Professor Magnus’s transformation class

We were all staring at the newly transformed George in awe and appreciation as he was pulled back down into his seat. His cheeks were pinking and he was ducking his head bashfully, but I could see he was hiding a shy smile, thrilled to have been noticed. He’d better get used to it, I thought, licking my lips.

Most everyone else turned back to the professor, eager for the next demonstration, but I lingered on George for a few moments more. From where I sat at the end of the first row I had a good vantage point on where he sat two thirds of the way along the back tier. The guys on either side of him, both good-looking, very fit bro-type dudes with bright eyes and easy smiles, were feeling up his hard, newly expanded upper arms and forearms through his suddenly tight white dress shirt. One of them was whispering in George’s ear, making the newly minted muscle-nerd blush a little harder, and from the way he was tugging at his shirt collar with his other hand I surmised he was encouraging George to lose the dress shirt so that they could appreciate his perfect new muscles properly. George’s head was still down as he smiled and shook his head, but I thought his resolve looked a little thin. He’d probably cave before too long.

Gym-rat squeezed my hand excitedly and I turned toward the front in time for the prof to bathe us with a brilliant, heart-stopping smile. “That’s the idea, George,” he said fondly, and I wasn’t sure whether he meant the example he’d provided as the first size-or-quantity transformation, or letting yourself enjoy being transformed and the appreciation that came with it. For myself, I’d almost forgotten about George. Just looking at Magnus was captivating, but returning your gaze to him after looking at someone else felt like a jolt of energy and life, like I was a solar panel and he was the sun coming out of clouds. My blood was simmering, and my huge, fat cock was straining so hard in my jeans I thought I might pass out. I couldn’t do that, though, because then I wouldn’t be able to look at… him.

Professor Magnus was holding his clipboard in his front left hand, and I watched as he used his other left to absently pull his thick, silky blind hair back behind his ear. His biceps bulging and shifting as he bent him arm up, curled his finger around his ear, and then slowly lowered it again was a symphony in fluid, erotic muscle. He looked up from the clipboard. “Simòn Alvarez!” he called out.

One of the guys in the second row stood up. He about a third of the way across, and even though I knew we were going alphabetically—which meant that, as usual, it would be a while before they got to my end of the roster—I felt an irrational thrill that the changes were coming nearer. Simòn’s eyes flitted around the rest of the class before returning to the prof. He was a cute Latino, not very tall, with big brown eyes, a moderately strong nose, full kissable lips, and short dark hair cut in a fade. He was good looking, but the thing you noticed first about him was that he was definitely the first person I’d seen at Brannon wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, the vivid blues and corals set off by a giant stylized cockatoo that took up half the left side of the shirt. He was smiling at the Pressor, looking nervous but eager.

“What do you say, Simòn?” the prof prompted encouragingly.

Simòn bit his lip, and I could almost watch his brain edge toward chickening out of where he really wanted to go before decisively rejecting the idea. It was gratifying to watch, and I tightened my grip on gym-rat’s hand as we all waited with anticipation. Brannon was the kind of place where you could trust people just because they were here—it was that kind of atmosphere. And in this room, I don’t know quite how to put it into words, but there was something about this room, this space, and the presence of Professor Magnus that deepened the sense of trust and safety along with the most powerful, immersive, and utterly primal arousal I’d ever experienced.

“If—” Simòn began, then pushed on, “if I said ‘height’, and I was—I mean…” He stopped, gathering his thoughts. “If I said ‘height’, what’s would I get if it was ‘quantity’ instead of ‘size’?”

Good question, I thought, and we all looked back at the professor, intensely curious to hear what he’d say. Arms and legs, that was obvious, and I’d been thinking about how I’d’ve been equally worked up at either prospect when it was George’s turn. But I hadn’t thought as much about the other possibilities. What would happen if it was height? It was one of the possibilities our boytaur prof had mentioned, so it had to be an option for either group. Would he just get taller either way? Was there a difference between the quantity of your height, and the size of it? And… if this was all stuff you found sexy in a guy, well, what if you said something weirder, like “intelligence”? I sure as fuck found that crazy sexy—witness our professor for one, who was obviously as sharp as he was boytaur-god hot. Or what about “charisma”? Or “animal magnetism”?

