Birthday benefaction

by BRK   

Esmond is thrilled. His birthday has finally come, and he’s looking forward to the end of his year of service with the prickly, sarcastic mage in the tower. What he’s not expecting, though, is a birthday gift from the old man. Does he have an ulterior motive?

Esmond let himself into the mage’s villa and closed the heavy arched door behind him, whistling tunelessly to himself as he tossed his grandfather’s linen hat onto a massive cherry-wood chair by the door and proceeded down the narrow stone-block passage to the sprawling, dusty library that had swallowed the innards of the ancient, converted keep like some kind of bookish plague. There, no doubt, would be his reluctant quarry, the imperious, insufferable old man to whom his softhearted dam, in gratitude for healing Esmond’s ailing aunt, had recklessly pledged Esmond’s service and studentry each and every afternoon thenceforth from his eighteenth birthday, for the ludicrously excessive term of an entire twelvemonth… and a day beyond. For good measure, as the bakers said.

He’d long forgiven his excitable dam for thus handing over her third and lankiest son to boredom and distraction, but not the old man, a dignified, thought-wandering misfit known as Brandyn of Kent, for his perversity in accepting such an inapt and unwonted pupil. This was not his chosen path. Sure, under the mage’s tutelage Esmond had learned his letters and the names and uses of a hundred plants, and had even excelled in what the old man called arithmancy. But what use was that to a troubadour and a lover?

His lot, he was convinced, was to don the tightest trousers and woo the fairest maidens and lustiest squires, earning his livelihood on the backs of his sweet and comely conquests. His brothers had been born brutish and burly, their futures as partners in the field to their lowly oxen evident even before their christening, and all the more so now. Just as clearly, Esmond’s slim legs, succulent cockstand, and perfectly rounded buttocks were meant for nothing but love and comfort. So his swains and doxies always professed, and who was Esmond to cast doubt upon their testimony?

A year had passed with Esmond having scraped down this long, cold passageway in slump-shouldered resignation, but today was different. Today his walk was jaunty and his shoulders square, because today was that day—the three hundred and sixty-sixth day. His birthday had come round again. Today he would be free of the old man.

Esmond was fond of birthdays. Local tradition was to spend the morning of one’s natal day in the bosom of the Lord, and the evening in the bosom of one’s choosing. Well, he had been to matins, and (he smiled as he danced down the narrow, curving stairs to the base of the library-keep) he had offers to choose from when it came to vespers. The baron’s swarthy, slim-waisted kitchenmaster had been casting him an appreciative eye the last three times he and the old man had gone into town bartering herbs, and Esmond had a feeling the handsome fellow knew just what to do with a good cock.

And why should he not enjoy his natal day thus? It happened that his birthing day was June the ninth, a day most auspicious for love and lust alike. From the day he learned his numbers he’d fancied the Roman six resembled nothing so much as a vagina and a hard prick, and the nine, again in his eyes, could easily depict the same prick and a puckered butthole. Such choices! When in an idle moment he had voiced this thought to the mage, Brandyn had gone on to claim that the heathen Arabs in Spain had their own numbering system, one in which the numbers of his birth added in an even more salacious manner! But Brandyn was always a purveyor of meaningless blather such as this.

Esmond scoffed. What cause had he to know how the Arabs counted, or fucked? He was happy to count, and fuck, and count his fucks, as his ancestors had done since before history was devised to wile away the hours of those with neither fields nor fieldhands to plow. Like a certain crusty, castlebound old mage he could name.

Esmond burst into the vast circular library chamber with a cheery “What ho, old master?”

Brandyn of Kent lifted his formidably bushy eyebrows from where he hunched over a tome at the large central table—the mage trimmed his black and white beard as well as a princely scion, but left his eyebrows to run wild, like a grass fringe along a house no one ever cut.

Esmond laughed as he skipped over to him. “Had any since we last met?” he asked brightly. “Because I have.” He plunked himself into the large heavy chair next to Brandyn—solid cherry-wood, like its twin in the vestibule—and beamed insolently at his soon-to-be-former tutor.

“My affairs are none of your affair, as you well know, young whelp,” Brandyn said patiently, a twinkle in his eye. He was wearing simple clothes, dark linen trousers and a light tunic that laced at the top, at the moment loosely opened to show a few dark chest hairs. Brandyn had apparently never favored the robes that were supposedly traditional for his profession.

“No doubt,” Esmond said. He was convinced the old man’s affairs were entirely imaginary and involved no living man, woman, or beast. Though there were a few sheep in the fields beyond the keep, he thought wryly, not hiding his smirk. As men old enough to be his father went, Brandyn was adequately built and decently handsome in a dark-eyed, Kentish sort of way. Certainly enough to woo a ewe or two, he thought, holding back a snicker. “So,” he said, tossing an arm over the back of his chair, “what is to be my final lesson, great sir?”

“Only this,” the mage said. He reached past a pile of unrolled parchments and found two parcels wrapped in brown cloth. One was wide and flat, the other smaller, the size of Esmond’s fist. He turned and set them both on the heavy table in front of Esmond, expression inscrutable. “For your birthday,” Brandyn said, “I offer you a choice of gifts.”

Of course, Esmond thought. Nothing is ever simple with this old fart. He looked over the two objects, then glanced at the old man. “Am I to open them, or—?”

“Guess first,” Brandyn said. “Use the wisdom I have taught you.” Esmond groaned out loud, and Brandyn’s trim beard moved in a slight smile. “I will give you a hint,” he said. “One is a blessing from Athena, the other, Eros.”

“A conundrum indeed!” Esmond laughed. He nodded his chin toward the larger parcel. “That is clearly a book, and—”

“A book of?”

Esmond rolled his eyes. “You tell me every day my skills in herbology and maths would do me well as a master apothecary,” he said. “If I had to guess, and I do, it is… a codex of elixirs and materia medica.”

From the twitch of his mighty brows Esmond knew Brandyn was genuinely impressed, though as usual he did not say so aloud. Inwardly, Esmond preened. “And the other?” Brandyn pressed.

Esmond considered the smaller bundle, twisting his lip in thought. “A blessing of Eros,” he mused. He glanced up at Brandyn through his lashes. “You consider me to be obsessed with fornication,” he said with a sly smile. “Is it, perhaps, a portion to retard the sexual animus?”

Brandyn shook his head, amused. “The opposite,” he said. “It is the potion of willow-goat’s tear, a powerful… augment… to a man’s special prowess.”

“You don’t say,” Esmond said, trying not to react too obviously. “And you said I must choose?”

“Call it a Kentish tradition,” he said, gesturing toward the two cloth-wrapped parcels. “Esmond, son of Edmond, for our last meeting I offer thee a choice of paths. Wilt thou be scholar… or satyr?”

Esmond frowned. He leaned forward and considered the old man closely, eyes narrowed. “There is some trick here,” he said after a moment. “You do not lie, not as a rule; but there is some subterfuge in this.”

“No trick,” the old man said calmly.

“Hmph,” Esmond said. “Only the schemer says there is no scheme.”

Brandyn’s dark eyes twinkled again. “Logic was never your strength, whelp,” he said. Indicating the bundles he went on, “These are your natural strengths. With these you can shape your life, in this direction or that. Which will you choose?”

Esmond dropped back in the sturdy chair, nodding slowly. “You expect me to choose the potion, because you believe me to be insolent and ruled by my prick. That… that would make you unbearably smug, would it not? That I proved the truth of my base character?” He smirked, standing and reaching for the larger parcel. “Therefore, I will choose the book,” he said, holding it up. “Just to fuck with you.”

