Talisman 2: The Change is Made
by Flashpoint and scot158f
Trip shuddered, gasping as Gary unloaded into him for the third and final time that night, flooding his insides even more than the first two. Their after-workout musclefucks were always worth the price of admission, but tonight Gary had been a jackhammer from the moment he'd thrust in. Trip didn't like it slow and easy. He wanted to know he was being taken by a real man, one that knew what he wanted and took it. Even if some of the larger ones, like Gary, did make him feel a little ripped after, and not in the muscle sense. He suspected Gary was cycling on Avalon again; he'd gotten noticeably bigger in just a few weeks' time, much faster than the usual juice.
And like tonight, he'd been a sexual powerhouse as well. This wasn't the sorest he'd ever been with Gary but it was close. But there was a strange undertone to tonight, which Trip wrote off to his own anticipation to seeing Scott, like Gary was enjoying the last fuck he'd ever fuck. Very weird.
But Avalon was like that, which was why he'd elected to avoid it; you got incredible mass fast and the sexual boost left your bottom weak-kneed and slobbering (provided you worked out while taking it), but there were too many stories and rumors about weird uncontrollable side-effects. Sudden drops in IQ, immobilization due to sudden mass gains, super-extreme roid gut, and sexual orientation changes (straight to gay, that is) were among the milder stories going around, but like all urban legends they were heard from your workout partner's trainer's dealer's bodybuilder brother or some other winding path. Some of them suggested that whatever sex you liked influenced the side effect, which had to be bullshit. There was a story going around that some guy somewhere was taken by three muscle dudes and blown up like a balloon with just cum, but of course Trip didn't believe that one; it was stupid. On the other hand, he did have to admit that Gary's loads were much bigger lately, to the point where Trip's asshole was still running cum three days later. He'd gotten used to the squishing when he walked. Scott hadn't noticed, but then he never looked twice at Trip anyway, much to Trip’s disappointment, not that he showed off much at home. Scott was still hung up on Phil and didn't look at other men that often, even hot guys right in front of him.
"Dude," the basso profundo voice behind him said, "You are one hot muscle fuck." Gary grunted - and Trip winced - as he yanked out. He'd figured out very quickly that Trip liked being treated like a fuckhole, which he was more than glad to provide on a regular basis. "When we get a little more size on you, you can Top me again."
Trip, his own softening cock still dribbling cum from his own relatively tiny load, stiffened again slightly. He was mostly bottom but did like to Top the bigger guys that would spread their gigantic thighs and their rock-hard glutes for an up-and-comer just starting competing like him. Some of the pros had a weird fetish for it, even the Mr. Olympia dudes. He remembered a Mr. East Coast Iron who had a party the night of his big win. This 'party' consisted of Mr. ECI, medal around his neck, both standing with his legs spread holding onto his trophy for support and on his back with diamond calves in the air while a line of 20 amateurs culled from the audience, Trip included, lined up to add a healthy protein injection up his pro ass.
He didn't quite look forward to fucking Gary, though, hot as he was. The man was tight as a football. Trip wasn't tiny either, though overshadowed by Gary in cock size as well as body. And Gary only gave it up as a reward for gains made at the gym, not because he enjoyed it, and since he was the heavyweight competitor around there, soon to be superheavyweight, he had high standards and therefore a tight ass. The previous time he'd bottomed to Trip had been a taste for Trip winning his first contest, but no more bottoming had come in the seven contests since despite Trip placing first in three, top three in three more, top five in the other. Trip found out through Gary's last musclebuddy that the next time would be when Trip got up to 235, another 15 pounds of muscle to go. It would be a while, but it would be worth it for both of them.
And considering how big Gary was, that was saying a lot. Gary was taller than Trip by a few inches and massively more muscled. A set of armor-plate pecs were capped with bowling-ball shoulders, angling up to his ears in a sharp 45-degree angle that left no visible neck. The peak of his biceps was easily as tall as Trip’s head, the forearms only somewhat less so. His lats did not just form an hourglass; it looked more like the prow of an oil tanker seen from directly in front. The thighs were almost beyond description; they seemed to be near Trip’s own waist size. And Trip, being in Gary’s inner muscle circle, saw a sight that not many did; Gary relaxing his abs. Of course he had to while fucking. But it wasn’t just the massive musculature that sent Trip into palpitations when the man entered the room; it was the belly.
