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Contract Law (Complete Story 5/4/20; Bonus Material Added 5/15/20)


TQuintA

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Preface

            I used to think I understood the world.  I went to work, I enjoyed my friends, I loved my husband.  The world was small and manageable.  I liked that world.

            But that world was a delusion.  Reality is so much bigger.

            So much bigger.

            Before it all happened, I didn’t really know my brother, my coworkers, or my husband.  I didn’t even know myself.

            Now I know enough to know how little I know.  But I know enough.

            I know the seductive power of being the largest man in the room.  I know that office gossip and contract law can be dangerous and exhilarating.  I know that temptation is one of the strongest forces in the universe.  I know that magic is real.

            That last one was the biggest shock.

            But there’s a lot about me that’s big nowadays.

            At the beginning, I never would have believed any of this.  I would have dismissed it as utter bullshit. 

            But then it happened to me.

            My world began changing on a Friday morning in late March.  It was a Friday morning like so many others.  It was supposed to stay a perfectly ordinary Friday.

            It didn’t.

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Chapter 1

            Even without my alarm, I woke up at 5:30, long before I needed to get ready for work.  There was no way I could have stayed asleep until my alarm went off: Oz called on Friday mornings.

            Oz had gone to Europe almost six months ago.  He was a big muckety-muck in his company, three steps from the CEO, and they sent him overseas to set up a new German branch.  In our entire fifteen-year marriage, we’d never been apart this long.  We did our best to compensate, keeping in contact, trading texts and phone calls.  The texts were whenever; the calls were scheduled.  I called him on Tuesday afternoon at noon; he called me on Friday morning at six.  Germany’s six hours ahead of Massachusetts.  So, on Tuesdays, as I was having lunch, I called him as he was getting home from work.  On Fridays, as I was getting ready to go work, he’d call me while he was having lunch.

            Unfortunately, Oz isn’t a fan of phone sex or Skype sex.  Don’t get me wrong; he’s not a prude.  When we’re on the same continent, we have a lovely, active sex life.  We’d tried phone sex early on, but Oz got too embarrassed.  Oz will flirt over the phone, but not much more than that.  After six months apart, I was getting antsy for his return.

            It wasn’t ideal, I admit, but I only had to put up with it for two more weeks.  In two more weeks, he’d be home, and we’d be together.  Bonus, in two weeks it was his birthday.  Well, fifteen days.  He was coming home on the night of April 10th, and his birthday is the 11th.  Essentially, he was coming home on his birthday.  Birthday sex and reunion sex at the same time?  Yes, please. 

            I stretched in my bed.  It was queen sized, flanked on either side by our nightstands.  It was far too big for me alone.  When Oz first left, I’d tried sleeping in the middle of the bed to really spread out, but it felt wrong and made it harder to grab my phone from my nightstand.  So, I slept on my side of the bed, the one further from the door to the rest of the apartment. 

            It wasn’t just the bed that made me feel lonely.  Half of Oz’s clothes were missing from the closet, and his nightstand was completely empty—he’d taken most of that stuff to Germany with him. 

            Needing a less lonely change of scenery, I slipped out of bed, feeling the bedding slip off my naked body.  I’d taken to sleeping in the nude in Oz’s absence.  Hell, I might keep it up once he got home.  Smiling at the thought, I took my phone into the bathroom to wait for Oz’s call.  Our bathroom was far too grand for our actual needs: Oz just liked to show off his wealth.  The walls and floors were covered with black marble tile, and the shower (large enough for two) had a glass sliding door that went all the way down to the floor.  There was a claw-foot bathtub off to the side.  I never really used it, but Oz occasionally liked to take baths.  The mirror was gigantic.  It started about hip-high and went all the way to the ceiling.  Oz and I each had our own sinks, so the mirror ran almost the length of one whole wall.

            I don’t fully understand why Oz wanted such a big mirror, but I couldn’t argue with how sleek it looked.

            After I relieved myself, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.  I was definitely something to behold.

            In Oz’s absence, I had a lot of free time, so I’d hit the gym hard.  Hard.  I’d been fit and athletic since high school, a swimmer’s build, and Oz made no secret of loving my muscle.  I was in my 30s now, and the thirties hit everyone.  In the six months I’d been redoubling my workouts, I burned off some flab and packed on some muscle, transforming from my less-than-prime 165 into an impressive 170.   I wasn’t a fitness model, or anything, but I was getting there.  I definitely had pecs and a respectable start at recapturing my six-pack.  My arms were thicker with muscle than they’d ever been in my life.  At 6’2” with deep brown eyes and a finely-coiffed head of chestnut hair, I was definitely a looker.

