The universal lexicographer

by BRK   

Agent Aaron Levesque is annoyed. His latest case is obviously a joke, and his next interview is with a man accused of altering someone’s existence just by telling them their middle name was not what they thought it was.

Aaron sighed, shifting restlessly in the back seat as the rideshare driver nosed through the usual snarl of afternoon downtown traffic, simultaneously feeding a low, steady stream of curse-laden play-by-play to whomever he was on the phone with. This was such a bogus assignment, and having to sit through an hour of gridlock for it just made it extra bogus.

Maybe it wouldn’t be quite so bad, he thought, if it weren’t for the lingering redolence of meatball parmesan making Aaron wish he hadn’t skipped lunch to shoehorn in an extra trip to the secretariat gym before this interview he was heading to potentially ate up the rest of the day. In principle the Magistrate’s long-standing decree that all civil claims put before him be independently investigated was reasonable, even admirable; but that didn’t mean the agents of the realm called upon to do so appreciated being stuck all afternoon in the back of a dented downmarket-luxury sedan longing for a cheeseburger and a sack of curly fries. Even a Twix would be welcome at this point, he thought bitterly.

The car lurched suddenly to a halt—they’d been cut off by an SUV (ironically bearing the maroon wings of the Magisterial municipal service) pulling recklessly out of a parking spot into traffic, eliciting an escalation of maledictions from the epithet-fluent driver. Aaron gritted his teeth as momentum briefly pushed him against his seat belt. He bit back his own curse, then consciously worked on relaxing himself. He forced his shoulders back into the soft vinyl upholstery before letting out of a long, silent breath and reaching for his bag in the seat next to him, pulling out his tablet and earbuds. He could at least review the complaint again before he met with the defendant and concluded officially that the whole thing was a waste of everyone’s time—not least his own.

He popped in his earpieces and opened the appropriate folder on his screen, deciding to pull up the video deposition first. He hadn’t been there for this as it hadn’t been his case at the time, and he strongly suspected that the official excuse for it being dumped in his lap—that Tate’s caseload had exceeded official limits, obliging him to offload the excess onto more junior agents—was as much a load of manure as the case itself. At least Tate had been customarily diligent in assembling the initial dossier components; Aaron allowed himself a measure of grudging gratitude toward the smugly self-satisfied senior agent. Strong evidentiary detail would make it that much easier for him to recommend formal dismissal to the Magistrate’s High Counsel at the next Sunday Roundtable.

“I didn’t ask for this,” insisted the bronze-skinned, floppy-haired man in the video. He’d been interviewed at his place of business, a busy and well-reviewed bakery he owned over on Avenue of Forgotten Kings, just around the corner from the hockey stadium. The video showed an office of some kind, the wall festooned with calendars and schedules on clipboards; to the left of frame a door stood partly open, offering a glimpse of a busy kitchen.

The man being questioned regarding the alleged “incident” four months prior was thirty-ish, fit, and handsome in a lean, hawkish way, his nose and abundant walnut-brown locks being his most noticeable features, apart from the obvious. Perhaps surprisingly, instead of a chef’s coat or something similar reflecting his status and vocation he was wearing only a tight white tank-top, low-cut on the sides, more suited to the gym Aaron had just left than a busy kitchen. It certainly had the effect of showing off his wiry, defined physique. At least there was some value in listening to this tripe, Aaron mused distractedly, his lips quirking as he watched the man’s firm, striated shoulder-muscles shift with all the hectic gesticulating.

“I mean, sure, I said something like ‘I’m so busy I wish I had extra arms,’ I don’t remember the exact wording, but—”

“Mr. Black, the defendant, was a customer in your shop that day, correct?” a smooth offscreen baritone voice cut in, interrupting the plaintiff’s rambling diatribe. Clearly Tate had conducted the interview himself, in-person, and Aaron gave him another reluctant point for not consigning the critical work of gathering in-person testimony to his para-magisterials.

“That’s—yeah, that’s right,” the man said with a slight frown after a second. He was wrong-footed enough at being interrupted to still his gesturing, which seemed to be his natural mode of expression. “He was buying crullers, a lot of crullers. We had to make more.”

