by BRK

Just before his debut as a replacement performer in an up-and-coming boy band, Ian discovers they have a strange backstage ritual with some very unexpected effects.

Added Jun 2021 7,095 views 4.6 stars (7 votes) 4,124 words

This story was commissioned via Patreon Vignette Party.

You may be looking for the following similarly named story: Hard to hide by BRK.

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A buzzer sounded twice in succession, stilling all conversations in the cramped and sweaty green room (actually green, as it turned out). Outside, the noise of the crowd picked up. “All right, let’s go,” Derek announced from his corner by the door, pocketing the battered old bookviewer he’d been reading from as he stood from his stool and aimed a penetrating gaze at the rest of them. “You know the drill.”

Ian, the newest of the five and unapprised of this “drill”, felt nervous and irked at the same time, but he followed the example set by the other four veterans as they gathered into a line at the center of the room, joining them at the end. He suppressed a momentary flutter of inadequacy as he glanced over his fellow Adonises, all of them looking very sexy in the same loose black trousers Ian wore and nothing else. He was just as worthy of being here as they were… wasn’t he? After all, hadn’t he been voted “Most Mouthwatering Hunk” and “Best Moves—Male” at Mondale High for four years straight and been the Shirt-Theft Senior Prank target his junior and senior years? Not to mention he’d been able to capitalize that hotness in a snap, scoring this gig filling a vacancy in an apparently up-and-coming boy band he’d never heard of, Hard5, practically in his first week in New Las Vegas. He could do this for a few years and then “retire” and go to college—and if he really got paid what the contract said he’d have his first year’s tuition, room, and board at Vega U. sewn up in a month.

He eyed their manager warily as the older man walked along the line of perfectly sculpted men like a boot camp sergeant inspecting a passel of cadets, or a major domo reviewing the sultan’s harem. Though maybe that last one wasn’t a good fit, he thought, holding back a smirk—the guy in charge of a harem would probably be a eunuch, if he remembered his history, and judging by the bulge in Derek’s close-fitting charcoal-gray trousers his impressive equipment was far from compromised. In the course of their brief and unnervingly terse interview—held just after his dare-he-say brilliant audition—the only fact Derek had revealed about himself, apart from his name, was that he had once been in a hot-and-sexy boy band himself. Judging by the steel-muscled, zero-body-fat physique revealed by those tight pants and the equally snug bright white tee shirt he could believe it. His face these days was as handsome as a romance-novel CEO’s, only showing the faintest lines near the eyes, and his short, cleanly trimmed hair was a rich dark brown betraying only a bit of silver near the temples. Those fierce gray eyes, though… they had seen a lot more than Ian and his little cohort of hot young things could probably imagine.

As Derek passed him he gave Ian a once-over and his eyes seemed to narrow. Then he turned and strode back up the line. Ian’s stomach tightened behind his carved granite abs. What had that been about? Intimidating the newbie? Reminding him he was still on probation and could get kicked out in a hot second if he didn’t measure up?

He lifted his beardless chin. Whatever. He was not going to let anyone or anything stop him from putting on as hell of a show.

On a small table in the corner of the room were two small, squarish receptacles, one black, one green. They looked to Ian like ice-buckets from a cheap motel. Perhaps they were; such detritus would be easy to find in this town. Derek picked up the black one and moved to stand in front of the first of his new brethren: a cocky, dimpled, and (as he had had occasion to witness already) very flexible blond called Callum. Callum beamed and reached into the bucket, rattling around whatever was in there before drawing out a dark neoceramic cylinder about the size of a thumb, unmarked except for a small “6” near the head. Ian blinked in shock. An injector? What, they were being given drugs? Assorted drugs, randomly distributed? Right before showtime?

Suddenly Ian regretted all his life choices. Was it too late to back out?

