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Paxton Learns His Lesson

The final collaboration between myself and Aardvark for the time being.

The story was tweaked more than the others, as a matter of fact.

To say Paxton Montcalm wasn’t pleased with his situation was an understatement.

It was stupid, really. All he’d done was take his teacher’s pepper spray and air it out underneath his desk. How the hell was he supposed to know that was considered poisoning other people and assault with a deadly weapon…? Or whatever the judge said – Paxton had hated his fat face, so he hadn’t paid much attention beyond “you’re in trouble now, you little fuck-up!” (Yeah, no shit. He had noticed he was in court, thanks.)

He’d done his community service, apologized, even sucked up a little, but the adults were just not satisfied. Paxton had decided fine, fuck them, he’d just do what he wanted again. No one seemed to give a shit when he tried to make amends. And then he’d snuck out after curfew and gotten caught by some roided-up cop. DeSanto or something. His mother had had enough and informed him that he was going to spend the summer in Hart’s Landing, South Carolina with his grandparents.

“That’s not fair!” Paxton had protested. Upon seeing the thunderous look his mother had shot back, he’d blanched.

“No, I’ll tell you what’s not fair, little boy!” she’d roared, jumping up from the table. “What’s not fair is that I have to continually leave work to bail your ass out, using up my hard-earned cash. I’m a waitress, Paxton. I don’t even make minimum goddamned wage! I can barely afford the rent, everyone either ignores me, thinks I’m a shitty parent, or pities me! The fact that you’ve been here as long as you have is a downright miracle and, frankly, a testament to my patience!” She’d stopped, taken a deep breath, and lit up a cigarette, walking to the sink and taking a long drag. Holding it in, she had opened the window, exhaled, then hung her head. “You’re going. That’s final. Now go to your room. You don’t have to sleep, but I don’t want to look at you.”

Before Paxton could really process this – his mother had never exploded at him before, despite all the dumb shit he’d done – he was on a bus down to South Carolina. It was a long ride from Brooklyn, but he’d managed to pass the time by chatting up some cute chicks and reading a copy of FLEX he’d nicked from one of the bus terminals.

The bus stop wasn’t far from his grandparents’ house, and they met him there. Grandma Rose and Grandpa Walker were just how he remembered them from their last visit on his 10th birthday. Old, decrepit, and kind of smelly.

“Oh, just look at you! You’ve grown so much!” Rose cooed, pinching his cheek and giving him a big kiss. She left a bright red lipstick print on his cheek.

“Yeah. Hi, gram,” he muttered.

“Stand up straight,” Walker ordered, “and march. I know full well what you did, and I won’t have any of that tomfoolery in my house. You hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” Paxton replied sarcastically.

And that had gotten him dragged two blocks to his grandparents’ house by his ear.

Hart’s Landing was boring as all hell. Cell phone service was spotty when it worked at all. Paxton was forced to get a library card and use the computers there, and when his thirty minutes of Internet were used up for the day, he would trudge back to his grandparents’ house with an armful of library books. Every now and then a text would come through, like a message in a bottle from the outside world, but most days he was stuck watching television with his gram, or reading murder mystery books. His mom called on the landline every other night to make sure he wasn’t getting into trouble. “I’m not, I’m just bored to tears.”

“Good.”

Paxton had a feeling the “good” was to him being bored, not to him avoiding trouble.

His grandparents were always offering suggestions on things he could do, but nothing was remotely interesting. Work out? Nah, and besides, the gym was the second floor of some rec center. Start a lawn mowing business? Noooo thank you. Church? Hard pass. He was gonna keep his head down and read his books, then get the hell outta town when the time came.

One of the only places in town he enjoyed, aside from the library, was the ice cream parlor. It was so cheap – $2 for a scoop or $3 for two – that he went nearly every day, making his way through the entire menu. Today’s flavor, peppermint bark, was particularly good. And distracting, as Paxton learned when he found himself being yelled at for jaywalking.

“We have sidewalks for a reason, kid,” the cop was saying to him.

Paxton wanted to say something snarky but held his tongue for the sake of his grandparents.

“I’m not gonna write you a ticket this time ‘cause we’ve all wandered out in the street between licks of Mama Mabel’s, but this is your one warning.”

Paxton lowered the ice cream cone from his mouth as a thought came to him. “Can you write me a ticket, though?”

The cop put his hands on his hips and cocked one leg, and that was when Paxton realized the man was a bodybuilder. He’d been so in his own head that he hadn’t noticed the cop’s giant, veiny arms and barrel chest. “Come again?” the cop asked.

“Well,” Paxton said, “I’m here staying with my grandparents and my mom keeps calling to make sure I’m not getting into trouble. And I think it’d be funny to show her a fake ticket to make her, y’know… freak out.”

The cop didn’t smile. He tilted his chin down to peer over the edge of his mirrored aviators, and Paxton saw his caramel-colored irises. “You think breakin’ the law is funny?”

“No! No sir.”

“Well, in that case…” The cop retrieved a pen from his breast pocket and clicked it on, now grinning mischievously. “…what should I write you up for?”

“Yes!” Paxton whooped. This guy was cool after all. “I… I dunno… what’s funny?”

“Peein’ in public?”

“Oh, she’d freak out. Yeah!” The officer duly wrote out the ticket, smirking a bit as he did, and handed it to Paxton. The teenager took it and laughed. “Thanks, officer… uh…?”

“Salamanca,” the man replied, tapping his name tag. “Mateus Salamanca.”

“Like salamander,” Paxton said, before realizing that might sound rude. “Sorry. Didn’t mean-”

Officer Salamanca chuckled. “You didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t worry. It’s an old Spanish name – it means someone from the Salamanca region.”

Paxton nodded. “Cool.” There was an awkward pause. “Well, uh, thanks for the ticket.”

The bodybuilder nodded back. “You’re welcome. Try not to walk into the street anymore, kiddo.” He then swaggered off down the block, enormous thighs rolling around each other. Paxton didn’t hear him mutter “what a weird kid.” In fact, despite internally bristling at being called “kiddo,” the teen was amazed by the man’s tremendous size. In truth, a part of him had always found huge guys like Salamanca and DeSanto to be attractive, but he’d ignored it. He had to be straight. Or at least mostly like girls. Right?

Rubbing his left temple, which suddenly had developed a rather acute pain, Paxton started walking. He wasn’t really aware of it, his mind focused more on trying to get the image of Salamanca and DeSanto in a pose-off out of the way so he could focus on something else. He tried not to imagine the heads of their hard cocks pressing together, leaking precum as both competitors showered each other in begrudging, yet flattering compliments as they struggled not to orgasm and paint each other with cum. Paxton gave his head a firm shake, making his mop of hair flop about. Before he really knew where he was, he looked up to see himself at the rec center. Why the hell had he come here?

Well, he supposed, he didn’t have anywhere to be until 6pm, and that was almost five-and-a-half hours away, so why not head inside? Running a hand through his blonde hair, Paxton strolled up the steps and into the building. The town council, Grandma Rose had told him, had recently added an indoor pool to the center after some millage had passed. Right now, it sounded like some dude was doing an aqua-aerobics class for seniors in there. Another hard pass, thank you very much.

Paxton shook his head and walked past the reception counter. The young lady behind it called out to him, “Excuse me!”

The teenager looked around to her. “What?”

“If you’re going up to the gym, you need a wristband and I need your signature on the sign-in sheet.”

Paxton hadn’t even registered that’s what he’d been doing. He frowned. Why couldn’t he just go do his thing? Why did they need to know all the shit he was doing? Why was this town so… so… ugh.

“Fine, whatever.”

Paxton hurriedly scribbled out a mostly illegible signature. The woman frowned, squinted at it, then shrugged and snapped a wristband onto his right wrist. “You’re good to go. Be safe and follow the rules!”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Paxton muttered, running up the steps two at a time.

The gym and its locker rooms took up the entire second floor. It wasn’t exactly Gold’s, but it had enough to make for a good workout. Paxton had done some weightlifting in school, but never enough to actually build a jock-like physique. Still, he knew his way around well enough. Not having any proper gym clothes, Paxton just walked past the two other guys there and approached the calf machine. It was broken. Paxton wasn’t surprised, really. This seemed like the kind of place where if a machine broke down, it never got replaced.

Paxton looked around and settled on a cable machine with a straight bar attached. He put the weight rack on 15 pounds and began curling, going by feeling. When his arms were too wide, it felt weird. When he tucked his elbows in, it felt right, so that was what he did. He bumped the weight up and kept curling, getting a nice rhythm going, breaking just enough of a sweat to indicate he was accomplishing something without getting too gross. Didn’t want his grandma scolding him for coming home smelling bad.

He switched to dumbbells and did some shoulder shrugs because he’d seen them in the magazine he’d been reading on the ride down. It had said it was good to bring your shoulders up so that they looked balanced with your arms. Speaking of balance, he needed to do triceps too – so many guys overworked their biceps and ignored the triceps. And triceps were key. They took up two-thirds of the arm. Paxton didn’t know how or why he knew that – probably class or something – but it was all he thought about as he did tricep pushdowns and then finished the cycle with dips.

Then he went back to the cable curls and hit them again, doubling the weight. It made him sweat more, but he could just shower off later. Pump was looking good. His short sleeves were tight around his shoulders as he did more shoulder shrugs and tossed in lateral raises. Tricep pushdowns brought little tears in his sleeves, but he could get new t-shirts. No big deal.

No big deal, yeah, no big deal, he told himself as he ripped his sleeves off. Arms were looking good. The curls brought out veins he didn’t even know he had. He doubled the weight again and grunted his way through a set, then raised his arm up and sniffed it. “Phwoo,” he chortled, “need a shower.” There was more hair under his arms than he remembered, but he could always shave that off. Salamanca probably shaved his pits when he competed too.