“And, for the record, how is it you allege that Mr. Black, in the context of purchasing a large supply of pastries, came to be liable for your—” The offscreen voice paused, as if considering the phrase that best reflected the speaker’s incredulity. “—physical configuration?”

The plaintiff’s eyes hardened, his annoyance at the questioner’s prejudicial tone showing plainly even second-hand, as it were, in the video. “He asked me my middle name,” he said flatly.

“Which—” Another pause as the offscreen Tate consulted his notes—probably unnecessarily, Aaron thought, knowing the senior agent’s meticulousness. “—is Quadros, correct?”

“Y-yes,” the plaintiff admitted with obvious hesitation, as though it were not a matter about which one could express absolute certainty. Then more agitatedly, hands flying, he added, “Except it wasn’t. I remember—I remember telling him something else. Some other name. My real middle name.”

Aaron shook his head in mild disgust. He’d seen a copy of the man’s original natal certificate, and Tate had had the original in his hand when he’d scanned it into the file. He remembered it clearly: Philip Quadros Sierra, three names in clear blue-black ink, inscribed in the registrar’s distinctively neat and simple hand. Tate was right to sneer, he thought. Though the senior agent really should keep a lid on it and not let it bleed through into his tone quite so obviously—that sort of bias had been known to mitigate otherwise clear-cut judgments. The Magistrate’s High Counsel valued her office’s reputation for impartiality almost to a fault.

“And what is the relevance of Mr. Black asking your middle name?” the offscreen Tate persisted smoothly, the carnivore laying the final lure. Such a showboat, Aaron thought.

Sierra was angry now, already convinced Tate was trying to shaft him. “Look,” he said, pointing a long finger right at the place Tate had to be sitting, behind and to the right of the stationary deposition camera. “I told you. He asked my middle name. I gave it to him. He said he knew it wasn’t that—the name I gave him. That it was Quadros, and in the language of the universe it meant—”

“‘The… language of the universe’?” the offscreen Tate repeated with barely concealed derision.

“The language of the universe,” Sierra maintained hotly, emphasizing each word. “His voice got all dark and he said, ‘In the language of the universe it means, man with four skilled hands.’ And… look at me!” he added, throwing the arms in question wide in demonstration.

There was a pause as the plaintiff and his questioner stared at each other. “Mr. Sierra,” Tate said at length, tone now brisk and businesslike, “our office has already amassed copious evidence of your—” He paused again, dramatically. “—physical configuration from birth onwards. Videos. Photographs. High school boyfriends.”

“Yes, but—”

“We have also,” Tate spoke over him, “confirmed that the records show you to have been possessed of the middle name Quadros from the time of natal registration onward. Without, I need hardly add, any formal variant or revision whatsoever during the intervening period.”

“I know,” Sierra broke in, “but—”

“And yet you are asserting, before the Magistrate himself need I add, that the plaintiff, Mr. Black, is liable for this state of affairs? That he accomplished this merely by speaking your name?”

“You have to understand—”

“Is it not possible,” Tate plowed on, completely overriding him, “that you have the causation in question completely reversed? That, even stipulating the meaning of ‘Quadros’ you indicated, your parents registered you with that name precisely because you were born with four arms?”

“No!” Sierra cried, half-rising in his seat and throwing up his hands. “He gave me that name, he wrote it on the universe, he avowed what it meant—”

Aaron made a noise of disgust and ended the video, done equally with the plaintiff’s delusions and Tate’s posturing. He knew from his initial review of the case there was an affidavit in the file from Sierra’s mother affirming exactly the theory Tate had put forward during questioning: that she and her husband had seen their son with his extra arms and decided to gift him with a middle name that, in her words, “sounded four-y.” (Something similar must have happened with the three other documented cases of tetrichiric men with that same middle name Tate’s researcher had uncovered. Quadros was an extremely rare moniker in the Magistracy, but, as it had turned out from an exhaustive search of the vast and detailed registry of citizens, not unique.)

