This story centers around two masculine gay men, and how they react to the Great Change. Over the last few months, I've been pondering a few basic questions, chief among them concerning the nature of love itself. How much of what we consider romantic love is wrapped around sexual attraction? Can we love someone for whom we feel no attraction at all? I'm not talking about platonic love, either. I'm asking if, say, someone, your significant other, perhaps, somehow changes to such a degree that you don't find them attractive anymore, do you still love them the same? This, and many of my stories lately have been my meditation on this very question. I've really been trying to explore the idea in my Tristan series, but it's also found its way into a few of these, albeit only briefly, if at all.
The idealist in me, the romantic, wants to believe that love conquers all. However, the realist in me knows that, even faced with love, real and true, attraction still means a lot. The lack of attraction, in many cases, means even more.
Either way, this is just my pre-story ramble when you all just want to read a sexy story. So forgive my longwindedness (is that even a real word? probably not).
Enjoy the story:
In a Lover's Eyes
by Nikki J
Quentin lay on his side, his hand resting on his lover's rippling stomach, his eyes gazing lovingly at that perfectly chiseled, ruggedly handsome face. He had met Greg in his sophomore year in college, and the two had gotten along famously, even then, when they had barely even known each other. There had been a connection, a meeting of souls; it was undeniable. Some people don't believe in love at first sight. Neither Quentin nor Greg were one of those people; they had experienced it first hand.
Sure, neither really acknowledged it back then. Such is the way with most men. Added to the mix was the fact that Quentin had been raised by a deeply religious family who disapproved of his life. Quentin's resulting shyness about who he was, and what he wanted, put the burgeoning relationship on the slow-track. But neither could have halted it, even had they wanted, for love is a strong thing, and it is not to be denied.
Things became serious after about a year, and they moved in together six months later. After they graduated college, life seemed to be on their doorstep. The world was their oyster, and they had each other.
Greg proposed to Quentin after they had been together for three years. It wasn't a proposal for marriage, for homosexual marriage was illegal where they lived. No, it was something deeper – at least that's how Quentin thought of it. To his reasoning, marriage between a man and a woman, or at least the decision to marry, was an easy one. Everyone accepted it. But for two gay men to pledge to spend the rest of their lives together? Even amidst intolerance and, sometimes, outright hate? That was commitment.
Absently, Quentin's finger traced the outline of Greg's abdominal muscles, running along his pale skin. He sighed contentedly as he remembered the night Greg had proposed. It had been a warm summer night, and Greg had prepared a scrumptious meal. They had eaten, talking of mundane things, like their respective days, politics, or sports. Quentin hardly remembered, though, for his every memory was devoted to what happened directly after the meal.
Greg had risen from the table, and knelt beside Quentin. Quentin had looked down at his lover's candlelit face, and into his blue eyes.
Greg had said, “I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So, I ask humbly, when we can, if we ever can, will you marry me?”
Quentin started to answer, but Greg said, “Hold on. I'm not finished. And until then, if you say yes, of course, I pledge here and now to be with you and you alone, to love you more than anything else in the world even if we're never allowed to marry.”
Quentin remembered every word even two years later as he lay next to Greg. How could he forget? Of course, he had said yes. Gay marriage still hadn't been legalized, but to Quentin and Greg, it didn't really matter. They had made their commitment. Nothing – no laws of approval or disapproval – could change that.
“Mmm,” Greg said sleepily. “That tickles.” He smiled, his eyes still closed, and his hand found Quentin's.
He knew that if he kept it up, the two would be up all night, so he simply laid his head on Greg's chest, and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a world where their love might be accepted.
“C'mon!” Greg grunted. “You've got one more in you!”
Quentin wasn't so sure as his own muscles quivered, trying to push the barbell from his chest. With a mighty effort, though, he managed, slowly, to heave it from his chest, and rack the weight. Panting from the effort, he sat up, and, elbows on his knees, looked back at Greg. His lover smiled.
“Good set,” he said, and Quentin smiled back.
Just like every morning, the two had risen at five o'clock, and gone to the gym. Appearance was important, and neither wanted to fall out of shape. More than that, though, neither wanted to be confused with the stereotypical, effeminate homosexual. No, both were all man; neither would have it any other way as they were both attracted to men – not feminine pseudo-men.
If it wasn't for a touch that might linger a little too long, or a look that said more than “friend,” a stranger might just consider them two good friends. But any close inspection would reveal much more depth to their relationship than that. In private, they acted like any couple, but in public, both were reserved. They weren't ashamed or anything; they simply weren't fans of public displays of affection.
The couple finished their workout, and showered in the gym's locker room. Quentin's eyes lingered on Greg's muscular body, and he ached to touch it, to run his hands along that muscular torso down to what he knew was a generously proportioned penis.
They might have both been shining examples of masculinity, but, in the bedroom, there was little question about who was the top and who was the bottom. And in that moment, as he gazed at his lover, Quentin wanted nothing more than for Greg to bend him over then and there, and fuck him silly.
But it was neither the time nor the place, and Quentin stifled his desires as he dressed after the shower.
Greg recognized the look – Quentin was horny. Normally, the two would have a quick romp when they first woke up, but on that morning, they had been running late, and there had been no time. Looking at Quentin, Greg regretted it.
After they got dressed, and left the gym, the two men got into Greg's car, and started driving to work. After flipping through some radio stations playing inane pop music, Greg settled on a news station.
“All the world is paying attention now, though, after he released the chemical into the atmosphere. Scientists have confirmed that it's there, but it is still unclear if it can even remotely do what Dr. Bell claimed,” the man on the radio station was saying. He went on, “As for Dr. Bell, many of you know that he is a former Nobel Prize winner, and a renowned geneticist. That is the reason any of this is being taken seriously at all. If anyone can do the things he claims, it is Dr. Bell.”
The radio news anchor went on to a different story, and Greg looked at Quentin, asking, “Do you know what he's talking about?”
“Not a clue,” Quentin replied.
“Sounds serious, though,” Greg said, his voice grave. “A chemical into the atmosphere? I wonder where.”
“There's no telling. Probably a big city, though,” Quentin ventured. “So we're probably safe.”
“Even so,” Greg stated. “Do you --”
“Want to blow off work? You know I do, and not because of some terrorist attack,” Quentin replied suggestively. “But it'll do as an excuse.”
