Sexi-Phi

by BRK   

Joining a frat turns out to be a big transition for Holden, especially given the way his body is reacting to all his extra-hot house-brothers.

Holden had a secret. It wasn’t a dark and dangerous secret, nor was it especially exotic—he hadn’t savaged a viscount’s bastard son on a stormy deserted moor with a pitchfork and left him for dead, for example, and he wasn’t the orphaned child of fuck-and-run space aliens left to be clandestinely raised as an unwitting changeling. His parents, Norm and Patricia of Otter’s Grove, Wisconsin, were definitely his bio-progenitors, the genetic lottery having bequeathed him his olive-toned Italian mother’s diminutive height and his lumberjack-sized father’s pasty complexion (all things being equal he would have preferred it to have been the other way around).

And he’d never even been to a moor. Or “amour,” for that matter, he thought with morose amusement as he sat alone at his desk, listening to the distant sounds of the others laughing and cheering downstairs at some sports video or other on the living room flatscreen.

That lack of amour was rather the point. He knew he was being ludicrous, even pathetic, but from the moment he’d set foot in this house Holden had been dead set on preventing his worldlier, more experienced, sexually-confident frat brothers from finding out that their newest freshman recruit and third-generation legacy member, the perfectly ordinary-seeming Holden Wyatt, was as virginal as a refugee from a ‘50s morality-short malt shop. Being lean, pale, and virulently redheaded he’d been compared to Archie Andrews often enough, but these days with even that stalwart of wholesome midwestern purity having long since developed six-pack abs, a thirst-following, and seemingly unslakable lust—just like pretty much every single boy he knew in real life—Holden was left feeling uncomfortable and anomalous.

Going to college and joining his dad’s frat was supposed to give him a new starting point in a safe environment, but so far it had only made things worse. Being surrounded by virile, uninhibited men—in the house, on campus, in the pubs, fucking everywhere around him, in all types and every variety—had somehow triggered Holden’s libido these past two and a half weeks, escalating his need to new and uncomfortable levels. Back home he’d gone ages without touching himself, with only the occasional nocturnal emission to let him know his negligence was not to be tolerated indefinitely. And now? Half a month in a house whose very walls, furniture, and pristine hardwood floors seemed steeped in high-octane testosterone… where the good-natured manliness of the inhabitants seemed to be as much a part of the place as its stairs and doorways… and Holden was finding himself thinking about his willy all the damned time. And furtively fishing it out for a quick rub more often than he’d care to admit. Being a virgin was bad enough without possessing a cock increasingly inclined to demand he do something about it.

The frat was Phi Epsilon Lambda, generally known as “Phi” or “Phi Ep” on campus. It was an old and storied social fraternity, the most common attributes of its members being strong GPAs and gregarious dispositions. The frat had also developed bit of a service bent in recent years in support of local charities, a twice-yearly strip show competition benefitting a gay teen crisis center having become its biggest and most popular fundraising event. Holden had known about the contest but hadn’t expected that it implied anything about the baseline hotness of the membership, any more than a prospective New York City firefighter assumed he had to be calendar-worthy to don turnout gear and jump on an engine. Lately, though, he’d been second-guessing this assumption, his gonads reacting with disorienting levels hot-’n’-horny excitement to every man he shared a roof with like a chocoholic in a Ghirardelli store.

Exhibit A was Anthony, the smiley, upbeat brown-eyed blond who had the room next to his and from day one was parading around the third-floor hallway day and night in nothing but clingy black boxer-briefs. This mode of attire tended to show off his lightly tanned, unhoned brawn, which he did with the easygoing unconcern of a born exhibitionist. Anthony was naturally broad-shouldered and flat-stomached, and though he had never spent a day in the gym, his beefy chest, firm thighs, and rounded shoulders seemed weirdly authentic, like he represented the rawest, purest state of man.

Amazingly, it seemed Anthony had actually been holding himself back those first couple weeks out of deference to the latest crop of initiates, Holden included; now that the pledges were more-or-less settled in Anthony had reverted to treating the whole house as a pants-free zone. Yesterday Holden had gone down to breakfast before class to find the man leaning against the sink eating Lucky Charms from a big yellow bowl wearing nothing but a pair of bulging midnight-blue Fruit of the Looms and a big, milk-bordered grin. Holden didn’t even remember anything from that morning except the ache of his berserker erection.

The worst part was that he was right next door, on the other side of that wall right in front of him. It wasn’t just that Anthony being next door meant that Holden saw him in his nearly-raw state all the time—it was that he couldn’t keep himself wondering how quickly those comfy-looking briefs got yanked off the moment their heavy maplewood doors were closed. And what happened afterward.

Across from Holden on the third floor was Anthony’s total opposite, Jamie. Where Anthony was chill, unflappable, and smoothly unsculpted, Jamie was high-strung, obsessive, and ripped, though without being bulky. It was as though a hundred percent of Jamie’s laser-like workout energy went into making him as fiercely cut and as aesthetically defined as humanly possible. Ash blond to Anthony’s strawberry blond, his tight-lipped frowns seemed likewise to be an intrinsic response to Anthony’s habitually sunny expression. Though fixated in most things, he seemed conflicted about how to dress: Holden was sure Jamie’d be shirtless on the regular, showing off his exquisite form and definition, if it didn’t mean he’d be mirroring his casually nudist frat brother nemesis. Instead he compromised with low-cut tank tops that still, if you cared to look, furnished visual access to his manly cleavage and the intercostals he was so damned proud of.

Maybe he was conflicted about other things to, Holden thought. Jamie’s steel-gray eyes were set on constant glare, especially when it came to Anthony—but they also tended to stay riveted on the blonder, nakeder man, like Jamie wanted Anthony and hated that he wanted him. If those two ever collided in bed, Holden thought, it would be fucking nuclear…

Damn, Holden was getting hard, again. Thinking about Anthony and Jamie was a sexual mine field he didn’t need. Quickly he turned his thoughts to the room Anthony’s other side, two down from Holden, home to a shy and studious junior named Dwight. That should have been safe harbor libido-wise, but the truth was Holden had been increasingly finding his distinctive combination of lanky body, pale blue eyes, and aw-shucks awkwardness unaccountably sexy. It didn’t help that the whole house seemed to find him endearing and loved to tease him, because any attention produced a bashful smile and a warm tint to his cheeks that churned Holden’s heated balls. Dave, the fraternity secretary and one of the alpha dogs of their now twenty-man pack, had taken to grinning and ruffling Dwight’s short auburn hair whenever he passed him. A couple days ago, in the back yard during a frat-wide cookout, this stimulus on Dave’s part his produced not only the expected blush and abashed smile but a sheepish hand behind the neck as well, and Holden had actually had to turn away and carefully adjust the sudden half-erection he’d popped as a result.

Then there was Dave himself. Medium height with wiry brown-hair and cappuccino-brown eyes, Dave was unremarkable in looks and build. Even his dress was humdrum, always in a solid green pocket tee and new-looking jeans. Dave’s deep appeal was all in how he filled a room with his confident, smirking presence, drawing your whole attention in a way that had made Holden wonder more than once if the human race really were innately divided between leaders and followers.

It was his visceral reaction to Dave, in fact, that had gotten Holden thinking that he was manifesting a personal, physical reaction to a major life change. It was like, the sudden and dramatic transition through the looking glass into a world teeming with men—college men, intense frat brothers, men who shared his floor and food and air and space—had produced a super-intense psychosomatic reaction, the upshot of which was that he was horny and needing to cum all the damned time. The break he’d experienced from a staid, isolated past into this world of Men had somehow, well, broken and reinvented him, kick-starting his hormones and a producing new and persistent baseline of highly responsive sensual readiness.

It didn’t make sense objectively. Holden’s type wasn’t any of these guys. He went for dark, cut-muscled pretty boys with piercing eyes under thick eyebrows, or thought he did. But the way Anthony, Jamie, Dwight, even plain but magnetic Dave kept sparking him to sudden, unwanted, unprovoked erections… the way the rest of the frat were generally doing the same no matter what they were wearing or how stupid they were acting… all that had made him pretty much certain that coming here had somehow woken up his prick and supercharged his hitherto-dormant but apparently more than healthy libido.

Holden blinked, annoyed at the way his fratmates sent his brain spinning. He glanced at his screen—evidently he’d been staring blindly at the required reading on his laptop screen for so long, the red swirly screensaver had started up and he hadn’t even noticed. His left hand had unconsciously slipped down to his crotch, too, the heel of his wrist pressing mischievously against his lawless erection and the warm wet spot it had already created in his newest jeans. His skin felt hot and flushed all over, prickling with desire, as if he’d already started doing what he… clearly needed to be doing.

He sighed and quickly flipped open the buttons on his 501s with a few deft motions. He knew there was no chance of getting any work done until he’d taken care of this beast. Once he got hard, lately, every shift of his weight, every brush of underwear or skin against his prick flooded him with sensation, making it impossible to concentrate on anything but his own wanton need and the louche pleasure he gave himself surrendering to it.

Finding the vent in his underwear, he hauled his cock out. This took some doing thanks to its size and extreme hardness. Holden stared at it for a long a moment. It lay stiff and cupped in his hand, its reddened flesh framed against the florid pink of his quivering palm. The thing looked swollen and huge—unaccountably huge, as though Holden had never actually known a true, full-blown, all-the-way-hard erection until he’d come here.

All this time, he’d thought he’d had a wholly unexceptional prick: average and none-too-thick, with a bit of extra foreskin to lend the appearance of extended length, a bit like the spires on skyscrapers. Except, as it turned out, he’d merely been negligent in providing the thing ample incentive for his erections to achieve their true size and potency and depth of pleasure.

Geez. Just looking at it was a turn-on. He was so hard his foreskin was almost completely pulled off his pre-slicked cockhead. He’d never been particularly copious in his precum or his spend, before, and that was the other thing that had changed—his hardons these days were not only newly massive and abnormally responsive, they were also messy. Ridiculously messy. Just the act of boning up squeezed a smear of clear, thick liquid out of him every single time like he was emptying a sachet of premium lube on himself; even now, as he gaped at his own iron-hard tool and its glistening red glans, the slit welled and wept with pre, waiting urgently for the simple joy of his thumb lifting and swiping luxuriously over the ready, touch-hungry head. His hand was already slimed from the juice he’d already released—ready to stroke.

Holden drew in a shaking breath. He was so hard, so big, so close already. His hand tensed, ready to squeeze and twist this beast into releasing its cataclysmic pleasure—

A swift rapping sounded abruptly at his door, three quick raps. “Hey, newbie, whatcha doing?” came a voice, low and sultry.

That was Costas, the hairy, six-foot-seven Sasquatch star of the college’s mid-ranked football team, who, for whatever perverse reason, was assigned the slant-ceilinged garret room upstairs. Everything he said sounded salacious, and Holden still hadn’t managed to work out whether he was truly that oversexed or if that was just his natural way of talking.

“S-studying!” Holden called back hastily, squeezing his dick hard to prevent the awareness of Costas’s rangy, oversized muscle-bod on the other side of his door from forcing an instant orgasm. So far, every time he’d seen Costas he’d been wearing the same thing: sleeveless gray workout tees and shorty-short lace-up shorts in various colors, with bulky running shoes below and no socks. The uniform was as provocative in its own way as Andrew’s happy-go-lucky boxer-briefs-and-nothing-else look—and that wasn’t taking into account the stunning size, shape, and lines of Costas’s actual body, mostly exposed by these outfits as it was, or the way his limberness of motion and extended reach seemed like attributes gifted to him for bedroom play as much as for results on the gridiron. He was in charge of the pledges this year, and even Holden, who was guaranteed admission thanks to his legacy status, was afraid of the bigger man and what kind of impression he was making on him—which mainly meant that he absolutely could not be caught looking at Costas’s criminally curtailed gymwear, no matter how much it pulled at his attention and made his dick strain with awed desire.

“Uh huh,” Costas drawled back through the door. His fat, heavy, iron-hard, slicked-up dick still throbbing in his fist, Holden shook his head to himself, half amused, half frustrated. Innocent, or smarmy? He had no idea whether to feel called out or not.

“What do you want?” Holden shouted, adding “ya big ape” under his breath.

“Mandatory planning meeting for the November strip show,” Costas told him through the door. “Downstairs, couch room. Now.”

Holden frowned—this was the first he was hearing of this. “Mandatory?” he called back. Mention of the frat’s semi-annual charity skin parade automatically took hold of his imagination, and the image he conjured of Costas participating, peeling off his sweaty shorty-shorts to the delighted whoops of half the students on campus, had Holden squeezing his dick in a death grip in a desperate effort to hold off his unstoppable freight-train orgasm.

“Mandatory for newbies,” Costas purred. “Are you coming, or not?”

“In a sec!” Holden replied truthfully, his voice sounding as strained as he felt.

“Don’t wait too long, or we’ll start without you,” came the reply. And then he was gone. Holden had barely discerned the sound of Costas’s heavy steps reaching the stairs nearest his door and thumping rapidly down them before he was cumming with utter abandon, the big, sloppy spurts spoiling shirt and pants alike as he shot arc after arc of hot, thick jizz all over himself.

He sat back in his chair at last with a messy hand, breathing hard. Balefully cataloguing the hard-to-wash-out stains besmirching his favorite Jack Reacher tee, Holden snorted a surprised laugh—poor Alan Ritchson had got cum in his eye, and that was never a good thing. As he reluctantly stood and pulled his shirt off, wondering what he had clean he could wear down the snap strip-show meeting, Holden considered for the first time that maybe his clothes-hating neighbor next door might just have the right idea.

On his way into the meeting (freshly attired in a black Vampire Diaries tee—like the Reacher tee this was a gift from his sister Phoebe, who liked to tease him for his pretty-boy tastes), Holden found himself trailing after the other two pledges to have survived the first-week cull. By some fluke their names also started with H, and though Costas, when asked, had insisted it was just coincidence Holden couldn’t help wondering if there was a theme being invoked, like this was an episode of QI and everything had to start with a certain letter. His fellow newbies were whispering earnestly with each other as they all navigated the narrow, maze-like hallways of the first floor, and Holden blushed when he realized what they were talking about.

“Fucking balls, I was so embarrassed,” Hank was saying. “Costas came to get me for this meeting thing and I was, like, totally in the middle of jerking off. So wild.”

“No way, me too!” Huan exclaimed, turning his head enough for Holden to see his grin. “Dude, are you, like, extra-horny since you got here?”

“So extra horny,” Hank confirmed solemnly. “I’m, like, aware of my cock all the time, like, twenty-four-seven. It feels big and, like, I don’t know, ready.”

“It looks big, too!” Huan added, glancing down at his fellow-initiate’s crotch. He said it unself-consciously, like he was remarking on Hank’s choice of shoes. Holden wished he could see.

“It so totally feels big,” Hank agreed. “Big and thick, dude. I could swear it’s, like, an inch bigger.”

“No way! Me too!” Huan said again. “It feels amazing.”

“So good,” Hank said. “I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I never really get soft, you know? That’s, like, probably why it looks big all the time.”

“Right?”

“I’m cumming so much, too, dude,” Hank confided. “Like, no lie, I’m gonna start needing a towel to mop it all up if this keeps up.”

“So awesome,” Huan gushed.

Holden stopped in his tracks as they reached the door to the “couch room,” momentarily stunned by what he’d heard. Up until a minute ago he was certain his uncontrollable cock and stacked-up orgasms were all about how weird it was for him to shift his immediate population density from ten people per square mile to ten manly testosterone-teeming men practically in arm’s reach at all times and a hundred in earshot if he came as loudly ass he wanted to. But if Hank, a transplant from Vancouver, and Huan, who’d grown up in frickin’ Anaheim, were feeling turned on and ready to bone all the time like he was, then maybe something else was—

A big, warm hand pressed between his shoulder blades and propelled him irresistibly forward through the doorway from his sudden stop. “In you go, newbie,” Costas growled sexily in his ear (or not sexily—Holden still couldn’t tell).

Holden tried to ignore he rush of heat from the firm press of Costas’s push against his back and the rough, basso caress of Costas’s voice and stumbled obediently into the couch room, feeling slightly dazed as he took a seat on the nearest couch next to Huan and Hank.

The couch room was exactly what it sounded like: a long room stretched across the back of the whole first floor and filled with a dozen or so deliberately mismatched sofas of all colors and types, the sole unifying characteristic being that they were all large, deep, sturdy, and ridiculously comfortable. The room was all windows on three walls, so that during the day, as now, it was like a sun room; at night it was a transitional space between the house’s more private interior and the safe-but-open expanse of the enclosed back yard.

They entered near the west end, on the left-hand side of the house, and as Holden was settling into the black leather sofa there he noticed they didn’t have the room completely to themselves. Though used for various kinds of fraternity meetings the couch room was otherwise available for the members to hang out in, and Holden’s eyes fell upon a male figure curled up asleep on the furthest couch, the green plaid one against the opposite wall. The snoozing figure faced away from them, and the way the sunlight fell somehow seemed to especially highlight the man’s sweet, round buttocks and the way they expertly filled out his snug, khaki chinos.

Holden was amazed to feel himself rousing again down below just from the sexiness of that ass. You just came, he told his dick in dismay. You just two minutes ago came! Get a grip!

Holden’s cock plumped defiantly, and he gritted his teeth. Wrong choice of words, he hissed inwardly, mad at his brain now as well as his insatiable tool.

Costas took a position standing in front of them. “Okay, newbies, here’s what I want from you,” he said, before starting to lay out the planning and setup chores that would fall on Holden and the others as lowliest members of the frat. Holden knew he should be paying attention, and he’d most likely pay the price later for not absorbing what Costas was telling them, but he was way too distracted by the fact that Costas’s lace-up short-shorts (maroon today) and their attendant, nearly obscene frontward bulge were right in their faces—so close Holden was certain he could smell Costas’s round, sweaty balls, and taste them too, if he leaned forward and licked.

He wasn’t the only one affected, either. Huan and Hank were staring wide-eyed at the the enormous, heavily muscled man and his massive, barely-contained package, and their hands were folded carefully in their laps in an effort, conscious or otherwise, to conceal stiff, uncontrolled arousal that mirrored Holden’s own.

Holden surfaced abruptly when he registered Costas talking about… dancing? “We’ll start teaching you three the moves in a few weeks,” the larger man said in his slow, sultry way. “Armin is a choreographer, and he’s agreed to teach you what you need to know.”

Holden shook his head slightly, sure his rushing blood and huge hardon was interfering with his ability to process what Costas was saying to them. “Teach… us?” he parroted. “Are you saying we have to… compete?”

Costas grinned. “Newbies always shake it for the crowd,” he said in his usual crypto-salacious fashion. “Some guys rush us just for the chance to show of what their daddies gave ‘em.”

Holden glanced at the other two pledges and saw to his surprise that Huan was nodding, as if Costas were describing him. Hank, too, looked excited.

Holden was appalled. My daddy didn’t give me anything of the sort, he wanted to say. Was this the rule back when his father pledged? Had he pulled his gear off for a mob of slavering undergrads? The idea that this fate had now been passed to him was exhilarating in a kind of terrifying way, especially if he couldn’t get his dick under control by then. Would they make him go out in front of the crowd if he was sporting the kind of big, gooey boner that happened to be nuzzling his hip at that very moment?

Costas looked between them, seeming to notice their state of distraction. He folded his bare arms over impressive chest, his big, mobile mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I should let you boys take a privacy break,” he said. “Unless you want to rub one out right here in the room?”

Unexpectedly, Hank grinned up at him cheekily and said, “Yes, please!” His heart stuttering in alarm, Holden spared a second to gape at Hank and Huan (who seemed to be considering the prospect favorably), then at Costas, before bolting guiltily from the room and thundering up the back stairs in something close to a panic. He didn’t know if Hank meant it, or if they’d have followed through with anything, or what—all he knew was what he did next, not the first time that day and definitely not the last.

“…And each of you will need to create and post a three-minute video containing interviews with at least two housemates about your shared college experiences. I don’t need flashy effects or anything, just few snippets of conversation about what college is like for those you’re in closest contact with—and your own experiences, too, of course.”

From the fourth row, Holden stared in horror at his Freshman Encounters professor, a diminutive, fierce-eyed, pastel-wearing tigress named Pamela Haas. A video? Interviewing his housemates? A public video?

He thought of his housemates—the other twenty or so members of his weirdly horny fraternity—and shuddered. Who would he interview? Costas, the muscle giant who made casual remarks about the weather sound like come-ons? Anthony, with his boxer-briefs and his big cheesy grin and the mountain-ranges of his pale, brawny shoulders filling the screen, subliminally suggesting his constant state of near-undress? Loren, the tan, white-haired, extra-lanky swim team jock, whose conversation seemingly consisted entirely of various Speedo products and their effects on his fluid dynamics? Dave, their charismatic, physically ordinary frat secretary, who held your attention so completely you forgot about anything but what he wanted from you?

The whole place was a cock landmine. It was an edifice full of testosterone and cum, and just thinking about the people in it made Holden’s own arousal surge violently like a vicious storm tide. His face heated, and he ducked his head in shame and used the heel of his palm to unbend his awkwardly girthy half-erection, allowing it to spread out along the crease of his hip to full-blown hardness, its slimy head leaving a long slippery mess along the seam of his groin as it swelled and stiffened. God damn it! It was the third erection of the day and it wasn’t even lunchtime.

This assignment was not a good idea. Who came up with this shit anyway? Why can’t they just write papers like any other class? Fuck Freshman Encounters. What was up with this school, thinking they needed a whole semester-long course just to painstakingly introduce first-year undergraduates to everything college—bit by bit, like they were a bunch of easily-frightened fawns? Just point ’em all at the buildings and say, “There it is. Remember why you’re here and try not to be stupid. Class dismissed.”

Holden glanced around surreptitiously at his fellow college initiates, but if he was hoping for allies in a general mutiny he was fated for disappointment. No one else was fulminating at the injustice of doing a video—heck, half of them had probably cut something goofy and sharable for KickThread before breakfast. Most of the class was taking advantage of Professor Haas’s momentary, paper-shuffling pause between topics to discuss the assignment animatedly amongst themselves. Down the row from him in the little auditorium a stylish brunette with carefully moussed cotton-candy-blue hair had already turned and started filming the boy next to him, a fey copper-skinned youth in a red cardigan, asking him about his top five college peeves and pros. Cardigan boy was completely in character, dialing up every expression for maximum impact and keeping his hand gestures perfectly inside the 16 by 9. On the long journey here by train Holden had brooded anxiously over what classes or experiences he might have missed that the big city kids would all have solidly under their belts; clearly one of the classes his high school curriculum had lacked was AP Viral Videos.

Still, maybe Mr. Peeves and Pros had the right idea. Holden started to look around for the other two probies from his frat, Hank and Huan, before reminding himself they were in one of the other FE sections. Would they have the same assignment? But—no. Interviewing Hank and Huan was an even worse idea. The thing was, just like Holden had, his co-newbies had picked up on the hilariously libidinous vibe of the house and the way it only seemed to be getting stronger, their shared outsider perspective maybe making it a tad more obvious than it might have been to the more veteran members steeped in the Phi Ep milieu. Only, unlike Holden, Hank and Huan had embraced the constant low-grade carnality unconditionally and enthusiastically, using the excuse of a household full of unapologetically horny guys to get as lecherous and lewd as possible.

Thanks (Holden thought) to the rapidly eroding timidity that came with freshman status it was mostly with each other so far, but it was clear they were starting to work on branching out any chance they got. They were always jointly ganging up on fratmates with “innocent” snuggles and “helpful” backrubs and “convenient” laps for their hunky more senior fratbrothers snooze on in the cozy, sunwarmed couch room—especially only-briefs Anthony, who was always up for a cuddly mid-afternoon nap and didn’t seem to care if someone else shared the sofa with him while he dozed away. When they weren’t up to those kinds of shenanigans the newbies seemed to attend to each other. Any hour of the day they might be found secreted in a dark corner of the downstairs labyrinth feeling each other up, or closeted behind a “negligently” ajar bedroom door doing who knew what in their double at the far end of the hall from Holden’s tiny, legacy-finagled single.

The worst part was how they were always trying to rope Holden in on their games and turn their dirty duo into a terpitudinous trio. Lately they kept doing things like surprising him with sandwich-hugs that made their erections (and his) very obvious, or plopping down suddenly on either side of him in the dining hall and eating from each other’s trays, or piling into his room for a constant-boner movie night whenever he recklessly forgot to lock his door. They’d actually dug up a frat bylaw somehow that said the room doors weren’t supposed to even have locks—the one on Holden’s door had seemingly been accidentally overlooked when they’d all been removed twelve years previous—and it was only a matter of time before they leveraged this bit of information to extort a louche and supremely spunk-filled late-night circle-jerk out of him. And once that precedent was laid—

Fuck, “laid” was the wrong word.

Holden could just imagine what might happen if he got Hank and Huan alone to make a video—a video about what had changed for them at college no less. He doubted the rest of the class really wanted to see Hank and Huan pulling their big, hard wangs out and then ripping Holden’s own pants off so he could be as exposed and hard and ready to cum as the were. Or… well, okay, maybe they did, Hank and Huan were pretty damn cute, a size smaller than most of his frat brothers but lean and well-proportioned, surprisingly gifted in the dick department, and Huan turned out inexplicably to have the most perfect tight round ass that seemed to show itself no matter how baggy his pants were. It would probably be a pretty popular video, actually, considering it would almost certainly devolve into amateur porn as soon as he pressed record on his phone. Holden kind of wanted not to be tossed out of school for indecency, though, and anyway—no, there was no way Holden was giving those two an engraved invitation to demonstrate exactly what was on their minds now that they were hot ‘n’ horny college boys.

His dick throbbed insistently. He needed to stop thinking about all of this, or he’d have a sudden and very embarrassing accident. He might anyway. Maybe this was one of the “college skills” on the Freshman Encounters syllabus, he thought sardonically—somehow keeping yourself from blowing an urgent, unstoppable load right in the middle of a crowded fifty-student amphitheater. He could hear his own breathing, even as his distracted senses fuzzed out whatever Professor Haas had moved on to talking about. His big, wide, slimy cock was a hot and physical presence, like a forge-red bar of iron you were aware of even when you were facing away from it or had your eyes closed. He’d thought it seemed big when he’d first gotten here, but if anything it seemed even heftier now, long and thick and hard and seeping with a lot of gooey precum when it wasn’t spitting massive, indeed startling, amounts of actual hot, wet cum all over his torso and even his face lately, courtesy of his big tool and his weirdly heavy, always-responsive balls.

It was crazy. He’d actually had to sneak out and buy a fresh econo-pack of black boxer-briefs after he’d soaked all of the ones he’d packed from home and didn’t have any more to change into before his scheduled turn to do laundry downstairs in the frat basement on Wednesday nights. So humiliating, and he was already starting to think he should have bought another pack.

He started to tell himself to “get a grip, Wyatt,” but his dick jumped excitedly and he instantly backed off—no, not getting a grip, he would not get a grip!

Just—be present. Be real, he told himself. The class. It was only partially hot guys (unlike his new home environment). Ordinary people. Professor Haas. Talking. Right. Just listen to Professor Haas.

“All right, then,” the pastel-clad spitfire was saying, “that’s it for the day. Go chat up your housemates! Find out what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling, what they’re hungry to see happen to them. Make me a video we’ll never forget!”

For fuck’s sake, Holden thought.

Everyone got noisily to their feet, gabbling about the assignment and everything else as they filtered out of the auditorium in one, twos, or little groups. Carefully, Holden positioned his bookbag in front of his hard-on and stalked out, cheesed at the way his erections seemed so prominent and obvious and unignorable by himself or others—as if being a twink redhead didn’t make him stand out enough. He wasn’t sure whether to be vexed or amused that the universe seemed to be arrayed in a conspiracy with his stiff, leaking, hair-trigger dick to turn him into a brainless, sex-obsessed horndog like the rest of his freshmen cohort and, it seemed some days, every single denizen of the sweaty, testosterony frat house he now called home.

His face still felt hot as he pushed through the crowded hallway outside the classroom, and thinking about what awaited him back at the frat—a passel of big, hot guys, all of them packing somehow and these days more and more likely to be horned up and radiating arousal—and swore. His own tool was straining and flexing against the crease of his hip as he walked, the slime it had covered the skin there with making it feel like he was actively stroking himself. He did not want to show up at home and dive into that pool of exaggerated masculinity in this condition, and that was assuming he could even make it that far—a vanishingly unlikely prospect considering the way he was practically wanking himself right here in the crowded main atrium of Wexler Hall.

He stopped short, forcing a trio of women right behind him to curse and swerve around him, and looked around hectically. He was edging past the point of denial—he needed a bathroom for an emergency release, and that meant now, before he left the main buildings.

He spotted the doors to the extensive ground floor restrooms fifteen feet away, next to the trophy cases, and shook his head mentally as he watched people streaming in and out of them. As humiliating as an impromptu toilet stall orgasm was already, it would be ten times worse trying to get off in a bathroom that was at present busier than Grand Central Station. Even if he could curtail his grunts and other noises, someone was bound to recognize the sharp smell of copious manly spunk and give him a soul-squashing death glare when he stepped out of the stall—or, worse, gleeful, tongue-in-cheek congratulations at his accomplishment. His sister had sure managed to supply both on different occasions, before Holden had etched an oath in his bones he’d never spurt anywhere at home but isolated in his own bed ever again. He didn’t have the luxury of such a vow this far from Otter’s Grove, but like a seasoned desert hiker experience had taught him to be mindful of perils no matter how extreme the need.

His gaze lit on the narrow, scuffed doors leading to the basement stairs, half-hidden in a mostly-ignored side-alcove. Relief struck him, and the next second he was darting toward them, weaving through the babbling, multi-vectored crowd. He knew from random conversations that at present only the philosophy department was ensconced in Wexler’s basement floor, and that they, notoriously, did not have morning classes. (This, or so he’d heard, was owed to a very eccentric past department chair who believed the mind only functioned in the afternoons—the standing joke was that it was only his brain that worked like that.) The cool, cement-floored basement toilets would be empty at this hour, he assured himself as he thundered down the black-stone stairs. With any luck he’d be free to take care of what was rapidly becoming very urgent business with the obligatory privacy.

A moment later he was standing in front of the solid oak door marked 003 MEN’S, his body quivering with the oncoming orgasm he could feel building up in him, gaping in dismay at an inkjet-printed sign hastily tacked to the scarred surface, heartlessly proclaiming the facilities within to be OUT OF ORDER. His swollen cock, bigger and more demanding than it had any right to be, was twitching against his slicked-up skin, telling Holden he’d insolently given it too much stimulation—it was going to blow no matter what, in the next minute, tops, and it was all his fault.

Frantic, he tried the knob, but the door didn’t move a millimeter—it was solidly deadbolted. Not against him and his spunk specifically, he thought desolately, but it might as well have been. He looked around him desperately. Was there a women’s room? He wasn’t sure he could manage that, even like this. A custodian’s closet? A—a dark corner? Anywhere?

He listened in agitation, but the only sounds he could hear were the faraway noises of the crowds upstairs. The basement floor felt insulated, clammy, and abandoned. He might just have the place to himself. He’d have to risk… something.

Gritting his teeth, he gave the next classroom down a hard stare, daring it to contain anyone. Skittering over to it he peered urgently through the rectangular window and saw nothing but gloomy darkness, the thirty or so chairs in neat rows lit only by a row of oblong windows set high up on the far wall, showing the grassy verge of the commons outside. Feeling deprived of choice he took a last look around him, then, feeling like a horny Clark Kent ducking into the night editor’s office for all the wrong reasons, he opened the classroom and slipped inside, closing the heavy door firmly behind him.

Briefly he considered the ranks and files of student seating for his little task, but his gut told him the built-in desks might inhibit his range of motion. Instead he turned to the sturdy wooden table with the half-podium resting on top of it, and, behind it, the old-fashioned rolling upholstered chair meant for less energetic professors to park their carcasses in. He strode over to it and dropped his bag heavily on the floor next to it. He sat down for a brief second, readying himself for what he was about to do, then bounced up again to drop his jeans and half-soaked-through underwear before plopping his bare butt back down on the cold green naugahyde. His dick sprang up like a stepped-on rake, eager and ready.

As was already his habit he pulled off his vintage, ironically-worn Harry Styles tee as well and tossed it on the table next to the podium, leaving him shirtless and slightly chilly in the mostly subterranean classroom. He felt a pang of remorse every time Jack Reacher glared up at him from the tee shirt he’d spunked all over, catching the poor guy right in his pretty blue-gray peepers, and Holden didn’t want the polydactyl ex-One-Directioner giving him the same stink-eye as well. Anyway he already had enough laundry to do because of his irrepressible, weirdly large and altogether unstoppable junk. He stripped off his shirt whenever he wanked—if he remembered in time—and lately even kept a spare shirt with him wherever he went, just for emergencies like this.

Feeling self-conscious with his dick hard and tall like an extra-thick flagpole and his defined, alabaster-white chest and flat belly exposed to the nonexistent ghosts of the deserted (for now) basement, Holden got to work. He thanked god he was uncut and didn’t need to carry around lube, though these days he was producing so much precum he could probably produce tubes of the stuff and give every circumcised guy he knew a year’s supply. His hand was covered in goo already, and—fuck, he needed the paper towel dispenser presently secured behind that locked door. He’d deal with the mess later—the pleasure flooding through him with every long, hand-filling stroke was melting his brain and rocketing toward his umpteenth orgasm of the week.

He panted hard, focusing on balancing the extreme ecstasy and the necessity of finishing as soon as possible. Very soon it didn’t matter what he wanted—he was cumming, now, very hard. With an explosion of pleasure he started cumming in hard, jagged bursts, the spunk tearing out of him and splattering all over his pale chest and abs. The feel of the hot spend smacking across his pecs was still a new sensation and gave him an extra rush, intensifying the next few bursts even further. He spattered hot jizz first on his chin, then his cheek, and then—OWWWWW!! Fuck, that really did burn!

He squeezed his afflicted eye closed hard, annoyed and stimulated by the weirdness and irony of it. Turning away briefly from his still-spurting cock he detected a hint of motion out of the corner of his remaining eye. Whipping his head around and up, he caught a brief glimpse of a grinning face in the furthest oblong, ceiling-high window and—shit, a phone. Then they were gone, and Holden could see nothing but the bright blue noontide sky fringed with a low border of carefully-cropped lawn tickling the bottoms of the long, rectangular panes.

He sat frozen in the old-fashioned professorial chair, the ghost class of empty chairs arrayed silently before him, squinting balefully at the now-vacant window, his fist still choking his fat, still-hard Vesuvius. Bountiful quantities of spunk cooled rapidly on his hand, chest, and face as he put together what he had seen and his guts turned to ice. No, he thought, no no no no—!

He had to get out of there. Somehow, it would be okay if he just got out and ran and didn’t look back. He snatched up the discarded tee—sorry, Harry, he thought ruefully—and hurriedly wiped himself down before pulling the fresh one out of his bag, shrugging it on and buckling up his pants as fast as he could, his dick still half-hard and truculently in the way as he shoved it back in his cold, wet briefs and mashed it behind the straining fly of jeans. Stuffing the soiled shirt away at the bottom of his pack he zipped it closed, threw it on his shoulder, and ran. He sprinted through the basement, dashed up the stairs, and burst out of the alcove doors—only to gape at the surprised looks he got from the students still milling in the main hall.

They’re just staring because you’re behaving like a crazy man, he thought. He was aware of what he’d just done, of the bulge he was packing—shit, was there cum in his hair? Did he stink of spunk—could they all smell it? Overwhelmed and humiliated, Holden bolted.

Out in the campus he felt like a beacon. His left eye still stung like crazy and his blood felt like a boiling rush ripping through his arteries like a storm-swollen torrent—a Euphrates of sick fear, pleasure, and chagrin. With an effort he slowed to a walk, trying to act normal, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that everyone was as aware of him as he was of himself. They couldn’t know, not yet, but somehow he felt both dirty and notorious, and his girthy, slick, half-satisfied, clothing-constrained tool sang with the exhilaration of all the attention, be it real or imagined—his needy, fame-whore cock didn’t care either way.

The first thing Holden encountered coming in the back door of the frat after a bit of wandering (slightly calmer thanks to the long walk and various clusters of students not staring at him like he was a sex-beast) was Anthony lounging idly in the kitchen clad only in navy boxer-briefs, scrolling aimlessly through image threads on his phone.

Holden was used to the strapping, tousled-blond frat brother’s easy, unclothed state and the way it tended to expose his acres of casual brawn anytime of day or night. What he wasn’t used to was the iron-hard erection currently outlined in the snug, stretchy cotton of those body-hugging Fruit of the Looms.

Holden stopped short in the doorway, his own dick twitching and chubbing a little at the sight. “Dude,” he heard himself say. He’d seen evidence of countless hard-ons in the last six or seven weeks, but none quite as out in the open as this. Fuck—the head was actually peeking past the waistband by just the tiniest bit, barely a centimeter. A little bead of clear precum welled from the slit as he watched, sparking a tingle of aroused response up Holden’s spine.

Anthony looked up in surprise, not having heard him, then saw where Holden was staring and grinned. He glanced down at his fat, ten-inch tool, then beamed up at Holden again, to all appearances completely unabashed. “Dude, I know, another boner,” he said, like he was talking about the sweater catalogs in today’s junk mail. “I can’t keep up, you know?”

Holden was half-hard already and would very soon have to straighten out his own dick under his clothes. At least I’m wearing pants, he thought. He cleared his throat slightly. “Um, looks like you’ve escaped there a little,” he said tensely.

Anthony looked down again to check what he meant, and this time when he tilted his face back up to meet Holden’s gaze his creamy cheeks were very slightly pinked. “Yeah, it’s like—I’m kinda, well, leaky,” he said, his grin twisting crookedly. “Trying to keep my shorts dry, you know?” he added hopefully, like it was important to him that Holden understood his fluid-handling strategy.

Holden’s brows pressed together. “What, by letting it drip on the floor instead?” he asked, confused.

“Huh? No, man, see?” he said. With a quick, practiced motion he dipped his scrolling finger swiftly across the slit of his steel-hard dick, collecting the errant droplet of precum, then dramatically projecting his wide, red tongue from his mouth to lick the little light-catching globule of nature’s own sex-lubricant right off the tip of his finger. He turned his attention back to Holden, smirking wholesomely. “Mm, delicious,” he said cheekily. He held up the now-unsmeared finger as evidence of his boner-wrangling ingenuity, wiggling his thin, red-blond eyebrows.

Shiiit. Holden suppressed a shiver of raw cock-lust at this display, his own erection swelling painfully against the folds of his wet undies despite its own recent exertions. I should be filming this for my class project, he thought dazedly. No one else’s video excerpts would ever compete with the last ten seconds. Hell, he’d sure be replaying it later.

He needed to leave immediately. Even as he thought this, Anthony’s sweet brown eyes were flicking down toward Holden’s own crotch, as if the big, horny goof were sensing in him some kind of a kindred boner-licking fanatic. “Okay then, seems like you’ve got this… under control,” Holden said hurriedly.

He was already turning away as Anthony responded with a light chuckle and an “I know, right?”, hustling down the central downstairs hallway with the awkward gait of a man with a burgeoning erection discomposing his downward accoutrements. At the first opportunity he ducked into one of the short, blunt side-passages with a narrow door leading to one of the little club rooms on either side—checking first to make sure his fellow probies weren’t groping each other in the shadows first. He leaned against the back corner of the darkened recess and quickly began to wrench his uncooperative cock out of its tangle and force it to lie straight along his hip crease where it belonged, even gummy with old cum as the little cock-furrow was. I should just cement it there, he thought morosely. Maybe if enough cum hardens around it it’ll be stuck in place forever.

He was giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts and figure out what to do next when he heard voices just around the corner and stilled. It was Huan and Hank, who over the last several weeks had become practically inseparable. They were talking excitedly as usual.

“I can’t believe how many views the Wexler Wanker is getting!” Hank was saying. “There’s even a mosaic-censored version on YouTube!”

“No way, really?” Huan gushed. “That’s so cool! I should text my brothers in Anaheim and see if they’ve seen it yet.”

Holden’s blood ran cold. Already? Fuck, there’s viral and then there’s instant world domination. He tried to push himself further into the corner of the gloomy recess and listened guiltily. Weirdly, his erection throbbed, like he was actually getting crazy-turned on by the hot shame of being exposed jerking himself off on the internet for a billion people to watch.

A sudden vision of the upcoming charity strip show flashed in his head, his wank now mixed in with the mob of students and supporters cheering him on live on stage, and he shook with cringe.

“Anyone figure out who it is yet?” Huan asked.

“Lots of theories,” Hank said eagerly, like he might have a few himself. “Too bad the face is cut off like that. But the body’s nice, someone is bound to recognize it.”

“Right?” Huan agreed.

“I saw a subreddit post arguing he’s got to be a redhead. I think that was just from the coloring though.”

“He’s so tight,” Huan remarked reverently. He sounded like—shit, were they looking at the video right now? His cock flexed and shifted, loving the attention as usual. Was that him, for real? Was he… “tight”? He caressed his flat abs unconsciously through the spare Magic Mike tee-shirt he’d had to don (another gift from his sarcastic sister).

“And hung,” Hank added. “Look at that pipe, man!”

Huan was suddenly urgent. “Hank, I gotta—”

“I know, me too.”

They bustled past him in a rush with phones in hand, thankfully not looking left into the little recess. A second later they were pounding up the main stairway at a gallop toward the privacy of their tiny shared bedroom.

Holden knocked his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, panting silently. His big cock was raging hard, his balls tight and ready. Was he relieved not to have been identified, or disappointed? Either way he definitely needed another bout of relief as much as his two fellow newbies did, but he decided to try to hold out a while longer before giving in. Maybe Anthony had the right idea, just dealing with being hard and horny and going about your business like that’s the normal everyone had to deal with.

The way things had been going, if he truly took time out to toss himself off and cover his chest and face with cum every time he was hard and hot around here lately, he’d never get a damn thing done the whole rest of the semester.

After that, Holden decided to try distracting himself mapping out the logistics of his compulsory video shoot. It occurred to him belatedly as he left his hiding place that he should clear the filming and interviews with the officers of the frat. Questioning a few of the random older frat brothers lounging in the big front room—clothed and acting fairly normal, thankfully, though Amin’s eyes were clearly on the lanky Loren texting animatedly in the corner and not the high-end laptop on the coffee table in front of him—revealed that Dave had been seen heading down to the frat-chapter office downstairs, directly below the great room, a mysterious space Holden so far had never seen.

Thus he found himself a moment or so later briskly thumping down the narrow basement stairs, holding to his vow to ignore his thick, insistent erection until it was no longer possible to do so as best he could, all things considered. Two quick lefts brought him to a narrow door stenciled with the words CHAPTER OFFICE in old-fashioned gold leaf. He knocked. No answer. He tried the knob. It turned.

Hesitating a moment, Holden decided there was no rule he knew of excluding him from his own fraternity headquarters. The house was his, he’d been told after he’d evaded the cull, though doubtless there were nuances to that edict he would learn with experience. He pushed the door open and walked into the room, closing the door silently behind him.

The ceilings in the large office were surprisingly high. In the absence of windows the room was lit with several standing floor lamps, giving the long chamber a moody, slightly noir feel. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the walls were all completely covered floor to ceiling with historical photographs—mostly group shots of past house cohorts going back at least a century, it seemed, with a few formal portraits and some random candids mixed in.

As Holden’s gaze skimmed the panoply of photos on the wall nearest him, to the left of the door, it struck him that most of the images were twins: in each case a single oblong frame was matted in black to yoke two squarish group shots side by side. That seemed a bit peculiar to him. He would have expected a single photo for each year, with the entire membership posed en masse for a formal record of that year’s “class.” That was the way they’d handled things for the Otter’s Grove High School Glee Club, though that institution’s longevity stretched back only to the 1970s, not the 1870s. He would have thought the older organization would have been more likely to consolidate images, if only to save on wall space.

Something about these pics was off, though. He peered closer at one set, his eyes widening as he took in just what he was looking at. It was two black and white images paired in a frame, like the others. Both showed the same group of a dozen or so fit-looking young men, posed for a group shot, though not as conventionally as he would have expected. The left one, interestingly enough, showing the brothers in rugby attire complete with helmet, pads, and ball, the latter having a proud capital phi carefully stenciled on its surface. The image on the right, meanwhile, had the same brothers done up as male ballet dancers, a company of Nureyevs in old-fashioned mustaches. The real shocker, however, and what had Holden physically, heatedly reacting to these antiquated likenesses, was that in both cases each and every one of them was naked from the waist down—and, even more arrestingly, they were, to a man, completely, utterly, shamelessly erect.

Fascinated and unexpectedly aroused, he examined the diptych more closely. The left-hand image was captioned in knock-out on-negative hand-lettering “The Cursèd Corsairs”; under that, smaller, were the words “Rugby Showdown, Nov. 1926.” Its opposite number, marked “L’Après-midi d’un faune” (had they performed the actual ballet, or just taken it as a theme?) bore the slightly later date of May 1927. As he mulled over the reasoning behind the paired images, not just here but as an apparent theme for the entire history of the fraternity as laid out before him, the first thing that occurred to him, almost instinctively, was of a progression. He looked between the images closely, singling out individuals for proof of his hunch.

There was one distinctive cheery-looking fellow that was easy to find in both shots. His looks and center-parted hair were not especially remarkable, but his erect cock commanded attention: startlingly thick at the base, it tapered so dramatically to the comparatively narrow, uncircumcised glans it looked almost like a flesh-colored trowel was erupting from his meticulously trimmed crotch. It was already large surrounded by sporting-gear in the earlier plate, but in the later pic it was patently even larger, nuzzling the fuzzy skin well north of the dark navel it had barely reached in the first shot. He looked a notch buffer, too, as though he’d spent the year training for a career in pugilistics, but the eye-grabber was his equipment. It was clear to Holden that Mr. Trowel-Cock here had added a solid inch in length between November and May, and a proportionate amount at least in girth.

Holden knew he should have been taken aback by this revelation, but the truth was he had known something like this was happening—he just hadn’t let himself think about it. If anything, that was the overriding mentality of the whole frat. His house-brothers were either not noticing or not caring that their cocks and libidos were slowly growing more and more out of control, just as had been the case for every iteration of Phi Epsilon Lambda since time immemorial. The mechanism was undetermined—for all he knew every orgasm produced a minute escalation in size, need, and productivity—but the perception-opacity of the phenomenon was conspicuously obvious.

Even as he stared at the proof he was having trouble focusing on the idea. Meanwhile, his rational mind was throwing every red flag it could find—not just because there was an unknown and apparently very lewd force acting on him and everyone else in this house, but even more because the real revelation of his discovery, and a spot-check of diptychs from randomly sampled years up and down the wall confirmed this, was that his cohort, the men who were a part of the frat at this very moment, were growing much, much faster than any previous year.

Every past group had gained an inch or so, inch and a half tops, over the course of a nine-month school year. Holden knew—knew, however much he didn’t think about it—that his tool had added an inch and half, maybe two inches, just since he’d gotten here. And it obviously wasn’t just him, it was all of them. Everyone’s packages were bigger and bulkier, everyone’s need to cum was already red-zoning… and it was still only October.

Something was incredibly wrong, and not only had nobody noticed—nobody would notice, even as their hard-ons started to get literally out of hand. He might be the only one in the frat able to hunt down what was going on and stop it before their dicks broke through the fucking roof of the frat.

He huffed. The biggest mystery was probably why all of this was turning him on more intensely than any porno had ever done for him. Maybe that was what was helping him beat the perception filter: knowing about the Effect was driving him close to the edge of a monumental climax, despite first-hand awareness from multiple instances that day alone of just how much all of this was a very bad thing and would make his life more and more inconvenient and torturous in the weeks and months to come.

