No angels

by BRK   

Jerry likes his job covering the front desk alone overnight at a nice hotel, especially when a handsome customer checks in and piques his imagination.

I love my job. Being a night auditor for a quaint, high-rep but low-key hundred-unit exurban independent hotel is so much more freeing than the last five retail positions I had at SuperKaren, Mega-Assholemart, Wholly Entitled Foods, Slacker Associates World, and Toxic Corporate Tyranny Depot. Barring the odd customer I get the night to myself, and most folks check in before my shift starts at eleven and I get the handoff from Sapphic Sarah (yes, she calls herself that, and yes, it’s on her nametag). Which means anyone trailing in after that tends to be (a) dead tired and (b) grateful to exchange the aggressive, soul-eating mayhem of the overtrafficked interstates for a calmly welcoming lobby (blue pastels and Warhols are surprisingly restful), a cheery smile from me, and the prospect of a big, soft bed tucked away upstairs just for them. Sure, I’ve heard horror stories aplenty from the day staff of rampaging guest moronity, but for me it’s the first customer-facing job I’ve had that didn’t make me feel like I was risking PTSD just from working there.

My non-hotel friends joke about that “night auditor” job title, like I’m sitting around all night doing all the guests’ taxes. And yeah, I run the occupancy reports and account reconciliations. Half my job’s to make sure the numbers are square and the business is shipshape for the morning folks. I actually do have a BS in finance, not that you’d guess it to look at me. I kind of look like I took the job so I could cadge a few sets in the sweet on-site gym before work—which, fair enough. Honestly, I like it enough here I might go for a hospitality degree someday. The other half my job is just being here on site in case I’m needed, like, it’s “auditor” in the listening sense, too. I like that. So I crunch the reports, listen to my growing library of gay romance/suspense audiobooks, and basically chill the night away, with a few random sleepy-guest intakes and the occasional minor crisis to break the monotony.

There’s something else different about this job compared to my previous ones, which kind of took me by surprise once I started working here. I have a pretty active imagination, see, and when I was working retail I started developing this habit of connecting the customers with what they were there for. An old lady buys a cart full of cat food and asiago cheese, I start picturing her at her kitchen table garnishing all her kitties’ Fancy Feast bowls with artful dribblings of mild Italian cheese shavings. Teenager comes through my register with a new top-tier crescent wrench and a can of WD-40, I can’t help seeing him in his driveway with his grandad, under the hood tightening bolts on a Mustang they’re returning to cherry. Lady in sensible shoes tries on patent leather heels, I imagine her on her first date in ages, nervous but confident she was no longer the shy teenager all the boys ignored.

And now I work in a hotel. Which means every customer I check in I picture going upstairs and closing the door. Peeling off their clothes. Maybe taking a shower. Climbing under the sheets, clean skin against clean-I-swear cotton. Watching TV. Jerking off. Fucking.

I’m not a perv, I promise. It’s just, I can’t help it. Every night I sit there, getting my work done, and the moment my mind wanders I am acutely aware of the four floors of people above me, lazing, sleeping, fornicating. It’s like when you go through a tunnel under a big river or inlet and you’re stuck in traffic at the midpoint. Nothing’s moving, and all you can think about is all of the water directly over your head and how much water weighs and the fact that there’s nothing but a bit of concrete between you and a crushing deluge. Here, I’m in my office behind the front desk, and stacked above me isn’t so much the weight of water as the weight of human need. I look up and I feel the presence of a hundred rooms and well over a hundred beds, most or all of which are occupied by human bodies in various states of undress, all of them thinking about—well, the kinds of things people always think about.

Man. All that junk. Sometimes the place just feels like a big ol’ brick box full of gonads. Feet, hands, gonads, faces, underarms. That’s a lot of pit hair in one place.

I had just checked in a late arrival, and got kind of stuck on how he had these arresting bluish-purple eyes and soft wine-dark lips, and the kind of sharp, slightly bristled jaw and cheekbones that get people like us in the door and in line for opportunities we then earn with real skills and elbow grease (though my own cut-glass, honey-brown jawline is always clean and immaculate—I didn’t get the beard-growth-’n’-body-hair gene at all). For some reason, when I checked his ID it wasn’t his name I retained but his home city, Tulsa, like something in me wanted to pretend he’d come all this way on a lark to see me, they way you would a wax museum or a haunted cemetery. He had adorably travel-mussed dark brown hair and a slightly rumpled, nicely filled-out jacket and tie combo with a once-crisp white shirt underneath. He looked like salaryman whose job was all on the road, and he did it ‘cause work was work and that was his work.