Gary had done most of the chemicals on the market attempting to get big, with, ah, huge success, but it had left a toll or two on his body, in the forms of lantern jaw, enlarged hands, huge Adam’s apple, and distended roid gut to name a few. It was the roid gut that Trip’s eyes followed as Gary turned, the swelling visible around the massive man’s middle even from the back. Trip didn’t let Scott know, and would die of mortification if anyone in the gym or the competition circuit found out, but he liked a belly on a guy. A big one. And hair. Most of the time he got a good view of some nice rounded guts at the gym, but they were completely shorn of body hair, much to his disappointment. On him, groovy; he liked keeping himself smooth, though it was a chore with as much body hair as he had. On other guys he wanted hair that he could run his fingers through.. and teeth. Somehow, a man with body hair seemed more... he hated to use this word even to himself, but... more manly, which made the requirement he shave his body for competition that much more irritating, albeit necessary. A nice belly didn’t hurt that manly image either, of course. He wondered whether Scott would be pleased or disappointed that he’d sometimes fantasized about Scott getting even bigger, even Trip feeding him to get him bigger. This was the disappointment he had with Scott; he was a bit heavy but hated his excess poundage, had no muscle and no interest in building any, and had so little body hair that Trip sometimes wondered if he individually named his chest hairs. That and the Phil hangup he still had really grated Trip’s nerves... Scott should have moved on to bigger and better men than the loser who dumped him instead of moping around the apartment looking right through Trip. Not that he should be looking at Trip anyway, he added hurriedly, not sure why the entire topic suddenly made him uncomfortable. Not that he wanted that kind of, uh, interaction with Scott. It was a little too... uh...
It’d have to be take-out he fed Scott with though... Trip wasn’t dumb, he was a college graduate... barely... he admitted that Scott helped him with Chemistry... and English Lit... and the pottery class he thought would be easy, and... Anyway, he was such a bad cook he had trouble making macaroni and cheese. He winced at the memory; him and Scott and an apartment full of smoke, firefighters trying to break the door in, Trip trying to flush charred noodles and Scott trying to throw the cheese out the window because it had gummed up the garbage disposal. He could almost smile at the memory now. Scott hadn’t actually forbidden Trip to cook after that, but hadn’t seemed eager for it either.
Gary got off the bed, the mattress springing up so fast when free of his bulk that Trip was nearly shot into the air. “I’m gonna hit the shower. Wanna see my new posing routine when I get out?” As though Trip hadn’t seen it three times in their workout that night. But then, Gary was an exhibitionist, which was how he earned some of his extra money. But Trip knew better than to mention that even in passing. Gary was quick death on anyone who talked about things that the bodybuilding commission might disqualify him for...
Besides which, Trip knew better than to extend their meetings beyond the physical. Gary got a little too pushy for Trip’s taste once they spent ‘quality’ time together. Gary wanted to call the shots all the time, which explained why his last six boyfriends had all moved out while Gary was working out. Put simply, the guy dating him was there to feed him, support him, and pay his gym fees. Gary was there to be big and get bigger and not have a 40-hour-a-week job while doing it. Romance never entered the picture.
Trip’s asshole cried out to be emptied of the load he was carrying - he swore he felt cramps of fullness - and he could really use a shower from the workout and the fuck, but he said, “Nah, I gotta hit the treads. Early day tomorrow at Club Iron. Three office dudes.” Not really, they were in the afternoon, but a personal training excuse was the one Gary accepted without question. Trip hated training these office guys, although a few of them were on the heavy side and therefore a bit of eye candy for Trip, though he’d never touch them. Most of them were straight, married, and incredibly stupid. Though rich. He could never forget rich. It paid the rent.
“Groovy. Lock the door on the way out.” He turned and rumbled through the door into the bathroom. Nope, no romance there, all right. Barely people skills, really. Another turnoff for Gary. He at least considered other people, even tried to do things for them. He just wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. Which reminded him...
He didn’t bother following Gary into the bathroom to clean himself up. Gary made it quite plain more than once that if Trip didn’t want to hang out he should get out. Just as well. So he rousted his tired, overworked and overfucked body out of the bed himself and dressed, feeling the discomfort of fullness as the belt crossed his middle. Maybe there was something to this Avalon thing. But Trip took his leave as quickly and quietly as possible, knowing that Gary would be showering for at least 45 minutes. It always took Gary a while to shower; he had trouble reaching around to scrub certain spots of his body without help, and while it could be fun helping a musclebound man bathe spots he couldn’t reach Trip felt no desire to at the moment. As he accelerated down the street, he saw the clock on his dash read 8:14. Scott should have the Talisman by now.