The brows went up. “I am indeed surprised,” he said. “But I think you have chosen well.”

Esmond waved the book in his right hand. “Shall be part as friends, then?” he said.

Brandyn grunted and stood, rather laboriously—his knees had been bothering him lately, he said. As he rose Esmond transferred the book to his left hand and held out the right to shake, and Brandyn took it, standing only a little taller than the lanky youth but slightly broader in the shoulder. “Thank you for teachings, old man,” Esmond said as they shook, barely taming a wide smile.

“Good luck with your chosen path, whelp,” the old mage replied, the light in his eyes as big as a grin.

Esmond turned and traipsed out the door with the still-wrapped book in hand, barely able to keep from patting the second package with the potion he’d pocketed under the old man’s very nose, his hefty cockstand already rising in anticipation.

By the time he’d got to the vestibule, he couldn’t wait any longer. Jerking to a halt by the big chair where he’d tossed his hat on the way in, mere feet from the main door, he hurriedly pulled the brown sackcloth off the book—sure enough, it was a book of elixirs, poultices, and other healing arcana. He set it aside on the chair and pulled out the other bundle, adjusting his prick to its full iron length as he did so. Inside the little cloth bag was a finger-sized vial of blue liquid the consistency of mare’s milk. Without hesitation he pulled the stopper free and downed the entire contents.

His body shuddered, and, feeling slightly woozy, he thunked his back against the cold stone and let the wall hold him up for a minute. After a moment a knot of heat flared in his lower groin, behind his prick and balls. What was that? he wondered. Though he hadn’t questioned the mage’s word—that this “augment” his “prowess”—it occurred to him somewhat belatedly to wonder what exactly was in his birthday potion, and how permanent were its effects.

His gaze drifted to the book. Herbal potions counted as elixirs, right? He grimaced. And it would be just like Brandyn to include the very concoction he’d offered as a blessing of Eros within the pages of the blessing of Athena, he thought.

He flicked through the leaves and eventually found it on the next-to-last page. “Potion of willow-goat’s tear,” he read. There was a list of ingredients and the ritual of formation, but what struck his eye was the last section. “Effects,” he read. “Effects are permanent and lifelong. Effect one: growth of the measure of the cockstand with each orgasm, in the amount of one part in ten-thousand at the time the potion is taken. Effect two: growth of the measure of sexual release with each orgasm, in the amount of one part in ten-thousand at the time the potion is taken. Effect three: growth of the measure of libido with each orgasm, in the amount of one part in ten-thousand at the time the potion is taken. Effect four: slowed aging and increased attractiveness to both sexes. Effect immediate.”

Esmond stared. That was… amazing. Awesome. His size and libido would grow? And keep growing! With every orgasm!

Every orgasm.

Every… orgasm…

Esmond’s heart raced. He was young enough to be excited about the prospects of enhanced sexual experiences, but he was also smart enough to know that as a young man he had a shitload of orgasms ahead of him. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up with a dick the size of Brandyn’s keep, and a libido so insatiable he’d be spending milk-pails full of seed every hour of the day. Hell, not just every hour—every minute!

Orgasm management. That was doable. Right? He didn’t have to cum every time he got a cockstand or saw a sexy ass on a passing ostler. He was young and horny, but not… not…

He was panting lightly, his cheeks warm and flushed. He eyed the book he was still holding in one hand. Maybe apothecaries fucked less than troubadours. They had to, right? Biting his lip, he donned his hat and left the villa, as conflicted and as horny as he had ever been.

At least he could have his birthday fuck, the now-eerily attractive young man thought as he strode distractedly toward town. No one could deny him his traditional birthday fuck!

“I thought he’d never leave,” Linton, the baron’s swarthy, slim-waisted kitchenmaster, said as he entered through the far door on the opposite side of the room from the one by which Esmond had left. Grinning, Brandyn quickly closed the distance between them and they embraced, kissing passionately.

“Did he take both, as you predicted?” Linton asked when they broke, his nose nuzzling Brandyn’s slightly longer one.

“Of course,” Brandyn said, nibbling at Linton’s clean-shaven chin. “The whelp.”

Linton snorted, eyeing the door leading out toward the main entrance and the village road. “I’d like to see him in ten years,” he said. “His prick will be a sight to behold.”

“A true Colossus,” Brandyn said, making his way onto the side of Linton’s neck, “worthy of Apollo himself.”

“Shall we go find him then?” Linton asked, his voice getting lower and growlier as Brandyn worked.

“He’ll probably find us,” Brandyn murmured. “By then his libido will be so high he’ll be working his way through every man, woman, and goat in the kingdom on a daily basis.”

Linton laughed, grabbing Brandyn’s firm ass through his dark trousers. “Speaking of goats,” he teased.

Huffing, Brandyn clutched Linton to him in pretended indignation. “I am no old goat,” he said. “I am a stallion!”

They laughed and playfully began undressing each other, the plight of the mage’s horny ex-apprentice already forgotten.

Esmond knew he must be a deviation among proprietors, as he stood behind the counter of his apothecary’s shop, timorously glancing at the entrance every so often as he tried to focus on the poultice he was grinding with his marble pestle.

I must be the only shopkeeper in all Tinsbury high street dreading a new customer opening his doors, he thought morosely, grinding the chickenweed and linseed in his bowl with all the intensity of a man under great internal conflict.

He could imagine them bustling past outside on the widest street in town. Some stroke of fortune abruptly causes this lady or that lad to raise the thought, “Ah! I must have some salves for granny’s skin!” And they would meet, and Esmond’s tallies would augment. The process was as relentless as the engines of the earth. At least he could console himself that high emporia in a thriving market town like Tinsbury, even ones grown increasingly successful and profitable through satisfied custom, did not as a rule possess expensive glass windows like a church or a manor for passers-by to peer into and view the innards, shopkeeper and wares alike. These days, for Esmond, all that seemed to be required was for him to catch the eye of a comely townsman—even (he fancied) through an ironbound pane of fine glass—and then, voila! L’inévitable.

Esmond gritted his teeth, trying to focus. Frustratingly, the exercise of producing Baroness Lyssa’s complicated healing potion was failing to distract him from his recurring problem and constant companion. If anything, the rhythmic motion of the pestle was giving his cockstand ideas, and he resisted a strong urge to push his slender hips forward and rut against the smooth, polished wood of the storage cupboards under the trading counter. Hot desire intensified all through him like oil boiling in a cauldron, his blood seeming to turn from passive to assertive and demanding, and the telltale tingle of his testes and lower spine told him another release was imminent—the tenth today, and that sluggard sun was barely past the zenith.

My last birthday was more joyous, he thought with irony. He smiled glumly to himself. Though troubled in its own way, maybe.

Esmond’s previous natal day had been a day of celebration: he was finally to be released from his year of bound tutelage under the dignified and enigmatic old mage known as Brandyn of Kent. At the time, Esmond had considered his unwilling instruction in herbology, practical thaumaturgy, and other, more arcane subjects to be a hindrance to his preferred career as a lusty troubadour. Just as his brothers had been given the strength and tenacity to drive the plow and pull food from the ground, so Esmond saw it as only natural that his natural gifts, his charm, shapely ass, and much-approved-of cockstand, should shape his errant, fuck-filled path through the world.