By the time Paxton had finished another round of dips, he could barely feel his arms. But damn, they looked good. The curves of his biceps and triceps mirrored each other. Paxton raised his arm up and flexed it, giving his bicep a good squeeze. His mom was gonna freak out at how big he was.

Okay, that was an overstatement. It was one workout. Paxton knew that. But there had to be a beginner’s boost thing going on, ‘cause he sure looked good. He wanted to get a new t-shirt just so he could see how the sleeves clung to his arm muscles.

Paxton was tired now, but still had a lot of time to kill, so he grabbed a bar and tossed it on the ground. He’d never deadlifted before, but he’d read that it worked a ton of different muscle groups, and it was good to have muscles. Yeah…

He’d thrown two plates on both sides and started lifting it before he even considered how damn heavy it would be. Big guys lifted tons of plates, two couldn’t be that heavy could it?

But it was. Veins bulged from Paxton’s neck. His face went red as a stop sign. But he was gonna do it… he was gonna do it a bunch of fucking times.

He stood up and let the bar touch at his waist before he lowered it back down. One. The second time was easier, the third harder. But when he felt his butt burning, his back aching, he knew it was working.

After a grueling set of deadlifts, Paxton set the bar down and wiped his brow. He was simply drenched in sweat now, from head to toe. His ass had torn his basketball shorts down the crack, and he grunted as he shucked them off. Now in nothing but his briefs and sleeveless tee, he walked – no, he swaggered to the pec deck. As he went, he stumbled a little before catching himself. Shit, the world seemed lower now. Was he… nah, he wasn’t taller. He was the same height he’d always been. 6 foot even. He had caught the other guys’ attention now, and they were staring openly at him. Feeling cocky, he winked at them and popped a killer double-bi.

“Shee-it!” one hissed to the other in a thick Southern drawl. “That fella’s massive!” Paxton chuckled, and sat down at the machine. He slapped his hands against his flat chest, like a gorilla, and imagined how big he wanted them to be as he worked his way through some chest flies. Nothing too huge… just a nice shelf. Most guys had moobs, so when a man had a real set of pecs – hard and solid and prominent – it really stood out.

Heh. Stood out. Just like he wanted his rack to do. Pexton bumped up the weight and worked through another set. Needed a nice set of knockers. He liked when a man had a good-sized chest, like Salamanca. Just a little past proportional so that they were the highlight of the physique – shit, this was easy. Pexton added fifty pounds to the weight. Needed a huge set of boulders. The kind of pecs that burst through shirts and popped buttons. Big as melons… nah, big as basketballs. Maybe bigger than that. And all striated and chiseled, like the muscles were about to tear through the skin. Pexton dug the way the center of a man’s chest looked. That was why he left his shirts unbuttoned, to show off all that muscle cleavage and the fibers quivering under the skin…

Finishing his set, Pexton turned to the mirrors along right-hand wall and began to make his enormous rack dance. One-two, one-two… fuck, he looked amazing – well, very nearly. His shoulders and lats were severely lacking, and he had no definition on his midsection. His legs were looking skimpy, too. The oft-repeated “never skip leg day” floated across his brain and he chuckled. Crunches first, then squats, then the lat pulldown, then square things off on the bench press. Yeah, that sounded swell. Heh, swell. He grinned as his muscles engorged a little more.

But if he was gonna do crunches, he’d need someone to hold his legs in place. He’d always had a bit of an issue with that. Well, there were those fellas here with him. Turning around to look at the treadmills, he met their gaze and grinned. “Howdy,” he grunted in a deep voice that didn’t sound like his own.

“H-Hey,” one piped up, a cute brunette with a smile that could kill at forty paces and dimples that must’ve driven all the gals (and half the guys) wild.

His friend was a handsome Asian dude who’d bleached his hair blonde with a pair of dark, smoldering brown eyes and a small black goatee on his chin. The poor dude was staring, open-mouthed, at Pexton’s pecs. The stud noticed and bounced them a bit for his admirer.

Both jocks looked as if they were going to start drooling.

“Ah’d say that m’face is up here,” Pexton drawled, “but Ah do love fellas who know what they like.”

The guys’ cheeks flushed beet red and they began to stammer out apologies before Pexton waved them away. “Naw, don’t apologize!” His grin broadened. “One a’ you two wanna hold m’legs while Ah do crunches?”

ME!” they cried in unison. Pexton laughed.

“Easy now, don’t hurt yerselves!” he told them. “There’s plenty a’ me to go around. Now, what’re y’all’s names?” Pexton didn’t seem to notice that he was now speaking with a thick Southern accent.

“I’m Bert,” the Asian jock replied.

“Don’t tell me,” Pexton cut in, looking to Bert’s friend. “Yer Ernie?”

The young buck shook his head. “Naw, Ah’m Glenn, actually.” It was clear he got that a lot when Bert introduced himself first.

“That’s cute,” Pexton heard himself say. He plopped onto the floor and his friends each sat on one of his feet. ‘That’s cute?’ He didn’t know why he’d said it. Or why the lump in his briefs was growing with each sit-up.

“Lookit his abs,” Glenn said.

Bert reached over Pexton’s knees and slid his hand under Pexton’s shirt. “Jeez. You gotta have about 12 of ‘em.”

“Me?” Pexton grinned and flexed his abdomen. Brick-sized muscles bulged against Bert’s hand. “Y’like that, son?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Ah betcha do.” Pexton sat up. Bert leaned forward. Their lips connected and Pexton folded back downward, then back up, shoving his tongue into Bert’s mouth.

He could feel Glenn’s hands too, running inside his briefs and wrapping around his shaft. Pexton moaned, bucking his hips. He bit on Bert’s lips when they kissed again.

Glenn was pumping his hand. “Damn, even yer dick is huge!” he marveled.

“What can Ah say,” Pexton grunted, never breaking from his crunch rhythm despite all the external stimulations, “big daddy, big dick- AW, FUCK!

He had missed Bert’s mouth on the next sit-up and slammed their foreheads together. Both men fell back, reeling. For Pexton, it was like being struck by a bolt of lightning. The big stud suddenly came to his senses (but sadly not in his shorts) and felt burning humiliation. He sat bolt upright, then scrambled away.

“Did Ah squeeze too hard, sir?” Glenn asked, but Pexton was frantically grabbing his ruined shorts and pulling on the hem of his t-shirt to cover his shredded abdomen.

“Ah gotta go, boys. Ah- Ah dunno what the hell Ah was thinkin’. Ah gotta get outta here…!”

He ran. He ran all the way home, out the back door and down the back streets so fewer people would see how terribly his clothes fit. He could still taste Bert and it made him so horny. What was wrong with him – what was…

He looked down.

“JAY-sus!”

His PECS! They were all he could see. Not his feet, not his stomach. Just enormous, swollen chest meat with two very enticing nipples poking out like large pencil erasers. He had been in such a fog at the rec center, he’d barely realized he’d been growing. He felt heavy and ponderously massive. The floorboards of his grandparents’ house creaked when he walked in, reinforcing the feeling.

Grandpa Walker was nowhere to be found; probably out futzing with some doodad in the shed, if Pexton had to guess. Grandma Rose was on the couch in the living room, curled up in a lavender-colored flannel blanket and eating Chex Mix. An episode of The Golden Girls was on, and Betty White’s character - gram’s favorite, because she had the same name as her - was trying to convince the other girls that her sister really was intentionally excluding her. They didn’t believe her.

Pexton gulped. Would his grandparents believe him when he told them who he was? What had happened to him was even less believable than Rose’s predicament. They surely wouldn’t even recognize him, all enormous and drawling like someone from Gone with the Wind. Hell, he had a bigger chest than Grandma Rose did now! Even his name was different. The floor creaked as he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

“Sweetheart, is that you?” she called, looking around to the doorway. Pexton leaned back out of sight.

“Yeah, gram, it’s me,” he responded, trying his hardest to sound like he usually did. Trying, his brain offered, to sound like a damn Yankee.

“Oh, are you alright, dear? You sound like you’re coming down with something.”

“Me? Well, maybe?” Oh god, he sounded so goddamn Southern that his own voice was giving him an erection. Fuck it. “Ah reckon Ah’m just gonna take a nap, gram. Get some shut-eye.”

“If you’re sure, Pexton,” his grandmother replied. “Rest up.”

“Thanks, gram. Love ya.”

“Love you, too, honey!”

Pexton took the stairs two at a time and shut the door to his room behind him. He wanted to slide down it, bury his head in his knees like in the movies, and just try to get his head on straight again. However, with his immense new size, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to negotiate his body back up and out of it. Then something occurred to him.

Grandma had called him Pexton, not Paxton.

Fuck.

Immediately, he scrambled to the night stand and picked up the phone there, dialing his mother. The first time his fingers mushed two keys at once – they were thick now, like sausages – and he had to do it over again, more delicately. “Fuck, fuck, c’mawn. Ah gotta talk t’mah momma!”

The phone rang twice before his mother picked up. “Hello?”

“Momma?” he drawled.

“Pexton? You sound odd. Are you getting sick down there?”

“Ah… Ah dunno,” he replied, realizing he genuinely wasn’t sure if he was sick or not. Maybe this was some kind of bizarre illness? They could sell the story to Mystery Diagnosis and make a killing. Wait, did they even still run that show? Was Discovery Health even a channel still?

“Pexton, are you ignoring me?”

“What? Naw, momma, jus’ thinkin’,” he assured her.

“Good. That’s you’re down there. Think long and hard, alright? I gotta go. Love you.”

