Training Tony

by BRK   

A magnetically sexy young Italian man is about to enter a new life as a firefighter, except he and his devoted friends are sidetracked by the disappearance of his friend Frankie.

“No way!” cousin Andreo gushed, setting down his fork and beaming at his idol, Tony, across the dinner table. “You’re really gonna be a firefighter?” The randy teenager seemed to have (momentarily) forgotten his heaping plateful of Sunday dinner, for which he’s been showing up uninvited since the day he’d been allowed to cross the street from his own house to the big Rossi household one in from the corner. Tony knew that Dreo’s parents’ cooking was boring at best, compared to his parents’ anyway, and inedible at worst, and as only child Dreo’d latched onto Tony as a beloved big brother since before either of them could remember.

Now Dreo stared at Tony with obvious admiration, heedless of his cooling fettuccine. Then suddenly the lanky young Lothario’s face broke into a knowing grin. “So that means you’re gonna be in the calendar, right?”

Tony rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he dished out his own ample second helping of the three-cheese sausage fettuccine, his dad’s favorite dish to cook. Lately he kind of wryly dreading telling people he was about to start the 18-week FDNY training program at Randall’s Island, because the first response was almost something like Dreo’s—that Tony, gorgeous, unsettlingly hunky Tony, was a natural firefight because he was meant to be in their calendar. That was the response. Not congrats on passing the entrance exam, not praise for his bravery for undertaking such a dangerous and important job, not commiseration at the shitty pay followed by inquiries about whether he’d ever be able to move out of his parents’ house, not asking him what had taken him so long when he’d been talking about being a fireman since he was eight—those all did came, eventually, and in quick succession, but it wasn’t what people blurted out first, whether it was his barber, or his old football teammates, or his buddies at Al’s Pizza, or even fucking Pete, his cop big brother. Tony smiled grimly as he buttered some bed, betting himself he could count on one hand the number of initial responses that hadn’t involved the word “calendar.”

Not that Tony was surprised, just exasperated. He had come around to accepting, with a certain resignation, that people found him was stunningly beautiful, and he’d reluctantly accepted that people thought of him as “beautiful” and even “pretty” rather than something “handsome,” which he would have vastly preferred. The standard reactions to his appearance, ranging from instant infatuation to unnerved skittishness, were all the more vexing because it was so different from how people saw the other Rossi men. His dad, a detective now but still looking the part of a youngish beat cop, sitting there at the end of the table ignoring Tony and Pete and Dreo to catch some of the baseball game just visible on the big TV in the next room—he was handsome, he had the square jaw, bristly chin, and scary dark eyes of a standard-issue, all-the-girls-line-up-for-him, alpha-dog playa. Pete was the same thing, only two decades younger and with bigger arms and thicker hair. Tony, on the other hand, was, by common consensus, and despite repeated pleas to at least use the word even if they meant the other thing, decidedly, definitively not handsome. He’d tried everything—long hair, short hair, slobby clothes, sporty clothes, hard hours at the gym until he was almost as big as his brother, but none of it mattered. He was beautiful. He sighed.

Tony knew the facts about himself, and they were pretty damning. He was 22, fresh out of the four years at Queens College he’d promised his dad, but looked like a fresh-faced 17, with features so narcotically alluring, and so damn distracting, that over the years he’d caught almost all his friends and buddies—even his most girl-crazy best buddies—even complete strangers in grocery stores or behind the counter at the DMV—even frickin’ Dreo, four years younger and supposedly earnestly devoted to pussy, just staring at him, lost in his beauty. The only time people weren’t drinking in his intense green-hazel eyes or his perfect cheekbones or his clean, hard jawline or his full, sweet lips or his thick head of unruly black hair was when there was something else drawing their attention down below his comely visage. In fact Dreo was doing it now, his dark, slightly unfocused eyes having slid down from his beautiful face past the wide, bulging shoulders to the thick, heavy pecs stretching his thick black tee shirt. Tony suspected Dreo was imagining the calendar shoot already.

Oftentimes, were there an opportunity (and there mercifully was not at the moment, thanks to the dining room table), his admirers kept going even further down his body, insolently stealing a glance at the package in his jeans, embarrassingly big ever since puberty no matter how much he’d tried to hide it, though no one knew just how big it actually was. He’d always tell his friends off for this, as if the speculated size of his cock, which none of them had ever seen and never would but which was nonetheless the subject of many rumors and urban legends, was orders of magnitude beyond theirs.

It was bad enough that he’d shot up to six feet before he was 13 (and then kept growing a few more inches after that). It was bad enough that while he was still in middle school his pecs and delts and traps and biceps and triceps and lats and thighs and calves had all swollen and hardened into uncanny perfection and strength before he’d ever even picked up a barbell, or that his body seemingly couldn’t accumulate fat, only muscle. It was bad enough that he was so hypnotically beautiful that his buddies on the football team had started the rumor that he was a better kisser than any girl—just so they could goad him into letting them test their theory, with all of them as the judges. (The verdict: “Confirmed!”) But he sure wasn’t going to let just anyone know just how big he was down there and be proven, finally and unalterably, as a freak—though the way he’d always showered and changed at home rather than in the locker room with the rest of the team had, he feared, produced nearly the same result, not to mention fueling the gossip about what he was hiding.