He was sick, he thought wryly. Sick, and hard, and in desperate need of a serious and devoted blow job.

“Looking for ancestors?” asked a familiar voice.

Holden whirled to find that Jamie, his ripped, obsessive floormate and (he remembered) the fraternity treasurer, had slipped into the room while he was engrossed in the photos. It was a large space, but Jamie’s intensity seemed to fill it, and after everything being in a confined space with the perfectly-muscled giant in his loose, peekaboo tank and tight black shorts drove his arousal to hadron-collider intensity.

Jamie’s actual words barely penetrated, and to the extent that they did—a very late reminder that Holden’s grandfather and father were somewhere on this wall, presumably with their dicks out in showing off their house-induced “before” and “after”—the relevant concepts were quickly boxed up and buried somewhere Holden would never find them. Holden’s attention was all on Jamie’s amazing body and the fact that his shorts seemed even more packed than he remembered. His eyes seemed to drill through him, removing all remaining inhibitions.

Jamie was looking at him expectantly. Remembering why he was here with an effort, he babbled something about the video project and the need to talk to a couple of the guys about their college experience. Jamie nodded curtly.

“Sounds good. You can do me, if you want,” he said.

Holden blinked at him. He barely had the brain power to play “innuendo or not” like he was always doing with Costas. But Jamie, unlike his Sasquatch pledgemaster, always said what he meant.

“Yeah?” Holden said uncertainly.

Jamie’s eyes dropped abruptly to Holden’s quivering hard-on, so obvious in his pants he might as well have been as naked as his rugby-kitted forebears. “Fuck, Wyatt,” Jamie seethed, “you look as huge as I feel.”

Then he was in front of him. Jamie spared him a look so intense Holden felt stripped naked, before dropping abruptly to his knees and doing it for real, prizing open Holden’s fly and engulfing his raging, fat erection as soon as it sprang free.

“U-uuu-u-u-u-u-hhh-h-h,” Holden rasped. As pleasure flooded through him his mind whited out completely, leaving all of his thoughts and worries for another time.

Holden was standing by his desk in the middle of measuring his dick, every particle of his attention on the thick, flushed erection in front of him, when someone suddenly started banging on the door to his frathouse bedroom, startling him badly.

“Wyatt! Time for strip show practice, newbie!” It was Costas’s deep, resonant voice, sounding as usual like the purring of a big cat even when he was giving orders. “Get your pasty ass down to the back deck!”

Holden grabbed his chest as though the press of his palm could physically soothe his thumping heart, half-crumpling his makeshift measuring tape in the process. He was currently wearing only an undershirt, so his pasty ass was, indeed, on display, almost as though Costas could see through the door. It was impossible for him not to think, Fuck! Does he know what I’m doing?

His cock, meanwhile, bucked at all the ruckus but didn’t quail an iota. If anything, it got even more rigid knowing the hairy six-foot-seven pledgemaster, a man who managed to look, sound, and even (at close proximity) smell like the personification of raw, animal sex, was just the other side of a flimsy piece of wood barely as tall as he was and not a whole lot wider. “J-just a minute!” Holden called nervously.

“Hurry up,” Costas drawled, half slinky catamite calling his roué to bed, half drill sergeant on his last nerve. “Unless you want me to come in there and drill you one on one…”

Fuck, was that a threat, or a line from a porno? Holden wished he could figure the guy out. Ten weeks in, and the sex-voiced, muscle-shirted Sasquatch was as opaque to him as he’d been on day one. “Five minutes!” he promised desperately.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Costas growled back from the hall. He sounded distinctly playful, like that mountain cat had a big ball of yarn to bat around. “See you soon, newbie!” Then he heard footsteps as Costas thumped down the upstairs hall to the little room at the opposite end where the frat’s other two probies, Hank and Huan, were most likely fucking their brains out. Sure enough, the pounding came again a moment later, more distant this time, eliciting a pair of just-audible yips of surprise from the preoccupied occupants.

While the big man rumbled through the same routine with his increasingly amorous co-pledges, Holden forced himself to focus on his own situation. Carefully, he laid out the inch-wide handmade paper measuring tape across the surface of his desk and started working on flattened the crumpled bits. He wished he had the real thing from his mom’s sewing kit, but this would have to do. Once the kinks he’d just put in it were mostly smoothed out, he picked it back up and, holding down his iron-hard, barely-movable dick with one thumb, he draped the strip over the length of his shaft, pinning it at the base with his other thumb and extending his fingers to shift it a bit so the far end would fall exactly over the middle of red, turtlenecked glans. Like a soaring Andean waterfall, he thought.

He stared at the little black handwritten numbers, his heart still thumping in his ears. That… can’t be right.

A little dazed, he checked the zero-point under his thumb to make sure it hadn’t slipped backward and artificially inflated the reading. No dice. If anything, the edge of the rough-and-ready measuring strip was slightly too far forward. He raked his gaze up the strip itself, eyeing the felt-tip markings skeptically. They had to be off. Right? Okay, so, yeah, he’d checked them against his ruler three times, before and after taping together the two slips of scissor-trimmed printer paper, but… but…

He wanted to giggle hysterically. What about my butt? With all the sex in the air around here and the constant parsing for double-entendres with everyone, especially the stone-faced, sultry-toned Costas, he was now actually at the the point of snarking back at his own panicked inner monologue. Because the real thing he needed to be thinking was just too strange. There was no way he had a hard, fat, barely tamable monster dick that somehow topped out at just over fifteen fucking inches. There was no way. He knew his dick, he knew reality (or thought he did), and it just wasn’t—

The noisy bustling of the fucktwins, Hank and Huan, hurrying excitedly past his door toward the back stairs momentarily distracted him from his brain-stall. Wait—what had Costas said? Rehearsal today was on the back deck. The back deck, overlooking the yard and in view of the sun room. The deck… where any brother in the frat who happened to be home and bored could stroll out and watch.

All their previous rehearsals had been held in the big room in the basement where only the fucktwins and Costas had been privy to Holden’s flares of sustained arousal and their unavoidably visible consequences—Hank and Huan ogling and whispering, Costas pretending not to notice as he instructed them in the required choreography even as his own package swelled and tautened in his snug little lace-up shorts. This time, Holden and his dick wouldn’t be nearly so secluded. He’d be on view, subjected to the admiring or deprecating stares of potentially every damned hunk in the frat—and there was no way his dick wouldn’t respond to that. Not the way it had been acting lately, with his days a deluge of hard-ons that, once triggered, never deflated without a serious orgasm. Or two.

He glared down at his dick, the measuring tape still laid across it like the endless train of a royal bride. He didn’t understand this thing. Mortification was supposed to be a boner-killer. Wasn’t it? He’d gotten rid of countless hard-ons in middle school and high school just by imagining himself on stage at an assembly wearing nothing but his bright blue Superman briefs, all of his fellow students in the audience gaping and whispering at his unbearably humiliating predicament. When he’d first heard about the strip show, he’d counted on this phenomenon to curb his potential embarrassment. He’d thought, Well, at least at a strip show there’s a built-in boner-deflater.

But whatever had been expanding his dick by inches a month had somehow unearthed a truly horrifying kink: his junk loved being big and insatiable, and loved even more any prospect of causing him abject misery with its hugeness and its hardness and its implacable need to spit considerable amounts of hot, salty seed. It seemed almost like it had its own motivation for getting bigger, like that soul-deep discomfiture and Holden being forced to deal with it was in itself the actual driving force of its evil plan. Even now it was too big to ignore, too big to tuck aware along the crease of his hip. He wouldn’t be able to cover it up much longer. It was already pushing past his waistband at every opportunity, trying to show itself, to make Holden deal with it as publicly and humiliatingly as possible.

He squeezed his eyes closed and forced that line of thinking to a stop. Anthropomorphizing his huge wang wouldn’t get him anywhere, much less imagining it as the evil mastermind of its own escalation. What he was dealing with here was effect, not cause. This was being done to him.

Not just him, either. Everyone in the frat was more slutty, more sexualized, more prone to showing big, straining packages and random stiff, pipe-like bulges in their shorts or jeans or sweats; though it was hard to escape the impression that he was somehow leading the pack in incremental growth. He was now sure, though, that it wasn’t just him. His dick wasn’t making it all happen—but something was. Or someone. All this was too targeted to be random. There was a means, and a mechanism. There had to be a something, or a someone, or both, behind this effect. And he would find out what it was.

Letting out a breath, he opened his eyes and took in his fifteen-inch problem. He twitched the thumb holding the tape to one side, letting the long paper strip flutter to the floor. Then he removed his other thumb, releasing it from its straining, slightly painful lowered stance. Instantly his cock sprang up to a near-vertical state, splattering his face and chest with a few droplets of warm precum as it went, like a sex-juice trebuchet.

He frowned, considering its new position. It used to be that his hard-ons listed to one side, making the tuck-away along his hip easier; but with the steady growth in length, girth, and need had come an increasing inclination toward the straight-up vertical, as if to somehow maximize visibility in every way and along every parameter. If you painted a clock on his torso his hard, slick-headed erection would be almost at eleven o’clock now, and he had a feeling high noon was coming.

The analogy reminded him uncomfortably of his promise to Costas, that he’d be downstairs in five. The thing was… he couldn’t go very well down there like this. Turning his pasty but quite firm ass around he plumped himself on the edge of his neatly made bed, a position that allowed him to stare down his oppressor, eye to eye. He huffed silently, slightly annoyed at the inevitability of this moment, as his left hand loosely wrapped around the base of the warm, thick pleasure-pillar weighing down his groin in a preparatory grip. There was one surefire way he knew to bring about a quick and copious climax in record time—one he hadn’t got the tiniest bit tired of yet and, from all evidence so far, clearly never would. Opening his mouth wide, he bent over, slipping his lips down and around the extremely delighted head and upper shaft of his huge, hot, inexplicably, relentlessly growing cock. Then he went to work.

As a futile exercise in microprocrastination Holden took the front stairs instead of the back when he went down, still tasting his load in the back of his throat and trying to decide whether he was getting used to the flavor of it yet or not. He was busy making a ranked list in his head of things that tasted vile but people ended up liking them anyway (provisionally posting his own gooey, high-pressure spunk somewhere between his dad’s nightly Löwenbräu and fish tacos) when he stepped into the kitchen on the way back through the house and stopped dead in his tracks.

Anthony was in there alone. The naturally-muscled strawberry blond was sitting at the round table wearing nothing but sky-blue boxer briefs, eating Apple Jacks in milk from a big bowl and reading something for a literature assignment on his tablet. The giant-sized cereal box and the gallon jug of two-percent stood parked nearby, both left open and ready in case the need for replenishment arose. None of that was in any way unusual for their resident casual exhibitionist, or anything Holden hadn’t by now seen a dozen times at least.

What was new about this tableau how obvious it was even in passing that the man was hugely hard in his clingy blue undershorts. This was made abundantly apparent thanks to a convergence of several Anthony-esque factors: the way Anthony was sitting upright a little pushed back from the table, his customary splay-legged posture, and most of all from the fact that he was slowly and shamelessly stroking his massive slab of an erection one-handed through the soft cotton of his Fruit of the Looms as he read, all while he was mindlessly scooping up spoonfuls of milk-swimming sugary breakfast cereal with the other.

Holden froze, gaping at the scene. “Dude!” he hissed.

Anthony looked up from his reading with a grin. “Hey, newbie!” he said, setting down his spoon but not slowing his slow, through-the-cloth handjob even a little. “How’s it going! Ready for practice?” He flicked a glance down at the impressive package Holden had managed to get stuffed away after his latest autofellatio session, then back up with an even wider smile. He winked, but not salaciously, Holden thought—more like the older brother teasing a younger sibling over something he was nervous about. Like his first paper route, or a class presentation on Protagoras.

For once the strip show was the last thing on Holden’s mind. “Dude, what are you doing?” he half-whispered, not wanting Anthony to get caught humping his own hand in the common areas.

Anthony, however, seemed oblivious. He nodded toward the tablet, still stroking. “Russian Lit assignment,” he said. “Here’s a tip for you,” he confided sagely. “Ever have to choose between Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, pick Tolstoy.” He cast the tablet an annoyed glance, all while his left hand pistoned unhurriedly on his cock like a low-gear automatic hand-job machine.

“No,” Holden said, “I mean—” When Anthony looked confused Holden looked around to check they were still alone, then tipped his chin toward Anthony’s lap and the activities taking place there. His own package, awakened slightly by Anthony calling attention to it a minute ago, was now responding to the fantasy-inspired (or fantasy-inspiring) scenario. This caused a bit of discomfort, as his junk was packed in rather tightly. It seemed the proportional difference between the size of his flaccid and erect states was shrinking at the same minutely-but-steadily pace as the overall dimensions were increasing.

Anthony looked down at himself and his busy hand, then grinned back up at him again, his reddish-gold brows slightly lifted.

“Dude,” he said happily, “I am so horny, if I stopped what I was doing do go someplace else and stroke I would never get anything done. Plus, if I keep at it like this, I can save the cumming for when I really want to,” he added. “It’s, like, tantric, or whatever.” His grin twisted, hinting that he was at least slightly chagrined by the situation at some superficial level; but overall his expression told Holden he meant every word and considered his reasoning flawless.

Holden nodded slowly. “Makes sense… I guess,” he said uncertainly.

“Right?” Anthony winked again and went back to his cereal and his dreaded Dostoevsky. His left hand seemed to speed up very slightly.

“Okay,” Holden said awkwardly, “I’ll, uh, leave you to it, then.”

Anthony grunted around a mouthful of cinnamon-toasty goodness, and Holden hurried out of the room. He was still digesting Anthony’s behavior when he passed the small game room, the door to which was a few inches ajar, and heard voices. He held up when he heard his own name.

“—going so well, best ever,” one guy said. He couldn’t recognize who it was—he was bad with voices, and Mario Kart was on full volume. “You were so right about upping the stakes this year—and still it’s like no one in the frat even notices the crazy shit happening to them. So fucking wild.”

“Except us, of course. D’you see that Wyatt kid?”

“He is blowing up,” the second voice agreed over the high-energy music and car horns. “I knew we were right to induct h—hey, watch it!”

“Ha ha, outa my way, loser. Man, he must be jerking off all the time.”

“That would explain it. Hey, check this out!”

“No fair, twat! Fuck, imagine when he finds out what happens when someone blows him.”

“Right? Hey—pause it a sec, I need juice. You want—”

Holden started, jolted out of his passive eavesdropping by the threat of the expositor’s sudden lack of recumbence. Not wanting to get caught skulking about listening to gossip about himself, Holden got his feet moving and quickly exited the vicinity, deeply preoccupied and perplexed by what he’d heard.

Turning a corner, he nearly ran face-to chest into Costas.

“There you are,” Costas rumbled, planting a hand firmly on Holden’s shoulder and turning him around. “I’ve been looking for your Casper-white ass.” As Costas propelled him from behind in the general direction of the back yard, Holden’s worries about what his senior frat-brothers’ cryptic yet strangely ominous banter was momentarily displaced by self-consciousness about his supremely alabaster buttocks. He made a mental note to covertly look into tanning salons in town that specialized in pallid male behinds. Maybe he just needed a nice little carefully-hidden bottle of butt bronzer. That might be enough.

As it turned out, holding rehearsal on the back deck didn’t attract the handful of idle spectators Holden had feared. No, he thought, this was well past a handful and verging on a crowd. Practically the whole frat was gathered in the back yard—or looking on from front-row berths in the sun room like box-holding bigwigs at a pro football game. All the officers were in the latter group, it looked like. He spotted frat secretary Dave by the glass with an iced tea; he tossed Holden an encouraging smile as his gaze flitted over him. Near him stood the laconic, wiry-muscled prexy, Vitek, lips pursed and hands in his pants pockets. Holden knew little about the stone-faced senior other than that he usually wore black tees with white slacks and that he was a top-ranked racquetball fiend of high repute. Costas was there too, leaving the rehearsal to Armin until the joint post-mortem afterwards. A half-dozen or so guys were crowding around them, laughing or smirking at the antics outside. Many more were out on the lawn, plus a few boyfriends/fuckbuddies/fwbs from outside the frat mixed in to boot. All were clapping and wolf-whistling as they enjoyed the fucktwins making fools of themselves to Lady Gaga’s “Born this Way,” which Armin’s portable sound system was currently blasting at concrete-shifting volume.

Holden hated everything about this. He hated being made to do it, hated his costume, hated that in a week, at the actual event, his audience would exponentially multiply from a small bevy of his fraternity brothers into a campus-commons-filling throng of rowdy, hooting college students all cheering for his flesh. And they would be, too. Holden sighed. Maybe what he hated most of all was that he was actually good at this shit. For a kid from nowhere who up until recently had never seen a strip show outside of a few episodes of The Sopranos, Holden had somehow dug down deep and found moves, poise, and showmanship, almost as though he’d been fated for a life of whipping off his clothes for an appreciative crowd. If he’d been a terrible dancer people might have ignored him; or, if he was really lucky, they’d’ve cut short his act and booed him off the stage. Holden wasn’t so fortunate. Everyone was going to be looking, and wanting more of where that came from.

He glanced down at himself and grimaced. He definitely did hate the costume. For some reason, maybe because he came from a rural background, the two brothers in charge of the event—pledgemaster/Sasquatch Costas and sultry-but-bitchy choreographer Armin—had decided he should be a cowboy, like his family owning a barnful of surly dairy cattle somehow turned him into Tom Mix. Logical or no, here he was decked out in a black satin Roy Rogers-style shirt; a suede vest complete with fringe; and black pants with snaps down the side so they could be dramatically torn away at just the right moment. Boots would be too much of a pain to get off in mid-act, so his feet were bare, adding that factor to the mix. Up top, of course, was a white Stetson—borrowed from Vitek, someone had said, the eerily perfect sizing making him wonder about the odds of their heads being the same size; and underneath it all was a flimsy thong, neon green for “hilarious” contrast with his outfit.

The most unnerving part was the way his junk-sock had been feeling more and more… insufficient… as the rehearsals progressed and the night of the actual event got closer and closer. At least, Holden could console himself that this wasn’t a true, bona fide strip show. The thong would stay on for the entirety of the act—though it was definitely hiding less and less as the weeks went by. Even his cowboy shirt was feeling a bit tight today, like his whole body was part boner.

What am I doing? he thought morosely. What is even happening to my life?

“Hey! Holden!” Armin hissed from right behind to him, just “offstage” at the sliding doors leading onto the deck. “Eyes on the show!”

Right. He was supposed to be critiquing his fellow strippers, so that he could catalog any mistakes and avoid them in his own act. He wanted to tell Armin this was a charity show, not Magic Mike… though as he scanned the yard it occurred to him that the bristling, sunlit muscles of practically everyone in the audience, ranging from hard and defined to deliciously ripped, almost made it seem like most of his frat was there auditioning to replace Channing Tatum. He noticed Anthony had wandered out after finishing his late-afternoon breakfast, his perfect, naturally built bod looking like he was coasting for life on all that weightlifting he’d done in the womb. Shockingly, his slablike stiffie was still unmissable in his sky-blue briefs as he cheered Hank and Huan on from a spot right next to the white-haired swim jock Loren. Worse, to his increasing discomfiture Holden realized that the goofy paranudist’s huge pipe-like erection wasn’t the only long, hard bulge visible in the swath of more-or-less delectable onlookers. One of those power-bulges belonged to Jamie, Anthony’s high-strung, gym-groomed opposite, standing a few feet away. Holden actually spotted the rose-tinted head of Jamie’s erection nosing past the waist of his jeans as the man lifted his tank-top to scratch his chiseled abs. Then the shirt dropped and Jamie was banging his hands together for Hank and Huan, comically scowling the whole time.

Fu-u-u-uck, he thought, as his own junk responded to all of the concentrated sexiness of the assembled hunk-brothers. The damn thing was downright eager to swell up to full hardness at the slightest provocation, and he cringed as the tell-tale warning of his skin growing hot washed over him. No, no, no, he panicked. He tried filling his head with unsexy things—vomit, tornados, cats playing with yarn—but each turned into something sybaritic. Sexy EMTs… a sexy firefighter with smoldering eyes unearthing him from the rubble… a sexy, muscular anthro jaguar stalking toward him in some lush and lurid jungle, his thick tail twitching back and forth behind him….

“Get ready! You’re up!” Armin barked, breaking into his thoughts. The whole frat was applauding and cheering as Hank and Huan bowed, bare-assed in matching gray athletic supporters—they’d gone with performing as the Manning brothers for some reason, in helmets, shoulder-pads, and tight tear-away football pants in the appropriate colors. The audience had loved it, and the two twunky hams were obeising extravagantly for the crowd, eating up the praise.

When they turned, beaming and ebullient, Holden was shocked to see that the boys were both extremely erect in their jocks. The two probies weren’t nearly as hung as Holden was, clearly, but there were still three or four inches of raging erection shoving past the wide elastic of the jockstraps, impossible to miss and as proud as can be.

He was still staring at tiny-waisted Hank’s pink, circumcised cock and the way its head seemed to be trying to shove into the man’s navel when he felt a firm nudge at his shoulder-blade and he stumbled a step forward onto the deck. He was still distracted by Hank’s navel-fucking and very visible hard-on, and when Armin started up the backing track he’d picked for him—Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” naturally—he kept going, more or less on autopilot.

He passed the two excited newbies, Huan winking at him while Hank gave him a grinning split-second once-over. “Looking tight, Hol’!” Hank said approvingly. Then they were gone before Holden even had a chance to say “Don’t call me ‘Hole’,” and the moment had come and he was alone at the front of the deck in front of the happy, hollering crowd.

His hips were already moving to the beat of their own accord. Fuck, he thought as his dick swelled and chubbed against his flimsy hidden thong, his male-obsessed id getting off on every single part of this situation. Fuck, I am so fucked.

His body knew the moves and he performed his entire act by rote, the whole time feeling like doom was hanging over him as his growing, unstoppable arousal made disaster more and more inevitable. Making it worse was the crowd of hot men around him egging him on, whooping and hollering as first the vest came off, then the buttons on his cowboy shirt opened one by one, revealing his hard chest and his tight, carved abs (when had he gotten so cut?). Every reveal of manflesh whipped them further into a frenzy, and Holden was swept up in it, barely in control of his own sexual agitation. He was working himself up minute by minute, sweating and giving it his all, at some level knowing he might as well given them as much of a show as he could. Like a condemned man playing to the crowd on the scaffold, he thought, slightly hysterically.

Amid all the hotties in his frat and their guests wildly rooting him on, Holden found himself fixating on the stone-faced Jamie, his attention telescoping to that handsome, stone- carved face and those heated, fathomless gray eyes boring into him felt like lasers igniting black stone into blistering magma, stoking a thousand sunlike fires inside him. After weeks of few interactions apart from the torrid encounter in the photo room, all it took was having all of Jamie’s attention pouring into him for Holden to realize that this tightly-wound gym-obsessive with the loose tank tops and the barely hidden boner might just be the human manifestation of raw, unrestrained sexual need.

Holden knew it was going to happen before it happened. His vest was gone. His shirt was cast aside. He was nearing his cue. He could feel the heat building up in him like a volcano—and, like a volcano, no one and nothing could stop it. Sure enough, as he yanked away the pants to a roar of approval, time seemed to quiver. His thong held for one second… two seconds… then, bam, all at once it exploded off of him, freeing his trapped cock to jump up and finish hardening to a rigid eleven o’clock vertical faster than you could say “public erection.”

If Holden had expected sudden, stunned silence, he didn’t get it. If anything it was the opposite, and the cheers and shouts only escalated as he ground toward his big finish. When it came the culmination of the music, the crowd’s raucous enthusiasm, and his own half-excited, half-horrified overstimulation all crashed together to bring about a literal hands-free climax, as if the whole thing had been planned from the outset to end in blazing, orgasmic fireworks. As he shot his load again and again in stunned, exhilarated disbelief, his arms spread and ejaculating dick tall and proud, the crowd—brothers and strangers alike—gave him nothing but noisy, contented approval, as if everything that had just happened was perfectly normal, and no more obscene than Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey doing a bit of lascivious gyrating to piss off the squares.

This was crazy, and there was no way out of the crazy, Holden thought manically as he stood there, panting and sweaty. All he could do was bow, trying not to stab himself with his still after-orgasming dick as he doffed his Stetson at last for the audience. He then beat a hasty retreat, redonning his Stetson and wondering what the hell planet he was on.

As he passed Armin, still naked except for the hat, the grumpy choreographer nodded. “Not bad,” he said. “Do it just like that on the night and we might just stand a chance at some serious bank.”

Holden almost stumbled, not daring to look down at the massive, heavy erection currently smearing warm cum onto the lower reaches of his sweat-dampened right pec. “You want—that?” he asked incredulously in a quavering voice, jerking his thumb behind him. “Just like—that?”

Armin glowered, perplexed at his confusion. “You want to do it badly instead? Just… go shower and come back down for the post-mortem.”

Holden blinked, and Armin turned to the next dancer, a toned and gangly sophomore named Justin. As he headed into the house and hurried up the back stairs, his steel-hard erection barely moving despite its spectacular release mere moments before, Holden had the feeling that as strange as things were now, he hadn’t seen anything yet.

The upstairs bathroom was a strange amalgam of household and hostel, with a very domestic cream vanity and standard toilet in front and a surprisingly roomy five-by-six-foot shower stall where the tub would be in back, sectioned off by a frosted sliding door. Holden had just gotten the water to the temperature he liked, a few degrees short of scalding. He thought he should turn it colder and try getting rid of his lingering post-performance thrill-erection that way, but he was sweaty and cummy and only trusted actual hot water to get him clean. He was just stepping under the spray when the shower stall door slid open and Jamie, of all people, stepped in, naked and just as hard as Holden. He closed the door behind him and looked up, and Holden held in a gasp as those heated, rock-melting eyes pinned him all over again.

Jamie was a magnificent example of a body honed to absolute perfection, every swell of muscle and line of definition exquisite and perfectly judged. A sculptor could not have done better. With his idealized definition and proportions and total lack of body hair apart from the carefully trimmed ash-blond coif up top and a rigidly manscaped patch below, in the harsh amber light of the bathroom he really did seem to be carved from marble, or some form of eloquent living stone that flourished in the shape of finely striated deltoids and gracefully spreading latissimi dorsi. Lats you can see from the front, Holden thought—his favorite kind. Everything was impressive but proportional. The V shape from his square shoulders to his narrow waist was mesmerizing without being exaggerated, the development of his glutes and quads below giving him a slight second swell on the other side.

And then there were the abs. Holden had seen plenty of nice abs since he’d gotten to college, and he was noticing lately that his own were firming up and developing a bit of definition, but Jamie’s tight six-pack-plus were the first abs he’d seen that literally, genuinely looked chiseled from stone. He wanted to touch them and feel the flare of those lats under his hands, and given their location and state of undress it was occurring to him belatedly that he might get the chance.

Jamie’s lips shifted then, drawing his attention. He know those lips and how they felt around his dick—better than he should, he though, given their one encounter in the photo room weeks ago. It was so anomalous, it was almost like a dream… but then that was the point. He was pretty sure he had been dreaming about Jamie and how good he was at blowing him and how much they both loved the feel of Holden’s giant cock in Jamie’s talented, cum-hungry mouth. There had been a bunch of dreams, and lately he’d been waking up cumming hard, almost able to feel the lingering brush of Jamie’s tongue on his long, eager shaft.

The giant cock in question twitched, cruelly teasing the nipple on Holden’s right pec, and Jamie’s fiery stare flipped down to the obscene erection before lifting to meet Holden’s gaze again. He was standing closer to him in the stall now, really without Holden seeing him move. Their eyes fixed on each other, driving Holden’s lust. Jamie was maybe an inch shorter than Holden, but the sheer godliness of his muscles and the intensity of his demeanor dominated him.

Holden wished he’d gotten a better look at Jamie’s dick just now, they way Jamie had just blatantly admired his. Still, that quick look had told him a lot. Jamie’s dick was attractive and elegant, pointing straight out in front of him, long and thick with a slightly upward bend. In fact, Holden couldn’t help thinking that on a body that was so rigorously proportioned it was… out of scale. Again, it wasn’t as big as his—no one seemed to be, as though he were outpacing the entire pack, racing ahead of the peloton as though he were in a bid to win his fraternity’s secret and mysterious Tour de Phallus—but Holden reckoned it at a good twelve inches, and hefty in girth as well. He would lay any money these were not the perfect, body-proportionate dimensions Jamie had possessed when he’d stepped off the bus his first day at university.

Then… then Jamie, standing just that little bit closer still, was stroking Holden’s long, eleven-o’clock cock, as casual as a handshake; and Holden’s thoughts fritzed a little, like defective wiring in an old house.

“Jamie,” he whispered.

“I didn’t expect you to be such a good stripper,” Jamie said, and though he kept a straight face Holden was sure there was just the slightest hint of a sardonic tone in his voice. Holden blinked, eyeing the man in front of him closely as his lightly tanned skin acquired dapples of deflected water from the shower spray blasting onto Holden’s back. Holden found himself second-guessing his perceptions of the other man. Had he misdiagnosed the blond’s seemingly constant fury? Maybe there was something in the cast of his face, in his sharp jawline or the shape of his eyebrows maybe, that made him look angrier than he was. Still, there was no mistaking the heat of Jamie’s attention, or the way he devoted every particle of himself to whatever he was doing and to getting whatever he wanted.

Despite himself, Holden was fascinated. He wanted to watch Jamie work out, just to see him honing his body through a fusion of will and effort.

Jamie was still stroking him, and Holden swallowed, feeling like he was manually forcing his speech centers to work. Almost autonomically he raised a hand, letting it caress the rock-hard muscle of his other shoulder, on the other side from where Jamie was oh-so-nonchalantly attending to him. “Y-yeah?” he said. “You like the ending?”

Jamie’s full lips didn’t curve at all, but those angry eyebrows twitched as he gently spread pleasure up and down Holden’s shaft. “A bit cheeky,” he suggested.

Cheeky! A fifteen-inch erection and a public orgasm, and Jamie called it “cheeky”? This was out of control. Suddenly Holden felt very serious. “Dude, don’t you see it? S-something’s happening. Our c—” A huge wave of pleasure tore through him. His throat closed up and he couldn’t say the word. He voiced it in his mind. Cock. Our cocks. But it wouldn’t come out. He tried again. “Our… hm… they’re gr—” Again, his vocal chords seemed to seize up as a massive wave of pleasure shut him up. He couldn’t get the words out.

I can’t talk about it, Holden realized with horror. Whatever this is that’s affecting us, whatever my suspicions are, I’m not allowed to vocalize them. Not… allowed. The idea of this thing controlling his speech terrified him. What the hell? What the actual motherfucking hell?

Then Jamie said, “Let me help you with this.” Before Holden had even processed the words, the other man had bent his head down and was sliding the wide, sensitive head of Holden’s monster dick all the way back into his throat.

“Oh god!!” Holden cried out, his shout echoing off the tiles around him. His caresses instantly became an iron grip on Jamie’s shoulder as he was expertly fellated. Steam from the spray billowed around them. Jamie’s hand gently worked the bottom end of Holden’s touch-loving shaft, as deftly as a cello section supporting the soaring violins.

“Oh, god, Jamie,” Holden croaked. He felt his second orgasm in an hour rocketing toward him and said, “Unh—shit, Jamie, I’m going to cum again!”

Jamie stepped up his expert, manually-assisted blowjob, skillfully working Holden’s hard, insatiable cock with hand and mouth and tongue, and moments later Holden was flooded with unholy quantities of pure, unadulterated pleasure as another climax, even stronger than the one before, tore through him, sending gouts of hot cum surging up his cock and filling Jamie’s eager gullet. Jamie seemed to have to work hard to keep up with it all, but he was obviously determined to swallow every drop. Finally it was done and Holden was shaking, the dregs of his climax working through him. Jamie gave his buzzing, oversensitive cockhead a last lick and pulled off it with a pop.

Holden was still holding onto Jamie’s shoulder, at the moment grateful for the support. “Fuck, that was amazing,” he gasped. “It might actually go down now, I think.” He smiled, panting lightly, as Jamie wiped the cum off his lips with the back of his forearm, his throat still working as he swallowed down the last vestiges of Holden’s cum. “Sorry about all that. If only I didn’t jizz so much,” he said ruefully.

“Fuck that,” Jamie said, holding his stare with his usual intensity. He sounded angry again, or maybe it was just his temperament. Anything Jamie rejected, he rejected outright. “Besides, it’s good protein, I hear.”

With a face that serious Holden couldn’t remotely tell whether Jamie (a) was riffing on the usual joke that gym rats craved protein, which was why the gay ones sucked so much cock, or (b) really meant it and saw Holden as a useful supplier of muscle-building fuel. It would explain why he even came in here looking for a repeat of the blow job in the photo room, he thought, bemused. At least the ambiguity was, itself, kind of funny. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Jamie said, pressing a hand to Holden’s firm, wet chest in a way that seemed almost affectionate. “Heck, I wish you came even more.”

A weird minute tingle filtered through Holden at those words, like a slight effervescence at the cellular level—almost as if his body were warning him that Holden’s inundation of cum in his belly somehow gave him this power to change him, however slightly. Holden, dazed from a wrenching second afterglow and everything else that had happened, wasn’t at all sure what to make of this.

Jamie was eyeing him, for the first time looking a bit uncertain, though his full-on iron-gray stare never wavered. “You kiss, Holden?” he asked.

“Uh, sure.”

Jamie slid his hand up behind Holden’s neck and pulled him in for a brief, athletic kiss that tasted of cum and, faintly, a hint of spearmint. Then he was gone, the shower door closing noisily after him, and Holden and his finally softening monster cock were left to ponder the strange state of the universe under the steamy-hot spray.

A week later the entire frat was tumbling back into the house, riding high from an extremely successful charity strip show. Possibly a record-breaker—Dave had checked his tablet on the way over as they’d all walked home en masse and confirmed that they’d raised more than twice last year’s take in pledges and transfers, to a general cheer. More was still coming in.

The most surreal part was how everyone was saying it was all down to the star of the show, Holden the sexy cowboy, whose onstage presence and ability to wow the crowd with his moves and his sheer physicality was capped by the awesome cathartic effect of his climactic “fireworks.” Alarmingly, Holden, working through his act on the improvised stage before hundreds of spectators, had found his horny, crowd-propelled release as inevitable as human lust itself, and the unstoppable release that had followed was possibly the most mortifying thing that had ever happened to him. Meanwhile the delighted throng had roared and cheered, drunk on mob ecstasy—which weirdly only made it worse, in Holden’s mind, like the precedent of this display would naturally lead to the expectation of even more self-abasement. In fact, this fear immediately realized in the form of the crowd loudly demanding an encore, which Holden, still hard and humiliated and with his chest, shoulders, and chin spattered with cooling cum, had somehow improvised as a quick line-dance duet with Armin, the dance major joining him on stage and matching him move for move like the pro he was.

As they poured through the main door to the house everyone wanted to clasp his shoulder or slap him on the back to congratulate him. Holden, thrumming with shame and the fact that he was still rigidly hard after the spectacle of the show, the wait through the two acts after him, and the ten-minute walk home down College Avenue, took the buffeting with barely an acknowledgement beyond a weak smile and a few mumbles. He’d redonned his jeans and sneakers but remained shirtless, the black satin top he’d worn now buried in Armin’s costume bag along with his tearaway pants and the remains of his replacement thong.

He had, of course, left his hat on, as required by his backing music and his jubilant house-brothers. Word had even come from Vitek that he was free to keep the Stetson, though in his present dark mood this felt irrationally less like acknowledgement of Holden’s cowboy-themed celebrity than the stolid prexy not wanting the headgear back now that Holden had done what he had done.

He just wanted to be alone, but he seemed to bring a portion of the guys with him as he mounted the stairs, like iron filings following a magnet. At the door to his room he managed to convince them to go down to the basement and join the others for the preplanned celebratory keg party—he’d be down, too, in a few minutes, after he cleaned up. After more bro back-slaps and grinning shoulder-grabs, and disconcertingly moony looks of adulation from the fucktwins, the little crowd headed back downstairs, babbling amongst themselves about all the acts and crowd comments and how the spring show would be even more awesome, and Holden was finally alone—for now. He closed the door to his room and leaned heavily against it, his bare shoulder blades welcoming the solid feel of the hard wood, and tried to make sense of what he was feeling.

His thoughts ran in circles for a moment, and the cum on his chest was getting colder. Sighing, Holden grabbed a towel from a built-in peg by the door, hanging the hat there instead, and went over to the closet and opened it, using the full-length mirror to start cleaning himself up. There was cum all over his upper torso. And beyond—he noted a glob on his right ear and swiped at it angrily. His erection remained stubborn and unmoving, still so hard that it was actually making a slight dent in the very bottom of his right pectoral where the glans was pressing lightly into the muscle.

What the fuck was happening to him?

He looked up and met his own green-gold eyes, trying to order his thoughts. Something was happening to him—to all of them. Everyone in the frat was getting incrementally more hung at a rate that was minuscule but accretive. The level of the effect varied. Short of doing a comprehensive survey with his improvised tape measure he couldn’t be sure, but Holden seemed to be getting the worst of it—though there might be other outliers. He’d barely seen Dwight the last few weeks, and the studious, extra-quiet junior seemed to opting for some very baggy clothes lately.

There were other, lesser general effects as well. Horniness. Libido. That much was obvious. Appraising his shirtless physique he was fairly certain he was a notch or two buffer, too, than he’d been a month before. A couple of the guys—he included Jamie in this group—were, from all appearances, up by actual pounds of tight, hard muscle from the start of the semester. He had no way of knowing whether that was from differences in reactions to the effect or the added efficacy of their workouts because of it, but buffness enhancement was definitely a part of the overall “thing” that was going on.

He knew from the photo room that all this had to do with the frat, and that it went back decades, maybe to the beginning. Still… none of the “after” pictures, a full year on from initiation, he’d seen had even hinted at effects as dramatic as what he was experiencing only three months in. He’d gained a whole ruler’s worth of dick in that time and a corresponding enlarging of his hefty balls, too, and that was only the beginning.

And no one was even acknowledging it. It wasn’t odd everyone was crazy hung and crazy horny… it wasn’t strange for extroverted types to be hard and stroking their massive prick at the breakfast table… Jamie wasn’t unduly wowed by how huge a dick he was casually deep-throating… no one was freaking out that Holden was toting around a fifteen-inch boner everywhere he went or that he had blown huge loads of cum in front of god and country.

Casual arousal… abnormal size… uninhibited sexual activity… all that was being at least partly normalized. Maybe more and more so as the growth effects increased. No one was on this. After all he’d seen, and all the talk he’d heard, Holden was now certain he was the only one in the frat who was even focused on the fact that some kind of progressive transformation was happening to all of them.

With, he reminded himself, two very worrying exceptions. He went back to that overheard conversation in the game room. Whoever they were, they seemed to be in the know, maybe even in control of things.

One of them had said something about “upping the stakes” this year. That suggested there was an existing effect that could, under some mysterious circumstances, be amplified. Dramatically amplified, he thought grimly, starting at his raging erection in the mirror like it was an obnoxious roommate he couldn’t get rid of.

What was the effect? Growth, yes, but there was more to it than that. It wasn’t merely latent or passive. There were rules. He’d tried talking about it, only to find that he physically couldn’t. That night after the shower with Jamie he’d even tried writing it, just in an email to himself to test things out. His fingers wouldn’t even type the words, pleasure-bombed each time, just like he’d been in the shower. That effect was clearly… deliberate. An inhibition, and a punishment.

Whatever this was, it was designed with specific stimulations and specific triggers. Like a spell, he thought. Or a curse.

Two other pieces of evidence seemed to confirm this level of design and control. First: this last week, his orgasms had produced slightly but significantly more cum—more of a mess during, more shots at the time of climax, more physical jizz produced with each cataclysmic release. He was becoming very messy, even more than before. Not by a massive amount, just a notch or so more; but it was enough for him to notice. His gut told him he knew exactly how that had happened. Jamie had said he wanted it. Jamie had drunk Holden’s cum, and having that cum in him gave him a tiny, ephemeral amount of power over Holden’s body.

That in itself was kind of terrifying. People could say or want anything, not knowing it would have a real effect on the person they’d just pleasured. Anything could happen, even with small changes, especially if they built up and magnified (or clashed with) each other over the course of weeks and months of cum.

And the big one: the insider assholes in the game room had hinted that Holden was “blowing up” because he was tossing himself off so often. Until that moment in the hallway, Holden had been sure it was the other way around—his beautiful, insatiable dick and rampant horniness had been demanding his attention, and he’d been jerking (and, lately, self-sucking) himself to heart-pounding orgasms with embarrassing frequency. But what if the act of orgasm was what triggered the growth?

There was one way to test that, he thought. He would just… stop. He’d make a vow to himself he wouldn’t cum for a week and see what happened.

He was pretty sure the Holden in the mirror rolled his eyes even before he did. Still—if he could find the willpower—

Just then there was a quick rap at his door. Holden’s stomach fluttered. Had the other brothers come back to drag him to the party, shirtless, giant hard-on, and all? Or maybe it was Hank and Huan, now his biggest, most starry-eyed fans, looking engage in a little private two-on-one hero-worship.

When he opened the door, however, it turned out to be Jamie, looking all shoulders and lats in his loose tank top as usual, his expression flat. The ash-blond muscle god glanced down at his dick and then back up, raising his brows slightly.

Holden sighed and opened the door wider, letting him into his little room, knowing he wanted this, dreamed of it.

At least this time he’d make sure to get his hands on those lats. Any vows of abstention would have to wait.

Holden stared at the gleaming Land Rover Defender in the frat’s rear parking lot and balked. This was it. The long weekend of the mandatory “probie bonding retreat” was immediately before him. That meant three days in constant, enforced proximity with his fellow fraternity novices, Hank and Huan, who seemed to be vying for the title of horniest freshmen alive and whose shared attribute of unflagging over-exuberance mainly served to reinforce each other’s constant libidity. He knew the only thing that turned them on more than fondling each other was any chance at Holden’s increasingly manly chassis and, especially, his unstoppable, overgrown, unaccountably magnetic megawang. Usually, thanks to the narrow single room that he had by virtue of his legacy-recruit status, a sanctum he cherished more and more with every passing day in that testosterone-saturated house of cock and cum, Holden could keep himself safely isolated from the “twins” and their constant, grinning groping and grabbing; but this trip there would be no locked door to keep the boys off his incrementally improving proto-twunk-bod and the subject of their special fascination, his not-at-all-incrementally expanding monster tool.

The fact that only Holden out of the entire frat seemed to know about the curse—presumably excepting the two unknown officers he’d overheard talking about how they’d radically upped the stakes this year—didn’t matter at all. Only Holden knew it was weird for him to have a fat, stone-hard 19-inch boner that was easy to make cum but almost impossible to get down. Only he knew his junk was growing every time he came, just like all the junk in the house—his fellow probies included. Everyone was getting ridiculously endowed and increasingly obsessed with tactile stimulation and easy carnal pleasure, though Holden seemed to be racing ahead of the peloton when it came to size, girth, and the sheer volume of cum he was producing. (He snorted to himself, briefly imagining his mass of hard-bodied, horny frat brothers as shirtless, crazy-fit Tour de France cyclists, their giant, minutely bobbing super-hard erections relentlessly smearing their full, hard, hairy pecs with endless quantities of pre as they all sped together in a close, hormone-soaked pack of muscle and flying, fountaining cum through the idyllic French countryside.)

Anyway, it didn’t make any difference how weird things were or how much the weirdness was piling up like self-replicating treasure in that one Gringotts vault. Something about this powerful century-old curse the fraternity had carried for all these years masked the growth and all the abnormalities of size and behavior, even with its usually minor effects amplified to absurdity. People just didn’t care that it was weird for him to have a 19-inch dick… or that its sheer size demanded visibility and attention (hard or soft)… or that once stiff it took several orgasms to get it even half-soft… or even that it kept getting bigger. It was only 15 inches a month ago when he’d ended up putting on a crowd-pleasing yet still utterly mortifying cum-spitting strip spectacle in front of half the student body, the same night he’d made a vow of sexual abdication his willpower was far too weak to keep for more than a fucking day and a half, no matter how often he swore his dick would never explode with cum again.

It was maddeningly simple. Hank and Huan wanted to worship his dick not because it was bizarre or because it was growing; they just couldn’t get enough of his beautiful dick and the relentless pull of its raw, animal magnetism.

And he’d be sharing a room with them for three whole days.

Under his shirt his cock twitched, straining for his collarbone, and the familiar wave of need that accompanied this arm-sized flex of ball-churning cock-muscle felt almost like doom. Delicious, euphoric, insanely-prolonged doom, to be sure—but doom nonetheless.

Belatedly he registered again what he was looking at. The big gray SUV in front of him looked brand new, like it had just rolled off the lot, and in his current alarmed state it seemed almost like an apparition. This conveyance had come into being to intensify his troubles. How far was the cabin Dwight’s frat-alumnus uncle owned, again? Two hours? Two hours in the car with these two, and unless he did something now he was under no illusions as to the configuration that confinement would take: he’d be in the back seat between them, and with them having eyes—and hands—only for him, that spelled nothing but certain disaster.

He spotted Costas, hairier and more swole than ever in what had to be the largest size possible workout tee/lace-up short-shorts combo, exiting the frat’s back door with the “twins” behind him. Without a second thought Holden leapt around the front of the Range Rover, yelling out “Shotgun!” as he headed for the doors on the other side, the gym bag over his shoulder banging against his hip—only to be pulled up short as he reached the door and found the passenger seat occupied.

Anthony winked at him through the rolled-down window, his lengthening strawberry-blond hair almost glowing in the afternoon sun. His sculpted right arm lolled comfortably along the gap, drawing the eye to his firm, rounded shoulders and naturally impressive chest. Holden didn’t even know what those slow-swelling puppies looked like pressed into a shirt; Anthony had been wearing nothing but skimpy boxer-briefs in various colors for weeks now, and he’d been permanently shirtless even before that, from the moment Holden had first laid eyes on him and probably long before.

Costas huffed as he stomped toward the back to stow his bag, along with the other freshmen’s. “Only if you sit in Anthony’s lap,” he huffed, his inflection as usual giving no clue whether he intended any salacious subtext or not. Holden looked back at Anthony, who met his gaze and smiled genially. It was like, he was open to the idea, but not because he was a player or anything. He just thought it sounded fun and pleasant. Really, really pleasant.

Holden glanced down at the lap in question. Anthony’s other hand was busily stroking his enormous schlong through the fabric of briefs that barely contained its massive bulk as it curved around his hip. Anthony was almost always stroking himself—Holden figured at this point it was almost an autonomic function he performed without conscious thought, like blood flow or breathing.

Holden forced his gaze back up to Anthony’s sweet, friendly brown eyes. He felt himself heating up. It would be pleasant, sitting in Anthony’s lap, his thick hardon against his ass and his thick chest pressing into his back. He could almost feel it, the pleasure of Anthony’s body behind his, Anthony’s busy left hand leaving its usual charge to slide casually under Holden’s shirt to find the long, long shaft of his indomitable erection…

He spurted slightly, almost mini-cumming, and had to blink hard to force his vision back into focus. Anthony wasn’t looking at him anymore, he realized. Holden felt a hulking presence next to him. He turned his chin and saw that Costas was glowering at him, meaty hand outstretched.

“C’mon, Wyatt, gimme your junk,” he said.

Holden blinked. His dick twitched, stretching the little wet spot it had just made. Realizing a second too late what Costas meant he let out a breath that seemed very loud to him and pulled the gym bag he was using as weekend luggage off his shoulder, handing it wordlessly to the thickly muscled man.

