by Flashpoint
Pete was long gone by the time Deanna wheeled back into the lot.
Not a bad day business-wise, but it surprised her that Miguel’s shop was locked up so early. No one answered her knock, but she thought she heard a very soft voice calling. Must be the answering machine. She hoped Pete was able to get things off his chest, but this thought made her sigh as she rolled up to the back of her truck. Pete’s questions hit a nerve with her. She was tired of struggling all the time doing something she really didn’t want to do, having to do it alone. Friends are one thing, but someone to share the journey is another.
She let out a long breath and arched her back, wishing she had time to rub her feet before her next customers showed up, but considering who it was she knew they’d be here painfully on time. It was their job. They were the only reason she didn’t hop right into her truck – well, hobble; her feet really were killing her at the moment – and take off. But then she wouldn’t get to Parkhurst before the afternoon rush. There had to be a better way to make a living than this. Well... sitting in the truck couldn’t hurt her business at least. It would be heaven for her feet.
She parked the cart a little ways away from the truck and started to open the tailgate when her keys fell out of her hand and bounced to the driver’s side door. Sighing, she walked up to retrieve them...
... and jumped as a car suddenly slammed into the cart, knocking it across the parking lot and sending bread and condiments in all directions, scant inches from where she’d been standing. She was too startled to even react as the car came to a screeching halt and the driver jumped out, looking frightened.
“Oh, my God!” the man said, rushing to her. “Are you all right?! I’m so sorry! My brakes slipped!”
A hand on her chest, trying to slow her breathing, Deanna finally tore her eyes from the wreckage of the cart – she didn’t know how she’d replace it; it was beyond repair – and looked up into the man’s eyes. “Yes, I’m...” Startlingly blue eyes. Gorgeous eyes. “...uh, fine.” Suddenly the cart didn’t seem so important.
“Oh, thank...” the man trailed off, blinking at her, looking startled. “I’m, uh, glad to hear it. I could have been killed. I mean, the car could have been killed.” He shook his head as though to clear it. “I could have killed you.”
“That’s fine, I don’t mind.” That was entirely the wrong thing to say. God, he was tall! Something about his face made her brain go fuzzy. “I mean, it’s all right to kill me. To almost kill me.” He blinked at her, and she knew she had the same look on her face he did.
“I’m, uh, sorry about the...” he gestured to the wreckage spread across the parking lot. “I’ll replace it. No problem.”
“It’s kind of expensive,” she said, not saying what she really wanted to say. Of course, what she wanted to say would probably scare this guy off and she was determined not to. God, he's tall! She had no idea how she'd reach... she nearly cringed at the mental image that entered her head.
“It’s worth it,” the man said, still staring at her, then grimacing. He looked like he was having trouble getting the words out too for some reason. Why?
Just as she opened her mouth to answer – she had no idea what she was going to say – the toot of a siren made them both jump. Oh, crap, not now! she thought. Just when she was working up to asking this guy out. Not that she would. He was way too good looking to be interested in her. When the police car actually pulled up to the wreckage of her sandwiches – strangely, she’d actually forgotten they were standing in the middle of a pile of pickles and mustard – she suppressed a groan. The very next customers on her list.
“Dee, what happened?” said the tall lanky cop sidling out of the driver’s side. He had to maneuver out slowly as he did; at 7’3” tall, Woodward had trouble with a lot of things most people took for granted, like cars and clothes. For that matter, she had no idea where he was able to find size 22 shoes. She didn’t even know they *made* size 22 shoes.
“It was my fault,” Deanna and the man both said at the same time. “No, it was my fault,” they both continued. “Wow, that was weird.” They paused. “So was that.” They blinked, startled, and then said, “Eviscerate the proletariat.” They stared at each other.
Woodward stared at them both for a second before glancing back at Matchen in the passenger seat, who gave a questioning look. Woodward gave a tiny shake of his head indicating not to worry about it and stay in the car, and turned back to the scene. Matchen shrugged and performed what the entire precinct now called the Matchen Maneuver on himself... that is he unconsciously adjusted his pants, as he always did. He refused to pay the extra money to have custom pants made, so it was his own fault. “If you’re both done, mind telling me what’s going on?”