“Love ya, too.” He hung up quickly and grunted as he noticed that thinking wasn’t the only thing that was long and hard right now. His dick was about to rip out of his shorts. A sigh escaped him. “Why do Ah get the feelin’ that yer gon’ be demandin’ a helluva lot more a’ mah attention from now on?”

Well, if nothing else, jacking off felt even better now than it did before. His massive mitt of a hand felt right around his porn star-sized rod, pumping up and down, slick and throbbing… Pexton’s breathing grew ragged and he stifled the bellow he wanted to unleash, lest he alert the whole neighborhood to what he was up to. With a strangled, rumbling moan, his cock exploded-

Pexton woke up with his jizz caked on his massive chest and stomach. He’d nutted so hard that he’d still been cumming when he fell asleep. There was so much jizz that it was almost comical.

The angle of his head against the pillow was enough to tell him he had not reverted back to his original physique, nor had it all been a dream. Under him, his pecs pushed him so far off the bed that his head tilted down toward the pillow instead of resting flat on it.

Things got worse when he sat up. As soon as he swung his feet off the bed, he knew he’d grown more. He could just tell. His weight, his equilibrium, it had all shifted. When he stood up he felt like he was wearing a suit of armor. It felt like he’d been asleep for days – but he checked his phone and saw that it had been ninety minutes.

The house was quiet. No TV downstairs. He assumed he was home alone, but his anxiety made it impossible to jerk off, even though he was horny. Since he could smell himself, he headed for the shower instead.

The big bodybuilder in the bathroom mirror was so radically different from how Pexton knew himself that it didn’t stir up many emotions. His mind disconnected the image from being him. It was just like seeing his head on another body. He filled the entire bathroom with his shoulders, that enormous chest sucking in all the air in the house, his arms looking big enough to fit into the waist of his jeans.

The shower felt glorious. There was nothing like taking one when you felt really dirty. Unaccustomed to his size and breadth, he kept bashing his elbows into the shower door, making him move tentatively when he realized he was capable of breaking the glass. He finally found a sweet spot and jerked himself to orgasm again. Fuck, his libido was through the roof now.

Pexton toweled off his mop of hair and blinked as he looked around the bathroom. Had it always been navy blue? And hadn’t his gram had one of those dumb needlepoint sayings hanging over the toilet? Instead, there was a black-and-white picture of a house. It, along with two candles, were the only decorations in the bathroom. Maybe Gram was in the midst of redoing things. Her aesthetic was busy, not whatever modern look was going on in here.

Pexton padded back down the hallway, enjoying his big dick flopping between his thighs. He yanked on a pair of briefs and stepped into a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. Only after he had them on, did he realize that he shouldn’t own any clothes that fit.

Mildly discomfited, but trying not to think too much about it, Pexton went downstairs. Everything else looked mostly the same, except the wallpaper was gone. Instead of blue jays and cardinals flitting amid climbing ivy over a cream backdrop, plain hunter green paint was in its place. Pexton liked it. It matched the oak paneling along the bottom half of the walls and the accompanying hardwood floors. And, as Pexton passed a mirror next to the basement door, he noticed it matched one other thing. His eyes. But he’d always had blue eyes. For a long while, he simply stared. His eyes were rather entrancing now, like portals to some vast, forested realm.

“Sheeeeee-it,” he said at length, running a hand through his hair. As he did, it turned a dark, chestnut brown, and emerged perfectly coiffed. The bodybuilder leapt back in shock, thumping hard against the opposite wall. “What the actual fuck is happenin’ t’me?”

He turned on his heel and stormed into the kitchen. It looked different. Not as different as the monochrome bathroom, but still far more updated than gram’s traditional affair. A stainless steel fridge with a built-in icemaker hummed quietly in the corner. As if on auto-pilot, Pexton grabbed milk, oats, and a bit of brown sugar before making a perfect bowl of oatmeal. It didn’t even occur to him that he’d always been a disaster in the kitchen before.

For a while, he just sat there at the kitchen’s new island. Hours passed with no breakthrough in what could have done this to him. Was it gram’s cooking? One of Grandpa Walker’s doohickeys, somehow? Maybe the rec center gym was magic? Or Bert and Glenn had somehow hunkified him? Then, a moment of clarity struck.

That ticket. The one that said he’d been pissing in public. Salamanca. He’d done this!

Pexton was out the door, running into town without a second thought. He charged all the way to the police station without losing any breath. Much like the town at this late hour, the police station was deserted. Pexton walked up to the front desk. No one greeted him, and it seemed they had no desk sergeant. He knew the one back home, a tough-as-nails black woman named Monica who could more than hold her own when they traded barbs.

“Hello?” he called. “Ah gotta see Mateus Salamanca. Now!”

As if on cue, Salamanca walked out of the back, looking a bit harried. He blinked, and a flicker of recognition crossed his face when he saw Pexton. His eyes widened. “Kid?”

What the fuck didja do t’me!?” Pexton roared, getting right up close to Salamanca. The other bodybuilder was 6’1”, and Pexton realized he had about five inches on him now. He must have grown while running here. Brow furrowed, face reddening even more, Pexton grabbed the other man by the collar and glared at him. “Tell me, ya sumbitch.

“Wh-What?” Salamanca stammered.

“Look at me!” Pexton thrust his chest out and heard the front of his shirt tear. “Ah ain’t s’posed ta be this buff!”

“Wh-what’re you talkin’ about, Sheriff?”

Pexton pushed the officer away. “Nah, nah, y’all ain’t gonna do that-”

“Do what?”

“Ah ain’t the sheriff. Ah know Ah ain’t the sheriff!”

“But you’re in uniform, sir…”

Pexton looked down and saw his clothes shifting. Blue ink was spreading through his white t-shirt, and the rip on the front had grown a button that was stretching to reach a buttonhole on the other side of the tear. Pockets with scalloped flaps formed over his enormous, quivering chest, as more buttons spread one by one up the center of his shirt. When the last button appeared on the neck of his tee, it came apart, and out folded a high shirt collar around his neck.

When items started materializing on his belt – a nightstick, a pair of handcuffs, a taser – Pexton had had enough. “This is ridiculous!” he boomed. “Y’all are playin’ some kinda trick… Ah jus’ gotta get outta these here clothes… jus’ gotta…” he ran from the station and hopped into his car – not considering that he had walked over – and drove off to the small general store on the other end of the main drag of road.

The stoplights were holding him up and Pexton’s clothes were becoming more of a uniform by the moment. When he saw gold star pins grow onto his collar, he turned on his sirens and blasted down the road. This was not happening if he had anything to say about it!

As he hopped out of his car, a tall hat with a three-inch brim plopped onto his head. Pexton grabbed it and growled. He angrily tossed it into the bushes as he stormed into the store.

“Howdy, sheriff,” someone behind the counter said. Pexton waved brusquely as he walked to the back where there were a few stacks of shirts intended for tourists. Pexton unbuttoned his uniform shirt and dropped it to the floor, congratulating himself on getting it off before it had changed completely. He held the t-shirt out – it was rainbow tie dye, emblazoned with a cartoon of two colorful teddy bears holding up a heart. “Left my heart in Hart’s Landing!” it said. Pexton rolled his eyes as he pulled it over his body. It was skintight on him, which he didn’t mind. It wasn’t his body he was in, but it was a damn good body all the same.

“Guess Ah gotta pay for it,” he grunted, stepping over his discarded shirt. As he walked to the front of the store – a matter of a few steps – epaulets sprung up over his broad shoulders, and the bears faded off the front of the shirt. The blue swirls in the tie-dye spread through the tee, as tall collar points folded out around Pexton’s neck, and a new row of buttons shot up the center. The top three came undone to show off the big man’s chest and, just as he got to the front counter, the gold stars on his collar popped back out into view, leaving him back in full uniform.

“What do I owe ya?” Pexton asked, as his sheriff’s hat materialized back on his head.

“Uh… you haven’t bought anything?” said the young man behind the counter, perplexed. Pexton looked down and swore loudly. He had to be going crazy! “Sh-Sheriff, is everything alright?!”

Pexton pushed his panic down, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of calm. He’d been at this job for five years, and had been on the force for ten. He knew what he was doing.

“Everything’s… yeah, everything’s fine,” he rumbled. The guy behind the counter looked visibly relieved. He caused that, Pexton realized. That was his doing. It made him feel… damn good, actually. His jawline began to harden as he grinned down at the cashier. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The younger man paused, then sheepishly said, “Uh, is it true you had sex with Bert Kim and Glenn Montgomery at the gym today? Trigger Helmsley said he saw you guys.”

Pexton blanched and the cashier’s eyes widened. In one swift movement, Pexton had grabbed him by the shoulder. “What Ah did wasn’t right. But it’s gonna be a secret between you, me, and those other boys, y’understand?”

The guy gulped and nodded. “I… wasn’t gonna tell anyone,” he murmured, looking at the enormous bulge in Pexton’s pants. Pexton considered it for half a second, then color rushed back into his face as he blushed.

“Boy, didja forget Ah’m married?” Pexton growled.

“You sure did earlier.”

Pexton glared at the cashier and left without another word. Why had he said he was married? He wasn’t married. He was… uh… fuck, how old was he? Well, no matter how old he really was, Pexton was sure he couldn’t be married! Yet, as he drove back to the station, his mind began to drift to Mateus. An entire timeline flooded to him. Meeting each other at the academy, becoming best friends, moving into an apartment together before a drunken one-night stand made them both realize they were in love. Of course, Pexton had panicked. His parents would never have approved, he was certain.

