Ray smiled at the harried-looking letter carrier and took the rubber-banded stack of mail from her with some relief. He liked his job (steady pay and manageable stress), and he liked his boss (handsome and genial, if easily distracted); but some days the only thing more boring than typing up other people’s documents all day was typing up other people’s legal documents. Slitting a few envelopes open and sorting through physical mail was a nice, mechanical distraction.
The letter carrier disappeared into the elevator, moving on to the next floor in the narrow building, and Ray amused himself by rolling his shoulders, cracking his knuckles, and adjusting his tie as if limbering up for some unaccustomed exertion. Flipping quickly through the envelopes and mailers for anything that looked urgent, he stopped when he got to a white, stiff 9-by-12 padded flat. He set the other letters aside and looked it over with interest. It wasn’t like the glut of routine, boring long manila envelopes he handled every day. Actually it looked like it might be personal, though that would definitely be an oddity as his boss never got packages delivered here that weren’t business-related. He checked the label—sure enough, the recipient was “Daniel Louden, Esq.” with the full office address. Could still be a deposition CD-ROM or something equally routine, though the sender was company in Oregon he’d never heard of called Ravenfinder World Logistics LLC. His lips quirked at the name. Were the owners some strange cult of mystical crunchy granola types? Was it founded by some guy named Ravenfinder? Maybe it was both, a mystical guy named Ravenfinder. Now he was going to be making up stories about the exploits of Graf Ravenfinder, Master of Logistics all through lunch.
He smiled to himself as he pulled the strip on the back that opened the mailer. He looked inside, then spilled the contents out onto his desk.
It was a thin, hard-cover book bound in thin black leather, with the word RESOLUTIONS on the front and nothing else. Huh. Well, that made sense, sort of. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve. Danny must have ordered this hoping it would arrive in time to start using it on the holiday. It was still strange he’d had it delivered here, though.
He glanced up cautiously, confirming that Danny was not in fact at his desk. Two of the things he loved about this office was that its cozy, sunlit 800 square feet (filing archive and bathrooms included) encompassed the entire 11th floor of the narrow, pre-war block-filler known as the Wyandot Building, and that Danny had wisely elected not to ruin its openness with unnecessary internal walls. Danny’s cluttered, L-shaped desk was, consequently, directly in view across the office by the wide bank of windows, with just a hip-high bank of maple filing drawers separating his space from the rest of the floor. The only other desk in the room was Blake’s, on the same side of the room as Ray’s but in the other corner away from the elevator. His desk was unoccupied, too. Probably he was with Danny, as usual. Ray suspected that his boss had unconsciously (or semiconsciously) hired the very fit, preppy-handsome paralegal because exceptional looks were good for business. It certainly wasn’t on account of his work ethic, Ray thought sourly.
Having assured himself of his lack of spectators, Ray started flipping curiously through the book. It was well-made and handsomely printed, the kind of thing you got as a gift. Most of the pages seemed to be made up of fill-in-the-blank goals for the coming year, like “In the new year I will _________ more” or “I resolve to no longer _________”, accompanied by small, winsomely minimalist line illustrations of people walking in parks, dogs wagging their tails, rainbows emerging from clouds and other such positive reinforcements. Wondering if there were gentle instructions on how best to use the book (like, “Make one resolution per day” or “Read through your resolutions weekly—are you living up to your intentions?”), he flipped to the front. Not only was there was no introduction, there was not even a title page; the first leaf had just the words “The resolutions in this book are about” with a blank line underneath for a name.
Ray felt his brows draw together. That was an odd way to phrase it. Why not “This book belongs to” or something like that? It almost seemed to invite the idea that the owner of the book and the person with new goals and lifestyle choices might be two different people.
On the back of that page, at the very bottom, was a small block of gray type. It looked almost, but not quite, like the usual copyright disclaimer, and Ray read it with increasing interest.
“Published by Ravenfinder World Logistics LLC (RWL). All rights are reserved. The owner of this book accepts and agrees that everything in this book will become real as of 12 a.m. (local time) the morning after the resolution was written. The owner further accepts and agrees that only those who have read and understood this disclaimer will be aware of any changes having taken place, excluding principals of RWL, recognized agents thereof, and representatives of the various relevant oversight authorities. Changes are permanent, but new resolutions may only be added within one year of receipt. RWL reserves the right to undo any changes that result in, or are judged likely to lead to, world catastrophe, the extinction of the human race, or other outcomes to be specified at will by RWL as needed. Detailed terms are available for inspection by appointment at our offices in Larkscliff, Oregon. This book is nontransferable and remains the property in perpetuity of the person currently reading this disclaimer.”
Ray stared at the words, stunned and skeptical. His doubts faded to nothing, however, as soon as the text he had just read did exactly the same thing, leaving a pristine page with no trace of text and no sign that there had ever been any.
Ray blinked. Then he let his lips curve in a wicked smile. Congratulations, son, he told himself, the wheels in his head already turning. Looks like always reading the EULA has finally paid off.
Just then the elevator dinged and the doors trundled open. Ray yanked open his bottom drawer and swept the book into it, then the mailer, shoving the drawer closed with his foot just as his boss, Danny, and his pretty-boy paralegal, Blake, stepped onto the floor.
Not that Danny was a slouch in the looks department. Boyish and easygoing, average height with wayward dark brown hair, green eyes, and a firm jaw, Danny was in his early thirties and looked slightly younger; and while he didn’t have the athletic shapeliness the possession of which Blake was able to convey even wearing a suit, he hadn’t let himself start to get doughy around the middle, either, like some of his colleagues of a similar age had done. Ray had had a low-grade case of lust for Danny since he’d first interviewed as a legal temp two years back, and now, with a year under his belt as his full-time legal secretary-slash-receptionist, Ray’s physical interest in the man had been stoked by familiarity and affection. Most people would have said Blake was easily the better looking of the two, with his smartly trimmed platinum-blond hair, blue eyes, model-handsome face, and tall, Olympic swimmer’s physique; certainly standing next to a short, mousy-haired stick-figure like Ray there would be no question. But Blake was all surface. Messing around with him would be as much fun as reading a book with a nice cover, but inside all the pages were the same cover, repeated over and over again.
Blake breezed past toward his desk, tossing Ray an empty smile as he did so, but Danny paused, his overcoat over his forearm, and nodded toward the mail Ray had started going through before he was distracted. “Anything interesting?” he asked.
Ray shook his head. “Not even close.” His heart realized he was lying and tried sounding the alarm—thump-thump! thump thump!—but Ray kept his cool. “I did notice a flyer for Dwight’s Pizza,” he added conversationally. “Thirty percent off calzones.”
“That is tempting,” Danny said. Glancing briefly at his stomach he added firmly, “Make sure to burn that.”
Ray grinned. “On it,” he said—his usual “roger that” response to any instruction from his boss.
Danny smiled, then hesitated. “There were no packages, then?” he asked. “I was expecting something from this weird woo-woo company called—”
Ravenfinder, Ray supplied silently. He was so well trained to help his boss remember things he almost said it aloud. His heart pounded faster, like it was determined to alert anyone sharp-eared enough to hear it to a serious case of shenanigans. Fortunately that didn’t include Danny.
“—ugh, I forget, but I know they were in Oregon. A resolutions book? No?”
Ray grimaced in commiseration over his missing package. “Sorry.”
“Hmph. Well, that’s a pain. It was going to be a gag retirement gift for Judge Perez, but I guess I should have known better than to order from a company I’d never heard of.” He stood there for a moment, frowning. “Maybe I’ll just him sent him a fruit basket,” he added distractedly.
Ray smiled, understanding the reason for ordering the book a little better. Danny wasn’t fond of Judge Perez, a stubborn old coot who hadn’t changed an iota or had a single original thought since he’d joined the bench forty years before. He was also well-known for hating fruit of any kind, apples especially. He was so old, it probably still bugged him how Eve had tricked him into eating one back in the day.
“So how did you end up ordering from this place, if you’d never heard of them?” Ray asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.
Danny looked up at him, eyes twinkling. “Madam Sofia,” he said.
“Ahhh,” Ray said. “Madam” Sofia Brzezinski had been a particularly loony client they’d had a few months back. She’d claimed to be hooked up with a hundred different cults, mediums, and practitioners—”some dark, some not so dark,” she’d apprised them portentously. She’d come across as a complete nut job, but… apparently she wasn’t all talk, if she’d set somehow Danny onto the path that had led to this seemingly genuinely magical book Ray had selfishly diverted and currently had squirreled away in his bottom drawer. Huh, Ray thought. The freak was for real. Whaddaya know?
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for it,” he said. “You, uh, making any resolutions yourself?”
Danny gave him a crooked smile. “Just to keep the ship afloat,” he said, turning and heading for his desk. “Gotta keep you two off the streets.”
“And we appreciate it, boss,” Blake said without looking up from his phone.
Ray sent the paralegal a dark look. Blake was, of course, oblivious, too focused on his Twitter feed or chatting with his actor boyfriend or whatever “brainless legal trophy boys” group forums he might belong to to notice Ray’s disapproval.
Ray sighed and went back to sorting the mail. He knew Danny’s schedule, and he was in for the rest of the day; there would be no getting at the book until after quitting time. As soon as he had the opportunity, though, Ray knew what he had to do. Danny, in his opinion, was leading a criminally bland life. His “resolution” to keep things on an even keel, however glib, was totally in character. He had a few friends but no boyfriends, no fuckbuddies. He needed spice, Ray decided. He needed to be sexed up. And the means of accomplishing this had just fallen out of the sky and into Ray’s lap.
Starting tonight, Ray would be inaugurating Project Danny 2.0. As he slit open an invoice from their water cooler supplier, Ray’s mind was already working through some very intriguing possibilities.
Finally. 6:15 p.m. The floor was dark with only Ray’s desk lamp casting a pool of illumination, like a spotlight over his workspace. Blake had disappeared at 5:30, primping in the elevator mirror as he left—he clearly had plans. Danny, however, had lingered, tying up a batch of last-minute pre-holiday emails before heading into the elevator himself with an admonition not to stay too late and a last reminder that the “company party”—i.e., New Year’s Eve dinner the next night at Danny’s cute suburban bungalow for the three of them (plus dates, if any)—started at seven. Ray waved him off and watched the elevator doors rumble closed.
He pulled open his bottom drawer and whisked out the thin, leather-bound book he’d barely managed to stop thinking about for the last six hours. He set it on the desk before him, then, feeling a sense of occasion, he opened it to the first page.
The text there still read “The resolutions in this book are about”, with a blank line underneath.
Ray had his favorite fountain pen ready at hand. He unscrewed the cap, set it aside, and then poised the nib just above the thin black line, a universal symbol indicating information to be supplied.
He could make this about Blake, he mused. As far as personality went, Blake was in dire need of a make-over, maybe more than Danny. He snorted to himself. Refurbishment might not be enough—that edifice needed to be torn down and rebuilt. Realistically, though, there was no chance he’d waste something as momentous as this on someone as inconsequential as Blake Somerset. Whoever it was who’d said “There was no ‘there’ there,” Ray was sure they were talking about Blake.
Ray started writing in his customary neat, block capitals. Once he’d gotten as far as D, A, N, though, he paused. Full name? Did it need to match the addressee on the shipping label? If so, he should write it the same way—DANIEL LOUDEN, ESQ. That wasn’t a unique identifier, though, he thought, considering. There was at least one other lawyer named Daniel Louden in a hundred-mile radius (the cause of small but awkward red tape snarls on two previous occasions that Ray knew of). Unless he was supposed to supply social security numbers or DNA samples, the only logical conclusion was that what mattered in this case was the intent of the person supplying the information needed.