He watched Dreo from under his lashes, waiting for him to finish up ogling him already, but clearly the boy’s mind had drifted into an extended Tony-starring reverie. The irony was that Dreo looked a lot like Tony had at his age—maybe not quite as big or as distractingly beautiful, but pretty close, well muscled for a 17-year-old and nearly as tall as Tony himself, with a shock of thick but satiny black hair that set off his shining mahogany-brown eyes. It was Dreo’s misfortune, Tony thought, that no one noticed how gorgeous Dreo was with Tony around—including Dreo, Tony added glumly to himself.

He clicked his tongue and gave up, starting in on the food, then paused, a forkful of rich pasta partway to his mouth. He had a sudden worry that the other probys and the firefighters on the job would be as distracted by him as every other new group he’d joined. Was it possible? It hadn’t occurred to him before now because the image of the typical firefighter was solidly butch and aggressively, even offensively, het. He resumed taking in the forkful and chewed slowly, wondering as he did so whether he’d be able to avoid situations involving unwillingly showing off the goods, like getting changed in the locker room or showering with the other guys. Probably not. He realized he was feeling his first pang of doubt about a decision that had come so easily and inevitably as to have been a foregone conclusion. He’d known since high school he’d go for being a firefighter like his uncles and grandad. But now? No, this was stupid. Irritated, he shook off the momentary doubt and returned his attention to the here and now.

As he did so he realized that his cousin was still a million miles away, his eyes boring holes into Tony’s—hands? Why is he staring at my hands? “Dreo!” he barked, and his cousin’s eyes snapped up to Tony’s face, suddenly alert and anxious. Tony gestured at the mountain of food before them. “Eat.” Dreo gulped, obviously chagrined, and started shoveling down fettuccine, his eyes flicking up to Tony’s face every few seconds and then darting away, as if he was afraid of being called out for dining with insufficient zeal. Pete, as usual casually watching the rest of the family from the foot of the table, snickered at them. Tony didn’t bother glancing over at him. He was used to Pete treating the dinner table like it was reality TV. Perhaps after dealing with so many angry and stupid people on the streets, the small-time antics of the Rossi family were probably reassuring to him.

After they’d finished dinner and Tony was coming out of the kitchen helping his dad with the washing up he heard the front door shut and voices at the front of the house. Investigating he found his buddies Marco and Giovanni, shedding jackets and clearly glad of the warmth inside—it was unseasonably cold lately for late September. Tony noticed with another eye-roll that Giovanni, the short (compared to Tony, Marco, and Dreo—he was probably 5’11”), hyperactive blond, was bare-chested under the thin brown leather jacket he was taking off. His fast metabolism meant that he’d only recently been making any progress at all in his obsessive efforts at bulking up his muscles, and was obviously keen to make sure everyone saw the fruits of his considerable labor even if they didn’t follow his Instagram feed. The gang had been kinda cruelly calling him Muscles for years, but lately he was starting to look like he might start deserving the name someday very soon.

Tony turned to Marco with a smile, glad to be face to face with someone almost his own height, though the dark, curly-haired Marco was built leaner and even tighter than Tony, and a lot more limber. Marco was grinning back at him. “Hey, buddy, where’s my smooch?” Marco said, his invariable greeting for Tony since that old “best kisser” game, which despite Tony’s earnest hope at the time that it would soon be forgotten had turned out to have a permanent legacy. Tony, knowing from long experience that there was no way out of it—Marco would only start groping him if he didn’t comply—resignedly leaned in for a kiss, which Marco quickly deepened. Lately Marco had been slipping some tongue in, and Tony had started wondering what that portended for future escalations. As Tony’s typically longer-than-usual tongue met Marco’s, Tony’s massive cock, tightly packed though it was, twitched and flexed in its cottony prison. As they separated Marco smiled broadly and winked at him. “Still the best,” he said wickedly.

Giovanni, or Gianni as they usually called him, was not a guy to be left out of anything, and no sooner was Tony done with Marco’s kiss than Gianni was demanding his. Tony dutifully bent down a bit and let Gianni grab the back of his head for a big sloppy mack. Unlike Marco, Gianni had always given Tony the tongue, ‘cause that’s how proper kissing was done, so he said, and his kisses were a lot more playful and friendly. He grinned, too, when they separated. “Definitely,” Gianni said, echoing Marco’s praise, and made a show of adjusting his (pretend, or real?) boner in his jeans.

Marco laughed. “That’s what does it for you, huh, Muscles?” he said, and Gianni just nodded, lolling his wide tongue and wiggling his dark brows.

Tony, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get his buddies out of the house without their having been given a chance to tour the kitchen and do a little mooching, guided them out of the foyer toward the back of the house. “Hey, guys, I want to head over to Frankie’s before we hit the bar,” he said as they walked. “He’s been incommunicado for a couple days and I just want to check in on him.”

Truth be told, any chance to delay the big “pub night with the guys” he’d been promising and putting off for a few weeks was a good thing. His magnetic beauty, thrust into a room full of horny, intoxicated alpha males, was more and more lately a recipe for lots of “accidental” groping—punctuated by the occasional fistfight between the dudes more intoxicated by beer and lust.