Greg grinned, and immediately cut a U-turn, upsetting many fellow motorists. He hardly cared, though. He was just as horny as he knew Quentin to be, and Greg wasn't going to waste any time getting home.
They were lucky – both had very flexible jobs. Greg was a pharmaceutical salesman, and Quentin was a web designer. So, when the mood struck, and it often did, they had the freedom to satisfy those urges. It was a good situation.
They arrived back home quite a bit faster than Greg would have thought possible. In his haste, he had broken a few traffic laws. He knew that his method of driving irritated Quentin, but gratefully, his lover said nothing. Perhaps he was just as anxious to get started as Greg himself was.
The two practically ran inside, and as soon as the doors shut, started ripping one another's clothes off. Kissing passionately, they were soon shirtless. Their shoes and their pants were next. Finally, as they made it up to their bedroom, their underwear was thrown aside, and the two collapsed onto the bed, lips locked and hands roaming over each other's hard, muscular bodies.
Quentin broke off, and started leaving trails of little kisses along Greg's torso down towards his already-hard cock. But when he reached it, he just kissed around it, teasing Greg. With a single finger, Quentin lightly touched the tip, and gently caressed Greg's penis, barely touching it.
The teasing continued for a while, until Greg was nearly ready to burst. Finally, Quentin's mouth found Greg's cock, and he started sucking. He went slowly at first, massaging it with his tongue, but quickly hastened his pace. A couple of minutes later, and Greg had cum, shooting into Quentin's eager mouth.
Quentin looked up at him, a little drop of semen oozing out of the corner of his mouth, and said, “My turn.”
Their lovemaking had been urgent, but steady, each taking turns pleasing the other with their mouths until, finally, Quentin got on his hands and knees, his face in the sheets, and Greg entered him from behind.
Like many such sessions, they went on for hours until they were both exhausted, having progressed through their entire repertoire of positions (which was quite a lot).
Afterward, as they lay in bed, tired, sweaty and aglow with sexual satisfaction, neither Greg nor Quentin said a word. They were content to simply be with one another; they needn't fill the time with pointless conversation.
Forgotten was their excuse for skipping work. Gone were any concerns about life's mundane problems. There was only love and the simple joy of being in one another's company. Happiness, some might call it. True and unadulterated happiness.
Later that day, Quentin remembered the news story from the radio; there had been little room for anything besides lust up until then. But his curiosity had been piqued, and he wanted to know about the terrorist attack. He remembered that the man who was responsible was named Bell, so he went to his computer, and did a search.
The first few entries were stories about the man himself, about how he had used his notoriety as a leading geneticist and Nobel Prize winner to espouse his views on black supremacy and his support of a bill (which had been voted down earlier that year in both the House and Senate) calling for reparations. It was fascinating to Quentin that a man could be simultaneously brilliant and so completely irrational.
Surely he could see that no race is superior to another, and that the idea of punishing a set of people for what their ancestors did is patently ridiculous. Or perhaps not, Quentin thought, as he watched a video of an impassioned speech given by Dr. Bell only a year previously. Clearly, reason could not penetrate the indomitable wall of his anger.
None of that, however, answered the question of just what the terrorist attack was. So, Quentin continued his search. After a few minutes, he found a story detailing the attack, and Quentin was absolutely dumbfounded. It led with a letter from Bell himself, which had been sent to various news outlets. It read:
For too long, we African Americans have stood by, and let the rest of the world discriminate against us. We have taken it until we can take it no longer. So, I have decided to do something to take the rest of you down a rung. I'm sure you won't believe me at first, but over time, you will see that this is no hoax.
I have decided to make a little change in the hierarchy of our species. Earlier this week, I released a biological agent into the atmosphere, and tests have shown that that agent had spread throughout the world's air supply.
Do not panic. I am not trying to kill anyone, though I'm sure some would wish it. No, the agent is designed to do one thing: reassert the dominance of the black race. This chemical will only affect white males.
Ah, but what will it do to those oppressors? Well, it will do a number of things. The changes (which are permanent and irreversible) will take a variable amount of time, depending on the person, and are purely physiological.
1. White mailes will shrink slightly to be more in line with the height and weight range of white females. There are few ways to predict how it will affect individuals in this regard, but I've found that, generally, you will skew a little towards the size range you would have been, had you been born female (although, it will probably be a little on the low side of that range).
2. Their already small pensises and testicles will shrink to better match their smaller bodies.
3. Their anuses wiill gain elasticity and sensitivity, effectively making it a sex organ.
4. The pitch of their voices will rise.
5. Their hips will widen, and their shape will generally become more feminine.
6. Their nipples will enlarge slightly, and they will gain sensitivity.
7. Finally, their muscularture will become greatly reduced, and their skin and basic face shape will soften.
Basically, the white male will become something in between the current idea of male and a female (with a heavy leaning towards femininity). As I said, these changes are permanent and irreversible. All (current and future) white males will show these traits.
As I said, most people will not lend credence to these claims until after the changes start (which should be quite soon), but after a year or two, the world will have changed, and I think for the better.
Dr. Omar Bell
The letter was followed by accounts from various experts saying that the claims were impossible, that no compound could accomplish such a feat. One even remarked that it sounded like the plot of a bad science fiction novel.
Even so, Quentin couldn't help but ponder the consequences of the feminization of the entire white male population. He knew that it would change the world, and not just a little. What would it be like to become what he had struggled to overcome for his entire life as a gay man? Would he embrace such a change? The anal sensitivity certainly appealed to him; he already enjoyed anal sex, but to make it more pleasurable? He shuddered to think about how that would feel.
And then he came to his senses. It was all a hoax. Everyone said so. There was no use in worrying about the impossible. He went about his day, secure in the knowledge that he knew who and what he was. He was a man, and nothing could change that.
Time marched on, and neither Quentin nor Greg gave the terrorist attack much thought. Even the news agencies dropped the story after a week or so, dismissing it as a hoax. At least, everyone thought that until three weeks later, the changes began.
Greg woke up on that fateful morning, just like any other. Quentin was still asleep, so Greg left him where he was, and went to the bathroom to take a shower. He turned the knob, and waited for it to get hot. When it did, he stepped inside, and started cleaning himself.
Greg, like many people, sang in the shower – badly. Quentin had always made fun of him for it, but continued to do it, almost defiantly, like he didn't care that he was bad at it. He did for fun, after all, to relax him. However, that morning, he got quite a surprise when he started to belt out one of his favorite tunes.