Maybe those would be a different lesson, I mused, as my eyes fixed on our impossibly alluring instructor.

Professor Magnus smiled easily, and my heart felt like it fluttered in my chest. “I’m glad you asked,” he said. He set the clipboard down, all of his hands going into the pockets of those new, curve-hugging jeans. “For the purposes of the kind of spell used in today’s lesson, all of the kinds and degrees of change are carefully delineated ahead of time in what’s called a spell-matrix—don’t worry, you’ll learn all about those later,” he added, in the tone of a teacher promising so much work on a subject we’d be well sick of it before we were done. “It’s more fun if the ones that aren’t self-evident are kept as a surprise, but let’s just say that for ‘quantity’ you get taller, and for ‘size’ you get… bigger.”

There was a general taking in of breath. Sexy as fuck either way, especially on this currently not-too-tall Latino cutie. Simòn offered the prof a lopsided smile. “You’re… not going to say which group I’m in?” he asked, sounding like he knew the answer.

“Nope!” the prof said cheerfully. A ripple of excitement passed through us. Christ, the whole exercise felt like it was half foreplay. “Actually, to tell you the truth I don’t even have that information with me. I set up the groups randomly as part of the spell-matrix and I didn’t even look at the results. I’ll be just as surprised as you!” he added, his eyes glinting.

“Fuck,” I whispered. So much change left to chance—that was really turning my crank. I turned to gym-rat, only to find he was looking at me. I saw for the first time that his eyes were a fascinating reddish-brown. He turned his lips in for a second, wetting them with a hidden tongue, and my gaze fell automatically to take them in. They were prefect, rare-steak red with just the faintest hint of dark stubble around his mouth and dusting along his sharply defined jaw. His sculpted biceps flexed convulsively against mine, our hands clutching tight, our delts and thighs and even our calves and shoes pressing so firmly against each other it was like we were trying to mash ourselves into some kind of union. All that mattered, though, for a second, were those lips. Our shoulders and arms being completely overlapped meant that they were achingly close to mine, and it was with some effort that I wrenched my attention back to Simòn up on the row behind us. As I did so I felt gym-rat’s russet-red eyes loiter where they’d rested for a few more thumping heartbeats, drinking in my own tingling, yearning mouth, before he turned back to look back up at our classmate.

Simòn nodded, coming to a decision. “Height,” he said firmly. Nodding, the prof rolled the die. It was a five.

Not a single person in that room wasted a second swiveling back to Simòn, and it was a good thing, too, because Simòn immediately started sprouting upwards, like a young tree stretching toward the sun in smooth time-lapse photography. My iron-hard cock clanged in my pants as I watched, my hand grasping tightly onto gym-rat’s as we watched, enthralled, as Simòn grew and grew. It became rapidly apparent, as he became lankier and lankier that there was no corresponding expansion on width or thickness or any other dimension but straight up, and I could hear grunts of raw arousal here and there among us as Simòn emulated a fucking human hard-on. The hottest part was his clothes weren’t changing at all, so as the invisible hand slowly stretched him upwards his garish Hawaiian shirt started to show a gap of dusky skin the color of wet sand as square shirt tail separated from the rising waistband of his tight black jeans. As the waistband inched up the gap increased as his torso lengthened above legs that were also getting longer, and it wasn’t long before the faint lines of the V that dipped down into Simòn’s pants came into view, then the first row of gently defined abs. Then, as the growth slowed and stopped, his navel made a timid appearance, capping a sparse but extremely sexy treasure trail.

