I often gave myself an erection.  I would blow myself a kiss and say, “Gavin doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

            And every night I dreamed of him.  Perhaps my memories were awakening so frequently because of the effusive presence of zinnias in my room; perhaps the addition of Vibrall and subtraction of the green stuff had forced my memories to the surface.  Whatever the explanation, every night I was having another memory of my man.

            The night before our week six weigh-in, perhaps the most important memory I had with Gavin resurfaced mid-dream.

            We were in his bedroom fucking, as we did most nights after our evening sessions, and post-orgasm, Gavin said, “Marry me.”  He said it simply and plainly.  There were no burdens or labor in his voice.  It had been the easiest thing in the world for him to say.

            “Sure.  As soon as we’re out of here,” I replied.

            “No, I mean now.  Marry me now.”

            “That’s impossible.”

            “If it weren’t,” he tried, “would you marry me right this second?”

            “What brought this on?”

            “One of my clients today was an unmarried judge named Milo.  After I showed him the face of God…”

            “Gave him an orgasm,” I interrupted.

            “Same thing,” Gavin joked.  “Afterwards, we got to talking.  And he asked me if I was gay or if I was just pretending to be gay for money.  I assured him I was dyed-in-the-wool bi.”

            “Bi-in-the-wool,” I joked.

            With a small chuckle, Gavin added, “He asked me to marry him.”

            “Really?”

            “Really.  He wanted to save me from all this.”  He gestured to his beautiful if Spartan bedroom.  “I told him I was already taken.”  Gavin got out of bed and raced over to his pants.  He pulled a ring out of his pocket.  It was a simple silver-colored band with no stone.  “He must not have believed me because he gave me this ring.”

            Alarmed, I sat up.  “We’re not allowed to accept gifts from clients,” I said.  Vera might have been fine with us breaking some rules, but if she found that ring, she’d kick Gavin out.

            “I told him that.  Milo pointed out that I can keep clothes if they were costumes for sessions with regular clients. ”  With this, Gavin’s tone took on a strained academic quality as if he was simultaneously paraphrasing and mildly mocking Milo, “A ring is legally an article of clothing, and we have entered into a pact in which we conduct affairs as though we’re married at all of our future sessions.”

            “He’s done his homework,” I chimed in, impressed.

            “I cleared it with Vera,” Gavin reassured me.  “I can keep it as long as I have Milo as a regular client on the books.”  He looked the ring over closely.  “I suspect she only said yes because this is a cheap ring made from plastic.”

            I laughed.

            “Milo was so into the husband fantasy he asked what my real name was.”

            “He didn’t!”

            “I told him my real name was, in a surprising coincidence, Colorado.”

            I laughed again.

            “He started calling me Collie.”

            I laughed yet again.

            “Whaddya say, love?” Gavin redirected, getting down on one knee and proffering me the ring.  “Marry me.”

            “I can’t!”

            “Obviously, it wouldn’t be legally binding, and the ring can’t leave my room.”  Gavin scooted closer to the bed, still on one knee.  “But if a judge can pretend I’m his husband, I can marry you right here and now.”

            I gave up the pretense of resisting.  “I do.”  I extended my hand so Gavin could slip the ring on.

            With a smile, he said, “With this ring, I thee wed.”

            “I love you so much,” I said, showering Gavin with kisses.

            The words, “I love you, Gavin,” were echoing in my head when I woke up.  I had flown awake with a start in the middle of the night because I remembered something incredibly important.

            By the end of Gavin’s 25, Milo was Colorado’s only regular client remaining.  And when Gavin left the house, he slipped the ring into my pants pocket.

            And I’d hidden it in my bathroom.

            “It can’t possibly still be here,” I said running to the bathroom and flipping on the lights.  “Some janitor or repairperson found it and threw it away.”  I reached behind the toilet and lifted a tile.  It came up in one easy pull.

            Under the floor was a small enclosure, maybe two inches cubed.   Taking up most of the space were some folded-up pages torn out of a poetry book—a gift from Gavin to me the day before the library was destroyed.  Most of the pages were folded up so they’d fit into the space.  One was folded into a small, delicate origami flower.  Underneath those pages was a silver, plastic ring.

            The chances of this ring surviving had been so microscopically small.  If a house worker had found the loose tile.  If a remodel had sealed the tile firmly in place.  If Tony had changed my room when he shuffled a bunch of pleasure boys around.  If any of a million things had happened, I wouldn’t still have this ring.  It felt like fate.

            “I love you, Gavin,” I said as I kissed the ring.  I put everything back in my hiding spot and went back to bed.

[arpeejay]

This chapter has everything I want in a story: spectacular muscle descriptions; stats (weight); endless amounts of fur; ginormous weenies (*); humor and romance. Thanks! 

(*) When people ask me, "What is Muscle Growth Fiction?" I reply: "Stories about guys who grow improbably large muscles in improbably short periods of time. Think Captain America or the Incredible Hulk minus the spandex and with ginormous weenies instead!" 

[BeheMorph]

I’m thoroughly enjoying this story (nothing new for me whatsoever when it comes to your work!)

You have definitely got us all thinking about this universe you have created. Most of your stories feel more grounded in our reality. Even though most of them contain magic or science beyond our current capabilities, our world is still present and societal structure is familiar.

This world however is much darker. It’s definitely “stagnant”, with a more rigid social structure and code. It’s not authoritarian or oppressive but it’s definitely dystopian. You could always explore other aspects of this universe quite easily.

[jwood]

I think I was a bit harsh on hoping for a mutiny against Tony.  He's not really a bad guy; he just feels the need to put up a strict front.  It's apparent he really REALLY loves Onyx, probably more than his own husband, but the social implications of him marrying his own pleasure boy might be severe.  I still have my suspicions he will rig the competition in his favor, but I will just have to keep reading to find out!  The complicated characters, the vivid descriptions of growth, and the novel world-building are just some of the many reasons I love your stories

[NeedMore123]

On 7/30/2023 at 6:59 AM, Ro20316 said:

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

Slate probably wants the perks and free upgrades that Tony give Onyx

[karikaturian]

I have to confess that muscle growth beyond a certain point is not what I’m really into but your writing style, the stories you spin and the worlds you create make me continue reading despite that. I keep coming back daily bc I really want to know what’s going to happen next! Well done!

[jwood]

Now that I've thought about it more (I should probably stop, sorry ), if I didn't cut it as a pleasure boy in the big niche house, I wonder if I could work a different position?  There are many other essential jobs there, like chef, pharmacist, stylist.  Heck, if hose-man paid well, I might do it!  Being around big massive men is a fantasy of mine, I guess is what I'm trying to say haha.

[Charwantstolift]

2 hours ago, jwood said:

Now that I've thought about it more (I should probably stop, sorry ), if I didn't cut it as a pleasure boy in the big niche house, I wonder if I could work a different position?  There are many other essential jobs there, like chef, pharmacist, stylist.  Heck, if hose-man paid well, I might do it!  Being around big massive men is a fantasy of mine, I guess is what I'm trying to say haha.

Plus think of the favors that the pleasure boys would provide to get perks 

[DawnFire98]

Chapter 35 was touching and sweet yet hot and horny as fuck. 

1) I love seeing the transformation the guys are undergoing. Your descriptions of Nile’s crew are wonderfully detailed.
It's so interesting to see the differences between the Top 3: Slate might be "next Adonis" carved in marble, Onyx becomes a true mass monster, but Nile just surpasses them all in size and striations. 

2)  Gavin and Nile make a wonderful pair and I wish them all the best. 

Am excited for the next chapter, @TQuintA. 

Also: damn, only three or four chapters left!