Aaron had flipped through some of the old pictures and videos in Sierra’s dossier when he’d gotten it, too, all of them showing a well-built and well-adjusted young man who’d seemed happy enough to leverage his generous allotment of hands all out no matter what he was up to—zealously guarding his opponents in basketball, kneading dough and making pastries as he found his life’s vocation, slow-dancing with his co-prom king while a soft-focus backdrop of fellow students looked on enviously (though which one they envied was anyone’s guess). Some of the evidence suggested he was ambidextrous, or quadridextrous, or whatever the right word was. Even if his claims were true he should be thanking Black, Aaron thought, not suing him for nonconsensual bodily modification before the Magistrate and the High Counsel.

Setting the tablet aside, Aaron grimaced out the window at the city crawling by, the dying afternoon laying long, darkened shadows across the buildings and plazas. This case should never have gotten this far. Aaron knew it was only the unexplained gaps in Black’s documented history piquing the High Counsel’s curiosity that had even allowed it to proceed past the initial filing.

Maybe Tate did me a favor dumping the final stages of the case on me, he thought morosely, as he watched the traffic light they’d been waiting at cycle back to red again. Probably the only interesting aspect of this case will be interviewing the guy our plaintiff claimed literally changed his life.

The city-center address listed in the files as his destination turned out to be well-kept townhouse tucked away on a leafy secluded street—an old-fashioned three-story brownstone, in fact, of the sort that was inhabited these days only by hermit millionaires or horny, half-naked students in partitioned apartments, ten to a cupboard. The single buzzer by the blood-red front door suggested the former, though he second-guessed his assessment when pressing it produced, after a moment, a very nude man to answer the slightly oversized door.

Aaron was momentarily nonplussed. “Uhh…” he said, his brain stalling as he took in the dour-looking godling.

“You are from the High Counsel’s office?” the nude man asked doubtfully, his manner of speech sounding slightly old-fashioned. Something flickered in his eyes—dismay, Aaron thought speculatively, though it wasn’t the dismay of a guilty man shocked to find the law at his door. No, something about Aaron personally unnerved him. He wondered what could discombobulate a man so uninhibited he greeted his visitors without a stitch of clothing on him.

Aaron remembered he needed to respond somehow and nodded, not trusting his voice. The stranger really was an almost idealized specimen. Everything about him was just right, not too much or too little: he was elegantly muscled, long-limbed, with gently rippling abdominals and firm, delectably rounded pecs; a sweet face with sharp blue-green eyes and dusky-red lips that drew the eye; wheat-blond hair and smooth tan skin. Even his genitals looked exactly as though they had been designed as an aesthetic prototype, sizable but still sublime, with an air of succulence about them as though they existed to provide pleasure in all manners and contexts. Observational… fellatial… penetrative…

“Hm.” The other man didn’t move.

He realized he was staring at the man, feeling strongly drawn to him, and hastily looked up again. He’d never learned someone was uncut before he’d had a chance to even exchange a “hello” before, not that, given his year-long dry spell, there had been recent occurrences of any such opportunities. And yet the more he experienced it face to face, as it were, the more the stranger’s nudity felt natural and uncomplicatedly apropos. For this man to be clothed felt like it would be… wrong, somehow.

Aaron cleared his throat. “I’m… here to see Cedric Black…?” he ventured.

“Obviously.” The nude man tightened his lips and gave Aaron a quick, edgy once-over. “You are not Gareth Tate,” he said uncertainly. “I was told Gareth Tate had my case.”

Aaron blinked at the man. It was not a surprise for him not be mistaken for the senior agent, who was older, taller, and balder than Aaron by several degrees in each case, though still good-looking enough for in-house whispers he had once seduced the normally imperious High Counsel herself to retain a modicum of credibility. Tate was also thin as a rail whereas Aaron had spent his off-hours over the last five years carving out a more muscled silhouette in a mostly fruitless effort to overcome the male population’s seeming general indifference to a bland, slightly workaholic government drone, however pleasing to the eye. Aaron probably had fifteen pounds on the man before him, though it was clear the blond apparition carried his sleekly built physique more or less infinitely better than Aaron ever could.

The problem was, magisterial investigative agents did not mix in city society or online media as a rule, in order to help preserve their objectivity and independence. Even high-ranking operatives were little-known outside the Secretariat Complex. The surprise, in other words, was not that he could be told apart from Tate, but that this man had known in advance what the senior agent looked like.