I tried to take him all it. It almost felt like I had to lean back. All told he’d grown maybe a foot and a quarter, all of it in his torso and legs—his arms were commensurately longer too, I noticed, as he pressed a hand to his chest, gaping down at himself from a new height of somewhere around seven feet tall. We all might have applauded, except we were too engrossed. He was tall and lithe and limber and he really did look like a human erection, like stroking him anywhere on that fit, defined, extra-tall body would be the same as stroking the actual hard-on I could just make out sticking up along his thigh through the thick denim of his jeans. The boy next to him, a Turkish jock who lived on my floor, was gazing up at him with his mouth agape, eyes dark with arousal.

The room felt warm. Not just warm, though—it was like the atmosphere was charged, the wanton excitement of thirty horny young bucks with hot, hard boners like titanium ionizing the air and making us all twice as hot and twice as turned on. I could feel the heat on my skin, and smell the intoxicating scent of ramped-up male arousal that fired my blood and curled in my groin. My gaze flicked around the room to the other students. Most were still staring rapt at Simòn, but I saw some of them taking in the larger sexscape of a space packed with a thousand pulsing layers of pure hardbodied stimulation. The combination of Professor’s Magnus’s amplified appearance, which targeted somewhere deep inside our brains and then started saturating us with an uncanny craving for him… the deeply appealing transformation game with its built-in suspense and moments of climax… the room full of handsome, turned-on men throwing off heat like overcranked boilers about to blow… fuck, it was like we were drugged with lust more intense than any of us were prepared for. We were all in almost an altered state. It was almost alarming, but exhilarating, too.

As my eyes roamed over the other students I caught sight of George, and maybe he agreed with me about the heat in the room because he’d submitted to his seatmates’ coaxing and shucked the white dress shirt. This left him, breathtakingly, clad above the waist only in a tight, muscle-hugging white tank-top undershirt that served to beautifully emphasize his thick, granite-hard arms, biceps and triceps both impressively thickened on both sides, a long vein trailing across the front of each bulging upper arm. His newly rounded delts and traps were also on display, not to mention the pecs that now pushed out against the snug cotton, his nips poking just visibly against the thin, close-fitting fabric.

They guys on either side of him were gently and methodically caressing his arms and shoulders and chest and back with both hands, as if mere proximity to him caused the uncontrollable surrender of any inhibitions—or at least those related to touching people you desperately wanted to touch. They were murmuring to him as he tried to pretend he wasn’t being worshiped, his eyes riveted on Simòn until he unexpectedly caught my gaze and fixed on me, and suddenly it was as if I could feel the strength of his hands on my shoulders, holding me down against my bed while he smiled down at me, his bright blue eyes asking me if I wanted him to fuck my brains out. Only… only it wasn’t George’s blue eyes I was looking up into. It was gym-rat’s blazing russet-reds, and the smile he was giving me as he held me down with the strength of six men was feral and urgent…

Holy shit where did that come from? I cut my eyes away, my fevered blood racing in my veins, only to meet the fiery gaze of the riled-up hunk in the seat next to mine. I’m sure it was only my catastrophically aroused state, but it felt almost like he was even sexier than before. He was studying my lips, as if imagining what it would be like to kiss them, but the moment he felt my gaze he looked up, staring hard into my eyes. Our faces felt even closer, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Our overlapping arms were now slightly damp with sweat, and I let my eyes truly take him in. His tight, plain navy tee shirt didn’t do much to hide a muscled torso like an Olympic gymnast’s, with red sweats betraying equally built legs and that cock-tube that was only half-hidden by his other hand. I wished I had the ability to melt clothes away with a glance. I had zero doubts he would have minded. In fact I would have urged him to take off his shirt, right then and there, George having broken the ice on that score—though I was deliciously aware that, unlike George, gym-rat was almost certainly wearing nothing underneath that tight navy tee. But that would have meant letting go of his hand, and I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to touch him, and have him touch me, but without letting go.