But all that aside, he was genuinely a little worried about Frankie. He was the kind of guy that thrived on social interaction, so radio silence was as out of character as you could get. But then, all of his football buddies were the picture of extroversion, Gianni and Marco included—one more reason that Tony had never quite felt like he fit in.

Marco knitted his brows. “Yeah, he hasn’t returned my texts either,” he said as they came into the dining room. “Hey, Dreo, Pete, Mr. Rossi,” he added, acknowledging the men at the table.

Gianni shrugged his broad, bare shoulders. “Eh, I’m sure he’s fine,” he said distractedly. He was watching Pete’s hard upper arms swelling and shifting in the stretched-tight sleeve of his tee as Pete went about eating his dinner. His mobile mouth was hanging open just a bit. Tony sighed, though he was glad his brother’s freaky upper arms could distract the muscle-obsessed Gianni from Tony’s own too-perfect physique. He clapped hands on both his friends’ shoulders and propelled them through into the kitchen, where they both immediately started helping themselves to the backup pasta tray.

Tony watched them with affection as they wolfed down a few servings of the heartstopping goodness standing there leaning on the counters, Marco habitually wrapping his left arm around Tony’s waist while eating with the other. Tony barely noticed—he was long used to Marco hanging all over him and holding onto him whenever they were together, and he wasn’t unaware of how useful Marco’s seeming to claim him was in fending off some, but not all, of the touch-hungry admirers he accumulated more and more lately wherever he went, friends and strangers alike.

From where he stood Tony could see part of the dining room, enough to notice that his dad and brother were adjourned to the family room to watch the game. Dreo, meanwhile, was at that moment drifting into the kitchen, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin and obviously trying to seem chill around the little cluster of self-assured older boys. “Hey guys,” he said, sporting a game smile, and the others nodded to him. Dreo tossed the napkin on the counter beside him and moved to stand with Tony and Marco, though he ended up hanging back, a little behind Gianni.

“Dreo, what’s up,” Marco said, his words partly muffled around a forkful of pasta. He swallowed and added, “You’re looking good these days. Though not as good as your cousin,” he added, as if he knew it was unnecessary to say so.

Dreo beamed at the praise. His tight torso seemed to almost swell with pride under his clingy black tee shirt. “Thanks, Marco,” he said, blushing slightly.

“What do you want, Dreo?” Tony broke in, not unpleasantly, just wanting to cut to the chase. His cousin rarely worked himself up to the direct approach, especially if it involved confronting Tony, and Tony’s mind was mostly on his planned check-in with Frankie, and what he might do if his missing buddy was not in any of his usual haunts.

Dreo, however, seemed unnerved by Tony’s direct approach and looked like might bolt, but Gianni moved behind him and steadied him with a friendly hand on the shoulder. Despite their difference in age Gianni and Dreo got along: they both a had a similar height and build, and, Tony had often thought, a kind of eager approach to life. Lately they’d been working out together, pretty intensely, and they’d both pushed each other into visible gains, Tony realized, checking Dreo out with a critical eye.

“It’s just,” Dreo began hesitantly, looking down. Then he suddenly cast his eyes up to boldly meet Tony’s. “It’s just,” he repeated, more firmly but with a quick, nervous lick of his lips, “you have this—this ‘smooch’ thing with Marco and Gianni, and—and I think you should do it with me too!”

“What?” Tony said, stunned. Of all the things for Dreo to come to him with, he’d never have guessed this. He glanced at Marco, who seemed amused, and Gianni, who was nodding to Dreo encouragingly, strong hand still on the kid’s shoulder. Dreo had obviously approached Gianni with this first, maybe while they were all sweaty post-workout in the gym locker room or something, and had gotten his encouragement. If it all weren’t Gianni’s ideas in the first place,

Dreo took a step forward, pressing his case. “It’s just, it’s—I mean, they’re your friends, and that’s how you show them you love them, and—ain’t I your friend?”

“Dreo—” Tony put in, his expression pained, but Dreo overrode his feeble effort to head this conversation off.

“Besides,” Dreo said, and both he and Gianni were standing even closer now, “you’re supposed to be, like, the best kisser in the tri-state area, and—so how am I supposed to get to where I can kiss great if I don’t learn from the best?” He flashed a bright, slightly crooked smile that managed nonetheless to light up his cute face.

“He’s got a point,” Gianni added innocently.

Tony frowned at him, getting a good look at Gianni’s hard, newly bulky chest in the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen. Were his nipples hard? He flicked his eyes up to Gianni’s placid grin. “Did you put him up to this?” he asked.

“Naw, nothing like that,” Gianni said. “He just told me he was jealous of me and Marco over the smooch thing, and I told him to do something about it.” The hand he had on Dreo’s shoulder shifted to the other side, so that his arm was essentially around Dreo’s shoulders. Dreo seemed to appreciate the gesture, in ways Tony wasn’t sure he wanted to explore very deeply, especially given the way Marco’s arm was wrapped around Tony’s torso most of the time lately.