Perhaps there was more going on here than an unsubstantiated, waste-of-time accusation of unwanted metamorphosis. What were this man’s connections? What secrets did he possess?

The nude man was watching him, eyes flickering. Once again, Aaron made himself refocus his thoughts. “Er, Senior Agent Tate was obliged to pass this one on to me,” he admitted. “I’m—”

“I see. Come on in then,” the nude man interrupted him in clipped tones, turning on his bare heel and walking away, leaving the door open behind him. The abruptness of the man—Black?—cutting off his introduction was scuttled by Aaron’s instant awareness, as soon as the other man started to turn around, that he was about to see the godling’s ass, said awareness being quickly followed by the reality of the ass itself. Like the rest of him it was perfect: firm, round, and exerting an almost literal pull on Aaron. He almost missed the fact that he was getting hard; though at least the jolt of that awareness was enough to dislodge his feet from the cement doorstep and lead him into the cool, airy house.

He entered the checkerboard-tiled foyer, closing and latching the ponderous oxblood-fronted door behind him, then hurried to catch up with his reluctant, if obviously uninhibited, host, trying to ignore his own mounting arousal.

As they walked Aaron found himself keeping a pace behind the other man, eyes straying from his delectable ass only to slide upward to admire the gentle V of his back or down to take in the easy strength of his long thighs and flexing calves. He moves like a dancer, he thought wistfully, though something told him this was more from some innate grace and poise than actual training at the barre.

Aaron shook his head slightly, unwilling to look away or try to think down his swelling two-thirds erection. He was properly ashamed of his behavior but couldn’t bring himself to stop. What would it hurt, to admire an admirable backside for the minute or two it took them to get from the door to… wherever they were going…?

Belatedly, Aaron looked around him. It wasn’t a vast space—this was a typically compact, if high-end, row-house in the city, not the Magistrate’s mountainhome summer palace—but the rooms were open and the ceilings were high, the decor tasteful yet eclectic. As he oriented himself he saw that they were leaving a narrow corridor bisecting the length of the ground floor and were now entering a good-sized sun-room overlooking a verdant, well-manicured back yard.

“Have a seat,” ordered the man who could only be Cedric Black, gesturing to a comfortable-looking celery-green sofa. Surely Black didn’t employ a surly, always-naked butler? It had to be him. Anyway, Aaron had a good sense of space and the proximity of people, and there was clearly no one else to in the entire house.

Aaron nodded and moved toward the couch. As he sat, he noted the coffee table between it and what was obviously Black’s favorite buff-suede chair opposite, though so far the man had made no move to sit down in it. “I’ll need to record this as official testimony,” he said as he pulled the equipment from his bag. When he looked up, Black merely nodded, his expression stony. Aaron licked his lips and set up the camera on its little tripod and attached the cordless mic.

When he glanced up again from adjusting his tablet to record the session, he saw that Black hadn’t moved and had apparently been staring at him the whole time, as if he were as much a puzzle to Black as Black was a potential obsession to him. Aaron drew in a breath, feeling his shirt tighten across his hard-won chest. He was sure glad his now rock-hard erection was more or less hidden as he sat, hunched forward as he was. He wasn’t going to be sitting back and relaxing anytime soon.

Black cleared his throat again. “Drinks?” he asked, still the unwilling but dutiful host.

“No thanks,” Aaron said, surprised by the feeling of discomfort that came with denying Black anything. He gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Shall we get started? It won’t take long.”

Black seemed unhappy. “I shouldn’t do this,” he said unexpectedly after a moment, eyeing the handsome, well-built agent with something that strange tinge of alarm he’d seen earlier. Startled, Aaron gave him a questioning look, and Black met his gaze reluctantly. “You’re triggering my addiction,” he admitted. “I was doing so well…” he trailed off, eyes still locked on Aaron’s.