Without willing it Holden’s eyes dropped to those shorty-short lace-ups. Costas had been sporting a cylindrical, tree-branch-thick, fat-headed footlong boner most of the time for a good month now. It was inconveniently immovable, visibly circumcised, and awkwardly positioned at a sharp 90-degree angle from his body so as to thrust directly out from his tiny kelly-green short-shorts, shoving dark and rude through criss-cross of white laces and standing out ahead of him like a wrist-thick divining rod, or some kind of heavy-duty trailer hitch. Costas absolutely ignored it at all times—how, Holden didn’t know, since he sure as heck couldn’t. Hank and Huan talked about it all the time, staring at it with wide eyes whenever the pledgemaster met with his three probies (always standing right in front of them, his flagpole-stiff protuberance inches away). Holden had overheard them in the hallways daring each other to just make a move and suck it down the next time they were confronted with such mouth-watering temptation, but they never got up the nerve and always ended up sucking each other instead. More and more often this took place during the meetings in question after everything to be discussed was gone over, right in front of Holden and Costas. Costas ignored that, too, but Holden’s willpower was, as always, a joke, and the other two knew it, watching him watch them as they made each other shoot right there in the couch room.

Fuck, he was staring. He tried jerking his eyes away, his raging, steel-hard erection twitching madly under his shirt like he’d just gotten a good, solid lick around the sweaty curve of his meatier-than-ever balls; but Costas was already turning away anyway, giving them his amazingly tight, compact muscle-ass to stare at instead. Holden ripped his eyes away at last and registered the others watching him. Of course, his horniness was only inflamed by Hank and Huan’s knowing grins and Anthony’s wide, innocently kissable smile.

Holden’s legs actually felt weak for a second. Fuck, how was he going to deal with the car trip, much less the long weekend?

He moved toward the other two. They were hard, and shirtless, too; both were buff rather than built, though Hank seemed to be seeing more gains in the physique department. The narrow, uncut erection protruding several inches from Huan’s waistband hinted at greater progress on that score than his similarly uncircumcised buddy, though Holden knew from observation both cocks were growing like weeds and were already twice the size they’d been the first time he’d seen them a couple months back. Both were a little taller, with Huan again gaining a tiny edge in this metric over his slightly fitter roommate.

This was crazy for them, too, he thought frantically. There had to be a way out for all three of them. “Listen, guys,” he said recklessly, “we gotta put a stop to all this. Don’t you see? It’s bending everything all out of control. The frat is growi—”

His throat closed up, just like before, and at the same time he felt his body start to seep a strong, intoxicating scent. In seconds the other two probies were breathing it in, their eyes dilating as their grins widened with a kind of drunken lust, their protruding, unnaturally long hardons flexing and spurting against their tight, precum-smeared lower abdomens. Holden shuddered in dismay at this turn of events. Fuck, he thought wildly. The curse—not only can’t I talk about it, I’m punished for trying. What did I do?! It’s like I dosed them with enough pheromones to make them practically fuck-zombies.

His mind raced. I can’t—I need to get out of here—

“You three, what are you waiting for?” Costas slammed the rear gate and glared at them. “Get in the back!” he barked as he moved around to the driver’s side of the Land Rover.

In seconds, so quickly Holden barely knew it was happening, Huan had pulled the back door open and bundled himself in, pulling Holden after him, while Hank pushed him in from behind. Then they were all cuddled together in the back seat, Holden in the middle, exactly as he’d known he would be, and the doors were all slamming shut, and Costas was starting the engine and pulling down the driveway.

Holden’s heart tattooed a warning against his chest, but it was too late. His long weekend of delirious torment had officially begun.

Hank and Huan were very good at groping. They were also very thorough. Holden slouched between them, butt forward to keep his cock from bending in half. He kept his hands fisted on his thighs and tried to power through it, though it was turning out that he himself wasn’t so immune to the effects of the pheromones he’d doused his seatmates with as he’d hoped.

His balls churned in his jeans, feeling heavier than ever, like his hairy, slowly thickening nuts were becoming more and more densely packed with cum-factory capability. His ridiculously huge cock pulsed rhythmically against his chest near the sternum, these days rigidly and unfailingly positioned at 11:30 whenever he was hard. A wet spot saturated with precum had developed near the tip, allowing the exact outline of his cockhead to be seen in the wet, navy-blue fabric of his otherwise loose tee shirt. The boys, of course, were not ignoring his cock, but for the moment they were treating it like the rest of him, and were giving it exactly the same attention with their slow-roving caresses as his arms, and chest, and abs, and thighs, and ass…

His ass? He was sitting down, why were they—?

“Why’d you bring your wallet?” Hank said as he slid his hand under his butt and found the thick bulk of his billfold. His voice was subtly slurred, as though Holden really had drugged them with his uncontrolled flood of sex-musk. “You’re not going to have to go to the store.”

“Or ride the bus,” Huan chipped in with a grin from the opposite side, where he was leaning his head on Holden’s shoulder and lazily stroking his taut, sparsely-haired forearm. His voice was similarly blurred with sudden, externally-induced carnal intoxication.

“Or get into the campus gym,” added Hank. Demonstrating once again the cleverness of his hands, Hank deftly slipped the wallet out of his back pocket before Holden could even object. “Aw, look at the driver’s license!” He showed Huan across Holden’s chest, as though he weren’t there.

“So cute in his charcoal hoodie,” Huan mumbled approvingly. “Why don’t you wear charcoal hoodies for us, Hole? Goes so well with your red hair.”

“Don’t call me that,” Holden growled. He was staring straight ahead, but that didn’t help too much as in front of him were, to the left, the doorframe-wide shoulders of their 6-foot-9, Bigfoot-proportioned pledgemaster, and, to the right, the regular motion of the constantly stroking, innately-muscled, strawberry-blond sun-god, Anthony. Holden sucked in a breath between his teeth and tried closing his eyes, but that only heightened his awareness of the very pleasant manual attention he was receiving pretty everywhere that was in reach.

Hank, seemingly still looking over his driver’s license, suddenly gasped. “Huanny,” he said excitedly, “guess whose birthday it is tomorrow?”

Holden’s eyes leapt open and his guts turned cold. With all of the other stresses of this trip he’d momentarily forgotten the one bit of information on his license he wouldn’t have wanted anyone in this car to know.

He looked between his close-snuggling seatmates in alarm. Though their backgrounds were very different, it didn’t surprise him that their horny brother-from-another-mother act extended to having almost exactly the same cartoonish “are you thinking what I’m thinking” face. It would have been adorable, if the shared, libido-soaked thought in question hadn’t involved him and his obsession-spurring dick.

Anthony turned and gave him a goofy smile over his beefy, sun-bronzed shoulder, not slowing his self-abuse even for a second. Now that they were alone, as it were, at some point he’d actually taken his dick out and was now stroking it outright, not as though he were building toward orgasm so much as he just literally couldn’t keep his hands off it. “Really? Happy b-day, bro!” he enthused. “How you going to celebrate?”

“Oh, we’ve got a surprise party all planned,” Huan said.

Anthony was no idiot, but he just chuckled and turned back to face the road, still grinnin’ and strokin’. Costas, hands gripping the wheel tightly, li’l fencepost dick just out of sight but strangely palpable nonetheless, said nothing.

Holden felt the wallet being set aside on the seat next to him, even as Hank and Huan started stroking his legs and torso in earnest, a bit more comprehensively than before. “So, you ready, Hole?” he said, stroking his thicker-than-they-were-before pecs and his tighter-than-they-were abs through his shirt. “Time for your birthday party. Here’s the cake—”

“The beefcake,” elaborated Huan unnecessarily with a wolfish grin from the other side, mirroring Hank’s moments.

“And here’s the candle to blow out!” Hank finished triumphantly, and in a single fluid move they yanked up the front of his tee shirt and slid it behind his monster wang, fully exposing his monumental, ludicrously huge, hard-half-the-time erection, its wet, red upper reaches practically radiating heat through the back of the car. Then they pulled open his jeans and hauled his taut, satsuma-sized nuts out into the open, completing his exposure.

More pheromones filled the dense air around them, making it impossible to resist the lure of what was about to happen. He was losing his ability to think straight, or at all. He was deeply, mindlessly turned on, far beyond any grip he could have hand on normality or control. Was this all him? It didn’t smell quite like him from before. Were the “twins” making their own inhibition-killing pheromones? Criminy, it would be just like them to use the cum-swallower’s moment of wish-power to give each other crazy sex-hormones, just to egg each other on even more when they were alone together.

Shit, the wish thing. He didn’t want—he shouldn’t let—

Even as his sex-soaked brain thought these words, Hank and Huan attacked, engulfing his thick, wide, uncut cocktower from both sides with their very practiced and extremely enthusiastic mouths.

Holden moaned. Distantly, as if from another universe, he felt Costas tense up and grumble, “Get a room, guys.” Maybe the pheromones were getting to him, too. Of course, it didn’t matter, because the room in question was exactly where they were heading. Hank and Huan didn’t even take their mouths off his junk to correct him. Anthony just laughed. In the shared, saturated air of the cabin his steady jerking, ahead and to the right, as obvious to Holden’s skittering senses as Costas’s untouched erection opposite him, and the long, weeping boners of the boys currently servicing him.

Then Huan’s mouth was swallowing his cockhead—literally swallowing, he could feel it pushing past Huan’s throat as tightly as though it were the muscle-ring of his unsullied ass, all while Hank wrapped his lips and tongue around his wide shaft and dove, driving his pleasure straight down his cock to his heft, tightening balls. With all the build-up it was too much, and before he knew it or could try to stop it the tingling was crackling up his spine, and then he was blowing his load, pumping shot after shot of white-hot cum into Huan’s eager throat. Holden moaned softly and uncontrollably as Huan gulped down his unnaturally copious climax while Hank escalated his pleasure almost beyond endurance. Hank and Huan were cumming, too, almost incidentally to Holden’s epic release. Huan, kept up with his tireless spurts and very nearly swallowed it all, though when Holden was finally done and fell back, allowing Huan to pull off his scarlet-red, still-rigid erection, the lower part of his face was amusingly smeared with plenty of thick, premium Holden-jizz.

Holden met his happy brown eyes a little blearily. “Was that okay?” Huan said, beaming at him like someone who knew exactly how good he was at blow-jobs. Holden wondered if he had acquired this expertise recently, or if it went back further.

Holden found himself smiling sloppily, soaring with climax and unbated aroused. “It was good,” he admitted. He couldn’t help adding, “Sorry there was so much.”

“No problem!” Huan said, and Hank, still licking Holden’s hard cum-slick balls, added, “Bet there’s more.”

Huan’s eyes were twinkling. “So, since I blew out the candle, I get a wish, right?” he said.

Holden gaped at him. He couldn’t know, right? It was just coincidence. Or fate fucking with him. “Uhhh…” he stalled.

Huan ignored him. “So, for my wish…” He consulted wordlessly with a grinning Hank, who’s finally finished lapping up his excess cum, then turned back to Holden. “I wish your cock were even harder and erecter and ready to cum all the time!”

“Fuck you,” Holden said, woozily. He knew the wishes were incremental and cumulative, not literal—Jamie had increased his cum output noticeably but not exponentially, for example. But Holden was now captive to their attentions, and if they kept making wishes like that he wouldn’t just be hard more often, he’d be hard twenty-four fucking seven. Probably he’d be too horny from that to even sleep, and would just have to keep making himself blow his load, all day and all night.

Or he could get help. He’d probably have to get help with that particular need…

He frowned at Huan, but he was so euphoric from his mega-orgasm and the pheromone intoxication, his cum-faced fellow pledge looked blurred around the edges. “Fuck you,” he said again, though he couldn’t put much force behind it.

He turned to Hank, as though looking for an ally, but Hank just broke into a massive grin and said, “My turn!” before taking a third of Holden’s prick into his talented, cock-worshipping mouth in one energetic plunge.

Holden grunted, flooded with a new wave of pleasure. “Fu-uu-uck,” he gasped, aiming his attention through the heavy air at the front seat, even as Huan did something surprising with his tongue on the side of Holden’s shaft. “Unh! Are we… unnnhhhh… there yet?”

Costas seemed put out for some reason, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled. “Not even close,” the Sasquatch gritted out. Anthony laughed.

Fuck, Holden thought. This is definitely going to be a long weekend.

The whole trip was like that. Hank and Huan fucking took turns “blowing out his candle” and making him cum, and it was by this means that Holden blearily conformed that his dick didn’t just take a lot of work to get soft once it was hard. Something about Jamie’s previous cum-taker’s wish that he came a lot more had boosted not only the quantity of his cum-production but the frequency with which he could do it. Not only did he barely have anything you could call a refractory period, but, as he had occasion to discover, the seventh colossal orgasm in this back-seat gang-suck was just as mind-breaking and just as insanely copious as the first. The boys did their best to swallow it all down, but there was just too much, and by the time they got anywhere near the isolated, forest-nestled cabin they were using for the newbies’ retreat all three of them were soaked and slathered with slick, intoxicating Holden-cum.

And of course with each blowing out of the birthday candle came a birthday wish, like Huan’s “harder and erecter and ready to cum all the time.” The fact that these wishes were hints rather than commands wasn’t comforting him much. The fact was he was already huge and prone to sudden, stubborn boners that produced abnormal amounts of smelly spunk was bad enough already, and the being hard and about to cum all the time he’d have gotten if the wishes were literal was not a lot worse than the small but significant boost to this slablike stiffness, his tendency to erections, and his ability to engage in consecutive climaxes that he’d absorbed from Huan’s gleeful suggestion.

And it kept going. As he lolled in soaring, crazy-horny incoherence, excitedly serviced by both young men at once with the two of them taking turns inducing euphoric floods of fountaining, high-pressure Holden-seed, the alarm at what was happening to him churned helplessly in a back corner of his brain, unable to engage with the warm, delirious goo that his conscious process had melted into. Moments drifted by him like driftwood in a raging rapids. The weirdest part was that while Hank kept trying for goofy and coming up with random, mostly orally-fixated birthday wishes for Holden—that Holden loved kissing and couldn’t get enough of it, that Holden’s tongue should grow extra-long and talented and made guys happy, that he gave the best blow-jobs in the whole frat—when it was his turn again Huan just grinned and said he wanted the same thing: what he wished for was for Holden to be “harder and erecter and ready to cum all the time.” The jarring fear that came with Huan’s relentless reinforcement of his erections and readiness to cum and, subtextually, his already near-ungovernable horniness crashing through him at exactly the same moment he was drowning in utter, all-consuming orgasmic elation was unlike anything he could imagine. The closest he could get was that it was like falling from a plane without a parachute—exhilarating and terrifying in almost exactly equal measure.

He was barely conscious and covered in wet cum when Hank pushed him toward a seventh orgasm, and he could tell he was finally reaching his limits only because the climax produced was almost painful, though no less copious in the amount of gushing spend Hank eagerly gulped down. Holden rolled his head on the upholstery, trying to ignore the pleasure-torture crushing his balls as dried his tank at last. He fixated on Hank’s bobbing Adam’s apple instead, watching it go up and down like a piston. Hank’s tanned neck was a little longer than Huan’s, and his laryngeal prominence seemed slightly more pronounced, like the collarbones below. He wondered woozily what Hank would look like stretched out a bit. Hff—maybe I’ll wish that on him a few times, he thought unsteadily. It was pretty clear to Holden what Hank was unconsciously angling for with all that talk of mouths and tongues, though the cheery west-Canadian nursing major still seemed pretty innocent even with a 19-inch dick in his mouth. Huan, on the other had—that kid was thirsty, and the light in his eyes said he loved being dirty when everyone thought he was pure as the driven snow. Hank and Huan were a perpetual motion machine of sex and giggling lust, but he was starting to think that Huan was the one that needed keeping an eye on.

His fragmented thoughts scattered as Hank finished literally sucking the last unpleasantly-pleasant shots of sperm he could possibly produce, and turned his semen-smeared grin toward the front of the speeding Land Rover. “Hey, pledgemaster!” he called, beaming from all the fun he and his best friend were having with their little game of driving Holden as far they could take him. “You should get a wish too! What do you want to wish for our birthday boy here!”

Fuck, Holden thought, he’d all but forgotten Costas and Anthony were even there—hell, he’d half lost track of the fact that they were in a car and that he was cumming his brains out on the fucking interstate, surrounded by truckers, commuters, and for all he knew SUVs packed with kids eager for a day at Six Flags Water World. As soon as he thought this, without warning or volition he started imagining Holden World instead, a vast man-loving playground packed with cum-slides… cum-flumes… cum-wave tanks… all being enjoyed by hordes of shirtless and naked college hunks of all sizes and colors reveling in the flows of his increasingly unstoppable and uncontrollable spunk…

He wanted to laugh. At least the guys at Holden World would be out in the open air, so the effects of his intensely arousing, mind-addling pheromones were mixed into the breeze and only a little affecting. Here, in the car, confined with Holden, Hank and Huan all producing intense sex-musk, that fencepost stiffie Costas was dealing with must have been driving him nuts. Anthony should have given him a helping hand, he thought with a frown. Or maybe not. It was bad to distract someone like that while they were at the wheel. Especially over and over. Plus, there were all these semis cruising past, and those cabs seemed like they were designed to look straight down into the lap of anyone driving a four-wheeler.

Costas grunted without looking back at Hank. “Don’t tempt me,” he cautioned. He made it sound a little like a joke, not too far out of the spirit of the game the “twins” were playing, but he sounded strained, and even to Holden’s unfocused eyes those massive, furry menhirs he called shoulders looked tense.

Hank only grinned wider, the ardent puppy demanding play. “C’mon, Costas,” he begged. “Please?” Huan added.

Costas met Holden’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, and Holden felt a flutter of anxiety at the glint in his brown eyes. “Fine,” Costas said, making it sound like he was levying a fine, not just agreeing to an action. “He’s so quiet in his room,” he went on, “so I’d wish him stronger, louder orgasms.”

Fuuck. That was the last thing Holden needed. Why had he wished that? Actually, he had an inkling about that. He’d heard Costas gripe about Holden’s secreting himself in his single room before and how he didn’t think first-years should be allowed to be so isolated and disconnected from the currents and collective energy of the frat—that was what frats were for, after all, he said. Was this Costas’s way of busting through Holden’s walls and making him more a part of the house? A presence to be heard and reacted to, even when he was alone? Or maybe he was just getting back at Holden for his punishment-pheromones making him so ridiculously turned on this whole time they were trapped in the car together.

Was Costas aware of the wishes, or was he just joking around, like Hank and Huan?

“Nice!” seconded Anthony, abruptly bringing himself to a chest-splashing orgasm of his own. I guess he likes the idea, Holden thought dimly—which was good, since he had the room next to Holden’s.

“Stronger, louder orgasms,” Hank repeated, grinning at Holden and Huan, half his face still smeared with a gutload of cum. “That’s a good wish! I confirm,” he added, as if the idea were being entered into the record. It might just be a fun road-game for them, an alternative to punch-bug or license-plate spotting, but they were still sticking to it pretty seriously. Fuck, Holden thought again. He was tired, sated, and not sure how fearful he should be of his increasingly bizarre future.

Costas looked back at them in the rear-view again. “You cubs might want to get cleaned up a bit,” he drawled. “We’re almost there, and our fivesome is about to become a sixsome.”

The cabin wasn’t what Holden had been expecting. In his stressed-out state the word “cabin” had conjured up all kinds of images of deep dark dead-of-night murder-woods, the kind with strange sounds and glowing eyes and barely-perceptible shadow-creatures sifting between the rough-barked trunks of old-growth monster-wood… a sketchy Unabomber lair built from hand-hewn logs and mortared with a weird, ichorous yellowy substance you didn’t want to know about… drifts of dead leaves and dried out peat strewn across the creaky steps and the worn-out porch, like no one had been there in years… tattered gray curtains rippling eerily in the darkened, dusty windows… in the living room, an iron-hinged trap-door leading to a cellar stacked with rusty saws and the bodies of lost campers wrapped in canvas and stacked neatly next to the sump.

This place was nothing like that. There was a forest nearby, but the place they would be staying was really more like a regular house, built on the verge where acres of wild, gently-rolling grasslands shifted more or less abruptly into an equally expansive stand of oaks and maples; out back, beyond a verdant, well-kept lawn the size of a small city park, was a quiet highland lake, making the place feel like a node-point whence intrepid visitors might embark on suitable adventure-quests in any direction. The manor itself was an old-fashioned framed house, two stories tall and decent-sized but not massive, like it had been hand-built for a large pioneer family. It was simple but well-made with tall, narrow floor-to-ceiling windows on the first and second stories and peaked attic. It had been painted recently enough that the gray hue was faded but still intact, and the dark-shingled roof looked completely intact.

Holden clambered out of the back of the car uneasily, his legs wobbly and his head light from two hours of nonstop cumming. He looked around him and gulped, momentarily forgetting himself and his cum-stink and his gradually beefening muscles and his ridiculous, stubbornly willful, barely-flagging-after-seven-incredible-orgasms monster wang as he slowly drank in the endless wilderness around him, overflowing every horizon.

Here was the resemblance to a horror movie, he thought shakily—the fact that there was no one around, at all. The nearest habitation, let alone town, was twenty minutes back down the road that had brought them here. All around him—apart from the house, the Land Rover, and themselves—there was no sign for as far as the eye could see that humanity even walked this earth. Armageddon could happen tomorrow, and they’d be living in blissful ignorance of the End, a gritty manhwa waiting to happen.

He snorted. He wondered what a place like this must be like to a city kid, like Huan. Holden was from the country, sure, and his family was farming stock, but… for Pete’s sake, he was still from a town where there were, you know, people. Otter’s Grove, you had a post office, streets, cars, the whole shebang. There was a Culver’s franchise and everything. There was noise—people noise. Some, anyway. This place… even for Holden, this place was the back of beyond. Isolated. A world removed from the order and structure of mundane, serial existence.

Anything could happen to him out here.

His heart twisted a little in his chest, as though a fist were gripping it lightly, testing its resilience. Anything would happen out here, he thought darkly. The last four months had taught him that. Whatever his situation, he knew two things: first, that it would only escalate, making his life even crazier and more inexplicable; and second, no matter what he did, no matter how he fought, he would have zero control over any of it.

It was like he was the universe’s fucktoy, and the riding was only getting started.

“Wyatt!” Costas barked from very close behind him, jolting him out of his thoughts.

Alarmed, he turned and stared up at the beast-man in charge of his new-member ass. Costas was staring at him with furnace-like intensity, but from what Holden knew of the man he didn’t seem actually angry, just… intense. Riled. Every one of his gauges was redzoning. Holden half expected to see cartoon steam seeping from his pores.

Holden realized the hard-boned Sasquatch was hefting a large double-bagged grocery sack just in time for Costas to brusquely shove it into his arms like he was flipping a medicine ball at him. He took the heavy grocery sack with an oof. “Go clean up and get your butt to the kitchen,” the larger man growled. “It’s your turn to shake and bake.”

Holden blinked at him, then glanced down into the bag. Sure enough, in the bag, stuffed in next to the family-sized packs of chilled supermarket boneless chicken breast, there were several boxes of Kraft Shake ‘n’ Bake extra-crunchy coating mix, ready to magically transform any ho-hum poultry night into a flavor sensation.

He glanced up, but Costas was already loading himself down with everyone’s bags from the back of the Land Rover, leaving the coolers and the rest of the supplies to Anthony and the “twins.” Slightly to Holden’s surprise, Anthony gave up his autonomic self-stroking long enough to grab the biggest cooler in his two meaty fists. Huan and Hank got the rest, sharing their customary grins and winks with Holden and each other.

“Shake and bake!” Huan said, tossing a smarmy look at Holden as he took two of the big paper sacks without effort. Whatever had been happening to them all, the increasingly buff Huan was already even stronger than he looked. Or maybe that was a constant for him—surprising strength in a misleadingly bantamweight package. What would he be like if he got as big as Anthony or Costas?

Hank nodded, like he was seconding the plan his roommate had put forward. “Shake… and… bake,” he agreed. Then the two of them were following Anthony’s blond locks, bare V-shaped back, and boxer-brief-clad butt across the lawn toward the front steps of their temporary weekend home far from anywhere, leaving Holden to trail anxiously after them.

“This,” Costas intoned portentously, his eyes closed as though in solemn communion with a century of pledgemasters before him, “is the first of three bonding rituals this weekend joining our newest members to the brotherhood of Phi Epsilon Lambda.”

Holden looked around him in confusion, his massive erection thrumming excitedly against his chest under a fresh, already damp tee shirt. He’d done as directed, stealing a quick shower in the little upstairs bathroom next to the big front bedchamber he’d be sharing with Hank and Huan, then come down and started the chicken cooking, helping the “twins” with the steamed broccoli and mashed potatoes lined up as side dishes. When the chicken was done, he’d pulled it out of the oven, stacked the crispy breasts in a large oval ceramic serving dish, and carried it out to the dining table, sure they were about to dig in. He was ready—the delicious smells making his mouth water and his rumbling stomach remind him rather pointedly of the appetite he’d worked up on the trip out here.

So he was more than a little nonplussed when Costas directed him to keep going, past the dining room and into a small, candlelit hexagonal anteroom beyond where Anthony and Dwight, the lanky, baggy jeans-wearing, seldom-speaking brother who lived down the hall from him and whose relative owned the cabin, already waited. The room had a domed ceiling with teardrop panels of what looked like stained glass, though only a hint of the reddish sunset was casting any light through them. Directly beneath it was a simple walnut pedestal, its surface maybe a foot and a half in diameter and three feet or so off the ground.

There was a single narrow window near where Anthony was standing. Perched upside-down on its deep sill, its position and obvious venerability marking it as significant in some way, was an old-fashioned black derby with a narrow band. It had clearly seen a lot of use, though it was still in remarkably good condition. Don’t tell me that’s the Frat’s Sorting Hat, Holden thought. Though, with this bunch it should probably be called the Spurting Hat.

Costas, who’d preceded him in after directing Hank and Huan to follow, took his position on the far side of the room next to Anthony, directly in front of the niche and its Hat. He then nodded at Holden to set the chicken on the pedestal.

Okay… he’d thought. He dutifully set the platter onto the pedestal, then stepped back, watching its steamy aroma fill the room as Hank and Huan filtered in to his left, Dwight standing tensely on his right.

The faces of his brothers did not tell him much. Hank and Huan, predictably, were confused but excited. Costas was stone-faced and solemn, Anthony chill and ready, Dwight… apprehensive.

Ritual of bonding? he wondered. What did a plate of baked chicken have to do with reinforcing the union of the frat’s membership? Not that being in this secret side-room star chamber wasn’t reinforcing something in him. He was in a close space with five very attractive men, all of them different but all enhanced by a fraternity-house curse that, for this year, had apparently been amped up from low-grade perks spread out over several months to ludicrously escalating upgrades that were already out of control before the year was half over. They were all hot and hard, their sweat and scents mingling with the herb-touched aroma of steaming meat in a way that was, on the whole, considerably more pleasant than Holden would have expected.

“Gather close,” Costas said.

Immediately the three older members shifted forward, tightening the circle, and he and the “twins” followed suit. They were shoulder to shoulder now, their delts rubbing together, moistened by pricks of sweat in the man-heated room. At the same time, Holden felt a long-fingered, wide-palmed hand on his right butt-cheek. Surprised, he looked up at Dwight, who wasn’t looking at him but had his eyes fixed on the chicken. Wait, was Dwight that much taller than him before?

From the other side Huan let out a tiny yelp as Costas gripped his ass, too, and looking around he saw that all of the older brothers were cupping the glutes of the people on either side of them.

Okay, this is a thing, Holden thought, bemused and more than a little turned on. Slowly, ready to be rebuffed, he reached over and grabbed Dwight’s left butt-cheek. Nice and meaty, he thought. No bony asses in this frat. Dwight did not object, his gaze straight ahead as if he were concentrating, so Holden went ahead and splayed his left hand across Hank’s extra-firm butt-cheek. Hank instantly reciprocated, making a little moan in the back of his throat he wasn’t sure anyone else heard when he made contact with Holden’s ass.

“This is the Coating,” Costas said, his eyes still closed like a Victorian mystic—one whose stock in trade involved the fondling of asses and a lot of hard dick, Holden thought. “The Coating allows us to share the seed of our brothers in fraternal communion.”

No way, Holden thought, almost saying it aloud. He looked at the steaming chicken. He looked at the circle of hot, aroused men. You gotta be—

“Whoever coats the meat last,” Costas continued, almost making Holden choke, “will pull a forfeit from the hat. That forfeit will be the second bonding ritual.”

Which will probably involve a lot of cum, Holden thought. Geez, it really is the Spurting—

“Grab waistbands,” Costas commanded suddenly.

At this instruction, Holden felt Dwight’s hand slide up from his buttcheek and grab hold of the waistband of his jeans. Startled, Holden did likewise, taking hold of the waistbands of Hank’s trousers and Dwight’s baggy jeans. He glanced up and saw Dwight giving him a quick, nervous look. Holden tensed his grips, guessing what was coming next.

“Remove pants,” Costas said.

As one they all yanked down, and everyone’s pants, or shorts, or (in Anthony’s case) boxer-briefs dropped to their ankles as though in a choreographed scene from a sex farce. Several erections sprang free, most of them familiar at this point, but Holden’s eyes were all on the man next to him and the cock he hadn’t even seen hints of before—the one who didn’t socialize much and kept to his room as much as possible…

“Jesus Christ, Dwight,” he blurted, staring bug-eyed at the still-soft knee-length anaconda, “what have you been doing in there?”

Dwight looked over at him, eyes wide, as though the implication of his words—that Dwight had been jerking off and cumming nonstop since school started, probably even while he studied and ate and maybe even while he slept—was completely out of left field. Of course, Holden knew that it was cumming that caused the growth, but no one else was supposed to know about the curse. Hell, he shouldn’t even be hinting—

Shit. He felt the tell-tale signs of his throat closing up, and he knew he was releasing pheromones, again. Fuck, that was going to be bad in this little room. C’mon, make it just a little bit, he begged the curse. I didn’t actually say anything…

As they watched, whether from his own arousal or Holden’s musk or both, Dwight lost his control and his enormous dick started to rise and thicken.

“Duuude…” Holden said.

Everyone else was watching, too, mesmerized. “It doesn’t, um, get that much bigger,” he admitted with an a typical shy-guy’s awkward half-smile at being noticed.

“Duuuuuuuude,” Anthony said, as awed as Holden had ever seen him.

Hank leaned in and joked, “Hey, can I switch places?”

Holden looked around the room full of sex gods, the air saturated with the scent of musk and cock and sex, his own emission of curse-penalty pheromones driving him and everyone else into intoxicating levels of need. He was giddy with arousal, his thoughts already clouding with lust. Didn’t Hank get it? he mused blearily. We’re all going to blow our loads, we’re all going to feel it together…

“Now,” Costas grated out. “Remember, the last to cum is the Forfeit!”

Dwight’s hand, the one that had been on his butt-cheek, now reached for the rigid chest-high erection trapped under Holden’s tee shirt. Hank immediately reached over to help, freeing Holden’s cannon, and the two of them began stroking in tandem, taking up a shared rhythm that made Holden moan loudly. Quickly he reached over for Hank’s cock with his left, and—geez, he couldn’t even get his hand three-quarters of the way around Dwight’s massive Saturn rocket dick. Still, he and Anthony got a cadence going, and then all six of them settled into a big mutual big-cock circle jerk with a single, steady rhythm, in, out, in, out, like the undulations of a manta ray on the sea bed. The pleasure of it gradually multiplied, all too soon edging past the point of control—

“Ahr! Aghr!” Costas barked through gritted teeth, already cumming hard from his 12-inch perma-hard pipe after only a minute or two of stimulation. The force of his orgasm seemed to fill the room like a shock wave, thrilling through Holden like some kind of sexual contact high. Costas was spraying his spend like a fire hydrant, coating not only the chicken but pelted Holden directly across from him like a sudden hailstorm.

Geez, dude, when was the last time you came? Holden thought, staring at the still-going eruption in wonder as they all continued their single stroking rhythm, Holden included. Don’t hold it in like that, man it’s not healthy. Now Holden thought he could guess why Costas was so keyed up lately.

“Aw, yeah,” Anthony cooed, letting go his own load. Unlike Costas, who seemed to have whited out with the intensity of his load, Anthony seemed to enjoy moving his massive wang around and painting the platter of chicken with the lines of his spunk. “Yeah, striped chicken,” he cheered, grinning at his co-creation. Then he shifted his aim started cumming onto Dwight’s phone-pole cock.

Holden felt Dwight’s mammoth tool stiffen under the spread of his palm and fingers. “Oh god, oh god,” Dwight gasped. “I’m—! I’m—!”

Then Dwight’s orgasm burst through him and he was cumming like a geyser, only his dick was so big the head was all the way past the chicken, so as Anthony and Holden worked him he was spraying his massive, high-intensity load all over Huan.

Huan instantly started cumming, Hank following half a second later. They aimed their cum at Dwight’s cock, but a lot of it missed and got the chicken after all.

Then Holden was looking at five red, panting, grinning faces, and he realized he’d been so caught up in the drama of the others’ orgasms he’d completely forgotten to cum himself. Somehow the chagrin of that pushed him over the edge, and he came like a teenage incubus, covering the meat he’d made with more jizz than he’d ever made in his life.

They stood there, chests heaving, riding out the orgasms they’d made with each other, for a long blissful moment. Then they all lowered their hands, the ceremony of shared release over. No one made a move to leave the little star chamber, though. Instead Costas turned, picked up the old-fashioned derby hat, and silently held it out to Holden.

Holden wanted to laugh—it was a little ridiculous, maybe, for the guy to be solemnly presenting him with the Spurting Hat when they were all standing there sweaty, panting, and covered in cum with their hard dicks out and, from the looks of things, generally ready for more. But the others were serious, too, and Holden remembered that this bonding must have meant something to the older members, and, yeah, it meant something to the three freshmen, too. Holden glanced at Hank and Huan, who were watching him avidly, Huan was still one-handedly wiping cum away from his eyes.

With a nod Holden reached into the hat and grabbed a piece of paper at random. As Costas resituated the hat in its alcove he pulled his hand back and unfolded the paper, only to gape at what it said.

“You have to read it aloud,” Dwight whispered helpfully.

Holden glanced at him, then cleared his throat and read the words typed in all caps on the quarter-page slip he’d retrieved. “My forfeit,” he read, trying to ignore the slight quaver in his voice, “is that over the next 24 hours I must be witnessed being made to cum—” There was a line typed there, like something was supposed to be filled in; but nothing was, so he continued, “—blank times, solely at the instigation of the first-years present (excepting myself if I am one), each release to be accomplished without any aid or succor from my own hands, mouth, or any other part of my body.”

Holden shot a wary look at Hank and Huan, and a chill ran up his spine at the eagerness of their expressions. Was this how the game had been played a hundred years ago? Had his father and grandfather been forfeited, made to helplessly climax at the behest of their fellow initiates, with their elder frat brethren as an attentive audience? “S-so,” Holden said, looking over at Costas, who now seemed much more relaxed, and Anthony, who looked like he might start floating a few inches off the ground any minute, “what goes in the, uh, blank?”

Please be something reasonable, he pleaded silently to whatever seminal gods watched over such rites as this. The tradition was what was important, right? And in past years the curse effect had been so much milder. The tradition could only be, what, two, or three… four, tops… right?

Costas turned his attention to the “twins,” his expression indulgent rather than stern for once. Holden’s guts twisted in alarm. No no no, be a hardass! It’s your natural state! Don’t let them get away with—

“The answer’s obvious,” Huan said, turning to Hank, who nodded.

They turned to Costas and said in unison, “Nineteen.”

“Wait—!” Holden started to say, but Costas actually looked up at him with a warm, fraternal smile, and he knew he was doomed.

“That’s right,” the big man said cheerfully. “Happy birthday, Wyatt.”

Then they all wished Holden happy birthday, slapping his shoulder or amiably stroking his still-hard, chest-tapping dick as they moved to exit the room at last, ending the ritual. Accepting his fate with a deep breath, Holden followed suit, hefting the sacrificial Shake ‘n’ Bake and bringing it back to the dining room for the communal meal. As they ate and enjoyed each other’s company, Holden learned something unexpected. Two things, actually. One, that these guys really did matter to him, even Hank and Huan; and, two, that striped chicken à la Phi wasn’t half-bad.

Holden accepted the inaugural post-dinner joint blow-job from Hank and Huan, the others cheering them on, as a foregone conclusion. He was a little surprised at his own unresisting acquiescence to a public sex act for the purpose of deliberately inducing an orgasm from him in front of the three other frat members. Barely a butterfly fluttered in his stomach as the two eager mouths pounced on his unremitting pillar of tongue-craving cockflesh, while grins and hoots and cheers erupted around the cozy frontier-style dinner table, every move watched by avid eyes.

The truth, he realized, was that cumming in front of the guys was no longer a new thing to him. Hell, he’d been blasting his load for all eyes to see since the strip show. Even before that, if he counted his not-so-clandestine wank in an abandoned basement classroom and the resulting viral video. Probably people were still sharing it and jerking off to it—some of them, potentially, in his own frat house. Lying in their beds, pulling the notorious (and famously hung) Wexler Wanker up on their phones, grabbing their own abnormally long puds and matching him stroke for stroke until they released together with a moan of sweet, gutteral pleasure.

Then again, cumming in front of the other frat brothers for real and not just on WankTube was not as unthinkable as it once was. For one thing, it kept happening, unpredictably but almost inevitably. There’d been at least two recent first-years’ meetings where Hank and Huan had been groping and stroking him so relentlessly while Costas talked about whatever that Holden had been unable to stop himself from nutting right there in the couch room; Costas, of course, had rigidly pretended to ignore their antics in the exact same way he acted as though his own cock weren’t jutting out in front of him at the time, as hard and immutable as an iron pipe. The duo had even stroked him to a sudden, frenzied release in front of an all-frat meeting not even a week ago. That time they’d been sitting in the back and Holden had quickly shoved his cockhead into his own mouth in desperation and hectically swallowed his copious spend as it smashed against his back palate in high-pressure waves, and they’d been quiet enough that he didn’t think too many people had noticed—though when he’d looked up he’d seen that Dave, who’d been speaking at the time about a proposed joint fundraiser with the Delta Sigs, was looking right at him with a knowing grin. Every night he dreamed about cumming, mostly repeats of that eerily perfect first blow-job from Jamie in different scenarios and venues, and in more and more of them it was with the frat brothers crowding around, watching, cheering him on, and stroking their own prodigious erections.

Even on the trip down, it was mostly the relentlessness of his fellow initiates’ tirelessly inducing orgasm after orgasm from him that had unnerved him—he’d barely thought twice about the fact that he was shooting his load over and over with Costas and Anthony right there with front row seats. Guys being around when you came was almost a thing. That night’s ritual, too. A few months ago he couldn’t have imagined being capable of willingly participating in a cum-spraying circle-jerk with five other hot ‘n’ horny guys; but honestly the mutual hand-job, their cock-pumping arms crossed over each other’s like their limbs were being woven together, was almost the least weird part of what had just happened in the little hexagonal sanctum.

He thought of Dwight, whose constant habitual meat-flogging in secret had produced a massive, ponderous-looking forearm-thick cock that hung past his knees even soft—and despite Dwight’s self-effacing claim to be a “show-er” had swollen to an enormous, tubular hard-on as big as the other five of them put together. Too big, Holden thought, even as he relished the memory of how it had felt under his hand... the yen to grasp it in both hands and devote all his attention to it… the thrill of the others cumming all over Dwight’s cock just because it was so big, it was like cumming onto someone’s back or across the surface of your bed… the way it had bucked like a rodeo bronco when Dwight suddenly couldn’t hold back anymore…

And now Holden was cumming more often than ever, being made to cum by the twins’ horniness and the fraternity rituals and his own escalating need. How big would he be just at the end of this trip? In a month? By the end of the school year?

Was that his fate? To be hugely big, impossibly big without any control over it? The whole time, his relentless growing, utterly insatiable cock becoming more and more of who he was, physically and even mentally?

The idea terrified him, and what scared him even more was that he wanted it. He wanted to feel a colossal cock between his hands. He wanted to cum with his entire body like the production of orgasms was the purpose of his existence and involved every fiber and cell of his being. He wanted to cum so much that everything around him was blasted with white, hot, gooey Holden-spunk.

Then all of a sudden he was riding the edge, close to cumming, and he remembered where he was—in the dining room at the frat retreat, getting blown by two guys at once in front of three hooting frat hunks. “Oh—oh god!” he shouted, then let out a loud moan. Fuck, was Costas’s wish for him to be more vocal when he came already affecting him? He pushed his fingers through the twins’ unruly hair and gasped. “Fuck—fuck yeah!!” he cried out. Then he was blasting an enormous load, as though he hadn’t spent eight or so times that afternoon alone. He looked down, his vision sparking with euphoria, to find Hank swallowing his load with gusto, throat working like a champ, while Huan licked up the excess running down Holden’s fat, sensitive shaft. Holden groaned, watching him, stroking their scalps as he came and came and the others clapped and cheered.

Finally it was over, and with a loud grunt Holden watched as Hank came up for air, beaming up at him with a cum-smeared face and red, blow-job-bruised lips.

“Nicely done, newbies,” Costas said to the fellating duo. Dwight said nothing, just licking his lips at the sight like he wanted a taste, the shape in his baggy jeans twitching.

“Remember to make a wish,” Anthony urged. Holden frowned at him, though he could barely think with the intensity of his euphoria. He looked down at Hank, who seemed a little orgasm-drunk himself—maybe he’d cum, too.

“I wish,” he said, slurring his words slightly, “that you loved cum-kisses more than any other kind of kissing.”

The others laughed, and Holden smiled, too. He knew the cum-drinker wishes were only incremental and didn’t cause immediate, dramatic change. Even so, it just so happened that right then cum-kisses with Hank sounded pretty nice. He bent and kissed Hank, who responded enthusiastically, and when Huan moved to join them he decided he didn’t mind sharing cum-kisses with him, either.

“That’s two!” Holden hummed sleepily as he lay on his back in the oversized country-still bed, basking in another orgasm. He stretched out his feet under the blankets, arching his feet like he might extend the pleasure all the way to the tips of his toes. “Only seventeen to go.”

The duo had been trying to see if they could make Holden cum just from mouthing and licking his balls and taint, with a few excursions to the very base of his dick, never rising up the shaft. The answer, of course, had been in the affirmative, though the temptation to put his own glans in his mouth and relieve himself of the delicious torture had been tough to resist. Then, at the very moment he almost succumbed, driven to the very edge by diabolical ball-tightening tongue-dancing at that spot just behind his balls that responded to licks and prodding more than any other part of him, Huan had slid his tongue like a rocket all the way up his shaft and engulfed the top of his wang-tower just as he was crashing through the floor of an epic orgasm, shooting crazy amounts of cum straight down Huan’s throat. Holden had thought his releases had to start flagging in power and intensity at some point, but if anything multiple orgasms was only making him cum longer and harder each time.

Now they were snuggling next to him on either side, heads on his chest as Holden’s nerves sizzled with warm, lingering, incandescent joy, and the duo seemingly just as happy. At Holden’s words, though, Hank lifted his to look at him. “Nuh-uh,” he objected smugly. “They have to be witnessed.”

“Oh, it was witnessed,” Holden said calmly. He pointed at the 6-inch-tall figurine of the smiling dog with the blue policeman’s hat and the button camera in his chest sitting not-so-innocently amidst the old-fashioned knickknacks on the wall-mounted shelf directly opposite the bed. “Say hi, guys!” he called, and from somewhere else in the house he heard a muffled cheer of delighted response. “Costas, dude, I made it loud just for you,” he added, and Holden could almost hear the muffled faraway laughter in response. More likely the others laughing at Costas, he thought, unless he’d had another nutbust of his own and devolved to a truly chill state—for now, until this hypertestosterone mega-arousal stress of his started riling him up again. Which would probably be, like, in an hour.

“Aw,” Huan said, frowning at the cute spycam canine. “I wondered why there was a Paw Patrol dog in there with all the ceramic horses and fake potted plants.”

“Oh! You didn’t get your wish,” Hank prompted.

“He knows my wish,” Huan said with a wicked smile, settling his head back onto Holden’s firm pecs and rubbing his fingers over his damp, spunk smeared abs. Together the three of them recited, “I wish your cock were even harder and erecter and ready to cum all the time!”

Holden snorted. “So, lemme get this straight,” he teased. “You guys were planning to make me cum even when it didn’t count, huh? You wanted to steal my spunk, is that it?”

“We just wanted some that was just for us!” Hank said with a grin.

“Uh huh,” Holden said. Impossibly he was still feeling horny, turned on by these two hot young cockhounds who were so obsessed with him and his abnormally-huge wang. He decided to do something about it. “I think,” he said, “that this requires that you both be punished.”

He was not at all surprised to see their eyes glinting, and he knew whatever he did to them would be visited onto him sevenfold. Let me have this one, he thought. His fate was out of control. His cock was going to swell and swell until no one could ignore it. He had no escape. But he could shoot back sometimes, right?

“Get up,” he said. “On your knees, facing each other.”

The “twins” did as commanded, smirking the whole time, and Holden moved to kneel next to them, noticing with amusement that they’d positioned themselves at just the right angle for the camera. The duo’s cocks were hard and lined up next to each other, pressing against their lower abs. The tips were moist, and the two were already rutting very slightly, eager for friction and the pleasure that came with it.

He looked up at them. “I’m going to suck your cocks together while you two make out,” he said. “Understand? You have to kiss the whole time.”

“We promise,” they said mischievously.

“You should get to ‘blow out a candle,’ too,” Hank added.

And make a birthday wish, Holden thought, and he bent and took the two long cocks into his mouth. They felt really good, a real mouthful, but somehow hotter than just one dick—though the dick he knew best by taste was his own. He started his fellatio in earnest, knowing exactly what would please them, while the moans and smacks of enthusiastic snogging started up over his head.

He knew what his cum-drinker’s wish would be—that Hank and Huan would want to make each other cum as much as possible. Maybe, just maybe, increasing their infatuation with each other would step down their obsession with Holden and his beautiful, enormous dick, especially if he could reinforce it by drinking their cum a few more times. It was a forlorn hope, maybe, but as he pushed down onto the duo’s long cocks, taking the heads into his throat with the ease of a talented self-sucker with an abnormally big dick, he thought he might as well give it a shot.

The sun shone directly through the bedroom window the next morning, and Holden, conditioned from years of living on the farm to respond to sunrise as the start of the day, woke from a very, very deep sleep. He blinked a few times, enjoying the fall of clear, rosy dawnlight over a body that was a few notches up from what he was used to. Long, firm legs, square shoulders, actual pecs, and rippling abs—across the latter of which his ridiculous anaconda was curled up and snoozing, finally tuckered out after five successive orgasms the night before, each a little more copious and prolonged than the last.

Sidled in close on either side were his two fellow newbies, Hank the savvy Canadian and Huan from Anaheim, middle name “excited to be alive,” as ready to dive feet-first into anything as his inseparable, equally horny roomie-slash-fuckmate. The duo were completely zonked, as done in as the cock they’d doggedly and athletically milked, by way of various cunning and occasionally ingenious techniques, more times that night than Holden would have thought physically possible. Holden chuckled. “Get your beauty rest, boys,” he said softly, not wanting to wake them as they slept, their heads laying on his chest so that their gentle rasp-snores seemed to vibrate subtly through his chest like man-sex pixie-dust. “We’re only up to six out of 19,” he cooed. “You got your work cut out for you.”