But then his parents had passed suddenly in a car accident. Matty had been there the whole time, never leaving his side. They’d moved into the old house together and, well… that had been that. Pexton had become sheriff and Mateus was deputy sheriff. It all worked out. No one would dare say anything to them – they were enormous and very much in positions of power. They never abused that power, of course. They understood what it meant to be minorities in America and tried to do their best to run a department that wasn’t rife with corruption.

“Dammit, no! None of this is right,” Pexton told himself as he parked in front of the station. His first attempt was askew, so he backed up to fix his angle and park straight in the space. But that had required him to look in the rear-view mirror, and what he saw gave him another shock. Above the starched collar of his uniform shirt was a face that wasn’t his. Light crow’s feet and furrows in his brow were one thing. But his jaw had doubled in width and coated itself with heavy brown stubble, dangerously close to being out of uniform regulations. Damn beard grew so fast… Pexton could fix that later tonight. He admired his lantern jaw and grizzled features; combined with his stiff uniform hat, they made him look like a sheriff straight out of central casting – beard excluded, of course. It also made him look a hell of a lot older than he thought he was. Closer to forty than, uh… however old he was. The dusting of dark hair sprouting on his pecs and arms were another indicator that Pexton was aging fast.

“Ah just gotta go in and make things right,” he said to himself as he stepped out of the car. “Explain that somethin’ went wrong and that I gotta go home. That’s all.” He straightened his sheriff’s star and name badge – R. PEXTON – and strutted in, clearing his throat.

Mateus looked up and smiled. “Hey, big daddy,” he intoned, using the private nickname while they were momentarily alone.

Pexton melted. “Hey, love.” Before he could stop himself, he strode across the room and took Mateus in his arms, kissing him deeply. Their tongues met and both men moaned. When they parted, Matty smiled at him.

“What’s the occasion, babe?”

“Ah just… well…” Something inside him clicked and he knew he had to come clean. Russell Pexton was not someone to keep things from his husband. “Ah got pent up at the gym an’ let Bert Kim an’ his buddy – y’know, Glenn Montgomery?” Matty nodded. “Well, they kinda got t’play with the big gun, if’n ya catch m’drift.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed and he folded his arms across his own mighty chest. “Why did you let them, Rusty?”

Russell winced and hung his head. He would have rubbed the back of his neck, but his muscles prohibited such an action.

“Ah couldn’t begin t’tell ya. It was like Ah’d left mah body an’ was goin’ on pure sexual instinct, darlin’,” he admitted. “Ah’m so damn sorry, Matty. Y’know Ah’d never do anythin’ t’hurtcha. Least, not intentionally.”

Mateus paused for a moment, looking to the floor, then nodded. “That wasn’t right, but… hey, we’re all allowed a lapse in judgement.” He put two fingers to Russell’s cleft chin, tipping his beloved’s head back up. Then he kissed Russell once more. “But don’t let it happen again, alright? I mean it.”

Russell nodded. “Trust me, Ah know Ah ain’t the smartest cookie in the jar, but even Ah ain’t dumb enough to screw this up.” He rested his forehead against his husband’s, their arms around each other’s shoulders. “Yer the best damn thang that ever happened t’me.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” his husband preened, and they both laughed.

I made quite a few tweaks and additions to this one. I’m not as happy with it as I was at the time, honestly. The prose is fine, the pacing is adequate, but I just find cop TFs to be counterproductive to society these days. The police have shown their asses in a big way, committing war crimes with gleeful abandon the past however many weeks, and frankly I do not find them to be attractive in the least anymore. Racism, fascism, and war crimes ought to be on most people’s turn-off lists, if you ask me. Heh, if I was doing this one over, Paxton would probably end up as a massive, tattoo-covered Korean-American thug with a huge soft spot for his gang members and his lovers.

Also, that reference to The Golden Girls was added in because I’d given Grandpa Walker’s name as Charlie initially, just like Rose’s late husband on The Golden Girls. Then Aardvark pointed that out and we changed it. Oh well. I like the name Walker more, anyway!

You might have noticed that this story and the last reference Aardvark’s other works. I liked the idea of there being a unified Aardvark ’verse, I guess. Not so hot on the notion now, but tastes change. Additionally, as I said above, this is the last collaboration with Aardvark that was on my old Tumblr. He and I are not exactly on great terms at the moment (and that is all I will say on the matter; don’t pry), so I will not be finishing and posting the remaining ones unless I receive his permission. That seems unlikely right now, but I’ve never professed to being clairvoyant, so for all I know, that might change. We can always live in hope. Seems sunnier over here, anyway!

I have one more short story from the blog, a quickie I wrote for Black History Month, plus the first chapter of Sean (which I will be continuing regardless). From there we’re into virgin territory, folks! Exciting, right?

Like always, thanks for reading and if you enjoyed this story please leave a like, upvote, thanks, or some feedback!

- Trav

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The only real feedback I can give is to perhaps use the default text colour on the forum.  For the most part I've had to copy-paste into word and change the colour to be able to read the stories :S

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12 hours ago, kauri said:

The only real feedback I can give is to perhaps use the default text colour on the forum.  For the most part I've had to copy-paste into word and change the colour to be able to read the stories :S

I didn't realize they weren't in the default text color. Thanks for the heads up; I'll fix that!

EDIT: The stories have been reformatted and fixed. Other tiny edits may be present.

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Business Expansion Strategies

Another collaboration between myself and Aardvark.

The story was heavily edited. It now includes certain aspects that my collaborator explicitly did not want included. If something in here offends you, blame me and not Aardvark, okay?

Elijah Pearce wasn’t exactly thrilled to have to entertain his son Brad and the neighbor kid, Stanley. But this was, he reasoned, a good life lesson for Brad. A man doesn’t shirk his commitments. He’d agreed to look after Brad while his ex-wife Louise and her new husband Chad (Eli gagged a little at the name) went on an Alaskan cruise. Then his neighbors, the Pratts, heard about it and booked their own tickets, asking Eli if he would look after Stan. Without thinking, Eli had said yes.

Privately, Eli was beginning to think the Alaskan state government – or at least their tourism board – was out to get him, rather like he was sure that Lou Ferrigno hated him after that time the man had given him the stink-eye at the local Comic-Con. Come to think of it, hadn’t Brad’s mom cited his paranoia as one of the reasons she’d divorced him? Well, that and the gay muscle porn she’d found him beating off to…

“Hey, dad?” Brad asked, poking his head into Eli’s study.

“Oh, thank God!” Eli cried, relieved that he was no longer alone with his thoughts. He whipped the desk chair around to find Brad and Stan looking at him strangely. “I mean, er, what is it, bud?”

“We’re hungry,” Stan rasped. He sounded prepubescent, despite being close to graduating. Eli idly wondered when this spotty little dork’s balls would drop, then chided himself for thinking so crassly.

“Er, well, can’t you guys make yourselves peanut butter and jelly or something?” Eli asked.

“My mom doesn’t like me being near the stove,” Stan replied.

“Why would you need the stove to make PB and J?” Brad asked, flashing the other teen a quizzical look.

Stan sighed. “You don’t. She’s just paranoid that if I’m even in the same room as the stove, it’ll catch fire and blow up. Or it’ll somehow make me spontaneously combust.”

There was a long pause as the Pearces drank in Nadine Pratt’s second-hand insanity. Their absent neighbor was overprotective of Stan. That much they knew. But what Stan had just told them was outright lunacy. If this was typical behavior, well, it was little wonder that her husband Clarence perpetually acted like a child about to pilfer a shortbread from the cookie jar. The man glanced nervously over his shoulders so often that Eli was sure he was overdue to pull something in his neck. In light of all that, the fact Stan was mostly defined by what a non-entity he was made a hell of a lot of sense.

The silence was finally broken when Brad asked: “Did your mom date Lemony Snicket before she met your dad or something? ’Cause your mom sounds as crazy as that one aunt from his books.”

“Okay, guys, that’s enough,” Eli cut in. “There’s some new place that opened up down the road. Why don’t we go there?”

The boys shrugged and nodded. Eli smiled. That was easy. They piled into Eli’s Mustang and peeled out of the driveway.

“So how’s school, guys?” Eli asked from the driver’s seat as the town whizzed by.

“It’s school,” Brad responded from the backseat.

“Nice,” Eli responded. When it was clear there would be no more discussion on that topic, he reached for the radio to drown out the sound of awkwardness.

“Mr. Pearce, does the place we’re going have burgers?” Stan asked.

“You can call me Eli,” Eli said. “I assume they do? It’s called the Barbell and Grill, and when I think grills, I think burgers.”

“The Barbell and Grill?” Brad said, and Eli could hear the judgment in his son’s voice.

“Yeah. Like ‘Bar and Grill’. Get it?”

Brad said “Yeah, I got it,” at the same time Stan made a long “ooohhhhhh” of realization.

“Is this part of your secret plan to make me gain weight?”

“What?” Eli thought back to all the comments he’d made about Brad’s bony frame. None had merited responses – he didn’t even realize Brad had been paying attention. Shit. “No. I wanted to try it out.”

“I’ve never noticed this place before,” Stan said as the car pulled into the parking lot.

“They just opened,” Eli said. “And uh… maybe word hasn’t gotten out yet.” The parking lot was notably empty considering it was dinner time. The Mustang found a space directly in front of the main door. “But they do have burgers,” Eli continued, motioning to a big ad in the window for the ‘Yellowstone Jamboree Burger.’

“Made with bison,” Stan said with a shudder as he got out of the car and read the ad. “I hope they have cow burgers too.”

“Well,” Eli remarked, “one way to find out. C’mon.”