His voice! Greg had always had a somewhat deep voice; it had been something of which he was quite proud. But as he clamped a hand over his mouth, horrified at the sound he heard, Greg recognized the high pitch of a soprano which had come from his throat.
Greg pulled his hand away, cleared his throat, and sang another note. It was the same! And it wasn't the fake soprano that a man might usually adopt (in jest or to mimic a female), but rather, he sounded like a woman. He stood, the shower's water still raining down on his body, dumbstruck for a few minutes. It didn't take him long to remember the claims of Dr. Bell, and that a voice change was one of them. Could it be? Could more changes be imminent?
And then he laughed, his intended chuckle coming out a girlish giggle. Of course not. Changing a voice is one thing; the rest of those changes are quite another. That anything could change a person so completely was ridiculous. But there was still the voice. He couldn't dismiss that.
Greg finished showering, and wrapped a towel around his waist. When he opened the door to the bedroom he shared with his lover, Greg saw Quentin sitting on the bed, his head bowed, his elbows on his knees. When Quentin looked up, Greg knew that the voice change had struck Quentin as well.
Apparently, Greg's face told Quentin the same thing, because he said, “You too, huh?” His voice wasn't quite as high as Greg's, but no one would mistake it for a man's. Greg nodded.
“Do you think it's everyone?” Greg asked, and noticed that Quentin, even expecting a higher voice, was surprised at Greg's pitch. He covered it quickly, though.
Quentin continued, “What should we do?”
“What can we do? I mean, all of the experts said even this wasn't possible. So I doubt going to the doctor will do much good,” Greg ventured. “Besides, it's just a voice, right?”
Quentin nodded, but seemed unconvinced.
“I'm sure they'll figure out a way to reverse it,” Greg offered. “The government has some of the smartest people in the world available to it. They'll find a way.” Even as Greg said it, he knew that he was saying it more to convince himself than to comfort Quentin. He sat down next to his partner, and draped his arm around Quentin's shoulder. Quentin leaned in.
Quentin looked up, smiling, and said, “You know you sound like a teenage girl, right?”
“Oh, shut up,” Greg said, shoving Quentin away playfully.
The two laughed for a few seconds, then fell back onto the bed. As they lay there, Greg said, “Seriously, though. It's not like it's the end of the world. It's just a voice. We're still the same people, after all.”
A voice is a strange thing. Sure, it's only a voice, but it affects so much, so subtly. Psychologically, it's not hard to see that a higher pitched voice leads to thoughts of weakness, and, following that, makes the speaker feel more submissive. Now, none of this is at the forefront of anyone's mind, but it's there, lurking in the background of each person's subconsciousness. And so, many white men, thrust into a situation where suddenly sporting a very public, very blatant aspect of femininity, found that people tended to treat them differently than before. They were less likely to take charge or lead. Verbal confrontation was avoided in most cases (though there were some who compensated, and became more aggressive), and many white men's nature began to change bit by bit.
It's not a big thing, a voice, but it is powerful in its own little way. Some would latch onto the other changes as to why the image of the white male changed so drastically over a scant year or so, but the voice was the foundation. It was the beginning. But it would certainly not be the end.
Two weeks after the voice change, Greg, in the shower again, noticed something strange – all of his pubic hair had fallen out. Both he and Quentin preferred one another smooth, so they had each shaved their bodies on a regular basis anyway, but they had left their pubic hair. Greg was slightly alarmed as he saw the hair circling the drain – another change.
He quickly rinsed off, and got out of the shower. Looking in the mirror, Greg saw that his fears were justified. His face no longer sported any hair below the eyebrows. Greg knew that Quentin would face a similar change; Dr. Bell's threats were coming to pass. Was it possible? The government kept telling everyone that it wasn't, that there wasn't anything to worry about, but, as Greg looked at his completely hairless body, he had to wonder if they were just trying to retain some measure of peace in a changing world.
When he left the bathroom, and went to get dressed, Quentin woke up. Greg told him about what had happened, and asked, “What do you think?”
“About this? I don't know. It's not like it's that big of a deal – for us at least. So we don't have to shave anymore? Big deal,” Quentin responded.
“You know I'm not talking about this particular change, Quentin,” Greg stated. “What about the other changes? What if --”
Quentin stood, and interrupted Greg, “What happens, happens. There's not much we can do about it, can we? That's rhetorical, by the way,” Quentin said when Greg began to answer. “So what if we lose our muscles. Who cares if our bodies change? We're still the same people. We still love each other.”
“And our dicks? What if...” he trailed off. Ever since his voice had changed, Greg had been worried about that one particular change. A small penis? What if he couldn't please Quentin anymore? Would Quentin leave? Or worse, would he stay, unsatisfied and unhappy?
“I can't say that I won't miss it, but you have to know that my being with you is more than just sex, right?” Quentin asked.
Greg agreed sheepishly. He did know that, rationally. But there was something in him, something patently male, that couldn't abide the fact that, in a few months, he might not be able to please his lover. However, Greg had no desire to trouble Quentin with his own inadequacies, so he dropped that line of thought, buried it deep in his mind.
“That's not to say,” Quentin said, snatching the towel from Greg's waist. “That, in the meantime, we can't enjoy what we have.” His hand found Greg's cock, and he grabbed it, massaging it gently while leading Greg to the bed. Pushing him onto the bed, Quentin climbed atop Greg, and the two started kissing while Quentin ground his crotch against Greg's hardening penis.
The two made love then, and all of their cares fell to the wayside. There was only each for the other, and that was all they needed in that moment.
Almost a month passed before they noticed any other changes. This time, they were at the gym, lifting like normal, when Quentin noticed that he couldn't lift his normal weight even half as many times as usual. Looking back, he knew that he had gradually been becoming weaker, but had dismissed it as stress or just normal fluctuation.
As he struggled to push the bar from his chest, he knew, though. He was weakening. So was Greg, as they generally worked out with the same weight and repetitions. After he was finished, he racked the weight, and stood.
“I'm not feeling well,” he said to Greg, and quickly disappeared into the locker room. He stripped off his shirt, and looked in the mirror. It wasn't that noticeable, but Quentin knew his body well. To him, he saw a drastic reduction in muscle tone. Where once his muscles had bulged, creating deep crevices between them...well, they were still there, but they didn't bulge quite as much. He was losing muscle definition.
