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

[Ayoayoayos]

Is it true that without drama there is no story? 

Maybe, but it's such a great world

[DawnFire98]

It's insane how much I hunger for a new one everytime I finish reading a chapter. I am just utterly under your spell with this story

[bunkyboo93]

Late to the party, but damn, TQuintA, this is an exceptional story! Not my typical genre, but when the writing is this good, genre be damned!

As others have said, you've built an incredible world here: scary, sexy, political, dramatic, weird, and with the final chapter of Part II, emotional. I've thoroughly enjoyed what you've created and look forward to reading what comes next. Thank you thank you thank you!

[shiangwong]

Is there anymore chapters coming up? I really want this to go on forever. I can hardly wait to see what's next.

[TQuintA]

15 minutes ago, shiangwong said:

Is there anymore chapters coming up?

The story, as published, is only halfway done.  I am currently drafting Part 3.  I am in the middle of Chapter 35.  I expect Part 3 will end with either Chapter 37 or 38.  Once I am finished drafting Part 3, I will revise it and start uploading again.  Then, I will start Part 4 (likely 12 chapters) and an epilogue.  It's all prewritten, so I mostly know what will happen.

[Ripped]

31 minutes ago, TQuintA said:

I expect Part 3 will end with either Chapter 37 or 38. 

38?!

And I thought Black Cat(s) went on too long!

[TQuintA]

2 minutes ago, Ripped said:

38?!

What can I say?  I'm verbose.   

[atomcell]

that was amazing. I'm looking forward to the next part!

[Pumped]

On 7/13/2023 at 11:50 AM, TQuintA said:

What can I say?  I'm verbose.   
 

And we appreciate it! keep going!

[TQuintA]

Chapter 25

            As soon as Gavin left, Tony entered the office.  He showed me his work tablet.

            “It’s a legally binding document,” he said.  “It guarantees that I will let you serve your 50 even if you falter in the third or fourth round.  It also states that if you win the overall competition, I ensure you a double pension when you leave the house.  Colorado… Mr. Rierdon insisted I draw this up.  He wouldn’t accept a handshake promise.”

            I took the tablet and read it.  There seemed to be no weaselly language, no loopholes, no doublespeak.  It was so direct that it only filled half the screen.  It was straightforward in what he promised.

            “I’m a man of my word,” he said when he saw I was satisfied with the document.  “Give me a thumbprint in the corner to endorse the contract.”

            I pressed my thumb where he indicated.  At the same time, he pressed his thumb in the opposite corner. 

            With that out of the way, I instructed, “I expect you’re already sending a copy of this to Gavin.  Send another copy to Edward.”

            He took back his work tablet.  “I like the paranoia.  It suits you.”

            I shrugged noncommittally.  “Thanks for letting me see Gavin.”

            Tony smiled his greasiest smile.  “I got the idea from Onyx.  According to my Onyx, you never shut up about Colorado.  So, I had Edward track him down (since he and his husband are your most faithful regulars).  I figured a visit from him would inspire you to fight with all you’ve got.”

            “You wouldn’t have let me see him if he was going to tell me anything else,” I said.

            “You know me so well,” Tony said.  “I did vet him first.  Now, change, and then off to the cafeteria.  It’s almost time for first lunch.”

            At first lunch, I explained to Onyx, Slate, and Krakatoa what had transpired.

            “His real name’s Gavin?” Slate asked.  “I, for some reason, thought he’d have a name like Brad or Rick.  Something macho and sexy.”

            “I wouldn’t trust a straight guy’s opinion of a sexy male name,” I said flatly.

            “I’m just glad you’re going to stay my accountability buddy,” Onyx said.  “Even if I am the tiniest bit jealous that you love Gavin and not me.”

            “You’ll likely feel a lot more jealous once we stop taking the green stuff,” I pointed out.  “Plus, without it, I can afford midnight snacks.  I doubt Tony will pay for mine during the third round.”

            “I’m going to keep taking it,” Onyx said.  “It hasn’t hurt my growth any, and I need it.”

            “You don’t need it,” I declared.

            “No, I do,” he retorted.  “Before you took me under your wing, I contemplated leaving the house every day, that is, once Tony picked me as his favorite.  With the green stuff, I’m more even-keeled.”

            “Is being even-keeled worth it?” I asked.

            Onyx nodded emphatically.

            “It could do brain damage,” Slate pointed out.

            “Didn’t damage Nile’s brain,” Onyx replied.  “And I’ve been able to put up with Tony so much more since I went on it.”