A long time ago, a young boy named Daniel Vincent Tripman learned a valuable lesson from his mother and a valuable lesson from his father. The lesson from his mother was to be considerate and caring and thoughtful of others, which was why Trip always tried to help people, give nice gifts, and be pleasant overall. He really did like being nice. The lesson from his father was to never let anything stop him when there was something he wanted. If it was worth having, it was worth having now. And if there was someone in the way, get them out of it or trample them. Trip had trouble reconciling those two lessons sometimes, but so far they’d both worked for him. Most of the time. His father may have regretted teaching his lesson when Trip seized control of his father’s firm and sold off the assets to finance Trip’s bodybuilding career. His mother’s lesson had some input on this however; Trip did apologize later on. After his parents got divorced when his mother learned who taught Trip the other lesson.
None of this would be important except that these two things were the reason why Trip gave Scott the Talisman in the first place.
Trip didn’t believe in magic. But then, he didn’t have to. Enough people in the world did to make a difference, and that was all that mattered. At least that was what the man in The Old Curiosity Shop 2.0 said the night before.
Trip stared up at the sign, blinking. He had been an average student at best, and vaguely remembered a book by that title, but 2.0? Now he knew he was in the 21st century. Now all he needed was their website address. And, pushing open the heavy gated door, he read at eye level Now all you need is our website address! http://theoldcuriosityshop.de ! Trying to keep from getting an eerie feeling, he shrugged it off and entered the cavernous shop.
His first impression was that he’d entered the wrong place. This didn’t look like a magic shop. It looked more like a pawnshop, complete with glass cases, miscellaneous items of dubious quality and use on the shelves, harsh fluorescent lighting, and a bored-looking middle-aged woman behind the cash register. Her pink bra showed right through her black halter-top. “Um...,” he said, not sure what he wanted to say, “is this the magic shop?”
The woman looked up from a paper he noticed was titled Next Week in Review and gave him a look that said he was interrupting her. “This is not a magic shop,” she said in a very heavy, and very irritated, Brooklyn accent, “this is a center for magical practitioners. If you want a magic shop, Jay’s Joke Shop is on Marsh and Northwest Highway.”
Trip fought off the urge to slap the woman. “Look, I’m looking for, uh, someone who can... can, uh...” He suddenly realized how stupid what he was about to say was going to sound. “...cast a spell,” he ended weakly.
The woman didn’t even blink. She sighed, rolling her eyes. Without responding, she turned to the curtain behind her and bellowed, “Harry, ya got a live one!”
Trip could hear the faint sounds of a television. It sounded like Sanford and Son. “My show’s on! Have him come back.” His accent was more Bronx.
The woman flared up, grabbing what looked like a glass ball from the counter in front of her and throwing it as hard as she could at whatever was behind the curtain. Instantly, there was a muffled bang and a noxious green cloud. “Ow! Dammit Miriam! I told you not to throw those inside the shop! They’re too damn expensive to make! And they smell!”
“Not as bad as your feet!” she yelled back. Trip had the distinct feeling he’d wandered into a sitcom. “Now get yer ass out here! We need the money! They almost shut off the electricity again yesterday!”
“Eh,” Harry said. It sounded like he’d gotten up and was moving around. “They won’t. I cast a Redirect cantrip on our payment plan. Our bill’s being paid by David Letterman now.”
“You and that damn TV! Why can’t you cast a spell that’ll get us on a game show! We need a dinette set! Why’d I ever marry you?!”
Harry, who looked to be in his early 40s and balding, poked his head from behind the curtain. “You put a curse on my father and wouldn’t lift it until I said yes! He had a third eye for weeks!”
“And he was still blind as a bat!” Trip was wondering whether he could sneak out without them noticing. “Don’t even think about leaving!” Miriam suddenly said, whipping around and stabbing a finger at him. Trip jumped. “Your destiny depends on this!”
“Oh, leave him alone, Miriam, he still has free will. They’d end up together anyway and you know it. Now shaddup and let me get in a mood.” Suddenly the curtain was shoved to the side and Harry appeared, now wearing a thick fabric wrap stitched with stars, moons, and elemental symbols and an immense swami’s headdress on his head, his arms crossed in front of him. He looked completely absurd. He made a sound like a ghost with no pitch. “OOOOoooOOOOoooo! I am the Swami of Brooklyn. I cast the future! I see the past! I find lost loves! I grant all yer...!”
“Oh, for Light’s sake, Harry, will ya quit it?!” Miriam said, ripping the headdress off his head. “Just once I’d like to cast a spell without you looking like My Fair Lady.”
Harry grabbed the headdress out of her hands and put it back on his head crooked. “Miriam leave me alone! I need to set the mood for magic.” And with that, he raised his hands and all the lights in the room went out.
“That was incredible,” Trip gasped, his jaw dropping as he found himself in pitch-blackness. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Even with what he wanted, he hadn’t believed that magic really existed until this moment.
“No it wasn’t,” came Miriam’s annoyed voice in the dark. “They just shut off the electricity.”