The well-built cashier smiled at them as they walked up to the counter, but his green eyes kept flitting to Brad and Stan, then whipping back to Eli when the teens caught him staring. Anxiety flooded off him in waves. It seemed odd for someone so good-looking to be so fidgety. Eli arched a brow and the boys exchanged looks. Was it this guy’s first day or something?

Ignoring the nervous cashier, they looked over the menu. There was a traditional hamburger, alright, in addition to the Yellowstone Jamboree Burger. Elk, lamb, ostrich, kangaroo, salmon, and venison all featured on the menu. A black bean veggie burger was also offered. Steaks of the various meats were also available, as were other options, such as quail. This place was high-protein and health-focused for sure.

“Are you, uh, ready to order, sir?” the cashier asked.

“Yeah. I’ll have the Yellowstone Jamboree Burger,” Eli said. “And for my side, I’ll get the sweet potato fries.”

“Deeeeelicious choice, sir. That’ll be-”

“Wait, they haven’t ordered yet,” Eli cut in. “We’re all together.”

You’re paying for them?” the cashier blurted out incredulously.

“Uh, yeah?” Eli replied. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I… I, uh…” There was an awkward pause as the man just stood and stammered.

Before this went on too long, an even bigger man gently pushed the cashier aside. He quietly, but firmly, told him to go to the back, and the cashier dashed off, tail between his legs, muttering about how “they’re just so massive!

“I’m real sorry about Jerry there,” the new man said. “Can I take your orders?”

“I’ll do the Mediterranean Lamb Burger, pita, and tzatziki,” Stan replied.

“And I’ll have the Brazilian-Style Top Sirloin with chimichurri sauce,” Brad replied.

“Sounds good,” the guy said. “If you need anything, my name’s Vince. I’m the manager here. Always good to see you, Mr. Pearce.”

“Er, thank you,” Eli replied, a bit confused. It was amplified when Vince gave him a quizzical look, as if Eli wasn’t the one being spoken to. Did he mean Brad? But he couldn’t have, could he?

“That was a bit weird,” Stan muttered after Vince walked off to the kitchen.

“Also weird, dude: you won’t try bison but you’re gonna eat a lamb burger?” Brad asked.

“I’ve had lamb before at home. It’s good if you cook it right!”

Your mom, who apparently believes stoves can make people spontaneously combust by proximity, actually cooked lamb?” Brad replied incredulously. “Excuse me if I find that a little hard to believe, Stan.”

“I said she has weird ideas about things,” Stan protested, “not that she doesn’t cook!”

Brad flashed Stan a mischievous smirk. “Don’t take it too hard, Stan. Maybe one day she’ll teach you her secret trick to making the stove like you!” he teased.

“Brad,” Eli said in a warning tone, “that’s enough, bud.”

“Sorry.” Brad turned to find a table and was confronted by the soda fountain. “Hey, dad,” he said, turning back around, “do our burgers come with drinks?”

Eli looked up at the menu, then at Jerry, who had returned to the cash register, still looking a bit peakish. “Are these combos or do drinks come separately?”

“Separately,” said Jerry, but when he saw Eli fishing out his wallet, he reached under the table and produced three cups. “On the house for you guys, of course.”

“Oh, cool. Thanks.” Eli passed a cup to Brad and Stan. Stan filled his up to the top with orange soda, but Brad opted for water.

“No soda, bud?” Eli inquired.

Brad blushed. “Daaaad.”

“What? You love soda.”

“I don’t drink soda. I haven’t had soda in years. It’s so bad for you.”

“This from the kid who drank an entire two-liter of Dr. Pepper at the block party last weekend?” Eli chuckled, but Brad simply glared at him and walked to their booth without saying another word. Man, teens were moody, Eli thought.

“I like soda,” Stan said to Eli with a shrug, following Brad.

“I do too,” Eli grumbled to himself, filling his cup with Coke. He walked to the booth Brad had selected and sat down in the middle of the two boys’ conversation.

“It’s made with yogurt?” Brad was saying, with palpable disgust.

“It’s good!” Stan insisted. “It’s not like the yogurt you have for breakfast in the morning. It’s just a white sauce. I like it when it’s really cucumber-y.”

“You guys talking about tzatziki?”

“Yeah,” Brad said, taking a sip of water. “It sounds gross to me.”

“You can have a bite of mine when it comes, if you want to try it,” Stan offered.

“No thanks.”

Conversation was uneventful until the food showed up. When it did, the three dug in with gusto. As they ate, Eli looked over to Stan and frowned. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Stan asked, arching a brow. Eli pointed to the hairs peeking up out of Stan’s t-shirt. “Oh, just chest hair. You have it, too… what’s the big deal?”

“It’s just…” Eli trailed off. Had Stan always had chest hair? He honestly couldn’t recall. He never really made a point of looking at his neighbors’ kid for body hair for obvious reasons.

“Just what?” Stan responded, scratching at his stubbly chin.

“Nothing. Never mind.” Eli returned to his burger. It was delicious, and Eli was already looking forward to his next visit. He was so wrapped up in his burger, he didn’t notice Brad had gotten up from the table until he looked up again. “Where’s…?”

“Bathroom,” Stan grunted. Eli sucked in a breath as he caught sight of the neighbor kid. A full five o’clock shadow was in bloom on the kid’s face, which was getting ruddier by the second.

Eli said nothing, and quietly put down his burger. Stan looked at him. “Not a fan?”

“Oh, no,” Eli said quickly, staring directly at the stubble that looked painted onto Stan’s soft jaw. “It’s uhhhh… just that I’m getting a bit full. It’s a lot of meat!”

Stan chuckled. “Tha-AA-at’s-” his voice cracked loudly, shooting up into dog-whistle territory at its peak. His cheeks went even redder, and he took a sip of his drink.

“Happens to us all, Stan,” Eli assured him.

“Sorry,” Stan said, setting his drink down. “I was saying, that’s sort of the name of the game around here!”

Eli blinked. Stan’s voice post-crack was deep – like, preposterously deep. Lowest piano keys deep. And the kid’s t-shirt didn’t fit either. Stan’s nipples were protruding against it. The sleeves had torn partly away from the movement of Stan’s shoulders and arms, which looked bulkier than Eli remembered. As Stan took another sip of his drink, his bicep seemed to bulge even larger.

The wait for Brad to get back from the bathroom seemed like an eternity, and Eli was dreading his son’s return. Brad wasn’t good at keeping his reactions muted, and there was no way he was not going to mention how strange Stan looked. Eli felt guilty for wishing earlier that Stan’s nuts would drop. If that was what just happened – and it sure seemed like the case – it was hitting Stan fast. Not only did he have shadow on his face, but it was dense, and covered the top of his cheeks all the way to the middle of his neck. Inky black chest hair was pouring out of the collar of his t-shirt. The torn sleeves exposed thick thatches under his arms. Eli was almost able to convince himself that he’d misheard Stan’s voice, but then Stan said, “Mind if I steal a fry?” in as deep a bass Eli had ever heard.

Eli gulped and nodded. Brad was going to flip… his… oh, dear God.

Brad sauntered up to the table. At least, Eli thought it was Brad. The teen who approached was a foot taller than the 5’ 4” Brad, and had skin the color of caramel. The height increase had caused his green t-shirt to ride up, revealing eight glorious, deeply cut abs that looked like they could be used to grate cheese.

Broad shoulders caused his shirt to tear slightly, and his chest – a thing of true beauty with two ample pecs capped by thick nipples – filled the remainder of the top so well that it looked painted on.

“Sorry about that,” he grunted, his voice now deeper as well. Nowhere near as deep as Stan’s, but still deeper than it had been. It sounded like a grown man’s now; almost spookily like Eli’s own, frankly. “I always have trouble with those stalls.”

“With shoulders like yours? Not surprised,” Stan boomed, chuckling a bit. His stubble had started fluffing into a beard, and he held it back with one hand to prevent food getting into it.

Brad moved one leg under the table, making a motion to sit back down where he’d been, but Stan looked up at him, and he looked down at Stan, and then they both guffawed.

“Was I sitting here before? How the hell did we fit?” Brad laughed. “Your shoulders barely fit on their own, let alone combined with mine!” He flared his lats out proudly, and they tore out through the sides of his t-shirt like dragon wings unfurling. “I’ll grab a chair.”

Eli tried to say something, but was so confused he couldn’t speak. Brad pulled a chair up to the end of the table and moved his meal to his new seat. “What’s with you?” he said to Eli, who continued to stare. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You uhhhh… you both…” Eli looked at Brad’s powerful arms, which rippled from the mere movement of picking up a burger. Then he looked over at Stan, whose black beard was so dense and dark it was like a woolly mask. What especially blew Eli’s mind was that the beard was growing in trimmed. It was notched perfectly at the cheeks and Stan’s sideburns, like he’d just gotten out of a barber chair.

“Sales pitch not going well?” Brad asked Stan, who looked at him with a shrug. “You haven’t even started?!”

“I’m still eating,” Stan said through a mouth of food.

“Jeez, well,” Brad said, turning to Eli, “we-”

He was saying something, but Eli couldn’t concentrate on it. His was focus was commanded by the layer of fabric growing up around Brad’s neck as Brad was talking. It stretched up like a cone around his neck, emerging straight out of his t-shirt, and then it split over his large adam’s apple and folded down over his shoulders, forming a stiff shirt collar.

“Dad? Dad? Elijah Pearce, you in there?”

“Wh-Whuh? Uh, sorry,” Eli stammered. “I got distracted.”

“S’alright,” Brad assured him with a smile. “Anyway, I’ll just start from the top.”