As if sensing his dismay, Derek glanced right at him and winked before returning his full attention to Callum. Okay, now, what had that meant? Ian wavered, uncertain, watching with wide eyes as Callum happily pressed the small waffle-grille head of the injector against his own tanned, rounded deltoid and thumbed the release at the other end, pushing its mysterious contents through his flesh and straight into his bloodstream. Still grinning, Callum pulled the injector away from his skin and handed it back to Derek, who dropped it into his pocket and moved on to the next member in line, offering him the bucket just as he had Callum.

Ian lost track of the action for a moment, watching Callum instead. Nothing seemed to happen at all, apart from Callum seeming more eager than ever to leave the green room and launch into their routine before their adoring fans. That was just Callum, though. Otherwise, no reaction. Even the small red mark on his shoulder had already faded. So what was in these capsules, then? He didn’t think they’d make such a production out of something innocuous, like vitamin B-12 or something. His thoughts darkened as his mind spun more and more possibilities. What if this was like Russian roulette, and only one of the injectors contained something crazy or dangerous?

No. Callum had been happy to get the shot and was excited to go on. It had to be something “good”, at least in Callum’s eyes. But what? Why the drama? And what was with pulling them out of a hat (or an ice bucket) like prompts for an improv?

The current victim, a taller, darker-skinned gymnast-type named Max with a really sweet tenor, seemed a little less sanguine than Callum. He’d already pulled out his injector—marked with a “4” but otherwise identical—and was eyeing it dubiously, as if a really good stare might penetrate its deeper mysteries. He quickly gave up on this, however, and with a swift glance at Derek gave himself the injection and handed back the device with a game expression. Derek took it, pocketed it like the other one, and moved on.

The third recipient looked more like a bodybuilder than the singer/dancer mold the rest of them closely resembled, but Ian had watched Fred closely during their rehearsals the last three weeks and had decided the cute, bronzed, platinum-haired muscle-dude was at least as agile as Callum—and though he was the shortest out of the five of them at only 6’1” his strength made for some very athletic moves on stage. Plus he happened to possess a low, rich baritone that anchored them even more effectively than the bass guitar in their backing band. Fred retrieved an injector from the bin—marked “7”—and made the self-injection without any fuss, his expression not changing at all. He might as well have been handed a water bottle and told to take a swig from it. Unflappable, Ian thought, impressed and bemused, and Derek seemed to be thinking the same, his lips quirking as he moved down the line.

Despite being on his second boy band, Ian’s nearest neighbor in the line-up, Robin, appeared to be even younger and more callow than he was. Ian actually had a couple of inches and probably twenty pounds on the redhead, Robin’s smooth, alabaster body being more classically defined than buff like Ian or swole like Fred. And yet Robin was the most self-possessed out of all of them, a presence that drew your attention from the simple force of his personality even when, like now, he was standing silently in a row of other hunks. He was like a young Derek, Ian realized. Maybe in 20 years it would be Robin performing this little ritual, with a whole new crop of bright-eyed young hotties.

Robin injected himself with his cartridge (labeled “1”), eyes never leaving Derek’s, and then suddenly Derek was standing directly in front of Ian, his steely eyes meeting his own.

Tearing his gaze away with some difficulty—Derek was not only commanding but very attractive—Ian looked down and checked the contents of the black plastic ice bucket. There was a single injector left, marked like the rest with a cryptic “2” near the head. Feeling the others’ eyes on him, Ian ignored the twisting sensation in his gut and reached into the bucket. He pulled out the injector and, not allowing himself to think or delay, he pressed the head against his own shoulder and released its contents into his unsuspecting bloodstream.

Ian waited to feel something, but… there was nothing. So, wait, was this all a joke? Hazing? Were all the injectors empty? Ian didn’t get it.

Derek was still watching him, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Belatedly, Ian remembered to hand back the injector. Derek, still looking amused, took it and started back toward his original position by the door, activating the subcutaneous comm under his left ear with a touch. “All set, Francis,” Derek said, then closed the connection. Almost instantly they heard the muffled sound of the backing band striking up the opening bars leading into their first song, and all at once adrenaline surged through Ian like a freight train. If there was one thing he loved it was performing—especially if he could turn guys on doing it. Whatever this little pre-show routine had been about, he was ready to go out there and rock this house.