I didn’t miss the tired once-over he gave me in my well-fitting teal piqué hotel-branded polo, a ghost of a smile curving his lips as he accepted the key card I slid across the counter at him. He even lingered for a half-second on my nametag (it just says “Jerry,” no funny alliterative epithet), like he wanted to remember my name. Once he was done scoping me out he caught my eye, I think not so much to actively flirt as to add a bit of punctation to his perusal. Then he shouldered his bag and made for the elevator. I watched him go, wistfully regretting that the tails of his suit jacket hid his butt—not that in the state I was in that night I couldn’t mentally sketch in the firm, rounded posterior beneath, if I chose to do so.

I kept my visual projection going as the elevator closed, picturing him rising up the central shaft, getting out on the third floor, trawling through the dizzying-carpeted hallways for a little room sign with the number 303 on it. My imagination seemed extra-strong that night, like the mismatched half-bottles of energy drink I’d found in the fridge and mixed together for my earlier all-out accounts-reconciliation binge session had concocted a potion that mysteriously heightened my powers of creative envisionment. It really was as though I was half up there with him, watching every detail of his movement as he tapped his key card and let himself into the room. Once in, he dropped his bag, then started to undo his tie with such an air of slump-shouldered relief, it was like his entire day of sysiphean struggles and sacrifices had all been building to this moment when he could slough off his civilized corporate skin and strip himself bare, revealing a creature with no responsibilities beyond reveling in the slow, passive revitalization that came with pure repose and simple pleasure.

I shook my head, suddenly aware of my chubbed cock and the heat gathering under the collar of my polo. I was not going to “watch” him undress, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to “watch” him jerk off, as I was 90 percent sure was his short-term goal for the next thirty minutes or so. My brain flickered rebelliously, multiplying images of all the scores of guests presently directly over my head, those not sleeping or watching video almost certainly engaged in some kind of carnal sensuality…

No. Nope nope nope. I shook my head physically, as though doing so might dislodge the idea from my neural receptors, and tried to concentrate on the updates I was making to the night’s reports.

Someone as good-looking as him probably has lots of social media to scope out, an insidious voice suggested from someplace deep in my brain.

It was true, and I had his name and where he was from. He’d be easy enough to find, and there might be some interesting pics of him without that jacket, tie, and shirt.

You don’t want to get in trooouble, sang an opposing voice from a similar internal kibitzing zone. I pressed my lips together in a half-glower. This was also true—googling and cyberstalking guests amounted to abusing our access to their personal info and was both explicitly against the rules and starkly frowned upon as something well beneath the hotel’s standards of civilized hospitality. I wanted to, though. I was still feeling a bit warm from my handsome guest, which (I rationalized) did tend to round the edges on my customary ethics. It wasn’t my fault, officer—sometimes my balls are stronger than my conscience!

“If you use your own phone, they won’t know,” the insidious voice said, smugly amused as always at what I sucker I was and how easily it could appeal to my powers of rationalization.

I felt a weight on my right shoulder and looked over to see a little version of me: he maybe eight inches or so, with no shirt, powerful-looking, half-folded blood-red wings, and little red horns poking up out of his (my) black, artfully messy hair. The tiny doppelgänger was perched on the crevice between my traps and my delts, looking up at me with a sly, sultry gaze. Interestingly he wasn’t facing front as you might expect, with his (barefoot) heels tapping the upper reaches of my pecs, the way I normally pictured him. This time, he was riding my shoulder, legs on either side, with his hands lying relaxed in his lap and his knowing brown eyes fixed on mine.

Like my visions of the handsome guest he seemed a lot more real tonight, like something really had chemically altered my hippocampus and visual cortex, giving normally gossamer phantasms unmistakable weight and meaning. Weight in a literal sense, too—I could feel him sitting there, as if an actual eight-inch-tall, eight-or-nine-pound version of my 6-foot-3, top-heavy 220-pound form were truly situated there breathing the same air as me, as natural as a summer’s day or an ejaculating cock. When he reached forward with one hand to rather deliberately stroke the curve of my trapezius, cheekily holding my gaze with a one-sided smirk the whole time, I could swear I could felt the press and movement of his palm through the thick weave of my shirt.