Tony eyed Dreo a moment, a little uncomfortably. Dreo all but idolized him. Turning him down would crush him, and Tony had a soft spot for his excitable beta-male cousin. But still… Marco and Gianni were one thing, but Dreo was around all the time. Did he really want to give his overenthused cousin an all access pass to his mouth? And—knowing how intensely Dreo felt about him, would the smooching thing even be enough for him? “Tell you what,” he said, trying to temporize, hoping there was an easy way out of all this short of flat rejection. “You can ‘smooch’ Gianni and pretend it’s me. How’s that?”

Unexpectedly, Dreo blushed, and Gianni looked down awkwardly. “We—we’ve already been doing that,” Dreo said. “You know, like, for practice. But Gianni says he’s nowhere as good as you,” he added, and then belatedly aimed a sidelong apologetic glance at Gianni for shortchanging his smooching ability.

Tony was kind of shocked by this news, and didn’t respond right away. Marco, meanwhile, seemed both amused and intrigued by the two of them conspiring together, among other things. Done with his pilfered dinner, he had his other hand free now, which he placed firmly against Tony’s hard, tight eight-pack abs through his shirt. Tony realized was feeling pretty buzzed by the news and all the attention, and, considering how actively he was fighting getting a hard-on, was amazed to hear himself retort to Dreo with a gruff, “Yeah? Show me.”

Gianni raised his eyebrows in surprise at Tony’s unexpected response, but Dreo’s eyes widened a little—perhaps he’d assured himself Tony wouldn’t really want to “go there,” at least here and now, in front of everyone. The shenanigans were interrupted by Tony’s phone buzzing in his pocket. Marco joking reached for it, and Tony felt a flash of an urge to go ahead and let him dig it out of his tight pants pocket, but he shunted the thought aside and pulled it out himself.

He glanced at the caller id. Gino, Frankie’s older brother. A corner of Tony’s gut twisted a bit in foreboding. He swiped the screen to accept the call and put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Gino,” he said, catching Marco’s eye. Marco frowned slightly, picking up on Tony’s concern.

Loud noises—music and voices and the clatter of dishes—assaulted Tony’s ear, and he held the phone back a little. Tony realized Gino must be at Carmina’s, the notoriously noisy diner over on Kendall. “Hey, Tone!” Gino shouted over the din, and Tony held the phone an inch further away. The call was so loud that all four of them could hear it without the need for speakerphone. “How’s it hanging?” Gino went on with lots of bro gusto.

“Like you’ll ever find out,” Tony responded with equal bro-ness. For some reason his eyes drifted to the workout biddies, Dreo and Gianni. They were both watching Tony, maybe taking advantage of him being on a call, one of those social situations where it’s normal to stare at someone while waiting to resume a conversation, but the way they were watching him was a little too … lewd. He noted that Gianni’s hand was absently caressing the recently enhanced bulge of Dreo’s shoulders, and Dreo didn’t seem to even be aware of the gesture, as if both of them were a single entity receiving stimulation from his mere presence. Tony drew in his eyebrows and tried to give them a reproving look, but his consternation had no effect.

Gino’s voice, more sober now, broke into his interaction with the boys. “Listen,” he said, “I was wondering if you’d heard from Frank?” He was trying to sound casual, Tony could tell, but he could heard his concern even over the racket of the diner.

“Naw, man,” Tony said. Marco, perhaps unconsciously reacting to Tony’s concern, held him a little bit closer, but Tony didn’t consciously register the affection. “We were about to go and track him down, actually. Though if he’s not at his apartment…” he trailed off, then added hopefully, “Any ideas?”

“Yeah, actually,” Gino called over the phone, “he mentioned a new boyfriend a week or two back, but I never met him. His name’s weird, what was it? Oh right, the guy’s name is Brick.” It was clear from Gino’s tone that he was suspicious of any guy with a name like “Brick.”

But the strange name managed to surprise Dreo out of his admiring reverie. “Brick? I know that guy,” he said. As the others looked at him he explained, “He’s in my class. He’s kind of…” He scrunched up his face.

“What?” said Tony. His brow knitted slightly. If he was in Dreo’s class, that meant this Brick guy was a junior in high school. Frankie was Gianni and Marco’s age, a couple years younger than Tony. What were they doing together? But then, Gianni and Dreo had the same age gap, and they seemed pretty chummy.

“I dunno,” Dreo said, “spooky?” He shrugged under Gianni’s arm, seemingly at a loss to explain himself better.

Tony reluctantly turned back to the phone. “Okay, Gene, we may have a lead on the guy. We’ll call you when we find him, okay?”

“Thanks, Tone!” came Gino’s response. A particularly loud crash sounded behind him, followed by equally loud applause. He had to shout to add, “I knew I could count on you.”

“Later Gino!” Tony said and ended the call. His ears seemed to ring with the relative silence, though they could hear the hurly-burly of the television from the family room. He stuffed the phone in his pocket and looked over his friends, feeling a tug of weary resignation that he had no excuse for ditching his pesky cousin this time.

“Okay,” said Marco. “So, Frankie’s place first, then maybe we’ll find this Brick guy?”

Tony nodded. “Know where he lives?” he asked Dreo.

“Maybe,” he said, obviously chagrinned he couldn’t give Tony a better answer. “I know he lives over on Sunderland somewhere.”

“There might be more info at Frankie’s,” Gianni added brightly, and Dreo gave him a grateful look for some reason.