Suddenly I remembered the guy on the other side of him who’d been stroking gym-rat’s thigh earlier, and I readied a snarl to get that douche-bag to back off—but he’d turned to the guy next to him and was currently stroking that guy’s rock-hard, incredibly defined and completely shirtless ebony torso as they both still stared back at Simòn, who was only now starting to sit down. I guess I did not have to worry about gym-rat’s other seat-mate trying to poach him from me. Good.

Fuck, what was happening to me? I wasn’t normally this territorial—I wasn’t normally even this horny. But today, in this room… It was almost like my brains were actually migrating to my raging, throbbing, incredibly hard cock.

I brought my gaze back up to meet gym-rat’s. We were both breathing a little harder than normal, warm huffs gusting on each other’s lips. Our mouths were only a couple inches apart, but what felt most natural then was not to kiss—not yet—but to rest our slightly damp foreheads together. Those russet-red eyes seemed kindled with desire, and they were aimed at me like I’d done it all, not the roomful of thirty hot guys, two of whom had just been made hotter in unexpected ways. An unexpected laugh bubbled up in me, though I didn’t quite let it out. All this from the transformation experiment—and we were only two students in!

Deep breaths. I sucked in a long breath deep into my lungs, and gym-rat, smiling, followed suit. We breathed together. Stabilize—that was what we needed. We needed to—

“Okay!” the prof called out.

I jolted, though I kept my eyes fixed on gym-rat’s russet-reds. Fuck, how had I almost forgotten about the prof? He was only the most beautiful, the most impossibly stimulating man on Earth! Maybe too stimulating and too beautiful, for that matter. He was certainly out of my league. “That was perfect, Simòn,” Professor Magnus said. His voice sounded a bit odd, as if he were soldiering on despite things not being quite to plan, and this was my first instinct that I wasn’t imagining how crazy intense everything was. He sounded almost uncertain as he said, “The next student is… Zaden Conley!”

Gym-rat’s head whipped around, eyes wide, and it took me a second to register, first, that my new crush/boyfriend/soulmate had a name, and, second, that it was now actually his turn in the size-or-quantity experiment. Once that got through into the spinning processes of my brain, all I could think was, Oh god, he’s going to be changed. Oh god oh god—

He let go of my hand reluctantly, sparing me a quick glance and a flash of a smile, then jumped to his feet. His handsome face was flushed with excitement. Before Professor Magnus could even pose him the question he called out his answer: “Limbs!”

There were a few gasps at the audacious response, and even some scattered applause from three or four of the students whose hands weren’t otherwise occupied. “That’s cheating, Conley!” called out a similarly muscled hunk with shoulder-length golden hair and a forest-green Brannon College Wizards tee, but he was laughing, and when Zaden—my gym rat—glanced over at him and winked, I gathered they were friends or workout partners or something similar.

We all swiveled to look at the prof, like contestants of a game show looking to the judges for a ruling. Professor Magnus was beaming, which was a truly heart-pounding sight—my rigid oversized cock seemed to thicken just from the sight of it. Clearly he loved being surprised by his students’ cleverness. “You sure that’s your choice?” he asked, and I could tell he was just needling my guy.

Zaden lifted his chin. “You never laid out exactly what the possible categories were,” he said with a shit-eating grin.

“You’re right, I didn’t,” the prof said, addressing himself to the class generally, and without his saying it I realized he meant this lapse as a lesson for those of us actually planning to major in thaumaturgy. I was still undeclared, and I’d come here not even sure whether I’d go in for magic like my mom or engineering like my dad (they weren’t as dissimilar as you might think). At Brannon most of the students were there for ordinary stuff, plus it was pretty tough to get into the B.Thau. Program. Before today’s class I still hadn’t been sure about whether I should try. But my doubts were melting away. I was itching to do the kind of transformation magic that seemed to come to our pulchritudinous Professor Magnus as easily as breathing.