And was he shorter? He couldn't tell for sure. Quentin stood up straight, and tried to remember how tall he had been in relation to his surroundings. No, it wasn't his imagination, he decided. He was shorter; maybe an inch or two had been lost from his 6'1” frame.
He had put on a brave front for Greg the month before, but he was scared out of his mind. He had always counted on his size, his presence to give him confidence. Consciously, of course, he didn't attribute it to his physicality, but it was the core of his personality. So, on the brink of losing that, it wasn't hard to understand why he found himself sitting in one of the stalls, silent tears running down his face.
Even Quentin hardly knew the total reason for his tears; he just felt like his entire world was on the verge of crumbling around him. He sat there, in that stall, staring at the door, for almost five minutes before a familiar voice said, “Quentin? You in here?”
At the sound of Greg's words, Quentin sniffed, wiped the tears from his face, and said, “Yeah. One sec.”
Quentin stood, opened the door to his stall, and immediately went to the sink, where he started to splash water onto his face. He was careful not to let Greg get a good look, lest his lover find out about what Quentin considered a show of blatant weakness of character.
Quentin felt a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it gently, and when he looked up, saw Greg. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. I'm just not feeling well is all,” Quentin lied.
“Are you sure?” Greg persisted.
“Just nauseous,” Quentin said.
“Maybe we should just call it off for today, then,” Greg suggested. “Yeah. Let's just go home, and, hopefully, you'll feel better tomorrow.”
“”Okay,” was all Quentin said, even though he knew that tomorrow would bring no relief for what ailed him, for that was incurable and unstoppable.
That was the last day they went to the gym. Greg knew that Quentin wasn't sick. He was aware that it wasn't nausea which drove his lover to that stall. He saw the evidence of tears. He knew Quentin well enough that he recognized the terror in his eyes. More though, he knew it because he felt it himself.
But what did it all mean? The question burned in the back of his mind. If Dr. Bell's crazy concoction robbed him of his very masculinity, where did that leave Greg? Where did that leave Quentin? And most importantly, what did it mean for their relationship? Could they withstand such a time of turmoil and change?
Greg hoped so. No. He didn't hope. He knew. They had been through so much together. They had endured estrangement from family members, mocking from strangers, sideways looks from people who they thought were friends, and had come out on top. This was just another obstacle in their path, Greg thought. And obstacles were there to be overcome.
That in mind, Greg resolved to be the strong one; Quentin had always assumed that role. He was so mentally tough, nothing ever fazed him. He had always known his place in life, even if he was shy about it. He took what life gave him, and went about his business. That was Quentin. Greg knew he couldn't have gone through the things Quentin had. But now, the tables had been turned.
Quentin, for the first time in his life, Greg thought, didn't know where he stood, who he was becoming. And it scared him. Greg could see it. He wanted to be there, needed to tell him that it would be okay, but he simply couldn't. Maybe he didn't want to lie, but he couldn't tell Quentin that everything was going to work out – Greg didn't know that it would. In fact, he suspected that the coming months would be extraordinarily trying for them both.
So he chose to hide his fear, for that was the extent of his ability to comfort his lover. Greg buried it deep down, away from the light of day. He decided to pay more attention to Quentin's moods, and to steer him clear of those situations which might upset him – such as the gym.
Greg had known that his musculature had decreased, that both of their bodies had shrunk. He had lost almost thirty pounds himself, and suspected that Quentin had lost a similar amount of weight. Quentin, though, seemed to have noticed it all at once, and it had hit him hard. And so, in the gym that day, a piece of Quentin had broken, never to be repaired.
Greg wept that night, alone in the bathroom, saddened by his lover's own pain.
Pain, it seems, is a wholly unique feeling. Inevitably, over time, as the source of that pain becomes more familiar, it fades. But it never completely leaves us. So it was with Quentin over the following months. As he continued to change along with every other white man in the world, he became more and more acclimated to the reality of his circumstance. His sharpness of his initial pain faded to a dull, throbbing ache of fear.
He was so afraid of so many things. Would Greg still be attracted to him? How would the world react to the changes? How would his friends, his coworkers? What if the biological compound was slightly altered, and the changes were somehow worse than Dr. Bell intended? Most of all, though, Quentin worried about Greg.
Greg was dominant, that was certain. Sure, Quentin himself wasn't exactly submissive – that was the core of their attraction, really. It was a constant struggle for both, to be in charge. In the bedroom, their roles were clear; Quentin was the bottom, Greg the top. But in everything else, they competed for dominance.
Greg, of course, tried to hide it, but the changes had their effect on his psyche just as they had affected Quentin's. He struggled to assert his dominance, and his confidence had been shaken to the point where he questioned nearly every decision he made. He was hesitant. And each day, it got worse.
As the pounds were shed, and their bodies shrank, Greg withdrew more and more. Quentin knew that Greg wept alone, at night, in their bathroom. He wanted so badly to go in there, to comfort his lover, but he knew Greg wouldn't admit to his weakness, even if caught with tears running down his cheeks. No, as much as Quentin wanted to help his lover, his friend, he knew that to try would only cause more pain. And so, he let Greg suffer in silence, hoping that time and familiarity would lesson the psychological effect of the changes.
The days passed, and after two months, their sizes leveled out. Quentin ended up at about five feet five inches in height and one-hundred and fifteen pounds. Greg, on the other hand, who had been slightly larger than Quentin, ended up at five feet, two inches and one-hundred and four pounds, and he was positively delicate.
Also, just as Dr. Bell's letter had warned, their body shapes had changed. Gone were the narrow hips and wide shoulders of masculinity. In their place were the narrow waists, wide hips, rounded buttocks, and small shoulders of femininity.
One night, as Quentin lay in bed, watching Greg ready himself for bed – he only wore a pair of overlarge boxer shorts – Quentin studied his lover's shape. Discounting the absence of breasts, he had the body of a small woman. His butt was pert but round, and his belly curved slightly. And Quentin knew that his own body had a similar, feminine shape.
It wasn't that Greg didn't have a good body – he did. But it wasn't exactly Quentin's cup of tea. He liked men, big and strong. Those two things were the furthest from the adjectives which might be used to describe Greg (or Quentin, for that matter). As he lay in bed, that realization hit Quentin hard.
It hadn't happened all of a sudden. They hadn't had sex in nearly four weeks, after all. But in that moment, Quentin realized that he simply wasn't sexually attracted to his own lover. The thought scared him, and he pushed it aside.