            “While you were in your red haze,” I said, “I noticed how much you were taking.  You’re taking a much higher dose than I ever did.  It’s probably why you became a zombie on your second dose of the Red Miracle.  A mood stabilizer that suppresses higher brain functions on top of something as powerful as the Red Miracle?  That’s a recipe for a robot.”

            “I haven’t exceeded the recommended dosage,” Onyx insisted.  “I’ve read the bottle carefully, especially when I thought it was helping my muscle growth.”

            “I’m obviously in no place to judge,” I said, “but if you take it for 25 years—like the idiot I was—it will fuck with your memory.  Maybe even worse than mine.”

            “Let it,” Onyx said.  “Besides, I only have to take it until Tony tires of playing with me.”

            “Just know we’re concerned,” Slate said.

            The table sat in uneasy silence for a minute.  Then, unable to take the quiet any more, Krakatoa piped up.

            “Dudes,” he said, “are we just going to ignore that our man Nile is getting married?”

            “Not until I’ve served my 50,” I reminded him.

            “Doesn’t matter.”  Krakatoa stood up.  “We need to celebrate!”

            “With what?” Onyx asked.  “Given our profession, I doubt Nile actually wants to see strippers.  Given the competition, I doubt he wants cake or anything like that.  And the house doesn’t have alcohol.”

            “They don’t have alcohol,” Krakatoa said.  “I have a regular who’s constantly smuggling in beer.  He likes to pretend we’re two frat bros who get drunk and fool around.  Just say the word, and I can get us some beer, maybe even champagne.  We get drunk on champagne if his team won the big game.”

            “You drink alcohol during sessions?” I asked.

            “Dude, don’t preach me any drug-free shit.  You’ve been on a mood stabilizer so long that you forgot your own name,” he replied.

            “I was impressed,” I responded.  “Not judging.  I’ve bent the rules plenty in my time.  I’ve never had the guts to out-and-out break one.  And I’ve never even tasted champagne.”

            “You’ve broken no rules that you can remember,” Slate said.  “Given whet you told us about Gavin, I bet you two broke all sorts of rules.”

            “Fair enough,” I acquiesced.  “I’m still impressed.”

            Krakatoa nodded.

            I returned us to the topic of contraband alcohol.  “I don’t want to get dismissed three feet from the finish line, especially now that my double pension is in writing,” I said.  “It was a nice thought, but I’m gonna say no.”

            Krakatoa sat back down, slapping me on the back as he did so.  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

            After lunch, I stopped by the pharmacy on my way back to my room.  I had planned on refilling my hormone regulator later that day, and I wanted to alter my stack.  While I held him in a headlock, his nose pressed deep into my armpit, I told the pharmacist to nix the green stuff.

            When I let go, he smiled delightedly; he was gonna reek of my musk all day.

            The day passed splendidly.  The hallways and cafeteria were feeling empty with so few pleasure boys left, especially since 5 more would be leaving over the course of the next few days.  I didn’t notice any immediate effects to cutting out the green stuff, but I figured it would have to work its way out of my system first.

            At the morning meeting the following day, I was sitting between Slate and Onyx.  Krakatoa was just behind me.  Towards the beginning of the meeting, Tony made a startling announcement.

            “Even though we’re in an intermezzo between the second and third round, I am going to announce the rules to the third round.”  He cleared his throat.  “If you’ve made it this far, you’ve proven your skills and dedication, so during the third round, I will rank you all.”

            There was a moan of discontent—no one, including me, wanted to be ranked by Tony.

            “In five categories,” he further explained.  “I will be ranking you from 1 to 30 in five different areas and adding up those five ranks to get your overall score.  The lowest possible score is 5; the highest possible score is 150.  The 15 pleasure boys with the lowest scores will move on to the fourth round.  I only want to keep the cream of the crop.”

            Tony could make these categories as subjective as he wanted in order to save the boys he wanted and dismiss the boys he didn’t, all with the veneer of objectivity.

            “The first category is muscle,” he explained.  “Not just size and weight, but strength, body comp, density, measurements—all that good stuff.”

            Onyx punched me on the shoulder.  We knew we had that category sewn up.  He and I were the two biggest guys in the house, and Slate wasn’t far behind us.

            “The second category is genital size,” he continued.  “This is going to be a pleasure house specializing in big, after all.  Length, girth, weight, seminal output, refractory period—all that good stuff will factor into your rank in this category.”