That settled the matter for Ray. As far as he was concerned, Danny needed to be less buttoned up, not more. His pulse quickening, he finished the name so that it read DANNY LOUDEN. He watched the blue-black ink as it quickly dried, embedding itself permanently in the thick white paper, and felt an odd sense of pride.
He turned the page over to check the back. Still blank. No copyright, no magically worded disclaimer, nada.
So much for the preliminaries; now for the main event. Ray had given some thought as to how to proceed. He’d decided he would ration himself to three “resolutions” per session. One seemed too few, but too many might cause a pile-up of unforeseen and unexpected ramifications. Three seemed like something that he could monitor and observe, especially as he’d be seeing his subject the next night at the New Year’s dinner.
Now that the moment was on him, Ray found himself getting flushed and excited. He realized his cock was plumping rapidly in his snug boxer-briefs, and wanted to laugh. He’d heard about power going to someone’s head before, but he’d never realized that that was the head they’d meant.
He paged through the book, looking for resolutions that would fit with what felt like his “theme” for this session—namely, intensifying Danny’s sexuality. “Oooh, this one looks good,” he said aloud, stopping on a page a third of the way through the book. The text on the page read, “In the new year, I will _________ a lot more often.” Grinning, Ray picked up his pen neatly wrote the word ORGASM into the blank.
He was completely hard now. Setting the pen down he reached into his slacks and adjusted his thick, six-inch uncut erection. Fuck, he was boned. With his cock more comfortably positioned, his cheeks warm and with a bit less equanimity than before, he started paging through the book again.
A little further along he found another promising entry: “I will be much more productive in _________.” Almost before he could consider what he was doing he picked up his pen and wrote SEMEN in the space provided.
He stared at the word almost giddily, his cock throbbing. Would that work? That wasn’t just a mental shift or a choice, he realized—if it played out the way Ray was picturing it (and boy, was he picturing it), that would be an actual, physical change to Danny’s body. Was the book capable of doing that?
Well, what was the mind but neural pathways and electrical impulses? Maybe the emotional changes he was stipulating were just moving molecules around, same as boosting his jizz output.
He needed something he could track somehow. Something demonstrable. He leafed through the book some more, looking for a formulation he could use for a physical change. Finally, toward the back, he found just what he needed: a resolution that read, “I will accept the unexpected truth that _________.”
Licking his lips, he thought feverishly for a moment and then wrote: “KISWEET MAKES MY DICK GROW A MILLIMETER PER PACKET.” He had to put it on two lines in small letters, but he managed to stay in the space provided.
He looked over what he’d written and nodded. This was something quantifiable. KiSweet was an obscure all-natural sweetener, supposedly made mostly from kiwis (the fruit, not the bird) with a strange, darkly sweet taste. Danny had gotten a case from a client a few months back and, not wanting it to go to waste, had started them using it in the office; they were about eighty percent through it. Ray and Danny had gotten used to it, but Blake didn’t like it and anyway drank his coffee black.
Like any lawyer his boss drank a fair amount of coffee, though Danny’s average was probably on the low end: two 20-ounce thermal mugfuls a day normally, no milk, with a packet of sweetener each. So, all Ray had to do was get a good ruler, chart Danny’s cock size over the next few weeks, and confirm any measurable gains. How Ray would contrive to be able to measure Danny’s dick in the first place he wasn’t sure yet… but he was confident the book would help him find a way. The thought made him feel just a little smug.
And horny. Fuck, all this metaphorical playing around with Danny’s dick and balls was getting him majorly riled up. His ration of three “resolutions” complete, Danny capped his pen, closed the book, and quickly unzipped himself, fishing his aching erection out of the fly of his slacks without compunction. It wasn’t like he did this every day, but this wasn’t exactly the first time he’d massaged his rigid pud in the tranquil after-hours solitude of Loudon LLP.
All the things he’d put into this book—that was all so hot if it was actually all going to happen, if this book was truly the real deal. Danny made more sexual was a chronic fantasy, but the idea of it coming true was driving him wild. He imagined Danny getting all flustered by sudden arousal and the need to cum and suddenly he couldn’t hold back from exploding into his own hot, gushy climax, barely managing to catch his seed in his other hand as waves of pleasure flooded through him.
Ray woke suddenly sometime after midnight feeling like his dick and balls were getting strangled. Frowning groggily, he reached under the blankets to adjust himself in his underwear. When his hand reached his cock he froze. All at once he was wide awake, his heart pounding like a trip-hammer.
Leaving his hand where it was he reached with his other hand for the bedside lamp—stealthily, as if afraid of startling something. Warm light sprung up around him, revealing the lump formed by his hand under the covers. Slowly he withdrew his hand—the lump was still there. His flaccid cock pulsed, intrigued by all the attention, and Ray winced.
He drew back the covers and stared at the obscene mass of cock straining against his charcoal boxer-briefs. What the actual fuck—?!
Ray felt hot. He was getting hard, but the way his cock was bent meant discomfort would soon give way to pain as his prick strained to reach erection. With more than a little trepidation, Ray put his thumbs under the waistband, lifted his butt, and lowered his briefs.
His swelling, uncut cock leapt free like a spring snake from a can of peanut brittle. Ray’s mouth dropped open. It was fucking enormous!
As Ray gaped, baffled and awed, the thing busied itself getting fully hard, its girthy length crawling straight up his torso until the head came to rest smack in the middle of his thin chest, the slit staring right back at him. It jumped twice, spitting a bit of precum on Ray’s collarbone, and he gasped in surprise.
No, no, it was supposed to be Danny, he thought. “It was supposed to be Danny,” he told it, like his giant cock was a delivery guy who’d showed up at the wrong address. “Danny Louden,” he said to it. “The lawyer? Nice guy, friendly smile, no love life?”
His warm breath was gusting over the reddening head, and the sensation was so pleasant he almost swooned.
He let his head drop back, his mind spinning with so many questions he barely noticed as his hands wrapped almost automatically around his palm-filling erection and began slowly stroking. What the hell had happened? He’d definitely written Danny’s name as the recipient of all the changes, and he was almost certain the fine print had indicated two separate roles, the subject and the owner. And it was supposed to start at midnight, the growth millimeter by millimeter going forward…
So why did he, Ray, suddenly have a huge cock, and why now, the moment the resolution came into effect?
He settled into his mattress, increasing the pace of his strokes as he thought frantically through the problem. The cock growth had to come from the KiSweet, and—fuck. Fuck! It was so obvious he hadn’t even seen it coming. If KiSweet contained something that caused dick growth… well, why would that substance affect only Danny?
And for that matter, why would it only start to take effect tonight? After all, whatever it was was in KiSweet, and his actual resolution—the thing that would take effect as of midnight—wasn’t the growth itself, but that Danny would accept that his cock had been growing.
But—how was Ray so huge? So huge. His stroking sped up. He was getting close already—he’d be cumming in seconds. He had to figure this out. Thinking while he jerked himself was difficult, but thinking after cumming was impossible.
He tried walking himself through it. He pictured Danny making coffee in his thermal mugs. One packet torn open, the dark crystals catching the light as they poured out of the sachet and into Danny’s mug.
Then he showed up in his little reenactment, getting his own coffee. Filling his red ten-ounce mug with joe from the office pot. Picking up two sachets of KiSweet. Tearing them open. Pouring the junk-growing sweetener right into his cup.
Twice a day. For three months.
He looked down again. His raging hard-on was staring him right in the face, the slit weeping precum now as he jerked himself hard with both hands. A millimeter wasn’t something to be fucked with after all, he thought.
He was going to blow. Fuck, it was going to be spraying all over his face. Did he want that, or—? In one quick motion he bent forward and took the head into his warm, eager mouth just as he started cumming, spastically shooting hot spunk straight at the back of his throat. He tried keeping up, swallowing all the jizz his cock was giving him, but he was cumming too hard and too fast. He pulled his mouth off, panting hard, and let the last few spurts paint his face with warm, delicious cum.
He fell back as his climax ebbed, his enormous mostly-hard dick slapping onto his heaving, sweaty chest. Fuck, he liked both. The self-suck, and the face-painting. His dick twitched, agreeing and wanting more of each. “Soon, buddy,” he rasped, still breathing hard. “We’ll go again soon.” Maybe he’d find some sunglasses or something to wear for the second round. That would be hot as fuck.
It took a few calculations on his tablet as he sat on his bed, feet on the floor, his new giant sausage dick lolling heavily and contentedly over the lip of the mattress. Four packets a day, roughly thirteen weeks of workdays, a millimeter a packet. Ten fucking inches, with proportional expansion in girth and balls. Growing the length was what he’d specified, but that wasn’t all it did, clearly.
Ten extra inches, though. Ten inches on top of what he’d already had. And apparently the answer to the eternal question “is that soft or hard” was both.
He shook his head as he stared at the numbers. A millimeter! Geez. He’d thought a millimeter’s growth would be negligible, and yet, here he was with a dick long enough he could… what? He could garrote people with it, for one thing. Just come up behind them, and—
Fucking KiSweet. He was so glad Blake drank his coffee black, with nothing in it. “Monster dick” wouldn’t even begin to describe that guy if he’d been getting this kind of dick boost. Whereas Danny…
Danny. If four sachets a day was ten inches, that meant that Danny, at two packets a day, was probably now packing an extra five inches. Soft, and hard. Fuck, how big was Danny before? Ray knew that he himself been just shy of six inches fully boned (don’t think “16 inches”… don’t think “16 inches”…), but his knowledge of Danny’s stats stopped at the general sense that the jeans he wore when he was out of the office had a pretty nice and hefty-looking bulge down there. There were probably Rain Men out there who could convert bulge heft to inches, but he wasn’t one of them.
Ray’s monster cock flexed. As he looked at it, it visibly started to grow, chubbing at the thought of Danny huge-dicked and needing to cum.
He needed to see. He needed to get a good look at what he had done to his boss, as soon as humanly possible.
It was a holiday, though—no work. And it was still sixteen hours until the dinner party. Heh, sixteen. One for every inch. He imagined himself tantrically taking one inch of his KiSweet-grown dick per hour into his mouth over the course of the entire day. His cock swelled a little more, excited at the idea.
Wait. Wait. If it was in the KiSweet…
Alarmed, he switched to his browser and did a search on KiSweet. Weirdly, there were barely any hits. Shouldn’t the internet be full of guys with two-foot dicks who’d heard about KiSweet and had to try it for themselves? But the main hits were about the company going out of business due to scandal after only a few months in business. Ray thought this was pretty odd. He remembered that the company had gone under in the old timeline, too, owing to lack of sales. No one liked the stuff, or even knew how to pronounce the name. (Ray assumed it was “kee-sweet” owing to its kiwifruit origins, but Blake called it “kai-sweet”, as if it were a tie-in product with the Karate Kid franchise or something.)
But shouldn’t dick growth have increased their profit margins a little bit?