As Greg lay down next to him, Quentin did the only thing he could think to do. He wanted to banish the notion that he wasn't attracted to Greg from his mind, so he decided to prove himself wrong. So, his hands found the smooth, soft skin of Greg's stomach, and he lightly ran his fingers along the subtle curve of his tummy. Bending down, he kissed Greg's puffy nipple, and then flicked it with his tongue. Quentin's efforts were rewarded with a soft, girlish moan. Little kisses traveled up Greg's chest to his neck, and then the two locked lips passionately as Quentin's hand crept beneath Greg's boxer shorts.
It took him a second to find Greg's penis (it was so small!), and he began to fondle the soft member. After a few minutes of fruitless massage of Greg's penis, Greg let out a frustrated sigh, and pushed Quentin off of him. He rolled over, and Quentin could hear soft sobs.
“What's wrong? I thought we were --” Quentin began.
“This isn't working, Quentin, and you know it,” Greg responded. “I can't even get hard anymore, and even if I did, I'm what? Two inches? You wouldn't even feel it.”
“I don't care. I just want --”
“But I do care!” Greg said harshly, turning to face Quentin. “What kind of man am I that I can't even...” he trailed off.
Quentin's finger found Greg's lips, and shushed him. “We will get through this.”
“Just say it,” Quentin interrupted. “We will get through this.”
“We'll get through this,” Greg said in a hollow voice.
“Now,” Quentin said, forcing a smile he didn't really feel. “I think we can find a way to have a little fun, even without, you know...”
Quentin crawled over Greg, and knelt between his legs. He pulled down Greg's boxer shorts, and lowered his mouth to Greg's penis. It remained soft, but he licked and sucked for all he was worth. Finally, after a few minutes, he remembered something; the letter – it had mentioned a more sensitive anus. So, still licking and sucking, he extended a finger, and slipped it inside of Greg.
Greg gasped, and his rectum contracted, squeezing Quentin's finger. He worked it in and out, feeling a slippery substance that he guessed was a natural lubricant. Then he went to two fingers, and Greg's penis responded by hardening to its full two inches.
After only a few minutes, Greg came in Quentin's mouth. Quentin was surprised; it wasn't the usual salty taste he was used to. Rather, the semen tasted almost sweet.
Quentin climbed on top of Greg, and lay in Greg's embrace.
“See? I told you we would find a way,” Quentin said. Then, he kissed his lover. He rolled over and spread his legs. “Now get down there, and show me what you can do, you sexy thing.” Sexy. He hardly meant it. Sure, he recognized that some people would find Greg quite attractive, but he wasn't really one of them. Still, though, he lied. He would get used to it.
Greg grinned, and gave Quentin the same treatment he had been given. As he felt Greg's dainty fingers work in and out of his anus, Quentin though that he could indeed get used to that.
“But I don't have anything to wear!” Quentin complained. “Everything I own is three or four times too big, and almost a foot too long.”
“Then go shopping,” Greg suggested.
“And what? Browse in the children's department?” Quentin asked sarcastically.
“Not with those hips,” Greg teased.
“Oh, thanks a lot, jerk,” Quentin said. “Seriously, though, what can I do?”
“Probably women's clothes are all that will fit either of us,” Greg stated. Quentin had known the answer before he had even asked. He knew the shape of his body, and he could see the writing on the wall.
Quentin had a high threshold for embarrassment, but shopping for clothes in the women's department might be too much even for him. He said as much, and Greg simply said, “It's not like you're the only one with this problem, you know. Every white man in the world is facing similar issues. Surely you won't stick out, but if it bothers you that much, go online, and see for yourself. I'm sure there's something about dealing with this very issue on there.”
Quentin knew Greg was right. It was irrational to be embarrassed about something which had become so common. Still, though, he couldn't get past it. So, he took Greg's advice, and sat down at his computer, pulled up a search engine, and searched the words “white men and clothes.”
The first few entries were pictures of feminized white men in blatantly feminine clothes ranging from fitted jeans, capri pants, and lingerie to skirts and dresses. He skipped through those, considering them some sort of fringe fashions.
Finally, he came to an article which had been published in the New York Times. It read:
Adjustment: What Every Sissy Should Know
by Yvonne Harris
A couple of months ago, Dr. Omar Bell released a biochemical agent into the atmosphere which, over the last few months, has effectively eradicated our idea of the white male. Gone is the masculine all-American man, and in his place is a petite (usually no taller than 5'6”) cross between a boy and a woman. But I don't need to tell you that. Chances are that if you're reading this, you know first hand how you've changed. The purpose of this article is meant to be informative. I keep seeing white males (which I will, from now on, call bois) running around still trying to act like a man. You are not. You are a boi. But this article is meant to address a few main issues: comportment, sex (naughty!), and dress. So, without further ado, here we go!
As intimated previously, the first issue I will touch on is comportment. What does that mean, you might ask. Well, comportment is a fancy term for how you behave, but it's more than that. It includes everything from posture to the way you might walk. This might seem strange that you bois might need to learn how to act differently, but, well, you look silly trying to act like a man. Imagine a teenage girl trying to act like her daddy. That's how strange it is to see a boi strutting around like a man.
No, bois should act differently because you are different. I can't stress that enough. So, a few pointers for you bois out there. First, try to keep your back slightly arched. It will make your rear-end look just absolutely darling. Second, try to sway your hips a little. Men like that (more on that later). Third, don't be afraid to do aerobic. You need to keep your figure. A fat boi is a lonely boi. I recommend stripperaerobics, but anything will do. But the most important tip I can give you is this: watch women and imitate them. You are far closer to one of them (with quite similar sexual goals, I might add – again, more on that later), and they've been doing it for a lot longer than you have. Watch us, bois, and learn!
The second thing we need to talk about is dress. Most of you have probably noticed that none of your clothes even remotely fit anymore (unless you were one scrawny boy to begin with). So, you will need to buy a whole new wardrobe. Most department stores have opened a new section aimed directly at bois, so that's a good place to start. But if you're on a budget, don't be afraid to borrow from a girlfriend, wife, or a sister if they're close to your size.
A few things to note, though. I'll start with undergarments. Bois wear panties. Yes. Not briefs. Not boxers. Panties. Your shape dictates that you wear them. Learn to love it. I myself just love wearing a new, sexy pair of panties. They just make me feel so confident! Some bois have fully embraced their femininity and started wearing bras. I applaud your adaptability, but I am of the humble opinion that bois shouldn't wear them. They don't, after all, have breasts (yet! Who knows what that crazy Dr. Bell did?). But you aren't girls. You are bois. Bois don't have breasts, so have no need for bras.