The boys slept on, and Holden smiled. He decided he needed to pee. so he carefully extricated himself from between his two bedpartners and got to his feet. He was a little alarmed by the pull of his incredibly heavy cock as it fell from its little belly-bed and dropped suddenly to its full length. Normally his dick was already hard when he got up, so he wasn’t used to the sensation; but he decided his groin muscles were up to it and padded across the room to the tiny ensuite to relieve himself. Really, he thought as he peed, a little amused, it would be a shitty curse that gave guys gigantic cocks only to have them fall off because their gonad muscles couldn’t handle it.

Once he was done he washed his hands and, feeling a little hungry, he found his gray boxer-briefs from yesterday and pulled them on so he could go downstairs, struggling a little to drag them up over his heftier balls and his massive cock. The weight and size of his junk sagged the front of the waistband way down, exposing the wide root of his dick, but he didn’t see the point of getting any more dressed just yet. He headed out, leaving his boys snoozing contentedly under a blanket of early morning sunlight.

Anthony was alone in the kitchen, seated at the breakfast nook in one of the chairs in a pair of brick-red boxer briefs and, of course, nothing else. “Holden!” the hunky blond greeted him, lifting a steaming teal coffee mug in a toast. “Great show last night.” He took a sip, eyeing Holden up and down in simple, honest appreciation. This was what he liked about Anthony—he was good-hearted and completely transparent. What you saw was what you got.

“Uh, thanks,” Holden said. “I was glad you guys could be a part of my next-level hazing.”

Anthony winked, as if he could tell that Holden kind of meant it. Well, he was supposed to bond with the whole group, right? The larger man set down his mug and gestured toward himself. “C’mon, give me a hug.”

Feeling a little blissed out from more orgasms than he could easily keep track of, Holden complied, climbing onto Anthony’s lap so that his emerging pecs were brushing against Anthony’s naturally heavy ones. Holden felt his cock twitch, enjoying the contact and the proximity and Anthony’s warm gusts of breath over his neck and collarbone. Anthony’s face was handsome and open, his brown eyes welcoming.

“You like to kiss, Holden?” Anthony asked.

Why did people keep asking him that? “Uh, sure.”

Anthony smiled, and Holden felt a gentle pressure on his nape. Holden lowered his mouth onto Anthony’s, and they made out for a while, slow and sweet, Holden’s tongue lazily stretching and curving around Anthony’s.

As they kissed Holden realized he was getting hard, but before he could do anything about it he felt Anthony’s practiced hand sliding into his shorts and helping his oversized organ free itself, guiding it to the vertical as it swelled and stiffened. By the time their kiss ended, Anthony was slowly stroking Holden’s chest-high, steel-hard monster the same way he normally caressed his own.

“Good morning,” Anthony said, his eyes smiling.

“Is that how you say ‘good morning’?” he teased. Holden let himself card his fingers through Anthony’s long, strawberry-blond hair, and Anthony arched his neck slightly toward him, like he wanted to be petted.

“It’s how we say good morning,” Anthony said, their mouths close. The idea that Anthony meant this as something intimate and personal just between them filled him with a strange affection for the genial, naturally brawny goof. The larger man was still casually stroking Holden’s erection, and it was not the kind of stroke intended to get him off. If anything it was the opposite, a constant, steady flow of pleasure. Holden gazed down at his frat brother with new respect for his self-groping routine.

“Well, then,” Holden murmured, “good morning back.” He lowered his lips to Anthony’s again, kissing away Anthony’s easy smile.

“Good morning to you, too,” Costas said loudly, thumping into the kitchen like an gorilla. “Anthony, you make coffee just for yourself, or can we all drink your java?”

Holden broke their kiss with a smile. “There’s a one-cup, remember?” Anthony called to Costas.

“Oh yeah.”

Anthony winked at Holden. Not a morning person, he mouthed. Holden smiled and considered getting up to fetch some java of his own, but Anthony’s slow, no-endgame caresses felt really good and he wasn’t especially inclined to be anywhere else just then. Instead he reached over to grab Anthony’s mug and took a swig from that. It was black, which surprised him, but good.

“Cheeky,” Anthony said.

More noises came from the main part of the kitchen as Costas shoved things around in the cupboard. Startlingly, Costas was completely naked, as if that were a normal thing to be first thing in the morning—though, with all the cock talk and shared orgasms he didn’t know why he was surprised; certainly the thick twelve-inch pipe he had thrusting from his groin 24/7 these days wasn’t any more exposed than when he was wearing those tiny lace-up shorts of his.

Dwight was also present, blinking owlishly in the doorway, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he should enter the room. He was topless, revealing an unexpectedly mouthwatering gymnast’s physique; below were long stripey pajama bottoms, which, though very baggy, did not at all hide the presence of the knee-kissing megawang filling out part of his left pajama leg.

Holden chuckled. “You guys gotta give me some big dick advice,” he said without thinking, as Costas sat down across from them with his own mug of joe, Dwight taking the seat next to him, by the window looking out toward the lake and the sunrise.

Anthony seemed amused by this, but Dwight gave him a confused look. Costas snorted, gesturing with his mug toward the cockpillar Anthony was administering steady gratification to. “Yours is bigger than mine,” he growled. “You should give us advice. You musta poked your eye out a few times when you hit puberty.”

Shit, Holden thought, I forgot. I’m the only one the perception filter is broken for. These guys think we were all huge going all the way back. Probably the details are fuzzy, but…

“I did’t have any brothers,” Holden explained, “and pretty socially inept. No one’s seen this monster but you guys.” That part was true enough, at least, he thought with a tiny smirk. He wiggled his butt slightly, enjoying the feel of Anthony’s stone-hard prick rubbing against his balls and groin. He looked around at his three older brethren. “C’mon, tell me some stories about growing up with a big dick.”

And they did. Anthony talked about his first time jerking himself off, which he still remembered because of how perfectly his erection fit into his hand; and about swim team, and how he kept slipping out of his Speedo, and the guys just let him swim naked whenever it was just them. Costas, only a little reluctant, told a very innuendo-laced story about one time he’d been dozing on the couch under a blanket and his aunt had stopped by and chastised him for “the hamster” being out and for him letting it sleep on his lap and suffocate under the blanket, only Costas hadn’t had a hamster for about eight years at that point. Though he was a little red-faced, even Dwight joined in, admitting that he’d rushed Phi Epsilon Lambda mainly because he’d noticed all the pics on the college-sponsored frat website somehow suggested to him that everyone had a bigger-than-average package—something Holden hadn’t noticed, at least consciously, though it was certainly made clear in the wall of photos he’s seen in the office downstairs. “I, uh, guess I wanted some big-dick brothers,” he said, smiling shyly at Costas, Anthony, and Holden. Holden was strangely touched to be included.

“That you did,” Holden said.

“What about you?” Anthony prodded. “Any scandalous stories about this thing?”

He looked down, watching Anthony lazily stroke for a few seconds. His cock looked unstoppably hard and ridiculously huge—maybe huger, in fact. Was he already bigger from all of these stacked-up, high-intensity orgasms? Fuck, he’d measured it at 19 inches only last week, and it had definitely nudged past that. He had to stop cumming so much. Maybe Huan’s “harder and erecter” wishes were gaining traction, too—the thing sure looked harder and erecter, standing straight and tall like a proud monument to masculine arousal.

“Scandalous, huh?” he repeated, then looked around at the others. They were all watching him with affection and camaraderie—true big cock brothers, just like Dwight had said. This frat was growing his dick (and his muscles and his balls) without his permission and turning him into a freak. He had no control and his lust and need to cum and grow was only going to get worse. But right now, he had big dick brothers, and that was a hell of a silver lining.

“Well,” he said, “don’t tell Hank and Huan, but you know I’m the Wexler Wanker, right?”

He had a second to enjoy the other’s astonished expressions before a loud “No way!!” erupted behind him. Sure enough, the duo in question were at the doorway, cocks hard and pointing up out of their briefs, looking like he’d just announced it was Christmas and everyone was getting giant dildos. They rushed over to grab seats at the table, demanding details, and so Holden was forced to tell his crowd of aroused, sexy-as-fuck, hard-cocked friends gathered around the kitchen table (like that was a normal thing) the very embarrassing story of how he had ended up trapped and needing to cum in one of the busiest buildings in the whole college. All the while Anthony slowly stroked his insatiable 20-inch cock in a way that was as oddly steadying as it was pleasurable, and as they talked and laughed the weirdness of his cock-stroking, cum-spraying, boners-at-breakfast life seemed to settle into something he could almost get used to—not that things would stay that way for very long.

Of course, his immediate future involved being made to cum 13 more times today, probably subjecting him to curse wishes that would twist his life more and more out of any kind of recognition, so maybe “normal” was something that he might as well admit had left the universe for good.

Holden descended the narrow metal stairs of the Amtrak train onto the gravel siding that bordered on nothing but endless acres of farmland, his grandfather’s battered old plaid-sided suitcase gripped in one hand, bracing himself for the inevitable flash-freeze his partially-exposed two-foot, chin-high, iron-hard erection would get from the unforgiving icy winds that whipped the endless cinéma-vérité south-central Wisconsin prairie under the wispy, fast-driven early morning clouds like they owned it straight-on from October all the way through to winter’s reluctant retreat sometime in the dregs of April.

He’d worried about somehow covering up the expanse of his naked monolith that erupted from his pea coat to fend off the cold—like, with one of those furry 19th-century things you could stuff both hands in. Or maybe a little coat? It was getting big enough, he’d thought with a smirk. They didn’t exactly sell long, nice-’n’-cozy insulated cockmuffs on Amazon, though, at least, not in his size. He did have a soft, thick, hand-knitted every-color wool scarf he could have twirled around it. But, for Pete’s sake, his mom had made that scarf for him, back before sweet, tiny Patricia Wyatt had run off to Saskatchewan with “Aunt Suzie” when Holden was a mere stripling of 12 years old, and the bottom line was he really didn’t want his only real maternal keepsake to be soaked in cum. Anyway, he’d needed that scarf for his actual neck, thank you very much.

But, amazingly, it turned out that the beast barely registered the cold. A chill breeze blew by even as the train idled and chuffed restlessly behind him, and—nothin’. If anything, his mammoth tool’s impressive outthrow of radiant heat was making Holden’s wooly/downy Northwest-Territory-ready layers slightly redundant. Heck, he could probably walk around the place shirtless for the whole of Christmas break… if he were willing to hug his warm, upright Yule log of a cock the whole time.

Fuck. How was he actually back home, like this, his beautiful, warm, ridiculously colossal boner emerging from his coat, as unmissable and brutally exposed as a not-so-miniature Washington Monument? It was just like the frat to goad him into more and more exhibitionist “public service” scenarios—except this wasn’t even Phi Ep sending him home. All university buildings had had to close over the winter break for a belated, school-wide, all-in-one-go asbestos abatement, and fraternity and sorority houses were included in the ban. He’d had to come home.

Even so, Holden had balked. Ever since the strip show he’d known he could count on the “perception filter” that hid the weirdness of his and his frat brothers’ increasingly anomalous wangs and wang-related behavior. He’d almost gotten used to warily walking around campus with a fist-sized, persistently leaky cock-head rubbing along his right jaw (he had never been so glad for the eleven-o’clock angle his raging hard-ons always assumed, or he’d have his warm, tempting, almost-too-girthy glans literally in his mouth every time he got hard), barely getting a reaction beyond the smiles and winks any guy as buff as he was these days got from a school full of horny undergrads looking for eye candy and the occasional shot at a bit of hands-on entertainment.

But hurrying between Wexler and Merkel with a big, exposed, desperately throbbing dick and routinely getting away with it, or shamelessly sitting in class feeling the back of your tee shirt getting wet from the steady drip of precum over your shoulder while no one else even batted an eye, was… well, it was completely and utterly different from planting your Men’s Classic Timberlands in the copious white gravel alongside the seldom-used Otter’s Grove not-even-an-actual-station flag stop and helplessly exposing yourself to—

“Dad!” Holden said, swallowing with what, in a cartoon, would have been an audible gulp.

Holden’s dad, rusty-haired and pasty like Holden but otherwise a wholly different kind of male specimen, slammed the door of his midnight-blue heavy-duty pickup and waved, a grin splitting his handsome bearded face. Wait—handsome? He’d never thought of his he-man father as being particularly attractive (or not) before, but suddenly his pulse was kicking up and his heavy balls were tightening, and his whole body seemed to be sending a single message: Get some.

Okay, now he was shivering, and not from the cold.

In that strained moment it wasn’t lost on Holden that one hidden part of him was heating up even more than the blood filling his dick. His left shoulder blade now sported something Holden never thought he would possess: a tattoo, one last relic of the wilderness retreat a month earlier. It had been the third of the promised triad of newbie bonding exercises, left for the last night of the retreat, and the one that meant the most to everyone assembled: getting inked represented nothing less than the traditional rite of full acceptance into the frat, formally binding him, Hank, and Huan to their brothers and to the house they belonged to, both physical and metaphorical. All of the Phi Eps had them, apparently going back to the founding in 1874.

The ceremony had been somber at first, Costas deadly serious as he did the honors with a portable tattoo gun in the silence of the now-empty hexagonal chamber. Then he had just as solemnly pointed his rock-hard tree-trunk dick at the newly embedded ink and, with a grunt, deftly sprayed his cum all over the mark and the inflamed skin around it. Holden had startled at the warm spattering impact on the oversensitized skin, instinctively wanting to leap up out of the chair in surprise; but Costas had held him down with a smile as Anthony took his turn, then Dwight, thus properly initiating him into rolls of the Phi Ep brotherhood.

This whole time, Holden had been wondering if the tattoo was linked to the fraternity’s insidious growth curse in any way. The older members acted like it was just a symbol they all shared in simple, unifying camaraderie, and if it went back to the beginning it had to be older than the curse. But—come on, something that tied all the current brothers together… something physical that the cursed house could latch onto… something infused into the very skin of every man afflicted with the relentless, unforgiving spells tied to mindless cum and growth… there had to be a connection.

The design of the tat itself seemed to be a clue. It was just the capital version of the Greek letter phi, as you’d expect, except that whereas in most renditions of that ancient letter-form the vertical crossbar extended well beyond the circle in both directions, whether ending in a serif or not, the inked version that he’d gotten and that the brothers all shared was a circle with a vertical line contained entirely within itself, as if the mark had been deliberately styled to resemble a cockhead with a long, lickable slit staring right at you, ready and waiting. It might just be an in-joke, but Holden couldn’t help thinking there was more to it than sophomoric dick humor.

No, from the start Holden was convinced the tattoo could not be unconnected with the dark magic of the house. Either it would worsen the elements of the curse he already knew about, getting him in even deeper trouble every time he came; or else it would complete the curse in some way, adding some new element that had been missing, withheld until he was a full member of the frat.

He’d started to suspect the latter scenario during the weeks after the retreat. As he’d gone to class and met up with his final-exam study groups, he couldn’t help noticing that he wasn’t just getting interested looks from the hot guys he shared courses with—for the first time he’d urgently wanted to do something about it. Everything was the same at the frat—there was lots of cumming, lots of casual caresses, lots of very erect monster tools. His adorable cock-stalkers, Hank and Huan, kept showing up in his room to help him with his never-ending problem, whether he wanted them to or not; and Jamie sometimes knocked on the door in the middle of the night, initiating the kind of intense blowjobs he only got from his most-intense, steel-eyed brother, his first from within the frat and still the subject of regular, extremely erotic wet dreams.

But now, added to the ongoing carnality of the frat, Holden had suddenly found himself filled with a desire to seduce handsome outsiders—and, worse, a sense that he was fully capable of doing exactly that. A look, a word, and he could draw anyone to him; and the need to do so was unsettling and irresistible, like a vampire’s craving for warm, fresh blood from the neck of a writhing, desperate Adonis. It might have been a mild thing in previous years, a bit of an advantage in flirting or whatever, but with the curse ridiculously amplified this year he could feel its strength, like it had been elevated to a seduction superpower.

He’d tried fending it off, but then one Thursday a week before exams he’d left the library by the quad entrance and literally plowed straight into Myka, the clean-cut, dark-haired, smirk-dimpled, totally straight slim-and-lanky pre-med from his bio class he’d been spending way too much time noticing ever since the retreat. They froze, chest to chest, lightly squeezing Holden’s hardon between them. Cerulean eyes locked with his, Myka’s scent wafted through his nostrils, and suddenly Holden had no control.

He tried to fight it. He told himself the quad was full of people, that just the two of them colliding like a meet cute had already attracted attention; but his tattoo was hot against his skin and his blood was racing with the need to take, to dominate. He drove his gaze hard into Myka’s, watching the pupils dilate. No, no, no—he thought, watching but impotent, unable to overcome his own power.

“I’ve been noticing you,” Myka rasped, so soft it was almost inaudible. But Holden heard him, the words thrilling through this new part of his curse. No, fuck. Fuck. The need to complete the seduction was almost unbearable.

“Because you want me,” Holden heard himself say, his mouth dry. Walk away, walk away… His towering cock throbbed like a beacon, nuzzling roughly against Holden’s jaw as it jumped and wept with urgent need.

Myka’s gaze flicked to the exposed cockhead. “There’s something about you,” he whispered, his raw longing laid bare in his voice. His hands snaked around Holden’s magic-hardened torso as if of their own volition. “I’ve never felt like this—”

Holden was gone, totally lost. The storm was tearing through him. Reason and restraint were ripped apart like a Spanish galleon in a hurricane, leaving nothing but ragged flotsam behind. Orgasm rose in him, ready to burst forth in the next few seconds, an ocean of pleasure barely held back by the need to have Myka be the one to burst the dam. “Look at me,” he commanded, and Myka did so, eyes dark, breath shallow, a faint smile of anticipation curving thick, kissable lips. He held Myka’s stare, capturing all of his attention. Jitters turned his stomach, and those shreds of reason tried to object, but the heat of his blood and cock and the burning of his tattoo stream-rolled over every consideration.

He stared deep into Myka’s eyes. His heart pounded in sync with his quivering, raging-hot erection. “Mouth.” Myka blinked. “On.” A tongue-tip, sliding along those sweet lips. “Cock.”

“Yeah?” Myka breathed, hopeful and needy.

Holden was so turned on he was already riding the edge. “Hurry!” he growled.

Myka lunged, fully in compliance, and before he could brace himself his universe became the warm, eager heat of Myka’s mouth, the slide of his tongue under his foreskin, and the soft barrier of his throat. He panted, unable to hold back loud moans. He found himself wishing he could kiss Myka while he did this. Fuck, I need to seduce two guys at once next time, he thought, fully engrossed. He knew the idea would upset him later, but in this moment it gave him an extra kick of pleasure.

Myka twisted his lips around his cockhead one way while his tongue went the other. Fuck, he’s a straight-boy natural, he thought, and then the orgasm pounded toward him like a battalion of wild horses, and he succumbed, jetting hard into Myka’s wide mouth. At first he tried to take it all, swallowing everything he could, but these days Holden was geysering way too much cum for any one man to swallow. He pulled off, letting the hot spunk spatter across his face, and then when it was over he grinned, cum-faced and with his shirt soaked in jizz, like he’d just ridden a log flume at a Holden-spunk water park. Holden couldn’t resist. He knew the craving for “cummy kisses” had been conditioned into him by repeated curse-wishes, but it didn’t make it any less real when he had to kiss Hank and Huan after they blew him and it didn’t make it any less real now. He fused his mouth to Myka’s, hungrily tasting himself as he whimpered in his throat. They kissed messily for a long moment before Holden finally broke free, still embracing, having transferred a good deal of his spunk to his own lips and face. He listened to himself as he breathed loudly, looking over the grinning Myka.

He looked different, subtly but significantly. His shirt… actually looked tighter than before? The wet fabric was now straining a bit over thin, square pecs he hadn’t thought his classmate had sported before. And even under the cum Myka’s face was suddenly stubbly and weirdly looked a whole notch cuter, the cerulean eyes glinting a bit more under dark, messy, slightly cummy hair that had to be a good inch or two longer than it had been. It was like in the space of a heartbeat the Holden-cum Myka had swallowed had spread like a virus through every cell of his conquest, randomly improving things here and there along the way. Was he seeing things, or—?

Then, as if a bubble of isolation had suddenly dissipated Holden heard the applause and cheers, and it all came back to him. He and Myka were hugging close, but he disengaged and stepped back in horror. I just seduced this straight boy into blowing me in public, in front of a dozen strangers, he thought. He felt totally mortified as he looked around the knots of hooting spectators, his skin heating for a whole new reason. No, wait, not all strangers—the beefy ex-catalog-model type leaning against the pillar and whistling his approval was his anthro prof, Dr. Killeen. Because, of course he was. His smoldering stare said he was strongly considering reserving the next spot in line. The gleeful cheers and applause continued, the accolades seeming to wrap around them like a round frame for this moment, forever enshrining this new and horrifying expansion of his ongoing giant-cocked humiliation.

Unnerved, Holden jerked his gaze back to Myka, who was leering at him as he wiped the cum from his mouth with the back of his hand. His infatuated observation was so intense that Holden took another step back, his shoulders colliding with the glass doors of the library behind him. “I, uh… gotta go,” he stammered, hurriedly using his own hand to swipe his mouth more or less clean.

Myka winked at him—fucking winked. “See you in class, Wyatt,” he smirked, holding his gaze as the cheers died down and the crowd started to move—some of them toward him.

Holden fled.

After that, he’d tried to understand the new part of the curse his tattoo had exposed him to. Knowledge was power, right? Not that it had helped him much so far, but still. He watched the others outside of class, and found them doing what he had done without seeming to even notice they were doing it—drawing the lusty stares of classmates and professors, randomly focusing their attention on particular targets who eagerly responded with ravenous kisses, hand-jobs, blow-jobs, all of it completely public and totally unremarkable, it seemed, to all participants and audiences. He watched Anthony corner his boyish, thirty-something calc prof in the grove behind the cafeteria. Not for better grades—Anthony was a math whiz, however improbable that had seemed to Holden when he’d first met the easy-going nudist, and was acing calc already—but because the prof had a nice smile. And, afterwards, Holden could see that he now had an even nicer smile, slightly broader shoulders, and a very fine butt straining his Levis, not that Anthony seemed to even notice the change, or how strange it was they could all seduce outsiders with a look and a sexy smile.

It didn’t seem to work on other frat brothers. Just to be sure, Holden had tried it on Jamie, attempting to use his tattoo-power to compel his nuclear-powered floor-mate to kiss him without sucking him during one recent secretive visit in the still hours after midnight; but the tattoo never responded, failing to heat the way it had for Myka (and later for Ben and Howie, Myka’s best friends, but that was another story), and Holden had ended up with the fiercest, most thorough fellating any guy with a two-foot cock had ever received. (Jamie really was the best at angry blow-jobs, and Holden, increasingly intrigued by the man, found himself wondering more and more what made him tick.) The only other thing he’d found out was that the indemnification, and maybe the seduction power of the tat itself, seemed limited to active members—at least, if Anthony’s cute-butted calc prof, Jorge, was anything to go by. Holden had recognized him from the walls of the photo room and knew he was an alumnus—and so, it seemed, no longer exempt.

Holden walked around in a daze. Was that why this school seemed to have a higher stud ratio than he’d expected when he’d first come here, a small-town rube coming to a teeming campus full of enough hot guys to make a century’s worth of sexy college-boy calendars? Had generations of Phi Ep boys subtly altered the student body’s… student bodies? Had they felt like Holden did now, like a sex-bomb waiting to go off? How far would this go?

The answer, it seemed, as his lumberjack-sized, red-headed hunk of a father wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, taking a long sniff that made his cock throb and his tattoo warm alarmingly under his pea coat, was… too far.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Why am I perving on my dad? Why does my dad have to be so… sexy… This was nuts. The situation was spinning rapidly away from him. His tattoo was definitely heating up, along with his rushing blood, and Holden wanted to panic, knowing how the seduction-power took him over, leaving him powerless and without any control. Oh God, he thought, not now…!

Norm Wyatt pulled back, clasping Holden’s shoulders as he took in his new and improved son, taller and more ripped than he’d been—and, of course, a lot more hung. “You’re looking good, son,” Norm said, the simple lust that had crept unconsciously into his tone all but impossible for Holden to miss.

Holden stared into his father’s bright hazel eyes helplessly, trying not to appreciate the faint whiff of his characteristic, slightly spicy scent wafting between them in the chill December air. “Dad…” he said, meaning it as a warning, trying to create some distance. His father, however, seemed to hear it as a command. Holden recognized the potency in his own voice, and once he saw those hazel eyes darken, he quailed.

“Dad…!” he said, more urgently, but of course that only reinforced the beguilement. Norm smiled, fully entranced, and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he moved in for a long, open-mouthed kiss that Holden, in the throes of lust himself, could not help but return. It was a good kiss, and he barely restrained himself from cumming as his tongue, extra-long and a bit stretchy lately thanks to repeated bj-wishes from Hank to that effect, slid sweetly along his dad’s. Holden was losing himself in the sensations of it. Norm tasted like that extra-strong spearmint gum he’d always liked. That, and… man.

Holden’s mind was quivering worse than his pulsing, throbbing, cheek-smearing cock. All he could think was, At least he’s not blowing me. The …yet his overheated brain tried to add to that, he decided to ignore. The kiss wasn’t only prelude. It wasn’t. He would resist. He had to!

And yet… he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop wondering. What would his dad be like… hotter?

Finally he found the strength to break free. Eyeing his grinning dad, he nervously stepped back—directly into two very solid bodies that had been standing right up close behind him, a wall of energy, muscle, and lust. Holden flooded with embarrassment—he’d completely forgotten about the “twins,” who’d come home with him because neither of them had a place to go during the break. They had evidently finally disembarked the train and, with his luck, had been standing right there behind him the whole time he’d made out with his dad, no doubt setting a precedent for future routine kissing between them. This was—Holden did not even have words.

Norm himself, sure enough, was still beaming at him, like the two of them snogging as adults was as normal as driving lessons and presents under the tree. Underneath his anguish, Holden felt a new determination to track down the jerk who’d amplified the curse this year, and show him what a curse really was.

“Sweet!” Huan said. “Do we get kisses, too?” Hank added in that patented innocently salacious tone he had.

And, of course, because they had tattoos, too, they did get kisses—long, dirty kisses that the twins completely controlled, relishing their tattoo-seduction power even as they remained completely ignorant of the ink’s existence or dangerously amplified potency. Holden stood to one side and watched in horror, both appalled and, agonizingly, more than a little jealous, his cock drooling precum onto his firm, smooth jaw. Behind him the train started up again, and before long was on its way, chuffing blithely on to Minneapolis and trapping him here in this new, spunk-filled Christmas hell.

“Dad, you don’t have to give us your bed,” Holden whined as they trundled up the sturdy stained-oak stairs and onto the second floor with their stuff.

“Nonsense,” Norm said, leading the way to the master bedroom, laden with most of the boys’ luggage like using his inborn strength was a natural imperative. “I’ll bunk in your old room. You and the twins here are obviously boyfriends, and the queen you have in there won’t handle three sturdy young men like yourselves. Not that you’d mind trying,” he added, turning and winking over his shoulder.

Holden could feel Hank and Huan grinning behind him as they entered his dad’s big, sunny bedroom behind him. Inwardly, he scoffed. Boyfriends, hah! he thought. If anyone in the frat were going to be my boyfriend, it would be… But he shoved the unwelcome thought ruthlessly aside. It would never happen.

The bed was huge and inviting. A big bed for a big man, Norm had said with a chortle when he’d bought it, the mattress salesman smiling indulgently next to him like a man used to years of dad jokes and bed-related innuendo in his line of work. The pale green sheets and soft heather-gray blanket were rumpled and unmade, like his dad had just gotten up out of them, naked and bleary, to go and greet his son. Holden tried not to think about how it would probably smell like his dad even after they changed the sheets. His treacherous cock flexed against his neck, happy to anticipate on his behalf the experience of nestling into the dad-smelling bed.

Norm dropped the bags in a gap by the heavy, low dresser and turned to them. “You three get settled,” he said. “I’ll roust up your sister and get lunch started. Your cousin Wil is in town, so you’ll see him, too, if I can pry him away from the GameCube.”

“Great!” Holden said with false enthusiasm as Norm headed out of the room and down the stairs. Wil was his own age, thin and wiry but iron-strong thanks to spending most of his non-gaming time working construction and demolition in Madison. Personality-wise he was alert and observant, but also laconic and disengaged. He kept his dark-red Wyatt-clan hair long and lush, usually down except at work, and wore black ear cuffs like he wanted to be thought of as goth-lite or something. He also possessed, as Wyatt had had more than one opportunity to note, the tightest six-pack he’d ever seen on someone who didn’t actually work out—he even had the naturally cut Anthony beat.

Holden had never really gone for Wil—his guy-lust hadn’t really blossomed until college and the frat—but maybe having Wil around was his out. Surely, his moody, nicely defined cousin was a better outlet for his rampaging, barely controllable tattoo-given seduction powers than his hot and hunky dad. Right?

Right?

A glimpse of the “porque no los dos” meme rolled up in his brain, as though his thoughts were some kind of stupid PicThread newsfeed, but he angrily pushed it back down. To distract himself, because they were always distracting anyway, he turned to Hank and Huan, who—

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

The two men had been pulling off their coats, Holden had thought from seeing them moving around in his peripheral vision, but they hadn’t stopped there. Having already tossed their outerwear onto the sturdy rocking chair by the window, they had followed suit with their overshirts and then their tee shirts, leaving their smooth, secretly bulky physiques and wide, nearly chest-high hard-ons fully and gleefully exposed.

Hank finished pulling off a sky-blue tee and flicked it onto the pile, grinning at Holden. “C’mon, Hole,” he teased. “Aren’t you hot?”

Huan giggled. “So, so hot?”

Holden, who was still in his pea coat on top of the furnace-hot warmth of his arm-thick two-foot boner, actually was hot in the well-heated bedroom. He pulled off his scarf and coat roughly, laying them on the rocking chair with the others, then turned, hands on his hips, his brown henley firmly in place under his hot, slowly seeping erection, and stared down his fellow initiates. Something strange was happening with them, and Holden wasn’t sure he had a handle on it. “What is the deal with you two?” he said.

Hank and Huan shared a look, then turned matching indulgent smiles on him. Something in Holden’s gut fluttered. Belatedly, it registered with him that his dad had called them “the twins”… That was his own internal joke, a riff on how they always acted alike and egged each other on, like twin kids in movies always did. But out of the corner of his awareness Holden had been half-noticing the way Hank and Huan had been looking more and more alike over the past several weeks, like they’d been blowing each other constantly and using the subtly incremental bj-wishes they surely couldn’t know were actually real to blurt “you’re so hot, I wish we were more alike” at each other every damn time until the cumulative effect was, as it was now, completely inescapable.

Holden gaped as the full realization hit him. They were… almost identical, half Hank and half Huan and half more of both, like their appearances had been merged in some thirsty AI-powered imaging app. They weren’t perfect copies of each other, but they were close. Their coloring was still a tone or so different from each other, for one thing, Hank’s smooth skin now very very slightly more dusky-olive than Huan’s equally smooth east-Asian complexion, but the difference was minor enough it could get lost in variant lighting easily. Their faces were a hair different too, but only that; Hank had faintly thicker eyebrows, Huan a subtly firmer jawline.

The truth was, the fact that they were slightly different only added to the verisimilitude. Everyone knew that identical twins were never exactly alike. Even their dark hair was cut similarly, but not the same. Worse, the resulting shared look was extremely attractive, especially smiling smarmily like that for some reason; Holden was feeling it was less that he had a couple of obstreperous young fratmates and more like, Shit, there’s two of them…

It didn’t help that the muscle boost the growth curse had put on them over nearly five months made them look like they were identical-twin fitness models. These were real men, not boys, however impishly they acted. Both were taller than before, though Holden still had several inches on them. And their cocks—! Their tools had been starkly different from each other, he remembered, Hank’s pinker and circumcised, Huan’s narrower and uncut, but now their raging boners were the one thing about them he couldn’t tell apart. The two towering tools were basically indistinguishable, both of them tall and wide and dark and delicious-looking, with a compromise half-foreskin that Holden found weirdly adorable.

As he was processing all this they moved in on him in tandem, taking hold of the hems of Holden’s henley before he could stop them. “Come on, Hole,” Huan wheedled as they hauled the shirt off him. “It’s a ‘boyfriend’ thing,” Hank added. They lofted the shirt gently onto the rocking chair with the rest of the clothes, and the three of them faced each other, standing close, their breathing audible in the quiet room. Holden felt unaccountably exposed, which made no sense since his face-high dick wasn’t any more exposed than it had been before.

“You aren’t my boyfriends,” Holden reminded them, though his cock was throbbing in encouragement, wanting more contact, more eruption. He was always rock-hard and constantly ready to blow thanks to these two, especially Huan, who used his bj-wish to reinforce that very idea every single time they swallowed his cum; and he was always craving cummy kisses, which was totally down to Hank. Half of him wanted to blame them and stay away from them, but the other half thought that the twins—and there was no avoiding thinking of them that way any more—should step up and take responsibility for his nonstop need to cum and cum and cum.

Hank and Huan leered at him, and Holden’s pulse picked up. Then, in a lightning move the two hunk-demons had grabbed him, turned him around, and tossed him onto the big dad-smelling bed with surprising strength, the two of them climbing on after him. “No,” Hank said, “we’re not your boyfriends.”

“We’re your cum-buddies,” Huan finished with a smirk. As one they attacked his impossible, extremely needy dick with practiced skill, sliding mouths and lips and hands over its unnaturally sensitive length in a way that had Holden instantly hanging on to the verge of orgasm, riding a long, rough strand of nearly unbearable gratification, grabbing their identical cocks in both fists and stroking ruthlessly in retribution. Unable to stop himself he let out an embarrassingly loud cry of pleasure. It was so loud he was sure they could hear it at the ends of the property and probably, the ways things had been going lately, all the way to fucking Milwaukee.

Holden left the twins cuddling in his father’s dad-scented bed and snuck into the en-suite to quickly towel the cum off his face, chest, and cock. He frowned at his reflection as he did so, taking himself in. Hank and Huan had changed pretty dramatically, but Holden wasn’t sure he recognized himself, either. He wasn’t swole-as-a-tank big like Costas, or big and ridiculously ripped like Jamie, whose rippled, zero-body-fat perfection he could almost feel under his fingertips even here, in another state and hundreds of miles away. But he wasn’t the lanky, undefined virgin he’d been when he’d last left this house for college, coaching himself to be optimistic about the scary world beyond anything he’d known. That world had changed him. He looked like an action hero—not that sleek-muscled A-listers had dicks like his. And he sure wasn’t a virgin anymore.

The twins stirred in the bed, sloppily making out in their sleep, and Holden felt a surge of need. He was flushed and buzzing with post-orgasmic euphoria, and yet he wasn’t… sated. Glaring briefly at his erection in the mirror, he turned on his heel and reentered the bedroom, considering his dozing companions. He could wake them for another round, but… he’d already felt out of control around them, and if anything they were getting more aggressive in their obsession with his dick. Well, if they were going to be that level of size queen, maybe he should find a way to sic them onto Dwight. Holden had thought he was near the top of the frat in the size of his mighty tool, but, as the retreat had revealed to all, Dwight definitely had him beat… as it were.

Fuck, now the images of Dwight’s superlong wang were turning him on. Hard and straight out in front of him… soft and thick and tucked down his leg like a secret mutation… always calling to him until he couldn’t even reach the head…

Fuck! His dick was leaking rivers. It wouldn’t take much. Maybe he could duck into his old room real quick and suck himself off while he still could. Did it count as cummy kisses if you were making out with your own giant cockhead?

Without letting himself think about it anymore he headed quickly out of the room. His old room was right next to his dad’s, so he was there in no time, his cum-greedy body thrumming with the anticipation of another climax. Pushing open the door he pushed in—and froze.

There, in his old bed, half naked like he was and his long, lush hair hanging down as he bent over his own steel-hard prick, was his lissom, tight-bodied cousin, Wil. What the hell was he—? Wil was supposed to be on the GameCube downstairs. Had he heard Holden and the twins going at it and crept up here to get closer and jack off to it? In high school Wil had joked once that he only played video games to keep himself from jerking off 24/7—now Holden wondered if Wil had actually been telling the truth.

As Holden gaped, Wil looked up—and the tattoo on Holden’s shoulder blade flared to life. Rational thought melted away from Holden’s mind and his cock somehow got even harder. “Cum for me,” he rasped, taking a step toward him. “Finish yourself so you can suck my giant cock.”

Instantly, Wil spurted shots of cum from his cock, smacking his chin and chest with audible, high-intensity splats. He held Holden’s gaze the whole time, mouth open from the throes of his release. Then he was done, and, before Holden could even think of prompting him, Wil got up and closed the distance between them, wrapping his mouth and hands around Holden’s sensitive cock with the eagerness of an initiate being inducted into a secret magic cult.

Holden moaned loudly. Yes, he thought, feeling his huge balls churn in his loose jeans. Yes, this is what I need.

Wil, clearly no stranger to cocks (even if this one was probably a lot bigger than he was used to), intensified his pleasuring, pushing his tongue under Holden’s foreskin even as he slid his hand lower down the saliva-wet shaft, digging into his pants and finding the hefty, tightly contracted orbs there. Meanwhile, his other hand slid onto Holden’s meaty, perfectly sculpted chest, wandering over the muscle before finally finding Holden’s long-neglected nipple. Holden let out another loud moan. Why did the twins never service anything but his dick? This was fellatio properly done.

Holden realized Wil was making little noises in his throat, loving this and wanting Holden’s spunk, and suddenly he remembered his craving for cummy kisses. He couldn’t hold back, letting loose the floodgates. Wil, however used he was to cocks, had no chance of keeping up with this quantity of jizz and soon he was gulping desperately, his whole face and chest covered with crazy amounts of warm, kissable spunk.

Sliding one of his hands up from Wil’s bare back up to his neck, Holden gently pulled his cousin off of the still-fountaining wangtower and onto his own mouth. They kissed hungrily, both of them wanting this at almost redzone levels of need, Holden feeling his tongue stretch and twist more than he’d ever managed so far. Finally they broke apart for air, and Holden gasped, taking in his cousin.

Somehow, the tattoo powers had worked twice the magic on Wil than they had anyone else. Wil was more handsome, almost pretty. He was maybe an inch taller, too, from what Holden could tell, and a good ten pounds heavier with lanky, extremely aesthetic muscle. Unable to help himself, Holden let a hand smear through the cum painting pecs that Wil simply hadn’t had a few minutes before.

What’s he going to look like by the time I leave? Holden thought, a little horrified by the suspicion that he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from finding out.

He met Wil’s gaze and—fuck, he looked pissed. Holden swallowed. “W-what’s wrong?” he asked.

Wil’s eyes, hazel like all the Wyatts, glinted dangerously. “You know what’s wrong, cousin?” he said in a low voice. Did he know he was still absently stroking Holden’s upper arm?

“What?” Holden asked, breathless.

“I got cum in my hair.”

Holden blinked, distracted by Wil’s autonomic stroking. “What?” he said again.

“I got cum in my hair.”

Holden’s eyes widened. Sure enough, Wil’s long, luscious dark red hair, which was well kept and obviously very important to him, was festooned with wet, runny globs of cum in numerous places. Holden met Wil’s gaze again, unsure how to react. “Um…”

“Do you know how hard it is to get cum out of your hair?” Wil said with a frown, moving his face closer so their noses were brushing.

Holden smiled tentatively, nuzzling their seed-slippery noses a bit. “Maybe it’s good for it,” he whispered. “Like conditioner.”

Wil narrowed his eyes. “Like hell it is,” he said. He leaned up for one more grumpy kiss, then stalked around Holden in search of a shower. “Next time,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the hall, “try to be more careful, huh, cuz?”

Holden watched him go, wondering anxiously if he even had it in him to be careful about anything when it came to his increasingly unquenchable need to cum and grow. Especially since he was finding that making others grow was even more worryingly addictive than growing himself.

As he stood half-naked and impossibly boned in the doorway to his old bedroom, his throat-high side-leaning erection pulsing and flexing with impatient, unslaked interest as he listened to his one-notch-hotter-’n’-buffer gamer cousin start the shower in the bathroom across the hall (so he could rinse dollops of monstercock jizz out of his much-prized rusty locks), Holden couldn’t help worrying that his holiday trip home was rapidly deteriorating into a comedy of errors—only with oversized dicks, absolutely unstoppable libidos, and lots of hot, goopy, high-velocity spunk. A cummedy of errors, he thought with a grim little smile. 

Evidence in favor of this ominous prediction was provided almost immediately when, distracted by thoughts of lanky cousin Wil and how his beefed-up body was currently extremely naked under a spray of hot water barely ten feet away, Holden realized with a jolt that his sister, Phoebe, had seemingly materialized out of nowhere directly in front of him. “Got a minute, baby bro?” she asked archly. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything important.”

Holden realized with horror that she was nodding toward his enormous, girder-hard wang, the organ still flushed and hot from its recent exertions and slick with various phallic and oral fluids. All thoughts left his brain apart from the fact that his elder sister was meeting his hard-on literally face to face, something that, like the collision of planets or senators fucking, should never, ever happen. 

Comically, his initial impulse was to cover his shame with his hands, like some drive-in-movie Lothario caught naked in Lover’s Lane. The idea that his mitts could shield his enormous phallus from view at this point was so ludicrous, though, his hands refused to even make the attempt. And it wasn’t just his giant dick being in full view. There was probably cum all over his torso, his pants, his face—fuck, his lips were still buzzing, and he could still taste the fierce cummy kisses he’d shared with Wil barely moments before. 

This was insane, unendurable. After a half second of twitching he just turned his back on her, unable to face her. At least there was no cum back there, he thought. The turn was so quick, a few drops of spunk actually spun off his dick with considerable centripetal force, though the towering cock itself was so perfectly stiff it barely moved. Instead the motion torqued downward through the steel shaft into its foundations, like a skyscraper feeling the earth move underneath its high-piled and ponderous mass. It was a disturbingly pleasant feeling, actually, and Holden could only chastise his body for finding new ways to load him down with previously unknown pleasures.

His sister, as always, found his chagrin entertaining. “Like I haven’t seen a boy’s penis before,” she scoffed as she pushed past him into the room. He half heard, half felt her seat herself on the end of his bed, as if they had a scheduled consultation. He turned a little more as she did so, to keep his back to her. 

She was probably smirking, too. She was always smirking at him. As a boy, comparing notes with other lads in town, Holden had formed a working theory that sisters somehow fed off of their brothers’ embarrassment, like a race of empathic vampires off of some cheesy, over-earnest 90s sci-fi show. The idea certainly fit his experience with his own loving, patronizing, oh-so-sarcastic only sibling. He must be giving her quite a meal at the moment, he thought with a mix of nervousness and annoyance as he stood immobile, rooted to the thick wall-to-wall carpet of his old room, trying to ignore his awareness of his sister staring at him. 

He had to be at a hundred percent on his dashboard embarrassment meter, He was so embarrassed, he was embarrassed by how embarrassed he was. Right then, if Holden’s thesis had contained any modicum of truth Phoebe would have been glutted, swelling up to the point of exploding messily all over the Packers-themed wallpaper. Which was probably how that episode of the cheesy 90s show would have ended, he thought.

“Nice tat, by the way,” Phoebe added, breaking into his panicked thoughts. She said it with obvious amusement, as though the very idea of her baby brother sporting a bit of manly ink was adorably ridiculous.

Okay, he was wrong before. Now he was embarrassed. His discomfiture was, however, immediately swamped by a new terror at the thought of his tattoo activating, the way it had with Wil just a few moments before in this very room. Please be only for boys… please be only for boys… he chanted desperately at it, screwing his eyes shut in pure supplication.

His tattoo, whether obligingly or otherwise, remained reassuringly quiescent. Holden let out a shuddering breath. “Y-you should go,” he suggested unsteadily, finding his voice at last. His back, which he was still presenting to her, prickled under her sardonic stare.

“Ugh, I know,” Phoebe agreed, a little unexpectedly. “There’s so much testosterone in this house, I feel like I’m going to conceive any minute. Don’t worry, baby bro, I’m heading over to my girlfriend Maddy’s for the duration so you men can do whatever.”

“Good idea,” Holden said immediately. Even as he spoke the words it occurred to him that maybe he shouldn’t have. Her presence could potentially reinforce any lingering inhibitions when it came to his dad, his cousin, and the twins—and her absence would do a lot to wipe them away completely. Not that there seemed to be anything holding him back, even with her in the house. The way he was feeling all the time these days, he could imagine himself just throwing Wil down on the bed and fucking him right in front of her, while the twins cheered him on and his dad called dibs on round two. Which meant that the biggest risk posed by Phoebe being around was probably her sitting back and doing a running commentary as it progressed, with added points for style, technique, and enthusiasm, possibly as a live feed. 

No, thanks. “Uh, say hi to Maddy for me, then!” he added pointedly, half over his shoulder, by way of gently nudging her out the door. 

“For fuck’s sake, I’m going. Will you sit down first for half a second?”

Exasperated and still extremely uncomfortable, Holden shuffled backwards and sat down on the edge of the bed a foot away from her, angling himself away from her as much as possible. This perception filter thing might normalize his giant phallus and everything connected with it, he thought, but that didn’t mean he wanted to test its limits unduly. Sitting down also made him more aware of the cumbersome size and potency his heavy, billiard-ball-sized nuts, which was definitely absolutely the last thing he wanted to be thinking about at that particular moment. 

He glanced at her sidelong, but because he was sitting to her left that meant brushing his slightly red-stubbled chin against the head of his raging eleven-o’clock erection. A flood of random pleasure washed through him at the rough caress, and a little spurt of fluid erupted from his inch-wide cockslit. Holden shuddered and resolutely tried to pretend none of that had happened, offering his sister a weak smile, while inwardly he was counting the milliseconds until this encounter was over and he could throw himself off the nearest corn silo in peace. 

Phoebe looked unimpressed by his antics. She was pretty, wallpaper-paste white, and redheaded like all the Wyatts, though she carried their mother’s more Mediterranean solidity like a birthright. She kept her hair short and wore a minimum of make-up, to impressive effect. She probably had a string of beaus trying to get her attention… though it occurred to him that his automatic interpretation of the “girlfriend” remark in the innocent, old-fashioned sense had no actual foundation and might have conveyed something a little more sapphic. 

Belatedly, he noticed she was holding out a lumpy, well-wrapped Christmas present to him. She must have brought it up with her when she was looking for him and had it behind her back. “Your regular, boring gift is under the tree,” she explained, eyes glinting merrily, “but I wanted to see your face when I gave you this one. Looks like I had perfect timing, too,” she added, smirking at his exposed torso.

Holden arched a brow, forgetting his dick for a second. He glanced down at the present without taking it, its contents now obvious. Automatically he felt bad, given that she must have shopped for Holden-as-he-was. “It’s, um, probably too small now,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Please,” she said, eyeing his dramatically widened shoulders and sculpted arms dispassionately. “Daddy already warned me. Your frat—” She almost put the word in air quotes, like the whole concept of a fraternity was ridiculous and beyond her. “—always makes sure to layer a few pounds of ‘meat’ on the new members, or so Daddy said. Is there a gym in the basement or something? Mandatory workouts? You like watching your new frat brothers pumping iron, baby bro?” she teased.

Holden felt himself blushing—it amazed him he was only doing so now. He’d been blush-proof up to this point, somehow, but then having your big sister needling you for ogling guys, while you were in fact incredibly boned in front of her from nonstop insatiable guy lust, would definitely do it where nothing else had. “S-something like that,” he conceded. 