The man opened his mouth, gave a quick look to see if she was doing the same – she wasn’t – and said, “I’m sorry, officer, it really was my fault. This lovely lady,” she reacted to that with a quirky grin he didn’t see, “was minding her own business and I recklessly destroyed her sandwich cart. I wasn’t paying any attention. I feel just horrible.”
Woodward opened his mouth but before he could interject, Deanna jumped in. “No, Steve, it was mine. I left my cart right out in the middle of traffic, and this very handsome man,” the man gave a small start and a small grin of his own that he attempted to hide, “couldn’t avoid it. I endangered his life and probably damaged his car. It was no fault of his at all.”
Woodward opened his mouth again but they once again both said, “No, it was my fault!” He rolled his eyes and before they could go off on that tangent again he said, “Will ya stop?!” They stopped, abashed, glancing at each other ruefully. He rolled his eyes and said, “Now that I have your attention... If you want to file an incident report that’s okay, but I can’t issue a ticket... this is private property, not a street, so I don’t have jurisdiction.”
They both looked horrified. “Don’t issue (him, her) a ticket!” He glared at them and they instantly quieted. Deanna said, “No, Steve, that’s fine. It might be time to get out of the sandwich business anyway.” Funny how she'd been talking about that with Pete not too long ago... “I guess I need to clean up around here.” She didn’t look forward to doing it.
“I’ll help you,” the man said. “Whoever was at fault, I’m here and I have to help a damsel in distress.”
“I ain’t no damsel,” she said, but with a smile. She caught herself smoothing the front of her pants and stopped it. Ridiculous. Just because he was gorgeous was no reason to act like she enjoyed looking at him. She thought about that; it didn’t seem to make sense when she reasoned it out. “Besides, you’ll get stains on your suit.”
“I don’t care,” the man said, kneeling down and starting to collect buns and forks, cups and meat. “I don’t have an office job anymore anyway. I sold my law firm so that I could volunteer at the Children’s Center.”
She stopped in the middle of a pile of relish jars. “You... volunteer at the Children’s Center?” Wait, his law firm? What? Who? Where was she exactly?
“Yes,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed. “I love being around children, and there are so many adoptees out there that need a good family." Abruptly his entire face turned red as he realized he’d just spilled a great deal of personal information to a near-complete stranger. He started to stand up. “I’m sorry. TMI. I just, you know, I’m sorry. I’ll go. Look, I’ll write you out a check...”
“Before you do,” Deanna said, her heart pumping wildly – this had to be a dream – “there’s something I need to tell you.” As she opened her mouth, she became aware of Woodward, still towering over them both, his arms crossed, watching them with a half amused, half patient look. “Oh. Yeah. Um... I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
“Wright. Derek Wright.”
“Don’t move.” She was afraid to look away from him for fear he’d evaporate. “Let me just talk to my friend the officer here for a second. Don’t go anywhere.”
“How could I refuse the request of a lovely lady?” He smiled a little.
She nodded and turned her back to him, toward Woodward, and the second she did she mouthed the words thank you heavenward. “Would you mind going away?” she asked Woodward sotto voce. He raised his eyebrows, and she added, “Please.” She started to glance back but stopped herself.
“Deanna, what the hell is going on?” he asked just as quietly. “Who is that guy?” He looked back at Derek, who was now picking up the umbrella. It looked undamaged.
“Mr. Wright.” She blinked, realizing what she’d just said, and shook her head. “Weird!” She wasn’t sure what to say. “It was just like he said. If I didn’t know better...”
Woodward gave her a narrow look. “Like who said?” He had the feeling he knew the answer already.
She answered before thinking. “Pete.” His face didn’t change, but he stiffened. It made his already impressive height even more imposing. “I’m sorry, Steve, I know that’s a sore topic for you.”
He let out a breath. “Mildly.” He didn’t know how she’d done it, but after the trouble with Pete started, she’d winkled the story out of him. Yes, it was a sore topic. And he hadn’t told her everything. She didn’t know about Pete’s power or the inherent changes brought about by it. And she didn’t know one other small detail.
He glanced behind her. “Mr. Wright wants you.” He couldn’t keep the sour tone out of his voice. He started back to the car, shaking his head. Fun, fun, fun. He had just sat down and was in the process of placing his legs in the car – it was an arduous process now, the seat was as far back as it would go and it was still cramped – and he heard Mr. Right, Wright, whatever, say as Deanna came up to him, “I’ve been checking out your buns. They look pretty good.” He added, “I didn’t mean it that way!” Woodward slammed the door harder than he needed to.