Tony decided they’d talked about all this enough. “All right, let’s go,” he said, and with that the four of them were bustling out of the house, calling out goodbyes in the general obsession of the shouts and whoops coming from the family room as they gathered up jackets and hurried out to where Tony’s old (but lovingly maintained) cobalt-blue ‘89 Bronco was parked on the street. It wasn’t that far to Frankie’s, maybe twelve blocks, but Tony was conscious of how it had definitely gotten chilly for a late September night, and how Gianni was bare-chested under that thin leather jacket. Besides, he had a weird feeling they’d need the car, and he always listened to whatever instinctive insights chose to flash across the lower surface of his consciousness.

They piled in, Gianni and Dreo into the aftermarket back seat, Marco shotgun, and Tony quickly started her up so he could dial up the heater. Marco glanced back to where the others were deep in debate about the virtues of creatine, Gianni holding adamantly to his frequently expressed opinion that it was a hoax, just like all other supplements, Dreo earnestly trying to counter with regurgitated stories from fitness magazines. Marco turned back to Tony and leaned toward him a little. “You think Frankie’s okay?” he asked quietly.

Tony didn’t answer right away. Instead, he checked for traffic and then pulled out onto the street. At the stop sign he sighed. “I’m sure he’s okay,” Tony said, just loud enough for Marco to hear. “But we might have to pry this Brick guy off of him.”

The expedition would have been pointless had they not had access to Frankie’s flat, but when he’d moved out of the family home a couple years back, ostensibly so he could study hardy for his last two years of college, Frankie’s fierce grandmother, the iron-fisted ruler of the clan, had insisted that a set of keys go to his most responsible friend in case of calamity. Tony was thinking about the little key ring in his pocket and the possible prescience of Frank’s nonna as they pulled up against the curb in front of Frankie’s building.

Tony glanced in the rear view and found himself staring. Evidently Dreo and Gianni had given up their argument and were now making out, or “practicing” as he figured Gianni thought of it. Gianni’s eyes were closed, the more to immerse himself in the project, but Dreo’s eyes were fixed on Tony’s face in the rear view mirror, and when their eyes met Dreo seemed to stiffen slightly and moaned a little into his kiss. Gianni, unaware of the external stimulus, gladly accepted the encouragement and deepened the kiss, bringing a hand up to grasp Dreo’s developing pecs through his jacket. “Che diavolo,” Tony murmured, exactly the way his father had whenever he or his brother did something stupid or inexplicable, and he took a moment to marvel that he might one day turn into his father after all, even if he was “too fucking beautiful.”

Marco, who’d been lost in thought, looked over at Tony and then back over his shoulder at the boys in the back seat. He laughed. “Guys, you’re doing it wrong,” he called back to them, breaking their bubble and making them turn to look at Tony and Marco, both blushing a bit. Tony noticed that Gianni, his body still turned a bit toward Dreo, kept his hand on Dreo’s chest for the moment.

“Here’s how it’s really done,” Marco went on, and before Tony could protest he’d wrapped around Tony’s neck and pulled him into a deep and hungry kiss. Tony wanted to pull back, wanted to sputter that this was not the place or time, but Marco had already slid his long, hot tongue into Tony’s mouth, and Tony’s brain went into standby. At some point over the last six months or so Tony had started to realize that feeling Marco’s strong, eager tongue writhing against his had somehow become one of the chief joys of his life, flooding rich, warm feelings deep into every cavity and crevice and sparking every pleasure center in his body. Reciprocating felt good too, and Tony had a sudden fear that his cock, even as carefully bound up as it was, might rip through its confines straight to iron hardness. And God knew what Marco would do then.

But Marco was breaking the kiss, and, after a playful glance into Tony’s bright green-hazel eyes, turned to the guys in back. “And that’s how you do that,” Marco said cockily. Tony wanted to smack him up the back of his head.

Gianni was nodding fervently. “Fuck yeah,” he said, quietly but intensely. Dreo, however, was just staring at them open mouthed, breathing a little funny, and Tony thought he might be trying to keep himself from cumming in his jeans. Tony frowned sourly and just twisted away from them all to open the door and climb out of the Bronco. Marco, still grinning merrily at his jape, followed suit on his side, and then Gianni pushed Tony’s seat forward and hauled himself out of the car. Dreo followed more slowly, as if he had to restrict his movements to avoid further stimuli. Tony thought he might grab Dreo by the shoulders and shake him, but for all he knew that would drive his hormone-saturated teen stalker cousin straight over the edge. He sighed in exasperation and stomped up the steps to the sturdy old pre-war building, the sound of his boots ringing against the brick walls in the still night air. The others slammed the doors of the Bronco shut and followed silently, each with his own Tony-related preoccupation.