Awkwardly, he reached around with his left hand and took the proffered package, trying to minimize the amount of his turn toward her and thereby, however futilely, the full-frontal presentation of his monumental appendage. Not that Phoebe cared about any of that—her eyes stayed on the package (meaning the Christmas gift), like he was a Bond villain and its contents spelled the doom of all his dastardly schemes. Her excitement mounted as he took it, and as soon as he had it fully in front of him she shoved lightly at his shoulder and urged, “Open it!” 

So much for palming her off with a promise to open it later. With an aggrieved grunt he set about deftly removing the wrapping paper. He was expecting to find the latest in a long line of joke tee shirts depicting the lovingly airbrushed visage of some pretty-boy actor or singer, these being Phoebe’s way of continually mocking him for the kinds of hotties he’d inadvertently let his family see him expressing an interest in every so often. The give-aways regarding his tastes had been especially frequent during his teen years, whether via unconscious, lingering stares at comely young passers-by, overcasual remarks about music videos he’d enjoyed, an obsessive interest in Teen Wolf, et cetera, et cetera. 

When he unfolded the brick-red XXL tee, however, there was no angelic face, no boy band logo, no zing at bygone tastes now updated by the true awakening of his sexuality (though he had to admit his crush on Jamie, by far the prettiest of his frat brothers despite his intensity and constant state of irascibility, meant he hadn’t changed as much as he liked to believe). Instead there was a simple legend: two tall words in bold, three-inch-high white lettering. He groaned, looking back at her as he held the tee shirt up.

“‘Dick magnet’? Really?”

She giggled merrily, patting his firm bicep. “Love you bro! Merry Christmas!” 

Holden made a peeved grumbly noise in his throat. “Just go already,” he groused, though he couldn’t help his indulgent smile as she popped up, still chuckling, waved a sarcastically cheery goodbye, and left. As she danced down the stairs and out the front door he sighed, eyeing the tee shirt, then, as was his his part of this ritual, he glumly pulled it on, glad for once his dick was so huge it at least partly obscured the shirt’s embarrassing description of its unfortunately cursed wearer.

Holden stayed there perched on his old bed for a while, letting his thoughts spin, his warm cockhead nuzzling the right side of his throat in a way that was almost comforting if he didn’t think about it too much. When he heard the shower shut off in the bathroom down the hall, his attention focused and his stomach fluttered. He wasn’t prepared for round two with his easily pliable yet perversely aggressive cousin. 

He was just getting to his feet to make his escape when he heard the bathroom door open, followed by voices. 

“Oh, hey there, Holden’s hot cousin.”

“Look at you, checking us out. I bet you want to grab onto these big steel-hard fuck-sticks, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Which one of you wants it first?”

“You’ve got two hands, don’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s it. You’re going to make us spurt, farmboy.”

“I bet I will. I’ll make sure your pretty faces are covered in your own hot spunk.”

“I love it when they talk dirty, don’t you, H?”

“Totally.”

Fucking hell. Holden felt himself being pulled in, his insides warming with a fresh wave of arousal. His mindless, unstoppable tool, always eager, was responding urgently, seeping warm goo onto the side of his neck as it thrummed in all-suffusing pleasure, coaxing him to go and join the threesome in the hall. But… fuck, getting involved in that was the last thing he wanted, he told himself firmly. They’d make it about him and making sure he came, and his tattoo would activate and he’d start seducing them and changing them—it was already warming up just from hearing them engage with each other, first with words and now with sloppier, more intimate sounds.

No. His dick was not controlling him. The increasingly delirious pleasure of his orgasms, pleasure that got more intense and sensually seismic month by month—that was not his master. The addictive power of his tattoo, drawing people to him, that was not pulling him under, either. He was in charge of his own fate. He wasn’t his dick, he wasn’t his gonads, he wasn’t his cum-and-grow curse, and he wasn’t his fucking seduction-tattoo. He was himself, Holden Wyatt. He was a man. He had willpower. He could resist!

More moaning from the power play in the hall made him shiver with pure secondhand lust-intoxication. He had to move—time was running out. With a mental shove he got himself going. The plan was to make for the stairs and escape, but when he got to the door he stopped dead. 

The trio was in the hall right in front of him, positioned exactly between the bathroom door directly across from him and his own bedroom doorway. Stupid architecture. When he was a kid he’d appreciated the modular symmetry of the two doorways, providing as it did the perfect straight shot from bedroom to bathroom and back for midnight pee breaks and other, more secret emergencies. Now, though, the upstairs setup meant that his hot, shower-damp, and very naked cousin was trading a vigorous double-hand job for sultry three-way twin-kisses right the fuck in front of him. The triple mass of magnetic, nearly irresistible sexflesh was inches away, as though placed there to leave Holden with nowhere to go except into the fray. 

The temptation seemed to want to overwhelm him. His churning, inhumanly enhanced balls were pleading with him to join in, flooding his senses with nearly irresistible desire. His tattoo, too, blazed imperiously on his left shoulder blade, jangling his nerves and further eroding his willpower. 

To distract himself, Holden took note of the twins’ tattoos, inked like his own in what must have been the traditional spot on the upper edge of their brawny, amber-tinted left shoulder blades. Intriguingly, the phi-like shapes actually had seemed to have changed color, the ink warming in hue from the dormant blue-black into a striking reddish maroon commensurate with the somatic sense that it was literally heating up that Holden had been experiencing. He’d thought the activation warmth he’d been feeling was purely notional and all in his head, an internal advisory that his ability to physically and mentally draw others to him in submission to his desires was active and engaged; but clearly there was a physiological component, too. There was a science to this magic that he genuinely wanted to explore and understand better. Were they warm to the touch, too, or was that part still just in his head? 

Holden stared at the twin designs. It would be so easy to find out. All he had to do was reach out his palm. A simple gesture, and he would know—

Stop, he told himself. He balled his fists at his side, ignoring the way his cock was now flexing against the side of his throat with renewed anticipation, spitting more juddering sex-goo onto his neck to slither down onto the already damp collar of his tee shirt. He was himself, not his dick. He could do this.

You have to go, he begged himself. You have to go now.

There was no time, he knew. He was teetering on the brink, and the barrier between him and succumbing was growing gossamer-thin. All he needed was a final catalyst. The twins’ broad, tapered backs were toward him, strong arms wrapped around each other’s tanned flanks above matching, butt-hugging jeans, but Wil, who was facing him, could still open his eyes and glance up in mid-snog at any second. If that happened, if any of them made eye-contact with Holden from the depths of mutual sybaritism, Holden’s entire illusion of separation and aloofness would be destroyed. He would be a goner for sure, his ability to rationally command his own actions torn away in a tsunami of compulsive pleasure.

Nope. Nope nope nope. 

With infinite care, Holden inched past Hank’s (or was it Huan’s?) enticingly touchable, strokable back, his heart pounding so loudly he wondered if the others could hear it even over the lurid sounds of their slurps and grunts. The gap between sexflesh and wooden jamb as he slid past was perilously narrow, so much so his slick, pulsing cock came within sheer millimeters of smearing cold, gooey cum across his fratmate’s gently-striated delts. The twins, in fact, seemed to feel the presence of his towering wang from within their preoccupied macking and jerking, moaning deeper into the messy three-mouth kiss; but no further recognition of his presence was elicited as he got past the threesome and started for the stairs. At first he was tiptoeing backward as he watched them anxiously, before turning and fleeing the scene as swiftly and silently as he was able.

Downstairs smelled like meat.

The reason for this soon became apparent. As Holden turned the corner into the kitchen, he saw his father was in the midst of preparing his famous slow-cooked double-meat chili, with two skillets going to brown the three pounds of ground beef and the additional pound and a half of flaked and marinated beef brisket that went into the pot along with the diced and crushed tomatoes, kidney beans, onion, and more cumin and cayenne than you could shake a stick at. The man himself was tending the hot sauté pans with a bamboo spatula, his natural scent adding to the delicious aromas. Holden stopped and took in a long breath, loving the taste of home as it filled his nostrils. 

Then his dad looked up and pegged him with a smoldering stare and a saucy grin, and Holden realized his tattoo was blazing anew under his salacious tee shirt. “Hey, son,” Norm said slyly. “I’m making your favorite, want to come help?”

Holden stared. The worst part was that he really did want to go to him, and not just because he was still turned on from the close encounter upstairs. He’d never noticed before, but his dad looked good. In his winter gear, back at the “train station,” Norm had looked like a stereotypical lumberjack. Paul Bunyan in miniature. But now, in regular indoor clothes, he came across as more compact and altogether fuckable. 

He’d delayered all the way down to a thin, worn-out firehouse tee shirt and loose sweats that showed off his body, and, fuck, his dad was a pure sexual specimen. Though not massive like a Costas, he was muscled and well-proportioned in a way that looked less like he was killing himself in the gym every day so much as his hard college quarterback brawn had stayed with him, aging like wine and never having gotten around to turning to fat like pop culture told you an athlete was supposed to. If anything his distinctive, trim take on the dilfy dadbod was more attractive than some of the young bucks back at school. Indeed, Norm’s hot-’n’-hale physique, like the flecks of silver in his ruddy beard, suggested a certain amount of carnal wisdom and sexual experience, while still being carved into exactly the right kind of hard and built. The kind, Holden couldn’t help thinking, that felt exactly right under your hands… and tongue.

As his consideration this hunk of older dad-man devolved and degenerated second by second, Holden’s eyes dropped of their own accord to his dad’s crotch, and it was here—thanks to the fact that Norm was evidently going “commando” under those sweats—it connected with him for the first time that his father truly was, like him, a product and alumnus of the very same fraternity, Phi Epsilon Lambda, that was so systematically and violently reshaping Holden’s life one month at a time. Next to Holden the effects were extremely subtle… well, no, subtle was the wrong word. Plausible might be better. His dad’s still-yummy, well-seasoned muscles and overall stature (even slouching a bit he was past 6-foot-4) betrayed the more moderate boosts that had previously been the norm for the frat every year but this one, while still remaining within normal human parameters. And from the looks of things his cock… well, the eight-inch-soft sausage hinted at by the lines of his sweats might not be exactly normal, but compared to a hard-on that did nothing but smear your neck all day, it was positively banal. 

Even so, that suggestive bulge seemed to captivate Holden, filling his vision. That, he could only think, was a beautiful cock. That much he could tell even without seeing it hanging free, slowly stiffening under his gaze to its full, majestic curve bending up toward the red-fuzzed worship-worthy abs and pecs above. 

Holden heard his own breath slowing and deepening. He wanted that cock. That hard-on. He wanted to feel it in his hands, he wanted to slick the sweat from its wide, hard, sloping shaft and taste the beads of precum seeping from its slit. He wanted—

Suddenly he looked up sharply, meeting his dad’s hungry stare. Fuck, he was giving in again, letting his junk and the curse control him. His libido was so high right now, it was almost impossible not to to take that step forward, to fold himself into his dad’s arms and—

No, he was taking charge. This was important. This was everything. His very identity felt like it was at stake. “Dad, I-I—” he stammered. 

Norm watched him, his smile softening. Slowly, deliberately, he turned off the burners.

It would be so good, too, he thought, because they both wanted it. And—you know what, fuck Tyler Posey. Fuck Keahu Kahuanui, because this was the guy he wanted tee shirts of. This was his type. Strong and sure and sweet. This was his ideal man.

Or maybe that was just his dick talking.

Everything was on the brink. He wavered. His rational side tried driving it all back one more time, forcing himself to listen. If he drowned in his hormones, he told himself, he would be lost. His self, his soul, his identity would be erased, leaving nothing but mindless, meaningless cumming. His pulse was pounding in his ears, as much from desperation as arousal. 

He had to take a stand. So much of him was already eroded away these past five months. As it was he barely recognized in himself the skinny, virginal, lonely Holden he had been when he’d gotten off the bus from the sticks a mere five months ago. If he kept going like this, he’d dissolve himself in an ocean of licentiousness, a scattering of human froth dispersed in a sea of endless spunk. 

Maybe he had a duty to that Holden, to save whatever was left of himself. How he would do that was looking increasingly uncertain. For one this, his dad was too attractive, almost literally. Breaking away from Wil and the twins was one thing, but the man before him…

He gulped and tried to focus his heated stare, even as his cock butted restlessly against his shoulder and his tattoo seemed to burn like fire. “I-I’m gonna head into town,” he said, his voice unsteady. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to visually sketch the idea of “town.”

Norm’s russet-red brows lifted slightly, but his smile didn’t waver. “Yeah? Meeting up with friends?”

Holden shivered. The last thing he needed was to run into any of the guys from high school. He suspected that they’d look better than he remembered, thanks to his discovery of man-sex in the interim—not to mention the constant hot-blooded hormone force-feeding he was getting from his own traitorous sex-bod. “Uh, no, just… I wanna drive around a bit,” he said weakly.

His dad shrugged, and Holden realized it was with the confidence of a man who knew that Holden would be back, and that Norm would be ready for him. “You should take your boyfriends,” he suggested. “What are their names again?”

“Hank and Huan.”

“Right. Is there a way to tell ’em apart easy?”

Despite himself, Holden huffed a laugh. “Hank is the flirty one.”

“Got it.” His dad’s eyes twinkled. “So, be a good host. Show ’em the sights.”

That was a joke. There were no “sights” in Otter’s Grove, though there were a lot of nice, secluded side roads where you could park your pickup behind a stand of trees and make out for a while. The local boys had a reputation for being the best kissers in this part of Wisconsin, just cause there were so many places and opportunities to practice. “Uh, maaaaybe later,” Holden hedged. He needed to go.

“Suit yourself,” his dad said easily. Taking his chance, Holden turned quickly and headed for the side door. He heard his dad flicking the gas burners back on. “Hey, stop by the hardware store while you’re in town, will you?” his dad called after him. “Get a bag of ice melt for the walkways. And I’m almost out of wood screws.”

“Sure thing,” he said as he kept walking, not turning around. All that felt reassuringly normal… so why did it feel like there was a hot, needy stare fixed on his hard, round butt?

He slowed and stopped, standing stock-still at the edge of the kitchen linoleum. That stare wasn’t the only thing that was hot. Holden’s tattoo felt like it was burning right through his brand new shirt—the one with the collar already wet with his own spunk. 

Unable to help himself he turned and strode back to his father, giving him a brief, deep kiss that was eagerly returned, all lips and tongue and promises of sweaty, deep-dicking fuckery in the very near future. After a minute of this Holden stepped back jerkily, breaking the kiss, the burn of his dad’s short, well-trimmed beard lingering along his lips. 

He fixed his gaze on his dad’s and heard himself speak in that commanding voice that he knew gave that tattoo free rein. “Stay hard for me,” he growled.

Norm grinned, wide and lewd. “You bet, son.” Standing close, his eyes burning into his, Norm reached over and grabbed the keys to the new F-150 from the island counter, pressing them deftly into Holden’s hand. The act was charged somehow, like Holden being inside Norm’s pickup, hands on the wheel and foot on the accelerator, driving it steadily and confidently into town and back, was somehow the dirtiest and most intimate form of foreplay.

Gripping the keys, Holden forced himself to turn and go. As he headed for the door to the garage, a draft from the unsealed door calming him slightly, Holden tried to salvage a sense of partial victory, even as his love-drugged, overheated blood demanded he turn around and let his dad suck his giant, chin-high cock until the man had drunk all the cum needed to make him the hottest and most impossible-to-resist hung-and-horny muscle dilf stud in alla Otter’s Grove.

Holden was anxious, frustrated, and a little heartsick by the time he pulled into the franchise hardware store in the packed little shopping plaza that had replaced the tiny old Main Street storefronts, most of which were now offices and apartments. It was a bad combination and it was putting him increasingly on edge. He was so preoccupied he didn’t realize what a volatile state he was in until he’d already stormed into the shop with a scowl and a twitching cock, looking for ice melt, number eight wood screws, and a whole lot of trouble.

He stomped through the store to the back aisle where all the nails and screws were with a dark expression, full of self-contempt. During the short ride over, lengthened a bit by what passed for pre-holiday traffic around here, it had occurred to him how he could rationalize the need to use his tattoo powers by aiming himself at Wil, not his dad—figuring that if he were going to seduce and change people and twist fates and play god and all that, it was better to fuck up the life of someone he cared less about. Right? As soon as he caught himself thinking this, he was instantly infuriated by his own callousness. What the hell was wrong with him?

He was so caught up in his problems he didn’t notice the pair of blue-aproned employees who’d cautiously approached him as he angrily grabbing boxes of screws one by one, only to toss the back down without looking at them. “Hey, Holden, that you?” one of them said.

Holden looked up with a scowl, and his heart sank. He knew these guys, and, just as he’d feared they were looking fine in ways Holden would barely have paid attention to before the curse had mutated his libido beyond human reason, and himself with it. The sharp-jawed brunette who’d spoken to him was Tom, the one with the long hair and steel-gray eyes. He had clearly been working out since high school, acquiring a very nice, square set of pecs pushing out his thin sweater under the apron, like a brace of thin, extra-firm throw pillows. Next to him was Wes, a skinny dirty-blond whose acne had finally completely cleared—still not quite as good-looking as Tom, but cute enough and fit. Holden remembered Wes as always glued to Tom’s hip in school, and he still clearly had that crush on him all these years later.

Wes was grinning amiably. “Nice look, Wyatt,” he said approvingly, taking him all in. He was trying to be cool about it, but his cheeks were already pinking up. Tom just looked happy to see him, in the way straight guys had when they didn’t quite acknowledge how badly they were perving on a hot fellow dude. 

Wes glanced at the box in Holden’s hand. “You, uh, looking for screws?” he asked, wiggling his brows.

Holden was annoyed and upset to realize his tattoo was fully engaged and had already pulled these two jokers in. “Don’t tempt me, guys,” he said ominously in a low, quiet voice, facing them head on. This was a little unfair, maybe, as it subjected them to the full force of his own compulsive allure, but he hoped for a bit of intimidation, too. 

At first blush, that didn’t seem likely. He had their complete attention, and as he watched their eyes darkened with intense desire. 

Holden himself was feeling a little cornered—they were alone for the moment in the very furthest part of the store, so far back the painted cinder block of the load-bearing wall was directly behind him; but the store was packed with last-minute shoppers and if anything happened they were bound to have an audience. An appreciative audience, if the encounter with Myka was anything to go by. He did not have the patience. “Just… walk away,” he told them urgently. 

They didn’t move, and their stares, if anything, grew more heated.

Holden’s guts twisted, no more able to walk away than Tom and Wes. He’d been thinking mainly about the tattoo’s effect on others—the way that others he found attractive were almost hypnotically seduced, the way his cum seemed to catalyze some kind of physical transformation, and maybe lasting mental changes as well. What he’d been avoiding confronting in his head was that the primary and strongest effect of the tattoo was exerted on Holden himself. 

It was all about magnetism. And the thing he’d forgotten about magnetism was its most important attribute: it worked both ways. It drew them to him, the hot guys all around him everywhere—and it drew him to them. It was the tattoo that made him notice all the simmering pretty boys and jacked would-be models and fit, hardbodied dilfs, all the guys around him who could make blow his load, and suddenly crave their attentions on him, crave their willingness to make him cum—because cumming was what mattered, the central mechanism of the main curse. 

Cumming grew his cock, and the curse was all about that. The curse wanted it grown, wanted to invoke itself as much as possible. The tattoo had come along, a hundred years back, because it was a way of stoking the curse. The tattoo gave him and his frat brothers an increased need to draw guys to them, and the ability to hypno-seduce them into making that orgasm happen… with the devious follow-up of making them even hotter afterwards, reducing his resistance further and increasing their lust so there could be more cumming, more balls, more cock.

And somehow, for whatever reason, he was the only one in the frat, the only person on earth it felt like, who saw what was happening. That was its own kind of curse, separate from and parallel to the one the came with joining the frat: because the need and power was too strong for him to resist, and he saw what it was doing to him in constant, lurid Technicolor. He almost envied the serenity of someone like Anthony, the total immersion of the twins… because knowing made it so much worse.

As if to demonstrate Holden’s impotence, Tom moved closer, seeming to take his warning as a challenge. “No can do,” he said, his attention and need now totally focused on Holden. 

Wes followed suit, hemming him in. “Hey, we’re just following instructions,” he added slyly, nodding at the tight, muscle-hugging joke tee shirt his sister had given him, as though its legend were designed to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Holden had mostly forgotten what he was wearing in the heat of the encounter, and the reminder only amped up his exasperation. He actually bared his teeth. “Back off, guys, or you’ll be sorry,” he growled. It was hardly convincing.

His rational side was screaming at him to get out, to leave them, exit the store and get away, but he was too far gone. His self-empowerment was in shreds. He had to cum, and these boys were nothing but willing tools toward that end.

Wes was stroking his arm now. He forced down a moan. He was so sensitive now, the slide of Wes’s smooth hand on Holden’s bare flesh was almost overstimulation, sending a susurrus of little pleasure-jolts up his nerves with every cell-to-cell contact. “How will we be sorry, Holden?” Wes purred. 

Tom, seeing the appeal of Holden’s sculpted bis and tris, mirrored his caresses. Holden shivered with the wash of intense gratification. “Yeah, tell us,” Tom added.

Why did they have to be so aggressive in submitting to him? Holden felt a sudden rush of pure anger and intense arousal, strong enough to make him glad he’d never been exposed to overdoses of gamma radiation. He grabbed both men by the fronts of their aprons and whipped them around so they were the ones against the cement wall. They clearly loved the manhandling, both of them adjusting their hardons and watching him with avid anticipation.

He was looming over them—amazingly for a former short and nothing kid he now had a couple of inches and a good twenty pounds of muscle on these two, not to mention however many pounds his dick and balls weighed at this point. He hadn’t let go of their aprons. Their faces were close, and Holden could smell his own cum-stink fouling the air between them.

“What do you want?” they asked breathily. It wasn’t in sync or exactly at the same time, but it didn’t matter. 

Holden’s tattoo was burning hot. He stared them both down. “I want you two to fuck each other,” he said, feeling the potency of his words wash over them. “Hard and deep.”

They grinned, eager to comply. Though they were both clearly brain-blunted with lust, Wes, perhaps the more experience of the two in male-on-male action, managed to ask, “What about lube?” 

His eyes focused a little, glinting with mischief. “Where should we get our lube from, Holden?”

It was a leading question, and Holden supplied the only possible answer. He leaned toward them and said through gritted teeth, “Where do you think?”

Holden was burning with shame by the time he pulled his dad’s truck into the garage, not from what he’d done but the warm buzz of carnal satisfaction he’d gotten off it that still coursed through him, as potent as a drug and just as addicting. He wanted more. He hadn’t softened in the slightest, even though he could still feel the ecstatic bursts of orgasm tearing through him from mere moments ago as Tom pushed his back against the bare cinder-block wall at the back of the store, grinding his whole body against Holden’s as he lowered his work trousers and let Wes harvest Holden’s slick, bubbling pre as a warm, ready lube to quick-prep Tom’s ass before shoving his long, straight prick deep into Tom’s welcoming ass. 

Would Tom have taken cock so easily had Holden’s hypno-tat not already primed him to do so? Holden didn’t know. What he was sure of was that even as they enthusiastically fulfilled what Holden had commanded of them—fucking each other hard right there in the store—all their attention was still on one thing, the true purpose of the exercise: to invoke the curse that subtly grew Holden’s cock and transformed him into an incrementally more sexual and irresistibly sexualized being every damn time he climaxed, triggering his own micron by micron mutation with every copious rocketing of salty, white-hot. world-defining cum.

He drew to a stop in the garage, automatically hitting the garage door remote clipped to the visor, gradually shutting out the cold wind and bright daylight as he sat in the cab, his mind a tempest of conflicting fears and urges. Of course the boys had cum with him, lapping up his spunk. Tom had gotten most of it, actually mouthing his cockhead as it erupted, but his own panting and the amount of his spend meant he ended up with more of it on his face and neck than he got down his throat. Wes, grunting with his own release, eagerly leaned over Tom’s shoulder and lapped up as much as he could from his buddy’s flushed and heated skin as well as from the original source. There had been people watching, even a bit of casual applause, but Holden didn’t dare look up to see who had watched them fuck and cum right there next to the big trays of finishing brads and loops of picture wire. In fact he’d gotten out of there as quickly as he could, sparing the briefest moment for messy kisses with Tom and Wes before bolting. 

He hadn’t wanted to look for the changes his seduction-powered transfiguring tat had infused into them without anyone knowing, but he had a gut feeling, almost as though he had logged the changes in some internal biological archive before or after their imposition. The changes were minor, not like Wil’s more extreme malleability. In the more usual cases like these two, like Myka, it was as though the human body normally had a kind of inertia that—generally, if not universally—limited this kind of externally imposed change. In Wes’s case it was a slight enhancement in facial attractiveness (mostly in the eyes, interestingly, which Holden was increasingly convinced was the leverage point of masculine handsomeness); a tiny boost in height and muscle; and a not-so-tiny boost in sexual need and stamina, aimed mainly at each other. 

Their cocks hadn’t been boosted more that the seeming minimum inch or so in length and a somewhat more generous enhancement in width and girth. There was one change that took even Holden by surprise when he saw it over Tom’s cum-smeared shoulder: Wes’s long, visibly thickened cock had developed a slight corkscrew twist, enough for something like a quarter turn on its axis along its marginally emended length. Holden didn’t know where that idea had even come from—maybe his lizard brain had reacted to the three of them being literally surrounded by screws, and how they were long, hard, and extremely effective at being intrusive. The one thing he did know was that their increased lust for each other and Wes’s longer, fatter, subtly twisted cock meant that those two would make sure to find themselves in the delightful configuration Holden had just introduced them to every fucking chance they got from now ‘til the engines of the universe ground to a halt, and all forms of screwing were ended.

No, Holden mused through his emotional storm, he knew one thing more. His attempt to deflect and avoid had failed. Running away didn’t change anything—it only made the effects of his curse random and unpredictable. Maybe he could control his spiraling fate, maybe not. Maybe, once he got back to school and this interim diversion was over, he could discover enough truths about the mysterious curse and its recent reckless escalation to turn things onto a new path. Or he might just be doomed. But if the hardware store side-quest had proved anything, it was that turning his back on what was happening to him only made the effects wilder and his sense of control even less. Even if he couldn’t stop what was happening to him, the only way to be a man—to be Holden Wyatt—was to face his mutation of self and others head on.

With a sigh he grabbed the sack of ice melt and the little paper bag with the screws he’d more or less randomly grabbed and got out of the truck. He’d just set down the ice melt in the square little mud room in the inset gap next to the washer/dryer and turned to head into main part of the house, closing the garage door behind him, only to come face to face with warm, naked, masculine flesh.

“Where ya been, cuz?” Wil said, moving in close. Taking the paper sack out of his hand and setting it on the closed lid of the washing machine, he then turned back and brazenly slid a palm along Holden’s massive, eleven o’clock shaft, the other hand slipping cheekily around Holden’s back to draw him in even closer. 

Holden’s tattoo blazed, his body flooding with hot, disorienting need. His eyes wanted to roll back in surrender, his giant tool quivering with impatient anticipation. Wil’s own impressive prick stabbed at the side of Holden’s towering shaft, rutting along its length as though paying homage to its god.

“Wiiiiiil,” Holden ground out in a guttural voice, and even he was not sure if it was a warning or a supplication. Instinctively he drew his muscular arms around his newly beefed up cousin, letting his natural warmth envelop them against the faint, chill draft from the half-empty garage. It seemed stupidly ironic that his strength of will had been terminally blunted by the erotic potency of an actual guy named Wil.

Wil moaned into Holden’s neck, his naked body plastered to him. “Holden, fuck, why do I need this,” he groaned. “I need this beautiful dick squeezed between us, hard and stiff like you’re fucking me with it, making me feel every inch of you.”

He slid his lips up along Holden’s soft-bristled jaw, seemingly mouthing away his control. “C’mon, Holden,” he murmured, squeezing even tighter as the pace of his rutting increased. His lips moved closer to Holden’s. “Fuck me,” Wil begged. “Fuck me with your big beautiful cock between us until it cums all over us, covering us with gushers of Holden-spunk like fucking Old Faithful.”

Holden gulped, almost lost in the image his hot cousin painted. “Just… not the hair, right?” he couldn’t help teasing in a whisper, trying anything he could to hold on to reason and stave off his surrender.

Wil’s sardonic eyes met his, a greenish hazel with gold flecks eerily like his own. He winked, startlingly, proving he was a lot more focused than Holden was in that moment. “I trust you,” Wil said slyly, then dove in for a kiss. 

As they were making out, Holden felt a solid presence behind him in the little room. Strong hands gripped his traps. “Here you are,” his dad said, sounding satisfied. “I was wondering what was taking so long.” The hands began massaging his tight shoulders in a way that would have seemed safely paternal, had it not been for the press of a large, hard dick against the crease of Holden’s ass. The dick he’d kept hard for him, as ordered.

He couldn’t help moaning into the kiss. Even from behind he could feel the draw of his father, the powerful magnetism of the tattoo that pulled them irresistibly towards each other, subordinating both of them to Holden’s increasingly all-consuming need to climax over and over and over again. His ass pushed back almost of its own accord, and his dad hummed with approval. 

“Why are we all in here?” Hank asked from the doorway, Huan inevitably right behind him, his arms wrapped around his similarly shirtless, nearly identical roomie. Both were smirking, as if they found the antics of the locals of immense interest. Their darker skin compared to the three pallid Wyatt boys emphasized their role as outsiders and observers, at least for now. They’d get their own in later.

Holden broke the kiss and turned his head to give them a withering glare, though in his present state all he really saw were more hot guys that wanted to help him bust his load. “You two, go fuck yourselves,” he said. He’d meant it for them to go away, but that wasn’t happening, and anyway it had come out almost sounding fond.

“Fucking sounds good,” Wil murmured, licking a long stripe up Holden’s cock, near the head. 

“Definitely,” agreed Norm, mouthing along the sensitive spot on the other side of Holden’s neck. His heavy footlong cock was hard now, Norm’s sweats and Holden’s jeans the only thing keeping it from sliding thickly between Holden’s cheeks.

He couldn’t handle it. “Clothes off,” he ordered, glancing at the twins to include them. As brothers in the fraternity with tats of their own they had immunity from Holden’s hypno powers, but they were also constantly hungry for sex and male hotness. Wil licked him again as he reached for Holden’s shirt hems, and he gasped. “No more clothes,” he rasped.

Wil lifted the shirt over Holden’s head as the twins eagerly divested themselves of their pants. The massage stopped at the same time and Holden felt firm hands gripping his jeans and shoving them straight down to the tiles under his feet. Holden toed off his sneakers and stepped out of the jeans, kicking them aside. 

The presence behind him was barely interrupted for a nanosecond, then all three of them were naked, hard, and panting for release. “Holden,” Wil said, his tone needy and demanding.

“Holden,” echoed his dad, low and sultry. They both pressed tighter to him. He was already getting close. They were moving against each other, rutting and writhing, pricks of sweat sliding between them.

“Nice,” the twins breathed from the door, jerking each other like this was all for them. Holden ignored them. He knew they’d take their own turn later and get all the Holden-spunk they could ever want.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said roughly to his two partners. He got Wil’s attention, meeting his feral gaze. “You’re going to bottom. I’m going to fuck you, and you’ll cum when I say you cum.”

“Exactly my plan all along,” Wil panted. “You’re smarter than you look.” Holden bit Wil’s cheek, and Wil laughed. 

Hoiden then twisted to look over his shoulder, and the second their eyes met neither of them could hold back. They fell into a deep, passionate, tongue-wrestling kiss that made the twins moan in appreciation. 

Holden broke the kiss, huffing to catch his breath. “You are going to fuck me.” he said. “Quick and fast.”

“This time,” his dad agreed, his hazel eyes smoldering with the kind of deep, fathomless desire no quick fuck could satisfy.

Holden turned away without comment, lips pursed. He could pretend he was the alpha here, but he all knew was that he was the most powerless of all of them. He closed his eyes, rolling his head back in surrender. “Do it,” he said.

In seconds both men were riding him close to the edge. Wil was mouthy, vocal, and demanding, using his hands, mouth and cock to rub against Holden’s giant dick like it was inside, the lube-like flow of Holden’s pre amplifying the pleasure of his body and muscle tenfold. At the same time his dad was pressing against him from the other side, his own precum-slicked, abnormally massive footlong club pressing relentlessly into him like it was going to keep going and going, all the way through.

“Shit, that’s hot,” one of the twins said. 

“So hot,” said the other, They were closer now, Holden sensed with the tiny part of his brain willing to pay attention to them, close enough to touch, but they were staying back, enjoying the novelty of being spectators for Holden’s swiftly approaching release.

“Holden,” his dad moaned, shoving in that last inch and bottoming out in his ass. He started pistoning in and out, quick-fucking just like Holden had said he wanted. “Come on, I’m ready,” he hissed against Holden’s heated neck. “I’m going to cum in you so hard.” 

“Yeah, cuz, fuck and get fucked!” Wil grunted. “You’re a cum machine, you gotta be close!” 

So true, so close. Cum was riding in him like magma trying to bust free of the earth. “Get ready,” he managed to get out. 

The little room was full of whimpers and sweat and muscle and cock. The pressure seemed to shift, as though the orgasms of all five oversexed men were filling the space between air molecules, ready to burst everything around them. Holden couldn’t take it another second. “Cum!” he shouted. “Everyone cum!”

They all obeyed, Holden included, their orgasms seeming to feed off each other. Holden screamed as he erupted what seemed like an impossible amount of cum, and though his massive organ was squeezed between his and Wil’s feverish, hard-muscled bodies, to the positioning of his cockhead against the right side of his neck meant that it was his dad who got most of it in the face before he leaned in and started sucking straight from the tap, even as Holden’s cock-filled ass was jetted with cum beyond what anyone but Holden himself could possibly produce. The feel of it made Holden’s orgasm even more vocal, his roars filling the house as his climax somehow seemed to escalate, tearing away his ability to think and resist like an old shanty in a raging flood. 

His orgasm lasted a long time, and even after he was done cumming it was still there, saturating him with a smug ecstasy that Holden thought was not truly his. The curse had won. However much he was determined to hold onto Holden Wyatt, any capacity he had to resist his need to cum and grow was all in the past.

Holden came downstairs the next morning with the twins at his side, all three of them a little flushed from their morning milking of Holden’s irrepressible wang. Their post cum-drinking “birthday wishes” continued, and while Huan stuck to the same one (“harder and erecter and ready to cum”) now that it was a running gag, not that it could get any harder or erecter or ready to cum these days, Hank had wished for something unexpected: that he get his dad and cousin to drink as much of his cum as possible while they were there. As things were already headed that way Holden figured this was mainly encouragement and approval of such a hot ongoing spectacle, but as he came downstairs and saw both men he felt a twinge urging him forward. Fuck, things were sexy enough around here without Hank amping it up with nudges from bj curse wishes.

His dad and cousin were both naked, as were Holden and the twins—evidently when he’d barked out “no more clothes” it had become a standing rule. Holden accepted this, for now, mostly because the heightened sensitivity of his pleasure receptors meant that even the movement and shift of clothes against his skin could get him in serious trouble.

The scene couldn’t have looked more domestic, apart from the bare muscles and all the cocks and balls hanging about. Dad was making blueberry pancakes, whistling as he worked. Wil was there in the big farmhouse kitchen with him, but he was noodling on a handheld gaming device of some kind. 

Holden slid into the kitchen and greeted both Wil and his dad with a messy kiss. Wil slurped from his hard dick as they embraced. A bit embarrassingly this caused a surge like a mini-orgasm, and Wil gleefully swallowed the cup or so of spunk this produced. His body clearly showed the effects of Holden’s last major emission, back in the mud room: his gamer cousin had gained another ten pounds of muscle, a lot of in his pecs, and a good inch and a half in height to boot. His skin seemed even paler, too, whiter than Holden’s, as if Wil were going for some kind of ethereally unique look. It was a lot of effect overall, and just from one round of lovemaking with Holden’s mighty tattoo-plus-colossal-wang combo. Holden didn’t know why his post-tattoo-seduction spunk affected Wil so much more than was normal with anyone else, but in a way he was kind of impressed. 

Wil, naturally, seemed not to notice that he was any bigger, or even that he was naked and hard around Holden and Norm like that was routine behavior.

As soon as Holden started kissing his dad in his turn, the main effect he had had on him—apart from a shocking and altogether unwarranted boost in the size of his dad’s cock and a commensurate increase in the heft of his dadnuts—immediately became obvious. All at once he smelled overwhelmingly like sex, saturating the air around him and fogging all their brains with a mindless need to cum that had to be satisfied. All five of them drew together autonomically into a writhing zombielike mass of muscle and cock, and soon they were blasting cum as though it were the chief function of the human species. 

The fog dissipated soon enough, though the pleasure of the orgasm lingered. Norm grinned and started pouring pancake batter. Wil went back to his game, and the twins resumed fondling Holden’s ass like they’d been doing before. Just another trip back home, nothing odd going on here, he thought, a little amused and a little resigned. Though the truth was… pretty soon he’d be back at school starting the spring term, and that was when the weirdness that had been on hold while he was up here would level up for a whole new semester.

Trudging up College Avenue, bags slung over unfamiliarly broad shoulders, Holden was unprepared for the overpowering sense of rightness and homecoming that greeted him as he beheld anew, for the first time in nearly four weeks, the four-story gabled Georgian that housed the Phi Epsilon Lambda fraternity.

Holden stopped in the street maybe a hundred feet away and stood, frowning up the dark-bricked, elaborately trimmed building, glad the twins had gone ahead to meet Dwight at the dining hall and had left him to return alone. Other students streamed around him, but Holden barely noticed. 

He didn’t trust that warm feeling of belonging twining through his innards at the sight of the Phi Ep house. That “rightness” felt, well, wrong. Or at least, he told himself sternly, it should be wrong. 

He’d just been home, to Wisconsin. That was his real demesne, as sure as Leonidas was Spartan or Samwise Gamgee belonged in Hobbiton. He’d grown up in plain ol’ Otter’s Grove, amassing a lifetime of midwestern-farmboy memories, all meaningful to him however mundane they might be to others: his first tricycle (orange), his first go at milking, that time he’d run so far he realized he couldn’t make it home on his own feet and had to ask surly old Mr. Pritchard for a ride. His strongest bonds were there. Certainly he was closer to his dad (and cousin) than ever, in ways that threatened to make him blush in the crisp January air. 

The frat house, on the other hand, he’d lived in for merely a single semester. A semester, lest he forget, crammed to the brim with chronic anxiety, constant embarrassment, and a thousand unasked-for experiences, each of them casually stripping a way some small part of the innocent, callow virgin he’d been. And yet, here he was, his traitorous heart thumping loud and happy at the sight of the century-old Phi Ep house like a tail of a perky spaniel called into the kitchen for his nightly bowl of the best Alpo a pup could ask for. 

Maybe it’s my giant dick that feels like it’s coming home, he thought with a kind of wry bemusement. He tried not to pay too much attention to the heat-radiating stone-hard pole resting heavily against his right shoulder, now topping out near the crown of his head and liable to fill his right ear with random spurts of goo if it jostled too close, smearing its slick mess all along his jaw and mucking up his too-long, virulently ginger hair. (He kept meaning to shave his head just rid himself of the problem of all the precum and sloppy jizz gunking up his locks, but had kept putting it off—mostly because he was uncomfortable aware of how whenever his red hair was too short his scalp looked like a pencil eraser.) 

The fact was, this super-heavy, touch-and-tongue-hungry giant dick was irrepressible in every way, like its close colleagues, the nearly Crenshaw-melon-sized balls churning below. Its wide reddish head stuck brazenly up out of his coat like a second noggin, foreskin turtle-neck and all. In some ways its red and round eruption side by side with his original face-and-brain combo almost made it look like his growing tool planned to replace him as the one true Holden, and he had no doubt that if it were sentient it would identify with this house as the center of its being. 

Holden let out a long, misty breath, letting his bags slide to the ground. He was still eyeing the frat building as the streams of returning students parted and rejoined around him, heading for the dorms, rec centers, and academic buildings further down the university’s pedestrian-only main drag in both directions. 

He wasn’t actually worried about his giant dick having a mind of its own, not really, though it did seem to push its own hedonistic agenda onto his actions in a way that sometimes felt like Holden had more than one focus of will and agency within him. What truly terrified him was that this growing, stranger-compelling, constantly needy dick wasn’t replacing him, it was him. 

He was the one who felt all of it. His constant, 24/7 thrill at the thought of imminent orgasm, any second, anywhere, despite knowing about the infinitesimal growth that came with every release of geysering spunk—that was all him, rooted in his mind and heart, not his dick. That addictive sex-compulsion ability he’d gained from from his fraternity tattoo was him, too. There was no separating it. The need to roar with every climax… the urge to find unifying pleasure with his housemates… even the perverse, unwanted lust for increased size, maximum freakiness, the utmost in humiliating public exhibition… all of that was written in his soul and coded in his bones. The fever-hot cock throbbing against his shoulder was the instrument, not the instigator. He was this person, the guy with the giant dick, the Wexler Wanker, the surprise star of the cum-spraying strip show. 

Even half a year in, he couldn’t quite figure out how to deal with it. Every time he got a firm footing, the ground shifted and things got stranger.

He kept telling himself he should own it, that doing so would give him a sense of control. But Holden knew better. The curse that grew his cock with every release of heart-thrilling cum… that punished him with a release of irresistible pheromones if he tried to speak of it, forcing any such conversation to devolve into mindless, ravenous sex… that gave frat brothers who drank his cum weak but compoundable wishes to subtly alter his body and mind… that empowered the “phallic phi” tattoo on his left shoulder-blade to effortlessly seduce any man outside the frat whether Holden wanted to or not, subtly envirilizing the victim as a reward for the pleasure they willingly gave under Holden’s compulsion… it was the curse that controlled his life, being, and form, and he was no closer to unraveling its grip on him than he’d been after that fateful first millimeter of phallic expansion he’d obliviously given himself all those months ago, beating off in his tiny single his inaugural night as a fratboy probie.

He turned his thoughts back to that powerful and, to him, unnerving sense of coming home that had hit him as soon as the Phi Ep house came into view. So, was that the curse telling him he belonged here? He certainly felt a communion with his brothers. Jamie, Anthony, Costas, Dave, Dwight, Hank and Huan, Vitek, Armin, and the rest all felt like literal brothers to him now, regardless of the level of interaction. That was a bit odd, actually, now that he thought about it. He barely saw Vitek, the frat president, who was busy with a very intense thesis most of the time and moved in a generally older crowd compared to a freshman like him; and yet he loved Vitek, emotionally and erotically. He could picture his smiling face and the taste of his mouth, and the mere turn of his thoughts that way made him want to feel Vitek’s long, dark cock sliding deep up his ass and his hands on his enormous tool and heavy balls. 

As he thought this his cock hummed at some subaural level, shoving a gout of hot slop out of its hole, and Holden sighed. 

The house’s dark magic had clearly strengthened the physical and emotional connections between him and his brothers beyond the normal effects of fraternity antics and enforced proximity. But there was also a sense of enmeshment that went deeper, reaching back through the generations of the fraternity to the origins of the magic.

Holden blinked, feeling am unexpected rush of excitement at this realization. Maybe the key to short-circuiting the curse lay not in the present, but in the past! If he looked deeper into its origins, he could get closer to understanding the roots of the curse and the people involved. Admittedly that would be hard to do via frat records, guarded as they were by the officers; more than that, whoever was behind the radical escalation of the curse this year might have their eye on Holden in particular. The fact that he’d been unusually responsive had already been remarked on, and they might have even figured out that he was, uniquely and so far inxeplicably, immune to the perception filter that made everyone else, brothers included, think giant boners, kitchen-table cockstroking, public orgasms, and all the rest were nothing strange or remarkable. 

But there were more places to look for records than the frat archives. If he—

“Hi,” said a voice. 

Holden tore himself free of his thoughts with some difficulty to find a man standing directly in front of him, his expression hopeful and aroused. Holden realized his tattoo was blazing hot under his coat, and he cursed inwardly.

The man in front of him was shortish, at least compared to him—Holden was taller than he was used to thinking of himself as being, as his ice-cold ankles periodically reminded him—with sandy curls and what looked like a wrester’s physique under his navy pea coat. Holden guessed he was very solid and fit under all that wool. “I never talked to a guy before, not like this,” the guy said boldly. His accent was from somewhere out east. He had pretty eyes, Holden couldn’t help noticing—a dark blue mixed with violet. 

As with all Holden’s tattoo-conquests, Wrestler Boy kept solid eye contact, not even looking at the giant wang right next to Holden’s head. It was always like this. They all wanted to pleasure him, but it wasn’t his gigantic wang that drew them—it was Holden. 

Behind him the tattoo burned. His cock thrummed and his balls tightened, their heft shifting inwards in way that always felt ominous now that they were big enough he was constantly aware of them. He wanted to cringe away from this scene, but his junk knew what was coming (as it were). 

It had to happen. It was happening. He had only to step up, and it wouldn’t be awkward and weird. It would be him. It would be his moment.

Holden agonized, buffeted by the unsteadying undertow of raw pleasure just from Wrestler Boy’s heated stare, like a generous advance on the undefinable ecstasy to come. No. He wouldn’t do this in public, not again. “I-I gotta be somewhere,” he said finally with a shudder, trying to sound apologetic. 

He made to move past Wrestler Boy, but the flow of traffic around him made this difficult, and suddenly there was another man standing right in his path. He was tall and trim, with a dark beard. Older, maybe, a grad student or a young prof. His smile kicked up Holden’s already strident pulse another notch. He was like an older Flynn Rider, and Holden was caught in the smolder.

“Hi,” the bearded guy with the sexy smile said, voice low and smooth. “If you don’t want him to help, let me.”

“Let us,” the shorter, stockier wrestler hunk amended.

“Hi,” said a third guy, a muscular Korean that Holden recognized from one of his lectures. He had on a puffy coat now, but in class he always wore snug compression tees that made his pecs look like watermelons, and Holden was momentarily distracted by a chest he couldn’t even see.

Wrestler Dude was already unzipping Holden’s coat so they could get at all of his giant equipment, though all them kept their eyes on his face as though Holden were the most angelic Adonis ever to have walked the earth. 

The intensifying heat coming off his tattoo now seemed to push into his brain, burning through all reason. They were right there in the middle of College Avenue with hundreds of students flowing around them. With every heartbeat more were stopping to watch, like a time-lapse video on how crowds gather and grow, or the formation of a solar system. A few of the spectators were already murmuring encouraging chants against the noises of the reviving campus, like someone coaching the porn actors through the screen while they jerked off. “Yeah, do it,” one called out roughly. “Let us see everything,” said another. “Damn, that thing is made for licking,” someone else murmured, their voice layered with awed admiration. 

Well, it was a beautiful cock, Holden found himself thinking, even back in the day before it swelled to the Brobdingnagian size it was now. 

Phones were being raised as the murmuring built. Someone asked a friend if that was the sexy cowboy from the Phi Ep charity show. A collective noise evolved all around him, the susurration of men softly vocalizing their collective, mind-dampening arousal.

There was a fourth recruit behind him, hands on Holden’s flanks through the coat. Once it was undone he was the one that pulled it off him, setting it aside. A light gasp rippled through the crowd, not just for his fully revealed cock, he thought, but for him, the exposed radiance of Holden that only his victims saw when his tattoo-compulsion was functional. And a bit haywire—was it all the people in one place that made for an even bigger spectacle than he’d had with Myka? Did he have to keep using it daily for it not to build up to affecting so many people?

His thoughts blurred as the four sex-acolytes he’d accrued started to feel him up, though for now it was only his muscles; they kept their hands free of his cock, waiting for the signal to start helping him feel the pleasure he needed to feel. 

