Second Prime - Prologue (Patreon)

Logan Mercer stood in his bathroom early in the morning. His house was quiet—too quiet for his taste, but the silence wasn’t new to him. He’d lived with it for years now, ever since the divorce—ten years of waking up alone, of mornings that didn’t need him right away. It made him miss the old days. Back when his boys—Michael and Cory—were kids, mornings used to start loud. Someone always needed something. A backpack forgotten. A ride to school. A voice calling out, “Dad?” from the hallway.

But that version of his life was gone.

Logan stood there barefoot on the cool tile, wearing nothing but an old pair of sleep-worn shorts—soft cotton, washed thin over the years. The waistband sat a little looser than it used to, bunching instead of biting into his hips. He would’ve wanted to put on a little show for the mirror, but not today. He didn’t flex; he didn’t square his shoulders or lift his chin the way he sometimes caught himself doing when he passed reflective windows downtown. He didn’t try to look good. He didn’t try to look bad either. He allowed the mirror to reveal the truth.

At first glance, the truth was still generous.

Logan was still a big man at about 218 pounds. 6’1” tall, broad through the shoulders, thick through the chest. His frame filled the narrow bathroom nicely, with long arms hanging heavy at the sides of his ribcage. Even relaxed, he occupied space in a way some men never did, no matter how hard they trained or how loudly they tried to announce themselves. Anyone passing him on the street would still clock him as strong and solid. Maybe even intimidating—a man people would instinctively step around instead of through.

But Logan didn’t look at the whole picture anymore. His eyes went straight to the details.

His chest still looked broad, heavy, and unmistakably masculine. Years ago, it had been armor—thick slabs of muscle that sat high and proud, pushing shirts outward, filling space before he even spoke. Now, the upper mass had thinned—flattened even. It wasn’t a dramatic change, not enough that anyone else would notice. But Logan noticed.

The lower portion of his pecs hung just enough that he was aware of it when he leaned forward or when he rolled onto his back in bed. Gravity asserted itself there now in a way it never had before with a quiet downward pull. When he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, he saw the movement. Not sagging, but there was motion that didn’t exist before.

His abdomen was next. It was flat enough when he stood straight, when he tightened without thinking. But when he let himself relax, it pushed forward slightly—heavier than he expected every time. It wasn’t soft fat—not exactly, but a loss of sharpness. The V-shape he remembered so clearly, the one that used to guide his hands without him looking, had blurred.

He lifted one arm slowly, and his bicep still filled his upper arm, thick and capable-looking. Years of work were still there, but it didn’t swell the way it used to. The muscle rose flatter, less dense. He turned his wrist, flexed experimentally, then reached across and squeezed it with his other hand. His fingers sank in annoyingly more than he expected.

His shoulders were still wide enough to stretch the mirror’s frame, but they sloped now instead of sitting proudly. They didn’t naturally pull back unless he told them to. His thighs were still heavy—built from decades of work sites, ladders, hauling, and moving—but they felt heavy in a different way now. Not explosive. Not spring-loaded. Just weight-bearing. His calves looked almost unchanged, thankfully. But his ass—still round and full—had lost just enough firmness that he noticed it when he shifted.

Then there were the subtler betrayals.

He ran a hand through his dark brown hair, dragging his fingers from his forehead to the crown. The thickness was still there along the sides, still strong at the back. But when his fingers reached the top, they slowed. The hair felt finer—not visibly thinning to anyone else, but less resistant. The motion revealed silver through the temples. He tilted his head slightly, checked the angle, then straightened again.

His face was weathered in a masculine way: strong jaw, slightly crooked nose from an old break, and lines around his eyes from squinting into the sun and laughing hard in his younger years. He kept a light stubble, with flecks of gray starting to show. His eyes were a steady steel blue. They used to look sharper, more certain. Now they held a quiet watchfulness—like a man measuring distance rather than charging forward.

“Forty-five,” he whispered, almost in defeat.

It was normal. Logan was forty-five years old. He’d been divorced for ten years. He owned a successful construction company, which meant some weeks he barely worked at all, and others he worked too much. He slept badly more often than he liked. Drank more than he should on nights when the house felt too quiet. This was life. This was what happened when time did what time always did. Impossible to escape.

