NY`s bitch

They would command him around the house they all shared, he cleaned and did the laundry. He would suck cocks whenever they wanted. Most of times, they would take Frankine to the woods.

You can think of a few reasons why you found yourself in the audience that night. Well, really one. When you heard "Are You Smarter Than A Himbo" was putting on a show in your neighborhood, you couldn't resist. Sure, it was kind of stupid. You'd seen the clips online. They'd bring some braindead jock up on stage to flex, laugh, crack jokes, and answer basic trivia wrong. The poor idiot would laugh along as the audience laughed at him. You'd always figured the dunce was too dumb to realize they were laughing at him. But fuck, those guys were hot. So if anything, you'd get to ogle at some hot guy flexing all night and maybe get a few laughs out of it too.

"Do you think Zak's pecs are real?"

"Jason is like totally the hottest."

"I think Ryan isn't as dumb as he lets on."

"Did you know Mike is single? I can't…"

You roll your eyes at the fanfare all around you. These people were seriously into it. And then it starts.

"Welcome everyone!" You watch as a lanky man struts on stage with his hair slicked back and a wide grin on his face, "Are you ready!?" The crowd- mostly women and a few guys cheered in response, "I said: are you ready!?" You roll your eyes as the host worked the crowd, "Alright, alright… welcome." The host smiles wider, "Put your hands together for our main man!"

The host gestures toward the side of the stage and Zak strolls out with a slow, confident walk, his arms flexed as if expecting applause. He’s got thick curls falling over his forehead, and his chest is packed with muscle, tight under his white tank top. The crowd goes wild as he steps onto the platform.

“Y’all ready?” Zak shouts, raising both arms above his head. “Let’s go!” He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, and your eyes widen as you take in his massive pecs and perfect abs. The crowd similarly goes wild. Zak grins, flashing a perfect set of teeth, "I'm so fuckin' pumped to be here tonight! I fuckin' love you guys!"

"But Zak, I think you have something to say to everyone. Right?" The host interjects, patting the massive jock on the back.

"Yo dude yeah, for real." Zak nods, "Like, this is gonna be my last show, ya know? With the whole modeling thing blowin' up and all." The audience groans, "I know, it sucks majorly, trust me!" Zak frowns, "But like, you'll get to see plenty more of me. Trust me brahs." He winks and the crowd cheers.

The host claps, "That’s what I like to hear! Alright, let’s get started!"

You lean forward in your seat as the first audience member is brought up. It only takes a few questions for her to utterly humiliate Zak, who just laughs and flexes like the dumb himbo that he is. As the contestant returns to her seat, the host's eyes scan the crowd, zeroing in on you.

"What about you there in the blue shirt? He looks smart, right Zak? Let's get you up here!"

Initially you're shocked. You? The host gestures for you to make your way up to the stage. You can feel your heart pounding as you climb the stairs, palms feeling a little sweaty. The bright lights, all eyes on you. And as you step onto the stage, you get an up close look of Zak. His biceps bulge impressively, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. But god he smells like a wet gym sock.

"Sup bro, nice to meetcha!" Zak grins and throws a muscular arm around you, "Dude, you ready for this?"

"Aw do I sense a budding bromance?" The host grins and the crowd cheers. After settling them down, he turns to you. "You know how this works by now. Do you think you're smarter than a himbo?"

"Yeah, I think I am." You reply.

"Heh we'll see about that, bro!" Zak guffaws, "I was just goin' easy on that last chick."

"The confidence!" The host laughs, "Let's put it to the test. Your first question: Which is the only sea without any coastlines?"

You ponder for a moment. A sea without a coastline? That's... god what was that? You feel your cheeks flushing red, as you realize you don't know the answer to that. But if you don't know the answer, Zak would definitely not know either. Speaking of Zak, he's bouncing his pecs like the oversized gym bro he is.

"Is it the Caspian Sea?" You shrug, eyes still locked on his massive pecs. Of course the host shakes his head with exaggerated sadness.

"Ah, seems Mr. Smartypants here was a bit too distracted admiring the view to ace that question!" He winks at the audience, while Zak flexes.

"No shame in that, brah!"