Knowing this, the old man, simultaneously amused and frustrated by Esmond’s preferring the life of a rake over leveraging the considerable learning in herbology and maths he had (deftly, it must be said) amassed over that year of training, had set the young whelp a trap. For his last lesson, Brandyn had offered a choice of gifts: one a codex of elixirs and materia medica, a great boon to a journeyman apothecary, and the other a potion designed to augment his masculine prowess. Esmond, rascal that he was, chose the book but palmed the potion, rashly downing the latter before looking it up in the former.

The specifics of the potion, as listed in the tome, had checked his glee at getting one over on the old master. The more he understood the words inscribed in the tome, the clearer it was that it was he, not Brandyn, who had been tricked.

The potion of willow-goat’s tear did indeed boost his manliness. Indeed, it did so along four vectors, not just one: his manhood was increased; his output augmented; his lust advanced; his attractiveness enhanced.

The latter took effect immediately and in great measure, so that his beauty became difficult to resist among friends and strangers alike. The fatal jab, though, was the conditions of the first three. Unlike the other, the increases to manhood, release, and libido were not once only. The potion had changed him so that he grew, spent more, and wanted more, with every… single… release. Forever.

The change was minute, at first. The rub (so to speak) was that the more he spent, the more he wanted to spend. Every release made him yearn to release again, release more often, to feel hand or mouth or ass around his sweet, unslakable prick.

One part in ten thousand. It was so little, inked there on the page in the master’s neat, magisterial script. But Esmond had been naturally lusty to start with, just as he had been naturally well endowed and copious of spend, and his lust had grown and grown until he was releasing, often helplessly, more times a day than he could have imagined on that jubilant eve a twelvemonth past.

He knew the sum of that increasing progression, thanks to his skill with maths and the techniques of arithmancy, which retained numbers and worked formulae in hidden corners of the mind for easy reference and retrieval. In 366 days, he had released in the amount of four thousands and twenty-six. The lion’s share had taken place in the past three months, as his rate of daily eruptions grew and grew.

A cockstand larger by 40 measures per centum—in length and heft, and weight as well—was many things to Esmond… and unwieldy was definitely one of them. His growing prick was not beast-huge, not yet. Even so, it was becoming blunt and intrusive enough as to be impossible to ignore, by himself or others—especially in its turgid state, which his thickened, churning balls were wont to consign it more often during the day than not. Onerous, he thought, but for now it was manageable.

That his production of seed was increased by the same factor just made things messier. Especially when he spent in his sleep, an event that, alas, of late had begun occurring every night, multiple times. His testes filled and then gushered again and again as he slept, just like he did when making love for real, the releases barely thirty seconds apart. He spent and spent in his heated slumber, all while his lust-fevered mind dreamt of shapely asses and delicious, smirking lips. The main upshot, apart from tending to wake in a state of gooey afterglow, was that he had been obliged to add a wash of the linens into his morning routine, and to purchase more and thicker bedclothes to replace those stained beyond use. Again, the fallout of this unusual, self-brought affliction was annoying but, so far, something he could reasonably accommodate in his daily life.

A libido magnified by that same measure, though, and one already starting at a high mark before he’d taken the potion? That was the true curse, and the grizzled old goat of a mage had known it. Between his uncanny beauty and his need to spend, it was a wonder he was standing here in his shop mashing herbs and not out there fucking his way through the city, to the cheers and encouragement of past and future lovers alike.

Give it time, he thought drily, his pulse racing. The idea of abandoning himself to his lust and treating the city like a feast to be devoured had a strange, ball-tugging allure. He could not rid himself of the thought that such a day coming would be a liberation even more exultant than the end of his service to Brandyn.

Moving to Tinsbridge had not helped. There were too many beautiful men here. More than might be proportionately expected, actually, for reasons Esmond had not yet fathomed. Perhaps some mage had blessed the water (or the beer) at some time in the past, leading to crop after crop of handsome, fine-assed, broad-shouldered lads and lordlings of the sort that Esmond regularly spent to in his dreams. (The ladies and wenches were comely, too, of course, but after a rash of pregnancies in his home village shortly before he’d left, Esmond had become fearful of dallying with women, lest his suspicion that his spend was especially potent in fertilizing the womb be proved incontrovertibly.)

As if thinking of the townsmen had conjured them into his shop, the door burst open just then, startling Esmond and setting his heart and cockstand thumping wildly for a moment before he got them relatively under control. Three men had entered the shop, though at first in the blare of sunlight from the briefly opened oaken door he could not make out much about them apart from shapes and shadows. As the door closed and his eyes adjusted, he could see they were young, well-formed men of aristocratic bearing, dressed in simple but well-tailored and expensive attire. Thankfully they had not yet caught sight of him and were examining some of the jars of specialty dried herbs, honeyed lozenges, and other quick-moving wares on the shelves toward the front, leaving Esmond to enjoy that brief moment where he could drink in his prospects unawares, before the encounter and, more times than not, the preordained result to directly follow.

As they started to turn toward him, Esmond carefully moved his hips closer to the counter, letting the overhang help to hide his raging member. As he had many times before, he thanked the saints the thick, massy club rose at an angle; if it were naturally positioned straight up toward his chest, even the counter wouldn’t hide it, and the looser, heavier shirts he’d been accustoming himself to as a precaution—a real wrench, as he was used to attire that clung to him and harbored no secrets—would be his only line of decency.

If it gets much bigger I’ll have to shove it down and hide it in the cupboard when I stand here, he thought. The image struck him as funny, enough so he was smiling when the middle of the three, a dark-haired fellow with smooth pores, a carefully trimmed beard, and bright, knowing eyes looked up and locked gazes with Esmond. Of course, Esmond knew he was all the more arousing with a smile, rakish or otherwise. Normally, he tried to avoid doing so, but it was too late now.

The dark-haired customer reacted with slow delight, becoming utterly captivated and full of wonder. It was as though he had found an artifact of legend, like a precious faun or a wily, wish-granting fae secreted among the mundane stalls of Tinsbridge high street. The other two, broader and bulkier than the first though still quite handsome (kinsmen? bodyguards? Esmond wondered), reacted as well, though their responses were more obviously along more vulgar thoughts that clearly involved bending Esmond over his own counter, possibly while their companion watched and compared their techniques. Their eyes darkened with lust and the ginger one actually licked his lips, while the bald one to the other side gave him a lewd, lopsided smirk, tilting his head down in that way that said You are going to get well and truly wrecked.

Esmond tsked, raising an eyebrow at them. He didn’t know quite how it had been wound into the potion’s magic, but ever since he’d become difficult to resist that day a year back, some stipulation ensured that Esmond never had to be the passive partner when he didn’t choose to be. And he never so chose with guys that looked at him like that. With them, he veered toward the aggressive and dominant, making them beg for their mouths or asses to taste his multiple releases.

His eyes shifted to the dark-haired leader of the three. This one, on the other hand, was making his anus twitch in a rhythm with his oversized cockstand. He was quite fetching, and in a holistic way, all the parts contributing to his heart-thudding appeal. The nose, for example, was thin and tall but not beaky, which somehow worked perfectly with his sleek eyebrows, smooth skin, and thin labor-intensive beard, while contrasting with the thicker (and, in the case of the ginger one, previously broken) snouts of the cruder twain.

This one is special, Esmond thought, trying not to fall into the other man’s rapt gaze. He was a prize even among the rasher of superlative Apollos he’d met and had so far in this eerily pulchritudinous burg.

Swallowing with an effort, he concentrated on assuming his proper role as a civilized townsman and shopkeep. “Good day, gallant sirs,” he croaked. He cleared his throat and asked, “And how may I be of use to you today?”

