Glory Days

I hated this part of the job.

The mansion was silent. Late afternoon light came through the west-facing windows, casting shadows across the polished stone countertops and staged furniture. Every surface was spotless. Nothing was out of place. The house was ready for buyers... but none had shown up.

It felt like standing in some overpriced mausoleum, sweating through a dress shirt that fit ten pounds ago. My name tag was crooked. My hair was thinning. My confidence was MIA.

“Five bedrooms and five baths,” I muttered aloud, rehearsing my pitch. “Lots of natural light. Open concept. Stainless steel… everything.  Imagine who you’d be in this house!”

I caught my reflection in the fridge door and winced. I had sloped shoulders. A gut too big for my belt. Bags under my eyes. I peaked early and was stuck coasting downhill.

I missed the glory days.

Still – I tried. I worked hard. I sold. I hustled. I posted those awkward newspaper ads, praying they'd land me the next commission.

It used to be easier.  When I was twenty-one and new to the business, people used to look at me.  Ask if I played ball in high school. Now they glanced through while I mumbled about the roof.

I straightened up when I heard the front door swing open.  Look confident, I told myself.  Poised.  When people want to buy from a winner.  I walked into the entryway and...

My throat went dry.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. “Chris, right?”

I squinted, trying to place him.

"Micah Stein," he helped me out. "We both went to Southgate High."

"Uh, yeah," I said, trying to remember.  "You're uh..."

"Micah," he said.  "Don't worry, I get it.  You were the popular jock, I was the nerd."

He was the nerd?  Impossible, right?  He was all polished, groomed like he’d walked out of a magazine spread.  Jeans that fit like they were sewn onto him. Button-down shirt rolled at the forearms, casual but confident. He walked like someone who didn’t worry – not traffic, not bills, not anything.

"Right, Micah!" I said, trying to pretend like we were old friends.  "How are you doing?"

"Good," he grinned.  "I'm just in town for a few days, visiting my folks.  Thought I'd check out a few houses.  They're still living in that same little bungalow, but Mom and Dad deserve an upgrade."

"Oh, that’s awesome," I said.  "Sounds like you’re doing well!"

"Software company," he shrugged.  "Mobile app stuff.  I got lucky with the timing."

Oh.

I remembered him now. Little guy. Always playing with computers. Kept to himself mostly. And now here he was – grown, successful, confident?

He looked like he ran the world.

"That's so cool," I said.  "I always knew you were headed for big things."

He laughed. “You don’t remember shoving me into my locker?”

“If I did, I’m sure you deserved it.”  I chuckled, trying to play it off.

Micah’s smile twitched.

“I probably did.” He walked past me, making a show of looking around the house. “This place been on the market long?”

“Over six months," I said, feeling defensive. “I’ve moved properties like this before – big houses take a while.”

“Cool," he said. “You’ve clearly been doing this a while.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult.

He looked around, taking in the marble and mood lighting.  I tried making small talk.

“How about you, any big projects?”

“Yeah,” Micah said, like he’d been waiting for me to ask.  “Let me show you something my team built.”

He held up his phone. It looked like one of those things where you put in your picture and it puts on filters.

“Check this out,” Micah said. “You ever use something like this?”

“Yeah,” I shrugged.  “I tried FaceApp for my headshots, but it just looked fake.”

“That’s true,” he smirked. “But this is real.”

“Is this the next big thing?” I asked, laughing nervously.

“Just a prototype I’ve been playing with," he downplayed. “Let me make you a profile.”

I didn’t really care – at least it was something to do. I gestured grandly.

“Knock yourself out.”

He pointed the camera at me and move it around for a minute.  When he showed me the screen again, it had a wireframe figure on it—beer belly, hunched over, and a bald spot.

I furrowed my brow. “What’s that?”

“That’s you,” Micah grinned.  “Sorry buddy, you peaked in high school.”

“Hey!” I said instinctively, but... honestly, was he wrong?  Twenty years since I was prom king, and now the world was topsy turvey.  The nerd was rich and in shape.  I’d ridden my glory days right into the dumpster.

He turned the phone toward me. “Want to give it a spin?”

I stared at the screen. The wireframe rotated slowly, reflecting the shape I’d let myself become—rounded gut pushing against my belt, chest soft and sagging, arms deflated from years without a gym membership, head shaved clean in a failed attempt to hide the thinning hairline. Every flaw was mapped and mirrored with unsettling accuracy.

Sliders lined the bottom: Physique, Libido, Confidence, Sex Appeal, Submission.

I laughed, awkward. “What is this, The Sims for f– gay guys?”

“More like… guided visualization.” He tapped Physique and cranked it two notches up. The model’s pecs thickened slightly. Biceps swelled the tiniest bit. The figure shifted it's pose slightly.