As for outerwear, it is appropriate for a boi to wear basically anything a girl might wear. Everything from skirts to jeans to blouses and dresses. If you think you look good, then wear it. But be advised: you will look silly in male clothes (if you can find some that even remotely fit right). You'll never get a man like that. No, stick to the women's or bois (or even the juniors section).
Finally, I want to talk a little bit about sex. If you are offended by it, just quit reading now.
Okay, still with me? Good. You bois may have noticed a certain lack of size in the genitals department. Many of you may have been embarrassed by this development. Don't be! It's perfectly natural for a boi to have a small penis. Recent studies have shown that the average white male's penis is now around an inch and a half long when flaccid, but it's not uncommon for them to be even smaller (My husband's is actually less than an inch long. It's just as cute as can be!). Don't worry bois, those things aren't terribly important anymore, and I'll tell you why.
You may have noticed that your anus is quite a bit more sensitive than it was before. That is by design. Think of it as your new sex organ. Women have vaginas. Men have their penises. And bois have their anuses. Don't be afraid to try it out, take that thing out for a spin, if you will. Borrow your girlfriend's vibrator (or your sister's if you're comfortable asking for it) and go to town! You'll soon find that it's “just heavenly” (my husband's words).
Now comes what will be the biggest change to your life. You've probably already guessed it. But bois belong with men. It is simple science. Bois emit almost identical pheromones to that of women, and studies have shown that they respond similarly to women when exposed to male pheromones. What does that mean? Sorry bois, but you are attracted to men now. More, though, men will be attracted to you. Resist that attraction if you want, but it's natural. Couple that with the fact that they have the equipment to please you, and you'll see why man/boi relationships have risen by 400% since Dr. Bell released his concoction on the world.
A lot of bois will refuse to accept that being heterosexual means that they prefer men. This means that these bois will basically become lesbians. Or at least for all practical purposes, they will. Most of these women married (or were girlfriends ) to men. That in mind, I suggest you take a trip to your local “adult” store and browse for something, ah...penetrative. You're both going to get urges, so it's best to have something on hand that might satisfy you.
I suspect that many of you reading this are still in denial. Time for some tough love. Look in the mirror, honey. What do you see? Is that a man? Certainly not. Is it a woman? Nope. That is a boi staring back at you. Time to start acting the part.
Now, you may need counseling, and that's fine. The government has set up counseling centers around the country for just such a need. Go there. Learn to accept the new you. I hope that this article has helped you. Thanks, and see you next week when we examine just what your panties say about you as a person.
Quentin was floored by what he had just read. He and Greg hadn't taken a vacation from their jobs in almost six years, so they both had built up quite a bit, so they had taken the last month off of work to deal with the changes. So, they had spent the majority cooped up in their apartment, watching old movies (and having quite a lot of what, for all intents and purposes, amounted to lesbian sex). Their only forays into the outside world were trips to the supermarket.
Could the world have changed so much in only a month? Quentin hardly believed it. So, he read the article again, and even made sure that it wasn't a clever fake. No. It had appeared in the New York Times – the columnist published a weekly article.
But what did it mean? He knew he would have to buy a new wardrobe; his clothes didn't fit anymore. But would he be buying dresses, skirts, and women's lingerie?
He sat at his computer, thinking, for what seemed like hours before coming the conclusion that, article aside, he needed to see what was going on in the world for himself. And what better place to do that than the mall?
He found a pair of jeans, cinched them with a belt, and put on what had become a baggy tee-shirt. After kissing Greg goodbye, he left for the mall.
Almost as soon as Quentin got out of his car, he knew that the article had been right. Everywhere he looked were bois in what appeared to be women's clothes. And quite a few of them were on the arms of black men.
Only six months had passed since the biological agent had been released, and already, white men had become exactly what Dr. Bell had envisioned – feminized sissies. The era of the white man had passed. In its place, rose the time of the white boi.
Almost in a daze, Quentin walked through the mall, seeing women, bois and men, acting like nothing was amiss. The bois in skirts, dresses, and other feminine clothing drew no stares, and, in most cases, didn't even warrant a second glance. On the contrary, Quentin was the one at which people looked with disdain and disapproval. He was the outcast for wearing clothes (albeit too large) traditional to his gender.
He went into a store, and found that there was a section specifically labeled “Bois.” He quickly crossed the store, and started browsing through the racks of clothes. After only a few minutes, a salesboi approached him and said, “Been putting it off, huh?”
“What?” Quentin asked.
“Buying new clothes – have you been delaying it? I know I did, at first,” the salesboi answered.
Quentin sighed, and answered, “Yeah, I guess. To be honest, I've not left the house much in the past month, and I wasn't aware how much things had changed.”
“It is a little surreal, isn't it?” the boi said.
“To say the least,” Quentin stated. “It's strange, though, right? That everything could go so different in so short of a time?”
“A little,” the boi allowed. “But it's not really that surprising. I'm a graduate student in psychology, and if you think about it, it makes sense. We're attracted to men. Men like women. This,” he gestured to his skirt and blouse. “Is how women dress. Ergo, we want to dress like this. Add to that fact that it's not frowned upon to pursue our desires, and it's not hard to see why things have changed.”
Quentin agreed with the boi's logic, and he went on, “On top of all that, women's clothes, and their boi variations, are made to show off feminine assets. They fit us better than male clothes would. It's just...natural.”
Natural, Quentin thought. It certainly seemed so, as he looked around the Boi's Department, at what no doubt had been masculine men, shopping for frilly underthings, skirts, dresses, and other feminine garments. They certainly didn't seem uncomfortable. Natural, the salesboi had called it, and Quentin had a hard time disagreeing.
Greg was watching an old movie – Cool Hand Luke, to be precise – when Quentin pushed through the door, arms full of bags.
“Little help,” he called, and Greg quickly crossed the room to do so.
“So, I guess you found some stuff to wear,” Greg said with a sly smile.
“You too,” Quentin added. “I guessed your size, so you might have to take some things back to exchange them.”
“Oh,” was Greg's only response.
“Don't get that way. You needed clothes as much as I did,” Quentin said, putting the bags on the ground, and then closing the door. “Did you read that article I told you about?”
“I did,” Greg said. It had been surprising, but Greg hadn't been as isolated as Quentin, and had seen examples of the article's claims before.