“Sure, sure,” Eli muttered. Brad was saying something about the Barbell and Grill, but Eli’s attention was fixed on his son’s developing physique. Brad’s neck was elongating as he spoke, he was rising higher in the chair – Eli leaned back – the kid was getting too tall… this didn’t just happen, did it? Even seated, Brad’s shoulders were level with Eli’s head. He had to be over six-and-a-half feet, maybe even 6’8”, and he was expanding in other directions – namely, outwards. His pecs swelled out further, a lot further, pumping out one inch, then two, then three, hanging over until the table – there was a flash of motion as his shirt ripped down the center and an enormous pair of pecs flopped into view, only for a moment, before buttons shot down one side and the shirt pulled together – and then, his pecs lurched forward MORE, and the top three buttons of the brand new shirt popped open. The one at the base of his pecs was torn off the shirt completely, flying across the table and sticking in the wall.

Stan tried to contain his laughter, and Brad just looked mildly chagrined. “Always with my good fucking shirts,” he growled. Stan, who had managed to contain his laughter to good-natured huffing, reached out a hand to pat Brad’s shoulder. When his hand met the fabric, it was like electricity coursed through the pair of them. Brad’s delt reacted violently, practically exploding out of the fabric, swollen and striated. The other grew to match, and the fabric rewove itself around them, so tight it looked more like paint than material. Stan’s hand was, in short order, large enough to comfortably palm the massive shoulders, and his forearm grew to match. At the wrist alone, to say nothing of the formidable muscles beyond, Stan’s arm was probably thicker around than his own mother’s neck.

Eli wanted to bolt. To just run far, far away. He didn’t even think to jump in his sports car. Nope. He just wanted to haul ass in his Reeboks as quick as his feet would carry him. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Call it morbid curiosity, but a more persuasive part of him wanted to ride this out and see where it went.

“That happens a lot, huh?” he croaked. His throat was so dry.

“With a rack like mine?” Brad smirked. “At least once a week. Not usually with that much force, though, I gotta say.”

Stan shrugged. “Probably just poorly made. Some Singaporean sweatshop worker who got paid a pittance.”

Brad scowled at his friend. “Jesus, Stav, could you sound any more heartless? The fact they’re in a sweatshop and getting paid a pittance is a fucking problem!”

“Look, I’m simply calling it like I see it, brother.” This sounded like a frequent argument they had, despite the fact Brad and Stan didn’t even go to the same school.

The problem was that Stanley Pratt would never be caught dead talking like that. But… well… Eli was, by the minute, growing more convinced that this boy – no, this man – was not Stanley Pratt. This was not the kid he’d lived next door to for the better part of six years. This was an increasingly gargantuan muscledaddy with a well-kept beard that draped over a shelf of solid pec meat that jutted out almost as far as Eli’s son’s did.

What did that mean for Eli? His own son didn’t look anything like him anymore! Eli was not a tall, caramel-skinned bodybuilder – he was a divorced, reasonably fit suburban 40-something with an above-average uncut dick. But next to his own son, he was utterly emasculated. This couldn’t be happening!

And yet it was.

“That’s a load of shit and you know it,” Brad snorted.

“Now is not the time, Arbrad,” Stav intoned. He looked to Eli. “My apologies. This is not how we normally operate, I can assure you.”

Eli nodded, wide-eyed. “Y-Yeah. I’m sure.” What the fuck was going on?

Stav reached up, and two large white points rose up out of nowhere to meet his fingers just as they arrived around his neck. He pulled up on the new shirt collar to fix it, sending ripples down through his destroyed t-shirt. A blinding shade of white rolled down over him like an avalanche, unspooling over his torso and down his arms to the wrist, where a pair of large French cuffs arrived with a pop, clasped with shiny gold cufflinks. Stav’s beefy fingers moved down to the buttons over his chest, which fell open at his touch, exposing his hairy cleavage.

“Th-that’s a very n-nice shirt,” Eli stammered, having trouble looking directly at the brilliant white sheen.

“Oh, why thank you,” Stav said, running his hands over the fabric, down to the cuff, where he gave the link a little twirl. “I have another ten made whenever I’m in Milan. I’m quite addicted, I’m afraid.” He chuckled.

“Made just for you and you still can’t button the buttons,” Arbrad teased, thrusting his enormous pecs out as they grew further. “At least I have an excuse that I buy these off the rack.”

“It’s how I prefer it,” Stav smiled evilly, the two sides of his shirt pushing further apart as his chest grew competitively with Arbrad’s.

“I… didn’t know you dressed like that…” Eli interjected.

“Oh, it’s all I wear. Suits every day.” As he said this, Stav stood up and stepped out of the booth – revealing the long tails of his dress shirt hanging untucked over a pair of nylon basketball shorts. Eli almost laughed at the ridiculous look. “Anyone care for a refill?”

“I’m set, thanks,” Arbrad said, while Eli just shook his head. Eli watched as Stav walked to the soda fountain and got a refill. The whole thing only took about five seconds. And yet, by the time Stav walked back, his shirt was tucked into a pair of high-waisted pinstriped trousers, held up by a leather belt that matched his perfectly polished dress shoes.

Stav ran a hand over his slicked black hair. The lights bounced off the hairstyle – it reminded Eli of a businessman in a 1950s movie – and for the first time, he noticed the sides were streaked with gray. There were little bits of gray at the end of Stav’s beard, too. That was alarming, for a kid so young to be going gray like that…

“I was saying to my friend here,” Stav said, interrupting Eli’s thoughts, “that this town definitely has a large enough population to sustain a second Barbell and Grill, and you agreed, didn’t you Arbrad?”

“Definitely,” Arbrad nodded with a clench of his jaw, causing Eli to notice just how strong his son’s jawline was. It looked made from solid steel. It jutted. What sort of rogue gene had given him that? “But I’m working on opening two other locations, in addition to this one, and I’m tapped out at the moment.”

“Opening…?” Eli trailed off, not quite following. “But you’re 18.”

“Well, actually,” Arbrad said with a cocky smile, “as of last week 19 is all set. This’ll be my 20th location.”

“As you’ve no doubt gathered, Arbad here is my top franchisee!” Stav enthused, reaching over and giving his friend’s arm an affectionate shake. Once again, Arbad’s body reacted dramatically. His arms twitched and rapidly sprouted muscles on top of muscles, the peaks rounding out to a size Eli had never seen on any human before, much less his son. Striations and veins squirmed under the skin as Arbad’s arms grew larger than Eli’s head.

“And who is… Arbad…?” Eli said, struggling to keep up with the conversation.

Arbad arched a brow and smirked at Eli. “Olá,” he responded, giving a little wave.

“Elijah, are you feeling alright?” Stav asked, his brows furrowing.

“I-It’s Eli and, uh, frankly I’m really not sure,” Eli admitted, slumping back in the booth. “Maybe I should go to the bathroom and just… splash some water on my face or something.”

“I’ll walk you over there,” Arbad offered, hopping up and offering a massive hand to Eli. Eli took it and winced slightly at the vice-like grip. The big man chuckled. “Too hard? Sorry, I’m used to dudes more on my level, y’know?”

Eli nodded mutely. Arbad gestured for him to follow, and Eli did so. As they went, Arbad was making polite conversation – at least, Eli assumed it was. His attention was on his (former?) son’s legs. The thin quads were exploding outwards, packing on pound after pound of immense, striated beef. Veins road-mapped their way down the thighs as they grew so close that Arbad had to swing his legs around each other in a swagger just to move. Giant teardrop shapes were on full display as his shorts were torn clean apart, leaving him in what looked to be a jean thong. The veins made their way down to the calves below and those filled like water balloons under a full-blast tap. His ass was next, and both huge, muscular cheeks jutted out insanely from his pelvis. The strap of the now-thong-jeans was lost in the crack. Eli stifled a moan.

“Wow, amigo, you’re sure you’re not sick?” Arbad inquired.

“No, Arbad, I’m not sure.”

“Dang.” He stopped. “The bathroom’s just through here. Also, it’s Armad.

“Sorry. Thanks.” Eli ducked inside the bathroom and made a beeline for the sink, quickly turning it on and splashing some water on his face. He inspected his reflection, scrutinizing it. Well, he didn’t look any different. Same old Eli. That was something, surely! Maybe… maybe he could fix this! Yeah!

Eli turned on his heel, feeling far more confident than he had since this began – hell, than he had all week, really! He strode out of the bathroom door… and into the single most gorgeous face he’d ever laid eyes on. Full, kissable lips under a prominent, aquiline nose; deep-set green eyes under a heavy brow, and cheekbones sharp enough to slice through solid steel. The musclegod smiled down at Eli, revealing perfectly straight, gleaming white teeth.

“Well, chavo, feel any better?” Armad asked, voice deepening as he did.

“Y-Yeah,” Eli stammered, blushing. Why had Brad gotten so impossibly hot? Dammit, he had to put an end to all this, and fast!

“Bathroom over here?” rumbled a familiar bass, and Eli turned to see Stav lumbering toward them. He was shimmering. His cufflinks and shoes were polished to perfection, and his suit and shirt both were made from fabric with a sheen. His suit had gained a tailored jacket that hugged his huge shoulders and caressed his lats. A silk pocket square spilled out of the front pocket. “Are you in line?” he asked Eli.

“No, I already wen- OOF!

Something big and heavy came out of nowhere and knocked the wind out of Eli. He doubled over and nearly knocked his head against Stav’s huge belly. It was the size and shape of a Swiss ball, protruding perfectly over Stav’s tailored trousers. His shirt buttons struggled to contain it, and the fabric was so tight it wedged into the abdominal muscles etched into the muscle gut’s surface.

“My apologies,” Stav said, extending a hand to Eli. As Eli took it, he noticed that Stav’s ring, index, and pinkie fingers all bore gold rings. “I always underestimate its protuberance. Are you alright, my friend?”