As they plodded through the postage-stamp lobby for the stairs that faced the front doors, Tony decided he liked the look of the place. It was old, but the kind of old that meant thick walls and solid, heavy-duty doors and fixtures. As he tromped up the stairs, the other three trailing behind quietly, he appreciated the well-worn serviceability of the wooden risers, the simple but durable banister. This place would probably be here in another hundred years. He had a weird yen creep over him, the first stirrings of an interest in living on his own, away from his family, in a place of his own he could count on. For the first time he started to understand why Frankie had moved out. As he rounded a landing and headed for the third floor, where Frankie’s flat was, Tony had half a mind to ask the others if they were feeling anything like this. But he knew better. For one thing, he knew that he, Tony, was a freak who thought about weird stuff at weird times. And anyway, he knew for sure that Dreo, at least was not looking at anything but what Tony was only too well aware was his own hard round ass. He sighed slightly. He could almost feel Dreo’s eyes boring through his thick, tight jeans into his troublesomely distracting thick. firm glutes. And, unless he missed his guess, it wasn’t just Dreo’s eyes he was feeling.

By the time they were crowded round the door to the apartment as Tony fumbled with the keys in the long, beige, marginally lit corridor, he was starting to think he should have come alone. He was used to Marco and Gianni being horny all the time, and Dreo fucking redefined the word, but lately they were acting like their hormones had gone into nonstop overdrive.

Somebody was touching his ass. Tentatively at first, but as Tony switched keys to take another try unlocking the deadbolt, a finger turned into the back of a hand, then a palm, against his hard muscle ass. Tony felt himself flush with acute embarrassment at being like this, having this effect on his friends, so they were pushed to new levels of contact with him. Even Marco, who usually had one arm draped around his thick shoulders, and lately had the other hand pressed comfortably to Tony’s stone-cut abs—the configuration he was in now, actually—had been keeping things above the waist. And both his hands were accounted for, anyway, he thought wryly, as he flipped the keyring to try the third key. So either Gianni or Dreo was growing some balls. And if they were willing to grope below the waist while he was facing away from them—

Suddenly the third key drove in hard, deep into lock, and Tony was unnerved a bit at how sexualized it felt. He smiled at himself and twisted the deadbolt.

They pushed into the darkened apartment. Tony reached for the switches near the door and bright, warm light leapt up from white, frosted globes mounted in the ceilings at strategic points throughout the apartment. Everything looked very normal, as if Frankie were here somewhere, or had just stepped out to the gym. It felt a little eerie.

They stood there, looking around uneasily, Marco still wrapped around him. Someone was still gently groping his butt, and for some reason Tony wasn’t sure he wanted to know who. Instead of turning around he said, “Gianni, Dreo, go check out the bedroom,” cocking his head toward the doorway to their left, and without waiting for an answer he and Marco moved into the living room area that was more or less in front of them. After a beat the hand left his ass, and Tony was annoyed that his ass immediately missed the warm palm that had been pressing against it.

He remembered that Frankie’s grandmother had bought him an answering machine, which Frankie dutifully set up on his land line despite having voice mail on his cell phone. After all, he only gave his cell number to friends, not family. “Check the answering machine,” Tony suggested to Marco.

But Marco just laughed and told him to check it himself. Marco’s left arm was draped over Tony’s broad shoulders as usual, but Tony was aware that Marco’s left hand had started stroking the leftmost of Tony’s oversized pecs. His right hand was still pressed against his hard abs, too, running very slow circles against his tight eight-pack through his tee.

Tony sighed and they walked together over to the answering machine, which was on an end table next to the old sofa. “Are you, like, super horny or something?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know.

They looked down at he machine. There were three new messages, which seemed slightly ominous. “Kinda,” Marco breathed, his mouth unexpectedly near Tony’s ear, and he sounded like he was aware that he was responding to Tony even more tactilely than usual. He added after a moment, “It feels weird in here. Like there’s an excess supply of … “ He trailed off.

“Arousal?” Tony said quietly, pressing the “play messages” button on the machine. He felt Marco nod and tried to concentrate on the messages, which was hard to do with Marco breathing into his ear. The messages were not very helpful, though, in that they were more or less what Tony had expected: Frankie’s grandmother wondering where he was, Frankie’s brother, Frankie’s grandmother again. The last beep sounded, and the room was silent.

After a couple loud-sounding heartbeats, Marco began in a whisper, “I need—” but faltered. Tony waited, keeping himself still as Marco held him. “Usually,” Marco trued again, in a voice soft enough to be barely audible, “usually I do it because it’s fun, you know. Because I want to. But right now—”

Tony knew exactly what he meant. “You need to,” he finished for him, and they were turning toward each other, their bodies pressed together, their faces close, and Tony had a second to wonder if he’d ever really looked into Marco’s eyes before they were kissing, deeply and passionately and not at all as if it were a game or a joke or all the things they’d been telling themselves. Right here, right now, Tony wanted Marco, needed Marco, and for the first time he wondered if he could make love to a guy. If he would fit. If—

“Guys, you gotta fucking see this!” Dreo shouted from the other room. In the quiet room, after their quiet words and universe-quelling kiss, it sounded as loud and brash as an air raid siren. And as unwelcome.

They broke the kiss, Tony realizing his strong arms were around Marco’s tight, lanky body even as Marco’s hands drifted across Tony’s wide back, a sensation Tony realized he liked a lot. Marco was pulling his face back, getting ready to revert to their usual dynamic, and Tony’s heart broke at the resignation and regret on his face. He had to give something to Marco, and all he could think to do was lean forward and give him one more deep, sweet kiss. All of their kisses, he knew, everything erotic about their relationship had been initiated by Marco, even if it had been under the pretext of jokes and palling around. By kissing him now, Tony was saying, “It’s not just you.”