            Just as I was really getting into myself, the phone rang.

            I knew it was Oz without even looking at the caller.

            “Good morning, Ian” Oz cooed into my air.

            “Good afternoon, Oz” I returned.

            “Did I wake you up?” he asked.

            “Nonsense.  I’ve been up for half an hour waiting for you, like a teenage girl in a 1950s teen romance movie.”

            “Staring at the phone with hearts in your eyes?” Oz chuckled.  I could hear his smile over the phone.  Oz’s smile was his greatest feature.  It was warm and inviting, kind and generous.  And it came so easily and naturally to his face. 

            “Actually,” I said, turning to the side to stretch my torso and flex my arm, “I was admiring your birthday present.”

            “Can’t wait to unwrap it.”

            I egged him on.  “You won’t last five minutes before popping.”

            Oz playfully responded, “Careful.  I’m an old man now.”

            “Old man nothing,” I dismissed with a puff of air.  “Fifty is nothing.  Prime of your life.”

            “You’d be surprised how much gray is in my hair now.”

            “I bet it looks sexy.  Send me a picture.”

            Oz laughed darkly, adding, “I don’t do dick pics.”

            It was my turn to laugh.  It was true.  Oz hated dick pics.  We had private pictures and videos of ourselves, but it stayed squarely at home.  I’d actually sent him a dick pic on New Year’s because I’d been particularly lonely and horny, and he asked me to never do that again.   “Well,” I joked, “since I only married you for the youthful hue of your pubic hair, you’ll just have to dye it.”

            It felt like he was right there in the bathroom with me.  I could swear I could see him in the mirror: a robust 6’5”, a big bear of a man—30ish pounds more than me—barrel chest covered with thick fur, a round, manly face with kind blue eyes, that ear-to-ear smile, and a thick salt-and-pepper beard, so thick he trimmed it twice a week.

            Oz yawned.

            “Don’t tell me I bore you now,” I said, pretending to be offended.  I strolled back into our bedroom, turning out the light in the bathroom as I passed.  I flopped down on the bed to get comfortable.

            “I had an early morning meeting, and it’s already been a long day at work.  I’m holding them to the April 9th deadline.  It’s meant some late nights.  I don’t really know how I’m going to make it through the rest of today.”

            “You’re eating at least, right?” I asked, concerned.  If I didn’t cook for him, he wouldn’t eat until he was ravenously hungry, and then he’d go right to the nearest fast food joint.

            “Yes, dear.  Three squares, every day, and I always finish my greens.”

            “Good.  Find some time to take a nap.  You’re the boss.  You can do that.”

            “A nap?  That’s your solution?  You must think I’m a geezer after all,” he responded lightheartedly.

            “You know who took naps?  Kennedy.  Einstein.  DaVinci.”

            “Not making me feel much younger.”

            “Okay, fine.  Chris Hemsworth.”

            Oz laughed.  “Well, if Thor naps.”  I know he was thousands of miles away, but I felt him right next to me.  Dropping the sarcasm, he added, “What about you?  How have you been occupying yourself?”

            “Well…” I said, stroking my chest, enjoying the way there was something substantial there to grab hold of.

            “I don’t just mean the gym, Ian.  Promise me you’ve been having some fun without me.”

            “Of course, I have.  Alexander and I hung out twice last week.”

            “Oh good.”  Oz sounded relieved.

            “And Mo is coming this weekend.”

            Oz’s tone turned flat.  “And how is your brother?”

            “I don’t know yet.  He’s not coming until tomorrow.”

            “How long is he staying?”  Mo was not my husband’s favorite person.

            “Don’t worry.  He’ll be gone before you get back.”

            There was a knock at my door.

            “Who could that be?” I asked.

            “Don’t they know you’re flirting with your husband?”

            I put on my robe, loosely tied it, and walked to the door, taking the phone with me.  When I peeked through the peephole, I saw Mo staring back at me, his eye as close to the peephole as he could manage.  “Speak of the devil.”

            “Tell Cayden hi,” Oz said through a sigh of reluctant acceptance.  Only I called my brother Mo.

            I opened the door for Mo, and pointed to the phone so he would know to wait.  Instead, leaving his luggage in the hall, he grabbed the phone from my hand and put it to his ear.

            “Guten Morgen, Austin. Genießt du Deutschland?”

            Mo nodded as Oz talked to him.  I couldn’t hear what he was saying, and Mo’s face didn’t betray anything.  If I knew my husband well enough, he was reminding Mo, as patiently as he could, that he hated being called by his full first name.