You feel your face flush red with embarrassment as the laughter from the audience washes over you. Great, now they all think you're just another hormone-addled fool who can't string two thoughts together because of a pretty face.

"Alright Zak, a question for you now buddy!" You figure Zak is about to bomb this question anyway- round will end in a tie and you can walk away with some dignity, "What color are bananas?"

Zak scratches his head, "Dude… tricky." He chuckles, low and dumb, "So, I want to say yellow, but also green when they're not ripe. Oh but brown too if they go for too long!"

"Fantastic answer Zak! Well thought out!" The host grins as the crowd cheers, "Uh oh, looks like Zak has pulled ahead!"

The fuck kind of question was that? You look at the host and then Zak, who is doing a victory dance. The color of bananas? Of course Zak would know that- he's a fucking ape. You smirk at your own joke.

"Okay okay, let's try another one! Mr. Smartypants, are you ready to redeem yourself?" You're ready, more than ready. You're not..., "What pigments are responsible for the red color of leaves?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't have an answer for that. Maybe you did know it, but between the flexing stud and the stage fright, you couldn't find the information.

"Chlorophyll."

"What a shame! That is not correct." He smiles at the audience, "It seems Zak may have a chance to widen his lead! Hey big guy, what day of the month is Christmas celebrated on?" It takes Zak maybe a minute or two to answer that one correctly, "Look at that folks, Zak is now up by two!" He turns to you with a grin, "Seems our guest is not much of a smartypants after all!"

Again, your face flush reds, "No worries, little dude." Zak ruffles your hair, "I uh, I got some smarts, ya know." He looks out towards the audience, "Last show brahs but first win!"

The crowd cheers and it dawns on you that you might be the first person to actually lose this stupid game. Frustration bubbles up inside you as the host and crowd continue to mock you. You're better than this, smarter than being made a fool of. Screw it, you're going to show them all up.

"I could answer every single one of those easy-ass questions he's getting," you mutter under your breath, but the mic picks it up anyway. The host's eyes light up.

"Oh ho, is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk gracing his features. "Well then, why don't you prove it, hot shot? Let's see if you can handle something a little more…your speed. Here we go bud - how does the body cool down during intense exercise like a heavy workout session?"

You chuckle. Really? This was the question? You clear your voice, "Sweating. That's how it keeps from overheating."

"Correct!"

"Woah bro, nice one!"

Yeah... that was a nice one. Finally got a question right... finally... You wince as a warmth fills your upper arms. At first it's just a gentle tingling, a warm buzzing beneath your skin. But quickly it builds to a throbbing, insistent pressure.

"What the…?"

The sensation intensifies, an intensifying heat pulsing through your upper arms. Your skin prickles and tightens as your biceps and triceps stretch against the sleeve of your shirt. It feels like the most intense pump after a grueling workout, but magnified tenfold. Your arms throbbing, aching. You feel aware of just how much more space they're taking up. And the twitching- it's incessant. Unconsciously, your arms start to rise, muscles tensing, flexing…

"Whoa…" you mutter, marveling at the sheer size and density of your upper arms, "How…?"

The host clears his throat pointedly, breaking you out of your awestruck reverie. "Ahem, moving on! Thanks for that… demonstration." He shoots you a knowing wink, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's see if we can't challenge that big ol' brain of yours with another question, shall we? What does the acronym SBD stand for in powerlifting?"

"Oh brah, way too easy." Zak chides, crossing his massive arms over his muscular chest, "Even I know that one."

But your head is swimming. The powerful feeling in your arms send pleasurable waves of warmth through your body. But your mind. You're reviewing the question. Thinking it through. SBD? In powerlifting?

"SBD... SBD..." You rub your chin, unconsciously flexing your now massive bicep, "Huh... like... That's uh..."

You look over at Zak and he's making some kind of motion. A goofy grin on his face as he squats. Squats. Squats!

"Bro!" You grin, "Squats, dude! Yeah, that's what the S stands for." You grin, but the host shakes his head, "C'mon what?" You pout.

"You're still forgetting the rest." The host smiles, "And the timer is counting down."