Aaron frowned, not sure how he could be subjecting the man to any temptations just by sitting here in his sun-room. Perhaps Black thought of himself as straight, and Aaron was flicking a bi-curious switch he’d been denying he had? … No, that didn’t seem to be quite it. Still, whatever cravings Black was fighting, the best solution was to resolve this case quickly and get out of the man’s hair. Also, Black being across the room made him uncomfortable, for reasons he was not too clear on. He needed to force things along.

He went for the veiled threat that usually vitiated resistance in interviewees. “If you would prefer not to take a private deposition,” he said, “I’d be happy to arrange a testimonial hearing.” Testimonial hearings were open to the public, a feature deponents seldom preferred, to say the least.

Black eyed him coolly, seeing the offer for what it was. His expression had turned flinty, as if Aaron had revealed himself unworthy of Black’s previous reticence. “That won’t be necessary, agent—?”

“Levesque. Aaron Levesque.”

Black nodded. He came over to sit in his chair at last, much to Aaron’s relief. Having Black nearer to him felt like a physical balm. The less distance there was between them, the better, he thought, though he couldn’t think why that should be the case.

What was happening to him? For the first time he felt a seed of doubt steal through him. All of his reactions to Black felt… not unnatural—they seemed very, very natural to him—but… uncanny, maybe. He frowned at Black, who was still watching him closely.

Something strange was going on. Maybe, just maybe, Sierra was on to something.

He licked his lips again and tried to meet Black’s too-intense stare as the Magisterial agent he was. “Let us begin,” he said.

Aaron drifted through the revolving doors and into the bustling, marble-clad chill of the Secretariat Complex like a passing cloud, directionless and preoccupied. Something had happened during his deposing of Cedric Black, something sharp and acrid, but already his brain was playing tricks on him, the crenellations of his gray matter covertly shifting and redirecting like a hedge maze whose leafy, impenetrable walls moved capriciously into new configurations whenever you weren’t looking.

What is your middle name?

It was the same question the distressed plaintiff, Sierra, had reported Black asking. Aaron had a clear image of Black asking it, face to exquisite face. Was it from the interview, or his reimagining of Black’s encounter with the four-handed baker?

Aaron felt flushed and warm, not so much on the skin as in the blood. He was aware of his sexuality, his genitals, his amatory prowess. But that was normal. He always felt like that, on the leading edge of arousal. He was a physical being moving between intimate encounters that slaked a mutual need and left all involved satisfied and content. He’d accepted it as his due, a natural consequence of his being exceptionally gifted down below.

He was always conscious of his junk, how any pants he wore seemed to cup and cradle his size and heft, its constant weight and potency, the way men longed to taste him on their tongues, desperate for him to fill their hot, worshipful mouths…

Aaron stopped suddenly in the middle of his habitual trajectory toward the main elevators, a single stilled figure in the midst of a teeming atrium. His abrupt halt forced a trenchcoated woman following close behind him to veer around him with a grunt, but Aaron barely noticed. All of that—everything he had just thought—that wasn’t him. That… wasn’t… him.

Glinting eyes. The look of an addict who had found the justification he needed to succumb to temptation, one more time.

No, that’s not your middle name. That’s not your middle name at all.

There had been something about the nature of names. They had talked about Sierra’s accusation. Black, to his amazement, had willingly professed his own guilt, corroborating the baker’s ludicrous account almost word for word. It was a curse Black possessed, he said. He would not speak of its origin, only its effect: When he spoke a man’s name, it described him, shaped him. Fairy stories were right on one point: Names held power, and Black’s affliction was such that he could define exactly what a name meant deep within the very elemental structure of existence. Black had found that bestowing a unique middle name evoked his power in its purest form: when he did this, time and reality actually warped to suit the name and Black’s stated definition of it. Only a ghost of the former existence survived, as a wisp of memory shared by Black himself and the unfortunate person he’d named. Black had found the exploitation of his curse to be like a narcotic—the kind of temptation he could resist only by swearing off it completely. His last slip had been Philip Sierra, and in the four months since he had kept himself away from men who might catch his eye and pull on his destructive lust.

“Middle names,” Aaron had repeated drily, barely holding onto his professional demeanor. “So, what does your middle name mean?” he’d asked. “‘Inhumanly attractive man who can’t wear clothes?’”