Matchen looked at him. “What the hell was that all about?”
“No sandwiches today.” Matchen, glancing out at the obviously demolished cart, gave him a puzzled frown. “Never mind. Dee’s hot for the guy who put her out of business. Let’s go.” He backed the car away from the scene – the man was holding a hot dog now, she an open bun, and they were standing extremely close – and crawled onto the street. Dammit!
Matchen gave him a look and adjusted his pants again. “Fuck!” he said, unzipping his fly. He couldn’t open his pants due to his gun belt, but he got some relief. His overstuffed jock instantly swelled out through the opening. He let out a breath.
Woodward glanced at him, used to the scene – and did a double take. He was glad they pulled up to a stoplight. “Paul, when was the last time Mack got you off?!” And why the fuck are you so cheap about your clothes? He kept that one to himself.
Woodward had hoped that Matchen would learn a lesson all those months ago, and he had. He no longer got on the case of the business owners around there – Miguel had been particularly grateful – but things hadn’t quite turned out the way he’d expected them to. Matchen called in sick four days in a row after that first night at the garage.
It took weeks before Match got used to bull balls swinging between his legs, before he found supersize jocks that would contain that much sac. He still walked bowlegged, but it hardly occasioned comment at the precinct anymore, except with detainees. There was, however, a development no one had foreseen. Mack was basically Match’s private cum slut – not that Woodward would ever say that out loud; he valued his life – and he sucked down Match’s loads several times a day, morning and night, and sometimes during the day when Mack called to find out where their beat was that day and whether it was a quick bike ride for Mack to get there. It was amazing how often it was. If Mack did not, however, attend to his duties servicing Matchen, then the amazing amount of cum Matchen produced would back up. And keep backing up.
The first time they realized it might be a problem was when Mack went out of town to a bike rally in the next state. For that whole week Matchen was on his cell talking to Mack long distance practically the entire day every day, which irritated Woodward to no end. (“Okay, now I’m looking at some really cool Harleys.”) By the third day, Matchen was sweating and looked like he had a constant itch he couldn’t scratch, and he was adjusting his pants more than usual. The start of the fifth day, within minutes of driving off, Matchen suddenly said “Crap! Gotta go!” to Mack and said to Woodward “Pull the car into that alley! Quick!” Woodward did, puzzled, and just as they got there, he heard a loud tearing sound.
Matchen gritted his teeth and struggled to undo his gun belt as quickly as possible, but it was happening too quickly. His bull balls were swelling up right in front of them both, surpassing the size of 'mammoth' and approaching 'gargantuan.' Woodward had thought the only thing that could cause that was Pete’s power, but apparently three days of not getting off did the same thing. Woodward practically freaked right there, but Matchen assured him, once he managed to catch his breath, that he was fine. Mostly. Except that his balls were over six inches in diameter. Each. Woodward started to call Pete, but Matchen instead called Mack.
Mack got a flight back within two hours and arrived just as the sun was setting. The next morning, Matchen looked refreshed and relaxed and was at his usual bull ball state. Mack was a different story. He was lying in bed, dazed, moaning as best he could through a clogged throat, and hardly able to move. He normally ripped abs were bowed outward like a bad roid gut – or eight months pregnant – and loud gurgling could be distinctly heard. And for some odd reason he couldn’t bring his legs together. He couldn’t get out of bed for almost two days, and then he was waddling. Not that he minded all that much.
Match had practically blown a gasket when Pete mentioned putting them both back to their old selves. In fact, Mack had been just as adamant, only more... well, passive wasn’t a word you used to describe Mack even now, but... well, more likely to follow Matchen’s lead. Which he did. Exclusively. A very strange sight to see in a man that outweighed Matchen by a good bit of pure muscle. But then, Match was caught too; when Wood and Match were on duty now, Matchen’s two main topics of conversation were “Mack said this” and “Mack did that.” Not boring exactly but it did get repetitive.