“Kinda dumb, don’t you think?” I asked, trying to ignore the tingle in my body. I wasn’t about to get rattled by some fancy phone app.

Micah smirked. “All our beta testers love it – helps them see what they could be.  If you want, I can load the beta on your phone...”

“Nah,” I said, waving it off. “I’m good.”

It wasn’t just the app. It was Micah. Back in high school, I was the one with the smirk. The confidence. The control. Taking his offer would flip that script—and maybe show him I needed help. That I was failing. And I’d worked too hard, held on too tight, to let some nerd give me his charity.

"You sure?" Micah raised an eyebrow. "You could try it before anyone else.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Not really my thing.”

The wireframe model still spun on the screen in his hand. Maybe it was buggy software – the wireframe looked more jacked than I actually was.

“I don’t need this kind of stuff,” I added quickly, sharper than I meant.

“Of course.”

I hated how smug he sounded.

Micah let the app go idle. The screen dimmed, but not before I caught one last glimpse of a perfect, stupid smile on the model’s face.

“Is this some kind of passive-aggressive thing?" I felt my jaw clench. "You come back to town to get one over on your old bully?”

Micah tilted his head. “Not really. But if that’s how you see it, maybe you’ve still got something to prove.”

I looked away. The house felt too quiet now. I heard the hum of the fridge. My own breathing.

And you know what?  Fuck him – I did miss it. The glory days. Walking into a room and owning it. Getting laid with a glance and a smile.

Now I was a discount version of myself. Just good enough to pass. Not good enough to want.

“I’m not scared of your little app,” I said.

Micah smiled, putting his phone down on the kitchen table. “I never said you were.”

He turned and walked out of the mansion.  I guess he wasn't buying this one.

But he'd left his phone behind.

I couldn't take my eyes off it.

Like a dare.

-----

I paced the empty mansion, Micah's phone clutched in my hand.

There was no passcode to lock it.  I'd gone through a few apps – the mail wasn't setup, the address book was empty, the browser had never loaded a page.  It was like he'd bought it just to leave behind.

Which... sort of made sense?  Maybe it was something he carried around just to give demos.  He could show off his app without notifications popping up or worrying they'd swipe through his dick pics.

The greedy part of me wanted to keep it.  After all... it was a nice iPhone.  This years model, and the high-end one at that.  It sounded like he was doing great... probably wouldn't even notice if this went missing.

Besides... he left it behind.  It's not like I stole it.

But fundamentally, I'm a decent guy.  I decided I'd hunt him down on Facebook or wherever. I'm always doing open houses – he could just drop by when he had a second.  Maybe I'd even be less of an asshole... I didn't mean to get that defensive, it’s just hard when you see the nerd winning.

But it was late.  I could do that all tomorrow.  In the meantime... it olden’t hurt to check out that app.

I ran my thumb under my collar. My neck was sweating again.  Goddamn... I hate that I got fat.

I tapped the screen.

The model rotated. Some text blinked: Adjust to visualize self-potential.

I snorted, low and bitter. “Self-potential. Christ... it's hippie bullshit.”

But my finger moved to Physique anyway.

I nudged it up. Just one notch. The model’s chest thickened slightly – no longer the flat, drooping line I saw in the mirror every morning. Shoulders widened a touch. Waist pulled in.

A warmth bloomed behind my sternum.

I adjusted the Confidence slider next. The figure stood taller. Proud.

My shirt felt snug across my chest. Weird – usually it’s snug against my gut.

I looked down.

My sleeves hugged my arms a little better. The buttons at my chest gapped ever so slightly, but the ones over my stomach no longer strained. My gut hadn’t disappeared, but it had… pulled in. Tensed, maybe. I wasn’t dreaming. Maybe this visualization crap worked.

The heat between my thighs stirred. Just a little.

I caught my reflection in the patio door.

I still looked like me. But more like the me I remembered in flashes. The me who used to get head from cheerleaders in locker rooms and laugh about it after. The me who didn’t give a fuck what people thought.  The me who people wanted.

I adjusted my collar. It sat differently. More natural.

“Weird," I said to the empty air.

-----

I should have returned the phone.

I told myself that halfway through dinner – a chocolate bar while scrolling emails. I told myself again while brushing my teeth, catching sight of my chest in the mirror. I had that post-gym swell, even though I hadn’t lifted a damn thing.

But I looked good.

I looked so good that I popped open the app.  I just wanted to see what options there were – not like I was actually going to change anything.

See how I lied just there?

The app hummed under my fingers.  I carefully avoided the Submission slider. Just Physique again. And Confidence. One notch each.

The avatar swelled. It cracked its neck. Tilted its hips just so.