Ray dug deeper. Apparently the FDA had decided the stray internet rumors that KiSweet was an effective penis and testicle enhancer were the company’s own attempts at viral marketing and had shut them down, despite the CEO’s denials; other countries followed suit, and between that and their other problems they were out of business before you could say “internet scam”. Everyone else seemed to treat it as a joke. It was even a short-lived meme: “I’m taking KiSweet” had, for a few weeks, been internet shorthand for “I’m doing something completely futile because I’m a gullible moron.” Actual reports of guys who’d grown their dicks—with pictures and everything, some even bigger than Ray’s—were dismissed as hoaxes. There was even a guy in the Philippines with an actual 30-inch cock, but he claimed that it was all down to the hardcore local-brand espresso he drank every day. A breathless interview on some Asian-language “porn news” website showed the guy, an otherwise nondescript, rather pallid-looking thirty-year-old with an unsightly porn ‘stache, squirming on camera while awkwardly pretending to ignore the red-tinged tree-trunk erection erupting from his tee shirt collar and pressing against the side of his face. The comments under the video that Ray could read were all angry or laughing denunciations of the ridiculous fake penis the guy was wearing in the interview.
Huh. What a weird, fucked up world, he thought. All these guys looking for a way to get bigger cocks, and yet when it actually happened thanks to an unexpected side effect from a corny wish in a legit-magical new year’s resolutions book from some weird, woo-woo company in Oregon, it was all dismissed as a con.
Still… there had to be another factor beyond poor sales, a strange taste, and bad distribution, or there’d be more guys with chest-high boners out there, enough for people to realize it was a thing. Maybe milk canceled it out? Both he and Danny went without. Would that be enough to limit the population of cock-growers due to an already obscure and unpopular product? Hmm.
He remembered the “unaware” clause of the incredible disappearing disclaimer. That might have something to do with everyone stubbornly not making the connection, he thought, on top of any limiting factors. Technically the perception filter gag applied to the actual “resolution” (the “I will accept the truth that” bit, in this case), but there had to be an awareness inhibition at least partly covering the ripple effects of the resolution, not just the direct impact. Then again, maybe there was an inertia factor involved in reality change, and the enormous mass—for lack of a better word—of what was real resisted the force of transformational change.
Ravenfinder might have stepped in into blunt the effects of his “resolution”—that, too, was a possibility, and a disconcerting one. Or maybe…
He glanced past his tablet at his dick, which was now almost completely hard again, sticking straight out between his unimpressive legs like it was challenging them for dominance. It would look so good with his hands wrapped around it, he thought. His hands, and his mouth. Fuck, he needed to see that.
With hardly a second thought he activated the camera on his tablet and got to work.
Determined not to become addicted to the amazing feeling of having his hard cock in his mouth, Ray managed to make it through the day with only one more round of self-pleasuring, right before he headed over to Danny’s. It’d seemed like a good idea to take the edge off before he showed up at his boss’s house and started trying to size him up through his high-end Levis. Even so, he was still a little warm-cheeked as he stepped up to the navy-blue door, dressed in his brown duffle coat, his nicest henley (the chocolate one), and the loosest jeans he could find. He rang the bell, feeling more than a little self-conscious of the wrist-thick 14-inch sausage he had managed to pack tightly under two separate jock straps, like a vacationer with twice as many clothes as his luggage could handle. Would Danny notice? Except… in this reality, he would have noticed a long time ago. Would he stare? Ignore it? Not care? A day’s worth of tension had Ray feeling pretty frazzled, and he forced himself to take a long, calming breath as he heard the sound of someone approaching from inside.
Danny opened the door with a smile, but Ray thought he could see something very slightly on edge and distracted in his green eyes. His cheeks looked a bit pink, too—maybe he and Danny had been engaged in similar pre-dinner activities. (Don’t think about it…, he coached himself firmly.) Danny also seemed to be very deliberately and firmly holding eye contact with Ray, almost as if he had trained himself not to look down at Ray’s obscenely obvious bulge. Guiltily, as he had been planning to look down himself the moment he saw his boss, Ray made himself do the same, keeping his eyes locked on Danny’s as they greeted each other.
“Hey, Ray, glad you could make it,” Danny said warmly after a second. “Come on in. Happy new year!”
“Thanks, you too,” Ray said, hanging up his coat on the coat tree by the door and following the taller man into living room of the cozy one-story home. It was still tastefully decorated for Christmas, with a tree in one corner and a few holiday cards perched on the fireplace mantel. “Something smells great,” he added truthfully.
Danny smiled brightly, pleased at the compliment. “We’re all meat-eaters,” he explained cheerily, “so this year I thought I’d try a sausage… lasagna.” At the mention of sausage his resolve seemed to falter, and he let his gaze drop briefly to Ray’s overstuffed crotch. He sucked in a breath and quickly looked back up at Ray, a little wide-eyed. He thumbed jerkily behind himself in the direction of the kitchen. “I, uh, should go check on that, actually,” he said. “The sausage. Lasagna! The lasagna. I’ll be about, uh, five minutes, so… make yourself comfortable. Maybe find a playlist?” He gestured toward the docked mp3 player on the side-table by the couch. “Okay? Sorry, I’ll be—” Then he turned and hurried out of the room without finishing his sentence. The sound of his footfalls, Ray noticed, were clearly taking him through the adjacent kitchen and then beyond it, in the direction of the main bathroom in the back.
Ray smirked as he headed over to the mp3 player. He hadn’t intended to make himself into a catalyst for Danny’s increased libido, but it was definitely a welcome and serendipitous byproduct of his fucking around with the universe. He dialed up some alterna-rock he knew the three of them could agree on, but didn’t turn it up too loud yet. Ray had good hearing, and the walls in Danny’s house weren’t as thick as he thought they were.
Sure enough, he soon heard faint grunting and soft, needy moans coming from the back of the house, as from someone in desperate need of release despite having recently cum. Ray’s own cock tried valiantly to chub in immediate, sympathetic response to these sounds of self-pleasuring, but it was so tightly packed that the ensuing constrictive discomfort was its own erection-inhibitor. He managed to bank his arousal for now, all his attention focused on the sounds coming from the back bathroom.
Danny was already chasing his climax, if the muffled sounds sifting through the walls between him and his boss were any indication. Ray was almost tempted to sneak back there and try to snatch a peek of Danny flogging himself, but just then there were three short grunts, and then a loud groan that went on for a surprisingly long time. “Jesus, so much cum,” he heard Danny say distantly through the walls, and Danny barked a laugh.
The doorbell rang. Ray heard the sound of a door opening in the back of the house, and Danny called, “Ray, can you get that? I’ll be right out.”
“On it!” Ray sang out, loud enough Danny could hear him. He turned the music up to proper dinner party background levels and, still wearing a self-satisfied smirk, he went to answer the door.
It was Blake, of course, kitted out in a natty, new-looking navy pea coat and a sky-blue cashmere scarf. He looked ready for a runway, and he obviously knew it. Next to him was a recently acquired boyfriend Ray had met once when he’d joined Blake as they were all leaving the office. He thought his name was Marcel. He was like a darker, Frencher version of Blake, equally well coiffed, well groomed, well built, and well smug about it. From snippets Ray had overheard at the office he knew that Marcel not only looked like he should be on TV, like Blake, but had landed an actual role in some daytime soap, playing the personal trainer and boytoy of a curmudgeonly financier’s depraved illegitimate son. Ray was almost curious enough to look up clips of Marcel’s performance, given that from the sound of it there was a strong chance he’d be wearing tight gym shorts at the most for the entirety of his screentime, but he hadn’t yet bothered to do so.
Blake was looking Ray right in the eyes, just like Danny had, but his demeanor was completely different. His expression said, I wouldn’t glance down at your oversized junk if you paid me. That figured.
Marcel, in contrast, was staring comically at Ray’s bulge, eyes round and mouth agape.
Ray turned back to Blake, suppressing an urge to grin. “Hey Blake,” he said. “Happy new year.”
“Raymond,” Blake responded coolly. “You remember Marcel.” He elbowed his date in the intercostals, hard, and Marcel jumped and looked up guiltily.
“H-hello,” he stammered, pulling a hand from his coat pocket and offering it to Ray. “Bonne année. It is nice to meet you again.” His eyes flicked down for a nanosecond, then back up. Man, this guy wanted to see it so bad.
That’s my life from now on, Ray realized unexpectedly. Guys staring, wanting to see it, pestering him for just a quick look or a suck. Well, maybe he could modify things with the book at his next “resolutions” writing session. Or… he could learn to live with having a 14-inch soft, 16-inch hard, deliciously suckable cock. Hmm. Decision, decisions. Perhaps Danny would have some perspective. He was bigger, too, and Ray was dying to see the end results.
Ray smiled and returned Marcel’s firm handshake. “Likewise. Won’t you guys come in? Danny’ll be right out.”
He bundled the couple into the house and indicated the coat tree for them to hang their gear up. As he was locking the door he heard Blake whispering to Marcel as he guided him into the living room, “Put your eyes back in your head. It’s not real.”
“It’s not?” was Marcel’s startled response.
They passed into the living area. Ray followed a few steps behind, both annoyed and amused. At some point he was going to have to show Blake just how real his equipment was. Preferably with a bit of dick-slapping across Blake’s pretty face. He thought Marcel might appreciate that.
Once they’d sat down to dinner and all the crotches were safely hidden under the table, the general sense of tension eased, and the four of them enjoyed a pleasant meal. The lasagna was delicious, and there was an excellent pinot noir to go with it; the side dish of garlic broccolini, meanwhile, was a nice counterpoint to the darker taste of the pasta. Danny plied Marcel for stories about life in the soap opera trade, which Marcel was more than glad to regale them with. They were having such a nice time Ray almost forgot about the cock transformations he’d triggered in himself and his boss (and however many others out in the world who’d ended up as big-cocked collateral damage of his innocent ploy to up Danny’s sexuality). Then Ray would catch Danny looking at him, and there’d be that something in his eyes that seemed to be saying something like, There’s a couple of elephants in the room, and they’re in our pants.
When Danny got up to fetch the apple cobbler he’d made for dessert, Ray finally let himself look at Danny’s crotch.
It was even more firmly packed away than Ray’s, but there was no question that Danny was hauling around way more meat than your average human male. It was a damned beautiful bulge, enticing even, and Ray’s own ginormous cock again tried to swell against its punishing confines.
Danny turned away quickly, abashed, and headed in to the kitchen. Realizing he was making a spectacle of himself, Ray sheepishly looked over to gauge the reaction of the other guests. Marcel was still staring at where his host had been standing, as if the image of Danny’s heavy, round bulge in his dark jeans had been burned into his retinas. He had a slight, dreamy smile on his face. Ray almost snorted aloud—the guy was clearly in cock heaven and loving it.
Blake was glaring at Marcel, which was even more amusing.
“I’m… going to go help Danny,” Ray said, standing and heading into the kitchen.
As soon as he left the room he heard Blake whispering something to Marcel that sounded like, “I knew I shouldn’t have brought you tonight.”
In the kitchen, Danny was pulling a square glass pan out of the oven. Ray grabbed a trivet and set it out the counter for him, and Danny set the hot tray onto it while Ray closed the oven door for him. “Thanks,” he said, setting the potholders to one side. “Um—”
They were standing fairly close. “Listen, Danny,” Ray started to say, but Danny faced him and interrupted.
“I have a confession to make,” Danny said. He moved closer, as if to heighten the intimacy of their conversation, but the consequence of this action was that their bulges made contact.
Ray gulped. He would need to do something about his arousal soon, and, if Danny really was orgasming much more frequently than before owing to Ray’s other resolution, his need was even more intense. Ray saw his eyes darken as arousal soaked through his boss. He looked very cute, with his earnest expression and his dark hair flopping over his forehead, and Ray kind of wanted to kiss him. Among other things.
Danny licked his lips. “It’s my fault,” he explained earnestly, his voice sounding rough. “What happened to us. I realized it today. It’s all because—”
“I know what happened,” Ray broke in calmly. He moved slightly closer, their straining crotches now pressed firmly against each other. “It’s not your fault.”