Black had responded with a sly grin. “That’s one of them,” he’d admitted, though he’d added that the name and meaning had not been his choice. The conditions of his curse were such that while he could name others, only others could name him—and only under… certain circumstances.

Aaron’s disbelief must have shown on his face. “Do you dare me to show you, agent Levesque?” Black had said, a deadly, provoked amusement in his voice.

Someone bumped into Aaron’s shoulder. Belatedly surfacing and remembering where he was, Aaron looked around him in brief confusion before abandoning the route to the main elevators and changing course, plowing through the streaming crowd toward the wide, twisting marble stairs that led down and around, deep into the archival catacombs.

A moment later he was standing in front of one of the fifty or so archivists’ desks spaced out across the busy, sprawling expanse of the underground registrancy bullpen. They all did the same kinds of work, all day every day, and their constant motion at their desks and the huge, high-ceilinged space combined to create the visual impression of human cogs in a vast informational machine; but this one Aaron knew and trusted.

The archivist looked up, recognizing Aaron with a rakish grin under bright hazel eyes and a mop of siena curls.

“Hey there,” Reggie, the young archivist, purred. “I was hoping I’d be running into you again soon. Need something pulled?” he prodded saucily, wiggling a ring-pierced eyebrow.

It was always like this, and Aaron felt his equipment stir in familiar anticipation. Except—no, this was—

What the heck was happening to him?

“A-actually, I do,” he said, a little flustered. “I need you to pull a natal registration card.”

The randy archivist licked his full lips, slowly and deliberately, and—fuck, just watching that tongue draw across the breadth of plump, meat-red flesh felt like a drawn-out caress across the lower curve of his exceptionally heavy balls.

At the same time Aaron was aware of eyes burning into his back—the square-shouldered registrar at the next desk over in the extra-crisp white shirt had paused in his work to watch his colleague chatting up Aaron.

Reggie dropped his chin into his palm, flicking long lashes at Aaron. “What’s the name?” he asked.

“Aaron,” he admitted reluctantly. “Aaron Levesque.” He almost said the middle name. Almost.

The hardware-bedecked eyebrow lifted in surprise. “Yours?”

Aaron bit his lips into his mouth and nodded.

“You know the price, agent Levesque,” Reggie said calmly. Others at nearby desks were taking notice, male and female alike. The air around him seemed to thrill with sexual energy. Of course, no one was questioning Reggie’s flirty behavior; Aaron’s mere presence was titillation and low-grade pleasure, just like it always was wherever he went.

Aaron nodded. He did know the price. “Card first,” he said firmly, and the archivist smiled.

There was a little alcove off corridor C they always used. It was hardly obscure, or even out of the way—corridor C was a main conduit into the registrancy catacombs, and the alcove itself was bare fifty feet from the central hub they’d just left. The other archivists always innocently pretended corridor D was the preferred route for the duration of agent Levesque’s visits—not that that ever kept a few of his cheekier colleagues from occasionally developing sudden, urgent business that demanded a dash down corridor C that just couldn’t wait at just the right moment.

Reggie had a good feeling they’d be left unmolested this time, Reggie having developed a bank of good will with his peers recently that was currently translating into him being allowed some quality time with the most in-demand and lusted-for cocks in all the city. He’d be gleefully questioned for hours once the good agent had slipped back up the curvy stairs to the daylight world, of course, but for now it was just them, and Reggie was grinning as he dropped to his knees in front of his handsome, generously-equipped visitor.

Said visitor seemed a little off, Reggie noted. For one thing, he was, at the moment, totally focused on his own natal registry card. The cards were thick and made of high-quality stick, but were still slightly translucent in the right light. Looking up through the card with the light behind it Reggie could just make out the names his visitor was staring at, AARON TUDYX LEVESQUE, in neat, blue-black letters.

He wondered what pulling the card was all about, and why Aaron’s own name was so shocking to stare at today. Maybe it just looked funny written down, Reggie thought. Or maybe he’d never had a gander at the actual original before, and it was prompting a minor existential kerfuffle internally. But that was okay. Reggie was fine with Aaron being a bit distracted just now. Maybe it would earn him a surprised gasp that first time Reggie drew his mouth over the sweet, wide, deeply-sensitive cockhead of his choice.