“I coulda sworn that cantrip worked.”
It took a good hour for Harry to set up the spell, partially because Miriam had to spend ten minutes screaming at him to use his spells using his brain and not his wallet, and fifteen minutes more for her to find enough emergency candles that they could see well enough to set up any spell. During this time Trip stayed out of their way, because he knew the meaning of the word crossfire. When she wasn’t looking he invoked a strange language and suddenly she would yelp and scream at him to stop with the tentacles or keep his pixies to himself or grow his own damn horns. Once or twice when he wasn’t looking she would pick up an item off of a shelf, a doll made from burlap with button eyes, a statuette of a bird, or what looked like a makeup case and wave her hand over it with an intent look on her face, whereupon he would yelp in return and respond with much saltier language than she used.
During this time, Trip saw a number of interesting items by candlelight, none of which he felt compelled to buy once he examined them closely. An antique portrait of a man mesmerized him and he nearly picked it up, until he realized that the man in the picture had started grinning the second his hand got within an inch of touching the frame, which made him jerk back, which made the man bare his long, razor-sharp teeth in anger. A 5-disc CD-changer covered in dust seemed to be in perfect working order, which he proved by pushing open. It was then that he realized that it was operating not only with no electricity but not even plugged into the wall. And inside every single disc was Neil Diamond. And could not be removed. (On it was a sign, Special Value - $5.00! ) A pile of friendship bracelets marked Lucky Bracelets with a sign saying Half off - only slightly lucky. Mood rings that did not change color, but made his mood whatever the ring’s fixed color indicated. A candle that had a fixed burning flame but no wick, a bag of Hallowe’en candy that was always full of black M&Ms, a set of headphones that translated everything said by anyone around him into Spanish and French simultaneously (making it gibberish; he could not hear one at a time), body piercing jewelry that grew in gauge as he held it, a hairbrush that made his hair start to curl before he started brushing, and a large tobacco pipe that seemed to always be full of tobacco. And a small oval sterling silver pendant with a sort of tribal bear claw design with a tight spiral on either side in mirror image.
It’s perfect, Trip thought, not even sure why he was thinking it. He really wasn’t after jewelry but for some reason it appealed to him. Not to wear, but... A second too late, he realized he was about to pick it up and his hand closed around it. And nothing happened. He’d expected it to burn his skin or something, but it felt strangely... cold. That wasn’t the right word, it was room temperature, but it was... void. Like it had nothing but the shell of matter, not a solid inside. Very odd... but it still felt right. Without thinking, he kept it in his hand as he ducked between the glass cases in the dim flickering light heading back behind the curtain.
What he saw behind the curtain wasn’t what he expected, not that anything he’d experienced so far had been what he’d expected, not that he even knew what it was he expected. The space opened up into a moderate living area that had obviously been lived in by Harry and Miriam for a long while; it had the look. Along with this was a decent kitchen area and stairs leading up into darkness, and a door behind which was the flickering of most of the candles Miriam had found. Taking a deep breath, trying not to feel nervous, Trip entered.
This, he had to admit, was more what he expected. There was a round table in the center of the room on which was a rich tapestry, upon which Harry was closely examining a large book, straining to see in the gloomy light. Without looking up from what he was doing, Harry said, “Did you get it?”
Trip blinked, confused. “Get what?”
Harry gave him a look. “The focus, gimlet. The representative icon that’ll bring out what you want your wish to be. The tchotchka you just picked up.” Trip kept blinking. Harry sighed. “Why do I always have to scry first? Why can I never let them just come in?” He rolled his eyes. “Look, uh... what’s yer name again?”
“Trip.”
“How’d ya get that name? Fall down a lot as a kid?” Trip stiffened, offended at the same slur he got as a six year old, but Harry went right on. “Look Trip, I know why yer here, and granting wishes like that ain’t easy. It takes a lot of cosmic energy moved around, know what I mean? And the payment involved... oy gevalt the price!”
“I’ve got money,” Trip said, nettled. How much was it going to be? He’d set aside a good bit for his mother, but even with that he had plenty left over for his competitions...
“You really are ferdrayt in the head, y’know that?” Trip frowned, not understanding, but got no chance to ask. “Trip, I don’t mean your sheckels... I mean the price.” Trip kept staring at him in the shadows. “I’m not getting through to you am I? Well, that’s my cue to let him tell you. Well, let’s get started on your boyfriend.”