Still, when he turned away from the mirror, he remembered when his body had felt like a tool instead of a question. When strength had been something he used without thinking. When he’d built his company with his hands and his back, working alongside men half his age and never falling behind. When being tired was temporary, and soreness was something you earned, when every inch of his body was at its prime.

Logan sighed and removed his shorts to walk into the shower. Steam curled up around his shoulders as hot water hit his skin. His hands moved over his abdomen, feeling the thin dust of hair that spread all over his torso. He always took some time in the shower, letting his thoughts drift, loose and unguarded. His mind often landed on photos or memories, and his body would respond as every man’s body would.

His hand moved to his crotch in an absentminded motion. Wrapping his fingers around his thick cock, he expected an immediate stir. But nothing happened. He paused—actually paused. Stroking the five-inch soft shaft, waiting for the response that had always come before he even asked for it. Still nothing.

His cock stayed soft, hanging heavy and unresponsive in his hand. The warm water running over his skin suddenly felt distant. The desire was there, but his body didn’t follow. It lagged behind his thoughts like it had lost the signal. He shifted his grip. Adjusted his stance. Gave it more time than he ever would have before. It didn’t feel wrong, and that was the problem. He didn’t feel anything.

Logan reached lower, rubbing and kneading his balls as if pumping life into the area. His body had always answered. Maybe not instantly. Maybe not like it had when he was twenty. But it had answered. This time, it didn’t even pretend to try.

That was what finally unsettled him.

He finished his shower and dried off. Getting dressed felt painfully comfortable, but he did it quickly and went to work. He answered emails, walked job sites, and made decisions like every other day. He didn’t tell anyone about his issues. But the thought lodged itself deep, like a stone in his shoe that he couldn’t shake loose.

*

Later that day, Logan drove over to his eldest son’s place. Michael was 26 years old and lived close, close enough that Logan stopped by often. Being around family helped him, even when it stirred things he didn’t always want to look at too closely.

Michael and Laura had three kids. 5-year-old Lucas was unstoppable. He ran through the living room at full speed, narrating his own game out loud. The twins—Trent and Noah—were barely 2 years old and constantly in motion, toddling like wrecking balls from one piece of furniture to the next. It was hard to tell which of them was laughing, crying, or about to fall at any given moment. The house was always bursting with energy.

Toys were everywhere, bright plastic chaos across the floor. Laughter rang out from down the hall. The smell of food hung in the air. It was loud and messy, the kind of controlled disorder only a young family could pull off.

Michael moved through it all as if perfectly designed for it. He always had.

Logan had raised his boys to be capable, but Michael had taken that foundation and turned it into something impressively effortless. Fatherhood didn’t bend him inward. It expanded him. He scooped Lucas up and settled him onto his shoulders without breaking stride, steadying the boy while also reaching down to grab a toy someone dropped. A toddler squirmed onto one hip moments later, balanced easily as Michael leaned over to pick something else up.

“Careful,” Laura said, smiling, even though she wasn’t worried.

“I’ve got it,” Michael replied easily.

Standing tall at 6’3” and weighing 230 pounds, Michael looked like Logan in rewind—same bone structure, same eyes, same jaw, same calm confidence—but refined, updated, and improved. It was as if time had taken Logan at his peak and polished the edges. Michael carried his size easily, as it had never once been a problem or something he had to manage. His arms were thick all the way down, not showy, but solid, like he could fix something or carry weight without thinking about it. His chest sat high and full, naturally lifted, filling out his shirt so nicely that the fabric never hung loose on him. It stretched instead.

His shoulders stayed back without effort. His posture never collapsed inward, never folded under stress or distraction. Even in the middle of noise and movement, even with kids climbing on him and toys beneath his feet, his body stayed imposing and balanced. He didn’t waste a motion. He bent, lifted, turned, and adjusted—each movement clean, as if his body already knew what was coming next.

Logan watched more than he participated.

He noticed everything. The way Michael’s sleeves pulled tight around his biceps when he reached overhead. The way his chest filled his shirt without him ever needing to straighten up or suck anything in. The way his thighs powered him across the room without hesitation, how easily he shifted weight from one leg to the other with a kid on each side. Even in chaos, Michael moved like nothing was ever too much for him.

People commented on it constantly.

“Michael looks just like you did,” someone had said, laughing. “Actually, even better.”