You shuffle anxiously on your feet. You know this, right? But why would you? You're not into powerlifting. But like, it should be easy. If S stands for squats then like, wouldn't B and D also be something to do with working out? Yeah? Totally, that makes sense. But like, what else is there? What other... huh... shirt is getting kinda tight too. And fuck, you can't help but notice how warm your chest feels. Nice and warm, pressing more and more against the fabric of your shirt. Stretching it out against your big, meaty...

"Bench press, brah! B stands for bench press!" You say with a grin as your shirt starts to tear away, revealing a set of massive pecs and a chiseled torso, "Huh where'd my shirt go?" The audience cheers and you grin, staring down as you bounce your pecs.

"Excellent job, but unfortunately, you didn't finish. You missed D, you big dunce."

The host laughs, and you laugh along with him and the audience. Big dunce. Yeah that's... that's you? You pause for a second and start to feel that same embarrassment from earlier. They're laughing... not with you, but...

"Dude, can't win em all!" Zak slaps you on your increasingly wider back and you turn to him- now at eye-level, "But like, brah, you've got this next one!"

"Y-y-you th-think so.... brah?" Your tongue feels heavy, the words feel sluggish. You notice your voice sounds deeper to your ears, "I..."

"You have to focus there, smartypants!" The host interrupts, "Two more questions. Are you ready?" You nod slowly, "In a deadlift, how high are you supposed to lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Deadlift..." Your eyes light up suddenly, "Wait, bro! The D! That's what D stands for, brah!" You say excitedly.

The whole audience laughs, as does the host. You look at him, feeling a strange sense of confusion bubbling up. Why were they laughing? What was so funny?

"Good job there, but that was the last question. We've moved on, big guy."

"Oh..." You chuckle, a grin forming on your lips as you let out a deep, dumb laugh, "Huhuhuh that was pretty stupid of me." The audience and the host laugh even louder, and you find yourself joining in, "Alright, gotta lock in, gotta... brah what was the question?"

"Dead lifts..."

"Oh fuck yeah! I fuckin' love deadlifts."

The host grins, "Yes, exactly! So tell us, when doing a deadlift, how high do you lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Yeah... uh..." You bite your lip, thinking hard. Your fingers drum against your swollen bicep as you try to concentrate and with a sigh, lift your hands behind your head, "Oh nice..."

Your eyes lock on to your bulging bis and tris and you're momentarily distracted. But the sharp tang of your own musk drifts up from your armpits, momentarily derailing your train of thought. Fuck, you smell good. Really fucking good. But since when did you...?

"Brah, c'mon you got this." Zak says, watching you closely.

You shake your head and run a hand through your perfectly gelled, styled hair, before pausing- fuck your aesthetic is probably cooked. You awkwardly pat at your hair.

"Worry about your hair later, you've got a question to answer." The host says.

"Fuck, sorry..." You let out an awkward chuckle, "Just gotta..."

Your body moves instinctively into the proper deadlift position—back straight, knees slightly bent, hips pushed back—as if you've done this 1000s of times before. As you demonstrate the form flawlessly, a new awareness floods your lower body. Your glutes feel… alive. Heavy. Round. Perfect. You grin as you squeeze them unconsciously, feeling the dense muscle fibers contract.

"The answer is hips, bro."

"Let's fuckin' go, brah!" Zak cheers and slaps you on the ass, sending a wave of intense pleasure reverberating through your meaty glutes.

As the crowd cheers, your eyes lock on Zak. The pleasure from him slapping your ass still making you shudder. You drink him in, fixated on the prominent bulge straining against his gym shorts.

"Fuck..." You mumble- he's packing serious heat there.

Your mouth waters involuntarily as fantasies flood your mind—Zak pinning you down, those huge hands squeezing your meaty ass while he drives his massive cock deep inside you. The image of you riding his thick cock sends shivers down your growing frame, and you imagine running your tongue over every inch of his sweat-slick skin. You lick your lips and grin at the thought.

When your eyes meet again, Zak doesn't look away. Instead, his smirk widens as he catches you staring, and the few brain cells he has recognize exactly what you’re thinking. He flexes for the audience, but he turns to give you a quick wink, letting you know all that flexing was just for you... because he wants you to know he wants you too. After all, you know there's not way he could resist you either. With your... bulging pecs? Massive arms? Thick glutes?

"Wait..." You mumble. You can feel the rusting gears in your increasingly empty head turn ever so slightly, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.