Derek opened the door, letting in the full weight of the music and crowd noise, and looked expectantly at Callum. The blond hunk practically jumped out of position and headed though the door, a big smile on his face. Just as he was trotting under the doorjamb, Callum whooped and grabbed his crotch, though without slowing as he entered the short back corridor that led onto the main stage. Ian huffed a laugh. Callum must be feeling the rush even more than I am, he thought. Good to know the excitement doesn’t fade. Then Callum turned and jogged backwards for a few steps, and Ian saw that the crotch in his loose trousers was much more pronounced than before—and unless he’d slid some sausages down there when no one was looking, the shifting, jumping bulge was boasting three or four hefty phalluses instead of one. Ian’s pulse quickened as own thick cock responded instinctively, thickening and flexing in reaction to its multiplied brethren.

As Ian gaped, not understanding what he was seeing, Callum saluted Derek and his fellow performers, then turned and gleefully headed for his entry position just beyond the entry ramp where one of the techs was stationed to fit them with mics.

The music swelled and changed tempo, segueing into the driving beat of the main dance. That meant they had thirty seconds. Max, not as excited as Callum but with his game face firmly in place, headed through the doorway at a fast walk. Because he was watching closely he saw Max’s shoulders twitch as if he’d felt a sudden chill. What the heck was going on with that doorjamb? Ian thought, his gaze flicking briefly to the seemingly normal wooden frame, painted in dark green trim to match the hunter green of the wall it was set into. But his eyes were quickly drawn back to Max, as apparently the turning and walking backward thing once you were through the door was a tradition and they could now see that Max was sporting X-shaped, glinting stainless-steel bars through both nipples—accoutrements that hadn’t been there before. Ian’s eyes dropped down his long, tight abdomen to his crotch, and—was there a bit of hardware down there, too, pressing against the shifting fabric as he walked? Before he could be sure, Max, whose facial expression Ian had read as “could be worse”, turned and started jogging for his own first position.

Fred, the cute, stolid and extra-limber bodybuilder, was next. Ian was now already expecting a change of some sort as he walked through, but the scale of this transition compared to the others took him aback. In the space of a second as the dancer’s exquisitely sculpted body moved through the door, Fred’s wide, bulging shoulders went from supporting one platinum blond head to boasting two of them close together and side by side, exactly identical down to the V of his haircut at the middle of each powerful neck. Like the others Fred turned and gave everyone a calm, unperturbed smile. The anomaly that Fred could aim one of his cute, serene expressions at Derek and another, unexpectedly, at Ian flooded him with a heady mixture of surprise and arousal.

Robin took a breath and stepped through. This time Ian could see the transformation—it was fast but not instantaneous, it was visible even with Robin’s back turned, as his pallid, marble-perfect physique suddenly flourished with an outgrowth of brilliant, dark-red hair, covering his back, arms, and shoulders. When Robin turned, Ian saw the same hairiness had covered his chest and abs, too, blurring the idealized definition of his muscles while accentuating his masculine proportions and virility. A glance up, though, showed that Robin was the first of the performers not to be too pleased with his change: his face was a thundercloud, and his glower was aimed straight at Derek. Then he turned and headed for his backstage position, and Derek turned to Ian.

The music sped into the final bars of the intro. Ten seconds. Forgetting everything but the need to be in position and ready to go, Ian hurried through the doorway.

A warm sensation passed through him like he was walking through a sheer, micron-thick wall of soft energy. It was a pleasant feeling, and the only thing that Ian found strange as he jogged through it was that it seemed to keep going through him even past his butt and legs, like he had more butt and legs behind him. Then, finally, it was gone, only… something wasn’t right. He looked over his shoulder, and, fuck—he really did have more butt and legs behind him. His jet-black stage trousers were four-legged now, and so was he.