Reggie grinned and began slowly pulling down on Aaron’s straining zipper. Tudyx. It was so appropriate somehow, he thought, as he peeled open the agent’s fly until the thick, red-tipped beasts within sprang out, rapidly completing their inflation as he watched to full, iron-bar firmness.

Reggie stared in lustful awe, his mouth and tongue and throat begging to taste the hard, delicious flesh, the back of his mind still amusing itself with that funny middle name. He didn’t know its significance or if it was a family name that had been handed down or anything, but it sure seemed like it meant what it sounded like. Though maybe there was more to it, he thought, swallowing his welling spit. Maybe it meant something more baroque, like ‘two extra-big dicks that men craved to suck.’

Reggie grinned, adjusting his own long, thin erection in his pants. Crave—yeah, that was about the size of it. Just seeing Aaron and being near him stirred a compulsive need in him he could ultimately only satisfy on his knees, like this, in front of this one, singularly-endowed man.

Stretching up a little to reach the tips of the long, girthy erections jutting sharply up and out from Aaron’s open fly, Reggie playfully breathed a gust of hot, moist breath over the two wide, precum-damp heads. Aaron shivered but didn’t tear his gaze away from the card—yet. That was okay, too. Reggie liked a challenge, and he knew he was more than up to it.

Left one first, he thought, licking his lips. He could just about manage both, but he always saved that feat for the explosive finale.

“I need to fix this,” Aaron said aloud suddenly, eyes still on the card and its handwritten inscription.

Reggie looked up at him, amused by his state of distraction. “You need to fix—what? Your name?” he asked, mouth inches from Aaron’s quivering, needy, hunger-inducing tools.

“Yes,” Aaron agreed, oblivious to the teasing (both kinds). “I need to fix my name.”

Reggie held in a laugh. Nothing to fix here that I can see, he thought. In a single, fluid motion he slid his hot, wet mouth over the leftmost shaft. Aaron moaned, dropping the hand with the card to his side at last and throwing back his chin in simple, convulsive pleasure, and all was right with the world.

Cedric stood on his third-floor balcony, naked as always, looking out over a city of temptation. There had been times he hadn’t cared about what he did, and times when he’d been able to resist and stave off his addiction to changing people with his curse. Nowadays only staying away, alone and isolated in his brownstone-castle retreat, worked to prevent him feeling reckless or consumed with guilt by what he’d done.

He had made a mistake, though. Not in altering agent Levesque. The cocky civil servant had deserved it, with his sneering and his veiled threats. Right from the outset Cedric’s instant attraction to the shapely, athletically handsome agent had been tainted by his obvious resentment at having had what he thought of as an inferior case—his case—fobbed off on him. Cedric might be a lapsed predator, but he was just fine with making prey of the occasional unwary interloper who’d wandered unsuspectingly into his lair.

No, the mistake had been in his choice of metamorphosis. Or maybe… in his lack of restraint. He hadn’t just defined his victim’s new middle name as meaning he had two hefty, oh-so-suckable cocks to puzzle and fret over, half remembering a life with one ordinary cock stirring like a faint phantasm under his new life with two exceptional ones. No, Cedric had had to go further and include the stipulation that these two cocks were cocks that men who met Aaron longed to suck—and would suck, if they could make it happen.

He grimaced in amused chagrin. It was a trap of his own making, and so elementary. He had met Aaron Tudyx Levesque, spent time with him, felt the lure of his presence. And that meant that somewhere, out in that city, was a man whose fat, leaking, steel-hard dicks Cedric himself desperately desired to taste, fellate, and swallow, until he forced Aaron to erupt in twin, hot jets of thick, salty cum, again, and again, and again.

There was a first time for everything. For the first time he knew himself to be subjected to the force of his own writing on the universe, just as strongly as he’d been shaped again and again over the centuries by those who had renamed him in the throes of fucking.

Now, just as he had said, he longed to suck Aaron’s cocks.

And he would. Because he, of all people, could absolutely make it happen.