            Mo pulled the phone away from his ear and put his lips right up to the screen.  “That’s fascinating, but I am going to hang up now.  Kisses and love and whatever else you two say for goodbye.” He hung up the phone and tossed it to the couch.

            “Asshole!” I said, play-punching his arm.

            “Is that any way to great your baby brother?”

            “Oz and I only talk twice a week on the phone, and you hung up on him.”

            “Yeah, yeah, but I’m right here in the flesh and blood and Austin’s all the way in Germany.”  He turned on his heels, dragged his luggage into the living room, and closed the door behind him.

            “No one calls him Austin,” I reminded him.

            “I do.  Because it irks hm so.”  Mo smiled mischievously.  “Now, let’s try this again.  Hello, Eenie.”

            “Hello, Mo,” I said, surrendering to the hurricane of my brother’s presence.

            Mo grabbed me in a too-tight hug, and danced back and forth with me.  When the hug ended, he remarked, “Someone’s been working out.”

            “Look who’s talking,” I said, pointing to him.  Mo might be my little brother, but he’s always been the bigger brother.  We had the same eyes and hair, we definitely looked like brothers, but Mo got all the good stuff.  Taller than me, more muscular.  The few times we sparred over a guy, Mo got him.  That unfortunate history is how I learned my brother is hung bigger than me too.  To add insult to injury, he had a bigger brain than me too.  He went to college on scholarship, law school paid him to get his degree.  He’d spent the last six years at some fancy law school to become internationally licensed—he hadn’t paid one cent—followed by a lucrative internship that had just now ended.  If I hadn’t married Oz, I’d still be buried in student loans.  It was all a little infuriating.  “You’ve gotten pretty buff there,” I complimented him.

            Mo tensed his pecs so they tightened the front of his shirt.  “True, but I’ve always been buff.  You’ve gotten bigger, too, brother.  Any reason for adding the man mass?”

            “Oz’s 50th.”

            “Sweet.  Is the old man having a hard time getting it up?”

            “He’s not an old man.”

            “He’s fifteen years older than you.”  Mo chuckled, acting as though my position was indefensibly ridiculous.  “You couldn’t legally drink at the wedding.  He’s a cradle robber, and you were his child bride.”

            I folded my arms and stared at Mo.  “If you plan on spending the whole weekend insulting my husband, you can just go now.”

            “Fine, I’ll play nice.”  Mo crumpled into himself, exaggerating how difficult it was to not make fun of Oz.  “Give me the grand tour?” he said.

            “This is the living room.  Feel free to sit in any of the furniture, but I do love that armchair,” I said, pointing at it.  “The guest room you’ll be staying in is over there.  It has its own bathroom.  That’s the door to Oz and my room.  We have the better bathroom.   Dining room,” I pointed, “kitchen,” I pointed.  “Feel free to take whatever.  If you want something we don’t have, there’s a grocery store a few blocks away.”  I pointed to the last door.  “Oz’s office that I never have any use for.”

            “Pretty snazzy for an apartment.”

            “It’s technically a condo—we own it—but we call it an apartment.  ‘Condo’ feels so…”

            “Yuppie?” Mo responded, crashing on the couch, barely missing the phone he’d cavalierly tossed earlier.    

            “Exactly,” I said, sitting in my armchair.

            “So, what are our plans for the day?” Mo asked.

            “Well, my plans involve going to work.  You can do whatever you want.”

            “Can’t you play hooky?”

            “I have to prep for a really important lunch meeting with Vernon Bailey.”

            Mo stared at me expectantly.  “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

            “The Vernon Bailey?  Of the Bailey group?  Famous rich guy?  Grandson of even more famous rich guy?”

            Mo blinked, then shrugged.  “I’ve been out of the country for a while.”

            “He’s our biggest investor,” I explained.  “The meeting isn’t until Wednesday, but there’s a thousand small details to take care of.”

            “Wednesday?  You have an important meeting on April Fools’ Day?”

            “The coincidence is not lost on me.  The man himself is a cruel prank.  He keeps trying to get me to leave Oz and run off with him.”

            “I like him already.”

            “If he didn’t insist on dealing with me and me alone, I’d never see him again.”

            “What?  Is he ugly?”

            “No, he’s gorgeous.”

            “Gorgeous, rich, and he wants to steal you from Austin?  What’s the problem?”

            “That I’m married and won’t cheat on my husband.”

            “That’s right,” Mo said, pointing at me accusatorily.  “You’re the boring brother.”