Need surged through Holden. He craved this bizarre, paradoxical domination that he could not in any way control. There was nothing he could do, no way to stop this. His only agency lay in choosing to surrender.

Hands slid over him, pecs, butt, arms, cheek. Every inch stroked accelerated his arousal. He moaned for a full minute until at last he heard himself croak, “Fuck, make it happen. Make me fucking cum!”

The (now) five men working him over, heedless as ever of the fact that they were in one of the most public spaces on campus, took their cue and started in on him for real, earnestly working his body and cock with hands, mouths and tongues. When he screamed his orgasm mere moments later, he was sure he could be heard in every corner of campus, scattering pigeons into the sky and showering hot Holden-cum over a hundred lusty onlookers.

Holden went to put his key in the door to his room and stopped. The keyhole was gone.

Through some anomaly, the narrow single-bed room he’d wangled as a legacy recruit at the end of the third floor had had, much to Holden’s delight, its own lock, complete with a key fortuitously left in it from the previous occupant. Most of the bedrooms in the house had had their door locks removed at some point, and (or so he’d been told) a frat bylaw seemingly prohibited them; but Holden’s room had been missed. All semester he’d been immensely grateful for the little flip that occasionally kept his bedroom secure from intrusion by the irrepressibly insatiable Hank and Huan or the random midnight protein demands of the high-strung, impossibly ripped muscle god across the hall. It wasn’t exactly foolproof protection—the lock was easily jimmied if any of the fools in question were especially determined, and the twins were wont to pile into his room as he was entering or leaving anyway, making the lock irrelevant—but it was something. 

At first he hadn’t bothered turning the lock when he left his room, since the house was brothers-only and he wasn’t worried about his stuff getting messed with. But after too many nights coming home to find Hank and Huan waiting for him in his bed with big grins and cummy cocks he’d started making use of the key whenever he was going to be away from the house for a while, too. The last time had been before leaving for the train station and the trip home, more out of habit now than anything (he’d be taking the twins with him on his Wisconsin trip). 

He’d expected to come back to find his room as safe and secure as he’d left it, but that was not to be. Where before the worn brass knob to his room had had an obvious key slot smack in the center, there was now a brand-new knob, exactly the same type and, weirdly, just as scarred and tarnished, though with a different pattern of wear, and a completely blank face in place of the keyway.

Holden’s heart sank. He was already anxious alongside his steadying, slightly overpowering afterglow over the exhibition out on College Avenue, and now… this. Winter break, it appeared, must be one of those times campus maintenance caught up with their backlog, and the guys in coveralls had finally gotten to the Phi Ep house. They’d come in and swapped his doorknob with another one just like it, maybe borrowed from another door in the house, unless there was a box of knobs in the basement somewhere. Why didn’t they just put up a sign on the door that told everyone to come on in and fuck him while they were at it, he thought glumly.

Just then he heard the sound of something scraping from inside the room. With a foreboding of dread he turned the new knob, feeling the chill metal against his palm, and opened the door. 

“Hole! You’re back!” “Come join us!”

Holden dropped his bags with a thunk, wanting to growl as he stood in the doorway taking in the occupants of his narrow bedroom. He’d thought he’d have a stretch of time to himself while Hank and Huan pestered Dwight for a while at the dining hall, but instead here they were, all three of them, like his room was the latest campus hangout. Dwight’s unprecedented presence in his space was especially odd, but Holden was distracted from that perplexing fact by another perplexing fact—the twins seemed to be rearranging his furniture. 

“What the hell?” he said, more to the universe than to any of the naked men in front of him. Because, yeah, Hank and Huan were most definitely naked, their buff, honey-gold bodies looking sculpted and strong, their hard collarbone-high cocks calling to him, his mouth insisting on another taste of their hard flesh and unusually savory cum. They were grinning at him, as usual—completely identical now, he thought, at least to casual observation—as they finished effortlessly sliding a second bed across the room so that it lay against the one that had been there before, against the right-hand wall. The night table that would have been in the way had been pulled aside, temporarily parked in front of the closet door. 

“Where the fuck did you get another bed from?” Holden demanded.

“It was already in here when we got back!” Hank (he thought) said excitedly, while the other, presumably Huan, loudly pulled out a length of duct tape and ripped it off. “Isn’t it awesome?”

“Not really,” Holden said tightly, watching in helpless dismay as the second twin bent and used the tape to bind the nearer set of bedframe legs together. 

“My guess is, your room wasn’t supposed to be a single after all,” the first one continued, beaming, “and maintenance finally fixed it during break!” 

The second twin pulled out another length of tape and grinned at him. “Now we have plenty of room to cuddle!” he enthused, tearing off the tape with another loud rip. Turning, he climbed on the bed and bent over the far end to bind the paired set of iron legs there, in so doing presenting his flawless ass to Holden with such ideal form Holden found himself staring straight into the twin’s crack and into the pucker of his perfect, shaved anus. Well, that answers some of what they get up to together, he thought. His cock, predictably, responded to the sight with a heated flex and a little surge of goo, and Holden suddenly felt hot in the chilly room. 

“So you thought you’d just come in here and fuck with my room,” he complained, resisting the urge to step further in and get caught in the sex maelstrom. “What are you even doing here, anyway? I thought you were eating lunch!”

“Oh, we are,” they said, glancing toward Dwight, who had propped himself in a corner and was giving Holden a sheepish look. Dwight, too, was naked, and Holden was momentarily distracted by his long, lanky body—he was the only one of the brothers who seemed to be really adding on height from the curse, though all of them, Holden included, had gained a few inches since September—and the shy, studious junior’s enormous forward-jutting erection. 

Dwight was the only one in the frat even bigger than Holden, possessing these days, presumably thanks to obsessive jerking off, a truly ludicrously big pole reaching what looked like good half a foot or more past the 27 inches Holden had carefully tape-measured before he’d left Wisconsin, though it was still only forearm-thick compared to Holden’s solidly heavy fence-post girth. The twins were such size queens they couldn’t help but be fascinated by Dwight as much as Holden ever since the big reveal at the November retreat, and the junior’s introverted reticence and Holden’s grumpy awkwardness were probably equally fun for the imps to tease. His superior heft (and bigger balls) seemed to retain him the advantage when it came to the twins’ attention, though, more’s the pity.

“Don’t you two have your own room?” he asked abstractedly, staring at Dwight’s megacock while the tall, stretched-out Mr. Shy in the corner blushed like a man who’d never been naked and boned in front of three buddies before. 

The fengshui taken care of, the twins gathered around Dwight and drew him gently onto the newly expanded bed. As Dwight lay down his erection held its 90-degree angle at the base, standing almost at the vertical before its weight pulled it arcing back slightly toward the rear of the room. One of the twins stood on the bed next to him, sensuously mouthing the head as he slowly stroked the upper shaft two-handed. Dwight started moaning, very vocally, almost instantly sounding like he might cum at any moment. 

“Tsk, you never join us in our room,” the other twin said remonstratively as he moved to mirror his increasingly eerily-identical roomie’s ministrations. With a wink he added, “We have to cum to you!”

As Holden stood in his own doorway, some part of his brain was a little grateful he was thus frozen in his tracks from the shock of the twins brazenly appropriating his room for sex games with Dwight (and puns, on top of it). Not that his momentary immobility would matter too much in the end. This close, all the sex in the air filling the little room, he could almost feel their attentions as though he had joined them in truth, and with the pleasure of the massing public orgasm still flooding through him he was already feeling his next climax building fast. 

In a minute he would have to join them, and they wouldn’t be satisfied with just one orgiastic release, either. The four of them would drown the day away in a complete nonstop fourway fuckfest full of constant cumming and even more growth—and that was without the “birthday wishes” the twins still gave him without fail when they sucked him off, always making him hornier, harder, and ready to cum on top of whatever other sex-mischief their perverted little minds could think up…

Out of nowhere, strong hands gripped his shoulders from behind, and Holden started slightly. “There you are,” Jamie’s voice growled in Holden’s ear, followed by a long lick of the back of Holden’s head-sized glans.

“O-o-oh, oh god,” Holden gasped loudly.

“Niiiice,” one of the twins said, and Holden saw, a little blearily, that all three of them were eagerly watching him get accosted by Jamie from behind—not that they interrupting their own play, which now included the twins stroking each other off with one hand while fisting and sucking Dwight’s towering, pre-cum flowing tool.

Wordlessly, Jamie’s powerful grip on his firm traps drew Holden out of his own room and into the hall, and a moment later he found himself across the way in Jamie’s comparatively spartan space, standing face to face with the beautiful, steel-eyed man. Those eyes betrayed Jamie’s intense thirst from Holden’s cum, which covered the bulk of their contact. But the older man liked kissing too, if only as preamble to work Holden up, and maybe afterwards to even him out. Which… was a good thing, because if there was anything Jamie did almost as well as getting him to cum with his mouth and tongue, it was kissing. Every time they locked lips Holden felt a rush of unseemly gratitude. Jamie was a fierce alpha male type you’d guess wouldn’t kiss at all, and it turn out he kissed like a dream. 

This time, though, Jamie was a bit impatient, and they only made out for a few minutes before Jamie pushed down on Holden’s shoulders until he was sitting on the edge of the bed in front of him. At first Holden was confused—why did Jamie want him to sit while he stayed standing?—but the mystery was swiftly solved as Jamie went to work on Holden’s cock, forcing noises out of Holden almost as loud as his campus-filling orgasm screams half an hour before.

Hungrily, Holden ran his hands over Jamie’s incredible body. The gym rat was wearing a tank top, but it was a tight one that clung to his chiseled, iron-hard muscles. Below were snug, fitted jeans, perfect for fondling Jamie’s ass, and Holden found himself running his hands over Jamie everywhere he could reach. He told himself he was acting like a virgin who’d never touched a boy before, but he didn’t care. He could barely get enough of Jamie. Every muscle was incredibly defined, even the intercostals that he’s once thought only superheroes had. Just the flare of his lats heated his blood whenever he saw or felt them. His legs were a dream, his shoulders a vision of idealized proportion wrought in steel-like flesh. His butt was round and hard and felt as amazing through jeans as it did naked. His eight-pack abs were works of art. And in front of them, shoving up out of those jeans, stood a stiff, fat, fourteen-inch cock, as hard, compelling, and gorgeous as every other part of Jamie. 

In a giddy rush Holden realized their current position offered an opportunity he could not resist. Before he could stop himself he unzipped Jamie’s fly, released the button, and freed the fat, sweet cockpole with. It flipped forward a few inches, flinging a bit of precum off the pointy tip like sweat from a soccer jock tossing his head. In what seemed like serendipity the enticing tool took up a new, inviting position pointing directly at Holden’s mouth. 

Holden didn’t question it. He leaned forward the remaining inch and did what he had never yet had a chance to do—he swallowed Jamie’s cockhead even as Jamie got to work giving him what felt like the best, most efficient expert blowjob of a fellow fellator in the history of mansex.

Jamie grunted, freeing a hand to rub Holden’s head, but he didn’t pull back. Encouraged, Holden reached out his tongue, teasing the underside of the cockhead and making it jump. Jamie moaned, stepping forward so that his cock shoved deeper into Holden’s eager mouth, and from that point they were giving each other a mutual mindblowing blowjob that had nothing to do with the number 69.

It didn’t take long for them to drive each other to release. Holden’s orgasm rose in him even as Jamie’s cock seemed to stiffen even harder than it already was, and then with a muffled cry they were both cumming like geysers, each of them determined to swallow every damn gulp of the other’s cum. Holden was not surprised by the taste—he’d had licks of Jamie’s cum before when he’d nutted while fellating Holden, and knew it was bitter and sharp, but right then it was a delight, the way a strong extra-sharp cheese paired with the driest red was absolutely perfect after a savory meal or a long stretch of more mundane fare. Jamie’s cum blasts were shockingly copious and extremely high-pressure—so forceful and tonsil-battering Holden almost wanted to check the ceiling for dents!—but he fought to swallow it down as best he could as though it were the manna that fortified him. Jamie did the same with his own erupting spunk, swallowing it down with gusto, He was always claiming its protein was the secret to his demigodly, meticulously honed physique, and his blowjobs always culminated in him guzzling and licking up every drop of Holden’s release.

Holden was still cumming as Jamie spurted his last shot. Holden pulled off and whispered, “I wish you wanted me around more.” If he got more chances to use his bj-wishes on Jamie so he could repeat this wish, layering it on the way the twins did to him, maybe at some point Jamie would act, taking the initiative and claiming Holden for more than just a few minutes at a time. Holden wanted that at some complex level he couldn’t understand. He told himself that being with Jamie more would mean he’d have some relief from the intrusiveness of the twins, but there was more to it that he didn’t want to see too clearly just now. 

Finally Holden’s release ebbed, and Jamie dropped heavily onto the bed to sit next to Holden, offering him a cummy, uncharacteristically intimate smile. Putting an arm around him, Holden stared into those stark, stormy gray eyes that lately he was finding himself more and more caught up in. 

“You’ve got the best cum, Hole,” Jamie said, eyes still rivetingly intense even in what passed with him as post-release contentment. “So good for muscle density. You should share it more,” he added, his lips twisting in an almost-smirk.

Holden smiled back at him heavy-lidded and sated, half lost in their first mutual afterglow. “I’ll cum down your throat whenever you want,” he said with an almost-chuckle.

“Yeah, I wish,” Jamie snarked. Inwardly, Holden’s stomach twisted slightly. Did that count as a bj-wish? An alteration like that would probably make trouble for him if Jamie repeated it a few times, the way the twins always reinforced their bj-wishes so that he’d ended up almost always hard and ready to cum and constantly kiss hungry and, well, really good at sucking guys off. Jamie had sure appreciated his talents, anyway. He was scared at how much control other people had over him with these low-powered-but-cumulative cum-swallower nudges to his body and being, but he could at least be grateful that deep self-interest had ensured that the twins wanted him to be good at cocksucking instead of pranking him by making him bad at it, as the troublemaking imps could have just as easily done if it had occurred to them.

Done talking, Jamie shot back to his feet and started rotating his shoulders to loosen them up—he tended to be energized after blowing Holden. After few more moments of stretching he dropped to the hardwood floor of his narrow room and started doing high-intensity pushups, pistoning up and down like a muscle machine.

Their prior history having been mostly Jamie visiting Holden’s room in the silence of the night and then leaving afterward to return to his own space, being together after sex constituted a new dynamic for them. Holden fought off the feeling of slight awkwardness that, a few months ago, would have forced him out of the room. Instead he settled back in Jamie’s bed to watch his hunky, hardcore frat bro get himself all hot and sweaty. Jamie didn’t seem to mind his continued presence, and, for the moment, that was good enough.

Holden had more or less expected the deets relating to the founding and history of the fraternities and sororities to all be stored in some dusty, inaccessible records room in the admin building’s second basement, so he was pleasantly surprised after a bit of digging and asking around to discover that they formed a special archive in the library reserves and were accessible to students with faculty permission. 

That last was the tricky part, he thought. Or maybe not. He could probably entice a signature out of Professor Haas, his pint-sized, fire-eyed, too-young-to-be-a-cougar Freshman Encounters professor, given the way she’d started giving him a brief, simmering stare in every class meeting no matter how far back he sat in the lecture hall ever since the video project disaster. Or his anthro prof, Dr. Killeen, who’d been a very appreciative member (as it were) of the audience for the public compulsion of his slim-and-lanky pre-med crush from bio, Myka. He’d been noticing Holden in class, too. He probably wouldn’t even need his tattoo power for either of them. A smile and a bit of eye contact would do it. They were hooked.

Maybe it marked him as old-fashioned country boy, but the bottom line was Holden didn’t think leveraging his unwanted sex appeal to get favors from his profs sounded like a good idea. Anyway, probably the bigger danger than merely engaging in a bit of ethically questionable behavior with his profs was opening up a conduit for more focused attention from his potential conquests. Tattoo-seduction affected the people he’d used it on past the encounter itself, he was starting to realize, magnifying their cravings for Holden and eroding their inhibitions along with the significant level-up in looks they all tended to get from getting him off. 

Myka, once again, was the prototype. He’d sought Holden out after bio class four times before break, leading to cummy repeats of their memorably messy first encounter—including that time in the frickin’ hallway outside of class where Myka had roped in his two shorter-’n’-stockier besties, Ben and Howie, for a wickedly effective three-man offense. During the winter break his dad and cousin had both gone from happy to help him find his release to half-conditioned sex fiends, or so it seemed, enough so that Norm and Wil were both sending him happy naked videos and facetimes and talking about when he’d be home next in ways that sounded a lot more cockhungry than the usual “come home soon.” 

No, the last thing he needed was busting the dam on Dr. Killen’s cocklust and having him start cornering Holden for a bit of smarmy kissing and talented cockworship before and after (or, God forbid, during) every class… Right?

He shook himself free of distracting thoughts and gave the library a hard look. Better to bluff his way into the archives and find what he needed. 

It was a chilly day, the sky a stark, crisp blue, and vestiges of the last snowfall lingered here and there on the grassy expanses between the walkways. Holden adjusted the new vivid blue wool beanie he was wearing, a gift from Andrew, who had returned from break with a big heaping boxful of hand-made knitwear his mother had insisted on sending with him for the boys in the frat. He resolutely ignored the other beanie he had on, a bright yellow one, that Andrew had playfully tugged onto Holden’s “other” head next to his own before he’d left. He felt ridiculous, and the thing was already half-soaked with his nonstop goo, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull the thing off him just yet. 

Hurrying up the steps he pulled open the doors and swiped himself in with his ID, then headed directly for the stairs while trying not to notice the random looks from strangers he half-remembered seeing before. On the lower level he found the special archives room, pulled open the steel door, and froze.

“Hey, stranger!” said the attendant, standing to greet him with a big hug. “Long time no see!”

“Uh, hey. Howie, right?” Holden said awkwardly, looking down into the lusty hazel eyes of Myka’s sandy-haired buddy as the man writhed gently against him. “I, uh, didn’t know you worked down here.” 

On his shoulder blade, his tattoo was suddenly sizzling. Jesus, not now… 

“Yeah, I used to be pre-med with Myka but I switched to library science. Now I only dissect books!” he said, still hugging Holden tight, his ten-inch boner pressed shamelessly against Holden’s hip. 

“Ha ha, that’s great,” Holden said. He was flushed and hot, halfway to cumming already. Shit, would blasting his load make his other beanie shoot into the air? Or would it cling to his cockhead until it filled with jizz and popped off, dropping to the ground with a splat like a woolen sack of spunk? At least no one was filming this one—a yellow beanie shot into the sky on a cum geyser would definitely go viral.

Wait, why was he even thinking about cumming at all, projectile beanies or not? He couldn’t cum in here, he thought hectically, looking around at all of books and files and vulnerable stacks of paper, a lot of it obviously yellowed and valuable. The idea of soaking all these irreplaceable records with his frankly ridiculous amounts of spend filled him with a visceral academic horror. However much he needed to blow, that would be… just wrong. 

He’d have to hold back, somehow. If that was even possible.

“So,” Howie said saucily, “what can I do for you?”

“Oh, right.” How was he going to get out of this with any kind of dignity? It didn’t help that Howie’s muscular bear hug felt really good, like a strong fist around a slippery cock. Holden cleared his throat. “I needed to look at the founding records for my fraternity. Phi Ep? It’s, uh, for the anniversary party,” he added lamely.

Howie’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah? You guys having another big celebratory bash this year? I think I lost my virginity at one of those,” he added with a wink.

“Oh, you bet,” Holden assured him, alarmed to find himself steadily getting close just from the hug and the heated stare. “So… the records?”

Howie was unzipping Holden’s coat, his hands sliding around the bare shaft underneath. Holden stifled a moan with great difficulty. “Oh, those are locked away,” the student archivist said distractedly. “They key has to be signed out from the… uh, head librarian.” At that he moved in and started licking, his tongue finding all the most sensitive spots in the mid-shaft region of his giant cock, and this time Holden did let out a shout. 

“That’s it,” Howie purred, deftly licking away as he rhythmically humped his already-improved cock against Holden’s thigh. “Shall I… put in a request, then?”

“Yes,” Holden said, losing track of the conversation. “Yes! Yes!”

Howie moved up the shaft with his tongue, standing on tiptoe to reach the crazymaking zone just under the glans, and Holden realized he was going to blow his load after all. No! He couldn’t! He—he—

Wrenching himself free from Howie, Holden turned and wrenched open the door, shoving down his nearly immobile steel-hard dick and, with a throaty, un-library-like scream, blasting out his impossible, firehose release … all over a passing student with big glasses, a bow tie, and a fit body unfortunately revealed by the cum-soaked clothes he was now wearing. “Shit,” Holden shouted once he’d finally finished, throat raw, as every inch of him vibrated from yet another euphoric orgasm. “Sh-shit, I’m so sorry!”

“N-no problem,” the cum-doused student said weakly, wiping one of the lenses free of Holden’s warm white goo so he could see. “It’s no problem, really.”

Holden was hot with embarrassment and release. “I gotta go,” he blurted out to Howie, escaping backwards out of the archive room, past the unfortunate cum-covered student.

Howie appeared in the door and called after him, grinning and waving. Even though he hadn’t ended up on the receiving end of Holden’s cum he looked a little taller and a little handsomer. “No problem! I’ll get your email from Myka!”

Holden gaped at him, then turned and hurried up the stairs, coming out on the main floor just in time to almost run into his hunky young anthro prof, Dr. Killeen, standing at the elevators—by a stroke of providence he turned away at just that moment to speak to a colleague who was with him, and Holden was able to slip past unobserved.

Holden was weak with relief as he hurried through the exit doors and out onto the wintry campus. It was bad enough his cock was covered in cum after accidentally gushering all over some random student in a panic not to soak the rare and no doubt very absorbent holdings of special archives room. The last thing he needed, he told himself as he headed through the quad, was to escalate matters with an already appreciative professor he had to see twice a week, though the truth was he could think of little else but the missed encounter with his smarmy prof the whole rest of the day.

Holden’s frustration was rising almost as fast as his frat brothers’ rising libido, both of which seemed to be inching higher every day, along with his damned megawang. It was like the frat curse was actively trying to rule his life, controlling everything he did. All he’d wanted was a little education, maybe date a nice guy, learn how to cut loose once or twice a semester—the usual banal-yet-formative college experience. Instead, he was learning how to carry around a giant dick, cum gallons on demand, accidentally seduce guys into wanton public sex with cheering onlookers, and, oh yeah, fend off the relentless attentions of a pair of insatiable twins while realizing he’s lusting after an extra-intense gym fanatic who only wanted him for his strongifying spunk.

The giant dick part was getting beyond ridiculous. The curse only expanded his cock a tiny, infinitesimal amount every time he came, but fuck did he cum a lot, and that meant a huge, heavy-as-stone permanently hard fencepost-thick cock that passed the top of his head and spurted occasional dollops of warm goo on his ear and clothes like a messy housepet. It didn’t just stand there, either, waiting politely to be noticed. No, it was a real attention whore, constantly throbbing and shifting and throwing off heat and a radiating sense of constant need, fed 24/7 by his tireless melon-sized balls below. Holden could feel it pulling his hands toward it, begging his head to turn and kiss the hot, veiny shaft and lick a swath of the thin, slick precum covering most of its exposed length. His whole day was an exercise in steeling his will to ignore the thing—except it didn’t matter, because if he wasn’t touching it, stroking its smooth, shivering hardness, someone else was trying to. 

It wasn’t just that its size was hard to ignore, even with a magical it’s-all-normal filter. (Last Sunday Holden had used the tape measure he’d brought from home and measured the heat-radiating, veiny, precum-bubbling monster at 32 freaking inches long and nearly twenty inches around at the thickest point, roughly chest-high.) It was that it was a presence among them, drawing hands and even mouths to it with the casualness of a fist-bump and a how-de-doo.

He’d noticed it in the frat first. Ever since he’d been back there had been a lot of casual touching among the frat members, as if the age-old method of relaxed greeting between friends had morphed from a smile and a “hey” to a stroke of the biceps and a kiss on the lips. Guys were always hugging as they talked, and it seemed like the more aggressive types like the twins were always snuggling someone in the game room or making that hello kiss a little more intense. Generally, though it was an everyday thing, no biggie. 

And yet, as horny as everyone was, and with physical intimacy now routine, the hug-hello and the casual howdy-bro kisses still didn’t extend to jerking each other’s cocks. Sure, there were plenty of times Holden had walked into the couch room and found guys helping each other out with friendly handjobs. That had started before the holiday break and was pretty much a constant these days. Walking past the closed doors of his frat brothers was a gamut of moaning these days, and sometimes it was a harmony of moans—it wasn’t always just the loud pleasure-sounds of guys loudly getting themselves off, though that was the baseline noise of the house almost 24/7, seeping under Holden’s now-unlockable door from all directions like the groans of horny specters haunting a house of orgasmic afterlife. But in the public spaces of the house and beyond the doors on campus, the now-standard handsy greetings between the frat’s active members were all about bringing together those steadily hunkified torsos and the faces that were every day slightly more irresistible, with the occasional bro-grope of the ass for variety; that was it. 

Except with Holden. 

It wasn’t like everyone’s cocks weren’t right there, available for inclusion in the ritual. Everyone was hard a lot of the time now, and the general shirtlessness of the house these days meant that their curse-grown cocks were exposed, shoving out of jeans and underwear to throb against rock-hard abs or shapely hip bones. 

It didn’t matter. Every time, the guys would feel each other up without getting anywhere near their raging, visible boners, then turn to Holden and half the time make him blow a near-instant load with a saucy two-handed stroke of his ultra-sensitive prick while they kissed him with tongue, all of it under the familiar heading of “Hey, Holden, how’s it going, bro.” It was ridiculous. His nightmares lately had his hot, quivering, 32-inch monster monolith gaining a voice and taking over his life like some 1950s Z-grade horror flick (The Rampaging Phallus?)—terrifying in itself, except that his waking hours made it seem like the worst had already happened. It was like those internet memes where the jokes about our dystopian future demonstrably describe the reality we already live in. 

Just the other day in the foyer he’d run into Loren, the frat’s requisite Speedo-obsessed swimmer, now a bit taller and thicker but still lanky and crazy-limber. This was as Holden was leaving and Loren was coming home, looking amazing with only the base of his 13-inch stiffie contained in his sleek blue Lycra swim togs under his coat. (The only other thing he was wearing was a matching pair of blue canvas slip-ons, an improvement in style as he had previously worn Crocs.) Loren duly gave him a smile and a five-second french kiss, stroking his scalp-high cock like that was something people did. Holden, always vocal these days, moaned helplessly into the kiss and had to fight back an orgasm. 

Then Vitek walked through the door, the hard-bodied prexy returning from his all-day labs, his pecs bulking disproportionately large in his preppy hunter-green polo. (Most of the guys had been experiencing a slow all-over muscle boost as a side effect of their turbo-boosted cock enhancement, but the ones with really fast metabolisms like Vitek tended to get tighter and harder, with steel abs and the like, but with extra growth in the pecs. It was like the muscle-enlargement subroutine was saying, “Well, I have to swell something.”) Vitek had greeted Loren with a happy hug and a mutual peck on the corners of each other’s mouths; then, seemingly oblivious to the difference in protocol, Vitek went and wrapped a strong, wiry arm halfway around Holden’s leg-sized prick while giving him a brief, seriously intense snog. You know how you might rub a little circle on someone’s back when you hug them? Vitek was doing that, only along the curve of Holden’s long shaft, his knuckles brushing along Holden’s rusty-stubbled cheek as he did so.

Holden fought for control. The kiss-caress couldn’t last that long, and then he’d step back and stabilize himself, returning to his normal state of constant, heightened arousal. He was almost home free, sure he’d kept his surging climax at bay, but then he remembered who was holding him and his anus twitched, the recurring fantasy of Vitek’s long steel-hard cock sliding into him overcoming him in a rush. 

He lost it. His whole body burst with endless release while he screamed into the kiss. Then Vitek, as though nothing had happened, just calmly pulled back and asked him something about the anniversary party, as if he weren’t currently splattered with Holden’s cum along with half the foyer ceiling. (Where did all of their cum go, anyway?) Holden must have said something apropos—he hadn’t really been able to focus with his blood pounding in his ears. Vitek slapped him convivially on the arm and headed deeper into the house with Loren, leaving Holden flushed, teeming inside with hot, goopy ecstasy, and with parts of him desperate for more, more, more.

Then, a few weeks into the Spring semester, it had started spreading beyond the frat. Right now it was just people he knew, and not all the time. A friendly classmate in line at the caff might say hello with a stroke and a lick before hurrying off to his buds outside. Guys he’d tattoo-seduced, like Myka, always stood close when they met in the halls or out in the plaza and caressed his red-tinged, eager shaft as if unconsciously hoping to trigger another round—which his tattoo was more than apt to grant, making his shoulder burn and forcing Holden to take charge of the encounter. 

Holden had a sinking feeling this kind of behavior would inevitably spread, diffusing through the student body like blood-colored dye through a swimming pool. Eventually, he probably wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere or sit in class minding his own business without someone, probably multiple someones, reaching out and filling him with ungodly pleasure.

There was one, and only one, upside he could see to the everyday, gradually escalating cock-attention he was getting from all the frat bros and a growing group of outsiders. This, he thought, was how he knew things were different with Jamie.

Everyone was oblivious, which he was used to. As far as he could tell, Holden was the only rank-and-file member of the frat aware of the curse itself (cumming equals growth) as well as the numerous codicils and addenda to whatever magical text enshrined the effect for members of the house. These included the penalty that kept him from talking about curse to anyone (a sudden surge of pheromones that clouded the minds of everyone present with unslakable lust); the powers attached to the frat tattoo (the ability to seduce anyone not an active member of the frat into a sex act even in public, coupled with an insidious urge to do so when faced with a likely target); and in particular the bj-wish. This part of the curse meant that whenever anyone blew a frat member, the cum they swallowed was imbued with a magic that allowed them to make a wish that had a low-key, incremental effect on the brother being blown. 

There was probably some unconscious impetus to make bj-wishes that was baked into the curse, because they’d kept happening to Holden, often enough to let him recognize what was happening from very early on—almost as though fratboy semen made you a little drunk when you chugged it down. The twins in particular had used the fellatio magic on him relentlessly, resulting in a Holden who was louder, hornier, extra-good at blow-jobs, etc., and they’d iterated their wishes so playfully and so consistently during successive encounters that they’d ended up imbuing major changes in Holden without even knowing they had this power over him. 

They’d also used it on each other a lot, too, Holden was sure. It went without saying they were probably sucking each other anytime they were alone and not sucking someone else, and from the start both Hank and Huan seemed to have been jokingly wishing they could be more like the other and lowering each other’s inhibitions until, by the end of January, they had become completely indistinguishable in looks and personality—and, as tireless twin hunks constantly driven by super-surging hormones and a nonstop, mutually-reinforced craving for giant cock, even less manageable.

Holden barely kept track of the twin sex-imps’ various accumulating micro-alterations to Holden; but he remembered every cum-enhanced wish he and Jamie had expressed to each other. His high-strung, artfully brawny, impossibly ripped across-the-hall crush had muttered bj-wishes for him going back to their first random orgasm together back in the fall. Even then Jamie had struggled to keep up with the unexpected volume of his release. Holden had sheepishly apologized, and Jamie had said, “Heck, I wish you came even more.” And Holden had started doing so, cumming both more abundantly and with greater frequency than he had even the day before that fateful first time that Jamie had chugged his seed. The cum-swallower’s wishes were normally weak, needing to be stacked up and repeated to have a pronounced effect; but—unless he was imagining it, and he didn’t think he was—Jamie’s were just a little bit stronger, at least when it came to their effect on Holden. 

After that, Jamie had started randomly letting himself into Holden’s room for a quick, amazing release. Most of the time these were silent, in-the-dark quickies, like Jamie was topping himself up with Holden’s jizz, but even so Jamie sometimes murmured wishes afterward. The second time Jamie had visited him Holden, embarrassingly, had made an involuntary whimpering sound when Jamie got to leave after, and Jamie had paused, his broad-shouldered, tapered form silhouetted in the door, and he’d whispered “Dream of me” with a smile before disappearing, closing the door after him and leaving Holden in darkness. Holden was now pretty sure that that imperative, with Holden’s cum filling his stomach and goating his gullet, had worked as a curse-wish—mostly because he’d soon become aware of how often he was hooking up with Jamie even as he slept, his slumbering mind imagining all sorts of trashy and romantic scenarios and encounters. (Jamie as a pirate with a black bandana, billowing black blouse, and blazing steel-gray eyes seemed to be a lizard-brain favorite.)

Then there’d been the day Holden had come back from the holiday break and Jamie had hauled him across the hall to his own room for the first time, and somehow that release had been more intense and more real than any of the uncounted orgasms Holden had surrendered to since he’d gotten here. Holden had drunk Jamie’s sharp, savory, high-pressure cum even as he’d blown his gaskets all over them both, and in his bliss he’d retained enough presence of mind to murmur, “I wish you wanted me around more.” And Jamie had casually responded to Holden joking he’d cum down Jamie’s throat whenever he wanted with “I wish.” 

The synergy and intensity of these two wishes had apparently escalated things between them. Jamie was always staring at Holden in all-hands frat meetings, always pulling him aside, always wanting Holden’s cum—and, unlike everyone else, it wasn’t about being sociable and saying hello. It was a rush for Holden beyond his constant state of arousal. Jamie was hands down the sexiest man in the frat from Holden’s perspective, and Jamie wanted Holden’s cum. Not only that, because of the potency of his personality Jamie was more and more fixated on Holden’s place in his life and his routine. He’d even started inviting Holden to join him in his favorite thing in the world, working out; and Holden, sucker that he was, had started going, mostly because that was the kind of thing you did when you were crushing on someone as hard as Holden was. 

Two things soured the lyrical beauty of the situation. First was that Jamie didn’t know about the curse or the wishes. It made Holden uneasy about Jamie’s agency in their budding relationship. A perception filter was a key part of the curse, and it ensured Jamie was blind to the weirdness of giant cocks and the invisible nudges to crave each other that had been amped up by the bj-wishes. Holden wanted to date Jamie properly, but as long as Jamie was in the dark it felt like their increasing closeness was based on false pretenses. 

Second, and in a way countering the first problem, was Jamie’s motivations. Jamie was entirely motivated by his aesthetic achievements in the gym, honing his physique to an almost unbearable perfection, and he’d said more than once he wanted Holden’s cum purely because he was certain its unique properties drove his gains in muscle cut and density. That had brewed some sharp dejection in Holden’s guts; in his more cynical moments, he felt like he was nothing more than Jamie’s creatine shake dispenser. Just give the big lever a pull, and fill up to your heart’s content.

There had to be more, he was sure. Jamie had hung his attraction to Holden on that particular hook, and that worked for him as a pretext. He wasn’t comfortable with his feelings like, say, Anthony, so he rationalized them. His feelings for Holden were there, somewhere.

Holden stood in his room thinking these thoughts when Jamie showed up at his door. Holden was alone for once, the twins having gone to their classes for a change; so it was just the two of them. Jamie was in gym shorts and sneaks, Holden in jeans and a loose tee shirt with his tool stretching the neck out of shape. Jamie stepped into the room and immediately took Holden into his arms and kissed him thoroughly, giving Holden’s hot, thrumming cock a steady stroke as he did so. It was like every other greeting, and yet it wasn’t. The kiss was real, longer and deeper, and the stroke was genuine affection. Holden was sure of it. Holden gripped Jamie’s thick, raging fifteen-inch steel-hard cock in his fist, squeezing it tight, and Jamie didn’t seem to mind. 

They broke the kiss, the older boy with that little flat tight-lipped expression that, compared to his usual slight frown, seemed almost like Jamie’s version of a smile. Jamie took a step back and licked the precum off his fingers that the kiss had sent surging out of Holden’s heavy, sky-high shaft. “Ready for a workout?” he asked.

Holden smiled, stomach fluttering. “Sure.”

Jamie nodded, gray eyes intent as they flicked up to Holden’s glans. “Good. Your cum is even stronger after a pump,” he said with a wink. Holden’s guts twisted slightly, probably killing those poor butterflies, but Jamie didn’t notice. 

Still licking his fingers, Jamie added, “I like your precum, too, but your cum is even better. I wish you came even when you’re not orgasming.” Jamie had made that joke before after tasting Holden’s pre. It occurred to Jamie he had never asked himself whether precum was close enough to cum when ingested to be covered by the curse. Did that count as a bj-wish?

Jamie slid a hand on Holden’s shoulder and led him out of the room. The two of them headed for the school gym, the subsequent pump, and the eruption of spunk that might or might not mean something real to the boy Holden couldn’t convince himself not to like.

The athletic center was vast, with walls of free weights and dozens of stations filling most of the first floor, with the second level mainly devoted to treadmills, spin machines, ellipticals, and rooms for classes in Pilates, Zumba, yoga, and the like, most sponsored by the school’s very active student health bureau. After a quick check-in they wandered toward the back, Jamie lifting his chin to acknowledge the greetings of other regulars they passed without stopping. Once they got to the weights Jamie started loading up a bar with plates and brought it to a nearby mat. Holden had done this enough that he was guessing Jamie intended to start with a bent-over row, one of his favorite exercises for focusing definition, though the weights were lower than he usually chose. Then, much to Holden’s confusion, he left the bar on the mat and stepped back to stand next to Holden. “Go ahead,” he said. 

Holden looked at him in surprise. So far in these workouts Holden had mostly been doing his own small-time workouts at nearby stations where he could watch Jamie—low-impact preacher curls while Jamie hefted serious iron on the inclined bench press, lunges while Jamie pounding squats, that kind of thing. Jamie had that not-smile again. “Do it,” he said, sounding focused and determined as always. “Step up with me. You’ll be even hotter with some real muscle.” 

Holden felt a swell of heat at the words. Thanks to the curse he was already significantly buffer than the tall, wiry nothing he’d been exiting high school. Exertion came more easily now; some days his stamina seemed limitless. But there was real heat in those eyes. Jamie did think he was hot, and this was him saying he’d be even more into him if he slid a little down the scale from mundanely buff to fitness model delicious. He was so used to thinking of brawny, cut gym rats as the “other,” though, that he stalled. “I dunno,” he hedged, giving him a crooked smile.

Jamie bumped their shoulders together. “C’mon… Archie,” he said, eyes glinting.

Holden rolled his eyes. All his life up through high school he’d been called “Archie” owing to the red hair and the handful of faint freckles on his cheeks that, along with his skinny frame, facial structure, and Midwest farmboy upbringing, gave him a passing resemblance to a certain putatively wholesome comics icon. Funnily enough, though, now that he was at college no one taunted him that way anymore. Only Jamie did, and he did it only to push Holden’s buttons in a way that mostly came across as affectionate and even intimate. It was almost like a private name Jamie had just for him. Anyway, his nickname on campus lately seemed to be “Hole,” and a joking “Archie” now and then was a hundred times better than that. Geez, if his parents were going to name him after a literary character, why did it have to be one that went straight to hell with the loss of a single syllable? What would they have named his brother if he’d had one, Pervis? Cumley? Fartholomew?

Holden grabbed the other man by his nape and gave him a playful shake. They were about the same height, Holden maybe an inch past Jamie, though he was aware that both of them were taller than they had been in September by at least a couple of inches. “Don’t call me that, James,” he teased back.

The corners of Jamie’s lips quirked, though a smile was still not in the offing. “C’mon,” he goaded.

Of course, Holden caved. They started on the bent-over rows, Jamie guiding him on his form, then trading out the weights for his own sets with the speed and dexterity of an Indy-car pit crew. They then went through the rest of Jamie’s Wednesday routine, Holden matching Jamie in everything but the number of pounds for each lift. Now that they were working out together, rather than Holden more or less spectating, Jamie treated him as a partner, expecting the same laser focus while giving him raw encouragement so intense it felt like literal power being pushed through his straining flesh and rushing blood. He tried to do the same for Jamie, though as he knew less he didn’t push, just supported. All around them other hardcore students were pumping their own iron, alone or in pairs, and Holden was aware of their attention and approval as Holden and Jamie worked to make each other stronger and hotter.

After the first hour they took a break, leaving the floor for the side area where the vending machines were. A few similarly sweaty students were sitting at the tables, hydrating or downing shakes as they chatted. Jamie and Holden stood near the doorway and shared a large water, eyeing each other’s hard, aroused bodies. Jamie took a long swig and wiped his mouth with a corded forearm. “You do look good pumped,” he said, handing Holden the bottle.

“Thanks,” Holden said, swallowing a few gulps of the cold liquid. He used his wrist to dry his mouth. “You just want me for my body,” he joked, handing the bottle back.

Jamie set the bottle on a nearby empty table and stepped closer. “Not just that,” he said, eyes darkening with lust. 

Holden knew that look. He wanted Holden to kneel for him. With Holden’s cock stretching just past his head there was no other way for Jamie to blow him, and Holden could see exactly how much Jamie needed to make Holden cum, right now. He almost said, “Here?” but the thought that they were in public, with an actual audience of gymgoers watching them, blurred away as a need to be made to cum overpowered Holden, and he was on his knees in front of Jamie before he even realized it, moaning before Jamie even touched him.

He did not have long to wait. Jamie grabbed Holden’s massive shaft with both hands, sliding Holden’s generous foreskin up and down over the sensitive, already-slick head. Holden grunted loudly as he felt his cantaloupe-sized balls start to boil, driving him instantly close to the edge. He was actually so horny he was spurting cum without truly orgasming, the euphoria of a near-climax flooding through him like a never-ending torrent. This was a new thing for him, but it felt almost natural in the presence of Jamie’s hotness. He felt Jamie bend over and start drinking up his steady quantities of pre-orgasmic fluid with delight. “I wish you were always like this with me,” Jamie crooned in between swallows as he continued jacking the upper reaches of his huge, messy prick, making Holden grunt loudly. “Just edging and edging, releasing cum without cumming until I tell you to blow… your… load!”

He felt his orgasm rushing toward him like high-powered ordnance at those last three words. Frantically, Holden pulled down the elastic of Jamie’s gym shorts that were holding his fifteen-incher at the vertical and took the wide head into his mouth. Almost immediately they were cumming hard, blasting cum at each other’s throats. Holden screamed around the head of Jamie’s beautiful hard cock, verging on maxing out his ability to process the amount of pleasure he was experiencing. Holden swallowed, keeping up, inwardly smug he could swallow all of Jamie’s cum while producing so much spunk of his own Jamie could barely keep up with a third of it. Jamie’s spurts tailed off and Holden pulled off, still cumming hard. He panted, staring at the big sweet cock he’d just sucked, and felt the swarm slick of Jamie’s spend in his throat and belly. A dozen wishes flitted through his brain, but even in a climactic haze he rejected all of the ones that would make Jamie do what Holden wanted. He wasn’t ready to be like that to anyone. “I wish,” he whispered finally, licking his cummy lips as his own orgasm finally tailed off, “that your cum was… slightly intoxicating.” Wait, what? Why had he said that? He didn’t want to get drunk on Jamie-cum. Did he?

Meanwhile Jamie, up above, was murmuring his own wish. “Fuck, your orgasms are hot,” he said. “I wish you came twice every time you orgasmed. Yeah, that’s it, two orgasms every time. So hot.” Fuck, Jamie sounded a little high himself. Amazingly, Holden felt an urge to cum again. His balls even tightened again, trying to make it happen. If Jamie repeated that wish…

Holden stood, both exhilarated and self-conscious as he remembered where he was. The other gymgoers in the canteen area were applauding the show, he realized, and more had gathered at the entranceway, doing likewise. Fuck, there was Dr. Killeen in the back of the little crowd, looking sweaty, scrumptious, and very unprof-like in a loose heavy tee with the sleeves torn off. Their gazes met, the young anthropology instructor’s eyes full of heat, and Holden hastily looked away. He smiled weakly at Jamie.

Jamie clapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon,” he said. “Another hour to go. Let’s go build a buffer boy.” They pushed through the crowd, Holden feeling Killeen’s admiring eyes on him as he returned to his newly upgraded workout.

Holden was by himself in the locker area, undressed and feeling sweaty, sore, and very ready to follow Jamie into the showers, when he felt a friendly hand on his shoulder.

He turned and was startled to see Angus Killeen, Malinowski fellow and associate professor of anthropology, standing naked in front of him, a broad smile spreading his well-trimmed goatee. 

Given his perpetual state of man-lust, Holden couldn’t help but scan down the man’s body. He was extremely fit for a member of faculty, though in general the male professorship here had turned out to be better looking than he’d expected before arrival. Killeen looked exceptionally toned, as though he was a diligent adherent of some regimen that focused on core strength, like CrossFit or something. The man’s dusky pecs were firm and square with a delicate fan of dark hair splayed across each mound. His shoulders were square, his arms thick but not bulky, and his abs were flat and rippling, like he could show you a six-pack crunch if he wanted. Below that, a soft uncut cock hung, thick and fairly long for someone not from his frat. He met the prof’s eyes again. 

“Nice to see you, Holden,” Killeen said genially, as though they were meeting in the corridor outside the lecture hall they met in. His hand was still on Holden’s sweaty shoulder. “You were looking very intense out there—”

Before he could think anything else, a sudden need flared up in Holden like a forest fire. His tattoo felt seared into his flesh. His mind seemed to fill with his own blood, and regular thought fled before his need to seduce Angus Killeen. “Stroke me,” he rasped, hardly recognizing his own voice.

If Holden had been more self-aware he might have cringed, but he was falling deeper and deeper into these tattoo-seduction encounters, so much so he was almost a different version of himself—scary to think about after the fact, since he couldn’t control his own actions, but in the moment it felt disturbingly liberating. Besides, even if his willpower were stronger, he’d already had public sex with Jamie in the canteen to the applause and cheers of all and sundry. Plus, he was pretty sure he’d seen one of his frat brothers fucking a short, ubermuscled studmuffin down one of the other locker rows. Armin? He wasn’t sure, he’d only seen the tattoo, but that long, beautifully muscled back and protruding, flat-sided ass looked familiar.

At Holden’s command Killeen’s eyes stilled, and his smile became that of a sybarite invited to service the Master of Hedone. He raised his hands and grasped Holden’s throbbing, scalp-high pillar with the same gesture one might use to throttle an enemy. The fingers wrapped around Holden’s organ, not even close to meeting, and Holden let out a moan just from the mere touch of fingers and palms. Killeen smiled wider, glad to be inducing joy in Holden, and began a slow stroke—except he sent his hands in opposite directions, one up and one down, then reversing, the hands passing each other like two shuttle trains on opposite schedules. Holden moaned louder, sent into a thrall of pleasure at this simple inversion, like a general wrongfooted by an enemy fighting entirely left-handed.

Killeen’s lust-black eyes burned into him. He increased his stroke, and Holden was already at the point of blowing his load, only… he kept riding the edge. He growled at Killeen, not finding any words for his mixed gratification-slash-frustration, but some of what he was feeling seemed to come across. The hunky, tight-bodied prof stepped up his efforts, moving closer as he increased his speed another notch. He leaned in, nuzzling the sensitive underside of Holden’s shaft with his nose, then his dry lips. Hot breath gusted across his cockskin. 

“Oh, fuck,” Holden almost shouted, his voice ringing through the locker room. “Please!” he begged. 

A damp, stone-sculpted body moved in close behind him, and Holden groaned deeply, knowing that the warmth pressing into him from that hot shower had to be Jamie. Hands gripped his firm, thicker-than-they-used-to-be upper arms as a furnace-hot 15-inch ass-spreader slid between Holden’s smooth, hardened thighs. Holden’s sex-haze intensified, filled with the feel of him against him ankles to shoulders. Jamie’s tongue slid along the place where his traps met his neck, and he whimpered.