I blinked, trying ignore how turned on I was getting and focus on what he’d said. The whole point of this metaphor was to manifest an ethical debate, not to get myself worked up. Right? Right. And—okay, obviously it was less safe perving on Handsome McJawline using the company PC, with its auto-logged history. That was a no-brainer. Shoulder devil nodded, still smirking, encouraging me to give in to temptation and start perving away.

“That’s not the poooint,” came a soft voice from my left. I felt a similar weight there in opposition to the first, like my thick shoulders were some kind of see-saw. I turned my head that way and saw, of course, my shoulder devil’s twin brother, the equally ripped, equally shirtless embodiment of—well, his main role seemed to be not so much espousing goodness and virtue as arguing with his opposite number, whatever he said. He had the same hairless, hard physique, the same amber skin and black hair, even the same know-it-all smirk; the only difference from his counterpart was those impressive, eagle-strong wings of his were white-feathered instead of red, and in place of horns he wore a kind of stereotypical, solid-looking halo, like he had a faintly glowing, ring-shaped hat that some kind of magnetic force kept three inches from his head at all times.

He was sitting astride my shoulder, too, and though his arms were folded over his beefy, hairless pecs—as if to say, “I’m not feeling you up, unlike some people”—I noted the heels of his bare feet were pressed very firmly into the flesh on either side, something that I could distinctly sense as easily as I could the weight of his ass in the recess of my trap/delt shoulder-cleavage or the slow strokes of the other one’s questing hand as he idly explored the muscle in front of him like it had been left there explicitly for his amusement. For fuck’s sake, were these guys here to help me resolve quandaries, or to horn me up?

I gave the snowy-winged mini-me a pointed look. “You’re confusing me,” I said tonelessly. “Begone.”

Snow winked, his smirk never faltering. “Not a chance.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, half turned on, half exasperated. This guy might be an “angel” in terms of theo-zoological classification, but in actual demeanor he was something else entirely. “That never works,” I grumbled.

“Anyway, you don’t need social media to scope him out,” Scarlet piped up from the other side. I glanced over at him. His expression was, as was his wont, mischievous. “You know exactly where he is.” He flicked his gaze upwards meaningfully.

“Don’t give poor Jerry any ideas,” Snow drawled. “The guy could be doing anything up there.”

Weirdly, it sounded like “giving Jerry ideas” was exactly what Snow wanted, too. Either way, thanks to the two of them my brain had already flitted back up to 303. For a second I was confused—CNN was muted on the flatscreen, but the room seemed deserted and there was no sign of my quarry. Then I heard the shower. The bathroom door was standing half-open, allowing a few tufts of steam to waft into the main room, curling in invitation like a beckoning finger.

“Oooo,” Scarlet purred, evidently turned in to my channel and appropriately intrigued. “Now you have to go take a look.”

“He doesn’t have to go look at the handsome naked man,” Snow objected, though he sounded, shall we say, less than scandalized by the idea. What side are you on, anyway, dude?

I was already pretty turned on just from seeing a lone hot guy in the middle of boring, solitary, terminally uneventful shift. It was like that day a few years back I was apartment hunting and spotted an ice cream shop after hours of wandering a neighborhood that seemed to be nothing but dead streets and derelict warehouses. Tulsa was so very much my ice cream for the night. The guy had already had me going, and then on top of that my two hunky, extra-solid shoulder angels had been ratcheting things up pretty relentlessly the last few minutes. Just feeling their physical weight straddling my delts had my dick half-pumped and my pulse banging louder and faster than it should. And, well, we’ve already established that a bit of peak arousal tends to blur the edges of my judgment, just a tad.

So, it really shouldn’t surprise anyone that my imaginary POV shifted and a beat later I was standing in the gleaming bathroom, steam from a very hot shower swirling around me as I took in the tanned, hairy, fully fuckable form of my comely late check-in, his features and assets barely distorted by the simple glass sliding divider separating the tub and shower stall from the rest of the room.