            “And you’re the asshole brother,” I countered.

            “Well, if you don’t want this Mr. Vernon Bailey, swing him my way.”

            “If you’re up for it, I just may.”  I would never have admitted this out loud to my brother, but if I wasn’t with Oz, I would’ve jumped Vernon’s bones the day we met.  “You might just be able get him off my back.”

            “Thank you,” Mo said with a note of genuine gratitude.  “If that’s all you have to do today, do it from home.”

            “I have half a dozen little things to do, too.”

            “Oh, come on. Your brother’s in town!”

            It was my turn to shrug.  “You’re the one who showed up a day early without so much as a phone call, thank you very much.  You should be thankful the guest room is already made up and waiting.”

            Mo pouted.  It was an over-the-top, puppy dog pout, but it worked.

            “Alright,” I kowtowed.  “Work’s kinda light right now.  If you let me go in for the morning and put things in order, I will duck out early.”

            Mo jumped from the couch and began tickling me.  “That’s my big brother.  Yes.”

            Through my laughter, I managed to get ahold of Mo’s hands.  “We will hang out after work.  After.”  I got up, grabbed my phone, and began heading to my bedroom.  “Spend the morning deciding what you want to do with the rest of the day.”

            “The Todd Brothers are going to hit the town!”

            I had to roll my eyes.  I’d taken Oz’s last name; he was trying to get my goat.  When I got to the bedroom door, my phone rang.  Without looking, I answered it.

            “Now, Oz, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?” I asked.

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Chapter 3

            Before I could leave the bathroom, I had to actually assess what had happened.  I tore my tie off in one pull, and then started unbuttoning my shirt, and halfway down, I was hit by my first new shocker: I had chest hair.  It wasn’t a lot, but there were surprisingly dark fledgling hairs in between my two pecs.

            And my pecs.  They’d gotten big enough to be separate, distinct mounds projecting from my chest.  Even at my most muscular, I’d always had just a solid chest—not actual pecs.  The new-grown hair added to this effect, making the shallow valley between them seem even deeper.

            When I finished opening the shirt, I saw why my belt was loose: my waist had pulled in a little bit.  I know had a slight V to my torso, and my faint-almost-somewhat six-pack was now an honest-to-goodness six-pack, flecked lightly with hairs.  I flexed my stomach to admire it, and the muscles of my stomach looked even more dire and defined.  I could never have gotten this developed in six months.

            I shucked my shirt altogether, enjoying the tug as my shoulders momentarily snagged the sleeves.  My arms were definitely larger: more thickly swollen with muscle.  I flexed each one in turn in the mirror, shocked at just how prominent my arms were.  They looked solid and powerful, ready to lift construction materials and farming equipment rather than my office work.  I didn’t know if I had more arm hair or just darker arm hair, but the effect was the same either way: my arms looked manly. 

            My shoulders, never my strongest feature, had rounded beautifully.  I was a noticeably wider.  Especially with the little tuck in of my waist, the shoulders were even more pronounced.  Nothing dramatic, but unmistakable.  I never thought I’d have sexy shoulders, but now I couldn’t wear to wear a sleeveless shirt in front of Oz just to watch him drool.

            My body had so enamored me that I hadn’t looked at my face yet.  If I hadn’t spent most of my late 20s and early 30s seeing it in the mirror, I might have missed it, but to me it was clear as day.  I was hotter.  The changes were all subtle: a broader sweep of the jaw, a raised arc of the eyebrow, a more capricious camber to my lips, a slight prominence to my cheekbones, a more rugged thickness to my neck.  The only bold difference was my stubble.  I was blessedly lucky enough to only have to shave once a week, and I’d just shaved yesterday—I should be good to go for days.  But, there on my face was an irrefutable five o’clock shadow.

            I reached up to touch my face, not believing it was, in fact, my face.  The coarseness of the stubble shocked me.  It was sharp as sandpaper, but somehow soft as velvet.  This wasn’t my pliant, unconvincing facial hair.  This was hair thick enough to grow a beard.

            By this point, any fear I was feeling had completely dissipated.  This was far too pleasant an experience to let logic or reality get in the way.  I stroked my face and watched my arms, shoulder, and chest dance in the mirror.  At the same time, I felt a stirring in my pants.  I hadn’t even gotten below my waist.

            Deciding to leave my cock for last, I turned around to get a view of my ass in the mirror.  I held it in my hands, and it was stretching the material thin.  I had enough ass to fill each hand.  But it was hard and firm.  Before I’d met Oz, I once spent a weekend with a professional cyclist.  My ass felt like his.