Killeen was still stroking and nuzzling him, serving him, delighting in his sex-power. But Jamie’s touch was ten times more potent. He wished the man in front of him were Jamie too, that he could be pressed between those hard, shower-heated pecs from both directions. That might make him cum forever. “Mine,” Jamie was murmuring, his teeth rubbing along the muscle of Holden’s shoulder as though he meant to bite, and Holden felt a lightning bolt of excitement course through him. His orgasm rode painfully close to the edge, not pushing over, edging Holden in a way he’d never experienced. 

Killeen was driving his cock to crazy levels of pleasure, bringing mouth and tongue and even his own cock to bear, but Holden credited all the pleasure to Jamie. He had to release… he needed to release…

“That cum,” Jamie murmured, low and intense, “that cum is mine.” 

“Yes,” Holden gasped. He might have worried that it was just the cum that was “mine,” but Holden didn’t care. It was more than the cum. The cum didn’t matter. Everything was cum. 

“Do it,” Jamie growled. Instantly Holden’s edging broke free and he was cumming spectacularly, roaring his pleasure through the locker room and the showers and the whole fucking gym. Jamie held him close, the slick cock fucking his legs emptying spunk all over Holden’s balls and a thrilled Killeen, who was rubbing the ecstasies of extending orgasm out of Holden’s giant dick as cum rained down on him. Then Killeen and Jamie were both hugging him and Holden’s orgasm subsided into a shocking, just as intense second orgasm, an entirely new surge of release tearing through him. Holden screamed, his body ripped apart by pleasure as he geysered cum all over the two men and the lockers around them. 

After what felt like ages he came down from his double high, still in the arms of the two hard-muscled men. It couldn’t have been too long, as the crowd of towel-clad and naked men was still hooting and clapping their approval. Holden gusted his breaths, feeling saturated with the most intense afterglow in the history of mankind. 

They were covered in cum, literally head to toe. Jamie licked a swatch off his neck, then bit his ear and chuckled—actually chuckled. “I need another shower,” he said, low and soft.

Killeen, looking slightly taller and buffer and with a full beard in place of his goatee, winked at him and padded off. Holden leaned against Jamie. He wanted to shower with his cum-craving fratmate, but there was no rush.

Holden missed the days when Costas would bang clamorously on his door to summon him for some probie-related meeting or chore, as disruptive and jarring as a lightning strike ten feet away and about as welcome. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d jolted spasmically at the slam of the pledgemaster’s fist and tossed whatever he was holding into the air like an incompetent juggler, only to suffer the stab of a textbook corner in the cheek or a pen nearly smacking into his eye. He’d stopped bringing glasses of pop up from the kitchen after he’d smashed two in the first month thanks to Sudden Costas Onset Syndrome. After that he always went for the 20-ounce bottles of Coke Zero and made sure he kept the cap on between sips, just in case.

Ever since winter break and the removal of his much-missed, apparently illicit deadbolt, however, Costas no longer did the seizure-inducing fist-slam when he had something to tell Holden. That might have been good news, for Holden as well as the door; but as Holden’s physics professor (claiming to have been misquoted in the Jurassic Park movies) liked to say, equilibrium finds a way.

“Holden!” Costas barked, slamming the door open so aggressively it banged against the wall, sending a timorous ripple through the sister-gifted shirtless Tab Hunter poster he’d given in and blue-tacked up over his bed (because why not). Holden jerked violently at the interruption, dropping his tablet on the desk with an awkward thunk and tossing the contents of the pop bottle he’d been about to swig from all over his bare torso.

Holden glared up at the big man, heart pounding in annoyance as fizzy liquid trickled through the tentative crop of sparse, rust-colored chest hair he’d started surfacing in recent weeks. He opened his mouth to object, but stopped short. He wasn’t intimidated by the pledgemaster’s mythic size or even his choleric, saw-blade personality, mostly, but there was something about the way Costas’s heavy, round, steel-hard girder of a cock pointed right at him, thrust forward at an exact 90-degree angle from Costas’s frame, that always made him choke on his words before he could get them out. It was like staring down a Javelin anti-tank missile.

He seethed silently up at the bigger man instead, but his ridiculously huge cock and oversized balls still managed to undermine his defiance, quivering with hot interest at the endless dark skin overstuffed with packed-on muscle; the shockingly narrow waist for such wide shoulders; the loose, hairy globes of his balls no longer hidden by too-small shorts; and especially that fat, languid glob of cum seeping from that giant, juicy dick of his, so bitter and savory Holden could smell it from two feet away. He swallowed, forcing himself to maintain his insolent Face of Mute Rebuking with an effort.

Costas ignored all of it. “Founders Day meeting downstairs, now.”

Right, the anniversary party. Every year the frat held a little celebration for members and alumni on the day of its founding. What actually happened at these secret galas was somewhat nebulous; all Holden had been able to gather was that there were certain traditions and rituals involved. Recent experience told him that frat rituals such as these tended to lead to some kind of literally spectacular humiliation where Holden was concerned, he was strongly motivated to give it a miss.

This was the first he was hearing of meetings being involved, anyway. “What—?” he started to say.

Costas’s eyes glinted, and his cock squeezed, listing slightly and pushing a little more goo out of the slit. Holden tried not to stare at it and kept his eyes on the other man’s.

“Founder’s Day is a privilege, probie, and I’m going to make you work for it,” Costas said.

“Ah,” Holden said, firmly pushing down the mental image of Costas making him “work for it.” Wait—if going to the party was earned, maybe goldbricking was his way out of attending. “Um, no thanks?”

Costas leaned toward him, making his shoulders look even more like they were hewn from big, grumpy boulders. “I’m assigning positions in order of attendance at the meeting,” he said ominously, his voice dangerously smooth. “You better come now, or you’ll regret it later.”

Holden shivered. His balls tightened and his cock firmed to a straining, near-orgasm tightness, as though in helpless somatic response to Costas’s usual unintentional innuendo. “O-okay,” he said, forcing down his release with an effort. “I’ll be down in a sec.”

Costas eyed him skeptically. “You’d better come,” he growled.

Holden whimpered loudly at the ambiguous command. At the same time, torrential pleasure surged in Holden’s gonads, yearning to break free. “I will! I promise,” he gritted out.

Reluctantly, Costas left, but the sight of his perfectly round, adamantium-hard globes shifting as he walked out forced Holden’s orgasm loose with a scream, and the instant the door was clear Holden exploded in a messy, gushing release, his first blazing orgasm closely followed by a second one slamming through him as tended to be the case these days. Usually, they arrived in close succession, unless he was close to satiated from hours of cumming—then it might drop down to a single orgasm. Holden regretted even having been able to find that out, the exercise having involved the twins coming at him multiple times one night, with Jamie finding him for an intense session of his own in between.

Finally his vision cleared, only to see the twins standing in his doorway, drinking in the sight of a cum-covered Holden with obvious relish. They were looking almost swole lately, their muscles having thickened to almost the definition of smoothly chiseled aesthetic beauty, but after Costas the grinning six-foot hunks with their matching, always-leaking wang-towers looked positively demure. He blinked at them, heart still pounding manically from the double orgasm, his throat raw from his uncontrollable howls of pleasure.

“Ready, Hole?” one said.

“We came to get you,” the other added with a wink.

Holden sighed inwardly, hoping they meant they were getting him for the meeting. Suddenly, a dull planning get-together for the fraternity’s stolid past membership sounded like exactly what he needed.

It was late that night before Holden got back to what he’d been up to when he’d been interrupted for the Founders Day planning and task assignment meeting (which had been just as dull as anticipated). Ironically, he’d been reviewing his notes and scanned documents from his research so far into the creation of the fraternity and the very founders being honored at next week’s fête.

He would have pinned his hopes on finding out what he needed to at the event itself, but unless Holden had a chance to quiz one of the original class of 1874 about the curse he didn’t see how the celebrations help him advance his understanding of what had happened to him and all his house brothers. He very much doubted any of the original members would by prying himself out of his coffin on a mission to join more modern counterparts in a night of ginger ale fruit punch and self-congratulatory speeches extolling service and brotherhood. Too bad—that would have been a big help, he thought sourly.

So far he hadn’t found much. The fraternity’s eight founders had included a railroad magnate’s son named Ronald Fries, which Holden always got a kick out of wrongly mispronouncing in his head. (Alas, he seemed not to have a large Scottish friend named Big Mac that Holden could find, nor was there a co-founder named anything like Mr. Coke.) It was his railroad heir’s money that had purchased the building and the land that it stood on, and expressly for the use of the fraternity. The fraternity was then incorporated as a nonprofit service organization, and the house and land were deeded to thereto in perpetuity for a nominal sum. This meant that the university had never had a role in establishing or developing the fraternity, which at least helpfully closed off a potentially time-consuming labyrinth of research. Any archives the school possessed were those provided by the frat on request; the origination of everything to do with Phi Epsilon Lambda from its formal establishment onwards had been within these walls.

Holden considered his documents as the building he was reading about slept, its denizens likewise snoozing away the wee hours or finding mutual pleasure in quiet privacy. A blob of slick, translucent precum dropped onto the desk from his extremely heavy and very-much-not-slumbering tool, but Holden only angled the way he was sitting so as not to soil his tablet.

Two possibilities presented themselves. The first was that the curse was started here in the building, maybe via some thaumaturgical ritual. He could picture the eight men, naked, buff, and hard, gathering in the building’s dark basement and seating themselves in a circle around a summoning pentagram promising some archdemon the sexual energy of a hundred generations of Phi Ep brethren in exchange for incremental increases in size, strength, and potency.

The records of such a conjuration would therefore have to have been secreted here, somewhere. The unknown officers who’d ludicrously overaccelerated the parameters of the curse this year had to have found some documents or trace of the spell in order to alter it as they had, either by repeating the summoning or (more likely) somehow altering the original terms. Was it as simple as changing the wording on a magical contract that was the physical manifestation of the curse? Or was there something more arcane, like the original summoning circle still etched in a hidden foundation, requiring only the alteration of a mark or rune to escalate the measure of the year’s cock growth from inches to feet.

The second, and to Holden’s thinking less likely, possibility was that Fries or one of the other seven founders was already cursed before joining the frat, and had passed it on to the others when they had formed a solemn social and collegial bond between them. This result was either accidental, the same way they passed across bonds of marriage or other union in the metaphysical lore of certain cultures, or deliberate. In the latter case, the transfer would have been accomplished by a ritual conducted here in the building, in which case he would still find the clues he needed here and not elsewhere. For a curse that originated elsewhere and passed unintentionally to the fraternity members, finding more information would become exponentially more difficult.

But Holden was sure his trail ended here, for two reasons. First, the conspirators who upped the ante this year must have had knowledge of and access to a physical aspect of the curse (like the 1874 version of a control panel) or to the ritual itself. Unless one of their number was a scion of one of the founding families and had prior knowledge of the curse, that pointed to everything being here, close at hand.

Second, Holden was convinced the curse wasn’t connected to formal membership in the frat. After all, he had started experiencing growth and a ramp-up in horniness from the first week he’d been here; and the same had been true of Huan and Hank, so it wasn’t about being a legacy nominee. He was sure that the curse was bound to the building. Maybe it applied to anyone who slept overnight, or maybe it was whoever made a conscious decision to stay here, but it seemed clear to him that living in the Phi Ep house was one of the key factors.

Unfortunately there was no obvious way to test this theory, seeing as all of the current brotherhood lived in the building, and everyone on campus with ties to the frat (such as Anthony’s calc prof with the nice ass) was an alumnus, not a current member. He could try moving out himself, but he didn’t think that would go over very well. Plus he had to admit that he really didn’t want to be anywhere Jamie wasn’t. And the chances of Jamie moving out of his beloved fraternity to set up housekeeping in a sweet little off-campus one-bedroom with Holden were as zero as zero could be.

Holden realized he was stroking himself as he thought of Jamie, letting his intense lust for the intense, ash blond gym rat with the steel-gray eyes and that kissable almost-smile get the better of him. This was not a reassuring development, he thought. How long before he was helplessly stroking himself all the time, unable to stop his hands, mouth, and tongue from pushing his body toward the incomparable physical bliss of orgasmic release?

He growled a little in his throat. Maybe what was necessary was asserting dominance over his own actions rather than letting his hands and cock do what they wanted.

Holden let out a long breath and began stroking himself more deliberately, feeling a fresh reassurance in tying his much-needed physical gratification to his own willpower and the choices he made while bringing it about. His shaft slickened dramatically as his precum production spiked, smearing his jaw and shoulders with the usual slippery muck. He moved a hand to his hefty balls, now the size of small melons, and felt a harmony of sensations as he worked balls and cock like a virtuoso, as confident as a master cellist soloing front and center, a philharmonic of personal pleasure backing his fluid strokes and dips.

He imagined a phantom audience before him, the eight founders manifesting faintly in the room through his fluttering eyes, stroking themselves in encouragement and praise of Holden. They watched, joining his pleasure as they chanted silently, praising and supporting him, or mouthing perhaps the very words of the ancient ritual that had made him this supernatural beast melding humanity and sex. His sensations escalated and intensified, the very air around him saturating with lust and the promise of cum. He gasped and then started to moan loudly, breaking the silence of the night. Other, distant moans from elsewhere in the house arose with his, or seemed to—Holden was losing his grip on any reality beyond the pleasure jangling through every part of him. A tidal wave surged through Holden and he instantly started to cum, spewing his seed as he screamed his blinding ecstasy, finally subsiding only to surge again without respite, setting Holden alight with more incandescent pleasure than he thought he could ever bear.

The Phi Epsilon Lambda Founders Day anniversary bash was being held not in the house but in the university’s presidential club, a sprawling, poshly decorated space occupying much of the topmost floor of the main admin building. To Holden’s thinking it was an odd place to celebrate a bunch of fratboys, replete as it was of oak walls, leather chairs, and expensive Persian rugs; though the latter at least had been prudently rolled up and stowed away beforehand by the party committee, namely himself and his fellow probies Hank and Huan, under the unforgiving eye of their pledgemaster and the other officers.

Holden watched his elder office-holding frat brothers as he finalized the checklist Costas had given him, going through the main area and the attached side rooms and make sure things were ready, like the catering staging area in side room D being ready to go and ensuring that there were plenty of mops at the ready. For some reason.

Vitek, the fraternity president, was hobnobbing with a few silver-haired early arrivals; by their dress and grooming these seemed to be either university bigwigs or distinguished Phi Ep alumni. (Or both—it only now occurred to him to wonder how much of the administration, not to mention the very handsome faculty, were past members of the frat.) The prexy looked almost normal in his tailored suit despite the muscular build and disproportionate pecs that for Holden contrasted starkly with the slimmer appearance he’d had when he’d met him… not to mention the really obvious bulge of his long, flat erection pushing up under the fine pink-tinged piqué dress shirt that ran all the way to his chest. Holden hoped he was wearing a condom to keep from leaking all through that premium fabric—unlike himself and the twins, who’d been instructed to work the party shirtless as some kind of mini-hazing. His anus squeezed at the sight of that bulge. He might have fallen for Jamie, harder than he was ready to admit, but his little side-craving for Vitek’s cock up his ass didn’t seem to be going away.

Nearby the prexy and his conversants was Dave, the brown-haired frat secretary, looking downright mundane as he silently catalogued the arriving guests, making notes on a tablet. Holden had to assume there was a bit of fundraising going on as a part of tonight’s festivities, as was only natural when a bunch of established alumni were about, though donation-pandering didn’t seem to be the primary purpose of the event. The alumni seemed less reserved and more… jolly, with big smiles and broad shoulders. Even the ones in their sixties looked hale and athletic, greeting each other with grins and bear hugs. Tonight was about being a part of the frat’s history, not shoring up its ledgers.

It probably wasn’t needed, anyway. Thanks to his research he knew the house was free and clear with no mortgage, and the property tax was covered by the university as part of the original incorporation deal. The frat had quite a bit of sway back then, and probably still. Even the water, gas, and electric were grandfathered in with the local providers at a ridiculously low rate. Holden wouldn’t be surprised if the frat’s main expense was beer and Cheetos. Any remaining liabilities to take care of were covered, like catering this party and renting the space (assuming there wasn’t more sway involved and it wasn’t a gimme from sympathetic admin types). The fall strip show alone had seriously overflowed their coffers, so much so the frat probably had money to burn for the rest of the year.

Thinking about his role in that particular escapade only reminded him there was another, even bigger show still to come at the end of the semester—the grand finale, as it were, to his first year in Phi Ep. Holden groaned and focused his attention on what was left of his list, putting off stressing about that humiliation for another day, hopefully one as distant as he could make it.

The DJ in the corner started up the music as more members and alumni arrived. Holden moaned again as the song filled the room. It wasn’t the light classical he’d expected. No, it was fricking “You Can Leave Your Hat On.”

That was not a good omen. He remembered his ancient history class and how the Romans thought everything that went wrong was due to divine umbrage, the nature and extent of which was revealed through hints and prodigies—like, for example, the stupid hipster DJ with his stupid soul patch playing the very song Holden had so spectacularly blown his load to at the strip show in front of thousands of people… many of them here tonight. If he were a superstitious ancient Roman he’d definitely be appeasing the gods right now, trying everything he could think of to stay their wrath. Come to think it, maybe it was worth a shot anyway. It was probably some arcane ritual that had got him into this mess, so a few fervent pleas to Jupiter might not be out of line.

He looked around, trying to remain inconspicuous, but the crowd was already heating up, filling the space around him. His fellow frat members were greeting each other as they always did these days, with a grope and a quick kiss, and this intimate manner of greeting was escalating to his brothers’ encounters with the happy, hunky alumni. Holden’s stomach twisted as he realized the premium Holden-only version with deep kisses and amorous cock-strokes being picked up by others outside the frat was only a matter of time. Even as he thought this, his rapidly swelling sense of arousal seemed to expand outward from his muscular chest, subtly filling the space around him. Illusion? Metaphor?

There were too many people, too many cocks. He’d never been alone with so many Phi Ep men before. He could smell the cum, the sweat, the musk of a hundred augmented men, with more arriving every minute. He couldn’t think straight. His chaos and his need to cum were taking over, and he suddenly realized there was only one thing that could steady him—his rock, his man of stone-hard body and heat-forged will. He needed Jamie, and at the same time he was hating himself for his weakness in the face of his overpowering id and eroding ego; but it didn’t matter. He needed Jamie, but Jamie wasn’t there.

As he panicked the room seemed to revolve, with him increasingly in the middle. Somehow, in spite of his intent to stay back, everyone seemed to be swirling around him, approaching one by one like he was the center of eddy, a horny, magnetic, giant-cocked Charybdis twisting the tide of the party around him, drawing all of them into the abyss.

First was Loren the white-haired swimmer in a natty suit jacket and no shirt, greeting him with a “Hey, Holden” and a kiss accompanied by a long stroke that made him sputter with warmth. Armin the choreographer came next, his kiss tasting spicy for some reason—Holden hoped that wasn’t the residue of something illicit. Dave kissed him, like the others, but seemed more intent on his two-handed caress, making Holden surge close to orgasm before he forced it down. Anthony approached after him with an easy smile that quickly became a very tonguey kiss and the handsiest, friendliest cock-grope yet.

More of the brothers came in for the Holden-greeting, moving away afterward into the arms of brothers he’d already made out with as newcomers took their turn. Beyond lay a ring of anonymous, dark-suited, well-proportioned alumni, watching the show with enthusiasm. Were they waiting to join in? Would he be mauled and pleasured by all and sundry? He lost track of the brothers he was making out with as they jerked his giant cock. Costas, surprisingly tender with his tongue as his outthrust cock shoved past Holden’s balls. Cory, the cute, compactly muscled economics major with the little moaning noises. Dwight, sheepish at first with his towering erection (which stood even taller than Holden’s), but a truly passionate kisser—in fact he was so focused on the almost revelatory snog he barely touched Holden’s bucking wang. Of course, the twins made up for that, sneaking in after Dwight. The two made sure to kiss him together and use all four hands on his needy cock, once again driving Holden almost to the point of explosion before ceding him to Vitek, ganging up on a blushing Dwight as a consolation prize.

Vitek kissed him tenderly, like a big brother proud of his younger bro, his hands roving Holden’s cock in a way that somehow seemed to be driving him toward an orgasm that this time he wouldn’t be able to hold back. As he broke the kiss, still stroking, the prexy leaned in next to Holden’s ear and murmured, “I think you’re a shoo-in for this year’s Founders’ Boy.”

Holden didn’t have to know the specifics of what being “Founders’ Boy” entailed to know it was the opposite of a quiet end to the night. Even as he thought this his orgasm finally erupted, showering all the cheering brothers and alumni clustered around him with incredible amounts of cum as he screamed loud enough to shake the chandeliers, subsiding long enough to happen again, punishing him with a second dose of wild euphoria that seemed to radiate out from him through the assembled hunkitude like the shock wave of an exploding star.

After Vitek and the double orgasm, the alumni did start greeting him, though more demurely than the brothers for the most part, he was pretty sure. It was hard to tell specifics in the state he was in. A swift kiss and stroke was the norm, though sometimes it was more than one at once, and others lingered to run a hand across his back or trace the curve of his ass. Wait—where had his fancy dress pants gone? How was he naked? Not that it mattered, but… seriously, who the fuck took his pants?

More men swam around him. He heard Vitek borrowing the hipster DJ’s mic and making some announcements that seemed to engage the crowd in lively discussion, though Holden was too busy receiving the kiss and touch of scores of handsome men in succession to follow. The only thing he could be grateful for was the fact that he was so distracted, and everyone so willing, his tattoo never fired up once and demanded he control and seduce all of the men clamoring to touch his body, lips, and cock.

It sounded like some kind of voting was taking place, as there were calls and shouts and hurrahs from the whole gathering. His last name was in there somewhere, he heard it distinctly, but as he was turning toward Vitek in shock Jorge the hot calc prof appeared in front of him, grinning wide. He folded Holden and his monster dick in a tight embrace abetted by a kiss a little deeper than the others—Holden could only guess that regular doses of Anthony’s tattoo-ravishing, not to mention his cum, likely having unconsciously primed him to act more like the brothers.

Then he was being bundled toward the front of the room, and Vitek wrapped a powerful arm around his gradually broadening shoulders. “It’s a consensus!” Vitek announced cheerfully into the mic, pulling me closer. “I’m proud to announce that the Phi Epsilon Lambda Founders’ Boy for this, our sesquicentennial year, is Holden Wyatt!”

“What?” Holden said sharply, turning to Vitek in alarm. His ability to concentrate seemed to snap into focus a bit better, but he had no clue what was going on other than a gut feeling he didn’t want to know what was coming next (as it were).

Vitek offered him a winning smile, and Holden suddenly had an image of the prexy as a successful CEO, winning over shareholders with his confidence, his sex appeal, and the subliminal presence of that long, not-so-secret, ab-nuzzling cock. “Now, Holden,” Vitek said, the sound system carrying his voice through every corner of the venue, “as Founders’ Boy you will of course have a court of stewards, chosen by your man-at-arms and chief attendant. Who will it be? Who do you nominate to take the best possible care of you tonight?”

Feverishly, Holden scanned the attendees, looking for Jamie. The twins had their hands up, grinning maniacally, as though Holden would ever willingly put himself in their charge. He was looking for those steel eyes and that hard expression, but Jamie was either hiding or hadn’t shown up yet.

“Well?” Vitek nudged coyly, his tone that of a waiter who knew he was offering too many outstanding choices to pick from, and enjoyed making the diner squirm. “Who’s your choice, Founders’ Boy?”

Vitek moved the microphone in front of Holden’s face expectantly. Feeling pressured to speak, Holden kept looking through the crowd as he stammered, “I-I’d like my chief attendant to be—”

He stopped cold, having hit on a beaming, bearded face amidst all the others that he hadn’t at all been expecting. “—Dad?!”

“Norman Wyatt it is!” Vitek announced cheerfully, to the happy applause and supportive cheers of the assembled hotties of all eras. Just to make it weirder, the DJ played a little prerecorded fanfare as the assembly hooted and hollered, many of them, as alumni, more clued in than Holden as to what was to come.

Vitek gestured to Holden’s dad like a game show host calling up a contestant from the audience. “Get up here, Norm, and choose your court!”

“Wait—no!” Holden cried, realizing what had just happened a step behind everyone else. “I didn’t—that wasn’t—!!” But it was too late. Norm was already in front of his naked, extremely aroused son and taking him into his strong embrace. His familiar scent wound around Holden, making his cock stiffen and his pulse speed up with memories of his increasingly sybaritic winter break.

“Happy Founders Day, son! I’m so proud!” Norm cooed, before moving in for possibly the sweetest, sexiest, and most beautiful kiss of the whole night so far.

Holden broke from the kiss and stared with a kind of horrified lust at his father’s bronze-bearded, beaming face. “Dad,” he said, breathless and a little stunned. He was unable to make his mind work, or pull his bruised lips more than an inch or two from his father’s. There were a hundred ebulliently sexy men of all ages and walks of life gathered noisily around them, secretly united by the common bond of a subtly hunkifying fraternity curse that this year had been turned up not just to 11 but to a million kajillion, but Holden couldn’t focus on anything but the brawny man in front grasping his flanks and licking the taste of him from rare-steak-red lips he knew only too well. “What–what are you doing here?” he managed to ask at last.

Norman Wyatt grinned wider. “You think I’d miss your first Founders Day?” he teased. He made it sound like a rite of passage more than a party, like a bar mitzvah with extra jizz. “I’m so proud!” he added, and he really seemed to be.

Norm slid his hands down from Holden’s sides, and then, instead of the usual shaft-stroke he’d been getting as matter of course, Norm held his gaze and cupped Holden’s hairy, soccer-ball-sized nuts. They tightened immediately in response, as though they’d been waiting for Norm to find them and treat them with the respect they deserved. A shockwave of giddy stimulation crashed through him, forcing a yell out of his lips as a gout of hot semen shot helplessly straight up his rigid, fat, grain silo of a cock and toss itself majestically into the air behind him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck!!“ Holden screamed, not taking his eyes away from his jubilant dad’s. His throat was already feeling worn, but Holden’s ability to keep from vocalizing his pleasure at top volume was firmly a thing of the past. Any control he had left couldn’t be squandered on something so ancillary as shrieking his pleasure at every eruption of climactic release, however minuscule.

The crowd of brothers and alumni cheered at this, weirdly to Holden’s mind, the same way they might have if Holden had raised his fist and proclaimed the eternal greatness of Phi Ep and its legacy. A chant started somewhere and stole rapidly through the mass of handsome onlookers, building to a repeated, rhythmic shout: “Foun-ders’ boy! Foun-ders’ boy! FOUN-DERS’ BOY!“

Holden gaped at the happily shouting mob. This phrase, iterated so insistently, sounded like it, too, had a meaning that was known to everyone but Holden. There was an edge of demand to the call, like some tradition was being summoned or invoked, a little impatiently even, by the assembled crowd.

“I’m so proud,” Norm repeated as the thundering chant filled the poshly-decorated room. His father’s eyes were bright with genuine feeling as he gently squeezed Holden’s massive balls, forcing another cry of pleasure out of him.

Vitek still had the DJ’s mic and used it to speak over the shouts of the crowd. “Now, now,” he said, grinning wide at his audience, “we all know what’s in store. But first, our chief attendant, Norm, must choose the court of squires whose role is to service their gentle prince!”

Vitek, meanwhile, had handed the mic to Holden’s dad, as a shout of “Norm!” erupted from a sizable contingent of the more-than-slightly-lubricated crowd. This was followed by a ripple of laughter.

“That’s right, I’m back,” Norm replied good-naturedly, turning to face the crowd with a wave. He looked at ease in a nice extra-large navy suit that fit him well in spite of him seeming packed into it (especially in the legs and shoulders), a supple white shirt, and that dark green tie Holden’s mom had bought him that set off his eyes. Back home, Norm was friendly enough but not always gregarious with strangers; here, though, speaking to the crowd of alumni and brothers, he was in his element. “And I’m drinking all your beer! But before that, I have the distinct honor and solemn duty of filling four extremely prestigious openings in the Founders’ Court!”

The crowd cheered, Holden’s brothers as caught up in the proceedings as the veteran members. Why weren’t they as confused as Holden was? Belatedly it occurred to him that the party was annual, however special this sesquicentennial might be—which meant that out of everyone in the room, only he and the twins were in the dark as to what was coming. He caught sight of Hank and Huan in the middle of the crowd. Their bare, muscular shoulders and identically youthful faces stood out from the hooting assembly physically, but their red-faced enthusiasm was as fervent as anyone else’s. Holden felt uncomfortably like he’d been mind-swapped into the body of a rock star meeting his craziest, loudest fans.

Standing behind Norm as he now was forced a totally unexpected sense of disorientation as he realized an impossible thing had happened: he was bigger than his lumberjack-sized dad. In every way. The once-puny son was taller, his shoulders were wider, his muscles were thicker… and of course, while his dad’s cock and balls were well above average, Holden’s junk was so off the charts that the comparison was meaningless, like comparing mice and mammoths. Only in all-over, virile hairiness did his dad surpass him, and even here Holden had to admit he was sporting a lot more russet-red coverage lately, in various places on his heroic bod, than he’d ever expected to see.

He was once that skinny, pale, and unremarkable kid everyone singled out as the runt of the whole village, and his dad had been his own in-home Superman, a Paul Bunyan knock-off with a body type entirely alien to his own. It was, in his childhood, the kind of physique he didn’t even dare to dream he might achieve no matter how much spinach he ate. And now, here he was, looming over this burly, hard-muscled bull of a man like a Zeus dwarfing his sylphlike Ganymede.

“Jesus,” he breathed, unheard by anyone but himself amidst all the constant huggermugger. Unnerved and aroused by the new size dynamic, Holden stepped back instinctively, as though his body were seeking some kind of escape; but Dave and Armin, who were standing behind him, gripped his bare, well-muscled arms and held him in place. “Where you going, Wyatt?” Dave cooed in his ear, his murmur barely audible under the still-deafening shouts and cheers of the excited mob. “We’re just getting to the good stuff!”

His tone was so mischievously suggestive that Holden looked at the brown-haired frat secretary in alarm, but Dave just winked as he and Armin more-or-less forcibly repositioned him in the place of honor behind Norm. The arousal hit him all over again, and a fat glob of hot cum dripped from his glans onto Holden’s bulging, bare shoulder. It rested there a moment before oozing slowly over the edge of his trapezius and slipping down his wide, spunk-steaked back.

While Holden was dealing with his size issues relating to his dad, Vitek had retrieved a crisp, cream-colored card with some handwritten notes on it. This he now handed to Norm. “Let the ceremony begin!” Norm enthused. He glanced cheerily over at Holden. “First, though, our prince for the night seems to be missing his regal accommodation?”

Vitek grinned and signaled to Dave and Armin, who left Holden’s side to retrieve something from the little closed-off side room behind the DJ. Holden had a weird feeling this would be something sexual that would figure in yet another public humiliation, and he wasn’t quite ready for them to install the Buttplug of Rassilon or whatever in front of a cheering crowd. When they brought out a heavy, tall-backed Gothic throne, complete with red velvet cushions and gilded everything else, he wasn’t much relieved. The crowd hooted, and this time they snapped their fingers instead of clapping, as if the frat had its own form of applause that was used only on this occasion. It was louder than Holden would have expected in the enclosed space, like an army of angry crickets. The widely set throne was placed directly before the assembly, and Dave and Armin guided him into it, making it clear he had no choice in the matter. Holden sighed and settled into his ornate seat, glad to find it was at least comfortable, with padding up the rectangular back piece as well as under his ass. No secret buttplug, either. I hope the fabric is washable, he thought grimly, glancing up at his heat-radiating, cum-spitting fucktool.

Vitek and some other officers cleared a space in front of Holden’s throne, preparing for the next stage of the ceremony. “Now, as you know,” Norm announced into the mic, turning back to the assembled alumni and brethren and gathering everyone’s attention (though still with plenty of quiet murmurs), “there are four slots for the worthies of our court.” He held up the card Vitek had handed him. “These four secret questions are as old as the fraternity itself, never revealed beyond our membership, sealed by our lips. These will determine who shall stand with my honored son!” More cheers and finger-snaps greeted this pronouncement. Holden gulped.

Norm lifted a hand as though proselytizing. “The choice must be by consensus among the current membership,” he continued, eyeing the sexy brethren mixed through assembled alumni, as though acknowledging they were justifiably cocky in aspect and allure. “Set your egos aside and shout only the truth!”

The crowd cheered and snapped again, and Norm consulted the card and began reading the questions with all the melodrama of a town crier or a showboating lawyer. “The first squire shall be chosen thus: Who among the current brethren, excepting only the Founders’ Boy, possesses… the… largest… prick?”

A shout of “Dwight! Dwight! Dwight!” went up immediately from the current membership scattered through the throng. Dwight, with his long, blood-tinged prick towering over his head, blushed as red as his shaft. Vitek pulled the sophomore from the crowd and led him to a spot in front of Holden and to the right of his throne, as if Holden really were a prince and Dwight were a genuine courtier. The alumni hooted and snapped their fingers again.

Holden watched Dwight as he self-consciously took his position, feeling no small amount of empathy for his friend, whose record-breaking fencepost cock had to be the product of a quiet, horny introvert resorting to a ridiculous amount of jack-off time behind closed doors. Probably that’s where he wants to be right now, Holden thought, a little fondly. Anywhere but a social event with a hundred hot guys cheering for him. He and Dwight were kindred spirits in this regard, if nothing else.

Even as he thought this, Dwight looked up suddenly and caught Holden’s gaze, and a strange pang of almost supernatural connection hit him. Holden stared into those beautiful pale blue eyes, knowing something was being kindled between them. Dwight being named his squire wasn’t a momentary conceit of the ridiculous party—it was something real, both metaphysical and empathetic, seeding into the horny, quiet sophomore a genuine and lasting sense of responsibility for the pleasure and protection of his so-called prince. It has to be the spell, Holden thought, seeing warm acceptance and willingness kindle in those keen blue eyes, sparking in turn an answering flare of connection somewhere in his chest.

Holden was fascinated by this new strand added to his relationship with this quiet brother he’d eaten and shared jokes with but had struggled to get to know, caught up in his problems as he’d been like a self-centered dick. Was the new connection already set, he wondered, or must it be confirmed and locked in place by the completion of the ritual, like that night at the country house? Of course, if he knew his curse mechanics, the clincher would almost certainly be Founders’ Boy spunk… and the magic never seemed to have a problem making Holden-cum happen, in embarrassing abundance wherever and whenever possible.

“Excellent!” Norm enthused. Holden blinked, forcing his gaze with difficulty back onto his dad’s broad, sturdy back. “The second squire shall be chosen thus: Who among the current brethren has most often seen the Founders’ Boy… completely and sinfully naked?”

The response to this one was not as immediate, but there was only a mortifying second or two of delay before someone, maybe Costas, confidently shouted “Hank and Huan!” The names were quickly taken up in agreement among the brothers. “Hank-and-Huan! Hank-and-Huan! Hank-and-Huan!”

The twins cheered and pumped their fists like they had won the fuck lottery. Vitek guided them to the position on Norm’s left, opposite Dwight and looking as stoked as he was chagrinned. They held each other close, one in front and one behind, and even Holden could no longer be sure which of the two identical hugely-hung shirtless twunks was which. Holden had been slightly relieved when they were chosen, thinking they’d filled two slots at once and the ordeal was almost over, but the two of them were evidently going to share a single berth, which figured.

“I had a feeling we’d be seeing you up here,” Norm told them, and the twins smirked. They were, unfortunately, adorably sexy and almost irresistible when they were cocky, which was most of the time. Holden was a little disgusted with himself to realize that he wanted to lick their smirk-dimples.

The twins’ eyes met his, just as Dwight’s had, and Holden felt the same innovation in their relationship snap into place. With them, it was different, of course—Dwight had been friendly but self-isolating, barely noticed amid the more dynamic personalities of the frat; whereas Hank and Huan had always been animated, engaged, and increasingly obsessed with Holden’s junk. Or maybe just with Holden? Sure, they were shameless size queens and always trying to get Holden to blow a load, but as he felt the solid, reassuring weight of their squires’ burden settle between them, he could sense that it was in some ways merely a refinement of Hank and Huan’s authentic desire to give Holden pleasure—as much pleasure as possible, and then some. Of course, the most direct route to that pleasure was via the constant double-teaming of Holden’s gigantic tool. Holden let out a breath of resignation as his heavy cock twitched against his shoulder under the heat of the twins’ mischievous and hungry stare.

Holden’s dad was already continuing the ceremony. “All right! The third squire shall be chosen thus!” he announced, eyes scanning the crowd like a game show host looking for his next housewife. Man, Dad’s really getting into this, Holden thought. “Who among the current brethren has… the most conquests among the student body?”

To Holden’s surprise, the response was an immediate “Anthony! Anthony! Anthony!” Holden blinked in surprise as the smiley, naturally built, usually-stroking hunk was positioned next to Dwight. Then again, Holden had seen Anthony seducing people on campus a few times, professors and fellow students both. He’d even provided Holden with the first hints of how the tattoo power worked on non-frat members. The combination of ridiculously likable and constantly horny probably made for a lot of encounters. Anthony took his position and waved genially with his free hand—the other was busy casually stroking the stubby, uncut 13-inch erection shoving indomitably out of the open fly of his black dress trousers.

Holden felt his connection forming with the smiley, upbeat brown-eyed blond even before their gazes met, and Anthony gave him a happy, encouraging grin and a thumbs up with his free hand. Holden’s heart warmed as his answering flame blazed for the sexy, tight-bodied, unsculpted hunk. He almost wished he were a real prince, because here was someone who would fight for him, not because he was a warrior at heart but because he was made of love. Love and Lucky Charms, he thought, amused. He pictured Anthony seated at Arthur’s Round Table, cheerfully scooping up breakfast cereal while he read an illustrated manuscript of the Elder Edda, casually and relentlessly beating himself off the whole time.

“Well chosen,” Norm concurred. “And now… the fourth and final squire of our celebrated Founders’ Boy, Holden Wyatt, shall be chosen thus! I ask you, members of Phi Epsilon: Who… among the current brethren… holds… the prince’s… Heart?”

The briefest hush fell as the alumni held their breath for this all-important response. Holden’s stomach fell, and his body tensed like steel. He almost hoped there would be no answer from the crowd, except he knew that that mortification would be even worse an exposure than the truth.

An eon passed, though in truth it was only a second. Then, as if on cue, from the back of the crowd came the bang of the double doors being thrown open followed by an angrily shouted “I do!”

The alumni roared loud enough to make the oil paintings shiver on the walls as the current membership shouted “Jamie! Jamie! Jamie!” A path opened in the crowd and a glowering Jamie appeared. To Holden he looked unbearably scrumptious. Holden was used to seeing him sweaty and mussed in gymwear or boxer briefs, but shaved and properly attired he looked like a god, his fitted tuxedo suiting him so perfectly he might have been born to royalty.

Jamie strode through the cacophony, not looking at anyone—not even Holden—and took his place next to the twins as everyone else shouted themselves hoarse.

Holden wanted to fall right through the floor and keep going, straight to hell. His crush on Jamie had been an agonizing, secret thing, their nascent, mostly sexual relationship barely acknowledged by the most gossamer of hints and habits. No one was supposed to know, much less care. Jamie had to be furious! Holden’s heart felt crushed in a vise, even as he shivered with lust and need at the sight of his lover looking more gorgeous and sexy than Holden had ever seen him.

Then Jamie looked up, and the fierceness of that fiery stare literally took Holden’s breath away. Jamie’s passion burned through Holden, far surpassing the strand of connection layering between them from the squire’s bond. Jamie was angry, but his anger was only from having to share Holden with everyone else. Shamed understanding bled from Holden’s heart. Jamie hadn’t been using him, not for sex and not for the subtle improvements to his workouts that Holden’s cum gave him, because Jamie’s driving need wasn’t sex or muscle; nor was it love, or mischief, or whatever else motivated the petty fools around him. Jamie craved the partnership of a solid, reliable, honest man, his fated mate, and his heart had latched onto Holden, whether Holden felt worthy or not.

Another stab struck him as he remembered what Jamie had confirmed just now to the entire membership of Phi Epsilon, past and present. Holden knew, with utter clarity, that Jamie did not lie. When he had announced he was Holden’s man, he had meant it.

Staring into Jamie’s hot, steel-gray eyes, feeling totally overcome, Holden could not stop a sudden mini-orgasm from shooting up his enormous shaft. He cried out, cum spurting from him as his body burned with a hundred emotions. The whole time, he did not take his eyes from Jamie, and Jamie did not look away.

All of this took a mere moment. At the same time, and as though unaware of the drama taking place behind him, Norm beamed at the crowd and lifted his mic. “And now, my brothers, comes the last stage of the secret rite! The solemn Hour you have been waiting for these long twelve months. The time has come for… the Ritual of Intoxication Transformation!”

Norm handed the mic back to Vitek and took a step back, sitting on Holden’s lap so that his shoulder blade pressed firmly against the meat of Holden’s enormous shaft. Impulsively, Holden pulled his father’s jacket off his shoulders, not wanting it to get doused with the spurting between-orgasm releases of cum that erupted from him almost constantly in situations like this, surrounded by hunky, nice-smelling men… like Norm. Not knowing what to do with the jacket he handed it meekly to Armin, who folded it carefully and set it aside on a little table nearby. Holden noted that he laid the jacket on top of a neat bundle that he was pretty sure was his own pants that had vanished off him at some point earlier, when he was overcome with sensual stimulation. There they were!

“And on to the celebratory rituals!” Vitek announced, jerking Holden’s attention back to the party that had almost slipped his mind when his dad had backed up into his giant, raging, stone-heavy erection. As the crowd cheered the prexy cued the DJ, who started playing a recording of men’s a capella choral music, keeping the volume low so Vitek could talk over it. This must be a tradition, too, Holden thought somewhere in his fevered brain. Did all of this go back all the way to the beginnings of the frat? Before recordings and gramophones, had the frat members done the singing themselves, or had they brought in the men’s glee club to serenade them?

From an inside pocket of his jacket, Vitek pulled out a heavy gold chain with a gold and silver pendant. As he held it up to the awed crowd, Holden saw that the pendant was in the shape of the stylized letter phi that was tattooed on his back—the one that looked like a cockhead viewed slit-on. “Now, none of you alumni or current members will remember this, because it is only in this moment, during the Founders Day celebration in the presence of the Founders’ Boy, that any but the current officers are allowed to know—”

“I remember!” Holden heard Norm breathe suddenly, gaping at the necklace. Similar murmurs of excitement were passing through the assembled membership and alumni. Holden shivered—he had a bad feeling about this.

“—allowed to know and remember,” Vitek repeated, “the exact nature of the ritual we are about to perform!”

All of these handsome, broad-shouldered men were looking at Holden now, their eyes growing dark with hunger and anticipation as understanding dawned on them. They were of varying ages, from hale and devastatingly sexy sexagenarians to beatific, smooth-jawed Adonises his own age, and ranged every color and ethnicity and every kind of strong, athletic beauty from acrobats to calendar firemen to Norm-type lumberjacks and Costas-esque tight-bodied lummoxes. The diversity hit him so hard that in that moment that Holden felt almost like it was the assembled masculinity of the world that had come to him, achingly desirous of his impossible, inhuman, indefatigable cock and its endless quantities of heady spunk. It was a strange domain he was prince of, if only for an hour.

Vitek still held the neckchain high so all could see it. “Now, in a normal frat party, as you know, there’s a keg,” he continued, warming to his subject. Some in the audience chuckled, knowing where this was going. “But at this frat party, that function will be performed by none other than our guest of honor, Holden Wyatt, this year’s Founders’ Boy!”

Throaty shouts of approval mixed with a growing reprise of the Foun-ders’ boy! Foun-ders’ boy! chant. Holden just stared in bafflement. What the hell did that mean? It didn’t make sense, but then, he couldn’t think—his arousal was feeding off of everyone else’s, drowning his mind and senses.

Vitek spoke over the noise, the sound system letting his smooth tenor fill the room. He’d turned around, and Holden realized with a slight shock that he was now speaking to Norm. “Chief attendant,” Vitek intoned with a grin, offering the pendant to Norm, “I bid you, as our brethren have done since the founding of our august fraternity, to endow the Founders’ Boy with the Talisman of Intoxicating Seed!”

Standing from Holden’s lap, Norm took the pendant and draped the chain over his two hands, which he spread apart as though indicating the size of a fish he’d landed. He turned to face Holden, eyes aglint with a subdued thrill that seemed to be half proud papa and half besotted lover. Instinctively, Holden glanced at Jamie, who was watching the proceeding with an expression so fixed and impassive it belonged on Mount Rushmore, and he felt the burn of his passion. The other “squires” were watching him, too, and he felt their need to take care of them in their gazes even more strongly than before. The men’s choral soundtrack running under all this was feeling a little eerie now, and slightly ominous, like it might segue into a frantic, doom-laden rendition of Carl Orff’s O Fortuna at any moment.

“My son,” Norm said, pulling Holden’s attention back to him, “This is, well, a magic talisman. I know it must shock you to learn that there is indeed sorcery in the world—”

Holden blinked at him. Not really, dad, he thought dimly, though his throat was too choked to allow any actual words to come out.

“—and believe me, I was as shocked as you. It’s uncanny to remember suddenly, just for this hour. But I do remember. Our original founder was a man named Ronald Fries. Famous in his time, but no one knew what made him truly unique: that he came from a long line of mages.” Norm’s bearded smile twisted into a smirk as he added, “Sex mages.”

The audience chuckled, and Holden gaped down at him. Norm was saying this like it was impossible to believe that there might be magicians specializing in sex out there in the world. To Holden this innocence was proof, if any were needed, that Norm and everyone else saw the enormous, exposed, red-tinged and burbling erection that was literally past his head and towering over them both as nothing but normal and mundane, an everyday fact about Holden like his red hair and his deeply embarrassing predilection for hard-bodied pretty boys.

Even now, Norm honestly seemed to believe that this pendant was magic… and only this pendant. The curse’s bulletproof normalization of their ongoing cock growth, tattoo seduction, overt sexual acts, and the like left the brethren and alumni of every generation completely oblivious to their own improvements and ridiculous libidos. The obliviation spell worked so well that even in this hour during which everyone was allowed to remember about the talisman, they still thought that it was the only weird and mystical thing about the frat.

Holden, of course, knew better, and was finding that it was even lonelier knowledge when actual magic was being discussed. Who else in this room knew the truth? Someone did. How many? Was it possible for alumni to be conscious of the curse at all, or was awareness of this moment, apart from himself, reserved only for whomever in the current membership operated the curse’s “control panel” and had chosen to make this year the year of the skyscraper cocks?

Norm was holding his gaze. “Ask me!” he said, kind but imperative.

Unwillingly, Holden spoke. “What will the talisman do?”

Many in the crowd laughed, and Norm, still with the necklace before him, gave Holden a salacious grin. “Simple. You’ll become our keg!” he said laughing. At Holden’s baffled expression, he smiled and explained: “Your cum will become intoxicating, and will fountain from you for us all to drink! It’s a full hour of unbelievable orgasm, with all of us sharing in the gifts of your beery brew!”

That got a laugh, and a “Hear hear!” from somewhere. Holden stared. Gifts? thought Holden, alarmed. What would his cum do while he wore the talisman, beyond making the assembled brethren and alumni drunk as skunks on his fountaining spunk?

The glint in Norm’s eye said he knew all this from experience, and not necessarily just from being a member. Had he been Founders’ Boy once, too? What would that have been like in all those other years where the cock growth was measured in inches instead of feet?

