WingMan, ch. 1 (Patreon)

Vince wiped the sweat from his short, raven hair, his bare pecs heaving as he caught his breath. A wiry dusting of a similar shade spread across the well-muscled mounds before flowing down the stocky stud’s burly arms and trim midsection. The hair condensed into a line at Vince’s navel, disappearing beneath the elastic band of the briefs that stood exposed above the waist of his mesh shorts, only to reappear around his sturdy thighs and rocky calves. If the name Vincente Capello didn’t make his Italian-American heritage obvious enough, any remaining doubts were quickly erased by his olive skin and the constant layer of scruffy stubble adorning his lantern-jaw. Had he been taller, Vince’s impressive looks would have been considered well above average, but, at a compact 5’5”, the dark-haired hunk’s lack of height was the first thing most people noticed, not his impressively masculine features. He’d been a life-long jock, his years of wrestling leaving him with a broad-shouldered, strong-armed, plump-reared frame that he’d managed to maintain into his mid-thirties, and that he continued to refine through regular workouts. His cardio consisted mostly of basketball, like the game he and Guillermo had just finished, and while he still occasionally wrestled at the YMCA, lately he’d been focused more on lifting and getting big than anything else. Specifically, Vince was trying to grow his already-prominent pecs, and he’d argue for as long as it took to convince someone that he just wanted to look good, not compensate for his short stature. If he was trying to cover up for anything, he’d insist, it was the increasing amount of salt in his pepper-colored hair, not the fact that he’d barely met the height requirements for the force, as his coworkers constantly reminded him. The taunting had fizzled once he’d made Detective, and while Vince wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, he had a great memory. “Something wrong,” he asked when he noticed Guillermo studying what appeared to be a golden business card.

The taller man handed Vince the slip of paper, a surprised smile on his face. “Did you see who left this?”

“Nope. I was too busy kicking your ass, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Vince said, raising an eyebrow when he turned his attention to the card. “Well, well, well. Look at you! An invite to a WingMan party. It’s about time someone noticed that pretty face,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Unlike himself, the bronze-skinned beauty was long and lean, standing just over six feet with a sculpted, tapering frame that was as perfect as his sharp, symmetrical face. Where Vince was strong and stocky, Guillermo was model-caliber, more “fit and trim” than “muscled meathead.” Much to the shorter man’s green-eyed frustration, his friend managed to ride the line between Too Small and Too Big without any apparent effort, his simultaneously brooding-yet-delicate features cementing his status as Precinct Pretty Boy. The latino hunk actually had tried his hand at a few modeling gigs before going off to the academy, but he’d ultimately opted for steady pay, benefits, and a pension over the short shelf life provided by his superior genetics. Though, considering how striking he still looked at thirty, as evidenced by the exclusive invitation he’d just received, Guillermo sometimes wondered if he’d made the right decision. “Are you going to go,” Vince asked, scanning the area for any sign as to who might have left the card. The bench with their belongings was right next to the court, and the park was sparsely populated at the moment, yet both of the trained law enforcement officers had somehow missed someone sticking the invitation on Guillermo’s bag.

“Obviously,” the taller man said, snatching the card back. The invitation clearly stated that it was for Guillermo only, with no additional guests allowed. “I mean, I’m flattered, for starters. You’ve heard how they are…they’re super particular about their brand ambassadors. They only invite the best of the best looking to these things,” he said, pausing to flash a smug smirk. “And I think they even hook you up with a WingMan! Which, let’s be honest, neither of us is ever affording otherwise. That’s some top-level luxury shit.”

Vince folded his arms under his pecs as he looked up at his friend. “Do you actually want one of those little guys?”

“Who doesn’t! Come on, man…you’re telling me you’re not tempted? If you had one, you’d never be the shortest guy in the room again,” Guillermo chuckled.

Vince rolled his eyes, refusing to take the bait. He was happy for his handsome friend’s exclusive invite, but his detective’s instincts told him to be wary of the WingMan situation. The whole phenomena had sprung up seemingly out of nowhere, going from a luxury reserved for the richest of the rich - royalty, Silicon Valley moguls, A-List celebrities - to an omnipresent, everyday occurrence. They were like smartphones or electric vehicles, something that landed as a curious oddity at first, only to rapidly weave itself into the fabric of society. But, unlike phones or cars, a WingMan wasn’t a piece of technology; they were a living, breathing person. According to the ads that had started popping up all over, a WingMan was a doting, devoted little hunk. They usually landed somewhere around the three-foot mark, sometimes coming in slightly shorter, but never taller, with brawny bodies and stunning faces. While far from being the brightest bulbs or engaging conversationalists, the short studs were promised to be buff little balls of giddy, charming energy, their entire existence centered around making sure that the needs of their “Big Buddies” were met.