“Nice,” I heard Scarlet say, though I was, myself, too busy looking my fill while I could to pay any attention to my allegorical companions. Tulsa was nicely proportioned, to say the least, and fit in the way you get when one of your hobbies involves a bit of regular strenuous activity, like canoeing or, I don’t know, tree-climbing. He was also extremely lean, as though his fast metabolism existed purely to keep his BMI enviably low. His skin tone was warm and dusky, and he had the kind of dark, matted chest hair that accumulated a bit more across the lower reaches of his chest, just there to accentuate the pleasant, firm swell of his pecs. A gap, and then a line of hair picked up a bit further down, trailing down a flat stomach to…

“All right, we’ve had our look,” Snow admonished softly, as though I’d done all this to share it with them and we’d reached, in Snow’s judgment, the limits of appropriate ogling. I was about to say something in response—I don’t know what—but then Tulsa shut off the water and slid the door open, and I had no choice but to stare. Tulsa’s soft dick was decent sized, looking pink and fleshy against his hairy, tight balls and un-manscaped pubic hair in a way that suggested to me that he was a grower, not a shower. Nice, indeed, as Scarlet had said.

I licked my lips, my own tool almost all the way hard now in my snug black uniform trousers, and waited to see more.

Tulsa stepped out of the shower onto the towel-like bath mat he’d laid out, and I fell back, leaning lightly against the wide faux-marble vanity at the end of the room nearer the half-open door. Now that we were sharing the same confined, steam-filled space (at least, in my very vivid fantasy) the difference in bulk between us—me big and swole (but cute), him lean and buff (and casually handsome)—was that much more obvious. I kind of liked the disparity, to be honest, though I was certainly curious what he would look like with a few more pounds of quality, sculpted brawn…

“You know, this is your imagination,” Scarlet offered up out of the blue, after we’d been watching a few moments. “You could give him a few upgrades,” he added when I looked over at him—he was on my shoulder even up there, in my imagination, and as smug as ever. “Make him look however you want.”

“We shouldn’t be looking at all,” Snow said, not very convincingly.

I started to agree. “Yeah, Red, I kinda—”

“Stop holding yourself back, Jerry,” Scarlet cut in. “Isn’t that what my fine brother always says?”

“Well, I didn’t quite mean—” Snow sputtered.

Scarlet bypassed me and engaged his brother directly, and I had a sudden image of the two of them playfully bickering while I wasn’t around. “C’mon, Snowie, let’s show our man what he’s capable of!” he urged. “What do you think, muscles or cock? Or something more exotic? Let’s take a closer look.” He vanished off my shoulder, reappearing, wings and all, standing between the two sinks, directly in front of Tulsa. A beat later Snow did the same.

I hate to admit it, but I really missed the feel of their weight on my shoulders.

Scarlet and Snow eyed Tulsa appraisingly—like it was normal for shoulder angels to be debating how much to alter an unknowing hottie from within the safety of my own internal memory space. “We shouldn’t be going crazy here,” Snow said cautiously.

“Fair enough. What are you thinking?”

I tried to break into their dialog, looking back and forth between them. “Guys—” Honestly, they were making me even more turned on with all this talk of making Tulsa even hotter. With the door open, most of the water vapor had dissipated into the larger room, but it was still a bit sultry, and I was hot under the collar in every sense of the expression.

Scarlet spoke over me, still engaged with his more reserved twin. “All right, Snowie, you go. Show us caution and circumspection.” He pronounced the last word with very precise diction as though mocking Snow’s poshness, though in fact both Snow and Scarlet spoke the same plain, middle-America speech I did.

“Well, I just think—” Snow said, then seemed to focus his brown gaze on Tulsa, who had just finished drying off and moving toward the sinks and his leather dopp kit, perhaps intending to brush his teeth or take out his contacts. I watched him from the corner of the room as he eyed himself critically in the mostly-cleared mirror. Snow, perhaps not paying attention to the fact that Tulsa was now observing himself, chose this moment to contribute his idea of minor change to our subject, pumping up the size of his pecs by maybe twenty percent and increasing his chest hair a few notches.

Tulsa reacted, started, and stared at his own chest for a long moment as if not quite sure what he was seeing.

“Something subtle like that would be suitable, I guess,” Snow said. “It’s Jerry’s imagination, so a few tweaks aren’t, well, unethical.”

I watched as Tulsa lifted a hand and cupped his left pec, and from his expression his sense of touch seemed to confirm what his eyes were telling him. It seemed odd to me that a phantasm might take notice of his own altered morphology with someone else’s dreamscape… but then, maybe my imagination was trying to be hyper-realistic and depict how someone tired and travel-worn might react if they thought they saw their boobs get a bump in the hotel mirror. That made sense—right?