There was a wary edge to the prof’s sweeping glance over the class as he spoke, and again I caught the sense that he knew something wasn’t quite right but he was going with it anyway, at least for now. My hormone-addled brain couldn’t deal with any of that, though. All I could concentrate on was that Zaden, my Zaden, was about to change. As the prof picked up the die to roll it my vision seemed to home in on it like binoculars, until the hand and the die were all I could see. And then it was just spots… five black spots. The prof had rolled another five.

I stared at the die, panting quietly. Five. Five out of six. That probably meant a lot of change. Limbs. A lot of limbs? Much, much bigger limbs? The nerdy muscle guy—what was his name—he’d gotten a lot bigger and that was on a four. I looked up at Zaden. He was smiling down at me.

Distantly I heard the prof’s muffled voice, as if over a P.A. system, though it was probably my own head that was doing the muffling. My mind seemed to be telescoping down to my overpowering need for me and Zaden to be alone and naked, muscles glistening, hands groping, cocks rampant, mouths locked in fierce embrace. Just as soon as we settled this whole limbs thing.

I was expecting a slow, progressive transformation, like we’d seen with George getting biceps and all and Simòn surging up to seven feet tall, so what did happen took my by surprise. The change happened in a blink. Not instantly—not like a normal blink. It was more like what happens when you close your eyes shut really tight, when you squeeze them just enough to see little lights, and then open them again to see that everything’s changed. Except, I didn’t close my eyes. I was looking at Zaden standing next to me. He reached down to take my hand and I grabbed it with mine, except—between one heartbeat and

the next

I was grabbing his front right hand, while his middle hand moved to rest on my shoulder, and the back hand lifted to sift through my hair. Unlike with Simòn his clothes had shifted along with his body. This was evidenced partly by the three sleeves his tight navy tee had on either side, each one stretched by Zaden’s bulging delts and thick, powerful upper arms honed and perfected by years of ferocious weight training… but mostly by the three bright red legs of his sweatpants as he stood there, smirking down at me like he’d planned all of this just to attain the exactly right kind of body to truly drive me to erotic insanity once we were alone together.

The reactions around the room to Zaden’s transformation were palpable, like the other guys’ heightened arousal was radiating outward from each of them, buffeting us and each other with spikes of primal appreciation. It was like all the pricks in the room were throwing off waves of red-hot erotic radiation. I barely noticed, though, because all I saw was Zaden. I could feel his touch, and every square inch of me was anticipating the touches he was already giving me, at some point in the very near future.

Dazed with want, I let my eyes lifted from his narrow waist and up his hard-muscled torso again, but then my mind froze. Wait—three legs. Did that mean—? My eyes dropped down again and found what they were looking for—two crotches, each one blessed with—!

“All right, guys, I need your attention for just one more minute,” came the prof’s voice, and strangely enough I felt a sudden calm. It wasn’t that my desperate, fierce need to fuck Zaden over and over again for several weeks on end had gone away—it felt like a permanent part of me, like Zaden’s scent was the air I breathed now, and I didn’t ever want that to change. It was more that all that hunger was temporarily suppressed, like when the sound dips momentarily on a radio show so an announcer can cut in. We all paused and turned in ones and twos to listen to Professor Magnus, though at least Zaden and I required some effort to take our eyes off each other as he continued to hold my hand, squeeze my shoulder, and slowly card my hair.

Our gorgeous young boytaur professor was favoring us all with a rather wry smile as he put away his reading glasses in a small case and packed up his notes. “I’m going to pause the exercise here,” he said once he had everyone’s attention, and when some of the guys started to murmur objections he added, “to be picked up later. I have to admit, it doesn’t normally go like this.” His gaze swept over us, taking in the knots of two, three, or four guys that the class had separated into, all of us obviously deeply aroused and with at least three more cases of shirtlessness having developed since I’d first noticed the ripped ebony-skinned guy two down from Zaden.