“Yes, I-I-” Eli was distracted by crow’s feet bursting into view on Stav’s face as he looked at him. His first thought was that Stav’s parents were going to kill him. Leave the boy with the neighbor and get him back looking like an old guy. He glanced down. A super fucking hung old guy. Jesus, that thing had to be 12 inches long and it wasn’t even hard, running down the inside of his right pant leg. His balls were the size of lemons… The term “Granddad I’d Like to Fuck” crossed Eli's mind. “I’m fine, I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“We’ll see you back at the table,” Armad said to Stav, and Eli stole a glimpse at his huge son, relieved to see Armad’s mahogany skin was smooth as could be. He could see Armad’s package expanding, too. It unrolled like a firehose, and soon the foot-long softie and orange-sized balls were bulging obscenely in his pants.

Back at the table, Eli looked to Armad. “So, that was a killer block party last week, huh?”

Armad’s beautiful features contorted in confusion. “Huh?”

“You know, the block party? You and Stan-”

“I’m sorry, but what the hell are you going on about?” Armad cut him off. “I was in Vegas last week for the Olympia.”

“The-” Eli gulped. “The Olympia?” he asked.

“Yeah! Took first place!” Armad’s physique swelled even larger at this, and his midsection pushed out into a firm ball. Not anywhere near as huge as Stav’s, but still big enough that his shirt was pushed outwards slightly. There was no way this man was an ounce under 350 pounds. “I’d been training like a motherfucker, of course. Eating here helps!” He laughed – a deep, rumbling noise that drove Eli wild.

“Heh, of course,” Eli chuckled weakly. “Protein and stuff.”

“Right.”

“How’s school?”

“Oh, how’d you know about that?” Armad asked, then he shrugged with a grin. “It’s great! I’m so close to my master’s in business management. Already got two in exercise physiology and nutrition.”

Eli smiled to be polite, but inside he was screaming. This was backfiring.

“I didn’t expect to have three degrees at 40, much less 50!”

“Y-You’re 50?” Eli spluttered.

“I know, I know. Everyone says I look 30 – if that! Guess I’ve just got great genes,” Armad remarked. He flexed his arms, and his sleeves tore. “Heh, but you probably guessed that by now. After all, didn’t you say you knew about my modeling?”

Eli blinked. Pictures. Pictures! That was it! He had to have pictures in his wallet of himself and Brad! He didn’t bother with them on his phone where the NSA could steal them.

“Uh, I don’t recall,” Eli coughed, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “One second.”

He opened the picture fold… and found a few pictures of himself and his friends, one of his parents, and then three of Armad and himself. They appeared to be backstage at various competitions, as Armad was almost naked in all of them, save for a posing strap – green in the first, red in the second, and glittery pink in the third. The final one was in the tanning room, and Armad was stark naked. Of course, all of them showed his insane porn star-sized package. In the bottom-most picture, the buckass-nude Armad was kissing Eli’s cheek, his hand on Eli’s ass, and Eli’s eyes were as wide as saucers. He let out a slow breath as he realized that he remembered this now. He remembered all four.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

The last picture was signed, too.

“To Eli,
My good luck charm! Forever in my heart!
XOXO,
Armando”

Armando looked over and smiled. “That’s my favorite picture of us,” he remarked. “You really ought to come hang out more. Y’know, if you take the offer, we can see each other way more often.”

Eli’s mouth was dry. “More often? We see each other like every other week.”

“But we could hang out like two or three times a week if you moved here to open a second location. Or more if you wanted,” Armando replied, a speculative glint in his eye. Eli almost fainted. “Besides, I thought you wanted me to start training you?”

“I-I do!” Eli clarified. “I’ll accept the offer! For you!” Dammit, Brad was not being taken away from him, even if he was now a drop-dead gorgeous, larger-than-life muscledaddy and the reigning Mr. Olympia! Even if he apparently saw Eli as more than a friend.

Armando beamed and clapped Eli on the back so hard that Eli was almost sure he was about to be thrust face-first onto the table. “Glad to hear it! You won’t regret it, hermano!

“Oh, did we get a ‘yes’?” Stav asked, arriving at the table. At least Eli was relatively sure it was the neighbor kid. Stav was already unrecognizable with the beard, but now his features had morphed too. His nose had enlarged and grown a bump on the top. His eyes were round and dark, framed with black lashes and caterpillar brows. His beard and slicked-back hair were now fully salt and pepper, and his thick skin bore every hallmark of age that Armando had sidestepped: laugh lines, crows feet, furrows. The open buttons of his shirt exposed the new silver tinge of his chest hair.

“You have to ask? Of course we did. It's that Gutiérrez charm!” Armando replied. “Well, and the fact Eli and I go way back.”

Eli missed the exchange and asked the question that was on his mind: “Is Stav short for Stavros?”

“Short for? Has Armando been lying again? No one calls me Stav. Stavros, please.”

Stavros. That was Greek. The Pratts were going to murder him, Eli thought. They’d left Stan with him and Eli had somehow allowed their only son to morph into a hairy, hyper-muscular, Greek granddaddy. The only consolation was that Stavros radiated wealth. He was clearly rich. Parents liked having successful kids, right…? By that logic, Eli reasoned, he’d probably have just enough time to formalize his last will and testament during the time it took Clarence Pratt to retrieve his balls from his wife’s purse and kill him. Nadine would probably hold him down. Would it look weird if he left Brad everything now, even though he’d become Armando?

“Did you… grow up in Greece?”

“Do I sound like I did?” Stavros said with an arched brow.

“No, but my friend Nimuel was born in the Philippines and he went to speech therapy to get rid of his accent.”

“Touché,” Stavros grinned. “No, born and raised here. I visited my grandparents a lot over there, though, and I am fluent in Greek. Also Spanish, which I had to learn so I could talk to Armando.”

Cállate idiota,” Armando laughed, “my English is perfect!” And it was, but he did have an accent that gave a sultry lilt to his words. Eli was stunned to hear it. Why would Brad have an accent… it felt impossible to dissociate Brad from Armando, even though they were obviously different people.

“Excuse me,” Stavros said quickly, reaching into his jacket to retrieve a buzzing cell phone. He looked at it and frowned. “Kid has been blowing me up all night.”

“You’re not going to answer?” Armando asked.

“It’s my youngest. He’s texted me twice to ask if he can have a second dessert ‘cause he’s already been told no. And now he’s calling me about it. So no, not gonna answer,” Stavros chuckled.

“Kids are such a trip,” Armando chuckled. “How’re your kids, Eli? I haven’t seen them in years.”

“Uhhhhhh.” Eli desperately wanted to tell Armando ‘what are you talking about? You’re my son! I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re my flesh and blood! I love you so much, and while I’m proud of the man you’ve become, I want my moody teenager back!’ But, swallowing heavily and accepting he couldn’t do anything except go with the flow, Eli didn’t say that. What he did say surprised him, nonetheless. “The twins are good. In fact, Max has decided he’s your biggest fan and wants to be just like you, man.”

Armando’s grin reached from ear to ear. “No shit? Dude, why didn’t you say something sooner!”

Stavros smiled. “What are their names?”

Well fuck, Eli thought. His brain hadn’t gotten that far… or so he thought. “Dax and Max,” he said automatically. “They’re so identical that even I can’t tell them apart. Max is your number one fan, while Dax wants to be the next Hudson Hardy.”

“So did my middle son,” Stavros remarked. “Now those two are basically attached at the hip.”

“Do you have something I could sign for Max?” Armando asked. “I mean, I gotta give my number one fan something! At least until I can make time to work out with him.”

“Of course,” Eli replied. Then, Stavros cleared his throat. “Hm?”

“Before we get too distracted, how about we sign the paperwork?” he suggested.

“See, this is why he’s the CEO and we’re just the franchisees,” the Latino stud laughed.

Eli chuckled as Stavros retrieved the paperwork. His phone buzzed before he could take the pen Armando offered him, and he quickly pulled it out. A text from Max showed him and Dax at the gym, looking tired but pleased with their progress.

“He’s a natural, if that picture’s anything to go by. Dax too, for that matter,” Armando remarked. Eli felt a surge of fatherly pride and nodded. So what if he had a secret to keep now? So what if he might have a very awkward conversation coming his way with the Pratts (though he doubted it)? So what if Brad was gone, replaced by Armando? In that moment, he stopped looking at Armando and seeing his son. This man was 16 years his senior, a model-handsome bodybuilding phenom. This man seemed to want him in a way Eli never thought a man would.

Maybe this strange new world wouldn’t be so bad, he thought.

I like this one quite a lot, but I think my issue with it (and, actually, most of my collabs posted here) is that this deserves a sex scene. I don't like dancing around sex when I write stuff like this. It's porn. Specifically porn involving straight-to-gay TF, muscle and cock growth, and more. This sort of thing, IMO, cries out for some hot, filthy fucking. I also am rather tired of writing dudes TFing into rich guys in wealth-flaunting suits. Lately, I'd much prefer a dude changing into a massive, hypersexual beast coated in hair who hates clothes and wants to fuck some poor schmuck's brains out. Bonus points if that poor schmuck was someone close to him before the change.

I'm also a bit tired of old rich white dudes in suits just in general.

I'd also like to collaborate with more writers! If you're interested, DM me here, via the MG.co Discord server, or Twitter! Please be advised that I am looking for people who can write well, capitalize, use proper grammar and punctuation, etc.

Anyway, as always, thanks for reading and if you enjoyed this story please leave a like, upvote, thanks, or some feedback! Happy New Year, guys!