I felt a tingle, stronger this time, guiding my body into something tighter.  Heavier. My pecs pushed forward with a new weight. My shirt clung. I sucked in instinctively, but didn’t need to. My gut had melted—replaced by a faint hardness, the shadow of abs instead of a beer belly.

My stance changed. I caught myself spreading my feet wider. Shoulders back. Chest out.

Something in my groin twitched, and I adjusted myself without thinking.

Shit... I was getting back my old body.  That killer physique I’d built with twice-a-day gym sessions and living for football.  Sure, I was older... but it was still damn impressive.

I should have been freaked out. This was unnatural. Impossible.

It felt so good...

-----

Another day, another open house.

That morning, I threw on my usual button-down – but on the fabric caught on my chest.  It fit better now. Tighter in the arms. Clean across the waist. It felt tailored, even though I'm the one who changed.

Usually I just wear the top button open.  I hesitated at the mirror, then popped the second, and then the third button. A little chest hair showing, but that wasn't too unprofessional, was it?  It was hot out, and I needed to breathe.

Sorry – I'm lying again.  I wanted to show off.  I wanted everyone to look.

The sun hit me right as I reached the front door of the showing. My reflection smirked back – bolder and  sharper. I looked five years younger. Twenty pounds stronger.

People noticed.

Buyers lingered longer. Two women giggled by the kitchen and whispered behind their hands. A guy in a backwards cap asked if I used to play ball. Another dude looked flustered when he asked about the hardwood and I said “That’s a little personal?"

The way he blushed felt electric.

The world was mine again.

-----

My next open house was one of those sleek condo units – nothing but glass, marble, and a great view. Sunlight poured in from every angle, bouncing off the floor and hitting the skyline like a flex.

I caught my own reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows as I walked in. Chest up. Sleeves tight. That cocky smirk I'd lost years ago, back now and natural. Fuck, I looked good.

I was about twenty minutes early for the showing.  I told myself I needed to "fine-tune the staging", but I found myself standing in the marble washroom, staring at myself in the mirror while I played with Micah's app.

I wasn’t doing it because I wanted to see what my arms looked like pumped, or because the lingering ache in my balls hadn’t gone away since the last time. I wasn’t doing it because my cock had twitched every time someone complimented my “energy”.

I was doing it for work.  To help me sell houses.

I'm such a liar.

“Just a small adjustment,” I muttered to the app, thumbing the Physique slider up one more notch and tapping Sex Appeal for the first time. Just one click. Barely noticeable.

The figure on screen changed instantly—posture looser, hips tilted forward, pecs subtly perked. There was a gleam in its eyes now.

I laughed out loud. “What the hell am I doing?"

Heat poured through my limbs. My shirt felt like it was shrinking. My pecs lifted and curved—firm, defined. My ass… popped. I felt it. Like someone had grabbed two handfuls and pulled them into a perfect shape.

I stumbled back against the wall, breath hitching.

My tongue felt too big. My mouth dry. My cock pulsed, thick against the zipper.

“Jesus,” I muttered, blinking. “Fuck—”

I twisted on the tap and scooped water into my mouth.  I felt greedy.  I needed this.

My chest was bouncing.

When the buyers started to show, I felt like I was buzzing.

People gravitated toward me without any effort. Men. Women. Didn’t matter. I had to peel one guy off my arm after he’d spent twenty minutes talking about "his investment portfolio" while making fuck-me eyes. A married couple asked if I did “private tours.”

I didn’t even try to tone it down. I caught my reflection again—chest pushed out, smirking.

I was the hottest agent in the city.

-----

I was back at the mansion, phone in hand. I’d filmed walkthroughs before – hundreds of them – but this one felt different. The camera wanted something from me.

I started with the usual script, but I couldn't keep the cockiness out of my voice.

“Welcome to 182 Bellamy Crescent,” I said into the phone camera, voice low, smile lazy. “I’m Chris, and this house is just waiting for someone to come… and take it.”

I chuckled. Then flexed just slightly, like I was stretching. My pecs shifted under the fitted shirt.

I should’ve stopped.

Instead, I flipped the camera to front-facing and lowered it, angling up. Let the world see the curve of my ass as I strutted toward the main bedroom.

God, I was hard again.

I wandered around the house for a few minutes, talking up the features.  Lots of space to entertain.  A home gym to get that pump.  A huge master bedroom... in case you're looking to have some fun.

I hit post and waited.  The likes started pouring in.

Micah left a comment – "Amazing!" he wrote.  "I might want another look!"

-----

We were shooting some content for social media.  Usually I do a traditional listing – a photographer comes in, takes a few dozen pictures, and we put ‘em on the website.  But for some of these higher end properties... we were selling a lifestyle.