It was that last element that Vince had a hard time wrapping his head around. No one seemed to know where the WingMen came from, or how such a system existed in the first place. A WingMan was, for all intents and purposes, no different than any other adult male. Aside from their subpar stature and limited attention spans, there was nothing that set them apart on a fundamental level. Their proportions were the same as their full-size counterparts, only on a smaller scale, and they talked, ate, and acted just like anyone else would. Yet they were treated more like pets or accessories than people. None of the societal rules that applied to Vince or Guillermo appeared to apply to them, making it a common occurrence to see one of the little hunks being walked down the street in nothing but a thong or a jockstrap. If it made their Big Buddy happy, the eager exhibitionists were proud to wear as much or as little as possible, without any apparent embarrassment or hesitation. They were like purse dogs for wealthy men, a reflection of their caretaker’s status, to be dressed up in costumes and displayed like a trophy.

It was easier to ignore when the phenomena had been relegated to the one-percent, but ever since it had started trickling down to the mainstream, Vince’s brushes with WingMen hadn’t been overly positive. Nor was Guillermo the first person he’d known to receive such an invitation. His former personal trainer, a young, bearded brunette pretty-boy named Dan, had been similarly singled out, and Vince never saw him again. Apparently the handsome jock had decided to go all in on the brand ambassador position because when Vince asked, staff at the gym could only tell him that his trainer had “quit and moved away.” To be fair, Dan had talked about heading out to the west coast, but Vince thought it was out of character for the younger man to ghost on him when he’d paid for two more sessions. And “ghost” he had. Dan stopped responding to texts, he’d abandoned his social media, and it was only while trying to figure out how he was going to get his refund that Vince had been told in passing about the invitation the other man had received. At the time he’d been more irritated by the hassle than anything else, chalking the disappearing act up to an NDA and a luxury rebrand.

And then Vince had met his first WingMan. As a testament to how quickly the petite pretty-boys were permeating popular culture, he’d gone from barely having heard about them, to losing his trainer to the brand, to seeing one in person all in the span of a few weeks. It had been after an FOP fundraiser, when he and a small group of guys had lingered at their host’s plush penthouse. The plan had been to continue the party at one of their favorite bars, but, before they left, their host asked if they wanted to meet his new WingMan. He’d said he hadn’t wanted to bring him out in mixed company, nor to overwhelm the smaller man, but since the crowd had been distilled to a more homogenous group of gays, he’d thought they’d get a kick out meeting the compact hunk.

Vince wasn’t sure that’s how he’d describe his reaction. The stocky detective had actually felt dizzy when their host opened his bedroom door to reveal what was, in essence, a fancy crate. It was spacious and well-cushioned, without any sort of door, and, after seeing a few of the shocked expressions, their host had casually explained that his WingMan liked to “have somewhere to go” if he got overwhelmed, which could apparently happen rather easily. Vince saw that for himself a few moments later when a short, sculpted Adonis clambered out, his gorgeous features still groggy with sleep. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and if the top of his wavy blonde head hadn’t terminated at most of their waists the man would have been intimidatingly beautiful. Even with his reduced proportions he was stunning. Broad shoulders, chiseled pecs, powerful arms, a tapering washboard; it was the kind of body most men could only dream of. He had a perky rear and sturdy thighs, and, as the group immediately noticed, a cock that would have been equally imposing on a larger scale as the rigid organ tented his bright, tiny briefs. If the short hunk was at all embarrassed to be seen in his exposed, erect state it didn’t show as he’d smiled bashfully at the group and made a beeline for his caretaker, leaning into the older man’s hand when his “buddy” reached down and started stroking the messy blonde bedhead.

Once the WingMan had been given the okay by their host, though, the miniature model’s attitude did a one-eighty. No longer hovering by the older man, the small stud had flitted amongst the group, delighting the crowd with his squeaky voice as he’d introduced himself as Bryce. The frat boy name fit both the smaller man’s jock build and seemingly limited intellect, his helium speech peppered with “likes”, “ums”, and single-syllable words. It had been immediately evident that physical contact was the blonde’s preferred method of communication, and Vince didn’t think he’d ever forget how it felt to hold the buff ball of muscle for the first time.

He still didn’t understand where his own behavior had come from, why he’d automatically started talking down to the man. He kept telling himself that Bryce was actually no different than any of them, but that thought had immediately felt wrong, though Vince couldn’t explain why. So when the tiny titan stood in front of him and lifted his arms, the detective had simply scooped him up as a reflex, a fresh wave of dizziness washing over him at how light the muscled little man had felt. Bryce was dense and solid, yet he’d been almost weightless in his arms. Even with his short stature, the diminutive jock should have been well over fifty or sixty pounds, yet the stunned detective had been able to hold him with a single hand on the blonde’s firm bubble.

