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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.”


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.


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.


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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