Look at this kitchen... me washing dishes in a tanktop.  Look at this balcony... me grilling in a pair of ass-hugging jeans.  Look at this bedroom... I'm waiting for you.

The camera crew had packed up twenty minutes ago, but I was still there—shirt half-unbuttoned, jeans riding just low enough to risk a problem. Sweat was cooling on my lower back. The golden hour light was still leaking through the windows, hitting me just right.

I was like a fuckable ad.  I deserved a place like this.

I checked the schedule to be safe – no one was booked to show the condo tonight. And nobody was coming home – the owners were already  living their best lives on the opposite coast.

So I stayed.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I had three calls to return, a home inspection scheduled for noon, and a growing list of people texting me late at night with emojis and “u up?”.

I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my damp shirt, and collapsed onto the sectional like I owned the place. Clicked on the TV and surfed until I found a football game. Scrolled through my phone with one hand resting low on my abs.

Of course I opened the app.  It was muscle memory now.

Physique – one more push.

Sex Appeal – another notch.

I also tapped Libido. I hadn't tried that one yet... so I pushed it up two notches.

My chest pushed out against the shirt, collar straining. I felt my nipples harden, big and sensitive. My waist pulled in again—tight enough that my jeans barely stayed on my hips. I adjusted myself, but it was useless. I was hard, full and heavy, the bulge obscene. I felt it bounce when I shifted.

I felt the tingle hit my brain too.  I felt looser. Softer. Fuzzier.

I grinned to an empty room.  My hand slid down to my crotch, slow and greedy. I palmed myself through my jeans – I was thick and hard... impossible to ignore. I popped the button and let my jeans fall open.

White briefs. Damp from sweat. The outline of my cock was obvious.

I ran my hand up and down the shaft, thumb grazing the head through cotton. I groaned. My hips bucked just a little. My cock was straining.  Aching to be touched.

I hooked my fingers under the waistband and pulled myself free.

God, I looked good like this – thick, veiny, flushed with heat. It was heavy in my hand.

I stroked slow at first, savouring it. The room was dead quiet except for the game on TV.

Faster now. My breath turned ragged. My thighs tensed. I licked my lips.

I gave a loud, open moan. Cum pulsed out of me.  God it felt good.  I zoned out and watched the game for... I don’t know, until my phone buzzed.

"Hey Chris," a text said.  "It's Micah... did I leave a phone at that house the other day?  Can't find it anywhere..."

I left him on read.

-----

I had a showing around noon the next day.  One of those glass towers downtown – I had someone interested in the penthouse!  If I could close the sale, that'd be a major payday.

I got there early to make sure everything was tidied up. I was supposed to do a quick walkthrough. Take notes. Prep the pitch.

Everything looked in place, so I took a few minutes and enjoyed the view.  The city stretched out below me like it was begging to be conquered.  I could feel it – this sale wouldn't be about the penthouse.

It was about me.  All I had to do was be irresistible.

The buzzer went off.

”Come on up," I spoke into the intercom.  "The elevator's unlocked."

The guy was late forties, maybe early fifties – button-down and slacks, wedding ring, that practiced politeness that screams middle management. I didn’t catch his name.

It didn't matter.  His eyes were locked on my pecs.

I watched his gaze travel down my open collar, across my body, right to my bulge. He tried to speak – something about kitchen cabinets – but the words fell apart in his mouth.

“You wanna see the bedroom?” I asked, voice low and husky.

He nodded.

He followed me, barely keeping up. I strutted. I made sure he could see my ass bounce with every step.

I knew what I was doing. I loved what I was doing.

He lingered in the bedroom doorway while I leaned against the window, hips tilted just so, the skyline glowing behind me.

"Great light in here," I said, letting my voice drop half an octave. I turned slowly, one hand gliding across my abs like I was brushing away lint—just an excuse to touch myself.

His eyes tracked the movement like a starving man. His mouth opened, then shut again.

I stepped closer. Just close enough.

"You like what you see?" I asked. I could’ve meant the condo.

He nodded. Swallowed hard.

This man was married. Middle-aged. Probably played golf. Definitely straight.

Didn’t matter.

He wanted me. They all did.

I circled him slow, like I was appraising him now. My breath hit his neck, warm and deliberate. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t have to.

"I think this place is a perfect fit for you," I said, my lips brushing the edge of his ear. "You belong somewhere with taste. Somewhere that gets you hard."

He shuddered.

When I stepped back, he looked dazed. Flushed. Aching.

"I’ll make an offer," he said, almost too fast. "Can you send it over tonight...?  Fuck, I can’t wait to hear from you."

Later, back in my car, I texted Micah.

"Hey man," I wrote.  "Yeah, I found your phone.  Why don't we meet up tomorrow, you can take a second look at that mansion.  6 o'clock?"