“And then, climactically—” More laughter, and Norm winked as he continued. “—your court drinks your seed in celebration, and once we have drunk our fill, each of us five—”

“Six,” Holden corrected quickly. Everyone was forgetting the twins were two people. That was happening more and more lately, even to Holden.

“—six,” Norm agreed, though he looked slightly confused, as if he couldn’t be sure there were truly that many of them. “Each of the six gets to make a wish!”

“No!” Holden wanted to shout, but Norm was already lifting the necklace to put it over his head. Armin and Dave had their hands on his shoulders near his neck, he realized, and were pressing him to bow his head so Norm could drape the chain more easily. He did so, responding to their touch without thinking, and the chain fell around him. Norm spoke ceremonial words, apparently from memory, or maybe the chief attendant was always supplied with them by the spell. “Sine cerevisia spermateque, non virescemus!” he cried.

Holden’s spine tingled as though the Latin words seemed to caress a cool line up his lower back. Were they an enchantment, or mere tradition? Holden didn’t even know.

As Holden straightened, the crowd did their finger-snapping applause, filling the room with clicking. Something else happened in that moment, though. Almost as soon as the heavy gold links fell across his bulging traps and broad collarbones, they started to melt into his skin as though he were made of custard, disappearing under the surface with a dark gold tattoo of a chain left in its place as though in memoriam. The talisman, balanced across his cleavage, did the same a moment later, sinking into him and vanishing, with only the gold and silver mark of the frat left on his skin at the center of his chest, as though it were the emblem of a very nude superhero.

Norm looked… confused, which for Holden was slightly terrifying. He was staring at Holden’s chest in something close to dismay. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered.

Holden glanced at Vitek, then Dave and Armin. Their expressions were all of amazement or alarm. “Guys—” he started to say.

Then everyone’s faces cleared, and they were all beaming again. What the fuck? The spell went wrong, a weird sex-magic talisman just sank into his fucking body, and these fuckers were just going to go with it? “Dad!” he said. “Vitek! What—”

Norm spoke loudly over him, relentlessly continuing the ritual as though it had a life of its own. “And now,” he said with that smarmy grin back on his face like it had never left, “the question that every Founders’ Boy has been asked since the establishment of this fraternity—”

“Dad, wait—”

“—and that question,” he persisted, smiling as he reached the punch line, “is: why do you have… such a large… prick?”

Holden gaped at him. Was this really asked every year? It was probably pretty funny when the Founders’ Boy and his bros were proudly sporting ten or twelve fat inches, or whatever the typical enhancement was at this point, instead of the 33 arm-thick inches he had leaning heavily (and very messily) across his heftily improved shoulder.

He couldn’t help it. Staring into his father’s bright, lusty hazel eyes, he blurted, “It’s a curse! There’s a curse that causes you to grow every ti—”

Suddenly his brain was wrecked, and his body flooded with titanic levels of arousal that his body could not contain. Compulsive need billowed out from him like intoxicating gas, saturating the air and making everyone cry out in desperate lust. Holden’s powerful pheromones laid waste to the entire assembly, himself included. Formalwear was pulled off and tossed aside. Skin and muscle and cock were exposed. The room was an earthquake of male desperation, hard cocks everywhere, some large, some extra large, some—only those of the current membership—beyond huge.

Foun-ders’ boy… Foun-ders’ boy… came the chant, now sounding like the yearnings of a hundred sexy zombies hungry for cum.

Even as Holden registered all of this in the space of a second, the effect of the party spell hit him like a lightning stroke. He dropped to his knees and began cumming spectacularly. A constant gusher of high-pressure sperm erupted from his colossal cock, spiking up a good foot and a half from his gaping slit before arcing down in a spatter over everything around him. The hunk-zombies roared in approval, crowding patiently around him and drinking from the cum-fountain. Some were still aware enough to have grabbed red Solo cups from a large supply by the DJ table, filling them with jizz from Holden’s unceasing flow; but others just gulped and swallowed at the endless supply of specially improved spunk.

Holden, directly underneath the spray, was battered across his entire head and shoulders by a heavy curtain of falling cum. He closed his eyes but directed his face toward it, leaning his head back against the throne, like he was under a waterfall and was letting the currents douse him across his cheeks, mouth, and forehead. He tried not to swallow too much, but it was impossible not to. To his amazement, it really did taste like beer, while retaining the consistency of jizz. The constant orgasm was frying his senses, overwhelming every capacitor of his brain and nervous system, but even so on some level he was aware of the beer-sperm filtering through his blood and muscle and bones and genitals, every glob a tiny improvement.

With the last shreds of his rational processes, Holden was aware enough of this effect to be scared at what might result. Almost everyone here had been through this at least once before, and everyone looked normal—healthy and hunky, but normal. The “gift” the ritual’s beer-cum gave everyone couldn’t be too huge a change, right? But he was producing orders of magnitude more cum than usual, he was sure, and he, himself, was by no means anything close to normal. What would his beer-cum do—?

Meanwhile the six “courtiers” moved around him, circling his throne, each of them enhancing his already stratospheric, overstimulated pleasure. Anthony and his dad took his shoulders and chest from each side of the chair, rubbing and stroking his heavy, twitching muscles as he helplessly came. The twins dropped to their knees and began massaging and rubbing his big, bare feet, licking the cum from his toes as it torrented down on them. Dwight stood behind, wrapping his arms around the spurting megacock, rubbing his own longer tool against it. And Jamie, his expression still serious, crawled up onto his lap and began kissing him fiercely and twisting the nips on his heavy, swollen-feeling pecs as the cum pelted heavily down on all of them.

Soon after that the world crackled as he was blinded by the first of several jarring intensifications of his orgasm, as though his release were kicking up in strength and red-zone-level pleasure as the hour progressed. His thoughts whipped away in a hurricane of roaring, endlessly apocalyptic cum, and Holden lost track of everything in a euphoric universe of white… until finally he heard, as if from a distance, his father call out drunkenly: “Get ready guys! Climax of climaxes! Take your cups!”

From a place just past sanity, Holden, still cumming explosively onto everyone and everything, found it in him to focus on his surroundings. His vision was strange, like his euphorically altered mind could only see the space around him through a color-saturated, trailing-neon vision filter. Who needs acid? he thought blearily, taking in all the beautiful men swirling around him. It was like the rite had escalated into becoming his own personal apotheosis, and his ascent had culminated in his being mobbed by the horny angelic hosts of fuck-a-hunk heaven.

The idea kind of tracked—Holden felt all but disconnected from his body. He could feel it thrilling with energy and teeming with more forms of endorphin than were known to man, but his mind seemed to be floating above it, looking at himself and the sybaritic mass ritual of which he was the epicenter.

It was hard to see or track anyone in particular, but it was obvious everyone was at least partly naked and covered in cum. Every chest, whether firm and defined or square and well-developed or massive and protruding, was coated in spunk like the rest of their bodies, so that the scene resembled an X-rated commercial for yogurt-covered sex-buddies. Or a men-only indoor water park where cum replaced all the agua. Most of the attendees were fucking or sucking in clusters of two or three or more. Many had gravitated toward the throne and were attending to his attendants, who were still devotedly servicing Holden. Indistinct club music was playing under all the orgiastic mutual gratification, heightening the sense that this was all normal in a way, the natural outcome of combining a hundred horny, fit men, a lot of cum, and your average, everyday nonconsensual cock-growth curse.

When Norm gave his warning, the other five “squires” looked up at him, their rampant bliss registering idiosyncratically according to their personalities. Dwight was awed and quiet; Anthony seemed serenely, self-strokingly rapturous; the twins resembled empowered, smirking archdemons; and Jamie looked fierce to the point of feral. Holden, languishing in his boneless, euphoric incapacity, noticed that under the layers of warm, gooey cum all six attendants were visibly harder and stronger than before. Their jizz-soaked hair looked longer, their bodies fuzzier. Norm’s bronze beard looked thicker under the spunk, and the younger acolytes, all clean-shaven before, sported a day’s growth of bristles—even the twins, who’d been essentially beardless hitherto, now had impishly fetching stubble. Holden had felt Jamie’s sandpaper beard as they kissed and found it intensely hot, as he always had when his lover was between shaves. He wanted to feel it elsewhere.

Someone Holden couldn’t quite focus on (Dave? Vitek?) handed cups—the requisite frat party red Solo cups, amusingly—to the six attendants in turn. Holden was still gushing (weirdly, it felt like he was close and about to actually cum, like the scale that measured his orgasms had slipped from inches to miles and he was about to achieve a true climax for the first time at this new level), so all they had to do was lift up their cups into the magically beer-flavored downpour to get their fill from the “keg.”

“Attendants, make your toasts!” the Dave/Vitek blur said. “What boon do you wish for our honored Founders’ Boy?”

The music seemed to thump louder as the crowd gave what attention it could to Holden’s dad, though the melodic moans of pleasure continued as a counterpoint to the soundtrack, and Holden’s indistinct impression was still of a mass of cum-covered men fucking. Norm raised his cup but spoke without raising his voice. He didn’t seem to be addressing anyone in the room, strangely. Maybe he was speaking to Eros, or Pan, or Ishtar—or, Holden thought drunkenly, maybe he was just talking to all the sperm. He giggled as he came.

“What shall I wish for the Founders’ Boy?” Norm asked rhetorically, his red cup in hand. He was sweetly exuberant, like he’d been buying rounds all night and had snagged more than his share. “I’ve seen the way he admires the physique of his gorgeous boyfriend—”

Don’t say boyfriend, Holden thought. It might jinx it!

“—so my wish for the Founders’ Boy,” Norm continued, “is that, for the duration of this ritual, his cum grows dense, steel-hard muscle for anyone who drinks it!” Hoisting his cup, Norm downed the heady, lager-like contents and tossed it away. Then, a little ridiculously as he was covered in cum anyway, he pulled his forearm across his lips as though wiping away the suds of his ale, and let out a large belch. Their eyes met, and Holden somehow found it in him to laugh. Did Norm look bigger under all the cummy body hair and drenched in actual cum? Holden thought he kind of did, though he was really having trouble focusing on anything. But then, everyone looked bigger. The alumni, the brothers, the attendants… Jamie… Holden himself felt thicker with steel-hard muscle.

Fuck, these wishes definitely weren’t incremental like the blow-job ones, activating a fraction of the wish at each utterance. Norm’s wish seemed full-powered, and… retroactive? Only Norm had actually drunk his cum since making the wish, but everyone was bulging and bursting with tight, dense muscle growth like his jizz had been spelled to “brawnify” this whole time. Maybe whatever governed the implementation of Norm’s behest had the power to interpret “the duration of the ritual” literally, inclusive of time already passed, or with effects mimicking that having been the case.

This magic is scary good, Holden thought, giggling through the unease sparking somewhere under the dizzy, infinite layers of his orgasmic pleasure. I gotta learn me how to do this sex-sorcery stuff myself someday.

Norm looked at Dwight. Not a born speech-maker like his dad, Dwight just lifted his cup and met Holden’s wobbly stare. “My wish,” he said, almost inaudibly under the music and the moaning, “is what I would wish for me—that you love your size and crave the hugeness of your own beautiful cock!” He kept eye contact as he drank. Holden grinned at him. If Dwight knew about the curse, he’d almost suspect him of wanting Holden to want a big cock enough to surpass Dwight and take the conspicuous biggest cock slot from him. Holden resolved to find a way to make sure Dwight felt good about having that phone-pole cock of his.

The twins were next. They were standing one behind the other, pressed as closely as possible together like they were trying to be one person. They spoke in unison, too, probably just to creep Holden out. “Our wish for the Founders’ Boy,” they said, lifting their cups, “is that everyone finds his voice intensely arousing!” The whole sentence was perfectly in sync between them—except that where one of them said “voice,” the other said “smell.”

They smirked as they drank. “Fuck you,” Holden said to them, not without a certain measure of respect. Little moans erupted from everyone around him, and Holden himself felt a little surge of arousal as well. Guess I’m included in “everyone,” he thought with a shiver. Good thing all the cum is masking my scent… for the moment. Holden reminded himself not to underestimate them, once he was able to think again.

Anthony raised his cup with a big, beaming smile, still languidly jerking himself with his other hand. “I wish,” he said happily, “that you should know the joy of stroking yourself all the time wherever and whenever you want!”

Holden gaped at him. Take it back, he thought. He didn’t want to be flogging his giant dock in class, on the bus, at dinner… maybe “know the joy” wasn’t the same as “constant compulsion”? He looked over at his hand—he was already stroking his colossal erection. Fuck! Control… I’ll have to learn control… Right then, in the midst of a magically prolonged and intensified orgasm, control felt like the last thing he was capable of.

Jamie was still on the throne with him, his powerful legs straddling Holden’s thighs. His gray eyes were still blazing as he bored his gaze deep into Holden’s. “My wish,” his laconic lover said in a voice only Holden could hear in all the music, moaning, and murmuring, “is that you know my mind.” He chugged his beer-flavored spunk in one go and hurled the cup aside.

Holden’s focus seemed to narrow. Jamie’s cum-covered, newly bristled, incredibly handsome face and gray predatory eyes were all he could see. He was close to the edge of his ultimate orgasm, brought to the brink as always by the sheer intensity of his attraction to this singular man. Jamie, he thought.

Somewhere behind those eyes were words. A voice. Don’t doubt me, Jamie was thinking. Don’t ever doubt me again.

Holden was done. “Kiss me!” he commanded. Jamie pounced, and Holden’s orgasm hit for real. The world whited out in an armageddon of infinite ecstasy, and Holden knew no more for a long, long time.

Holden remembered everything from the party. He wished he didn’t.

He was in the men’s changing area in the university gym, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror with a kind of dejected dismay. The reflection meeting his gaze barely resembled anyone named Holden that he could remember. He didn’t know why the frat house’s growth curse even existed, why it had suddenly been made to go all rabid this year, or why he was practically the only one on campus not oblivious to its effects as they piled up month by month to ludicrously extreme levels. But seeing himself as he was these days and gauging just how much he’d changed in a semester and a half, it wasn’t hard to suspect the whole thing was meant to divorce him from his own sense of identity.

He’d come to college as he had always been: vividly red-haired (curtains and drapes); farm-work hale but constitutionally rail-thin; and as pasty-white as a Wisconsin snowscape. He’d never realized how much he’d thought of those three attributes as a unit, a sort of shorthand for what made Holden “Holden.” Now—though it wasn’t the chief effect of the curse—his body’s overall look and silhouette was not what it had been. He was still cue-ball white, and his just-past-shoulder-length hair and fine, obstinate beard remained more ginger than Rupert Grint; but his once lean and gangly form was now generously packed head to toe with the kind of well-proportioned, aesthetic muscle that was meant to catch the eye and catalyze a lusty man’s hair-trigger desire.

Every curve and swell of his sculpted shoulders and firm, rounded red-dusted chest, and taping lower abdomen was designed to allure and entice. He looked like he’d reinvented himself as some dedicated male Hollywood starlet grinding out hours at the gym to catch a big break in the next edgy superhero tentpole event—or, failing that, a raunchy gay-threesome hot-thumbnailed romcom targeting big views on Hulu and Dekkoo.

Then again, the results of the curse’s main effect might just get in the way, literally, of any putative red-carpet path to stardom. His always hard, always leaky, breathtakingly beautiful cock now measured a ridiculous 35 inches in length and a good 28 inches around. Heck, he’d worn pants with a 28-inch waist not that long ago, and now it was his dick size. It weighed a lot, too, like one of those big-ass sacks of cement he’d had to help haul when his Dad had redone the long driveway a few years back. His dick wasn’t just the size of a small person, it had the tonnage of one, too. He knew he was stronger all over thanks to his general hunkification, but his groin muscles must have gotten the brunt of it to hold up this beast 24/7 like it was nothing. If he found out he could dead-lift the front end of a Honda Civic with his crotch, he wouldn’t be surprised.

Looking at it now, he was struck by the way its dramatic, elegant shape reared up past his shoulder, beyond his head, surpassing any kind of reasonable size or measure. In doing so it bent back slightly, too, like it was reaching for the ceiling a step or two back from where Holden stood. It was so big that when you stood in front of it you couldn’t even take it in as a single entity. Your eyes started noticing the shifts in skin color and texture and tracing the blueish veins and reddish arteries twisting along its incredible length, all of its features so much larger than you’re used to seeing them. He could probably make some coin touring the med schools, showing off his conveniently enlarged attributes for those interested in the fine anatomy of the indomitably aroused phallus.

Actually, he had had several entreaties from art students and professors in the past few weeks wanting him to sit for live painting or sketching classes. So far, Holden had declined. Not because it was weird putting his dick on display—it was fucking three feet long, it was always on display—but because he suspected that any such classes would probably devolve into everyone worshipping his cock and trying to get him to cum. He didn’t want to sabotage everyone’s grades—not to mention the honing of those skills the classes were meant to provide—by allowing the meeting to be bent inevitably toward himself.

The beast was hot, too—physically, as well as aesthetically. Not just warm, but hot, radiating considerable quantities of thermal energy into the room around him. It was a constant awareness, not just from the way it warmed his cheek and torso—he felt it in his hand, because he was almost always stroking the thing, consciously or unconsciously, and the heat felt like a palpable component of the heady pleasure his autonomically induced caresses gave him. During the winter he’d been honestly grateful, his mighty tool keeping his ears toasty in the chill air, though the blazing warmth of it against his torso under the coat could be too much. Summer was coming, though, and he already knew his sweat only made his cum slicker and his scent harder for others to ignore. As if he needed another physical inducement for people to treat him as a walking spunk machine.

The blow-up in cum production since he’d started was even more dramatic (and, frankly, even harder to fully grasp) than the increase in cock size. He was always leaking, always ready to cum, and when he did it was literal bucketfuls. Twice over, in fact, because his orgasms had gotten twinned a couple months back and he now almost always had a succession of at least two ridiculous, seismic eruptions, rocketing through his amazing length and producing enough cum to supply the school cafeteria with enough white sauce to serve fettucini alfredo and tzatziki gyro bowls to the entire meal-plan student body every damn day of the year. His whole seminiferous system must have been substantially rewired, affecting glands and hormones he’d never heard of; but the main outward effect was an enlargement of his testicles commensurate with the boost in cock size. His taut, rusty-haired scrotum now held in two not-quite-soccer-ball sized nuts, always churning with fresh come to shove out the long, delirious path to freedom. When he walked he almost wondered if a mic taped to his balls would pick up tiny sloshing sounds, though he suspected such a whimsical notion was untenable not for anatomical reasons but because his vast quantities of hot cum tended not to stay in his balls long enough to slop around.

The absurd thing was, it wasn’t his gray-alien-sized wang or his sack-of-volleyballs-from-a-rec-center scrotum that unnerved him most about his present reflection. Nor was it the blue-black stylized phi tattoo on his shoulder blade (he twisted to look at, it in the mirror, noting how the circle and slit design reminded him of a drone’s-eye view of his own prick), which gave him the power, and worse, the uncontrollable need, to sexually compel anyone outside the frat to act on their attraction to him, with a minor upgrade to the subject as a lingering reward. How many guys on campus were a notch or two hotter and hornier thanks to an encounter with Holden or his fratmates?

But the tattoo, too, was old news. His latest occult affliction facing him in the mirror was the metaphorical albatross that had been hung around his nape barely three weeks ago.

Marking his rounded traps, visible collarbone, and bulging chest was the brown, tea-stain-colored imprint of the heavy chain and pendant placed around his neck at the Founders Day fiasco. The talisman, a powerful thaumaturgical artifact forged by the sex mages who’d secretly founded the fraternity had marked him as the guest of honor—the “Founders’ Boy”. Wearing the thing allowed him, on the speaking of a secret incantation, to serve as the frat party “keg” via a steady gusher of cum lasting a whole fucking hour, during which time there had also been also a temporary rescinding of the spell that was inducing mass obliviousness to the frat curse and its many effects. Holden had always been exempt from that spell, but the exhilaration and awe he’d seen sparking in the suddenly-aware faces of his brethren and alumni during the reprieve had been slightly scary to witness.

It should have been a temporary thing. But, unprecedentedly, the chain and amulet had melted into his skin and become an irrevocable part of him. Now, anyone who somehow remembered them from the hourlong window of awareness before the general oblivion returned, or who had already known the spell from being “in on” the curse and its insidious escalation this year, could speak the magic words and force Holden to cum, spectacularly and constantly, for an entire hour.

That it hadn’t happened—yet—in the time since the party did not put him at ease in the slightest. After eight months of this escalating sexual purgatory, Holden had absolutely no doubt not only that he was vulnerable to the cum-fountain spell but that it would inevitably be invoked, and at the most embarrassing possible moment.

Not that there was one worst, most soul-crushing moment he could imagine for him to transform into a cum geyser for an hour. His dreams had been full of them. Him attending a critical final exam worth half the course grade, and someone handing the proctor a note which she reads out, resulting in all of the exams and attendees getting drenched in his high-pressure, smelly spunk. Him going for a swim in the college Olympic-sized pool with the rest of the frat, only for the words to be read out over the P.A. and him having an eruption that leads to a thick layer of seed across the whole pool. Him on a field trip meeting the U.N. Secretary General, but the august statesman’s polite greeting in his own language happens to phonetically match the incantation, resulting in the Security Council getting drowned in cum and international relations suddenly devolving into a messy, gooey chaos.

Heck, he didn’t even need dreams. Here in the real world the frat’s Spring Event—someone had called it “Phiapolooza,” though he wasn’t sure that was the official name—was barely a month away. Given what had happened at the fall strip show, Holden was actively dreading the various ways in which his increasingly out-of-control school year would come (or “cum”) to some kind of mortifying climax.

A different kind of ominous foreboding came from his vivid memories of the Founders Day party and is gooey climax. Acting as a cum god had blinded him with relentless, searing euphoria. It should have been an hour of mind-blanking delirium, to be then forgotten with the re-lowering of the shroud that so successfully hid the curse and all its transformations for the remaining 8,759 hours in the year. No doubt it had been in all previous iterations, for the previous 150 years of the frat’s existence. His dad, Holden was sure, had been a Founders’ Boy, too, and he had forgotten all until the moment Holden was anointed his eventual successor. More to the point, Norm hadn’t been aware of the curse, only the talisman.

But just as he was flukily exempt from the obliviation spell that hid the frat curse, Holden retained a clear and unforgettable memory of everything that had happened during his hour of wild, unrestrained ecstasy.

He remembered the wishes made by the members of his chosen “court” after they had each chugged Holden’s hot, copious spend. Normally, as a part of the frat curse, anyone ingesting a frat member’s cum got a fraction of his wish granted. The wishes only produced change incrementally. But (of course) swallowing the cum-geyser cum intensified the potency of the magic, bringing the wishes fully and jarringly into immediate and complete effect. At least his dad’s wish had only been for duration of the party, swelling and hardening the muscles of everyone who drank his spunk—resulting in a lot of very swole alumni and a house full of extremely ripped brothers who’d have had him springing boners all day every day since, if he wasn’t already hard as a rock and completely turned on twenty-four seven.

He didn’t have to worry about that one. (Or… did he? Norm has said “for the duration of this ritual”—if someone said the incantation again and invoked the cum-geyser spell, would that be another instance of “this ritual”? Naaah. Or—no.)

Anthony had ensured that he “knew the joy” of stroking himself all the time, and he mostly was doing that very thing. Hell, he was stroking his immense shaft now, like it was an autonomic function of his hand and cock, feeding constant pleasure into his already constantly stimulated system like sunlight sinking into his skin. He jerked himself in his sleep, he knew, barely waking up when he came. It was pretty joyous, as the wish had said it would be, though fortunately Anthony’s phrasing meant that it wasn’t a compulsion, at least. If he needed both hands for something he could stop stroking. For a while. He could control it—more than he could the other wishes, anyway.

Dwight, the only guy in the frat with a bigger wang than Holden (thanks to the shy introvert’s addiction to jerking off, he was sure), had wanted him to love his size. Which Holden did. He knew that Dwight’s wish was why he loved it, and he hated that, but he couldn’t not admire the fascinating beauty of his giant phallus, holistically and in detail. The twins, always a force for anarchy, made it so his voice and aroma were “intensely arousing.” A nice gift for someone good-looking but underappreciated, but for Holden it meant that he could barely get near a guy or say a few words anymore, regardless of place or context, without them being overcome with a craving made visible in their darkened eyes, helpless little lust-noises, and an obviously tenting crotch. So, yeah, thanks, you two. Giggling fuckers.

Then there was Jamie. His wish was, maybe, the one good thing he’d brought out of that hour of forced relentlessly orgasmic rapture. “Know my mind,” he’d said, staring hard into his soul as Holden came and came. And Holden had. In that crazy, sense-altered moment, he had felt the passion and steadfastness of his intense, obsessively stoic, gray-eyed inamorato. Don’t doubt me, Jamie had told him without words. Fuck, Holden wanted to give in to his latest brimming, always-in-reach orgasms right then and there, just at the memory of Jamie’s angry, insistent adoration—because Jamie wanted him not because of the curse, not because of his giant hard-on, but for him. Jamie wanted him.

Holden had never known amour—or a moor, he remembered thinking with a wistful smile, the young, unworldly virgin laying himself to sleep for the first time under the fraternity roof that had sheltered his father and grandfather before him, wondering if he was worthy, if he could hack it, if he could find his someone. With Jamie, now, Holden knew he was wanted; and that want was reciprocated with the same limitless ferocity with which it was imparted.

He met his own clear hazel eyes. A chill stole through him. There was someone else that wanted Holden, and not in a good way.

It had happened at the pinnacle of nonstop hourlong orgasm, a doubling-down of his release that had suddenly felt like the “real” climax was finally tearing through him. His mind was melting with unendurable bliss. His vision had whited out not from the avalanche of cum he’d produced but the deranged, euphoria-induced disconnect with his physical surroundings forced on him by relentless pleasure. He had felt nothing but hoy tinged with the terror that it would never stop—that he would never claw back to even a semblance of lucidity and control.

In that moment of wild, white-out horror had come a face. It was far away at first, just eyes, thick brows, a nose, high cheekbones, a hint of a mustache, all in textured white on white and half melting into the universe of surging, endless cum that was, in that moment, his total existence. The face was indistinct, as though it were made of the rushing, swirling cum, and kept melting and reforming so that Holden, already at the limits of sanity, was almost screaming.

Holden had been certain those eyes were focused on him. Holden Wyatt. Founders’ Boy.

And then came words. Senseless words, gloppy in a way, like the face they came from. They were hard to discern, as though murmured across a chasm, but the voice repeated them, urgently, until the cadence of sounds formed syllables Holden thought he recognized.

Feed… Phi…

Those were the sounds he was most sure of. Feed… Phi…

Holden was mystified and distressed. It was a message, meant for him and him alone. An imperative. He didn’t want to know what it meant, and he hated that he knew he had no choice but to figure it out. The whole thing was a lose-lose, Holden thought. But unless he was supposed to add “fo fum” to the end, he was at a loss. “Feed” what, to whom? His cum? Who was “Phi”, then? His frat brothers? That might have made some sense, but then again, he had been in the act of doing exactly that—feeding his frat brothers his cum—in the very moment the message had come to him. If there was anything he knew, it was that the message wasn’t any kind of narration. It was instruction—a command for Holden to do something, to make something happen. Something the indistinct entity had wanted him to accomplish. Something Cummy McSpunkface needed and craved.

Holden became aware he was being stared at, pulling him from his thoughts. A Brazilian gym rat he half recognized from one of his classes had approached the mirror a little further down a while ago and started filming himself posing for his PicThread feed, only he was becoming increasingly distracted by Holden just standing there zoning out as he took in his own ginger, beautifully muscled, giant-junk self. No doubt the guy was feeling the effects of the curse (which already made Holden beautiful to others) being compounded by Huan’s insidious wish for his odor to be irresistible.

What did he smell like to these guys, anyway? Chocolate? Pot? Chocolate pot?

The guy was moving toward him now, almost zombielike, his phone forgotten on the counter. His lips were quirked in a smirk, and his cock was raging hard in his salmon-red gym shorts. “Hey,” the beauty said, stopping only a few inches away. “I’m Jude.”

Holden turned his chin enough to give him a level look. His tattoo flared on his back, triggering his control over the 6-foot-3 hunk. In his peripheral vision he sensed a dozen or others gathering, as often happened during encounters like this. Most were regulars, college hotties with sleek, defined bodies or athletes with serious muscle. A few were already gripping their hard-ons through underwear or towels. Two were naked and were outright stroking themselves.

Holden held his accoster’s gaze. “I’m not going to say it,” he told him flatly.

Someone groaned at the sound of his ball-tingling voice. Jude’s eyes darkened in a second. His cock bucked in his gym shorts, close to release, and he made a cute little sound in the back of his throat.

“Please,” Jude whimpered. “Please let me give you pleasure.”

Holden turned to face him, smiling. His tattoo was burning. He was so close to orgasm he could taste it in his throat and on his lips, as if the vast quantities of held-back cum were saturating his very flesh, but he held it back with desperate strength.

“You know what would give me pleasure?” he asked softly. Jude shook his head.

Holden leaned in. “Don’t cum.”

Jude’s eyes widened. Holden’s smile twisted a little. “Don’t cum,” he said, “until you’ve sucked off all of these guys and made them cum.” Jude was panting shallowly, awed. Holden turned to the watching crowd. “Jude here is going to take care of you, okay?” They nodded, eager and utterly compliant in the face of Holden’s overpowering potency.

He turned back to Jude. “Then, when you’ve done that,” he rasped, watching the alluring power of his voice wash over the handsome Brazilian, “I want you to paint this mirror with all of your spunk. Got it?”

Jude nodded fervently. Unable to help himself, he pushed in for messy kiss, which Jude returned, moaning loudly into Holden’s mouth as their tongues wrestled for a long moment.

As he pulled back, impressed at the dazed look in Jude’s eyes, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Ready to hit the weights?” Jamie asked.

The touch and voice of his lover broke his resolve, and torrents of cum raced up Holden’s giant cock. He didn’t want to cum in front of Jude—how could the poor guy follow instructions and not cum when Holden was spraying him with a gallon or two of hot, intoxicating seed?—so he turned quickly and, pausing only to admire Jamie’s almost-smiling, impossibly handsome face, he pushed his lover past the door and out into the corridor to cum with unimpeded abandon.

By the time he returned to the frat from his workout Holden was sweaty, pumped, and on edge. That feeling of not quite recognizing himself from the mirror stare-down in the gym locker room had persisted all the way through his free weight sets with Jamie. He was no muscle monster—his hard-bodied Greek-god-plus physique had nothing like the wall-busting bulk of Costas or the paper-skinned exquisite detail of his impossibly ripped boyfriend; but as Jamie put him through his paces, Holden couldn’t help noticing he was curling and pressing weights he could barely have even lifted a year ago with the kind of steady, determined power that planted the seeds of minute, inevitable growth.

Even now, as he navigated the tight, labyrinthine, musk-redolent halls of Phi Ep’s old, secret-filled manse on the edge of campus, he felt that promise-whispering ache in his arms, his shoulders, his increasingly heavy pecs—even his abs, because, as Jamie insisted, you couldn’t have an upper body day without enough situps and crunches to give Montgomery Burns a six-pack.

He could almost delude himself into attributing his buffness and parabolically increasing stamina to the normal byproducts of his recent boyfriend-induced regime of thrice-weekly indolence-busting workouts with his man, abetted by a new concurrent awareness of diet as something that could either assist or undo all his hard work at the gym. That was how it was supposed to work, right? Pump iron, get built. Sure, thanks to the side effects of the curse he’d actually started looking like a chiseled Olympic hopeful well before he’d picked up his first barbell back at the top-flight on-campus Gaylord Fitness Center, but, hey, he could pretend.

What he couldn’t ignore was the way cum was starting to rule his life. Even during his workout, for all he tried focusing every scrap of his attention on pushing that barbell up, shoving that just-too-heavy weight into the dank, man-scented air over his supine chest under the critical gaze of his training-obsessed lover, he was intensely aware of his colossal, three-foot-long endless erection and the cum he was constantly pushing through it without even climaxing. Constantly, as in every fucking second. He didn’t even precum anymore—his raging, insatiable erection was leaking pure jizz twenty-four/seven, every nerve-ravishing spurt a countdown to his next mind-melting, cataclysmic double release.

The sensation was almost like he was low-key fucking all the time, like he was somehow tirelessly pistoning his ever-hard ultrasensitive dick into the hot, tight anus of existence itself. And when he blew his nut, with the dual spates of utter, near-blackout euphoria, it was always to resume the messy, unrelenting cycle all over again—immediately, mercilessly, and without any possible end.

The odd thing was… in the gym, it had felt kind of meaningless. His ceaseless sperm-burbling, his ankle-high releases—he’d had three sets of dual orgasms at the gym this afternoon alone, as the arousing awareness of his swelling muscles and everyone’s appreciation of them kept building past his capacity to resist blowing his wad all over himself and every damn muscle rat and gym bunny around—all of it had felt incidental and weirdly unfulfilling, like compliments on an outfit he’d worn for someone else.

Here in the frat, though… now that he was inside the walls of his fraternal demesne he could feel the urging. The necessity of cumming. It was like the place was hungry for it, eager to swallow every possible spurt and glop of his prodigious, concentrated spunk like a newly-turned fellatio queen ravenous for more and more high-pressure squirts gushing delicious man-goo down his desperately cock-hungry gullet.

Feed… Phi…

Holden’s step faltered as realization struck him like a logic-orgasm. Was that what the scary, ominous basso voice at the party had meant—that imperative he was sure he’d heard at the climax of his forced hourlong cum-blast? “Feed Phi,” it had said. Did the house itself crave his cum?

Far from being unthinkable or ludicrous, to Holden it made perfect sense. Phi Ep had been founded by a coven of sex mages—the “Founders” whose specially-privileged “Boy” he had been at the annual anniversary bash a month previously. Said group of eight or so fuck-wizards had built this rambling, mysterious house themselves, with every stone and strut weaving a complex curse through its very walls and foundation that had systematically transfigured a hundred and fifty years’ worth of young, virile men into enhanced, irresistible, orgasm-chasing Lotharios, each of them bent on producing as much seed and pleasure as possible in themselves and others. The process was further protected by a broad perception filter normalizing the cursed brothers’ behavior and upgraded appearances—an aspect of the spell to which only extremely rare outliers like Holden were immune.

Holden had provisionally assumed that the point of the original low-powered version of the curse had been merely the funzies to be had by releasing a steady flow of hunkier-and-hornier-than-average Adonises into the world, with no more expected a result than shaking up the dolorous mundanity of the repressive-by-default mortal realm. It wasn’t that far from something he might do if he had access to a bit of sex magic—which, he thought belatedly, he did. He’d made more than a few guys hotter than the average college dude since he’d been inked, and not always unwillingly.

But (Holden thought) if the purpose of carnal warlockery was to benefit the mages working it, and given the inherently gratifying allure of sex magic he didn’t doubt it attracted mainly hedonists, revelers, and, in general, pricks… well, then, how would such magical benefaction be accomplished other than through sex and cum?

Stunned, Holden leaned a bulky shoulder heavily against the wall of the narrow passageway, his endless seedflow smearing rivers down the dark, 150-year-old paneling just over his shoulder. Suddenly this year’s bizarre escalation of the curse wasn’t so inexplicable. It wasn’t just that the cocks and other sexualized attributes of himself and his frat brethren had been ramped up to ridiculous extremes. Everything was conspiring to ensure that Holden and his brothers—but especially Holden!—produced as much cum as possible.

“Why?” he whispered aloud. His epiphany was so gratifying it almost made him cum, but at the same time unraveling this part of his mystery only made him feel more confused. Glancing over his shoulder, his jaw went slack as he watched his everflowing spunkstream flow warm and gooey down the old wood, seeping subtly into its pores and seams, the remaining viscous mass puddling only briefly along the join of wall and carpet before the ooze sank bit by bit into the pile and into the narrow seam, vanishing slowly and silently even as his own constant flow sent more of his hot, smelly spunk sliding down the wall and into the mass of the house itself.

He splayed his hand on the wall, feeling a faint, throbbing heat that was more than simple ambient warmth. He could almost sense something, or maybe a complex of somethings. Holden almost felt like it, or they, were reaching for him, separated from his senses by the chasm that existed between kinds of beings, between mind and animus. Was that the curse? Or something else, something that lay beyond it that hungered for inhuman quantities of hot, messy, gushing sperm, the kind of volumes than only hyper-endowed sexbeasts like Holden could produce.

“What do you want?” he murmured.

He wasn’t sure there was a response. No words came, anyway; but his balls tightened, and he felt himself riding agonizingly close to a fast-building orgasm so intense he might expect to be senseless afterward for just as long as he had taken to blast every particle of semen in his ridiculously large and incredibly efficient balls.

He was about to succumb, losing track of the rationality needed to resist, when he heard what he now realized had been a nearby murmur of unintelligible conversation escalate into a louder, more audible argument.

Holden squeezed the hand he’d pressed to the wall into a fist. He’d come this way to avoid the couch room, which was now a place of guys chilling, laughing, and “bros helping each other out” pretty much all the time. Whenever he found himself there—usually dragged by someone else wanting to be sociable—he’d noticed how everyone dropped their pleasuring of each other in order to focus on kissing and groping him, with the tacit goal (much celebrated when accomplished) of making him cum spectacularly under their diligent ministrations. Since the main route to the back stairs led right through the couch room he’d started taking the side route, wanting to avoid as many bros as possible; but the tradeoff was encountering any of the guys in a narrow corridor like this meant an even more intensive and focused effort to blow his load.

The voices didn’t seem to be coming closer, at least. They were just around the corner, he thought. He stayed still, waiting. He recognized Vitek’s distinctive smooth tenor, but the other one he wasn’t sure of.

“I don’t understand how the necklace could still be missing,” Vitek said. “All the records say it has to be re-stowed in the heirloom casket for next year before 30 days have passed.”

“Relax,” said the other voice.

That’s weird, Holden thought. V doesn’t remember? But what about the tea-stain tattoo I’ve got now? He must think the necklace just left marks on me, rather than actually sinking into my body and staying there...

“It’s making me uneasy,” Vitek insisted. “Like something bad’s going to happen.”

“It’s not, trust me.”

“You checked with Holden to see if he has it?”

“He doesn’t,” the other voice said calmly. “My family’s been taking care of this frat for a century and a half. You won’t have to worry about finding the necklace. Everything will be exactly where it needs to be soon enough.” His tone turned deliberately sultry. “You fuss too much.”

“I’m the prexy, I have to,” Vitek murmured sulkily, but he already sounded distracted. After that the talking seemed to be over, and the conversation subsided into the kisses and little groans that Holden heard all too frequently around the place these days. The frat’s new motto might as well be “service, solidarity, and spunk.” In Latin, of course.

Now’s my chance, Holden thought, but his impulse to get away warred with his curiosity. That denial about him having the necklace sounded a lot like someone who knew that Holden did have it, but was choosing to lie about it to Vitek. Whoever that was knew more than he let on.

Giving into his inquisitiveness, Holden peeked tentatively around the corner. In the dim light of the corridor that led to the game room, he observed Dave, the brown-haired, self-confident frat secretary, mouthing the side of the shirtless prexy’s long, sinewy neck while at the same time stroking Vitek’s heavy, disproportionately large, brown-nippled pecs that stood off of his once-wiry chest like wind-smoothed boulders.

Not having had much chance to notice Dave in close quarters since the turn of the semester, Holden noted that in contrast to the now-buxom frat president, Dave appeared to be only moderately transformed from the start of the school year—though his green pocket tee did stretch rather enticingly over a broadened, V-shaped back, his jeans doing much the same over a pert but not-much-enlarged ass. He did seem taller than before, though still not as vertically enhanced as their well-sculpted prexy, who these days had to be at least a match for Holden’s newly acquired six and a half feet.

It was Vitek who held his attention, anyway. Holden’s ass squeezed yearningly at the sight of Vitek’s long, slick-headed erection, near-collarbone-high and begging to be slid relentlessly into the deepest, darkest places. Dave seemed to be ignoring it, somehow, which was certainly more than Holden could have done. The orgasm that had been building up in him somehow intensified, exerting such a level of pressure Holden was sure it was going to start leaking out of every pore. His nipples actually felt damp and extremely sensitive. If anyone were to lick them right now, he thought, he might end up orgasming for days—screaming the whole time.

As if sensing his desperate inner hankerings, Vitek’s eyes popped open and immediately fixed on Holden with interest and darkening intent. Holden quivered, unable to move under the caressing weight of Vitek’s lusty stare. Dave, picking up on Vitek’s interest, turned to smirk over his shoulder at Holden. Moving past Vitek, he slapped the lanky, well-muscled prexy on the back as he did so as if to nudge him in Holden’s general direction before disappearing into the game room.

Vitek needed no further encouragement, closing the distance between them in seconds, the dim corridor seeming to fill with intense, mind-drugging lust. Though he immediately began the standard-for-Holden cock-worshipping “greeting,” making Holden shiver with barely suppressed lust, it was clear from the dirty look in Vitek’s eyes that he was interested in more than just saying “hello.”

Screw it, Holden thought. If everything was going to be hypersexualized—if the universe was conspiring to make Holden cum as much as possible—he might as well satisfy his most reckless cravings.

They were close now, in so many ways, and past the point of no return. He could smell the smears of heady cum on Vitek’s long, long cock, even above his own spunkstink. A low growl of desire burred at the back of his throat.

“Either get out of my face,” Holden heard himself mutter roughly, “or fuck me with that thing.”

Vitek smiled, slow and rakish. “As you wish… Founders’ Boy.”

Instead of doing it in the hallway, despite their mutual sense of urgency Holden drew Vitek up to his own room. He wasn’t sure, then, or afterward, what his thinking was. Perhaps he was intent on acquiring lube, though these days he produced so much of his own that no one had any need of any commercial supplies. Another, even fuzzier-minded possibility was that he was still thinking of his room as a single and therefore a place of relative privacy where he and his inamorato could be alone. If so, this was proof that Holden wasn’t thinking at all clearly—ever since the lock hijinks at the start of the semester Holden had almost never slept alone in his own bed, willingly or otherwise.

Sure enough, when he and Vitek arrived in Holden’s room his bed was being used by the twins for a bout of very athletic sixty-nine. Seeing them with Vitek in tow Holden was struck by how much they had bulked out just since the trip home to Wisconsin—they must have been really pushing themselves at the gym on top of the effects of the curse, though he reckoned it was also quite possible they had used bj-wishes unintentionally to make themselves more prone to easy muscle growth at some point. Whereas Vitek, while layered with plenty of well-shaped brawn, was still lithe and lanky, the twins looked like the personification of devastatingly handsome, rock-hard brawn, from the mighty bulges of their shoulders and their slablike pecs down past their bricklike abs to the steel cables of their smoothly shaped, perfect thighs. Pack in thirteen more fresh-faced fuckers like them and you’d have the absolute ideal rugby team, ready for trouncing opponents, posing for calendars, and fucking for weeks at a time, not necessarily in that order.

Vitek, stupid with his own lust and the effects of Holden’s looks, voice, and smell, ignored the twins entirely. Whipping Holden around he pulled down his pants and pushed him at the nearest wall, putting Holden abruptly eye-to-eye with a smirking, topless Tab Hunter as he slapped his hands on the smooth wood to either side of the vintage beefcake poster. The twins paused in their mutual ministrations to watch in glee as Vitek started rutting his comparatively narrow foot-and-a-half-long boner against Holden’s crease with long back-and-forth strokes like he was a first-chair orchestral performer warming up his violin.

“Aw yeah,” said one of the twins—they really were impossible to tell apart now—as he piled atop the other one to watch, his huge blunt cock shoved deep in the other’s ass as if sheathed there. “Do it,” he added.

“Talk dirty dirty to ‘im, Hole!” the one on the bottom urged.

Holden’s pre-orgasmic cum was pouring out of his cock now, and because of the way it sort of bent back after it cleared his right shoulder the cascade fell along his back and ass. Coincidentally or not, this meant that Holden was lubing up Vitek’s monster erection and his own eager ass, making the inevitable even more impossible to resist.

“That’s it,” Holden growled, and Vitek moaned with the arousing force of Holden’s voice. “Sink it in me, all the way.” He didn’t worry about the physics or biology of fitting it all in. He needed Vitek’s cock in him, every single inch of it.

Holden wasn’t sure he understood this craving. His ass was not virginal. The twins had taken him ages ago, even before they’d started blurring into an identical gestalt. Hank had fucked him right before break, followed by Huan, and over the holidays affectionate penetration among everyone present had become a daily routine. Jamie had made love to him, fucking him slow and sweet the first time and then excitingly rough and relentless the second time, though Holden might have expected it the other way around from his fierce, intensely emotional lover. He had more cum in him than the Trojan Horse was full of Greeks, which made his fixation on having Vitek plow him and unload his prexy cum deep in his innards curious and perplexing. He wanted and loved Jamie with a fervor that matched the blazing of the sun; sex with the twins was as routine as morning Cheerios; but as a postscript to all that his ass wanted V-cock and couldn’t get over the fact that it was finally, finally going to get some.

No prep was needed. Holden’s ass was tight and hot every time, but it was made for cock, not fingers. Holden held his breath, knowing there wouldn’t be long to wait.

“Fuck, this is hot,” one of the twins said. “Dude where’s our phone?” the other asked. Holden wanted to laugh. Not only was he a slave to his carnal needs, powerless before his most abject cravings, but the twins were going to film it, too. Because his life truly was nothing he still fully recognized—though it was amusing how his first experiences with the curse had once led to a viral video that had him becoming known as the Wexler Wanker, all those months ago.

His reminiscence was cut short but the press of Vitek’s cum-smeared cockhead against the tight ring of his anus, followed immediately by Vitek pushing in a good six inches. Holden shouted, unable to hold back his yells of pleasure. Vitek might be narrow-cocked compared to Holden—everyone was, he was 28 fucking inches around—but he was a girthy fucker by normal standards and Holden’s ass stayed tight enough after every use it was almost only technically nonvirginal. He was three-quarters climaxing now, spurting massive gouts of cum all over them both and even splashing the twins while still not actually orgasming. His nipples were definitely wet and dripping with cum, too, and if Vitek pieces a secret ocean of the stuff somewhere in his inner hyperspace he wouldn’t be surprised.

Vitek kept pushing, driving inch after slightly upcurved, iron-hard inch into him like a long crowbar meant to rend him open. Vitek was spurting pre-climax cum inside him, too—nothing like what Holden was doing, but enough he felt like his insides were squelching with spunk, the force of Vitek’s relentless plow pushing cum into every crevice and along the gaps in his neural pathways, replacing his capacity for rational thought with a feverish awareness of dangerously mounting pleasure. He was becoming made of hot, insistent cum, like he might explode like a Macy’s balloon straining with high-pressure jizz, dousing the mobs of parade-watchers and leaving nothing at all behind but a broken, useless shell.

Vitek was deeper and deeper now, finding buttons and reserves he didn’t know he had, triggering new heights of mindless euphoria. He saw nothing but the throbbing incandescence of his own pleasure, felt nothing but the steel-hard erection that was pushing into his core. Then Vitek was all the way in and everything—everything released. Holden was cumming, finally, truly orgasming, and it was such an avalanche of ecstatic explosion he wasn’t sure how he could be producing so much cum and so much pleasure. In his delirium, his endless, gushing cum seemed to fill the room, the floor, the very space between atoms in every beam and slab of the massive house itself, infusing it with sex and seed and power and life.

Leaning against the wall, Vitek seated fully in his ass, both of them cumming like a thousand men, Holden found himself looking into the entrancing, identical, utterly handsome faces of Hank and Huan just as their eyes started to blaze with an almost burning gold.

“You have awakened us, Holden Wyatt,” the possessed twins said together in a deep, disturbing voice nothing like their own. “The time has come at last.”

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