Matchen’s balls weren’t swollen quite as badly as that day, but they were definitely larger than average. Larger than they usually were that is... “Couple days,” he grunted, pulling the jock aside to let them get some air. It was a bit difficult due not only to their size but also the size of his arms, which took up a good amount of space in the car now. Wood had been surprised to find out that they were actually slightly bigger than Mack’s, though Mack’s arms were ripped muscle and Matchen now had a layer of fat over the hidden strength he now sported. He gave a quick look around to make sure no one could see, but no one came close. Still, Woodward aimed the car to a secluded area so that Matchen could let them out with no fear. “Mack’s been a bad boy, so no cum for him.” He had no embarrassment for those words; he’d gotten used to it with Mack.
“Now what?” Woodward said absentmindedly, thinking about Pete.
Match palmed his balls absentmindedly. He always did that kind of thing, playing with them without thinking about it. It had caused comments in more than one place. “Ah, he dropped a fork in the garbage disposal the other day and fucked it up, and then tried to tell me that it burned out on its own. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s him lying to me!” He sounded genuinely angry. And disappointed. He ran his hand over his thinning flattop in irritation. His thick walrus mustache got the same treatment. “God damn, I work my ass off to put food on the table and so he can work out and all I ask is a little loving at night and for him to do the chores and he fucking lies to me about shit! And it’slittle shit too! He ripped one of my uniform shirts doing the laundry a few weeks ago and tried to hide it instead of just telling me. I swear... what the fuck are you laughing at?!”
Woodward was glad they were parked now; he was laughing so hard his eyes were tearing up. Or maybe it was hidden unhappiness sneaking through. “You two! When are you going to ask him?”
Matchen got very still and let his swollen babymakers sit. “Ask him what?” he asked, looking anywhere but at Woodward. After two minutes of scrutiny, however, he finally wilted. “Oh, all right.” He looked very uncomfortable, tapping his fingers nervously, then reached under the seat. With difficulty; his balls got in the way of everything he did now and four months wasn’t enough to get completely used to carrying them. “I was, uh, waiting for the right time.” He offered Woodward a small velvet box. Inside were two rings. Two very nice sterling bands with an inscribed tribal band on each, all flowing lines and barbed points. The designs weren’t the same, Woodward noticed, but when the rings were put together they formed an unbroken line. “He, uh, likes that tribal shit,” Matchen continued awkwardly. He wasn’t a man comfortable expressing his feelings, which was why it had taken him two months to get the courage to ask – well, tell – Mack to move in. Mack may have the body but Matchen was definitely the one that wore the pants in that family. And why it had taken less than 36 hours to get Mack completely moved in. He’d been waiting none too patiently. Mack had the man all but wrapped around his finger, and vice versa. They were very... well, calm was too strong a word. Married was better. Well, as soon as Paul proposed, anyway. Woodward had expressed the uncanny mental image of Paul Matchen being quaint about it, kneeling in front of Mack with the box open in front of him and asking, that whole thing. Despite the way the man had been before Pete came along and how he'd evolved after, he gave a very solid impression of being a very traditional and old-fashioned about some things.
Matchen refused to deign to respond to it, simply giving a very flat look, and therefore got out of having to admit that that was what he planned to do. Yeah, you do it, but you don't admit to anyone else that that's how you do it.
Mack may have been the, um, passive one in the relationship, but that was a word to use only in comparison to Matchen. To anyone else he was still arrogant and demanding. He just knew that he had to please his... uh, husband-to-be. Well, they pleased each other but that was neither here nor there. Matchen had gotten a hot, muscular, badass biker who turned into a horny pussyboy the minute his man wanted him to, which was often. Mack, meanwhile...
It could be called the ultimate wedding present. It was definitely unprecedented. Mack asked Matchen what would please him, and... well, suffice to say that Mack could now take anything thrown at him, in any sense. But despite what appeared to a serious power imbalance in their relationship, it was more of an even pairing than most people knew. What one did, the other did too. And when one had a request...
To Matchen, it was a request. To Pete, it was more of a demand. Until Pete stood his ground, of course, as he often did with Mack. He had no fear of a man he could turn into a little boy with a few words.
Mack had just wanted to try it out for a few days for fun, just to see what would happen. Make Matchen a little older, older than Mack by a few years. He was curious to see what he’d look like in, oh, say, twenty years or so. They hadn’t quite decided at that point whether he was going to be around each other that long, but, well, couldn’t hurt to check out the merchandise in advance. Having Pete around to pull off that little experiment had certainly been handy. But then, if Pete hadn’t been around they wouldn’t have gotten together in the first place. That night in the garage...