Three dots.

-----

I sat in the car outside the mansion, heart racing. I knew I had to give back the phone, but... that meant I’d be done fixing myself up.

One last time then...

Physique.  Sex Appeal. Libido. Confidence. I gave them all one final nudge.

I felt it roll through me.

My body swelled. Shoulders pushing wider. Chest ballooning against the tight stretch of my shirt. My thighs spread until they pinned against the sides of the driver’s seat. My cock throbbed like it needed release now.

I groaned. Adjusted myself. Even breathing felt hot.

Every muscle on me was flexing without trying. I looked like a god. A slutty, fuck-hungry sex god.

I was a couple minutes late.  So what?  Anyone would wait for a stud like me.

"Hey man," he grinned, seeing the phone in my hand.  "Thanks for grabbing that.  That app I showed you... I probably shouldn't say this, but..." he leaned in and whispered.  "My investors would be pissed.  Real 'top secret' stuff."

"Yeah?" I rumbled.  He hadn't mentioned the way I looked now.  A week ago I was a dumpy loser, but now... I felt like the big man on campus.

"Totally," he said.  "I could have gotten into big trouble, letting you see this.  So, let's just say nothing happened, okay?"  He raised one eyebrow.  "Besides... it looks like you had fun?"

He held out his hand. I gave him the phone without thinking.  It only took a second before I realized my mistake – I should have deleted my profile off the app.  The phone lit up, he tapped the icon, and with one swipe of his finger...

There was a buzzing in my brain.

"Really?" he chuckled.  "You left the submission slider at zero this whole time?  Didn't even experiment once?"

It started like a flicker—barely a spark. Something I could almost ignore.

He kept talking—calm, low, confident—and something inside me melted. I felt it settle low in my belly, warm and needy. Like my whole body had been waiting for a voice to follow.

My cock twitched. I swallowed hard.

I told myself I was still in charge. That I was letting him lead.

But every second his eyes stayed on me, I felt myself giving up a little more.

My muscles flexed out of habit, but they weren’t mine anymore. They were for him—to look at, to use, to own. I wanted him to push me. To test how far I’d go. I craved it.

My brain buzzed. I was hard and aching and hungry to obey.

I wanted Micah to command me.

Needed it.

“Beg,” Micah ordered.

I dropped to my knees. My cock throbbed just from the command. “Please, Micah. Please dominate me. Use me. I don’t care what I want. I only care what you want.”

His eyes lit up. “Good boy.”

He smirked and handed me back the phone.  All I had to do was adjust that slider back down.  Go back to being a god.  But he didn't order it, so I never even tried.

“You know... you jocks made my life hell in high school. I figured I’d come back to town, look y’all up, collect a blowjob from each of you. But you’re all losers now. You peaked early.”

I stayed still, soaking in my shame, breathing heavy.

“You’re selling real estate. Matt’s working the register at a gas station. Tucker is unemployed and living with his parents.”

He stepped closer, fingers trailing over the curve of my glutes. I shuddered. “I always wanted to fuck that ass,” he said, low and dangerous. “But I don’t fuck losers.”

I moaned.

“There was only one solution: enhance you. Make it so the glory days never ended. This is who you'd be if you never got distracted, never slowed down. If you just kept being a stud.”

He smiled. “Let’s push it further.  “Physique. Max it out.”

I swallowed hard and slid the slider all the way up.

Muscle swelled beneath my skin like it was inflating with every breath. My traps surged up, thickening my neck into a column. My chest exploded outward – bigger, rounder, and tighter – until my nipples pointed straight down. My abs crunched tight into a beefy eight-pack, glistening and dense. My thighs swelled with so much size they forced my legs apart,  My ass turned into a pair of perfect globes of power, bouncing with every movement.

Veins laced down my arms and across my chest like lightning. My arms hung heavy at my sides—so thick I couldn’t touch my elbows together. My whole body gleamed with sweat. My cock twitched and flexed.

“Libido,” Micah murmured.  "All the way up."

The second it hit max, I moaned. It was like a furnace had lit inside me. I needed to touch someone – anyone. My cock was already pulsing, soaking my jeans with precum. My balls ached. My hips bucked forward involuntarily, needy and shameless.

“God – fuck – Micah—” I whimpered.

“Sex appeal,” he said. “One hundred percent.”

My hand trembled as I did it. Instantly, I could feel it radiating off me. The way Micah looked at me changed. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck me or worship me.

He groaned. “Damn, I wanna fuck you.”

I guess he decided.

“Too bad I’m straight,” I laughed, dopey and dazed. “But, uh… I really wanna get off…”

I blinked. My thoughts were thick, sticky, slow.

“Why can’t I think?”