The bald one with the lewd smile muttered, “I think you know, pretty thing,” not taking his eyes off Esmond. The other sniggered, blatantly adjusting his crotch through his leather breeches. Esmond ignored them, as did their more civilized friend.

Instead, the dark-haired, handsomer one brightened, glad to have a reason to engage with such a vision. “I am Sir Percival. Not the famous one,” he added with a sly smile, as if he had heard this joke a great deal. Esmond’s smile made his cheeks pink with his success. “Percival of the High Guard. Your shop was recommended to me by Lord Kevin. Are you Esmond the Apothecary?”

Esmond the Horny Apothecary, he almost corrected. I should put that on the sign. Instead he answered, “I am! And how is my Lord Kevin, Sir Percival?”

Percival smiled, pinking a little more. “Very pleased,” he confessed. “He heartily endorsed the ‘Goat’s Fulfillment’ potion you sold him, and recommended I acquire a vial or two in advance of my next, er, two weeks’ furlough.”

“I see,” Esmond nodded, feeling his face warm a little in turn. Great news, Master Libido, he snarked inwardly. Not only do we have sexual intercourse lapping at our ankles like a tide of my own freshly shot seed, now it is to be the actual subject of discussion. “An excellent choice, sir. Your wife will be very pleased.”

Percival dropped his chin slightly, though he kept his eyes on Esmond. “No wife, I’m afraid,” he said. “I was planning on, er, taking my chances.” He stared hard at Esmond, hope blooming so obviously in his eyes that Esmond almost stopped fighting the ball-tightening release currently begging to blast free of his thrumming member. Two weeks might not be enough, he thought wanly.

“Percy’s been passed around,” the bald one explained, clapping Sir Percival on the shoulder. His tone was as lascivious as a man could make it—and Esmond had heard his share of lewd and raunchy speech. “He’s a right good time.”

“I can attest to that,” the ginger one agreed. Percival looked pained but said nothing, his attention entirely on Esmond.

Esmond’s jaw set. That’s it, I’m keeping him, he thought. A scheme for doing so started to form in Esmond’s lust-soaked brain. As for the oafs—well, he might have plans for them, too.

His thoughts turned to the Goat’s Fulfillment potion for which Kevin had referred the striking young noble. Esmond had developed deeply mixed feelings about this particular elixir, and some days he cursed the day he had discovered it poring over the more obscure pages of the codex Brandyn had given him.

On the one hand, it was extremely effective, nearly doubling sexual pleasure, potency, and endurance for the imbiber and his partners for an extended period of nearly a full cycle of the moon. All of which meant he could (a) charge through the nose for it and (b) build some repeat custom for those unsatisfied with a single go. Kevin, the king’s randy third cousin and a favorite in some of the bawdier taverns in the lower city, had already purchased the philter three times over as many months, and, it seemed, was now recommending the slaking draught to friends and connections as well.

On the other hand, a key ingredient of the concoction was his own seed—at least two releases’ worth for a full batch. As if his libido were not demanding enough! With this increasingly in-demand item, now even his trade was upping his all-impinging, life-changing release count. He shook his head, cursing the crafty old man. The old goat must have been laughing down his sleeve, gleefully remembering all the traps within traps he’d laid for his naïve whelp of a protégé.

“An interesting thing about this elixir,” Esmond said casually. “It requires a special ingredient that I may need some assistance in acquiring.” He stepped back from the counter, just enough for Percival to see the massive tool tenting out his loose, heavy trousers along his hip, while keeping it out of sight of the leering hulks standing behind the other lad.

Percival’s eyes widened in understanding. “I would be glad to help,” Percival said, glancing down and then up again, if anything more awed and flushed with need than ever.

“After you,” Esmond said, gesturing toward the black curtain that covered the entrance to his back room and workshop, just to the left and behind him at the end of the counter. Percival nodded and passed by him, his impressive erection clearly outlined in his elegant breeches. To the buffoons Esmond added, “You can assist as well in a related task.”

The two snickered, casting Esmond a bawdy wink, and passed through the curtain.

Esmond rolled his eyes and grabbed two vials from under the counter, dropping a newt’s eye in each from one of the pairs of newt-oculi he kept wrapped in onionskin in a little box. The eyes, each from the same newt, dissolved in the two vials, linking them. Putting everything else away, he followed the others into the back room.

He found the three facing each other, Percival with his arms crossed and looking appalled while the two larger ones engaged in a debate. Probably arguing over who fucks me first, Esmond thought, knowing from experience it was the likeliest answer with men like this. Before they could get a proper look at him, he shoved the vials in the brutes’ faces. “Hurry! Drink this!” he instructed. “It will make you irresistible!”

They grinned. “Like I need that,” the ginger one said, but he downed the vial anyway, the other following copying a second later. Esmond stepped back quickly. The two men swallowed, looked up, and caught each other’s eyes, freezing in utter beguilement.

Esmond stepped around them and moved over to Percival. “That’s them sorted,” he said, facing the knight and sliding his hands around Percival’s hips.

Instinctively, Percival matched his movements, gently pulling Esmond close. He glanced at the two larger men, who were already groping to undo each other’s breeches while mashing their mouths together hungrily. “I gather you have… bonded my ridiculous cousins to each other?” he hazarded, his cheeks hot as their rigid cockstands brushed together.

“Fully and completely,” Esmond said. They were still willingly fuckable by other interested parties, he thought, though he didn’t speak it aloud—he was saving the sharing of that facility for after he and Percival had made love two or three or maybe a dozen times. He slid a hand under the tailored jerkin to feel Percival’s back, earning a little moan from the handsome, well-proportioned knight.

Percival was eyeing Esmond’s lips. “Does it matter that they are brothers?” he asked distractedly.

Esmond smiled, delighting as Percival stilled, his light panting just barely audible as they held each other close. “Not even a little,” he said cheerfully.

Behind him, there was a thud as the two oafs fell to the floor, desperate to be the one to fuck the other. Esmond and Percival smirked in unison, and Esmond realized his heart was banging louder and more relentlessly than it had for any other man he’d spilled his seed for. I really am keeping him, I think, he told himself in wonder. Whatever he was feeling, it was more than the potion-curse, infecting him far deeper than the forty measures per centum augmentation to his lust that drove him to spend and spend and spend.

He leaned in for a soft kiss with just a quick brush of tongues, then reluctantly stood back a step. “C’mon,” he said, a hand still on Percival’s back as he guided him to a low stand where his small cauldron stood. “Help me make this potion. If you’re good I’ll even let you try it out.”

At the cauldron, Percival knelt and undid Esmond’s trousers, pulling the fabric free of Esmond’s perfect bottom and stiff, massive prick. “Angels preserve me,” Percival said, staring at it in rapture as it quickly beaded with thick precum. “It is easily twice the size of mine, in every measure!”

Esmond chuckled as he pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside. “Do you think the angels have cockstands like this?” he teased.

Percival smiled, freeing his own cockstand as he raked his eyes up Esmond’s long, limber form to his sweetly compelling face. They both paid no attention to the loud grunting coming from somewhere behind Esmond, though the raw, animal fucking was adding to the heat of the room and was its own kind of aphrodisiac.

“Perhaps they do,” Percival said salaciously. “Certainly this is how I will picture Raphael and Michael from now on!”

“Just add the wings,” Esmond joked, barely able to contain his release. Fuck, he’s so good looking and so… so right for me, he thought.