Trip opened his mouth to ask who he meant in both cases, but just then Miriam came bustling in, her arms full of strange objects. ”Oh, you’re a faygalah?” Trip stiffened, not understanding the real meaning of the word. “Harry, you didn’t tell me that! Oh, I just love you boys!” she said, putting her hand on her chest, pleased. While she continued talking, she placed the items around the table in certain places, a rose, a digital watch, a red stone, three pencils, and others. “My sister Rose’s second boy is one... such a sweet boy, so good with decorating and flowers... he decorated the mayor of New York’s apartment, you know, and they did a big article in the paper and some magazine and now he makes a fortune. He’s so talented. And he’s so thoughtful... he always calls his mother every month and gives the nicest gifts. Well, he seemed so lonely, you know, so I had Harry cast a true love spell for him, and wouldn’t you know, the very next week he met a doctor, a podiatrist... oh so handsome; eyes to die for. They’ve been together five years, they’re very happy and very in love, and best of all he’s Jewish, and he goes to worship. We were so happy. Her first boy is straight, you know, and he’s an idiot.” Trip opened his mouth to reply but closed it again, not sure what to say or whether to say anything at all. “You keep a nice apartment don’t you? You boys always do. We rent the upstairs you know, and we always try to rent to the gay boys. They always pay the rent on time and they always keep a wonderful apartment. You do, don’t you?” Trip opened his mouth again, offended at what he saw as a stereotype of gays... but closed it again, realizing that at least in his case it was true. He nodded with a tight grin, wishing they’d get to the spell.
Harry had been meanwhile flipping through page after page of yellowed parchment (“It’s recycled”) with strange lettering and illustrations that seemed to quiver when Trip looked at them too long. “Love spell... love spell... love spell... win the lottery... get rid of your boyfriend... love spell... love spell... win the lottery... find lost keys... love spell... win the lottery... tomorrow’s weather... love spell... ward off flying monkeys... find the nearest bathroom... win the lottery... love spell... win the lottery... win the lottery... love spell... win the lottery... win the... no one way to do anything in the world is there? Win... love...” He gave an aggravated grunt and abruptly flipped the pages. Trip wasn’t sure, but for a split second it seemed like his fingertips had had a line of fire erupt from them. The pages abruptly settled. “Here it is! The man of your dreams. It...” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Trip. “Trip, you do know that this is a pretty hefty spell, right? You don’t want to find the man of your dreams; you want to make the man of your dreams. That’s different. It’s gonna do a lot, you know. Are you sure you wanna do this?”
“Yes!” Trip said, a bit more irritated than he intended. “I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t!” In his hand, the pendant seemed to pulse, but he was so intent he didn’t notice.
“Touchy,” Harry said, exchanging a look with Miriam that seemed to speak volumes, though Trip couldn’t say what. “Okay, Trip, it’s my duty as a magical practitioner of The Messenger to tell you of the seriousness of the spell you want to cast.” He sounded as though he was making a prepared speech, one that he’d made on many occasions. “The spell you want to cast involves rearranging reality on its most fundamental levels. However, this is only in a linear manner.” He paused and quickly flipped the book open to the inside back cover, where a piece of legal paper was taped inside. He mouthed the words as though to memorize them and continued. “In other words, the future is changed but the past ain’t. What’s different is how people remem...”
“I don’t care about all that!” Trip said, finally losing his patience. “Can you cast the fucking spell or not?”
Harry gave him a withering look; Miriam’s was not much better. “Nice. You kiss your mother with that mouth? Look, Trip...” He paused, thinking, his expression still extremely disapproving, and then said, “I’m curious. Did you ever get a bike as a kid? Or pitch a tent or make a fort?” Trip nodded, no idea where the man was going with this, his temper getting worse with each second. “Okay, did you read the directions or did you just start putting the stuff together because you knew how you wanted it to go and how it was supposed to be?”
Trip blinked, now completely puzzled at this change in topic. “Well...” he thought about it for a second, “I never needed the directions. I was good putting stuff together. If I didn’t know how or I got it wrong, I could adapt it or fix it later on.” That was the one thing Trip could say; he may not be able to cook, but he was the one who fixed things around the apartment and worked on their cars when they inevitably had problems. Scott was not mechanically inclined.
Harry rolled his eyes and looked at Miriam, who nodded back. Trip looked between the two of them, baffled, but they gave him no chance. “Yeah, I thought so.” He took a chain from around his neck and lifted it up. It was constructed of tightly woven silver links and hanging from it was a large silver antique skeleton key. Trip raised an eyebrow; it was beautifully worked. Harry held it in his hand and closed his eyes for a moment. The silver flickered in the dim candlelight... except it wasn’t. It was glowing under its own power, as though from within. After a moment a flash emerged from it that oddly rotated in the dim light around them... and Trip felt the pendant he held jerk right out of his hand and land on the table in front of them. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise; it had landed in the exact center of the table, near the edge of the book. Harry didn’t even blink. “Mm... it figures,” he said as the glow disappeared from the key. “Well, Miriam, I guess we skip the speech this time. He says just to go ahead with the spell.”