Vote on this story

Secret Santa by BRK Joe’s crew at his new firehouse are destined to become very important to him, but the extent to which he’s more and more heart-thuddingly attracted to his handsome, well-muscled workmates worries him more than a little. 3 parts 15k words Added Dec 2016 19k views 5.0 stars (15 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Multi-abs•Multiarm•Multileg•Multilimb•Three Legs•Replication•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Always Shirtless•Incest•Brothers•Selfcest•Christmas•Complete •M/M•M/M/M/...

Vision space by BRK Sent to explore an unknown, derelict spaceship in search of usable technology, a young marine unexpectedly discovers three sexy inhabitants, guardians of a secret no one could have imagined. 6,302 words Added Jun 2021 11k views 5.0 stars (11 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Hyper Muscle•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Transformation•Getting Taller•Giants•Size Decrease•Size Increase•Age Difference•Aliens•Space Travel•Complete•Set in the Future •M/M

The rent boy who saved Christmas by BRK Cody and his extra-large cock have a premium gig going, until a few random words to the wrong person turn him into the magical nephew of a very real supernatural being—and this year, Uncle Kris needs his help. 2 parts 8,386 words Added Dec 2022 6,492 views 5.0 stars (10 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Replication•Muscle Growth•Size Increase•Retcon•Selfcest•Merging•Supernatural•Christmas •M/M•M/M/M•M/M/M/...

The right blend by BRK In this sequel to “One Hot Summer,” Thad returns to Colorado, still in Zac’s upgraded, hyper-hung body. When he finds he’s no longer able to morph himself back into what he’s supposed to look like, his only hope is his sexy and capable second-in-command, Aleksei. 30 parts 87k words (#31) Added Mar 2023 Updated 31 Aug 2024 32k views 5.0 stars (10 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Self-suck•Hyper Cum•Multi-balls•Multicock•Multihead•Boytaur•Four Legs•Multiarm•Multileg•Multilimb•Multipec•Multitongue•Multitorso•Replication•Stacking•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Always Shirtless•Pointy Ears•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Transformation•Getting Taller•Plausible Size Difference•Size Decrease•Size Increase•Race/Ethnicity Change•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Retcon•Incest•Brothers•Nonconsensual change•Body Swap•Cannabis •M/M•M/M/M•M/M/M/...

Simian massage by BRK Danny, a cold and cocky Yukuza enforcer, is ordered to take care of a double-dealing masseur—only to find himself under magical attack. 5,462 words Added Nov 2023 4,410 views 5.0 stars (11 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Muscle Growth•Increased Libido•Human to Animal/Anthro•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Tongue Growth•Dom/Sub•Nonconsensual change •M/M

Peoplechange 2: The Client by BRK When a man with a reality-changing gift makes a living creating beautiful men, the real rush comes from the ones who want even more. 2,759 words Added Dec 2023 4,454 views 5.0 stars (3 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Muscle Growth•Public Nudity•Transformation•Getting Taller•Retcon •M/M

The river god by BRK and Rock Creek Werewolf Forced into a long sleep for cultivating the love and lust of male human servants, a river god awakes in the modern world and finds a new familiar through whom to channel his improvements and feed his desire for male carnal pleasure. 5 parts 28k words Added Jun 2024 Updated 31 Aug 2024 10k views 5.0 stars (10 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Public Orgasm•Replication•Other Mental Changes•Straight to Gay•Muscle Growth•Muscle Worship•Public Nudity•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Transformation•Getting Taller•Giants•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Age Regression•Incest•Father/Son•Nonconsensual change•Pagan gods•Complete •M/M•M/M/M/...

From the files of the Magic Misuse Office by BRK High-ranking magilegal investigator Liam O'Brien reports on a YouTube video in which twin college students have an illicitly magical effect on anyone watching. 6 parts 20k words Added Sep 2017 Updated 4 Sep 2021 21k views 4.9 stars (36 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Multicock•Multihead•Multiarm•Multilimb•Multitorso•Replication•Straight to Gay•Muscle Growth•Increased Libido•Transformation•Social Media•Incest•Twins•Selfcest•Merging•Witch/Warlock/Wizard •M/M•M/M/M