Logan had smiled. He was proud—deeply, genuinely proud. But the words didn’t flatter the way they used to. They timestamped him.

Then there was Michael’s wife, Laura.

She was the perfect wife—kind and respectful—and always had been. She always ensured that Logan felt as comfortable as possible whenever he visited. But the moment Michael entered the room, her attention shifted automatically, instinctively, like a compass snapping north. It was so obvious that it bordered on ridiculous.

Laura watched her husband the way people only watch things they genuinely enjoy looking at—openly, without embarrassment. She touched him constantly, casually but intentionally—a hand sliding over his arm as she passed, pressing her fingers briefly into his back, brushing his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. There was heat there, mixed with affection and trust. She wanted him, and she wasn’t shy about it.

At one point, as Michael lifted both twins at once, settling one on each hip like it was nothing, Laura laughed and shook her head.

“I swear,” she said, “men like you should be illegal.”

Michael snorted. “Yeah?”

“I’m just saying,” she went on, grinning, “the world clearly needs more of you. Tiny versions of you. We’re basically doing everyone a favor.”

Michael laughed, leaning down to kiss her lips. “Is that your excuse for us having more kids? Are you trying to convince me already?”

“Absolutely,” she said without missing a beat. “And it’s not like I need an excuse.”

Logan watched the exchange from a few steps back. He couldn’t help but chuckle. He enjoyed the way desire lived comfortably inside their everyday life. The way it wasn’t hidden, complicated, or careful. She wanted him; everyone could see it. Michael was a lucky man, but he earned that lust, that connection, with every single breath he took.

The fact landed in Logan’s chest differently now. No one looked at him like that anymore. His ex-wife had started avoiding his touch long before they signed the divorce papers, and since then, Logan hadn’t been invisible—but he hadn’t been desired either. That realization sat heavier than he expected.

The kids amplified everything.

He watched Michael wrestle on the floor with Lucas, laughing hard, unbothered. Watched him scoop up one twin, then the other, handling their combined weight without complaint. Logan remembered doing the same with Michael and Cory when they were little.

Now, Lucas climbed onto Logan’s knee, chattering nonstop. The twins toddled over, demanding to be picked up. Logan loved them fiercely. He loved how they looked at him as if he were still unbreakable. When he picked one of the twins up himself, the weight surprised him. Not because he couldn’t do it, but because he felt it sooner than he expected in his arms and joints. He adjusted, smiled, and hid it well. No one noticed, but he did.

*

The unease in his chest tightened a few days later when Logan’s younger son, Cory, came to visit from college.

The door barely had time to open before Cory filled it—literally. At 19 years old, standing at 6’6” and weighing 260 pounds, Cory was a mountain of youth and muscle. All that overwhelming mass was packed onto a frame that looked like it had never known doubt or hesitation. He was enormous in a way that felt almost unfair, like someone had taken Logan’s build and genes and kept turning the dial past reasonable limits.

His shoulders were massive, wide enough that they seemed to crowd the doorway, with thick traps rising toward his neck like they’d been stacked there obscenely. When Cory walked into any room, everything seemed shorter, smaller, even a big man like Logan did.

Cory’s chest pushed forward naturally, stretching his shirt tight across it without him doing a thing. The fabric didn’t hang on him—it strained, pulled outward by the immense thickness of his torso. Long arms hung heavy at his sides, packed with dense muscle from shoulder to forearm, with veins faintly visible beneath the skin. Nothing about him looked sculpted, posed, or intentional. The muscle was just everywhere. Built from youth, genetics, endless movement, and a body that responded to effort by growing larger instead of tiring.

His legs were just as overwhelming. Thick thighs filled his jeans, and calves stretched the fabric when he shifted his weight. A massive bubble butt pushed all his pants to their absolute limit, making his stance even more confident and imposing. With every step he took, the seams looked as if they were about to give up. Cory didn’t even have to try to show off or put his size on display to impress anyone who dared to look at him for even a second.

And his face only made it worse. His bone structure was familiar, unmistakably Logan’s son, but devastatingly handsome in a way that stopped people short. Cory knew it too, even if he pretended not to care. Each grin, each wink of his blue eyes, or each time he lifted a brow—it was all unrealistically disarming.