“It took me a few minutes to realize it,” the prof said, “but one of you has a latent ability that’s been ratcheting up everyone’s libidos—and amping up your appearances slightly, too, although I think it was all unconscious on his part. I’m not going to name names,” he added. And then he glanced directly at me for a half a second—long enough for my heart to basically stop, though no one else noticed but me and, maybe, Zaden—he gave me a sidelong look, anyway, and his lips twitched into another jockboy grin. I gaped at him and then at the prof as he went on, “But I’ll be having a few private lessons with him on controlling one’s raw talents in the face of extreme stimulation before we try this again. In the meantime—” He pulled a phone out of one of his pockets and checked the time. “This room is free for the next hour and fifteen minutes. See you all on Tuesday, and don’t forget the assigned reading!” And then with a wave he was gone, and the suppression lifted.

Zaden sank back down into his seat, his hands still where they’d been. I squeezed my hand around his and our faces moved toward each other with the attraction of supermagnets. For a moment our foreheads touched, as before, but our lips were so close they couldn’t avoid touching. They brushed together, lightly at first, then more deliberately, then abruptly our lips were crushing together as if our being apart was a physical impossibility. We opened for each other at the same time, our tongues rushing to meet and twine around each other as I drew him closer, wrapping my arms tightly around him as he did the same. I felt so many hands—at my neck, my shoulders, my lats, my spine, my lower back—all ministering to me, groping me, every hand laying claim to what it touched even through the thin fabric of my straining tee shirt. Fuck, I wanted to get him back to my room—we’d have it all to ourselves the whole rest of the day.

He broke the kiss abruptly. We rested foreheads, panting, listening to the guys around us. They were kissing too, and more than kissing. I grinned. “Looks like someone made things get out hand,” I huffed.

“Someone sure did,” he teased. I was getting a sense of his playful, sardonic sense of humor, and I loved it. He cupped my cheek as he continued touching me everywhere he could reach. “Good thing I brought extra.”

“Fuck, Zaden,” I said. The fear that this room as an unreal, confined space, a white room divorced from normality, had been growing on me over the last few minutes. “I want to see you like this, out in the sunlight,” I said, gazing into his ruddy eyes. “I want to see you running in the quad, playing frisbee, doing the breast stroke—”

“Does it count as ‘in the sunlight’ if we go back to your room and make love with the blinds open?” my gym rat said, and though he said it with a crooked grin I got the feeling he was dead serious. “Because I’ve been wanting to claim your body and give you mine since you walked in here. You fucking stole my heart and my cock, and—” He leaned in to whisper against my ear. “—I don’t even know your name!”

I laughed breathily. “It’s Mason,” I whispered in his ear. I gave the lightly bristled cheek a small kiss. “Or Mase,” I added. Another kiss. “But you can call me Hey You for all I care.” I kissed back along his jaw until our mouths met again, and we kissed, languidly this time.

Zaden smiled into the kiss. “As long as I call you, right?” he said.

I fixed my gaze on his and said seriously, “Yeah.”

As one we rose from our seats, leaving most of our fellow students behind—though a few seemed to have similar ideas about finding privacy with one or two new friends. It was a bright day out, and I held Zaden’s middle hand as we walked across campus. We attracted quite a bit of attention, and I noticed several couples drawing closer to each other as we passed, as if they were feeling our radiating arousal and were infected by it. Even a pair of boytaurs necking under a tree stopped to watch us avidly as we passed.

We tried to be casual about it, but both of us were feeling more and more impatient and before long we’d broken out in a run, Zaden loping on three legs as if doing so were just a chapter in the instinct handbook that had been there all the time but most of us never needed. We buzzed into my dorm, thundered up the stairs, laughed as I fumbled with the keys. Finally we were inside my room, the door closed with my back up against it.

I searched his russet-red eyes. “Last chance to get away,” I said. “Evidently I have raw abilities I can’t quite—”

Zaden used at least three hands to haul my shirt off, and then he kissed me, hard, wrapping all his strong, muscular arms around my bare torso. I clasped my arms around him too as a I kissed him back and the rest of the world fell away. I never did get a chance to finish that sentence.