Their eyes met as Tony pulled back, and Marco’s were shining. They smiled at each other.

“GUYS!!” Dreo shouted again, and now they both grinned at the irrepressibility of Tony’s kid-brother-esque cousin.

A moment later they were coming into the bedroom, Marco draped around Tony more or less as usual. Tony was kind of worried about his perceptive and horny cousin picking up on something having happened—there was no reason to worry about Gianni noticing anything—but both boys were transfixed by something on the bed. Something shockingly familiar.

“We were in here and we were gonna, well, we felt like trying out the bed,” Gianni said, increasingly abashed. Tony noticed that he had shucked his thin leather jacket in the warm apartment and so his tightly muscled bod was naked from the waist up. In fact Tony found himself unaccountably wanted to follow suit and get half-naked as well, a weird feeling after years of trying to minimize the arresting beauty of his godly physique with dark, loose clothes. Well, it was hot in here. Gianni and Dreo both seemed to be radiating heat, and sex. Them, and Marco too.

But Tony shoved all that back into a box in his head. He was having trouble processing what he was staring at. “But?” he prompted.

“But we sort of—sensed?—there was something in there under the covers,” continued Dreo. Tony looked at him and blinked. When did Dreo shuck his jacket and tee shirt?

Gianni jumped in, “So we pulled them back and—” But he just pointed at what was on the bed.

It was a cock. Not just any cock, though. It was flaccid, curled on itself a little, eight inches or so from the looks of it and thick as a Coke can. At one end was a scrotum, with balls the size of plums, and at the other a short wide head partly nestled in dark foreskin. Tony gaped at it, not just because there was a free-range cock in Frankie’s bed. He gaped because he knew that cock. He recognized it.

It was his cock.

“Is it a—a dildo?” Dreo asked, hesitantly, as if he knew he were wrong but couldn't think of another explanation.

“Whoever heard of a flaccid dildo?” Gianni scoffed.

Tony wasn’t listening. He knew it was real, and not just because he could feel it sending out waves of raw, erotic sex. He had a sudden, almost irresistible urge to grab his own dick through his jeans and make sure it was still there, that it had not been magically translated to Frankie’s bed from his crotch, leaving it bereft and sexless. When had he seen it last? He thought in ludicrous panic. But he could still feel it, a little chubbed from the kiss and pushing against its confines a little, his pulse pounding through it, wanting to inflate it from its more-or-less concealable soft state to its usual colossal erection.

And the cock on the bed started to get hard.

Unconsciously they moved closer until they were around the bed, Tony and Marco on one side, Dreo and Gianni on the other, Gianni draped around Dreo in replication of Marco and Tony. It was beautiful and intense. Dreo and Gianni both looked as if they wanted to wrap their lips around it, feel it get hard in their mouths. Marco was panting very slightly. Tony could almost feel his friend’s pounding pulse as Marco stood next to him, pressed against him side to side, holding him. An erotic undertow seemed to saturate the air, as if the room itself were becoming aroused. We four young horndogs don’t stand a chance, Tony thought amusedly.

“Shit,” Dreo said suddenly as he shoved a hand into his jeans, pulling what must have been a sorely bent cock into a straight, vertical position. It was a club, not as big as Tony’s by any means but still as thick as Dreo’s palm, and with three or four inches of wide iron-hard shaft showing above the waistband of his jeans. The wide head of Dreo’s cock was a ringer for the mystery cock’s head on the mattress. It was already weeping copious quantities of precum onto his bare torso and down the shaft into his groin.

Tony realized the others had followed suit, straightening out their instant boners: Gianni’s was a visible bulge pushing sideways in his pants, and Marco’s, while out of sight thanks to the way they were standing and the size of Tony’s pecs, was sure to be as tall and well-shaped as Marco himself. They watched, riled up and fascinated, as the cock on the bed thickened and straightened to what Tony would have thought was a truly ridiculous size, if he didn’t know of a cock that grew to identical proportions. That very organ was straining against its tight confines now, struggling to get hard, and he knew—he could feel, somehow—that there was a connection, but he was having trouble putting his finger on it. It was eluding him, but only because any moment now his thoughts and sensations would align in such a way that it would all become clear.

“Imagine having a cock like this,” Dreo said in wonder, and before Tony could stop him, and he wasn’t sure why he had the impulse to stop him, he reached down and grabbed it with both hands. His fingers didn’t even come close to meeting his thumb on either hand as he grasped it and lifted it aloft. “It’s warm!” Dreo breathed, and he gripped it with his left hand and started sliding his right fist slowly up, and then down, the immense shaft.

Tony gasped. He could feel Dreo’s hand stroking the strange monstercock as if he were stroking the boner Tony was somehow holding back. He could feel Marco glancing at him, but Tony’s eyes were fixed on the cock. It was sliding into place in his head, and he couldn’t believe what was lining up. That cock—his cock—and Frankie. Tony forgot all the others, stunned by what was happening in his head. His cock, and Frankie. Frankie, the one friend who’d ever seen Tony totally hard, the one person who (and Tony had no idea how the thought came into his head, or from where), if asked, out of all the cocks he’d ever seen, what cock he wanted to—have?—or—be?—would have instantly said, “Tony’s.”