- Trav

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The Top Floor

Surprise Valentine's Day fic! Bit late, but I had this idea about an hour-and-a-half ago and just churned it out lickedy-split. Might not be my best work, but it's nice to have something to post again. Enjoy!

The only thing Andy Chalmers hated more than his job was Valentine’s Day.

Being a sing-a-gram was not all it was cracked up to be… and, frankly, it wasn’t cracked up to be all that much, anyway! However, it paid the bills. That awful phrase Andy had come to hate. He could’ve been an internationally famous opera singer by now, but instead he had to make ends meet singing stupid little jingles to bemused recipients in a monkey suit. Thankfully not a literal monkey suit, but still….

At first, he’d tried to make things better by getting a sing-a-grams’ union together. But they hadn’t painted the town red. It had crashed and burned so hard it was a minor extinction event in and of itself. Andy still resented that. As he’d put it to his friend Moira the night before, “Stop the ride – it’s become neo-feudalism and I wanna get off!” She hadn’t been very sympathetic, but then, she was off in Boston working her way up to being the district attorney. Despite his constant low-level annoyance, he was always proud of her. He could never remember all that cockamamie legal arcana.

Turning onto Broadmoor Boulevard, Andy pulled his tartan scarf up to shield his face. Of course he had to turn right into the wind, of course! Would annoyances ever cease? No, probably not.

Andy would probably have been in a better mood if it wasn’t Valentine’s Day. Chronically single, the brunette was tired of seeing all the expressions of love around him. Just on the way here he’d seen two proposals, stumbled through a “will you go out with me?” flashmob, and seen so many red roses and heart-shaped chocolate boxes that he was ready to pull his hair out. He just wanted to find someone who loved him. Was that so hard? Apparently!

Growling in irritation as he pushed against the blustering gale, Andy pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. The address was 9271 Broadmoor Boulevard – Regal Towers, one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in the entire city. Only the richest of rich bitches lived here. Andy turned out of the way and presented the appointment on his app to the doorman.

“Sing-a-gram?” the doorman chortled. “Those are still a thing?”

“Apparently. If they aren’t, then this is one hell of a practical joke,” Andy replied with a tight smile. The doorman laughed and nodded, waving him in.

“By the way, buddy,” he called after Andy, “you might wanna hustle if you’re gonna make it all the way to the thirtieth floor before 6pm.”

Andy stopped mid-step and turned on his heel, eyes wide. “Ex-Excuse me?” he sputtered.

“That apartment. Nate Bretherton’s penthouse is up on the thirtieth floor. Very tip-top of the building,” the doorman explained. “And we can’t get our elevators fixed until next week. So, uh, you’ve got just over twenty minutes to go up… well, since they’re split-level staircases… sixty flights of steps.” The doorman flashed him a sympathetic look, then turned back and stopped taking his apparently quite valuable time. Andy, stunned, checked his phone. 5:38pm.

Fuck!” Andy swore. He took off up the stairs at a sprint. How could he have been so careless as to not check what floor he had to go to?

It was easy for the first few stories, then he started to flag. How was that fair? He’d run track all through high school! Shouldn’t he be able to do this? On the landing between the fifth and sixth stories, he paused to catch his breath. He wasn’t sure he was gonna be on time…

Then, all of a sudden, someone shoved him against the wall. Andy cried out, his shoulder impacting hard against it. “Motherfucker!” he growled, looking around to see who’d been so rude. But no one was there. Andy blinked, confused, then realized that his shirt had torn a little… Wait, had his shoulders always been so broad? He adjusted his stance, and found himself slowly sinking into the splits to try to get his feet shoulder-width apart. Hastily re-orienting himself, he glanced at his phone. 5:45pm. Andy took off again, a little less steadily due to his shoulders.

Just before the twelfth floor, Andy spotted a puddle too late. With a shout, his feet went out from underneath him and his face met the twelfth floor – quite literally. Moaning, Andy was sure he had a broken nose. After that, he had to have one, right? Gingerly, he tapped his face… and gasped. This didn’t feel like his face at all! Chubby cheeks? No, these were tall and the bones sharp – can-opener cheekbones over just-the-right-side of gaunt cheeks. His chin had a cleft. His jaw was superheroic – wide, powerful… a lantern jaw. Instead of his bulbous schnozz, he felt an aquiline-bridged nose that was almost preternaturally straight.

Getting to his feet, he groaned, trying to look down to see how badly the wet floor had ruined his suit. Before his eyes, his pecs burst forth. Where once there’d been the beginning of manboobs, now there was a solid shelf of manly muscle. His buttons popped away, exposing the hairy rack in all its glory. This… was he going insane?

No. No, of course not! He always loved to show off his chest. People stopped him on the street to ask if it was even real, and he never failed to be thrilled when he told them no, it was all natural. Moving to the next staircase, Andy’s hands reached up to play with his nipples. They’d grown, too – like big, tender wine corks. He didn’t even realize he was fondling them until the electric surge of pleasure zapped right down to his dick. Andy gave a shuddering groan, bucking his hips.

“Ngh, fuck… gotta… gotta get up the rest of the way,” he grunted to himself, barely recognizing his own voice. It was deep and sultry, not the high one he was used to. It didn’t complain, it just whispered sweet nothings in honeyed, erotic tones. If he wanted to yell, it was sure to be like a thunderclap.

By the twentieth floor, it was 5:53pm. Andy wasn’t sure about why he needed to get up to the top floor anymore, but he had to do it. His body was filling out. It was harder to run up the stairs now – his thighs were so ridiculously packed with muscle that he had to swing them around each other in a swagger. His massive nuts, having long since torn free from the back of his jockstrap and out of his pants, slapped against them. His cock, all 10 inches of it, bobbed ahead of him, like a dowsing rod leading a man to water. Or, in Andy’s case, wet pussy or tight ass.

His delts were like cannonballs, his lats so impressive that his arms were sitting at a 45-degree-angle from his body. And what amazing arms they were, too. Andy grinned a gigawatt grin as his twenty-four-inch pythons burst out of his sleeves, split-peaked and veiny. “Fuck yeah,” he growled. “Fuckin’ massive stud comin’ your way, top floor bro.”

He didn’t feel quite as smart as he did before, but it wasn’t like he minded. So what if his dad had wanted him to go to college? Andy… Andy? No, his name was Deake. Deake Albright. But yeah, when you had a body like Deake Albright and you didn’t have even have the wherewithal to get through geo- geom- no… whatever, “rocks for jocks,” well… you sold that fucking body. After all, how many dudes could say they had an eight-pack? Not fucking many, Deake figured.

Scaling the remaining stairs, Deake tore his suit pants and button-up shirt off, leaving him in just an ankle-length trenchcoat and a cum-stained, threadbare jockstrap straining to contain his swollen meat. The fabric creaked sharply as Deake’s cock pushed out a few more inches. The stud moaned, flexing his glutes and resisting the urge to start jacking himself off under his coat. Where he’d gotten a trenchcoat to fit his seven-foot-tall body was a mystery even to him. It barely concealed his 12-incher.

Leaving a splattered trail of precum in his wake, Deake finally got to the thirtieth floor. There was only one door in a little foyer, so Deake swaggered over to it and pounded. Rolling his neck, it exploded out into a meaty, corded trunk almost consumed by his traps as he finally got his faculties back. “Yo!” he boomed. “You in there, bro?”

“Would you please keep your voice-” came a voice from inside. The man inside was tall, handsome, with just a bit of a fat layer on what was clearly once a body that was well taken care of. Ex-jock. “-down,” the man finished lamely. He clearly wasn’t expecting Deake to be so fucking tall or broad. The young stud smirked. No one ever did. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, and?” Deake drawled, pushing past the man into the penthouse. He wasn’t terribly impressed, but then, this place had nothing the penthouses in Dubai or Sydney or… well, anywhere Deake had been before. “You Nate Bretherton?”

“Y-Yeah. Are you the sing-a-gram?”

“Sing-a-gram?” Deake chortled. “Those are still a thing? Nah, bro.” With a flourish, Deake whipped the trenchcoat off. At the same time, Nate gasped in shock and Deake’s jockstrap gave up the ghost as his cock inched out to a solid 15. Both garments fell away and Deake laughed as his uncut monster shot precum onto the expensive carpet. He was insanely overproductive even on his off days. “I’m an escort. But you can totally call me a fuck-a-gram if you want.”

Nate gulped, approaching slowly. Deake’s smile never left his face. “Don’t be shy. You’ve got two hours with me and you’re gonna get the full tour,” he assured the older man. Nate palmed the head of the monster and it eagerly spilt more clear honey into his calloused palm. Deake leaned down. “Happy Valentine’s Day, stud.” He pressed a kiss to Nate’s lips.

Deake loved Valentine’s Day. It was an all-day free-for-all for him. Lonely people wanting to fuck or worship him, sometimes with a date beforehand. They always paid handsomely, almost as handsome as Deake himself was. As his tongue shoved into Nate’s mouth, he began to tug the older man’s pants down.

“Better hold on tight,” he rumbled into the kiss. “I’m not gentle.”

Nate quivered and nodded. “Good. I… I wanna get my money’s worth.”

Deake laughed again. “Oh, dude, you are. Just don’t ask me to sing.”

“What, are you tone-deaf?”

“Yeah,” Deake confirmed as he pushed Nate against the wall and dropped to his knees. He was soon staring at Nate’s own fat cock. The stud licked his lips and smirked up at his partner. “But it don’t matter, bro. It’s pretty hard to sing with a dick halfway down your throat, anyway.”

 

Thanks for reading and if you enjoyed this story please leave a like, upvote, thanks, or some feedback! Maybe follow me on Twitter? Happy Valentine's Day, guys!

- Trav

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