“What?!” Miriam said, aghast. “He never does that! It’s always too...!”
Harry cut her off. “I guess not this time,” he said in a significant tone of voice. Trip wondered what it had been too much of. Harry gave Miriam a look and she walked around the table to where Trip saw was the second of the three chairs spaced equidistant around the table. She made a commanding gesture for Trip to sit in the third chair, which he did tentatively. They were both obviously irritated at him for some reason he couldn’t even begin to fathom, but beyond that he felt like he’d done something wrong and had no clue what it could be. When he was seated, Harry closed his eyes and said, his Bronx accent suddenly much less prominent, “Now is the time, this is the hour. I summon the force I summon the power.” Miriam, meanwhile, had placed her fingertips lightly on the pendant and had her own eyes closed, whispering to herself. Trip could almost hear the words, except they didn’t seem to be words, or he couldn’t quite comprehend their meaning.
Harry’s hands hovered over the open book palms down, and Trip felt his discomfort and nervousness fade into slight impatience. This was not how he’d pictured magic happening. This was why, when the letters on the page flared into brilliantly glowing green light, he was caught mildly off-guard.
Harry, his eyes still closed, lowered his hands to his sides, Miriam lowering hers at the same time. Trip looked at them, his brows going into his hair: they had both become... there was no other way to describe it... dreamlike. As though they were suddenly both asleep as they sat there. The letters of the spell glowed brighter and brighter until the entire room was bright as noon and a coruscating miasma began to swirl above their heads. Okay, now I’m impressed, Trip thought, though in reality he was terrified. This wasn’t what he’d pictured either. He’d been thinking maybe a Harry Potter-like wave of the wand and it would be done.
When the thick and pendulous miasma had coalesced above their heads, Trip felt an urgent need to leave... and found he couldn’t. He was anchored to the chair as though he’d been locked in. The swirling turned into clouds threatening a fierce vortex right over the Talisman. The Talisman. He didn’t know why he’d begun thinking of it that way, but that’s what it was. When the swirling reached an almost sickening speed, suddenly green light shot downward, bathing the Talisman and reflecting off into three distinct jets of light, one hitting Harry and Miriam each and one hitting him straight in the chest. He was nearly knocked back by the force and it put a sharp pain between his pecs, but he had no time for it because at that moment his mind was flooded with words and images, each coming faster than the last, crowding each other. It was like he was watching four movies all at the same time at an ultra-high speed and forced to comprehend every detail of all of them. It was too much. A blond personal trainer from his gym in their bathroom. A tattoo of a bear. Scott looking down at Trip while smoking a cigar (!) A door that wasn’t there, then was, leading into a place he couldn’t see, and for some reason he thought of Gary. The symbol 8F. A long hall with people in costume and Scott talking with a man with flashing green eyes. Himself washing the side of a big pink something. A weight plate in Scott’s hand. A very tall muscular man holding the back of the head of a much shorter muscular man. A barber pole. Others. Many others.
A loud thunderclap echoed in the room, drowning out thought, scattering the images. When it did the miasma abruptly began to spin slower, slowing with each passing moment. Trip had no idea how long he’d been caught up in the images in his mind’s eye but he had the sense only a few moments had passed. He tried to grasp one image or another but failed, leaving only vague impressions and a distinct feeling of unease.
And Harry and Miriam opened their eyes.
If Trip had been able to run, he would have. Their eyes were no longer blue and brown respectively; they were glowing a fiery green and staring directly at him. Whoever was looking at him, Trip had the uncanny feeling that it was not Harry and Miriam. And they spoke as one, in the same unearthly male voice, speaking as though from a mountaintop to a mortal.
“The spell is cast, the change is made;
Thus begin the plans best laid.
What mind obscures the heart perceives.
One man gives and one receives.
For the receiver, a new rebirth.
A man of fantasy stands on earth
With dreams fulfilled and old life riven,
If his consent is freely given.
For receiver a brand new morning.
For the giver an urgent warning.
Beware of wishes from the loins;
The price you pay is more than coins.
You cast a spell without a limit.
You ask for things not for the timid:
The form remade, the mind recast;
A future new, as well as past.
If he allows, your dream you’ll get
And more, a life you may regret.
Thus begin the plans best laid.
The spell is cast. The change is made.”
The green fire faded, their eyes closed, and the light withdrew from them, seeming to pull upward into the almost invisible nearly still swirl above them before it too faded away before his eyes.