Your head was spinning, brain trying to make sense of all of it.

Something’s off, right? Like... this ain’t how it used to be. You know that. You weren’t… this. But then... what were you then, dude? Cause, like, look at you. Seriously... just look. You’re absolutely shredded. I mean, c’mon, those arms? That chest? You don’t just wake up lookin’ this jacked without bein’… well, this guy. So how could you not be you if you straight-up look like you? Right?

A dumb chuckle escapes your lips as all that thinking overwhelms and shuts down whatever last remaining brain cells you have.

The host snaps his fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. "Earth to bro, we still got one question."

"Huh? Wha-" You blink slowly, your expression vacant and slack. Drool slips down your chin as you stare blankly ahead.

"Are you smarter than a himbo?" The host grins.

"Nawww, bro, 'course not!" You reply with a big, dumb grin spreading across your face, "Can't be smarter than a himbo cuz… I AM the fuckin' himbo, bro!"

The host laughs, shaking his head, "Well folks, I guess that settles it! Looks like we've got ourselves a new resident himbo to take Zak's place. Give it up for… COLT!"

The audience erupts into cheers and applause as you beam proudly, basking in the spotlight. You feel Zak sling a muscular arm around your broad shoulders, squeezing you close.

"Dude, so fuckin' glad you're joinin' the fam, bro!" Zak enthuses, his hand drifting lower to grope your ass possessively, "Trust me bro, you're gonna love it."

Zak's strong grip on your juicy ass makes you shudder and you can tell by that grin that he's thinking exactly what you're thinking.

The host clears his throat loudly, snapping you out of your lustful stupor. "Don't forget to wave to the crowd, champ!" He gestures encouragingly towards the audience.

With a dopey grin, you raise a hand in greeting, relishing the adoration pouring in from all sides.

"Thanks y'all, this is gonna be fuckin' sick!" You call out enthusiastically, grinning like an idiot.

And as Zak digs his fingers into your massive ass, you lick your lips hungrily. The only thought in your empty head was that once this show was over, you'd be giving him a private encore performance that neither of you would forget…

Tell you what. I am feeling generous today. I will let one of you suck on my above-average boner. And the other one will receive a large dose of my grade-A DNA right up the ass. You decided. Just $50 each. Like I said. I am feeling generous.

Tell you what. First let's see you two making out. Show me that homo stuff you queers like to do. Yeah, use your tongue. That making your little clits swell up? Like I care. You, the fat one, get down on your knees and blow your buddy. You got it. Have to admit his cock is not small at all. Lucky you. Now stand up and bend over up against the trailer. I want to see you getting nailed hard. But you fags are used to that.

Fucking drill that lard ass. Looks like you may have been up this territory before. Release that sperm. Waste it up his ass. Shit yeah. Pull it out and let him suck you clean. Let's hope he was clean. Actually, I am not. Good little fag.

Now it is your turn. Yeah, you the skinny one. Same drill. Suck your buddy first then bend over. We got the time. Holy shit. That is one tiny dick. Damn. Not gonna feel much when he inserts it into your willing rectum. Not my problem. Sweet. You fags always follow direction. Why is that? Just naturally wanting to be told what to do?

Time to get what you paid for. Tell you what. Take turns sucking me. Give you an idea of what you are gonna get. Make love to my tool. Fucking impressive, right. One of the reasons I let queers like you handle it. Cause my girlfriend is not so much a fan of a cock this big. She is always finding reasons not to take care of it. Probably time to find a new girlfriend, but I am fucking lazy. And you homos are always handy to take care of it.

Bend over, fat man. I want to sink into that jizz you are carrying up there. Hurts, don't it. You like it that way. I don't see you pulling away from it. For such a fat fucker your hole looks well used. Guess someone wants to have their fun.

Now you. The good looking one. Your turn. Shit, your cunt looks tight. It won't be in a bit. Sweet man. Just what I want to feel. Ass is like milking me. You are the winner. You are in line to get my load. You are welcome. And don't pull off after I breed you. I always have to piss. Your hole will take care of that real easy.