“Exactly. It’s his imagination,” Scarlet responded, as if Snow had made Scarlet’s point for him. “He can go as extreme as he wants!” Scarlet gestured, and suddenly Tulsa was a ten-foot tall hairy beast with extreme heavyweight muscles and three, count ‘em, three tree-trunk legs, with a fat cock the literal size of an anaconda hanging thick and pink and heavy between each of them.

Tulsa jumped back from the mirror, alarmed. “What the fuck?!!” he screamed, staring in shock first at the mirror, then down at himself. “What the fuckity fuck!” he shouted again, gaping at his own cryptid-ultramale form.

I lifted an eyebrow at Scarlet. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?” I deadpanned. To Tulsa I said, “Dude, relax, it’s okay.”

Tulsa whipped his head around, seeing me for the first time. “What are you doing here? What’s happening to me?”

“Relax,” I said again, looking him over. He was interesting this way, I had to admit, but not quite my type. Maybe Scarlet was overcranking things just so Snow would accept a moderately extreme change as a compromise. “It’s not real,” I reassured him.

“I’m… dreaming?” Tulsa asked me.

I shrugged. “Actually, I’m dreaming, sort of. Daydreaming, if you want to put it that way.”

The angels, meanwhile, were ignoring us, debating the spectacle before them like drag show judges. “It is a bit much, Scar,” Snow was saying, his wings ruffling in distaste. Tulsa didn’t react to the comment, so I guessed he couldn’t see or hear the two imps, which was a blessing for him, at least.

Snow gave Tulsa a measured stare, and abruptly the man was only seven feet tall instead of ten, only a weight class or so beefier than he had been, and not nearly so hairy. He still had the three legs, though, and the schlongs between them, though only knee-length instead of dragging the white tiles below, still more closely resembled an ordinary man’s forearms than they did your standard, run-of-the-mill phallus.

“This… is a weird dream,” Tulsa said, though he was showing signs of being distracted from the shock of his transformations by my own barefoot, shirtless, chiseled physique. Fuck, when had I lost my boots? And my shirt?

Tulsa slid his eyes admiringly over my smooth protruding pecs and carved, flat abs, then stopped, arrested by the very obvious and very large club-like erection my work trousers were doing nothing to hide.

“Now, see, that’s just inconsiderate,” Scar was admonishing his brother. They’d moved closer to each other, near enough that Scarlet could put an arm around Snow’s broad, bulging shoulder.

Snow looked at him with a frown. “Why is that inconsiderate?” he asked, a bit defiant. “As changes go it seems more than considerate, if you ask me. Look at him!”

“Exactly, look at him! First, how can you have a schlong that big, especially two of them, and not have the balls to match! His nuts will feel like they’re clamped in a vise before he’s halfway done blowing his first load!”

“Hmm, I suppose,” Snow agreed.

I was barely paying attention to the byplay as I felt Tulsa taking me in, his monster dicks visibly thickening as he decided he very much liked what he saw. I did notice, though, when Tulsa’s hairy balls suddenly swelled in both crotches to maybe three times normal size. They were big enough now they were pushing his fat cocks out to hang over them, like a cock waterfall. My eyes widened, and Tulsa’s arousal seemed to accelerate dramatically, like he was coursing with extra hormones and a deeper carnal animus.

He stepped toward me, middle-foot first, then the others. “How real are you, Jerry?” Tulsa asked huskily as he closed the distance between us. So he had made a point of remembering my name, just like I’d thought.

I smiled. “As real as I want to be.”

Scarlet and Snow were still nattering. “And second?” I heard Snow say. “You said ‘first,’ so there must be a second.”

“Well,” Scarlet said, “he’s going to be lonely if he’s just been turned into the only seven-foot-tall, three-legged bull-balled muscle hunk in the world, don’t you think?”

I wrapped my armed around Tulsa’s form, intrigued at the way the size difference had shifted and he was now larger than I was. His skin was warm from the shower, the chest hair still a bit damp and musky with his natural scent. Tulsa sucked in a breath at my touch, and I felt his manhoods hardening against me as we pressed our bodies together.