The odd encounter had dominated their conversation for the rest of the night. As a group of gay men, the desire to have their own pint-sized pretty-boy was almost universally shared, with Vince being the sole exception. They’d all commented on how stunning Bryce’s brief-clad body and beautiful face had been, but no one else thought to ask anything about the blonde’s background. No one else asked how the smaller man had wound up with the company, or how someone even applied for a position like that, or what the rules were. It had been hard for Vince to even conceptualize such ideas in relation to the short stud, despite them being standard small talk in nearly every other situation. Wanting to get away from the strange experience altogether, he’d broken off from the group in search of his favorite bartender, Joey, only to discover the other man absent. The handsome, brawny ginger had been a fixture behind the bar for years, especially on Friday nights, but, when Vince asked the flustered fill-in if Joey was okay, he’d received an irritated explanation that the missing man had “quit and moved away” without bothering to cover his shifts.

So, while Vince wanted to share Guillermo’s current excitement, it was hard for him to muster much enthusiasm. “I don’t know, man…that stuff weirds me out. You know how those rich fucks are. They operate in a whole ‘nother world from me and you. You’re sure you want to go through with it?”

The taller man let out a loud laugh and punched Vince on a broad shoulder. “Go through with what? Calm down, dad. It’s just an invitation, not a job offer. I’m going to go and eat their rich people food and drink their rich people drinks and then go home. Not like I’m doing anything else tonight,” he shrugged. “And you can’t tell me you’re not curious. Even if you don’t want one of the little dudes, I know you’re dying to learn how that sausage is made.”

Vince’s stubble-covered grin was sheepish. “Okay, yeah…I’m curious. Just don’t sign any goddamn papers, alright? The only thing worse than those rich fucks are their rich fuck lawyers.”

Guillermo’s toned arm flexed as he raised it in a mock-salute. “I’ll text you afterwards and let you know how it went. Anything you want if they’re givin’ ‘em away? Blonde? Redhead? Twink? Nah, you like those big gym boys,” he laughed.

“Guess that explains why you’ve never done anything for me,” Vince grunted. “Seriously. Be careful,” he said, giving his younger friend a stern, final look before waving him off.

Once Guillermo was gone, Vince picked up his phone to check his messages, only managing to hear the first one. They all played, but as he lingered courtside and looked out across the park, his attention shifted to the new WingMan area. Like everything else about the odd phenomenon, they’d been springing up seemingly out of nowhere, giving the Big Buddies a chance to mingle while the short studs burned off some energy. Vince could see several of the miniature meatheads wrestling and romping with each other, while a few of their pint-sized peers grinned from ear-to-ear as they were swung, bounced and carried around by their larger companions. On the way in and out, the buff little beauties beamed whenever someone stopped to tousle their hair or ask their caretaker about them, looking almost comically proud despite the chest harnesses and leashes many of them were attached to.

Vince put his phone away, fighting another wave of dizziness as he watched a tiny, strapping Adonis go strutting by in nothing but a pair of sneakers and what looked like bright green bikini briefs. The larger, fully-clothed young man with him couldn’t have been out of his twenties, the contrast in their dress and sizes making the detective’s head hurt. Vince hated the way his hands tingled as he thought back to his earlier encounter with Bryce, the phantom sensation of the buff blonde’s perky bubble against his palm making his cock throb. He’d actively tried not to think about just how hot the nearly-naked beauty had been, but it was becoming harder to ignore as more and more of the scantily clad studs started popping up everywhere. The half-sized hunk who’d just strutted by would have been a beast of a man had he been full size, with a cock that would have put Vince’s own thick tool to shame if it hadn’t been similarly proportioned. As it was, despite the stuffed bulge in the little bikinis, the detective knew the man couldn’t have sported more than a few inches, just like Bryce.

The issue of scale was more than he could wrap his head around. He tried to think about what it must be like for the WingMen, to look every bit the hung, sculpted gym rat when there was no one to compare themselves to, then suddenly seeming small as soon as someone else was around. But, like so much else about the strange little beefcakes, the thoughts had a hard time connecting, as if they were attached to the opposing poles of magnets. They’d get close, only to slip off to the sides before fully making contact.

“Fuck it,” Vince finally grunted, grabbing his gym bag to head for home. He shot Guillermo a quick text when he discovered that his friend had left his behind, but he could give it back to the other man when he saw him tomorrow at work. After Guillermo’s adventures at the WingMan showroom that evening, Vince was sure they were going to have plenty to talk about in the morning; he just wasn’t sure how he was going to feel about any of it.