            Slate, still firmly erect from his abuse of dimefidone, punched me on the other shoulder.  He and I were the two most hung guys in the house.  We knew that this category was ours.

            “The third category,” Tony explained, “is pure economics.  Who makes the most for the house?  Who invests the most back into the house by spending their tips at the on-campus stores?  Who has the most faithful clientele?”

            Krakatoa leaned over the back of my chair and said, “You’re three for three, bro.”

            Tony continued.  “The fourth category is beauty.”

            Well, Onyx just won a category.

            “Since this is the most subjective category of the five, I am curtailing my own biases.  I will be allowing outside experts to rank you in this category.  I haven’t selected them yet, but they I guarantee they will be experts in legacy fields like fashion, art, and modeling.”

            I might have a shot at this category after all.

            “The fifth category is growth potential.  It doesn’t matter if you’re the Big Dog now if you’re as big as you’re ever going to be.  To assess this category, during our reprieve between the rounds, you will all have a meeting with Dr. Isaac Mowbray.  He’s a world-renowned doctor who works with legacy bodybuilders and other athletes, as well as legacy porn stars, to get them as big as possible.  He will be assessing your growth potential and reporting back to me.  He can explain what he’s looking for and what he’s even measuring better than I can, so any questions you have you can save for your one-on-one with the doctor.”

            I was gigantic.  My muscles were behemoth; my cock was inhuman; I was a man of almost 70.  I had to be at or near the end of my growth.  Thankfully, I dominated in at least three of the other categories, and I had a good shot at a fourth since Tony wasn’t judging it.

            “Take these meetings with Dr. Mowbray very seriously,” Tony instructed.  “He will also be giving you the best advice on how to maximize the growth potential you do have.  What supplements and hormones you should take, any devices you may need to acquire or surgical procedures you may need.”  After a second, he sternly added, “I have already informed him that augmentations and procedures of that nature are prohibited until after the fourth round, so don’t think you can get a pair of pec implants and call it a day.”

            A murmur of understanding went over the crowd.

            The day progressed slowly until my meeting with Dr. Mowbray.  I was given an appointment that very day, but my time slot was from 11 PM until midnight.   I was going to have to slog through the whole day first.

            Slowly—painfully slowly—I got through the day.  When it was time for my appointment with Dr. Mowbray, I was a little worried.  This was the category I was likely to get the worst rank in, and I was not looking forward to confirming my suspicions.

            I walked into the examination suite and was pleasantly surprised to see Dr. Mowbray.  He was a tall, muscular man with a deep tan and a stunningly handsome face.  His eyes were a hypnotic hazel, his hair a sultry shade of honey brown, both thick and luxurious.  He was clean shaven and had a dimple in his right cheek.  I was lusting after him hard.

            When he saw me, his jaw nearly dropped to the floor.  “They told me you were big, but you’re a muscle fan’s dreams come true.”

            I turned around slowly so he could see all my magnificence, basking in his attention.  “Soak it all in, doc.”

            “We have a mutual friend,” he said as he had me hop up on the exam table.  “One of my most successful patients is a regular client of yours.”

            “Really?” I asked, taking my seat.

            “He asked me not to use his real name.  I believe you know him as Fred.”

            “I know Fred,” I said, smiling.  “I’m surprised Fred talks about me considering he doesn’t want his wife to know about his visits.”

            “He was impressed by you and wanted to know how much bigger he could get.  He’s already maxed out his allotted weight allowed by the bodybuilding association.  Once he retires, he plans on exceeding his growth potential, and you’re his inspiration.”

            “You can exceed your growth potential?”

            “Kinda,” Dr. Mowbray said.  “Not by much, and not without significant chromosomal and surgical intervention.”  He began his examination.  “I’m testing you for things like genetic and hormonal factors, which a professional like me can manipulate quite easily,” he stuck some sort of probe into my thigh.  “But I’m also testing for things like organ sustainability, joint resilience, bone structure… things that cannot be manipulated without massively invasive surgeries.  And even those have marginal success rates.”

            “So, in short, you can push me past my genetic limits, but not without sacrificing my overall well-being.”

            “More than just well-being,” Dr. Mowbray said as he read the readout from my probe.  “You’d risk heart attack, stroke, etc.  Some men just have bodies that can just handle more mass.  Today should help me determine how much bigger you can actually get—and get safely.”

            After that dire pronouncement, he continued the rest of his examination without comment.  He drew blood, took a urine sample and a semen sample, listened to my heart as I ran top speed on a treadmill, and did a myriad of other tests, some of which I couldn’t even recognize.