After a moment, they opened theirs. “Hoo, that was a rich one,” Harry said, shaking it off like a drunk. Miriam put her face in her hands for a moment as though to collect her wits. She seemed a bit shaky. “He must like you, Trip. He put us in for a personal message to ya. He almost never does that, unless he wants to talk to you in particular, and he’s picky about his friends.” He seemed completely oblivious to Trip’s wide eyes and shaking body. How could he not see that? “What’d he say? Poetry, right? All moon, June, spoon stuff? What was it? A warning?”
Trip’s trembling lips opened, but at first all he could produce was an awkward squawk. That brought Miriam’s head up to look at him wryly before she got out of her chair and started to collect the items on the table with a shake of her head. “It.. you.. that is..” Trip began. “Uh... you said... he, uh, said...” He frowned. It was a jumble in his head. “The spell is cast... uh, a new rebirth...” He struggled to remember but it was like grasping air. “Form remade... dreams fulfilled...”
“Did he mention anything about the price you pay?” Harry asked significantly. Miriam didn’t look at either of them, but betting she wasn’t interested or paying attention was a longshot.
“Yes,” Trip admitted reluctantly. “Uh... wishes... the price... something something coins...” He scratched his thick goatee uncertainly. It was very hard to remember the exact words. He’d never liked poetry.
“Well, that’s helpful,” Harry said dryly.
The Talisman was put into a very nice gift box (“May as well make it look nice,” Miriam commented) with express instructions that Trip was not to touch the Talisman directly at any time under any circumstances. He asked why, but all Harry would rather cryptically say was “Not always, but sometimes magic’s a one-way street,” whatever that meant.
He’d been nearly bursting at the seams for Scott to leave the next morning – this morning – so he could leave it for him to find, but as these things often happen Scott was first dragging out of bed, trying to make coffee and balance a bagel at the same time, then running out the door with a stack of manila envelopes of boring sales reports. He shook his head as he watched Scott’s back disappear out the door; he didn’t know how he could stand plodding through dull paperwork. Trip loved being a personal trainer and competitor. He was always active, always moving, and didn’t have to deal with any dull work or cleanup at the gym. He wished he could get Scott there though.
Then he laughed and trotted off to the shower, shucking his clothes the whole way there. Maybe Scott would end up there anyway. He winked at his own reflection in the starburst mirror in the entry as he pulled his shirt over his head, flexing a little as he did. He could end up with a furry little powerlifter out of this deal. Definitely husband material then. This thought made him miss the first step though, and he hurried the rest of the way up, his cheeks burning. Any powerlifter would be husband material, he forced himself to think... but something in his subconscious seemed to disagree with him. He shrugged it off uncomfortably. He didn’t mean a husband husband, just, you know, a sort of hot hairy fuck-buddy that would, you know, sort of hang out and work out with Trip and watch movies and eat and get to know each other... He pushed that uncomfortable thought out of the way too and started mentally running through his training schedule. As quickly as possible.
He cramped himself into the little shower stall – he wished for the thousandth time they’d thought to examine this before moving in; he didn’t know how Scott stood it – and was scrubbing his hard pecs and six pack roughly when a thought occurred to him. He didn’t really know what Scott was going to end up like. Harry’s words came back to him: the man of his dreams. What was the man of his dreams? He puzzled over this as he dried and dressed himself, and when he pulled the F-150 out of the gate and pointed it toward The Gym Dandy. He had several graphic ideas occur to him during the day, each one more outrageously erotic than the last, and each one involving a new Scott – of many different shapes and sizes – following Trip like a puppy. It was a pleasant thought overall.
But that was seven hours earlier, before four personal training sessions with interchangeable muscle wannabes all with the same builds and same inane questions (“Do I lift my arm up the whole way?”) and an exhausting workout and even more exhausting hole-wrecking session with Gary afterward. Now, Trip was driving the 150 back with all undue speed, not caring that he was courting disaster with the local police even though the streets seemed empty... what few cars he saw seemed almost to be standing still as he zoomed past them...
He glanced at the clock. Eight-fourteen. He went back to watching the road, humming to himself... and frowned, looking back. Eight-fourteen? Couldn’t be. The digital clock on the radio hadn’t moved. Impossible. He’d been driving for almost...
With no warning a blinding glare enveloped the truck. With a yelp, he involuntarily let go of the wheel to shield his eyes, forgetting he was traveling at top speed down the highway... and gasped as he felt the distinct feel of hands on his body, driving all thought out of his mind. He could feel the water-slick hands probing his ready hole, a moan escaping his throat. Fuck me, Scott, he found himself saying... or almost saying. Ram that cock in me. Let me feel that hairy belly of yours. Plow me, Daddy. The sheer eroticism of the bulky hairy Scott he saw over his shoulder as he leaned forward in the shower spreading his hole open was too much. Scott would have laughed to picture Trip actually saying these things but Trip was too fireblind to care. Uhh... n-no! Scott! He felt the explosion burst out of him and his vision dull into blackness as the truck and the world seemed to ripple as a pulse passed through him...