Matchen balked at the suggestion at first, appalled at the very thought of losing twenty years of his life even for only a few days. Pete had to agree, but then, being the age he was of course he would. Miguel and Woodward, who were older, were not amused by their attitudes. After a confab where Mack explained what it was he wanted, Pete had a flash of inspiration. Paul Matchen would stay his near-rookie age and only change in appearance by twenty years. Mack agreed; he wanted the entire Daddy experience but wanted the Daddy in question to be around for a while longer. Pete, with both Woodward’s and Miguel’s help, planned it out very carefully. Mack wasn’t told the full details of what was planned, and although Matchen sat and listened to every word Pete said, he didn’t seem to fully appreciate the implications of what was about to happen until he noticed the changes.
Matchen had almost two weeks of leave time built up and decided then was a good time to use it, much to Woodward’s irritation. It began Tuesday afternoon as Matchen walked out of the station at the end of his shift, the last day of work before leave. He stopped for a few groceries on the way to his place (he and Mack were not yet living together), not really paying attention to the bagboy calling him “Sir” all of a sudden. He did notice that for the first time he wasn’t carded for the six-pack he bought, but just attributed it to an inattentive checker. It happened. And his shirt seemed uncomfortably tight around his waist; he reflected he probably should have held off on the beer. He was still decompressing from a long shift; he knew the changes were supposed to be happening but it was in the back of his mind. It was hard disengaging from cop mode.
What finally got him paying attention was his next-door neighbor Al Krail, a total gym rat, who ran into him in the hallway of their apartment building. He was a couple of years older than Matchen was and a complete dickhead. Given Matchen’s own volatile nature, it was no surprise that they often butted heads.
But despite Matchen’s first instinct, it did not happen. Or at least it didn’t happen the way he expected. He pulled his mail, hauling the sack of groceries in the other hand and trying to adjust his shirt again at the same time, not thinking, as Krail was leaving his own place, of course on the way to the gym. Krail had no respect for Matchen even in uniform, and there had been several occasions when Matchen had had to threaten to cuff the man, and even then it had been iffy. The fact that the man outweighed him and was older didn’t help. He’d looked very young next to him. Somehow it was different with Mack, but then it would be. Krail saw him down the hall and started his usual arrogant swagger, obviously on the point of saying something nasty... until Matchen got close to him. He’d been so surprised that he actually jumped back, all 260 pounds of him. Matchen, not pleased to see the man, said, “What’syour problem?” And gave a start of his own. His voice was noticeably different.
“Uh... uh...” Krail had said, his arrogant attitude suddenly gone. He looked like he was trying to figure something out, or couldn’t clear his head. “I, uh... Nothing, Mr. Matchen. You, you... you just look, uh, different is all.” He seemed to even shrink back into himself a little, dropping his eyes a little. “Nice haircut.” And with no further ado he scurried away as fast as his 36-inch thighs could take him (which isn’t too fast).
Mr. Matchen? he thought, his mouth hanging open. The man was the personification of 'disrespect to an officer of the law,' even though Matchen let him get away with it most of the time. At the orders of his department-ordered anger management counselor. For a moment he couldn’t register this abrupt change in character, but after a few moments realization started dawning. He nearly dropped everything and ran into the apartment.
He stared in the mirror at the gradual but substantial changes happening. To his own eye, he didn’t look any older, but then he took in the details. His hair was in a buzzcut! Was it lighter? There were fine lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. And there was peach fuzz on his upper lip but he didn’t seem to be growing a beard. Unconsciously, he adjusted his shirt again, and saw that the changes weren’t just cosmetic. His narrow middle had expanded in a small but growing firm ball, stretching the buttons to their limit. If he didn’t get out of his uniform soon, his belly would spill out over his gun belt. The thinly stretched material seemed to make his skin itchy too. For that matter, his thighs seemed thicker too.
It took him all of ten seconds to get on the phone to Mack to tell him to get his ass over there. It also took ten seconds for Mack to get there. Matchen looked at the bedroom door in surprise when he heard Mack’s cell go off from inside, followed by a swaggering Mack opening the door. “Ha! Gotcha. I wanted to surprise... you...?” His jaw dropped as he took in the package; Matchen, still in full uniform, now six years older and aging before their eyes, belly spreading outward in all directions, his chest, arms, and thighs thickening with hidden muscle, his hair subtly lightening (and seemed to be receding further and further with each moment), a thick mustache growing downward over his lip. Mack had to close his mouth before the drool starting running over his chin. “P-Paul?” he said, half afraid and two-thirds turned on.