            When he had completed his hour-long examination, he had me sit across from him at a desk.  “Tell me what supplements and hormones you’re currently taking, and the doses.”

            I told him everything, and he typed them down in his charts on a work tablet.  “That’s a decent stack, and you can cut the appetite stimulant since you’ve stopped taking the mood stabilizer.”

            “How did you…” I started to ask, but he cut me off.

            “I’m a doctor,” he answered.  “Some serious lifters take that mood stabilizer to suppress the more unpleasant parts of what they put their bodies through.  If you know what you’re looking for, the eyes are a dead giveaway.  Fred even knew you were on it.  Your appetite should return in a few days.  And any memories you’ve lost access to will start re-emerging as you start experiencing some stronger emotions.”  He hemmed and hawed for a second, and then added, “You know you’re probably at the end of your growth potential, right?”  He pulled out a pad of paper and a pen—two implements I hadn’t seen since I was a child.

            “Makes sense,” I said, flexing a bicep that dwarfed this muscle professional’s significantly meaty arm.

            “You’re going to want to up your doses of testosterone and what you’ve been calling ‘the yellow stuff’ to these amounts,” he said, scrawling the instructions.  “And I’d go easy on the dimefidone if I were you.  You’re obviously a super-responder.”

            “Is there anything I should add?” I asked.

            “The Vibrall was a good start,” he said.  “It encourages heart health among its other effects.  With the mood stabilizer gone, expect more frequent, intense, and vivid dreams, but Vibrall’s a good fit for your stack.  You should be taking these as well,” he jotted down a list of chemical names while he spoke, “to promote arterial health, kidney and liver function, and lung capacity.”  He added another to the list.  “And this will help with joint and bone issues.”  He then added one last one.  “This is a myostatin inhibitor.  Considering the size you have achieved, I’m surprised you’re not on one already.  A man of your size should be cautious and monitor your progress, but these changes will help you reach your full potential faster.”  He handed me the list of chemicals.

            “This is a lot.”

            “They’re all available at your pharmacy.  I checked.”

            “Assuming I can afford all of this,” I said, and then slapped my hand over my mouth.

            “You didn’t ask me for money,” Dr. Mowbray replied, laughing.  “All is well.  I’m your doctor.  Talk freely.”

            Relieved that I hadn’t fouled this up, I pointed out another problem.  “With this amount of chemicals running through me, I’ll have to have my hormone regulator filled every two or three days, defeating the purpose of a hormone regulator.”

            “Or, you could get a second hormone regulator in the other armpit.  A bigger one.”

            “That’s not against the rules?” I asked.

            “I’ve already suggested one to three other boys.”

            “The problem then becomes affording it all.”

            Dr. Mowbray showed me a note on his work tablet.  “Fred said he’d pay for everything you’re adding to your stack.  He wants you as big as humanly possible.”  He scratched his chin, and I watched his thick fingers dance and his bicep twitch.  He had surprisingly large, masculine hands, especially for a doctor.  “The only thing you’ll have to afford is the second hormone regulator.”

            “I can probably scrape that together,” I said, reencouraged.  “Should I be worried about heart attacks or stroke, or anything like that?  I am an old man.”

            “Nonsense,” Dr. Mowbray announced.  “From what I can tell, your heart’s as strong as a horse’s, and you’re fit as a 20-year-old.  If anything comes up as I go through your lab work, I’ll let Tony know, but unless you’ve already exceeded your growth potential, I’m not worried.  And, just so you know, if I find anything hinky in your further test results, I’ll insist on weekly check-ups.  But I’m not worried, so you shouldn’t be either.”

            “When will I get the results of this exam, find out my growth potential?” I asked.

            “Unless there’s something wrong, you won’t,” he laughed.  “Tony will get the results in a week or two.”

            “We don’t get to see our own results?”  I was flabbergasted.

            “You’re not allowed a phone or a tablet,” he reminded me.  “Printers aren’t exactly common anymore.”

            How old did he think I was?  Printers were antiquated museum pieces when I was a baby.

            “I can’t see my own results.  Not even if I throw a free session your way?”  I unzipped my pants and started to fish out my cock.

            “Sweet of you to offer,” he said.  “I’m flattered, really.  But I’m straight as an arrow and happily married.  I just like muscle.”

            “I had to try,” I said.

            “In your position, I would’ve done the exact same thing.”  He smiled and dismissed me from the examination room.