“I started us using that stuff,” Danny persisted.
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
They stared hungrily at each other for a long moment.
“Still,” Danny said at last, “I feel responsible for what happened to you. It must be a such a burden. Will you at least let me… take care of it?” he asked, his eyes pleading and sultry all at once.
A slow grin spread across Ray’s face. “Only if you let me take care of yours,” he replied.
Danny hesitated, then smiled back in relief. Then his gaze abruptly shifted past Ray, his brows lifting into his hair.
Ray twisted to look over his shoulder. Leaning against the counter on the other side of the kitchen, near the open archway into the dining room, was Marcel. His arms were folded over his firm chest, its contours visible through his thin, heather sweater, and his expression was rapt, as if this were all a show that he was lucky enough to have gotten tickets for. His midnight blue slacks were very tight, which meant there was no mistaking the long, thick, diagonal bulge protruding along the crease of his hip.
Blake appeared in the doorway. He took in the scene at a glance and grimaced. “C’mon,” he growled, “let’s go.”
Marcel didn’t take his eyes off of Ray and Danny. “Leave if you wish,” he said.
Blake frowned and glanced over at Danny and Ray. The four of them all looked at each other for a second or two. When no one else moved or said anything, Blake turned on his heel and disappeared. A moment later they all heard the front door open and then close again, not quite slamming shut.
Ray met Marcel’s heated gaze and decided, somewhat impulsively, that he didn’t at all mind an appreciative audience for what was about to happen next. He smiled a knowing little smile at Marcel, and Marcel smiled back, his gaze even more intense.
Ray turned back to Danny, his expression asking, You okay with this?
Danny blinked once at Marcel, then shrugged infinitesimally and turned his eyes back to Ray. His expression softened.
They both reached for each other’s crotches at the same time, their knuckles smacking against each other.
Ray huffed a laugh. “Me first,” he said. “I have to see.”
Danny nodded tightly. This first round wasn’t going to take long. With trembling fingers, Ray popped the waistband button of Danny’s jeans, then found the zipper and slowly pulled down the tab, the sound filling the quiet room. It wasn’t easy, the teeth straining as they were across Danny’s mighty bulge, but at last he got it down. He shifted the jeans down a little off Danny’s hips so he could get a good look.
Danny was wearing a pair of what looked like extra-strength compression shorts, presumably designed to restrain extra-large cocks like his. Ray would have to look into those. The pair Danny was wearing was bright red and looked magnificent as Danny’s cock strained and twitched against its captor.
“Hurry,” Danny said. “You’re making it really need to get hard, and it… can’t.”
Ray looked up at him and smiled apologetically. “On it,” he said softly, wiggling his brows, and Danny gave him a crooked smile. Then Ray slid a couple fingers under the elastic waistband on each side of Danny’s hips and, with a single, fluid motion, shucked the compression shorts downward, freeing Danny’s cock and balls.
Almost instantly, Danny’s cock swelled to massive, rigid hardness, soaring up and to the left so quickly it would have been like a punch in the face if Ray had been kneeling in front of it. Which he would definitely have to try another time. A musky scent rose up with it, with distinct notes of sweat and cum.
Danny’s cock looked amazing. Unlike Ray’s straight-up steel pipe, Danny’s had a gentle curve that made Ray’s ass twitch with curious desire. It wasn’t as long as Ray’s monster from the look of it, maybe 13 solid inches, but it was definitely a lot thicker. Oh, you beauty, Ray thought reverently.
From behind them came a low whistle, and Danny and Ray both grinned, Danny a little more nervously. I concur, Ray thought. He reached out and grabbed the curved, steel-hard prick with one hand, giving the warm cock a slow stroke that produced a small gusher of precum. Danny sucked in a huge, involuntary breath and quickly started fumbling at the waistband Ray’s loose old jeans, the only ones he thought he could get away with in public.
Ray kept up a slow-paced stroke, up and down, as Danny worked, and in moments Ray’s jeans were open, his jocks were pulled down, and his cock, too, was exposed. Danny took it in his hand right away as it started to expand to rapid and complete hardness, stroking with an awed expression as it rose up, and up, and up.
“Oh la vache,” Marcel gasped quietly from somewhere behind them. There was the sound of unzipping—Marcel was finally taking out his own meat. Danny, gratifyingly, kept his wide eyes fixed on Ray and his stunning, chest-high erection.
“It’s so beautiful,” Danny rasped, meeting his gaze.
“So’s yours,” Ray said with a half grin, squeezing Danny’s uberthick, arching cock as he stroked and eliciting another sucked-in breath. Unlike him Danny was circumcised, but Ray’s hand was already plenty slick from the insane amounts of precum Danny was producing. He guessed from how hard Danny felt that he was very close—as was Ray.
Danny was taking in the proximity of Ray’s cockhead to his face. “How do you keep your mouth off it?” he whispered.
“I don’t,” Ray answered.
As if his words had triggered an instinctive, innate response, Danny immediately bent forward—he didn’t have to lean down very far—and took Ray’s cock into his hot mouth like he intended to swallow the whole thing. Behind them, Marcel cursed again, but Ray barely noticed, he was so flooded with pleasure from what Danny was doing to him with his mouth and lips and tongue, coupled with the awesomeness of the massive, hot, curving prick he was now diligently stroking.
“Oh, fuck, Danny,” he said. “If you keep that up I’m going to cum in your mouth so hard…” Danny hummed something that sounded like permission, and the sensation of it and a few deft, wide licks around Ray’s head sent him rocketing almost instantly into wild, uncontrollable stratospheric release. He grunted and started blasting cum into Danny’s mouth, and all at once Danny’s cock swelled and stiffened, jerking spasmodically as Danny released a massive orgasm. Danny couldn’t keep swallowing and pulled off, getting a few hits in the face as he gasped for air before he pulled back, panting and laughing, still cumming hard in huge gouts of spunk that spattered loudly on the kitchen floor. Ray kept stroking him as he came, and Danny kept a soft grip on Ray’s still-mostly-hard prick. As Danny finished his mega-orgasm, Ray leaned up and engaged him in a messy, cummy kiss. They separated with a laugh.
Still gripping Danny’s shuddering, bent, stiff-as-stone cock, Ray turned his head to appraise the results of his handiwork. The large, irregular puddles on the white ceramic tiles looked like ten people had spooged there, not just one. “Jesus,” Ray said dramatically, “sooo much cum.” When he looked back up at Danny he was blushing, recognizing that Ray had heard him before, but he was also grinning and very, very happy.
“I have never seen so much,” Marcel marveled, not party to the joke but appreciative just the same.
Danny’s grin was both embarrassed and challenging as he met Ray’s gaze. “I’m not anywhere near done yet,” he admitted.
Ray leered back at him. “Good to know,” he said.
Agreeing silently to clean up the mess later, the two of them moved out of the kitchen in the direction of Danny’s bedroom still gripping each other’s cocks, Marcel trailing excitedly behind. As they headed for round two, Ray had to congratulate himself on, all in all, a job well done, and wondered how he could possibly top himself with his next round of new year’s “resolutions”.
“Do you need a ride anywhere?” Ray asked Marcel, keeping his voice low. He was giving himself a five-second mop-up with a damp washcloth in the en-suite bathroom while Danny snoozed soundly in the next room, finally depleted and happily exhausted after a night of enthusiastic pleasure punctuated by frequent eruptions. Marcel was leaning against the doorway watching as he washed up, his arms folded over his chest, hazel eyes sharp and clear under long, dark lashes. His naked, toned soap-star body was fully on display, and every tanned inch of him, Ray thought, from his artfully developed chest and chiseled abs to his fit swimmer’s legs to his long, pert cock with its loose complement of foreskin, was a testament to his beauty. The pile of not-quite-black hair, once immaculately coiffed, was now rakishly disheveled, matching the thin hint of scruff just now emerging along his attractively sharp jawline as their night slipped slowly into day. Strategic tattoos—a subtle ring of zombie stitches on his right wrist, a cartoon heart filled with detailed and realistic fire on his left delt, a small Celtic cross over his navel—were perfect accents to a body designed to be looked at. Even his feet were hot, Ray mused: graceful and strong, with longish, lightly hairy toes. He was a man meticulously crafted by demons or angels to draw the eye and hold it… which made his singular focus on skinny, pale, unremarkable Ray seem, to him, weirdly perverse.
Okay, “unremarkable” was not the right word. Not anymore. His new endowment seemed to demand attention, so much so Ray was finding it hard to look away himself as he laved himself in front of the large over-sink mirror. His oversized cock was finally, blessedly flaccid after hours of stubborn refusal to be anything but huge, hard, chest-high and ready for ardent affection—Ray was still coming to grips with a new awareness that the only thing he craved more than his own mouth on his cock was two more mouths joining in.
Running the washcloth over his defined, barely-there pecs he frowned at his cock in the mirror, feeling its immense weight as it hung down from groin muscles strengthened by the months of slow growth that had been retconned into his past. It had seemed almost alarmingly insatiable last night. The thing had only just gone down, and the combination of Marcel’s lusty, admiring gaze and his own attention was making it twitch, threatening to awaken all over again and build toward more and yet more ecstatic, endless, shockingly copious jizz explosions.
He’d cum a lot last night.
Not as much as Danny, to be sure. The only sound in the quiet house right now was the washing machine he and Marcel had set running a few moments earlier, now gently churning away in its little alcove off the kitchen with the two sets of sheets they’d soaked with cum over the course of the night, plus various mopping-up towels and a tee-shirt hurriedly grabbed to prevent the wallpaper behind the bed from staining. (There were two sets of sheets to be despunked because… well, they’d thought they were done at one point around two a.m. and had changed the bedclothes so they could all curl up and get some sleep together; but it had turned out that both monster cocks, Danny’s and his own, were only taking a quick nap before roaring to life again, reading for more.)
Anyway, Ray was certain he had cum way more than normal. And his stamina was off the charts now, too, almost matching Danny’s.
He bit his lip, considering. He’d made that one resolution to be about Danny’s jizztacularness specifically, but he’d somehow caught some of it, too. Maybe whatever magic governed the resolution-changes tied Danny’s massive upgrade in semen production at least partially to the KiSweet that had grown both their cocks and balls? When he thought about it that way, it made sense.
He sure hadn’t expected it, though. The unforeseen ripple effects of these resolutions were as much a part of these resolutions as the primary changes themselves. As much a part of it… and just as exciting. He’d definitely have to ponder things like secondary effects and long-term consequences for the next round of additions to the book. Because there was definitely going to be a next round. He wasn’t sure what he’d write yet, but not going back the book and making more changes, soon, wasn’t even a possibility in his mind.
He slid the soapy washcloth up his thin, patchy treasure trail. Marcel still hadn’t said anything, so he glanced up at him in the mirror again. To his surprise, Marcel wasn’t staring at Ray’s dangling, fourteen-inch sausage at all. Instead he was watching avidly as Ray scrubbed his flat, lily-white belly. “Need a ride?” he repeated. Given that the guy he’d come with had stormed off in a huff shortly after dinner, the question wasn’t so much whether Marcel needed transport but if he was willing to accept a lift from someone as not-Blakishly-glamorous as Ray.
Marcel finally looked up. Ray thought he looked tired but sated, much like how Ray himself was feeling right then, though the man’s eyes were still clear and bright. “Sure,” Marcel said, sounding pleased. “Merci.”