“Frankie,” Tony breathed into the silence.

“What?” said Marco in his ear, startled.

Dreo didn’t hear him. He was totally consumed by what he was doing, which was sliding the base and the expanded, orange-sized balls down into his pants, so that in a moment it looked as though the boner were his second, enormous cock. It brushed Dreo’s chin even with seven inches buried out of sight in Dreo’s crotch, and was half-again as wide as Dreo’s own abnormally wide boner. Tony stared at it, some part of his brain noting idly that the cock actually looked bigger on Dreo: thanks to Tony’s addition few inches in height, his own cock, the identical original of the monster Dreo had appropriated, topped out at just under his clavicle.

Gianni, to judge by the rapt way he was watching Dreo’s every move, hadn’t heard either. Tony wondered which of them was going to move to wrap his mouth around it, because clearly the time that was left to elapse before that cock got sucked by one or both of them could be measured in nanoseconds.

Marco whispered, “You think that’s—Frankie? That he got turned into your—?”

Tony fought an urge to panic. How did Marco know just how huge Tony was down there? Marco had never seen it hard, never even let his usual playful groping drift below the waist. He started to turn his head a little, enough to meet Marco’s bright eyes. But in that moment Dreo gallantly pulled his head back from his chin-high guest monster cock, allowing Gianni to do the honors. Gianni meeting Dreo’s warm eyes for a brief second, still with his arm around Dreo’s muscular, bare shoulder, bent just enough to take the head of the beast into his hot, wide mouth. Tony gasped loudly. He could feel it as if it were happening to him. And—another mouth besides his own on his cock felt amazing. Gianni managed to get a few inches of shaft into his mouth—and then, without warning, the enormous cock shuddered and convulsed and started to spew into Gianni’s mouth. Gianni eagerly started gulping it and was already unable to keep up, cum streaming past Gianni’s lips even as he tried to guzzle the thick, warm cum. Dreo was moaning as if he were actually cumming, and then he was cumming, his own huge cock spraying cum upward, and Marco and Gianni were cumming too, and Tony—Tony’s cock was painfully trapped and couldn’t cum, but he was cumming, he was orgasming, though the mystery doppelganger cock. Marco’s mouth was trying to find his, and then they’d moved their heads toward each other enough that they could kiss madly and deeply, as they all kept cumming, as if they’d somehow tapped into some unfathomable source of orgasm, a bottomless undersea ocean of cum and ecstasy.

Tony wasn’t sure how long it was before they came up for air, but when Gianni and Dreo swam into focus he could see their hard muscled torsos and handsome faces and even their hair was drenched with cum. But what made Tony swear out a series of barely conscious fucks in profound wonder was what the cum was drenching.

He was pretty sure they were both several inches taller—anyway Gianni, the shortest of them all, was looking him in the eyes now, and Dreo still had a half a head on Gianni. And Gianni—he looked like all that frustrating time in the gym the last five years had actually been spent growing thick, hard muscle as easily as Tony did. On top of his new superhero physique Gianni now sported a club of a cock exactly like Dreo’s, as if it were a wish he’d gotten for Christmas. Or rather, exactly like Dreo’s used to be, because Dreo’s cock was now identical in size, shape, and beauty to the mystery cock Dreo had shoved in his jeans alongside it. And then Tony noticed that the mystery cock must have grown even more than Dreo had, because despite Dreo being taller, both his half-again-as-wide-as-too-wide still-hard cocks now topped out right in front of Dreo’s panting mouth. Dreo and Gianni were turning toward each other, both of them eyeing the twin monsters as if they were silently wrestling over which one to claim to.

Tony wondered incongruously if he’d grown too, and suddenly the spell that had kept him from needing to be hard, needing to cum not virtually or second-hand but for real, snapped and he was dashing for the bathroom, leaving a startled Marco behind. He slammed the door and locked it, hastily yanking down his jeans and undoing the elastic bandages that compressed and imprisoned his package. His dick sprang free, hardening in seconds, and Tony wheezed out a pained breath as his cock sprang to an almost instant and, for the first couple of seconds, genuinely painful erection. An erection that was right in front of his mouth.

His mind blank, all awareness and decisions swamped and flooded by deep arousal, he acted instinctively. He took the head in his mouth, wrapping his strong hands around the more-than-ankle-thick shaft, and within seconds was cumming at least as much as the mystery cock, the Frankie-cock, had. The orgasm, coming on top of the one he’d just experienced, was intense enough that Tony’s senses plunged into oblivion, and when he resurfaced he was leaning forward, fists pressed on the marble on either side of the sink, staring into the big mirror that covered most of that wall. As he panted he took in that he was clearly taller than before. And bigger, all over. Including his still-hard cock, which was now topping out right in front of his eyes and was, impossibly, even thicker than before.

There was a tentative knock on the bathroom door. Tony thought of trying to stall, but there was no point. There was no mistaking how much he’d grown, and there was no hiding this cock anymore, especially since it was showing no sign of going down, or of even having had its hunger the least bit slaked.

But most of all because they needed to stop dicking around and find the guy that had turned Frankie into what he was sure Dreo was already thinking of as his wonderfully huge second cock.

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