“I would wager you have a potion for that somewhere, too,” he said, then moved forward and took the cockhead and upper shaft into his mouth with practiced ease. Esmond cried out as he pushed in further and further, Percival’s hands on his needy, idyllically rounded ass, and then he couldn’t hold back any further. His dam burst, and he was releasing hard into Percival, letting go of at least two orgasms’ worth of seed in a single climax. Percival instinctively swallowed it all as best he could, gulping it down and gazing up lovingly at Esmond as he stroked his own prick to explosive release.

After a blissful minute he abruptly seemed to remember something and pulled off in a hurry—only, Esmond was still spewing, and so ended up painting Percival’s alarmed face for the last few messy spurts.

“I’m so sorry,” Percival said, genuinely contrite. It was rather a comical juxtaposition with the stripes of seed Esmond was giving him. “I shouldn’t have swallowed—your seed was needed for the potion, was it not?”

Esmond grabbed the knight’s firm, meaty shoulders, leaning forward slightly as he gasped, “Don’t… worry. I never release… just once… anymore.” He swallowed. “Next one’s already coming!”

“Truly?” Percival said, amazed. He stood, and Esmond kept his grip on his shoulders as Percival carefully took Esmond’s rigid, slippery prick in both hands and aimed the weapon at Esmond’s cauldron.

Esmond winced—his cockstand was very rigid and did not like to be moved. He looked at Percival seriously. “Every release grows my lust,” he confessed. “My prick, too.”

“Truly,” Percival said, this time low and raspy, as though Esmond had touched something in him that had never been touched before. His gaze sharpened and became a notch or three more possessive in a single heartbeat, as though he did not want to risk anyone else taking Esmond from him. Who knew, Esmond thought with a little thrill that had nothing to do with his brewing climax. My beautiful knight has unusual desires…

Esmond watched him carefully, feeling that next release building up rapidly in him, ready to blow. “You may find it overwhelming in a year… or five.”

“Esmond, my delicious lover and apothecary,” Percival said, leaning in close, “I will not be overwhelmed by you even after a hundred years.” He kissed him, and Esmond instantly started blasting his second release (or did it count as the third?), the high-pressure spend making a distinctive sound against the cast iron. Behind them, the cousins released too, their orgasms somehow overlapping onto his.

Still spending, Esmond grinned and said, “Percival of the High Guard, you and your soulmated cousins—and many others, but especially you—are going to be covered in so… much… seed.”

Percival laughed and they kissed again, even as Esmond felt the next unstoppable release welling up within him.

No one paid the strange wizard much mind as he clopped unhurriedly through the city gates and made his way up the crowded market street in the direction of Tinsbury high street aboard his venerable but sturdy roan mare, Moonfoot. If he had worn a traditional set of wizard’s robes, perhaps, or shown his masterful white beard and famously rampant eyebrows, he might have drawn a few stares from the busy townsfolk as he passed. But Brandyn had always favored simple raiment, being presently dressed in the same laced tunic, dark linen trousers, and leather jerkin any merchant or minor landholder come to town might wear; and as for his snowy beard, in his current guise his chin was as smooth and whiskerless as a new-forged spade and his jaw as sharp as a longscythe.

If anything, it was something of a disappointment not to be noticed in this form. He was not an especially arrogant man, at least as wizards went; but he was justly proud of his skills, and the fact was that his “stunningly handsome, raven-haired young man” transformative disguise had, on the rare occasions he’d attempted it, been known to make stoic matrons swoon and bishops apostate.

He particularly remembered the last time he had worked the difficult spell, some ten years past. As he remembered it, with little more than a twinkle of the eyes and an artfully deployed smile, and maybe a few more intimate attentions here and there, he had managed to sway the population of a small rustic southern village into harvesting an entire year’s worth of wild lungroot for him from the nearby craggy hills. For the entire week of the spell, everyone in sight was lust-eyed and willing, happy to help him in any way they could… only to be left confused and bereft when the cart they’d laden with their generous bounty was driven away on the eighth morning by a hale and bearded old man they did not know, chuckling to himself for reasons they could not understand. Brandyn still smiled to think back on it. What else was the practice of magic for, he reasoned, if not to bring to fruition that which could not be accomplished by more mundane means?

As he rode slowly up the cobbled gateward road toward the heart of the bustling market town, however, he seemed to be drawing barely a ripple when it came to the attention he was wont to garner, as rake or wizard. Liquefy it, he thought, and it might fit in a thimble. It was almost to the point of disrespect.

He might have been irked, were the reason less apparent: the more he saw of Tinsbury, the clearer it was that the town was stuffed to the rafters with beautiful men of all kinds and tastes. The arrival of one more comely male, it seemed, was as unremarkable as round apples and green grass.

To him, the meaning of such an anomaly was disquietingly clear. The townsfolk surely had no idea of the profusion of beauty amongst them; a novice like that brat Esmond coming to Tinsbury might merely have marked an unexpectedly high number of good-looking men and women. To a practitioner with Brandyn’s experience, however, there could be no doubt: some kind of magic was at play, affecting large proportions of the local inhabitants if not the entirety of the population.

Turning this over uncertainly in his mind, he came to a large public house that seemed to be doing a lot of business. Finding himself thirsty, he decided to stop a while. As he handed off his mare to a comely and surprisingly well-hung ostler (or so it seemed from the lump in his trousers, though he might merely have been hiding his lunch there) with a copper for his trouble, Brandyn squinted up at the sign. The Oak and Sickle, it read, the carefully painted lettering surmounted by a basic, if well-executed, depiction of same. He shook his head. He had lived in this country for longer than most people’s grandfathers had been eating solids, and he still found pub names and their seemingly random combinations distracting. Often they were corruptions of older phrases or local folklore, he knew, so the explanation here might lie in that direction. Perhaps there had once been a fable in these parts about an oaken sickle, though he could not guess what the lesson of such a tale might have been.

Leaving the conundrum aside, he entered the tavern. Inside it was lively and welcoming, all the tables occupied by groups of good-looking men engaged in merriment and tale-telling. The tankards before them were full of foaming draft, but there was little sign of overindulgence, and the place did not smell of spilled ale or vomit as some pubs did. Camaraderie was the pervading attribute of the place. Men laughed as tales and secrets were told loudly or quietly, as befit the tale and the teller. Everyone sat close, comfortable with proximity. Arms draped easily around broad shoulders, and in one corner two extremely handsome young men, scions maybe from their grooming, were casually kissing, oblivious to the doings around them.

Bemused and amused, Brandyn worked his way through the room toward an open seat in the back. Now that he was amidst them, he felt the draw of the Tinsbury men. There was something about them, something deeper than eye-catching faces and deliciously square shoulders. It tugged at him, naggingly familiar.

He bumped into a young, leather-clad squire and paused, staring into his brown eyes for a long, held breath as they smiled automatically at each other, the thick wad of the lad’s prominent crotch brushing against his. Suddenly, Brandyn understood.

The moment broke, and as the lad dipped his head and vanished into the throng, the wizard looked around himself, marveling at the revelation. No wonder the Allure constituent of his disguise spell hadn’t been effective here, he thought as he continued working his way to the back of the tavern room. Somehow, the entire town had been dosed with the selfsame conjuration! Having been Allured himself, he was no more than a face in the crowd, in a most unusual turning of the phrase. He was a beryl in a barrel of beryls, as quotidian as a quaff.

He dropped into the empty seat and leaned forward on the rugged, well-finished table, looking around the pub full of affectionate, extraordinarily handsome men in slightly miffed amazement. He’d never seen the like. Individuals, yes; Allure had been one of the four components of the prank “curse” he’d inflicted on Esmond two years back, for one, and there had been other instances, some with outcomes as droll as his impish apprentice’s. But not entire towns. Someone had some explaining to do.