Ray felt unaccountably relieved by Marcel’s honest gratitude. He gave him a small smile. “Pas de problème,” he said. That got a genuine dimply smile out of Marcel. Clearly an American bothering with even the simplest bit of French was cause for semi-impressed amusement. As Ray finished washing up he found himself oddly motivated to learn more phrases he could use on Marcel. Especially the dirty ones. He wondered what the French was for “Lick my monster cock until it covers your face with spooge.” He suppressed a snort. Someone one on the internet would know. He added researching Gallic spunk-talk to his mental to-do list.
After a last quick pass over his pits and creases he grabbed a brick-red towel from the bar behind him and swiftly dried all the parts he’d just gone over. It was his fourth or fifth towel of the night, seeing as they’d showered after that two a.m. bring-down-the-house finale that had turned out to be just the pre-intermission show-stopper, plus the ones used for mopping up. Fortunately Danny was the kind of guy with a linen closet full of towels and sheets, most of them rich, saturated solids in interesting blues, reds, and greens. It was almost like he knew Ray would turn him into a super-soaker one day, Ray thought with a smirk.
Finished drying, Ray rehung the towel and, collecting Marcel with a hand on his gym-hardened, ogled-by-soap-fans-everywhere shoulder, he returned to the bedroom.
Danny lay on top of the (third set of) sheets, sprawled artlessly in exhausted bliss. He looked delicious, even without taking into account the hefty, oversized cock draped across his upper thigh like a living, five-star Photoshop morph. Ray had to resist an urge to lick that slumbering beast back to a naughty, towering readiness, not easy given how his own cock and balls were egging him on. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed and brushed messy brown hair away from Danny’s sweet face.
Danny mumbled a little and opened his eyes. They seemed to light up when he saw Ray, joined by a big, slow smile that set Ray’s heart going a-pitter-pat. “Heyyy,” Danny said fondly.
“Hey,” Ray said. “Go back to sleep. I just wanted to let you know I was heading out.” Danny would, as always, be attending a J.D.s-only New Year’s brunch later with his local alumni, and getting out of Danny’s hair would also give him a moment to take stick of what had happened between them. How much would a night of passion change things? Would they go back to normal and pretend it never happened? Would they be awkward and uncomfortable for weeks? Would Ray need another job?
Had he ruined everything?
“Okay,” Danny said contentedly, unaware of Ray’s sudden inner turmoil. “Will I see you later?”
Ray stared a half a second. He wants to see me later? His heart sped up a little more. “Uh, sure, if you want.”
“Good,” Danny said sleepily. “I remembered yesterday while I was cooking a couple of things I wanted to go over with you for the gay conference before we fly out.”
Ray had clean forgotten about the conference with everything else that was going on. They were due to leave for Austin late the next day for a half week of meetings and elbow-rubbing over legislation and precedents relating to LGBTQ rights in public education. Danny always called it the “gay conference”, with rolled eyes implicit.
If only, Ray thought. Ray had gone to the first one thinking it would be wall-to-wall hot gay lawyers fucking. While most of them were hot, and some were probably queer, all they did was talk about gay stuff, at least as far as Ray had seen, without actually doing any of it. He’d been bored out of his mind.
Ray ducked his head. “Right, of course,” he said. “The conference.”
Danny was watching him, his green eyes twinkling mischievously. “Plus I kind of want to spend some time with you that doesn’t involve… briefs,” he added, his smile turning into a smirk.
Ray groaned. “Oh my god,” he said, “that was the worst lawyer pun ever.” He grabbed a pillow and started swatting him with it. “If you ever want to touch my dick again with those talented lips of yours—”
Danny laughed, fending off the pillow. “All right, all right,” he said, grabbing the pillow from him and tossing it aside. “Duly noted.” He beamed up at Ray.
Ray narrowed his eyes at him. “Do you have morning breath?” he asked suspiciously.
“Come find out.”
Ray did so. They kissed for a minute (a little morning breath, but worth it, he decided). Then Ray stood up, patting Danny on his bare, slightly hairy chest. “Go back to sleep for a bit. I’ll see you later.”
“See you—ooooaaooo—later,” Danny said around a yawn. He looked past Ray with a smile. “You too, Marcel.”
Marcel had been watching their interaction from a few feet away with a languid smile, looking ready to start in on another round with them or crawl into bed and sleep the day away, whichever. “Thank you for a pleasant evening,” he said politely, then added with a twisty smile, “A very pleasant evening.”
“Likewise,” Danny said happily, his eyelids closing. He was already drifting off.
“C’mon,” Ray said. They collected their clothes and got dressed in the kitchen, transferring the laundry to the dryer while they were at it and starting it running before leaving the house, just as the eastern sky was burning with crimson promise. They got into Ray’s dew-covered car and pulled out onto the empty streets.
“Do you want to be dropped off somewhere?” Ray asked him.
Marcel shrugged, watching the suburban houses slide by. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be,” he said negligently.
“What, no New Year’s Day shoots today?” Ray joked, glancing over at him. Man, he was solidly as good looking fully clothed as he was naked, he thought. That slightly mussed morning-after look was hot as fuck on him, too. What is he doing with me again? He shifted his legs a bit, situating the weight of his crotch more comfortably, and though, Oh yeah, right.
Marcel smiled and looked back at Ray. “Actually, we are shut down for the holidays until two weeks from now.” He gave Ray a speculative look. “You mentioned a… gay conference?”
Ray had been turning the upcoming conference over in the back of his mind ever since Danny had mentioned it. A couple hundred young lawyers and their assistants, a chunk of them gay and, he knew from experience with this particular organization, most of them good looking and ranging from buff to built. A few ideas about what he might add to the Resolutions book for the next round were already starting to percolate.
He pulled up at a stop sign and looked over at Marcel. “You ever been to Austin?” he asked.
Ray rationalized stopping by the office to grab the Resolutions book now, rather than coming back for it later, by telling himself it was on the way home anyway, more or less. Plus he was pretty sure Blake had never brought Marcel around to check out the place—certainly he had never done so while Ray was there—and, after all, Marcel might be curious about the space the three guys he was fucking around with had in common. So Ray made the appropriate turns and a few moments later he was slipping into the underground garage of the building next door (which happened to be owned by the same realty management company as their beloved sliver, a.k.a. the Wyandot Building, so they got to use it for free). He found his space and pulled up the parking brake, the loud rip-like sound reverberating through the mostly empty parking level. “I’m going up to the office to pick up some things,” he said. “Want a tour?”
“Sure,” Marcel said easily, his hazel eyes glinting happily against the drab gray of the garage.
Ray wondered if Marcel thought he was about to have a little office sex. He might not be far off, come to that. He was already starting to feel profoundly horny again, and his body and his id were telling him they wanted Marcel to help him do something about it. The truth was, Ray felt conflicted. His crush on Danny was only getting deeper, but he was also attracted to Marcel. And though in his eyes the Frenchman might not be in the same league as his rough-around-the-edges, boyishly handsome, extremely adorable boss, he was, nonetheless, (a) very fine to look at and (b) very game, two attributes that got his lizard brain slavering for tactile contact and his balls churning like an industrial turbine.
He and Marcel held each other’s gazes for a moment, and Ray felt so hot all of a sudden he half expected the windows to start steaming up.
Giving up his token resistance, Ray let his lips twist in a slight leer, with seemed to delight Marcel. He heard himself say in a growly voice he didn’t entirely recognize, “Ever been fucked on a lawyer’s desk before?”
Those eyes looked like they were going to cast actual sparks any second. “Lawyer, no,” he said straight-faced. “Judge, though.”
Ray’s mouth fell open and he gaped at Ray, all Lothario affectations forgotten. “No shit,” he said. “Really?”
Marcel did his little shrug. “Not a real judge,” he clarified.
Ray got what he meant and grinned. Of course, it was on the show. Presumably not on the show, not the actual fucking, unless Hot Springs Harbor was a very different kind of program than he thought it was. Maybe it was more Dante’s Cove than All My Children. Or, more likely, Marcel had fucked around with somebody on the empty set one night after everyone else had gone home. Ray’s smile faded a little as he realized it had probably been Blake. “Welp,” he said, unbuckling his belt and reaching for the door latch, “let’s get you that nickel tour.”
Marcel grabbed his forearm, stopping him, and Ray looked over at him in surprise. Marcel looked earnest now. “Raymond—” he began.
“Ray,” he corrected. He almost hated to—his hated first name sounded nearly tolerable when spoken in Marcel’s gentle accent.
“Ray,” Marcel repeated. He licked his lips and said, “I do want you to fuck me, but…”
He trailed off, and Ray understood. “You don’t think you can take me.” This conundrum had cropped up in his own head the night before, too, which was why they’d tacitly limited themselves to mouths and hands (and bodies) all night. It was still bugging him, actually, at some low level in nis brain… because he very much wanted to make love to Danny and Marcel. In the butt. For ages, until they screamed.
Geez, had he been this much of a top before he’d grown a monster cock and balls? He wasn’t even sure.
“I know that I cannot,” Marcel responded seriously. “I have not been with many men—that way.”
Ray nodded. The fact that Marcel had a relatively untested hole frankly made him want to screw him into the bed even more. Ray was a little embarrassed to catch himself thinking that way, especially right at that particular moment when Marcel was being serious and vulnerable—all the more so given the way his massive dick was even at that moment trying desperately to thicken and unwind from its compact prison. Insensitive prick, he thought wryly, and had to hold back a smile.
“So,” Marcel was saying, “I was thinking that perhaps we will need to work up to it slowly. With toys, and…” He paused for a second to think of the word. “…buttplugs.”
Ray let himself smile at that. Marcel saying the word “buttplugs” was both endearing and tremendously hot. And yet… this was a big deal, what Marcel was proposing. He sobered a little. “That sounds like a serious investment of time and, um, anus,” he said. “Is that what you want?”
Marcel’s smile went crooked, and he squeezed Ray’s forearm, which he still had in his hand. “You would not believe me if I said how much,” he said. Ray barked a laugh.
There was one other thing, though. “What about Danny?”
Marcel shook his head. “I want you to fuck me, Ray.”
Right. “Because I’m bigger.”
“Yes,” Marcel admitted. “But also because I… like you.”
“You like me,” Ray repeated doubtfully. He tried to make sense of that and failed. “What does that—what does that mean?”
Marcel did the little shrug. “I do not know,” he said. “It is young. Maybe it means only that I want to kiss you as well as your giant prick,” he added with a slight smirk.
Ray grinned. If that wasn’t an invitation, he didn’t know what was. He slid a hand around Marcel’s nape and pulled him in for a long, athletic snog, stopping only when his dick seemed to be hell-bent on strangling itself in his underwear.
“C’mon,” he said breathily, suddenly too warm again. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
Any prospect of a morning idly wiled away with a few rounds of lawyer-desk sexytimes was foiled, however, by an unwelcome presence lurking in the darkened office. As soon as the elevator doors rumbled open Ray started as a head lifted from a shadowed corner. and a horrible, sepulchral voice moaned at them.
“Ugh, go away,” Blake wailed, like the voice of a hundred dead souls trapped in the House of Lamentations. His disheveled silhouette seemed to peer blearily at them from the vicinity of Blake’s desk across the darkened office, then dropped its heavy head onto its arms again with an audible thump.
Ray exchanged glances with Marcel as they stepped into the space, the elevator doors trundling closed behind them. Though Ray was half-inclined to feel a bit entertained at Blake’s New Year’s Morning discomfort, it was clear from Marcel’s contrite expression that the man felt at least partly responsible for Blake’s current unhappy condition. On balance, Ray could sympathize. Actually, were the truth known, Ray was more to blame than anyone: it was one of his resolutions, after all, that had led to Marcel’s head being turned—even if Ray hadn’t exactly meant for the changes to be as extensive as they had, or for himself to end up someone to attract the fascination of latent mega-size queens like Marcel.