Micah leaned in, smiling. “The app’s built around what I find sexy. And I always had a thing for dumb jocks.”

I stared at him, lips parted, still throbbing, still leaking.

“So yeah,” he said. “You never even looked deeper, did you?" he said, eyes glinting. "Didn’t even touch the advanced settings."

"No sir," I croaked.  My throat was dry. I shook my head.

“Tap ‘More',” he commanded.

I couldn't even hesitate..  I reached out, thumb shaking, and tapped the button.

Switches. Dozens of them. One jumped out and I swallowed hard.

Orientation: Attracted to Women

My breath caught.

“Set it,” Micah ordered.

I looked up. “I—”

“Set it,” he repeated more harshly. “Attracted to Men.”

My finger hovered. My heart pounded.

And I tapped it.

Orientation: Attracted to Men

A full-body shiver rolled through me.

My knees felt weak. My mouth dropped open. My cock surged against my pants, aching to be touched. I looked at Micah – really looked – and every part of me wanted him.

Suddenly, every look Micah had ever given me – every subtle smirk, every quiet observation – it mattered.  My brain flooded with fantasies. Micah’s mouth. Micah’s cock. Micah touching me like I’d never been touched before.

I gasped, stumbling back against the wall, one hand gripping my belt.

I wanted him.

I wanted his eyes on me. I wanted to please him. I wanted to make him blow his load so hard he forgot his own name.

My pants were open. I didn’t even remember unzipping.

“Fuck – fuck –” I grunted, grinding against my own hand, my cock leaking freely.

When I looked up, Micah was staring at me.

He grinned. “How do you feel?”

I swallowed hard.

"I want to suck you off in every room of this house, sir."

He smiled.

-----

We made it to the master suite.

By then, I was naked and desperate. Micah had stripped me down step by step, using nothing but his voice and the sheer force of his gaze.

He made me hulk out of my shirt in the kitchen – my pumped-up pecs practically tearing the fabric on their own. In the study, he made me rip off my jeans, my thick quads and bulging cock on full display. He ordered me to take a cold shower in the guest bathroom, white briefs turned transparent and clinging to every curve.  I did it all with joy.

Each command made me harder. Needier. Every time I dropped to my knees and begged to suck him off, he just smirked and told me to wait.

Now, in the master bedroom, I could barely form a thought. The bed was massive – king-sized, soft, luxurious – but all I saw was a stage.

"Describe the room," Micah said.  "Sell it to me."

My brain stumbled at first, but then some muscle memory kicked in – real estate training mixed with raw, horny instinct.

"This is... um, a premium master suite," I said, voice thick with arousal. "East-facing windows for... natural light. Roomy enough for a king bed. Big, thick wood—uh, hardwood floors. Custom trim... I think? And like... that walk-in closet is soooo deep. Like, you could fit two sweaty jocks in there and still have room to flex."

I moaned a little at my own words. My cock twitched.

"That’s the en-suite over there. Spa-like. With a shower bench if you need to, y’know, sit while someone’s... eating you out."

Micah smirked.

"Oh, and this—" I patted the mattress like I was showing it to a buyer. "This is where I’d take offers. Big offers. Generous ones."

I giggled at my own joke, dopey and eager. I was showing off now – flexing a little, bouncing my pecs, biting my lip as I turned around on all fours.

"Is that what you wanted, sir?"

“Yeah,” he chuckled.  “It’s so fuckin’ hot watching your gears grind.”

I could feel his approval in the heat between us. I was his showpiece. His fantasy turned flesh. And I loved it.

The sheets were cool beneath my hands and knees, but my body was burning up. My cock hung heavy beneath me, drooling precum onto the bed. My chest heaved. My breath came fast.

And then – finally, thank god... finally – he touched me.

His hands gripped my waist, then slid up, roaming over the broad shelf of my back, the curve of my shoulders, the tight swell of my ass. I gasped when his fingers dug in. My body was so sensitive I thought I might blow my load already.

His hands were on my hips – it felt like he was claiming me. I was shaking from need.

He spread my cheeks apart with a deliberate grip. My whole body trembled at the exposure. I whimpered. Fuck, I needed this.

“Good boy,” Micah murmured. I nearly lost it.

He spit once, then again, working me open with slow, teasing fingers. My hole twitched, desperate to be filled, desperate to be his. I wasn’t a real estate agent. I wasn’t a man with a future or a past. I was a dumb, musclebound slut on all fours... waiting to be fucked.

And when he finally pushed inside me – slow, stretching me open with his thick, perfect cock – I saw heaven.

“Fuck – Micah - oh my god – yes –”

I moaned like a porn star. I wanted him to hear how good I felt. How much I loved being taken. How badly I needed it. Every thrust rocked my body forward, made my pecs bounce, made my cock slap up against my abs.