“Dad!” Cory boomed, already grinning.

Before Logan could answer, Cory wrapped him up in a hug that was all strength and affection. Cory lifted him clean off the floor without even trying or thinking about it, laughing as Logan let out a startled breath.

“Hey, big boy,” Logan said, half laughing. “Easy.”

Cory set him down like nothing had happened, clapping him on the back hard enough to make his ribs rattle. “C’mon, old man. You’re still sturdy.”

It was playful and loving. Familiar, but it still hit something deep within.

Cory had a way of taking up emotional space just as easily as physical space. He was loud without being obnoxious, confident without trying to prove anything. He laughed easily, talked with his hands, and dropped onto furniture as if he belonged there. He was affectionate in a blunt, physical way, quick with a clap on the back or an arm slung around a shoulder.

He liked attention when he noticed it and liked playing with it a little, but there was no malice in it. Underneath the jokes, he was deeply loyal, fiercely proud of his dad, and entirely unaware of how sharply he reflected everything Logan was afraid of losing.

And people noticed. They always did.

Everywhere Cory went, eyes followed. Men glanced and then looked again, slower the second time. Women didn’t bother pretending at all. Cory seemed half oblivious to it—until he caught it. Then he leaned into it, like it was just another thing he’d been handed without asking. A recurrent joke had arisen over the years about Cory’s looks being a blessing and a curse, but either way, the big guy always played it cool.

Now, after hugging Logan, Cory dropped his bag by the wall and immediately headed for the fridge, ducking slightly under the doorway without even thinking about it.

“Practice was brutal this week,” he said, pulling the door open and peering inside. “Coach is convinced suffering builds character.”

Logan snorted. “You’ve been saying that since high school.”

“Yeah, well,” Cory said, grabbing a bottle and twisting the cap off with one hand, “he might actually be right.” He took a long drink and instinctively flexed his muscles. “I’m still alive. And I’ve grown a lot. In all ways.”

He talked the way he always did—loose, confident, and unfiltered—about training sessions that would’ve wiped out most people, games he dominated without really meaning to, and classes he was somehow acing while still finding time to lift, run, and disappear for entire weekends. Nothing sounded like a brag. It was just his life.

“Campus is wild,” Cory added casually, leaning back against the counter. “People stare nonstop. Like… all the time.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Does that bother you?”

Cory shrugged, completely unbothered. “Nah. I’m pretty used to it.” Then he grinned, clearly enjoying himself now. “Girls mostly.” He paused, then added easily, “But dudes too.”

Logan blinked once, then chuckled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Cory said, laughing. “I mean, I’m not blind. I notice when a guy gets hard while looking at me.” He took another drink. “It’s flattering.”

Logan listened, shaking his head in disbelief. He was proud—fiercely proud. Cory was kind, smart, and ridiculously capable. Everything Logan had hoped for and more. Cory’s body didn’t only function; it drew eyes and commanded space. Desire clung to him openly, unashamed, the way it once had to Logan without him ever noticing it.

The feeling beneath the pride wasn’t resentment. It was grief.

That night, in the privacy of his room, everything finally caught up to Logan. When he finally lay down, sleep didn’t come. He shifted, stared at the ceiling, then pressed a hand to his chest without really thinking about it. The softness there still surprised him; it still felt wrong. It wasn’t just aging, not a slow fade that Logan could pretend not to notice.

During the following nights, screens glowed in the dark, with tabs opened one after the other. Logan found articles, forums, and medical journals. He read until the language started to stick—testosterone decline, free versus bound levels, binding globulin, and endocrine imbalance. The words stopped feeling abstract, and they sounded like a description of his body, laid out clinically, line by line. Muscle loss. Fat redistribution. Libido changes. Mood shifts.

It was unsettling how precise it all sounded.

He didn’t look for shortcuts or shady clinics. No illegal vials shipped in unmarked boxes. No obvious steroids. He didn’t want to cheat time. He didn’t want to feel like he was pretending to be something he wasn’t. He wanted to fix something that had gone wrong.

That was how he found the endocrinologist. It sounded like something simple, but deep down, making the appointment felt like swallowing pride. Still, Logan wasn’t ready to give up. He wasn’t willing to let these changes defeat him. Not yet.

...

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PS: AI Generated image only meant to illustrate the scene.