Marcel met his gaze and nodded sideways toward the wreck currently slumped over Blake’s desk, and Ray nodded. He didn’t begrudge Marcel trying to make things whole with Blake. Marcel turned and crossed the office, his gait easy and purposeful. When he got to Blake’s desk he pulled up the guest chair and sat next to him, resting a hand on his back.
“Go ‘way,” Blake repeated, his voice muffled against his arm. Marcel’s gaze lit on something on Blake’s desk that made his dark, well-groomed brows lift in surprise. Ray’s eyes had adjusted enough to the gloom to make out what it was: a half-full liter bottle of Absolut Citron.
Well, no wonder. Ray headed for his own desk. While Blake’s presence wasn’t exactly welcome, it could serve a useful distraction. He sat in his chair and quietly opened his bottom drawer, watching the other two as he did so.
Blake lifted his head a little, though it was still turned away from Marcel. His short platinum blond hair was a real mess, Ray saw, the product Blake used religiously leaving it matted in all the wrong directions. “All you guys with your giant dicks,” Blake pronounced blearily to the room in general, “can just Fuck. Off.” His malediction completed, Blake lowered his head again.
Ray met Marcel’s gaze. Though not distraught by any means, Marcel definitely looked like he was feeling that Blake in his current state was his responsibility. Ray, for his part, was starting to suspect he didn’t have the whole story with these two. Someone as nice as Marcel wouldn’t have sloughed Blake off so casually just because he wanted to ogle monster cock, however much of a size-obsessive he was—right?
Or maybe he would. He didn’t know Marcel that well, and giant cock was clearly a dominant interest with him, to say the least, much to Blake’s chagrin. Still, Ray couldn’t help thinking they must have been close to falling out before they’d showed up at Danny’s. And he would bet every inch of his Marcel-distracting dick it was somehow because of Blake’s corrosive personality.
Marcel had bent over Blake a little more, and was now rubbing small circles on his back. “Your penis is very large,” Marcel assured Blake calmingly. “The largest I had ever seen.”
“Yeah, before,” Blake grumbled bitterly.
Ray shook his head, turning on his desk lamp and opening the Resolutions book. The “giant dicks” comment had had him wondering of Blake was truly disadvantaged in the cock department, and the pity that his kindled in him had got him weighing what he might do with one of his next resolutions to help him out a little… even given the absolute certainty in his mind that an extra-hung Blake would be even more of a dick than he already was. If Blake was already hung, though, all bets were off. No way was Ray was giving that jerk any kind of equipment upgrade unless he had been bona fide short-changed to start with, and that clearly was not the case.
“Come on, Blake,” Marcel urged. “I saw the Starbuck’s on the corner is open. Let me treat you to one of those nonfat light java chip frappuccinos you like.”
Blake lifted his head to glare at the man. “You just want to break it off with me all amicable and stuff,” he said shrewdly.
“I want to apologize,” Marcel clarified.
“And break up with me,” Blake repeated. He sighed. “I should apologize too. What I said—”
“It’s fine,” Marcel said briskly, helping Blake awkwardly to his feet. “Let me buy you coffee?” he offered again.
Blake glowered at him, then nodded and let himself be led across the office to the elevator. He did not even spare Ray a glance as he passed, which Ray was more than fine with. He was still wearing the cobalt-blue body-hugging waffle-knit long-sleeve he’d had on the night before under that new-looking pea coat, and as before it showed off every bump and bulge of Blake’s toned and beautiful body. Marcel looked like a match for him, his heather sweater highlighting every curve of his defined physique. No wonder they’d become a couple, Ray thought. His admiration and envy took him a little by surprise. An intense wave of horniness washed through him.
Blake seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “It’s just, you’re so pretty,” he whined as Marcel pressed the button. “And I’m pretty. Don’t we look amazing together?”
The elevator opened and they stepped in. “Yes, Blake,” Marcel said. “Very amazing.” Just before the doors closed he caught Ray’s glance and winked. Then they were gone, the superficial, hung-over pretty-boy paralegal and his mega-cock-loving ex.
Ray smiled, then resolved very firmly and determinedly to not waste any more mental energy on Blake Somerset if he could possibly help it. Instead he turned his attention fully to the book open in front of him, mentally rubbing his hands together in glee, his arousal now simmering and potent. He had a purpose with this thing, he reminded himself. He started paging through the book, his mind teeming. What new ways can I find to further sex up Danny Louden’s universe? he thought. He pondered the nearest approaching landmark on Danny’s personal timescape and let his smile turn wicked.
He flipped through for a while, then stopped and slapped the page when he found exactly the right entry. The winsome lettering of the resolution read: “From now on I will always _________.” Thinking of the upcoming “gay conference”, this seemed like a slam dunk. He picked up his favorite pen and, in his usual small, neat block letters, wrote TURN GUYS ON.
He looked at the completed resolution happily, then tilted his head, considering. Would that be enough? The high-achieving lawyers at the last Austin get-together had been good-looking and buff but repressed as fuck. Would they get turned on and not do anything about it? Probably, Ray huffed to himself in disgust.
He decided he needed to escalate this resolution—just give it an extra bump. He briefly pondered adding more words to it, but it looked so elegantly complete the way it was, his three little words filling the blank space exactly, and he didn’t want to mess with it.
He went forward a few more pages until he found another phrase he could work with. This one read, “I will make wherever I am more pleasant because _________.”
Interesting. Yes. This one definitely had potential. His pen hovered over the line for a moment, then, almost as if his dick were writing the response instead of his brain, he quickly added the words GUYS TEND TO BE AFFECTIONATE AND MAKE OUT AROUND ME, stacked in three tight rows of text.
There, he thought proudly. That should make things “more pleasant,” especially in a roomful of good-looking but dull lawyers. His cock was as hard as it could get bound up in his pants, and was begging to be let out. He was feeling flushed and more than a little randy. He thought of his handsome, hapless boss in the midst of a lot of hunky, dressed-down guys all getting a bit turned on and maybe a little handsy… their eyes falling to each other’s full, sweet lips…
A twinge of doubt tugged at the edges of Ray’s fevered imagination. Maybe it would make things too interesting? He shrugged the thought aside, but he made himself look the words over again.
They were pretty mild, really. Affectionate was good, and a little making out never hurt anyone.
Maybe he should take the book with him on the trip? He should take the book with him. Just in case of a need for… adjustments. That seemed reasonable. The thought turned him on even more.
With that settled, he started paging backwards through the book again, looking for new inspiration, when his phone buzzed. He picked it up: it was a text from Danny. “Guess what I’m doing,” it read.
Oh, fuck. His dick lurched, and he thought there might be serious danger of the monster ripping right through his jeans.
Another text came through. “Hint: can’t talk on the phone right now.”
Shit shit shit! Ray jumped to his feet and fumbled to release his button and yank down his zipper at record speed. Freeing his dick from its denim and boxer-brief constraints with a sigh of relief, he watched with no small amount of awe as his club of a cock swing rapidly toward his face, becoming achingly hard in mere seconds. He dropped his bare ass onto his chair, an action that all but pushed the head into his mouth. He didn’t resist.
With his worshipping lips around the crown of his sensitive, enormous prick, susurrations of hot pleasure shuddering through him in relentless, unstoppable cascades, Ray picked up his phone and typed, “you bastard.”
Danny sent a laughing emoji. “So,” came the next text, “what are *you* doing?”
Ray huffed a little laugh that sent a spasm of joy through him and his quivering, rock-hard dick. “I *was* making plans for the conference,” he typed. Truthful, though not in the way Danny would think. Then he glanced at the time at the top of his screen and added, “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your brunch?”
“Yes,” agreed the response. “Help me cum quick!”
Ray blinked at the screen. Should he send dirty talk? He wasn’t sure yet what would do it for Danny—they would need to explore all that. All this sexy was new. Well… what would make him cum, if it was the other way around? As soon as he framed it that way in his head, he knew the answer. He turned on his self-facing camera and sent a shot of himself going down on his own ginormous, massive dick.
There was no response for a few seconds, during which Ray bobbed slowly up and down his own cock, excited and smug. Then: “thanks!” followed by an eggplant and several splash emojis.
Ray laughed around his dick. “My pleasure,” he sent. “Text me later!”
“ttyl” Danny confirmed. Ray set his phone down and looked at the book as he gently fellated himself. So. He had these two guys that liked him for his beautiful sixteen-inch wang. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how he didn’t measure up in every other way to either of these men, who were both deeply sexy in very different ways—Danny, relaxed and fit, with an endearing, floppy handsomeness and easygoing charm, and Marcel, with his lithe, sculpted frame and arresting, TV-star beauty. Meanwhile, Ray was skinny and tight, but if he didn’t possess the giant dick he was currently sucking, would either of them even care?
And why shouldn’t he do something about that? After all, the book had come to him, and he’d changed himself once already, even if it was by accident. Obviously it wasn’t forbidden by these Ravenfinder mages or the mysterious “oversight authorities”. He leaned forward, sucking harder on his succulent cock, and started sifting backwards through the book again, looking for a likely resolution.
After a minute he found one he thought he could use. It read, “One thing I don’t notice about myself is _________.”
He must have already started forming the words because they were flying out of his pen almost before he knew it. What he wrote into the blank was, HOW MY CUM MAKES GUYS ABLE TO GROW MUSCLE IF THEY WANT TO.
He was not going to feel guilty about this one. Absolutely not. Just because he knew he would be the recipient of Danny’s cum in the very near future… After all, he probably wouldn’t be the only one. Lots of guys would win out with this one. Though if he got to kiss and suck and pleasure Danny more than most guys did, that was a perk of being close to this sweet, sexy man… He shivered, another blast of arousal shuddering through him. When he blew he was going to cum so much.
He spotted the resolution on the page opposite the one he’d just completed, just as his tongue was making a slow circuit around his leaking cockhead. It went, “I will no longer hide _________.”
Memories of making out with Danny overpowered him, and his dick seized for a second, seeming, impossibly, to stiffen even more in his mouth. He picked up the pen, his hand almost shaking, and wrote MY STRETCHY EXTRA-LONG TONGUE WHEN KISSING.
Fuck, he was close. So close—!
The elevator dinged and Marcel stepped out. Ray closed the book and slipped it into his drawer, but there was no time to hide his dick or what he was doing with it. He looked up hurriedly to see if Blake was with him. He wasn’t, thank god.
A huge, dimpled smile bloomed on Marcel’s handsome face as he saw what Ray was up to, driving Ray even closer to cataclysmic release. Marcel was just standing there, though. Impatiently, his climax imminent, he popped his mouth off his dick and said, “C’mere and help me with this thing!”
Marcel, of course, was more than happy to oblige.
Danny checked the time on his phone. Almost midnight. So much for “brunch”.
He sighed, repocketing his phone, and sat back against the red-leather upholstery of the decidedly upscale booth at Sirrah’s his buddies had repaired to after three hours of bloody marys and mimosas at Mrs. Toad’s, the trendy eatery Ted’s wife’s ex-mother-in-law owned; an afternoon of beer and football playoffs in the reserved VIP room at Min-Ho’s Sports Bar on Seventh; and cocktails and stilted conversations at the alumni club. “Now we can relax!” Brock had happily announced as he’d dropped into the booth and started loosening his cobalt-blue tie, as if they’d been spending a harried day filing briefs and dashing between courtrooms and this was their long-awaited release from lawyerly bondage.