Matchen looked at him, looked at the mirror, looked at him again, and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice deeper, more mature... and definitely sexier. The voice of a man who’d experienced life and was ready to share his knowledge. “This... Is... this what you wanted?” He knew it was, but he still had to ask. He couldn’t believe anyone would...
Mack shifted uncomfortably; his jock was getting uncomfortably tight. He had the feeling he was about to miss his workout. He also had the feeling he wouldn’t mind. “Uh, well, kinda... I mean, I, uh, just, you know, wanted...” Mack’s arrogant attitude suddenly seemed muted, which made Matchen’s lips twitch in amusement.
“You wanted a Daddy, didn’t you, boy?” The words came out before he even thought, but they felt right. Suddenly he had the weight of years on his side, the heaviness of experience. Not to mention the heaviness at his middle. He felt the buttons of his uniform shirt start to creak alarmingly; it wouldn’t be too long before he popped them off. Having the right look didn’t hurt things any. He started to slowly undo his gun belt and dropped it to the floor, not breaking eye contact with Mack. His eyes were smoldering. “You were never turned on by little Paul were you, boy? You wanted Fat Daddy Match to take you in hand.” He liked that. Fat Daddy. He was definitely getting the belly for it.
He kept his eyes steady on Mack, who was almost shaking in desire, but mentally he started in surprise at himself. He was shocked at his own reaction, to how easily he fell into the role. And, oddly, he remembered aging to this point, a lifetime of experiences, even though he knew neither his biological nor his chronological age had changed, just his appearance. And what about Krail? He’d acted as though he’d expected to see Paul older, even though he’d been initially surprised. What had Pete done? It was like the world was bending to think he was older and more mature.
Mentally, he thought back to his first day working with Woodward. And his first day at the precinct. And his first day out of the academy, only a couple of years ago, his father calling him twelve times that day because he was so proud of his son the police officer. The memories were still there, unchanged, but there was another set alongside the other, spanning an additional twenty years of life. He’d been a dedicated career man to the force since graduating from the academy, working up from rookie to vice before being accepted into SWAT. After nine years, he was promoted to a coveted desk position (which he could not quite recall the nature of), but found the inactivity not only maddening but also caused his middle to thicken alarmingly, explaining the ball belly he now sported. So now, with only one year left before retirement, he was working back on the beat with a younger officer, Steve Woodward, keeping the peace on one of the slowest beats in the city. He remembered all that. But he remembered his so-called 'real' life too.
“Uh...” Mack said awkwardly. Despite being taller and more muscular, he looked almost like a little boy, one who was afraid to ask for a treat. “I, I liked you before, D... Paul.” Mack was startled too; he’d had a hidden Daddy fantasy for a while, but this was beyond what he’d expected. Paul had turned him on the first time they’d met, from the uniform to the cocky attitude, although Mack had been reluctant to show it for many obvious reasons. And now they’d been together for a little bit, well, long-term dating didn’t sound that bad. He could get used to having Paul around and he thought Paul liked him too. The problem was Paul was so young. Mack was older and even though it should have made no difference, he found that it did. Every other guy he’d seen had been his age or older. Of course, they’d also never lasted for more than a couple of dates, and he and Paul had been seeing each other for weeks. That had been the beginning of his request. And yes, this was beyond his expectations. But the question now was, was it more than he wanted. He was falling into this weird boy mindset without even trying. Was this part of the change or was it happening just because he was seeing the change happen in front of him?
Did he even care?
Before Matchen could open his mouth to respond, however, the buttons on his shirt finally gave way, three of them popping right off the shirt and flying into the far corners of the room, the others unfastening to show a massive, round expanse of hairy ball belly. He looked down in surprise and pleasure. For the first time, he was unable to see his parade gloss shoes. “It’s okay, baby… you can call me Daddy.” It was less giving permission and more a command, and Mack quickly nodded in agreement.
Yes, he missed his workout that night. And the next day too.