My mind was blank. There was no thought left. Just sensation. Just obedience. Just Micah, pounding into me, reshaping me with every stroke.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanked my head back, and growled, “Say it.”

“Say what?” I gasped, tongue lolling, eyes unfocused.

“Say you’re my jock.”

“I’m your jock,” I moaned. “Your football slut. Your toy. I’m yours.”

“That’s right,” he growled, fucking harder now. “You’re not a man. You’re a fucktoy.”

I cried out. My cock twitched. My body begged.

“Say it again.”

“I’m a toy,” I promised. “A dumb, horny toy for your cock. For your pleasure.”

And when I came – just from Micah whispering permission in my ear – I screamed his name like a prayer.

I collapsed into the bed, used and ruined and grinning like an idiot.

He leaned down, kissed the side of my neck, and whispered, “Good toy.”

I moaned and pushed my ass up, already begging for more.

-----

My phone buzzed. A message from Lara – my team lead.

I kept flexing my pecs absently, grinning at the bounce.

“Hey Chris... I'm getting some pretty weird calls from clients... all the wives are saying you're too much.  Need to talk Monday.”

Too much.

I laughed out loud.  They were right.

At the open house last night, I could barely concentrate. I’d worn a thin grey tee that clung to me like Saran Wrap. My bulge had been obscene, and I’d caught more than one husband staring. I hadn’t toned anything down. I hadn’t even tried.

One of the husbands had lingered at the end of the showing. His wife left to pick up the kids – and he stayed behind, said he had a few "follow-up questions." I knew that look. I'd seen it plenty of times since Micah fucked me into a stud.

I’d leaned against the kitchen island, arms folded to make my biceps pop, pecs straining against the thin fabric of my tee. He asked something about square footage, but his eyes were all over me—my chest, my bulge, my mouth.

"You wanna see the master bedroom again?" I asked, real casual.

He hesitated. Nodded.

I didn’t even have to say anything. I peeled off my shirt in one smooth motion, watched his jaw drop. His hands were shaking a little when he reached out to touch me. I guided them lower.

He fucked me right there against the window, sunlight slanting across my v shaped back as I moaned like a pornstar. My fingers dug into the sill, my body eager and empty-brained and ready to be used. I didn’t care if he bought the condo – I just needed him to fuck me. I was his fantasy, and for those few minutes, he was mine.

When he pulled out, breathless and confused, I winked.

"You gonna make an offer?"

He nodded, still dazed. "Yeah. I think – I mean... yeah."

He left disheveled and sweaty.  Sweaty, guilty, drained of cum.

I just adjusted my cock, smoothed my hair, and got ready for my next client.

I was a closer.  I shouldn’t have to apologize for that.

-----

Monday morning, I strutted into the office like I owned the place. Tight jeans, white tee, and a letterman jacket. Pulled it out of storage and it still fit – barely. That was hot

I’d gotten a fresh cut, too – buzzed down on the sides, messy layers on top. I looked like the jock everyone wanted to fuck.  And I felt fucking amazing.

Lara looked up from her desk and froze. Mouth slightly open. Eyes scanning me like she didn’t even recognize me.

“Chris,” she said slowly, “we need to talk.”

I sauntered in, plopped into the chair across from her, spread my legs wide. Let her see the outline. Let her look.

She cleared her throat.

“I’ve gotten a few calls this weekend. From wives. Saying their husbands are acting... weird. One of them admitted he slept with the realtor.”

“Which one?” I grinned.

She blinked.

“Did you –”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning back, arms flexed behind my head. “I’ve fucked a bunch of guys this week. They're begging for it.”

She just stared. Then sighed.

“Chris, I can’t—” she reached into her drawer and pulled out a stack of cheques. “This is $120,000 in commission. You closed every damn property.  Even that mansion that no-one wants.”

She handed me the stack, her fingers trembling.

“I can’t take the liability,” she said. “I’m sorry. You’re fired.”

I stood up, tucked the cheques into my back pocket.

-----

Micah bought the mansion.

No way.  Of course I ran over.  He answered the door with that sexy smirk.

“I didn’t think you were serious,” I gasped.

“I wasn’t at first,” Micah replied, stepping aside. “But after the other night... I had an idea. I’m an entrepreneur, remember?”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re the muscle,” he said, patting my chest. “And I’m the money.”

Inside, there were camera guys and lighting stands all over the place. My dick twitched.

“Uh... what’s going on?”

“After I rode your gorgeous ass, I went back to the hotel and realized we’ve got a goldmine here,” Micah chuckled.  “We’ll start with some porn shoots – blowjob in the shower, fuck in the master, maybe a little bondage in the wine cellar – and then we stream the whole mansion.  A live reality show, 24/7, on a major porn site. Ten bucks a month, five thousand subscribers? Easy money.”