Danny probably should have known better than to assume he’d be able to duck out unnoticed after the cinnamon cappuccinos, asparagus-and-zucchini frittatas, and glazed lemon-ginger scones were gone as he had in years past. Over the last few months, as he’d watched the slow and at-first-inexplicable accretion of his private parts with wide eyes and watering mouth and experienced an accompanying steady upsurge in his increasingly insistent libido and the quantity and frequency of his orgasms, Danny had also noticed a subtle and sort of subsidiary side-effect: guys wanted him around.
Before, Danny had seldom been in the thick of things, a wandering star that passed through conversations and gatherings and then moved on without much involvement or impact. It was always “Oh, hey, Danny, good to see you” and when he left it was “okay, see you next time”. Now, though, his gravitational force had somehow increased. Once he joined a group, especially if it was mostly guys, he was welcomed with enthusiasm and generally had to fight to leave. Greetings were more likely to be “Danny!! Where have you been, bro?”, usually with accompanying grins and arms over the shoulder or slaps to his biceps, and when he suggested leaving his shoulder or wrist would be grabbed and he’d hear, “Wait, I need your advice about something” or “You totally need to hear what happened in Judge Mixner’s courtroom last week” or “C’mon, you never tell us what’s going on in your life” or “There’s this guy I have to introduce you to, let me tell you about him.”
Danny was pretty amused by all this, seeing as how the explanation for it was so patently obvious and yet so ridiculous. His standing in the city’s legal community was the same as ever; his practice had neither grown nor shrunk; his networking remained incidental and mostly limited to people he liked talking to anyway; he’d won or lost no big cases, publicized or otherwise. Literally the only thing that had changed about him in the last six months was the size of his junk and his progressively off-the-charts need to blow his load several times a day.
It wasn’t even that his friends and colleagues were staring at his huge unit or anything. For anything work-related he’d been dressing in suits with extra-loose trousers and packing his equipment up as tightly as he could, even for professional off-hour gatherings like this. In fact today he’d worn his loosest suit pants, the charcoal wool trousers that barely showed a bulge even as he walked around or sat down, with the jacket, a white broadcloth shirt, and a navy pinstriped tie—an outfit that in past years would have made him almost invisible among his more finely dressed brethren. He always did what he could to make sure that no one looking at him would have any clue that he presently possessed a massive, 13-inch extra-thick wang with a sweet, lickable curve when it was fully hard. And yet… these days guys around him seemed to be picking up on something—either the size of his cock or the extreme potency of his sexual need, he wasn’t sure which—like he was emitting some kind of subsensory metadata, and instead of casually dismissing him as peripheral, like he was used to, he was now instinctively important to any group of guys he joined. Slipping away unnoticed was no longer one of his superpowers, destroyed, it seemed, by the unconscious emanations of his alpha cock.
Maybe he was being too nice, he thought to himself, idly swirling his Dewar’s in a wide, stubby rocks glass. If having a huge dick and an amped-up sexy drive really meant something to these yahoos on some unconscious, primitive level, he should be able to leverage the eldritch power of his superior junk to tell his groupies to politely fuck off.
He smiled. He could almost picture it: the Danny from another world who acted like an overconfident asshole. If Ray saw that he’d joke that Danny had finally found his feet as a lawyer.
His smile widened, a little wistfully. He missed Ray. It had only been a few hours—less than a day, anyway—but Danny had never even imagined sex could be that good or that intense. Or that… prolonged. His cock made a valiant effort at trying to thicken against its bindings. Fuck, he wanted to be back in bed with Ray more than anything. Ray, and Marcel too, just for the fun of it. He huffed a laugh, remembering Marcel’s awed and delighted expressions as he’d eagerly and attentively helped Danny and Ray maximize their pleasure again and again and again. Now there was a genuine huge-cock groupie.
“What’s funny?” asked Archer next to him, offering him a dazzling smile. Danny drew in a breath, and his cock strained some more. As the married alums had drifted home to spouses and partners his posse had dwindled to four apart from himself: Archer, Brock, Ted, and Camilo—easily, Danny thought, the four most handsome attorneys-at-law in a fifty-mile radius. Archer was tall, svelte, and classically pretty with pallid skin, lush, shoulder-length ash-blond hair, and ice-blue eyes, the kind of guy who made people think all trial lawyers were really sexy vampires. Brock, a budding patent attorney, was the kind cute, bright-eyed, milk-fed country boy with short dark hair, naturally broad shoulders, and washboard abs you desperately wanted to see in a tight white tee shirt and snug jeans, or maybe a tight-fitting cop’s uniform, instead of his loosely tailored lawyer duds. Ted, a real estate lawyer and the only one of them aside from Danny of them not from out of town, was a Trinidadian DILF who made even his receding close-cropped hairline look good, though so far he’d managed to defy the dadbod enough to keep a flat stomach and a firm jawline. And the prosecutor in their group, Camilo… Camilo looked like the lost Iglesias cousin, from the branch of the family that had been secretly subjected to low-key experimental genetic enhancements. Danny felt a little overwhelmed now that their New Year’s crowd had been pared to just them, like he was being subjected to a concentrated dose of single-guy male hotness. It didn’t help that he was surrounded by them, either: Danny had ended up at the center position in the semicircular booth, with Archer and Ted on his right and Brock and Camilo on his left, as if the others had conspired, consciously or unconsciously, to block his departure. Perhaps they had.
Fuck, these guys were sexy as hell, all the more so for being loosened up by varying quantities of alcohol. Danny felt a shiver of heat and knew his struggling dick would have to be set free soon. He’d already ducked into various bathrooms three times on this day-long junket to get himself off, and that was after trying to proactively clean the pipes before he’d headed out. Mmm, that had been fun. He remembered the pic Ray had sent him, and another gust of sultry heat slid through him, hitting every inch of him from head to toe. His cock squeezed so hard he thought it might rip right through his pants and smack against the table—probably hitting it hard enough to knock it over, he thought bemusedly as he tried to marshal himself.
He was still holding Archer’s gaze, those ice-blue eyes filling his vision. They narrowed slightly, as if seeing something in Danny’s eyes. Fuck, are my pupils opening up? he thought. Can he see how much I need to cum right now?
What was the question? “Oh, uh,” Danny dithered. “I was thinking about my assistant.” His recklessly let his mind drift back to the night before, which was a mistake—his dick struggled some more, and he felt so hot he wanted to strip to his skin right there in the booth. Something else besides him and Ray getting off. Earlier. Go back earlier. The kitchen? “He… has an admirer,” he finished awkwardly.
“Oh yeah?” Archer asked, interested. His smile grew lopsided, the only sure sign of intoxication when it came to Archer, as far as Danny had ever seen. Otherwise he seemed relaxed but dead sober. “Is your assistant cute?” Archer persisted. “You got a picture?”
Danny’s eyes widened. Did he have a picture? Fuck, did he ever.
Danny was momentarily distracted as Archer’s gaze dropped briefly to Danny’s lips. Okay, that was odd. He was pretty sure Archer was straight… but when the man’s glittering pale blues lifted back up to meet Danny’s, he thought he saw something new there. Curiosity? Interest?
He remembered the question Archer had asked, about whether Danny had a picture of his newly admired assistant. Uh, no. No way anyone was ever seeing that picture except Danny. And maybe Marcel. No one else, though. “Uh, not on me, I think,” he temporized.
Archer nodded, seemingly having already forgotten what he’d asked about. He was staring into Danny’s eyes kind of intently now. Fuck, was Archer… turned on? He glanced past Archer and noticed Ted watching both of them, unconsciously licking his lips. He was definitely hungry, and not for Sirrah’s famous portobello sliders. He was being relaxed about it, though, even as he shifted closer to Archer. Archer didn’t seem to mind, though he kept his eyes on Danny.
He was about to say… something, he didn’t know what, when Archer’s gaze flicked to Danny’s left and his smile widened. Ted looked that way too and grinned. “Nice,” he said.
Frowning, Danny looked to his left and was shocked to see Camilo and Brock had settled in next to each other and were casually making out with big, goofy smiles on their faces, like that was the part of the natural progression of guys hanging out at a bar. Expensive whisky, a bit conversation, some sloppy snogging. Just your typical boys’ night out. Geez, he could see Cam sliding his tongue right into Brock’s mouth, and it looked as innocent as two guys talking excitedly and intimately about something, their faces close together as they traded happy dialog—except their faces were a little too close for talking, and what they were trading was not dialog. If Danny were to do that thing with the tongue… Brock’s hairy-knuckled hand, he noticed, was resting on Cam’s thigh—not feeling him up, really, so much as just being close and intimate with his buddy, like you do. Cam’s hand was idly caressing Brock’s left shoulder blade through his suit jacket. Ted was right, he thought. Brock and Cam making out was, indeed, nice.
Also: what the hell?
Not trusting himself breathe or even think, Danny turned slowly back to Archer. When their eyes met, Archer’s thin, dark-blond eyebrows wiggled and he tilted his head toward Brock and Cam. You want to? asked the eyebrows.
Danny gulped. “I gotta hit the head,” he said in a strained voice that sounded a little loud in his ears. That thing about knocking over the table with his dick suddenly seemed not only plausible but imminent.
Archer nodded as if Danny had suggested nachos or a game of darts. “Good idea,” Archer said. “I’ll join you.”
“Heh,” Danny said, blushing. “I don’t need help, thanks.”
“That’s not what I heard!” Ted said unexpectedly, in an undertone that was nonetheless easily audible to the others.
Archer instantly turned to Ted. “What did you hear?” he asked eagerly.
“Well—” Ted began. Ted always relished the chance to tell a good story.
Danny, taking advantage of Archer’s distraction, did the only thing he could figure to do: he slid off his seat and dove right under the table. Pushing his way out awkwardly through the forest of legs occupying the cramped space he clambered out of the booth, got to his feet, and walked as quickly as he could without actually breaking into a canter in the direction of the bar’s back hallway. Hopefully the men’s room was back there. If not he would find the rear exit, walk straight out of the bar, and maybe just keep going until he reached the flames of fucking perdition.
Danny found the restrooms, but he was out of luck: half-past midnight meant the bar was at its busiest, and a quick glance inside told him the little men’s room (three stalls, three urinals, two sinks) was packed, with a short line that was about to emerge into the back hallway. One of the bro-types guys queuing for a piss idly turned to look at him, and his bored expression quickly morphed into one of subtle lust, complete with the oo-face Mulan made when Chang took off his shirt in basic training. At the same time one of the guys at the urinals was frowning down at his dick, muttering a confused “Fuck, what the hell?” while trying awkwardly to force his sudden hard-on and its high-pressure yellow stream back down below the horizontal.
Danny quickly retreated to the hallway and decided to make for the back door after all. Walking to hell probably wasn’t an option, but… neither was going back to the booth. He should probably just go home, except home was twenty minutes by cab from here and he needed to free his dick now, ideally to be followed by releasing the load building up in his balls that felt big enough to paint a wall.
Danny burst out of the rear exit and into the chilly night air. He was standing under a yellowish security lamp in the small twenty-car parking lot behind the bar, delineated to either side by ten-foot chain link fences and in back the concrete wall opposite separating Sirrah’s plot from the businesses facing the next block north. An alley to one side led around to the front. All the slots were filled with pricy sedans and sleek-looking sports cars.