Twelve days later, Mack was cooking his Daddy a hearty breakfast – Paul’s appetite had nearly tripled as well – when he tentatively asked, “Daddy?” Paul, engrossed in a newspaper article about international politics, grunted in response. “Daddy, you have to go back to work on Wednesday, don’t you?” Paul, still hidden behind the paper, grunted again. Last night’s sex had been more violent than the previous days, and Paul had been less communicative than usual, thrusting into Mack hour after hour, causing him to first grunt, then moan, then finally silently cry and bite the pillow as Paul relentlessly plowed him. Standing at the stove cooking was sheer agony and he was still bowlegged. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong but it hurt. “Are... When are you going to see Pete?” Paul finally raised his head from behind the paper and fixed a flat look at Mack. Mack had the feeling he’d done something wrong again, though he had no idea what it had been. “I mean... If, If you’re going back to work, do you... I mean, won’t you want to change back?” They’d never discussed this part.
Matchen leaned back in the chair, dropping the paper on the table. His flattop had greyed significantly and also thinned dramatically in the process; it wouldn’t be long before he’d either go to a Norwood 7, what they called the horseshoe ring, or start shaving his head. His beefy arms and legs swelled with strength, enough to challenge Mack, certainly enough to pick him up while they were fucking. His belly had finally settled in at a whopping 55 inches at its widest point (Mack took several pictures of them measuring it for keepsake), and a nice fine pelt of body hair had put a delicious treasure trail on his midsection. His walrus mustache was the crowning glory, though; it hung below his lower lip and it too was graying, and was a hazardous trap for food. And cum at the right times.
Mack liked the way Paul looked. It was a big turn on for him, but beyond that he thought that now as a 45-year-old Daddy facing retirement from the police force, he was a fucking knockout. He’d seen more male models, fitness athletes, and bodybuilders than any other guy he knew and they all looked Sweet Fanny Adams compared to the man sitting at the table in front of him. He realized something at that moment. He’d fallen in love with Paul. Not because of the way he looked now; he realized it had started weeks before he even thought of doing this. But now that Paul did look like this... he felt like a heel. He had no right to ask Paul to stay this way. He’d been very selfish. He wanted Paul, however he looked.
“Yeah, I guess I need to change back, boy,” Matchen said, rubbing his round midsection absently. Mack was mesmerized by the sight, but tore his eyes away. It was so hard to think while looking at the man. “I guess you’re really sick of me as an old man. You want me young and pretty, don’t you, not old and fat and disgusting.”
“No!” Mack spat out without thinking. Matchen raised an eyebrow, but did not stop idly playing with his belly. His face was perfectly bland. “I... I’m sorry, D... Daddy. Paul. I, I mean, well...” He stopped tending the eggs in the pan – all twelve of them – and got even more nervous than before. “Paul, I love you.” It was the first time he’d said it.
“I know. I love you too, Mack.”
“Paul, I like the way you look now. A lot better than before. I’m sorry, but I do. You’re hot. I mean God damn but I can’t stop, uh...” This line of thought wasn’t going anywhere. “Paul... it’s not because of how you look. It started a long time ago, I just never realized it until now.” He looked very troubled. “But I can’t ask you to stay this way just for me. Besides, in twenty years you’ll look like this anyway and I can wait.” He almost bit his tongue in half when he said that. It had the word marriage written all over it, closely followed by the word panic. “After breakfast I’ll call Pete.”
“You do and I’ll break your neck.” Mack stared at him. Paul’s serious face finally broke into a grin, criss-crossed with a lifetime of laugh lines. “You little shit, is that what you’ve been so nervous about the past day or so? Why didn’t you ask if I liked what was happening too?” Mack mumbled something in reply. “Baby, I like being a Daddy bear. Being your Daddy bear. I don’t want anyone else.” Mack blinked, unsure this was really happening. “Besides, I made a couple of calls to the precinct while you were sleeping it off yesterday. All those ‘new’ memories we have aren’t just with us. Everyone else remembers the new me now. Except Pete, Woody and Miguel I bet. Wish I knew why, but I’m not going to argue. I’m only a year from retirement now. Wouldn’t you like your big-bellied ex-cop Daddy riding a matching cycle next to yours down the road? We could do that full time once I’m out.” Well... The thought hadoccurred to Mack... “I was just sure you would get tired of a fat daddy and want young rookie Paul back. That’s... why I was so rough last night. I’m sorry, baby. I was wrong. I just wanted one last night with you as Daddy Match. Forgive me?”