Wizards didn’t take oaths of behavior, nor did they subscribe to a shared philosophy beyond mutual concord with the earth and its many elemental forces. Even so, lasting transformation of entire populations was beyond the pale, at least as Brandyn saw it. Especially so, if the motivations, as seemed likely to be the case here, extended toward the prurient or the manipulative. To be sure, Brandyn had seduced a village or two in his day, but the effects were always entirely ephemeral, a momentary warp in the fabric of time. What had been done in Tinsbury was meant to be permanent—to create a town of Allures, a place whose citizens were difficult to resist.

All of that, he reflected, must require a master spellworker to be here and present. What he was witnessing could only be the result of a standing master spell, of the sort that had to be tended through persistent presence. You couldn’t just walk away from a third-order spell like this. It would unravel, quickly and often in unanticipated and even catastrophic ways, if not maintained and mended with care and enduring patience over a period of several years, until the spell either faded into dormancy or took on enough energy to become self-perpetuating.

There had to be someone working this mass-Allure spell. But the only practitioner he knew of in these parts was…

No. Was it possible that disrespectful whelp was behind all of this?

Brows knitting, he looked around again at all the good-looking men as they drank, laughed, conversed, danced, arm-wrestled, cuddled, and kissed as though kissing were as normal as cussing. No, that was not the answer. His ex-apprentice Esmond had had potential—a lot of potential—but at present the pup was still a wet-behind-the-ears magician-apothecary. Sorcery on this scale was beyond him, Brandyn was certain of that.

Besides, some of the younger men here, like that squire, stood out even from the others in the intensity of their radiant attractiveness. Were they double-Allured? The children of Allured parents, he considered, would be subjected to the spell via two routes, blood and environment.

That wrinkle might just help him sort out what was going on here. If he could trace the spellstrands—

A strong hand dropped onto his shoulder, and he turned, startled. “Well met, stranger!” boomed the well-built, auburn-haired man sitting next to him with a happy smile.

Brandyn had thought the fellow immersed in conversation with the slighter, softly bearded man on his other side, and pain him no heed; but the softly bearded man was getting up to leave with the guy who’d been sitting across from him, a large, well-muscled man with salt-and-pepper stubble whose entire physical being screamed “Guard.” The two were making moon eyes at each other, laughing about petty fools who still made fun of some princeling named Percival loving a commoner even after a whole year of unswerving devotion as they left, leaving the entertainment of the auburn-haired man to Brandyn.

Brandyn found himself wanting to inch back from the man along the bench, lest he be pulled in and absorbed by the man’s ravaging attractiveness. The hair was the first thing he noticed—it was long and lush, cascading past his ears and onto his thin, snug tunic in a way that seemed to pull on his hand, inviting his touch—but there was nothing about him that did not plead for long, lingering study. His eyes were clear and bright, the pupils a remarkable emerald green; his cheeks well-shaped and smooth, their honey-brown tone seeming to have captured some faint echo of the sun itself; and his mouth… Brandyn forgot his immense age, forgot his detachment from ordinary human affairs, forgot everything but that mouth and what it might do to him.

The wizard’s arousal, already simmering from the atmosphere of profound lust permeating the tavern, suddenly surged, much to his dismay. Apollo’s balls, he was getting hard! Controlling one’s erections was one of the perquisites of advanced sorcery, and here he was, straining the tight linen of his trousers like some sort of—

“I’m Fenwick, by the way,” the auburn-haired morsel said. He was speaking clearly and patiently, as though used to having to redirect people’s attention from his sensually sweet, steak-red lips to what he was actually saying. “A merchant in lead and tin goods and suchlike. My shop and the rooms above are not far from here. Will you tell me your name, and perhaps what affair brings you hither to brighten my day?”

Abashed by his brazen ogling of the man’s mesmerizing lips, the wizard cleared his throat and remet Fenwick’s curious gaze, the innocent power of the merchant’s appeal investing him in a rush like wine staining a jug of spring water. He tried to look away, but found his eyes pulled back to Fenwick’s like a swimmer trapped in a current. “I am Brandyn,” he said gruffly. “Brandyn of Kent. I, er, had a whim to visit my erstwhile apprentice on his natal day.”

Fenwick smiled brightly, transforming his already handsome face into something remarkable. The effect of it thrilled through Brandyn and left his uncomfortable erection flexing with painfully escalated desire; he resisted an impulse to shift a hand into his lap, not wanting to draw attention to it. He was glad his manhood in his current transformed state was not any bigger than normal, if only because he had long before determined that any further size added to his naturally impressive equipment might have pushed it even further into the category some might call “unwieldy.”

Out of curiosity, he tore his eyes away from Fenwick’s long enough for a pleasant side trip down the front of Fenwick’s snug tunic—revealing a body that had known labor but in such a way as to leave it enticingly sculpted, like the statues of the Greeks—and down to the man’s crotch where he saw something that made his eyes widen.

“Ah, yes, the Goat’s Fulfillment,” he heard Fenwick say. At first Brandyn’s addled brain thought this might be the merchant’s fanciful name for the enormous cockstand reaching well down his thigh. Then he recognized the name, and his eyes shot up to meet Fenwick’s again. The handsome merchant looked slightly chagrined. “I was told the increase in both size and, er, ardor would fade after a full cycle of the moon; but it is nigh on the third cycle and so far I am seeing no abatement.”

Brandyn nodded knowingly. The townspeople’s plight was even more fraught than he had guessed. Not only had the inhabitants been subjected to an ongoing Allure spell for who knew how long, the average man now both comely and difficult to resist; beyond that, his ex-apprentice’s potions were also progressively driving up libidos and cock sizes, one customer at a time.

He licked his lips, feeling the warmth of Fenwick’s solid presence and the heat of his gaze, his normally razor-sharp acumen dulled by more primal instincts. Brandyn was not normally given to being a wanton sybarite, but in this youthful body, and in close company with a strapping, Allure-radiating, extremely aroused young man, surrounded by many more, he could only acknowledge the extent to which he did not have complete control over what felt like the galloping and increasingly self-willed stallion that was his sexual need.

He found he was closer to Fenwick, the merchant’s shy smile infiltrating Brandyn’s inner core even as the mouth making it spurred his balls and manhood to increased strength and determination. “I see,” Brandyn said. “An interesting condition. Perhaps… you’d like to show me what you mean?”

“Nothing,” Fenwick said, as if it were one of the rote responses he used every day in his trade, “would give me greater pleasure.” He rose and discreetly adjusted his slab-like burden so he could move more easily, letting his eyes remain locked with Brandyn’s. The wizard did likewise. With a wink, Fenwick added slyly as they worked, “For once I can say that and mean it. The people in my shop are often difficult to please.”

“I promise most fervently I will not be so,” Brandyn said as he moved with Fenwick toward the door. He, too, meant what he said, even if his words were, as so often, dryly sardonic. They joined hands in the street, striding purposefully for Fenwick’s shop with hot blood and thrumming cocks, and the only thing in his mind other than Fenwick was a visit to Esmond’s shop, to be made as soon after post-orgasmic haze abated as he could manage.

Or, in the morning. The morning would be soon enough.

The sun had barely begun to glare down the length of the high street from its position above the fishmongers’ quarter at the eastern terminus of the wide, bustling artery. Even so, Esmond, clad in a green woolen cloak despite the morning’s warmth, was already out in front of his shop, hell-bent on taking control of his day for once in his strange, orgasm-drenched existence. He was not going to spend the day cumming for other people. He was going to celebrate his natal day by cumming all day for himself. And Percival. No jism-requiring sex elixirs, no annoyingly attractive customers luring his seed from him in lusty admiration. Just him and his man. An ideal day, or as close as he could get.