He looked up at Derek in confused alarm, but Derek was giving him a pointed look and, in a gesture the origins of which were now lost in the mists of history, he was also tapping his wrist with his index finger. Time. Ian’s heart sped up even as he heard the music sailing straight for their entrance cue. Time! he thought. I’m out of time!

He picked up his feet and ran on his four long, strong dancer’s legs as if he’d been doing it all his life.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The bone-white stage at this particular venue, the 5,000-seat NLV Pandemonium, was large and circular, with the huge, tiered audience space ranged around it. Three deep rings of decreasingly expensive seats (why did they even have seats? he wondered—everyone always stood anyway) were capped by a more mobile SRO ring where the crowd could shift their vantage points if they wanted to—though their routines for this show involved regularly swapping positions so everyone got a good chance to enjoy all five of them. Most of the audience was men there to enjoy five ultra-sexy guys singing and dancing on stage, and as the noise of them cheering their arrival washed over him Ian instinctively understood that the upgrades were for them, not for the performers. As Ian followed the others up the dark ramp between marks 1 and 5, he had unconsciously jettisoned (or, at least, postponed) his freakout over having four legs and had already moved on to working through his footwork in his head, looking for anything his had to adapt owing to his new, er, configuration. He had to be a hundred and ten percent for them, and for the guys who were now his brothers in sexualized pop stardom.

He huffed in his head. It was probably closer to a hundred and fifty percent, now.

At least I don’t have to worry about getting half-hard to rile up the crowd more, he thought as he took his place. Having four legs—each, he had very quickly realized, with their own set of hefty, happy extra-large man-junk—felt really, really fucking awesome. As a born dancer he had always been partial to his legs and how good it felt to move them, and just the jog from the green room up to the stage had filled him with the kind of euphoria he normally felt only after a successfully completed performance.

He glanced to his left where Callum was in position and more than ready to go. He could see clearly now that four shockingly thick shafts were at least half-tumescent and pushing against the thin fabric of his dark pantaloons—clearly Callum’s multiplied junk was as thrilled to be there as the rest of him. Callum himself was looking over at Ian and grinning incandescently, his happiness coming off him in waves, and Ian actually felt slightly intoxicated by it on top of everything he himself was feeling. When their eyes met, Callum nodded toward Ian’s backside and winked in approval, and Ian found himself helplessly beaming back at him in response.

To Ian’s right, Robin was not nearly so happy, though he was sporting a very handsome and surprisingly convincing smile for the audience in front of him as he showed off his sleek and suddenly red-furred body. As they waited for the second cue and the actual start of the routine Ian found himself imagining a big, leg-sized fluffy fox tail erupting through the dance trousers from just above his grumpy colleague’s perfect round butt, and that got him grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

Beyond him, he saw Fred’s powerful form, his twin platinum-blond heads both fitted with the nearly invisible earpieces and mics they all wore. Fuck, we’re gonna get a lot of good bass tonight, he thought giddily.

Ian faced his crowd and let them drink him in. The packed-in audience on all five sides was roaring with excitement and admiration, pumping him up beyond anything he’d experienced in his life so far, and at the last moment Ian realized he needed to bank his euphoria and prepare to nail his routine, as adjusted, like he’d never nailed a show before.

The cue hit and, all at once, the five of them started moving.

The night was phenomenal, the performers’ building elation matched and exceeded by that of the cheering, screaming audience. The roars as they exited from the finale were deafening and chants for an encore seemed to shake the building. After a suitable wait, during which the cries for more seemed to escalate beyond what Ian would have thought possible, Derek rushed them back on again, and they took their positions with all lights down on an unlit stage in a darkened auditorium, the audience cheering and then subsiding in to an expectant thrum. Ian felt sweaty, exhilarated, and, as he often was after a performance—but especially tonight—so turned on he was ready to fuck anyone right there on stage if he thought he could get away with it. His four feet felt so natural under him his heart quailed at the sudden, unexpected thought that they might be only temporary, their next performance involving a whole new round of injectors and changes. Well, it might be fun to have two heads or multiple dicks or who knows what instead… but he hoped he got to keep the legs at least a little while, and if they didn’t go away he’d be more than gratified.