“You wouldn't believe it, but everything it said was true,” Quentin said. “The clothes, the bois and men, everything.” It all came out in a tumbled rush.
“I know,” Greg said. “I've seen as much in the last few weeks...”
“What? You have?” Quentin asked, but before Greg could answer, he said, “Never mind that. I want you to try on your new clothes just in case I got your size wrong.”
Greg let out an annoyed sigh.
“Don't worry,” Quentin said. “I didn't get anything too feminine. No skirts or lace.”
“That's a relief,” Greg stated sarcastically.
“Those two bags are yours,” Quentin said, indicating the right-most bags. “And you might as well get used to this all. It doesn't look like any of it is going to change, you know.”
Greg's anger began to rise. Of course it didn't look like it was going to change. No, he was stuck as a weak, feminine sissy, and here Quentin was, trying to make him conform to that role. The nerve! Why couldn't he just leave him alone? Why did Quentin have to go and buy clothes? He caught himself before he said something he would regret. It wasn't Quentin's fault. None of it was. He was just trying to make the best of a bad situation.
Greg took a deep breath, grabbed the bags, and mumbled, “Thanks,” before walking down the hall, leaving a confused Quentin in his wake. He had to force himself not to slam the door after he went into their bedroom, and threw the bags onto the bed.
What had he become? Certainly not a man. A man didn't get fingered by his boyfriend every night. A man wasn't shaped like a woman. A man, a real man, could fuck his partner. But not me, Greg thought. No, Greg thought. He was not a man, not a real one at least.
But what did that make him? He wasn't a woman. Nor was he a man. And he didn't want to be one of these new bois. He collapsed onto the bed, and lay there for a few minutes, his hands over his eyes, as he thought about his life. Thankfully, Quentin knew Greg's moods well enough not to disturb him.
After a few minutes, he rolled over, and dumped out a bag. True to his word, Quentin hadn't bought him anything terribly feminine – just jeans, tee-shirts, and some underwear called boishorts (they looked like male y-fronts, but were obviously shaped to fit a boi).
“He's just too good to me,” Greg said to himself, and his lover's thoughtfulness buoyed his rapidly degrading spirits. He rose, and quickly undressed; his clothes practically fell off, they were so big, and tore into the package of boishorts. Slipping them up the soft, hairless skin of his legs, he had to admit that they fit very well. Next came a pair of jeans. They were tighter than those he usually wore, especially in the rear, but he supposed that was just how they were cut. Finally, he pulled on a plain black tee-shirt.
Looking in the mirror, he was struck by how feminine he looked, even in basically unisex clothes. He took a deep breath, and left the bedroom.
When he entered the den, he was surprised by what he saw. There was Quentin, bent over at the waist, stepping into a lacy black thong.
Quentin looked back, and said, “Get your tantrum out of the way?”
Greg shrugged. “Thats...a new look, huh?”
Quentin pulled the panties up, and turned to Greg. “I'm trying to embrace this. We can't change it, so I might as well get used to living like a boi. Besides,” he said, blushing slightly. “They make me feel sexy. You don't like them?”
It wasn't so much that Greg didn't like the underwear. It was more that he didn't like what his lover had become. However, Greg had no desire to hurt Quentin's feelings, so he said, “They look fantastic.” His lie was rewarded with the radiance of Quentin's smile – there he was. That was the smile of the man with whom Greg had fallen in love.
But then Greg saw the rest of him, and his initial delight at seeing that familiar smile faded. He covered it up quickly, but the image and its implications raced through his mind like a wildfire. Quentin was no longer a man, not even in spirit. In his desire to fit in, to embrace his boihood, he had lost that last shred of masculinity. Some might call it admirable that Quentin could take what the world gave him and make the best of it. In other people, Greg would agree. But as he looked at Quentin, he only thought of himself. The man he loved was gone. Could he learn to love the boi who took his place?
Quentin didn't know what to do. Over the three months since he had bought his new wardrobe (and had since bought quite a bit more clothing), Greg had grown withdrawn. They hardly spoke anymore, and Greg never touched him. Not even a kiss goodnight.
Greg called into work more often than not, and eventually lost his job. Quentin knew what it was. It was obvious. His spirit was completely and utterly broken. Greg wasn't a man. He didn't want to be a boi. His lover was no longer his preferred type, and he had lost the masculinity which had defined him.
Where Quentin had chosen to make the best of his situation, and soon came to enjoy being a boi, Greg had rejected the idea of boihood outright, and chose instead to wallow in his own self-pity and loss. Was the situation ideal? No, not at all, but Quentin had thought their love stronger than attraction.
He knew it wasn't just that, however. He had changed. When Quentin had made the choice to truly become a boi, in manner, dress, and gender, he had gone at it with reckless abandon. And he became, in effect, a different version of himself. Apparently, he had lost those parts which Greg valued most, and that knowledge cut Quentin deeply.
What was there to do, though? It was a difficult thing, to deal with such change, and Quentin suspected that many bois were reacting similarly. He kept telling himself that Greg would eventually snap out of it, but each day, he only got worse.
Finally, a little over a year and a half after the Great Change (as the media had dubbed it), Quentin had had enough. He had focused, all that time, on how much he had changed and on Greg's happiness and well-being, but until then, he hadn't stopped to wonder about his own, about how much Greg had changed.
Greg was a shell of his former self. He rarely joked, he wasn't thoughtful or affectionate, and he cared little for anyone else's problems or concerns. In short, he had become a thoroughly unlikeable person.
And so, Quentin sat him down one day, and said, “Look, Greg. I love you. More than you can ever know, I love you. But you have to snap out of this. Go see a psychiatrist or something. This isn't going to change. You aren't going to suddenly become a man again. It's just...you need help.”
“Are you done?” Greg asked dismissively without even looking at Quentin.
“Am I done? Yeah, I guess so,” Quentin replied angrily. “I just don't know how to get through to you.”
“What do you want from me? Do you want me to wear frilly panties and dresses? Okay. Do you want me to start caring about make-up and hair styles? Whatever, I'll do it,” Greg practically hissed.
“I want you to be happy!” Quentin blurted out.
“Fat chance of that,” Greg said. Silence followed. For a few seconds neither spoke. Quentin was stunned, and Greg sullenly stared off into the distance. “Look, I didn't mean that,” he said softly after almost a full minute.