He gave a determined twist to the wire affixing the top right corner of the sign to his door, the other corners already secured, and stood back, admiring his handiwork and grimly ignoring the irked young noble who’d been watching all this with a grimace of frustrated disapproval.

“What’s this, then?” the noble demanded, gesturing at the sign. He was admittedly more than good-looking, like most of his compatriots, with creamy skin and fetching silvery-blond hair in loose ringlets, though Esmond thought his current sour expression was not doing him any favors.

“What, you cannot read?” Esmond asked. “What are they teaching the scions in these occluded days?” As the ringleted noble fumed, he pointed to each of the black, painted words on the placard. “CLOSED,” he read out, “NO POTIONS TODAY.” Turning to him, he added, “I know that literacy is for the few in these parts, but the large red X on top is also a clue.”

“My skill with letters, peon,” the noble answered haughtily, “is surpassed only by your innate talent for rudeness.”

“A peon am I?” Esmond said coolly. “Beneath your notice? Then withdraw it, sirrah!”

The noble took a menacing step forward, and Esmond flushed, feeling the heat of the man’s presence. How were so many men of the city so instantly arousing to him?

“You, sir, have breached the conditions of our transaction,” the noble said. He gestured curtly downward at himself, his ringlets shaking. “I demand recompense!”

The ringleted scion was dressed lightly in a simple tunic, trousers, and soft leather boots, much like Esmond’s lover, Percival, who lounged against the side of the shop nearby, watching the interchange with idle amusement. Neither wore a cloak, unlike Esmond. Esmond feel acutely self-conscious, though perhaps not as self-conscious as he would be were it not there to “hide” his straining, ridiculously massive, shoulder-high erection. Not that the concealment was all that effective; anyone who knew of Esmond’s condition—and it seemed increasingly as though more and more did these days, from what he could tell—would easily spot the large, pipelike bulge dominating the surface of the otherwise flat cloak from waist to shoulder, and would know he was not in fact concealing Hercules’s club beneath his raiment as it appeared, except perhaps in allegory.

The ringleted noble was not attempting even this level of subterfuge. His state of arousal and its prodigious size—a cock Esmond would have called huge, once, before the gift-curse of his natal day exactly two twelvemonths prior—jutted directly out a good twelve inches from under the hems of his tunic, the metaphorical tatters of the man’s dignity preserved with a dingy rag wrapped and tied tightly around its impressive girth.

Esmond felt drawn to the large, jutting organ, even above his sense of guilt at the man’s all-too-legitimate grievance. To keep his hands from mischief, he instinctively crossed his arms over his chest. This was a bad move, however, as he was now essentially hugging the enormous erection throbbing needily under his cloak to him. The strong embrace made him shiver with desire, while below, his massive balls tightened. He realized that if he wasn’t careful he would soon be blasting another orgasm—his fifth already that morning—only this it would be right there in the street for all his neighbors and this fool to see.

He should lower his arms again, but he was too stubborn to do anything that might look like backing down. He was so raggedly close right now it might not matter anyway.

If I ever see Brandyn of Kent again, I will give him cause to regret his little trick, he thought angrily, the pleasure of his cock-hug churning recklessly through him. A little improvement to one’s manhood is fine, but—Zeus’s taint, this monstrosity measures twenty-five inches! Bigger than a cubit!

(When he’d mentioned that particular fact to Percival, he’d smirked and said, “Three hundred of those things and you’d have an ark.” Esmond was not amused.)

He glanced over at his lover and soulmate. The high-ranking swordsman and low-level peer was watching him fondly, seeing no need as yet to interfere. Esmond felt a rush of answering affection, and his cock surged with want. Percival was his everything. Perversely, he’d somehow become more handsome and dramatically more endowed over the year they’d been together, despite Esmond having never given in to the temptations he experienced in weaker moments to dose him with the ephemeral libido-boosting spell known as “goat’s fulfillment”—or even his own curse, “the willow-goat’s tear,” if only to have a lifelong consort in constant growth and escalating desire.

Still, Percival’s manhood had grown apace, becoming steadily thicker, longer, and lustier, almost doubling his original size in the time they’d been together. Esmond could only assume Percival’s constant exposure to Esmond’s corrupted seed, so often and in such vast quantities, had passed an echo of his growth to his other half.

The fire in Percival’s eyes shivered up Esmond’s spine, making imminent eruption and a deluge of all and sundry nearby a very real danger. Fortunately, the ringleted noble was petulant enough to distract him. “Well?” the scion said. “Are you too busy ogling your paramour to admit your deception?”

Esmond took in a breath and let it out slowly. Even that action became needlessly erotic, as the expansion of his chest delightfully pressed his firm, giant member between his equally firm torso and folded arms. “What deception is that, pray?”

“You vowed the effects would last a mere cycle of the moon,” he hissed. “It has been two cycles!” He crossed his arms, mimicking Esmond’s posture. “A month’s romp is one thing, but I have duties to perform, and yet all I can think of is my member and how it needs to be in Sir Ephram’s ass!”

“Yeah!” someone else shouted, and Esmond started, disturbed to realize a small crowd of three or four more men had gathered close by without him noticing. They were variously clad and of diverse classes and colors, but all were handsome, and judging by their protruding crotches all of them shared the ringleted noble’s concern. He looked over at the one who had shouted, a large, heavily built man who looked like he might be a carter. The big man blushed. “Not the Sir Ephram part,” he amended, “but, I say again: Yeah!”

Fearing the development of an angry mob of excited, well-equipped men, Esmond gestured placatingly at all of them, palms outward. “I do not know what is causing the recent intensification of the goat’s fulfillment potion,” he told them truthfully, “but I am working on it, and—”

“No, you’re not!” the carter objected, gesturing at the door and the sign he’d just put up. “You’re off today doing fuck knows what!”

“I have to present myself to the crown prince next week!” the ringleted noble complained. “How shall I do that, if I look like this?”

Esmond eyed the noble. From what he knew of the prince, such an audience might go very well indeed, and he was on the verge of telling him so when the others started shouting. “What are you going to do?” “Is this forever? I’m too big for my mistress and my wife!” “How would you feel if this happened to you?” “Answer us!”

As the townsmen jabbered, Esmond became aware of Percival having stood from the wall and moving next to Esmond, his hand on his sword in a show of support. His customers ignored Percival, instead talking over each other in increasingly heated recitation of their tribulations.

Esmond tried again to calm the knot of cockstanded swains. “Look,” he said, “I promise you I will find—”

“I will cure you,” a male voice announced abruptly, silencing them all.

Frowning, Esmond turned to see a truly beautiful, raven-haired man standing to one side, eyeing the proceedings smugly. He drew in a breath, his stomach fluttering at the thought of a rival practitioner—and one so alluring—suddenly intruding into his domain.

By his side Percival stiffened, likely concerned about a different sort of rival. “Who is this?” he asked in a low voice.

Before Esmond could answer that he did not know the stranger, the raven-haired man spoke. “Don’t you know me… whelp?” he said.

Esmond’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Brandyn of Kent,” he growled.

This was a new low for the morning. It was annoying that he was here, but even more annoying that he was manifested in a form so young and irresistible. Esmond wondered if attempts at payback would now, out of overriding lust, be forced to focus on his more-than-a-cubit cock as his instrument of retribution. Perhaps some tests to see how much of his “gift” would fit in his old master were an appropriate start.