“Of course, Daddy.” He leaned over, but before he got too close, he hesitated. “Um... I got something for you the other day. I thought maybe on your last day you could, uh...” He looked embarrassed. “Just a second.” He walked out of the room, waddled actually, and came back with a wooden gift box. “Happy, uh...,” he thought about it, “Happy Birthday, Daddy.”
Birthday? It was months from his birthday. Mystified, Paul took the box and opened it. His eyebrows rose at what he saw inside; a row of twelve very expensive 52-gauge Delictados cigars, a sterling silver-encased triple-torch lighter and a sterling cigar cutter. He picked up the lighter and looked at it carefully. Inscribed on it in an elegant font was For my Daddy – I love you. Mack. He looked at Mack, nonplussed.
“Um... I thought maybe you’d like it.” The look on Mack's face was obvious; he was actually saying I was hoping you’d smoke these for me.
Paul slowly smiled and took the first cigar out of the box and deftly cut the end. It was a measure of their acceptance of his changes that neither of them questioned how he knew how to cut and smoke a cigar. It fit right into his new life. “Light my cigar, baby.” Mack grinned and took the lighter to the end, producing a brilliant cherry. Paul took a deep draw into his throat, held it a moment, and then let the smoke stream out of his mouth, staring deeply into Mack’s eyes as he did. Mack was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Thank you, baby. It’s just what I wanted for my birthday.” And he realized it was his birthday, celebration of his birth or not; it was the start of a new life for him. For them both.
Grinning, Mack leaned over and kissed him. Just as their lips touched, however, a piercing wail sounded over them. Mack looked around wildly at the smoke alarm blaring over their heads in the middle of the billowing smoke filling the kitchen. Not from the cigar. “My eggs!” he yelled, running to get them off the burner. Paul, meanwhile, started laughing uproariously.
So Mack had gotten a Daddy. Now if only Paul could solve the problem of his own father.
That was the unfortunate complication of altering memories: he had an additional twenty years of life experience that everyone remembered, but there was no way to reconcile the fact that his father was physically the same age he was now. That had been the one flaw in the plan. Did his father remember a son who graduated from the academy two years ago, or what? Paul had been too afraid to call and find out what his father remembered, so he'd been living without his only living family member. It was hard.
Matchen’s reverie of the past vanished like smoke with Woodward’s voice. He’d been staring at the rings for a very long time, it seemed. “Wow,” Woodward said, impressed. “That’s really nice.”
Something in his tone must have come through, because Matchen said, “You haven’t told him yet, have you.” It wasn’t a question.
Woodward sighed and handed the box back. “No. I haven’t gotten around to it.”
Matchen snorted, putting the box back under the seat and readjusted his balls, preparing to cover them again. “Haven’t gotten around to it?! Bullshit! You’ve been running scared for two months!”
Stung, Woodward said, “I have not,” even though he knew it was true. It was the whole reason he’d gone on nights in the first place, and the reason he’d 'neglected' to call Pete to tell him he was back on days. There was no easy way to talk to him about that other small issue they needed to talk about. The one he kept putting off.
Before he could say anything else, a disembodied voice said “Shazam!” Matchen blinked, startled, and Woodward grimaced. “Cell phone,” he said awkwardly. He ignored Matchen’s one-of-those-looks as he answered. “Woodward.”
“Steve, it’s Bruce! I need your help right now!”
“Bruce?” Matchen gave him a quick look. “What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Your friend and mine!” came the irritated and strangely unfamiliar voice. Woodward didn’t need to ask who he meant. He gave an aggravated grunt and put his other hand to his face. Why now? “Steve, ya gotta do something! I’ve got a serious problem here!” His voice became muffled. “I’m getting help right now! Stop crying! Steve, please. I’ve got to keep this quiet.”
It explained why he’d called Woodward on his cell instead of the police station, if nothing else. Woodward sighed, irritated. “We’ll be there in 20 minutes.” He clicked it off. Into the radio he said, “Dispatch, Unit 322 responding to disturbance at Forest and Marsh.”
Matchen had finished fastening himself under cover again, which actually made his balls appear bigger than just swinging free. “Bruce’s isn’t anywhere near Forest and Marsh.”
“I know.”