Trip opened his eyes, panicking as he realized that he’d just closed his eyes driving down the road. Frantically he hit the brakes... and did a double take. He was parked in front of the apartment building. Parked. Engine off. Hood cold. A light spattering of rain had started coming down and was tapping lightly off the hood, but there was no indicative steam to show a recently run engine. How long had he been there? When had he gotten there? Had he hallucinated...? The image was still fresh in his mind, as though it had happened just a moment ago... He shook it off. It hadn’t happened at all. It couldn’t have.
It was only as he took his first step out of the truck that he noticed the wet stain on the front of his jeans where his cum had seeped through. He’d expected to have a wet ass from the cum seeping out – it was dry and he still felt uncomfortably full – but whatever he’d imagined must have been... He found himself lingering over the image of Scott he’d seen; a huge furry musclebear looking down at him as he arched back, the look in his eyes one of...
Just as he started to think the forbidden “L” word, the clouds above him gave a deafening crash and a solid sheet of water drenched him. Trip cursed and scrambled to grab his gym bag out of the truck and lock it behind him. It was all of ten steps to the front door but by the time he reached it he was soaked to the skin. He hated tracking in water. He was squelching his way up the stairs, his eagerness to see Scott damped down by the irritation of being wet on his way to do it. Oh, well, just a bit of bad luck, not like karma was out to get him.
It took ten minutes to get up to the third floor, primarily because the elevator doors started closing and then jammed halfway, necessitating him prying his bulk out of it before he became trapped. Ordinarily he would have just taken the stairs (better workout), but since he was cold and wet and full of cum... well, do the math. Now he was grumping up the stairs two at a time, surprised that the water wasn’t boiling off his head.
It was a moment after the door slammed that he remembered the whole reason he’d been so hot to get home in the first place. He tried to bring his mood under control.
The lights were on and Scott’s keys were in the basket... good to see that he’d trained Scott to do one thing... and right there on the nook was the open box and the note. He smiled, and smiled wider when he saw that Scott had removed the bow without untying it. Trip was flattered that he’d considered it pretty enough to keep. He was good at that kind of thing. He even let some of his irritation at being cold and wet go, but he still had some when he turned to look at himself in the dancing bear mirror. Well, even wet he was still hot. He stripped off his sopping gym logo jacket. He noticed that some of the cheap lettering had come off in the rain; it no longer said “The Gym Dandy,” just “The Gym” now. Instantly enamored of his own sharply defined musculature, he flexed a little in the mirror, the tribal rope armband bisecting his left bicep and the kanji on his right shoulder (‘strength’) both distorting as the muscles under them bulged. He kissed first one bicep and then the other. I am the man, he thought, smiling through his thin goatee. Actually, the way he was showing, maybe a wet t-shirt wasn’t a bad thing after all. Wait. Thin goatee? Strange... he thought his goatee was a lot thicker...
A heavy thump above his head tore his attention away from his own image. His grin almost turned wicked. He knew the sound of Scott’s steps on the floor above very well and they were definitely heavier in tread. Anyone who knew the sound could tell, and Trip of course took note of details of Scott like that... because they lived together, that is, not because of any undue reason. He felt his cock twitching in anticipation as looked up the stairs, seeing a vague, but definitely larger, shadow moving just beyond sight. He winked at himself in the mirror and started for the stairs...
...and came to a halt, looking back. Dancing bears and paw prints? Where had that come from? Where was his starburst mirror? He paid fifty bucks for that at the kitsch shop down on the gay strip, The Queen’s Blessing, right when they moved in! When did Scott...? But then a memory surfaced that seemed to contradict his previous thought; Scott’s delighted face when Trip presented him with this mirror and the gift certificate last Christmas. Gift certificate for what? he wondered vaguely, but the answer would not come to mind. He remembered having the other mirror, but also remembered this one being here all this time, a fact reinforced by the dust in the corners. He shook his head as he turned back to the stairs. Odd, but he had other priorities at the moment.
It took supreme self-control to not just bolt up the stairs, but he had to act casual. No doubt when Scott saw him the first thing he’d say was “What happened to me?” He rehearsed a few responses, some matter of fact, a few surprised. The shadow moving around just past the bend was bigger, all right, and he felt a pulse of precum. This was going to be good. Then he reached the top of the stairs and the open door of Scott’s room and his jaw dropped.
To be continued?