Words were what mattered here and now, however, and Esmond was at a disadvantage. He wanted to say something cutting; but the painful truth was he did not know what was going on, and the old wizard’s experience would be invaluable. Revenge would have to wait.

He said nothing, too proud to ask, but the wizard understood. Brandyn turned to the upset customers. “I shall consult with the apothecary,” he said. “Go and fuck each other for a day, and return on the morrow.”

Surprisingly, the protesters obeyed, if grudgingly. They moved off in a group into the growing morning-market crowd, the ringleted noble muttering something about how his manor was conveniently nearby and that Sir Ephram was likely awake by now and would want to join them.

Esmond watched them go, bemused. When he turned, he found that Brandyn had moved close, so that the three of them, himself, Brandyn, and Percival, made a tight, sexually charged cluster in front of his shop.

Brandyn was eyeing the long, shoulder-high lump under Esmond’s cloak with great amusement. Esmond burned, annoyed at the escalation of heat he was feeling from the proximity of both his lover and his old master, now remade as a handsome, hard-to-resist specimen of utter manhood to rival his amazing soulmate.

“Well then, pup,” the young-looking wizard said, wiggling his dark, perfect eyebrows. “Shall we begin?”

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Metabods is an alternative gay erotica site involving fantasy situations. All relevant characters are intended to be 18 years or older. If you encounter a story in which it appears that is not the case, please use the “Report a problem with this story” link directly under the tag list to call it to our attention, and that story will be placed under immediate review. Thank you.

The Red Prince by brazboy Out of a weird arrangement a cursed prince is born, one who has an uncontrollable appetite for human flesh. As his unabated hunger leads him to consume more and more men, he transforms, gaining the body of a gigantic marvelously muscular giant. Who can stop him, and what will be the consequences of trying? 2 parts 8,773 words Added Aug 2023 21k views 4.3 stars (11 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Hyper Cum•Nipple Emissions•Extra Mouths•Multi-abs•Multi-balls•Multicock•Boytaur•Multiarm•Multileg•Multilimb•Multipec•Multitongue•Stacking•Hyper Muscle•Immobility•Muscle Growth•Gradual Change•Male Pregnancy•Transformation•Size Increase•Hyper Tongue•Tongue Growth•Incest•Brothers•Hetero Sex•Destruction/Violence•Blood•Nonconsensual change•Nonconsensual sex•Vore•Complete•Medieval(ish) •M/M•M/M/M/...•M/M/F

Noel’s literary gift by brazboy Luciano’s flatmate Noel decides to give him a special Christmas present: a notebook that guarantees that everything written in it is true. The notebook is as powerful as it sounds, although it also seems to be affected by Luciano’s desires and perhaps its own innate mischievousness, creating a snowball effect that twists the entire world.  3 parts 12k words Added Dec 2022 28k views 4.7 stars (22 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Cockfucking•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Nipcocks•Self-suck•Hyper Cum•Nipple Emissions•Public Orgasm•Multi-abs•Multi-anus•Multi-balls•Multicock•Four Legs•Multiarm•Multileg•Multilimb•Multipec•Multitongue•Stacking•Straight to Gay•Muscle Growth•Public Nudity•Getting Handsomer•Voice Deepening•Getting Taller•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Age Regression•Hyper Tongue•Tongue Growth•Retcon•Incest•Brothers•Christmas•Complete •M/M•M/M/M

Shaming the boastful centaur by DracumSum Bill makes a joke, and a Greek goddess makes it real. 7 parts 41k words Added Oct 2022 Updated 21 Oct 2023 32k views 5.0 stars (13 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Cut to Uncut•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Self-suck•Cum Milking•Always Cumming•Hyper Cum•Four Legs•Hyper Muscle•Immobility•Muscle Growth•Public Nudity•Increased Libido•Breast Expansion•Getting Handsomer•Gradual Change•Transformation•Voice Deepening•Giants•Forced Growth•Human to Animal/Anthro•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Hairless•Retcon•First Time/Virgin•Bisexual•Nonconsensual change•Restraints•Hyper Pheromones•Time Travel•Centaurs•Pagan gods•Supernatural•Complete•College/University •M/M•M/M/F

My chronicles by growerdom I chronicle my growing life, dealing with my new abilities, and you’re there every step of the way.  3 parts 5,624 words Added Dec 2023 Updated 19 Jul 2025 40k views 4.4 stars (27 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Self-suck•Hyper Cum•Public Orgasm•Dom to Sub•Straight to Gay•Hyper Muscle•Pec Fucking•Hyper Strength•Immobility•Muscle Growth•Muscle Gut•Muscle Theft•Muscle/Strength•Muscle Worship•Man Scent•Voluptuous Men•Butt Growth•Belly Growth•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Gradual Change•Transformation•Voice Deepening•Getting Taller•Giants•Forced Growth•Plausible Size Difference•Size Decrease•Size Increase•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Getting Fatter•Father/Son•Dom/Sub•Nonconsensual change•Hyper Pheromones •M

The dudes by BRK The guys at school are really susceptible to suggestion—so much so that if you tell them something’s true, it turns out that it actually is true. (Slightly revised throughout as of May 2025.) 8 parts 22k words Added Mar 2010 Updated 17 May 2025 156k views 4.7 stars (61 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Self-suck•Hyper Cum•Public Orgasm•Multi-abs•Straight to Gay•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Public Nudity•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Getting Taller•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Tongue Growth•Retcon•Suggestion•Incest•Brothers•Hyper Pheromones•College/University •M/M•M/M/M•M/M/M/...

Wishes come true by OneLuckyGuy89 As Zhao continues his godly trip down memory lane, we learn about his mysterious companion Brutus, whom Ares gave immortality in the days of the ancient Roman Empire. As he’s thinking about the past, another group of men activate Zhao’s website. 5,821 words Added Aug 2024 16k views 5.0 stars (1 vote) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Public Orgasm•Female to Male•Transgender•Hyper Muscle•Hyper Strength•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Muscle Worship•Man Scent•Butt Growth•Increased Libido•Foot Growth•Getting Handsomer•Transformation•Voice Deepening•Getting Taller•Forced Growth•Size Increase•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Incest•Brothers•Father/Son•Twins•Nonconsensual change•Lycra/Spandex•Hyper Pheromones•Supernatural•Immortality •M/M•M/M/M/...

The Wizard of Hot by hyperboi A young man’s difficult life on a struggling Kansas farm takes a sudden turn when a cyclone appears, taking him and his brother far from home to another place altogether. 10 parts 39k words Added Apr 2021 Updated 31 Jul 2021 28k views 4.6 stars (16 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Hyper Cum•Multicock•Multiarm•Multileg•Multilimb•Three Legs•Muscle/Strength•Detachable•Giants•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Incest•Brothers•Anthro/Furry•Witch/Warlock/Wizard•Fantasy Realm•Supernatural •M/M/M•t/t

12 days of Growthmas by MaxMorphs Two magical Christmas Gnomes grant Max the ever-evolving gift of growth. Throughout December, Max transforms into one of his hottest fantasies. Of course, there’s a price for your dreams coming true. 14 parts 15k words Added Dec 2022 25k views 4.9 stars (17 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Nipcocks•Self-suck•Cum inflation•Hyper Cum•Hyper Muscle•Immobility•Muscle Breast•Muscle Growth•Increased Libido•Foot Growth•Getting Handsomer•Gradual Change•Getting Taller•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Complete •M/M