Once upon a time in the glittering heart of the city, two young men named Elias and Theo emerged from the grand opera house, their faces flushed with the ecstasy of Puccini's arias. They were the epitome of refined upbringing—twinks from affluent families, with manicured nails, fluffy coiffed hair, and impeccable tuxedos that screamed old money. Elias, with his sharp cheekbones and delicate features, linked arms with Theo, whose eyes sparkled like polished sapphires under the streetlights. They chatted animatedly about the soprano's performance as they strolled home, but in their post-cultural haze, they took a wrong turn down a dimly lit alley, wandering deeper into the industrial underbelly of the docks.

As the elegant boulevards gave way to gritty warehouses and the distant hum of cranes, Elias shifted uncomfortably. "Oh dear, Theo," he said in his most cultured tone, "I find myself in quite the predicament. My bladder is protesting most vehemently—I simply cannot endure it a moment longer. Look, there's an establishment over there. I shall inquire within."

The "establishment" was anything but. It was a dingy dive bar called The Rusty Anchor, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke, the clamor of rough laughter, and the clink of beer mugs. Inside, burly dockworkers and truck drivers hunched over the bar, nursing pints and hurling darts at a battered board. Elias and Theo, in their pristine tuxedos, stuck out like diamonds in a coal mine—total aliens in this world of callused hands and grease-stained overalls.

Elias approached the grizzled bartender, his posture straight as a symphony conductor's baton. But in his urgency, something slipped. "Excuse me, sir," he began politely, then blurted, "I need to piss—where can I do that?" His eyes widened in horror, and he clapped a manicured hand over his mouth. "Oh heavens, forgive my vulgarity! I meant to say, where might one find the lavatory?" Blushing furiously, he darted toward the back as the bartender grunted and pointed.

Theo, left alone at the bar, fidgeted with his cufflinks, feeling eyes on him. The patrons' stares turned hostile. A massive hulk of a man in a garbage collector's jumpsuit lumbered over, his beard flecked with foam from his beer. "Hey, pretty boy," he sneered, towering over Theo. "You a man or a girl? Can't tell with that fluffy hair and fancy suit. This here's a spot for real men." His cronies erupted in booming laughter, slapping their knees.

Theo's cheeks burned, but something inside him snapped—a spark of defiance he'd never known. Though he'd never thrown a punch in his life, he cocked his fist and delivered a perfectly executed left hook, catching the giant square on the jaw. The man staggered back, and chaos erupted. Fists flew, chairs toppled, and the bar devolved into a full-blown brawl. Theo dodged a swing from a dockworker, landing a surprisingly agile uppercut on another.

In the midst of the melee, a strong hand gripped Theo's shoulder from behind. He whirled, fist raised—only to freeze. It was Elias, but… not Elias. The tuxedo was torn and bloodied, his fluffy hair matted with sweat, and his once-delicate face now bore a rugged scowl. Only his eyes hinted at the twink he used to be. "Let's go, mate," Elias growled in a voice rough as gravel.

Theo grinned fiercely. "Right on." Together, they dove back in, trading blows with the patrons like seasoned fighters. Punches landed, bottles shattered, and the air filled with grunts and cheers.

An hour later, the dust settled. The bar was a wreck, but the mood had shifted to begrudging respect. Elias and Theo, bruised and exhilarated, downed a few rounds of beer with their new "friends." To cover the damages and settle the tabs, they pawned off their expensive watches—gold Rolexes that could have bought the whole dive twice over. As they stumbled out into the night, Elias slapped Theo on the back. "Oi, fancy hittin' another joint like this?"

Theo chuckled, wiping blood from his lip. "Is the sky blue, ya git?" They roared with laughter, arm in arm, vanishing into the fog-shrouded streets for more mischief.

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the grimy window of a cramped social housing apartment. Elias groaned awake, tangled in sheets beside Theo. Their bodies ached from the night before—or was it? They dressed in worn work pants and heavy boots, grabbing hard hats for their shift at the docks. As dock workers now, they hauled crates under the cranes, the sea air whipping around them.

During a smoke break, sitting on overturned crates amid the shipping containers, Elias lit a cigarette and stared at the horizon. "Hey, Theo," he muttered, exhaling a plume. "You ever been to the opera?"

Theo snorted, flicking ash from his glove. "Opera? Nah, mate. What kinda daft question is that?"