“Yes, you did,” Quentin said. “I thought...I hoped that we could get through this.” A tear fell down Quentin's cheek. “But I can't do it by myself. You have to want to do it.”
Greg remained silent.
“Do you?” Quentin asked.
“I don't know,” Greg said after a few moments.
The answer floored Quentin. He knew that Greg didn't really find him attractive anymore, but he had hoped that their love would somehow find a way. No, that wasn't really right. Quentin suspected that it wasn't so much a lack of attraction, but rather a frustration with what he wanted to do with that attraction. Greg, in short, wanted to be a man, and he wanted to show that attraction as a man would, not as a boi or woman might.
Sure, they had been in an ideal situation before the Great Change, but Quentin knew that, if Greg had still been a man, unchanged, he would have no doubts about their relationship. The problem was with Greg. His unhappiness with his own situation prevented him from truly committing to his love for anyone, including himself.
Quentin rose from the couch where he had been sitting, and said, “You need to figure it out, then. I'm going out with some friends. By tomorrow morning, you had better know whether you want to commit yourself to figuring this thing out. I love you, but I'm not going to waste my life with someone who doesn't return that love.”
And with that, he left.
The door slammed shut, leaving Greg in a forlorn, bewildered state.
Did he want to continue the relationship? Did he deserve a person like Quentin anymore? He knew he didn't. But still, Quentin had stayed for that long, and wanted to stay longer still. Didn't that count for something? But Greg still had little regard for what he had become. What had started as a personal miasma resulting from his change, had become a feeling of worthlessness which had spiraled out of control, one depressed thought building on another.
Where was the man he had once been? Surely physical changes couldn't banish him completely? And didn't Quentin deserve that man, or at least the boi that man could be? Greg knew that Quentin did, but could he harness that confidence, that self-worth again? Of that, he was unsure.
But he needed to try, not so much for Quentin's sake, but for his own. He knew that the path he was on would not end well. Greg was aware of his own deconstruction. He had practically reveled in it for almost a year. Where would he end up if he continued to live his life so devoid of humanity? He shuddered to think.
Knowing that you need to change and committing to that change are quite different, however, and Greg had thought such thoughts before. What did a commitment to change mean? Surely, a psychiatrist was in that future, but would that psychiatrist want him to become some simpering sissy like so many bois had become? More, would that psychiatrist want him to be normal, to chase after men, to get married to one? What would that solve? Would that make him happy? He feared the answer, be it yes or no.
Beyond anything else, though, he knew one simple truth. He loved Quentin more than anything else in his world. Greg would do anything for him. And that realization answered all of his questions. He couldn't bear losing Quentin, and so, he would do whatever it took. If that meant becoming a bastion of feminine boihood, he would do that. Whatever Quentin wanted, whatever way his life might go, he knew beyond a shadow of any doubt that he would do anything for his love, for his Quentin.
The thought rejuvenated Greg, and, for the first time in nearly a year, he was excited about what the future might hold.
Quentin fumed as he drank his drink, feeling more than a little drunk. He had gone on and on to his friends about Greg, but they had tired of his rants, and wandered off. So there he sat, by himself, drunkenly mumbling to himself.
“You're hittin' that pretty hard, aren't you?” a deep voice from Quentin's right asked. Quentin turned, and saw a dark, handsome, and smiling face.
“Not interested,” Quentin said quickly before downing his drink.
But the man didn't leave. Instead, he kept talking, and eventually, Quentin began participating in the conversation, getting drunker all the time.
Greg was still awake the next morning when Quentin dragged himself through the door. His clothes were rumpled, his make-up smeared, and his hair tousled. Quentin didn't need to say anything for Greg to know what had happened.
Betrayal was the word at the foremost of Greg's mind. Following that, he could hardly blame Quentin. Sadness coated his every thought, and he wore his disappointment like a cloak.
“I'll be back for my thing within a couple of days,” Greg said as he rose from the couch.
Quentin started, “I can explain --” but was interrupted by Greg.
“You don't have anything to explain,” Greg stated, meaning every word. “I blew it. It's amazing you stayed with me this long.”
With that, he stepped through the still-open door. The sound of it shutting had a certain finality to it.
Quentin fell onto the couch in a huff, buried his head in his hands, and cried. What had he been thinking? He hadn't. He had been angry, drunk, and horny – not a good combination for a pretty boi in a bar.
And, predictably, someone had taken advantage of him. He didn't even know the man's name, and hardly remembered the sex. It was a mistake, through and through, and Quentin had paid the price for his error. Greg was gone, and Quentin knew that no matter what he said, no matter what excuses he might give, Greg was gone for good.
Quentin knew his lover well enough that he knew that Greg wouldn't be angry. He would simply be disappointed, and not in Quentin (though he deserved it). Rather, he would regret pushing Quentin to such an action. And there was no argument or excuse Quentin could make that would change that.
No, Greg was gone, and for good. Quentin cried unceasingly for hours.
Four years later, Quentin was walking down the street. Life had been difficult for him; it had taken almost a year to get over Greg, and even when he did, it wasn't complete. No, Greg was still the love of his life, and no one could take his place. Still though, he had managed as well as could be expected. He went on dates with friends of friends, and even enjoyed some of them. But no one really compared.
Though he thought about Greg often, Quentin hadn't tried to contact him after their last meeting (in which Greg retrieved his things from the apartment). Nor had Greg tried to contact him. That period of Quentin's life, it seemed, was over. He tried to move on; he really did, but it was difficult.
The world, for its part, moved on, and only a few months previous, a cure for the Great Change had been found. Not wanting to disrupt his life anymore than it already had been, Quentin chose to pass on the alleged cure. He was comfortable with who he had become, and had no desire to change back to who he had been.
Many bois, however, chose to accept that cure, and the world's population began to balance out.
As he walked down the sidewalk, though, a familiar face caught Quentin's eye from across the street. He wanted to play it cool. He intended to simply walk over, and say hello. But after only a couple of steps, Quentin found himself running, his heels clicking on the pavement.
He crossed the span of the street in an instant, and leaped into his target's arms, laying a passionate kiss on him.
When he broke away from breath, Greg said, “Nice to see you too.”
Greg, apparently, had chosen to take the cure, and had become his former self once again (if slightly more feminine and a little smaller – remnants of his time as a boi).
“Don't you ever leave me again,” Quentin said in a breathless whisper. “Never.”
“I won't,” Greg answered, his two simple words followed by another kiss.