I chuckled, licking my lips.

“Didn’t think you were the on-camera type.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But you are, and I know a few other guys who will love it.”

The bell rang again.

“Go on,” he nodded at the door.

I opened it and – fuck. Wow.  I hadn’t seen Tucker since just after high school.

We used to play football together, cracked beers after grad a couple times, then drifted. He looked like he was still trying to hold onto the past – the same Billabong t-shirt, the same cocky grin – but his body was long past expiry. Just like me, he'd peaked early, and now...

Now he had another chance.  Thank god for Micah.

“Hey Tucker,” I said casually. “How you doing?”

“Um, sorry, so I know...  Chris?"  He gasped.  "Dude... how’s that even possible?  You look amazing!”

“Come on in,” I said. “I’ll show you.”

As he stepped inside, Micah scanned him with the app.

“Wait... is that Micah?” Tucker said. He turned to me. “This guy was a total nerd in high school. Probably gay too. I remember him checking me out after gym class...”

We shared this slow, knowing look – the kind that drags you back to high school halls and locker room laughs. I remembered us snickering when Micah walked by, too skinny, too smart, too... something.

Tucker chuckled, probably thinking the same thing. He muttered something about the time we jammed Micah into his locker and left a jockstrap hanging from the door.

Back then, it felt like we owned the world—football stars, girls drooling, teachers letting shit slide. But once the lights dimmed and graduation passed...

"God, we were assholes," I groaned

"Whatever," he laughed. “Once a fag, always a fag.”

I felt a flash of anger and stepped close.  Our chests bumped together – but mine was bigger.

“You got a problem with that?” I growled.

“What, so you’re a fag too?” Tucker grimaced.  “Look, man, whatever this is, I’m outta here...”

He turned to go, but I grabbed his bicep and held him there.  Micah didn’t wait. One tap, and Tucker’ world changed..

“Fuck... let go,” he said weakly.  His pupils dilated. “I mean – what the hell, man?”

He was attracted to men now.

I grinned and ground up against him, hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight. “You like that, little buddy?”

He whimpered, lips parting, confused.

“Boost his libido?” I asked.

Micah slid the bar to max and Tucker tried not to melt.  His face twisted with resistance for two entire seconds before he tried to kiss me.

I caught him easily, holding him at arms length.

“Yo, D,” I grinned, looking back. “How 'bout we give him some glory days too?”

Micah was already tapping, eyes narrowed with focus.

Tuckers’ frame bulked up fast – shoulders widening, arms thickening, pecs puffing out like they were begging to be worshipped. His skin turned glossy and golden, smooth like a fresh spray tan. Below the belt, his cock surged in size, bouncing with need.

I watched his jaw go slack, eyes glassy with arousal as Micah tuned his submission higher. He whimpered – actually whimpered – as he looked at me.  I was the answer to a question he couldn't ask.

"You're the alpha," Micah said, looking me in the eye.  "Right below me on the hierarchy.  Now take him upstairs.  Show him his new life."

Another order I was eager to obey.

I dragged Tucker upstairs, his breath hot on my neck, and fucked him hard in front of the cameras. His moans echoed through the mansion, and I flexed into every thrust.  A few short minutes and I flooded his hole with cum.

He begged for me to go again.

Downstairs, Micah struck a name off his list.

-----

Mornings at the mansion started like this now – me in the kitchen, shirtless, with gold mesh shorts so small my cock might peek out, flipping protein pancakes for the crew. Tucker sat at the counter, hair damp from the outdoor shower, stroking himself casually while chatting with Matt about their next "scene."

Matt, Hunter, Will—they were all there, lounging on couches, trading lazy gropes and moans. They were small-town gods once, but they’d gone down the same path as me.  Micah saved us all – now we were walking thirst-traps, living for the cameras and the fans.

We were hard, horny, and happy.

Too bad Kevin had gone on and played pro.  Otherwise we’d have the whole team.

The camera crew was always filming. That was the thing—there was no start and stop. Just one long, live-streaming day of pleasure.  You could even tune in at night and watch us sleep or... not.

“Who’s in the pool scene today?” I asked, flipping another pancake.

“Hunter and Tucker,” the producer called. “They’ll fuck on the inflatable flamingo.”

Hunter gave a sleepy thumbs up and grabbed a bottle of strawberry lube from the fruit bowl.

Tucker leaned over and bit my shoulder. “You wanna help me stretch before the afternoon shoot?”

I flexed, grinned, and grabbed him by the waistband.

This was our life now. A never-ending loop of heat, moaning, and cameras. And fuck, I loved every second of it.

I laughed, dumb and beautiful.

These were the days.