            I turned back around and slid my hands over my upper legs.  They weren’t straining the fabric, but my pantlegs were at capacity.  Even through the khaki, my legs had gotten so big that I could feel the hairs on my legs starting to blossom more thickly, as they had everywhere else on my body.  Running my hands over my legs was getting my cock even more excited.

            I had to see.

            I unzipped my fly, lowered my boxers, and my cock sprang out, released from its imprisonment.  It was still clearly my cock, my best friend since puberty, but he’d gotten a little bigger too.  I had been blessed with a solid 7 inches, but this was clearly bigger than that.  Maybe as much as 7 and a half.  I put my hand around it, and sure enough, it was also a little thicker.  Everything was a little thicker: my shaft, my balls, even my pubic hair.

            Never comfortable jacking off at work, I tucked my cock back into my boxers.  Once it was fully away, I heard a slight whine come from one of the toilet stalls.

            In one motion, I turned around and threw open the door.  Sitting on the toilet with his feet on the seat was someone I didn’t recognize.  He had deep brown eyes, very dark, and silky black hair that would’ve looked nice if he had a better haircut.  I couldn’t tell exactly how tall he was in this particular posture, but he had a slight frame and had to be in the low five-foot range.  He was wearing a white short-sleeve polo shirt and black jeans that, from a distance, could be mistaken for formal work clothes.  How had I missed him when I checked?

            “I looked under the stall doors.”

            “I was hiding,” he said, staying in his perched position.

            I said nothing, but the expression on my face asked my question for me.

            He put his feet down on the floor one at a time.  As he did, his phone flopped into his lap.  His answer came in one uninterrupted rant.  He barely took spaces to breathe.  “Nothing to fear.  We’ve met before.  I don’t expect you recognize me.  I work in IT.  People are blind to us IT guys.  That’s why I hid—I thought you wouldn’t notice me.  I’m sorry I hid, but it’s Friday.  Friday mornings are the worst.  If I want five minutes to sit and take a break, I have to hide in the bathroom.  I’m not kidding.  I have to hide.  People have followed me into the bathroom to ask me tech questions.  While I was doing my business.  Women have followed me in here.  If I don’t hide, I get no free time.  I almost took up smoking to get the break, but this seemed healthier.  When you came in here, I thought you were going to ask me questions, so I hid.  I scrunched up real small on the seat.  Then you blocked the door, so I thought you were going to wait me out.  Until you started stripping.  Then I thought God was shining blessings down on me.  You’re like the hottest guy in the building, Mr. Myers.  I’ve been watching you bulk up these past couple of months.  And then I got to see you take off your shirt and see your muscles real, live, in person.  I knew you were big, but not that big.  Then you pulled out your man bits, and that was hot too.  I was a little disappointed when you didn’t play with yourself, and I guess that’s why I made that noise.”

            For a moment, I was stunned that the entire deluge came out at once.  Then, I realized that this IT guy was holding his breath, turning away slightly, and squinting, like I was going to beat him up and take his lunch money.  As he sat there, I could finally comprehend just how young he was.  The whole thing was absurd.  He was just some closeted gay kid who wanted a peak.  He was completely harmless.

            “Breathe,” I said, in what I hoped was a calming voice.  “Breathe.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

            He un-squinted, just a little.  “You’re not?”

            “It’s not like you took a video of me or anything.  I probably would’ve done the same thing at your age.  How old are you?”

            “18.  I’m an intern from the local technical college.  I’m doing IT work for class credit.  For the number of hours I’m working, I feel like I should get a paycheck or, at the very least, more than two credits.  I mean, I’ve got three other classes, and I tutor on the weekends to get some pocket money.  But my adviser says the most I can get for an internship is two credits.”

            “Are you always this excitable?” I asked.

            The IT guy pointed at my chest, and I realized I was still shirtless, my muscles and new growth of hair exposed and floating over his head.

            “Right,” I apologized and put my shirt back on.  It was harder to button up than I expected, but I got them all to fasten.  “Is that better?”

            He nodded, and it seemed his breathing was returning to normal.

            “What’s your name?” I asked.

            “Quincy.  Quincy Adkins.”

            “Well, Quincy, I’m glad you got an innocent little thrill.  No harm, no foul, right?”

            Quincy nodded.

            “I think we should both get back to work.  Don’t you?”

            Quincy nodded.

            I picked my tie up off the sink and went back to work.

            Quincy stayed behind in the stall.  I guess he was going to need another five minutes.

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