The crowd was waiting, quiet but jazzed. The music for the big encore, a hit song Ian had actually heard without knowing who did it, started up. Just then, Ian sensed motion in his peripheral vision. He turned and saw a shadowed figure moving behind two-headed Fred, who was now next to him at the first mark. The figure was invisible to the audience but not to Ian, and he watched it curiously. A hand reached up and pressed something into Fred’s shoulder, and all at once it looked like Fred’s down-pointing nipples suddenly grew to massive size under this thick, shelf-like pecs. Despite being only unlit and in profile Ian could tell that the long, stiff protrusions weren’t exactly nipples anymore—even eight-inch nipples wouldn’t have uncut cockheads.

His heart pounding excitedly in his chest, Ian watched the shadowy figure as it moved to Max. It had to be Derek, with the other ice-bucket and its second round of mods. Sure enough, one quick injection, and then… with Max in profile from his position it looked like his balls suddenly inflated to three times their normal size.

The crowd seemed to be starting to catch on—maybe some of them knew what to expect—and was buzzing like hornets. The intense music moved closer to their cue. Ian felt the thrill of suspense, for the audience and the show, and for himself.

Callum was next. His back was to him, but Ian didn’t have to see his face to imagine Callum’s toothy grin as he received the injection. Then, even as Ian watched, Callum’s muscles swelled in an instant from nice to beyond huge, much bigger than Fred. He was inhumanly massive even in silhouette. Ian was suddenly glad this last number had pretty simple moves: behemoth-Callum wouldn’t be able to do the complex steps they had been doing all night. Shit, he thought, maybe that’s why the last number is like that.

Robin was still to Ian’s right. Over the course of the evening he had caught Robin’s shift in mood, as if he’d decided to own his new pelt of ginger body hair—he’d definitely noticed Robin stroking his sleek, flat belly and firm chest for the crowd, and they’d screamed their approval. The shadow did its work, and—bam! Robin’s chest popped up into two rows of pecs, each with their own arms and shoulders. The pecs looked a bit bigger, too—nice and round, and, like the originals, covered in thick, red man-fur.

Fuck, that was hot, Ian thought. His eyes met Robin’s in the dim light, and there was a part of him that wanted to go over there right now and feel what a hairy, four-armed hug felt like. Of course, then, he’d want to feel more things, and they did have a show to do…

Enough people could see the guys in silhouette that the changes were starting to become apparent—especially Robin’s and Callum’s—and a low roar was building like someone had started an avalanche somewhere. The music was coming around fast toward the lighting and vocals cue. They were seconds away.

Ian felt someone behind him, and a cold touch of neoceramic pressed against his right deltoid.

The effect was instantaneous this time. Another warm plane of energy passed through him, and as it moved from front to back Ian suddenly acquired a third, middle trouser leg that was entirely filled by his thigh-thick, floor-dragging, half-hard hyperdick. Then the same thing happened between his back legs.

The cue hit, the lights went up, and Hard5 started singing in beautifully lush six-part harmony. The crowd went nuts, and Ian was pretty sure several rows of hot young guys directly in front of him came in their pants as they screamed and cheered for them.

The effects did wear off, but not for a couple of days, which all five of them appreciated in various fun and complicated ways, with each other and off on their own. Ian missed the extra legs (and, yes, the hypercocks) when they were gone, but he also knew that this was only the beginning. As they piled onto their transport knowing the next concert was only six days away, Ian was grinning as wide as Callum. He, for one, could not wait to see what happened next.

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