“True,” Snow mused. “Perhaps if he remembered Jerry as having been this way the whole time…”

Before I had quite registered what my shoulder angel was saying, something shifted again and I was suddenly looking Tulsa right in the eyes. They were beautiful eyes, as I’d noticed before, a vibrant blue-violet that was compelling even in this light, so the impact what had been done to me was delayed. I was so lost in those eyes and this amazing embrace, in fact, that I didn’t even pick up right away on the retroactive changes to all my memories and experiences going back to childhood. Most everything was the same, more or less, like there was a kind of timeline inertia in play; so it didn’t feel like too much of a wrench. Except… I’d no longer played soccer as a kid. I was dimly aware, in some abstracted part of my head, that some of the parents had kicked up a fuss about the kids with extra legs having an unfair advantage. So I’d played rugby instead, and had enjoyed the male contact a lot.

All of that was at a distance, though, remote and unimportant in the moment. Fully 96 percent of my brain was consumed with how hot it was holding Tulsa, the way our bodies were mashed together, our quivering, needy, chest-high erections pressed urgently between us. My middle leg slid along his, foreshadowing lots of maneuvers now possible between us, and he moaned and impulsively smashed his mouth onto mine. We kissed feverishly, gripping each other hard; and then the moment shifted and we were sucking each other’s cocks, stroking them at the same time, desperate to taste the other’s cum.

From somewhere behind me I heard a voice—Scarlet?—say, “That’s… not bad.”

“We make a good team,” Snow said distractedly. “Scar—”

“I gotta say, you are so hot like this, brother,” Scar said, and as Tulsa and I made out like bandicoots some random neuron in my brain twigged that Scarlet and Snow must have been reconfigured to look like me. Because of course they had. And they were totally into it, because of course they were. Maybe this whole thing was their fantasy all along…

It didn’t matter. I didn’t care. The talking finally stopped, and Tulsa and I drove each other to crazy, mind-exploding orgasms. As we came and came and came from our bottomless reserves of hot, messy spunk I found myself drifting high on a vast pink ocean of endless ecstasy; for how long, minutes or days or aeons, I could not have told you.

The house phone was ringing. I shook myself free of my reverie and found myself back in the lobby, clothed and unsullied by fountains of jizz, though I was hard as a rock in a way that felt disconcertingly… durable. I was alone except for two naked eight-inch red- and white-winged bull-balled hotties, each very swole with three legs and erections rather bigger than you’d expect, just like the guy they were modeled on.

They were making out very aggressively on the counter in front of me, completely oblivious to everything but their own rutting gratification and the murmured sexy insults they were trading between kisses. Ignoring them, I picked up the handset and chirped, “Front desk.”

“Hi, uh, you just checked me in?” said a warm baritone voice—Tulsa’s. “I’m in 303.”

“Yes, sir, I remember. What can I do for you?”

“Well, the truth is I’m having a bit of a… wardrobe issue, and I had a feeling maybe you could help me out?”

I grinned. “I’m happy to assist, sir. I’ll be right up.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting.”

Still grinning, I quickly adjusted my own weirdly indomitable forearm-sized erections. Then, placing the phones on message and setting out the little sign that said “Back in half an hour,” I grabbed my master key and a spare pair of loose three-legged pants I apparently kept in my bag. Once everything was secure I slipped out the side door into the lobby and hurried across to the elevator, leaving my so-called shoulder-angels to their own devices and pleasures.

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Prompts and peens by BRK Calvin finds a strange A.I. app on his tablet that generates interesting responses to his story prompts. 2,409 words Added Aug 2024 3,205 views 5.0 stars (6 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Self-suck•Muscle Growth•Foot Growth•A.I.-Controlled Change•Retcon•Complete •M/M

Top dog by BRK Cocky Navy SEAL cadet Jake normally powers past all competition, but the unstoppable Marcus is bigger and tougher than he is. Fortunately, Jake’s not above using any advantage he can to win. 3 parts 2,846 words Added Sep 2024 1,000 views 5.0 stars (2 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Muscle Growth•Gradual Change •M/M

Meta-mischief by BRK Detective Randy Trevino starts experiencing increasingly strange and embarrassingly sexy glitches in his morning routine, and he’s sure his precinct frenemy, the lean and handsome Detective Jake Rivers, is behind it. 3,569 words Added Apr 2024 4,183 views 4.9 stars (15 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Hyper Cum•Nipple Emissions•Public Orgasm•Multicock•Muscle Growth•Always Shirtless•Getting Handsomer•Gradual Change•Getting Taller•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•App•Retcon•Nonconsensual change•Complete •M/M