Danny tried to steady himself, but the universe was acting slightly out of kilter. Everything felt a little unreal, like he’d imbibed more than just alcohol on their holiday excursion. With the world in this strange, altered state he could probably just grab a taxi or a rideshare and totally get away with giving the driver a show, but… Danny was too mild-mannered to really consider doing something like that, even if the driver was into it. The threesome with Ray and Marcel was the craziest and most outré thing he’d ever done, and even that had him marveling in retrospect that it had really been him sandwiched between his hot, giant-dicked assistant and a keen, exquisitely buff soap-star cock-worshipper. His burgeoning hormones were bolder than he was, apparently; but he wasn’t ready to brazenly suck himself off in a cab while the driver watched hungrily in the rear-view just yet. Probably a good way to end up driving into a reservoir anyway, he thought, squeezing himself through his pants and feeling the building turgidity of his painfully swollen, half-hardened cock.
Danny was nervously gauging the feasibility of ducking behind a dark SUV in the far corner and taking care of his needs—better than crouching behind one of the smelly Dumpsters, he reckoned shakily—when the door opened behind him and Archer stepped out. He wasn’t alone, either, though Danny was a little surprised to see that his companion wasn’t Ted but Camilo. Maybe the other two had been paying attention to him and Archer even while they’d been sucking face; either that, or Ted’s story—and clearly he had some kind of story, some scuttlebutt about Danny’s dick despite the effort he’d made not to use urinals or let anyone see what he was packing in the courthouse restrooms—had gotten everyone’s attention, not just Archer’s.
“Where you headed, Danny?” Archer asked genially, moving toward him, a steely glint in those forbidding eyes. “I told you that I’d help.” Before Danny could react Archer had closed the distance between them and was bending to kiss him, and Danny was so horny that he just let him, surrendering to the moment.
Archer’s lips met his and Danny opened for him with a moan, barely registering Camilo’s hard body pressing gently against him from behind as his kissed Danny’s neck. “Why am I so turned on around you,” Camilo muttered near his ear as he stroked Danny’s ribs with both hands. “I’ve never been this hard for any girl.” By way of demonstration Camilo began rutting rhythmically against Danny’s ass, and Danny could indeed feel an extremely stiff and very wide erection—almost as wide as Danny’s—trapped at a perfect vertical behind Camilo’s fly. Danny smelled Camilo’s potent, savory cologne, which seemed to complement Archer’s subtler, spicier scent.
One of Camilo’s hands slid up under his suit jacket to grope lightly at Danny’s chest, even as Archer, still kissing Danny, found Danny’s hips with his hands and Danny’s crotch with his own. Archer was hard, too, his cock feeling long and lithe like Archer himself, and Danny was past caring about anything but his all-consuming need. He broke the kiss and looked pleadingly into those ice-blue eyes. “Help me get it free,” he murmured urgently.
Without hesitation, Archer dropped to his knees on the cold concrete in front of Danny, giving Danny’s crotch his full attention. Danny let him, sliding his fingers into Archer’s rakish mane, but his attention was drawn by Camilo, who put a hand to his cheek and guided him to twist his head around enough for Archer to kiss him. Camilo slid his tongue in deep, and Danny was tempted to do the same. He always held back, not wanting to shock people—even Ray and Marcel had only gotten a hint of it. But maybe the time for that was past. He was so horny these days, and so in need of cumming, and it was starting to look like he might be getting all kinds of help with that. He should do what he could to make sure things were interesting for them as well.
He felt his cock finally being released in stages from the confining jock straps he’d used to hold it back. It sprang free along Archer’s smooth face, and he heard Archer moan even as Camilo hummed ecstatically into their kiss. “God, Danny,” Archer said worshipfully, now purposefully sliding his face along the stiff, curved shaft. He heard the pull of a zipper—Archer releasing his own dick, like he couldn’t deny his own need to get off after seeing what Danny was packing. “Ted was right, you’re huge,” Archer crooned, low and reverent. Danny could feel his breath brushing along his shaft, making his scalp prickle with anticipation. “Where have you been hiding this monster? You must have the biggest dick in the country.”
Danny smiled into his kiss. He didn’t even have the biggest dick in his own law firm. Archer let his tongue out, giving Danny’s shaft a long, warm lick, and Danny grunted, deepening his kiss with Camilo as the sexy Spaniard simultaneously felt up Danny’s defined torso and humped his round, tight ass. Without wasting any more thought he let his tongue slide deeper into Camilo’s mouth, and deeper, and deeper. Camilo growled with pleasure and humped him harder.
A wave of arousal more intense than any of the others before it crashed over him. Danny broke free of the kiss and panted, “Archie! Please!” His tormenter got the message and began working in earnest to bring Danny to the monumental orgasm he craved. The moment a warm and zealous mouth wrapped around his wide cock-heard Danny rocketed to the edge of release. “Yeah! That’s it!” he coached. Hands wrapped around his base, and Danny, still with Camilo wrapped around him and pressed against him from neck to knee, was flooded with pleasure from all sides. Camilo kissed his neck on the other side as though sullying a fresh virgin just as Archer’s hot mouth sank deeper onto Danny’s too-thick, ruler-busting shaft, and Danny released a moan from some fathomless place far within him. His back arched and his plum-sized balls seemed tighten and swell at the same time.
Archer and Camilo moved faster, their movements seeming almost choreographed. Camilo found his own fly with one hand while continuing to molest Danny with the other, releasing his fat, stone-hard erection to press hotly against Danny’s crease. Archer moved avidly up and down on Danny’s cock, only able to take the top third or so but making up for it with his long-fingered hands as they jerked Danny’s cock together with firm, slick strokes, while his tongue moved deftly around Danny’s cockhead. “Guys,” he panted, breathless and desperate. “Guys, I’m close—”
Camilo rutted against him, using both hands again to pleasure Danny’s body, while Archer quickened his pace, twisting his hands on Danny’s impossibly hard shaft and taking his cock as far as he could into his hot, willing mouth. Danny let out a yell. “Fuck, yes! Guys, I’m gonna—!”
All at once Danny was exploding into full-blast orgasm, releasing torrents of cum into Archer. One hand pulled quickly off Danny’s dick as Archer stroked himself frantically while he jacked and mouth Danny into a sustained mega-orgasm, Danny’s hands still loosely thrust into Archer’s hair. Camilo was suddenly Danny, one hand around Danny’s waist while he pulled himself off too, and as he started cumming he grinned and bent in for a very sloppy kiss. They were both gasping, though, and Danny had to pull away throw his head back, still cumming like he had to show them how it was done. Archer couldn’t keep up with the volume of hot, bitter spunk Danny was putting out and pulled aside, letting his spray spatter loudly against the concrete behind him as Danny came over and over. Archer stood, and Danny, still cumming, luxuriated in the extreme pleasure of these two sexy men embracing him and slowly his torso and back and ass while his orgasm slowly tailed off, leaving him in a simple, floaty bliss.
Archer rose to his feet, looking smug and a little sweaty around the temples, and the three of them held each other close, taking comfort in the press of warm, hard masculine bodies, leg against leg and flank against flank, while a slow, cool breeze wafted around them, riffling a stray flyer for cut-price drinks on Thursday nights. Their mostly soft dicks hung from their flies as if they might be needed again at a moment’s notice. Danny turned to Archer as he felt up both his old friends under their jackets. Archer’s strong, slightly flared back felt especially nice, though it got him wondering briefly as his hands roamed across the taut fabric why he was wearing a shirt that seemed a size or two too small. Hadn’t he noticed the buttons straining across those swimmer’s pecs of his? he wondered muzzily. But he was too calmly euphoric for any thoughts to take hold in his sex-sozzled brain matter, and his questions slipped away as he fell into a dreamy, wide-mouthed kiss with Archer. Camilo’s hand, meanwhile, had slid down to Danny’s very nice ass, if he did say so himself. He seemed to be groping Archer’s ass with his other hand, too, and he was currently giving Archer’s neck the lips, tongue, and teeth treatment that had Danny’s own neck buzzing pleasantly. That was probably going to leave a bruise he’d have to explain, Danny thought. To a room full of gay lawyers. At the moment the idea of that kind of consequence to a moment like this seemed kind of funny and kind of hot, and he deepened the kiss with Archer, tasting his own thick, bitter spunk in Archer’s hot mouth as he let his inexplicably long tongue stretch deep into a kiss-partner’s mouth for only the second time he could remember. Archer grunted in happy surprise and turned the kiss more aggressive, a move Danny was happy to reciprocate as the three men writhed against each other. Danny was still pretty turned on, enough to go again if he wanted, and it occurred to him to wonder what Brock and Ted were up to. Maybe Archer and Camilo were just the first shift, he thought with amusement, and they were waiting to tag in. He could gear up again easily enough, but he was content to let these two men enjoy him and each other exactly like this.
They embraced like that under the amber sodium security light for a long time, kissing and caressing each other and pressing close, until at some point a guy in a J. Crew sweater and a shaggy mullet pushed out through the back door and caught sight of them, then averted his eyes and walked swiftly past as if they weren’t there, adjusting his bulge as he headed for a blue Mazda in the corner. Camilo had broken in on the kiss with Archer, leading to a some quality three-way smooching before Camilo stole him away, and now Camilo was chuckling into the kiss, while Archer smiled against Danny’s much-abused neck. “Maybe we should head inside,” Danny suggested.
“Remember to tuck in first,” Archer added.
“Or not,” Camilo said, his smile wicked as he pressed his forehead against Danny’s. He didn’t need to look to know Camilo was half hard at least; the Spaniard’s arousal seemed to seep through his warm skin and onto Danny’s.
With some reluctance they made themselves presentable and headed back into the bar. The crowd had thinned out some, judging by the noise drifting down the back hallway from the main room, and Danny decided to try the men’s room again, for its intended purpose this time. The others went on ahead back to the booth, Archer’s shoulders twitching uncomfortably in his too-small suit jacket. Dude needs to find a place that sells a proper athletic cut, Danny thought, watching him go with interest before ducking into the men’s room.
The stalls were occupied, but there was no line now and the furthest of the three urinals was free. Danny walked over to it and self-consciously started freeing the cock he had just been carefully putting away. As was opening his fly he realized that the man next to him, a handsome fortyish stockbroker type with a tropical tan and a few silver strands here and there in his coal-black hair, was watching him with what seemed like confused dismay. Danny turned his chin to stare back at him, wondering what was riling this guy. Did he smell like jizz? Was the jerk offended that he was wearing the colognes of two different guys? Then Danny saw the guy’s piss-stream tracking further and further up the back of the urinal as his long, skinny, uncut cock hardened and elevated like a construction crane. Danny’s glance downward drew Mr. Tan’s attention that way, and he gaped down in consternation. He quickly looked back at Danny in alarm. The piss-stream squeezed off, whether ended naturally or by conscious effort Danny couldn’t say, and then the cock was abruptly tucked away and Mr. Tan himself was gone, so instantly and completely he might as well have teleported out of there.
Danny blinked after him before shrugging in bemusement. He freed himself finally and let loose some of the potent potables he’d enjoyed over the course of the group’s excursion. It had been fun, but he wished he was already home. He smiled, thinking of Ray being there, and Marcel, too, if he wanted. His little bungalow had been just fine for him, but it seemed so natural to picture Ray there waiting for him, his pretty eyes filled with lusty, welcoming affection. His cock twitched as he emptied, and he quickly diverted his thoughts to a fallback litany of various stock unsexy things, like cable news pundits and rampaging capybaras. Thus distracted he was able to finish his business and stow himself away again.
Washing his hands at the sink he caught sight of himself in the mirror and froze, feeling an instant, overwhelming surge of sizzling-hot arousal at his own reflection. Fuck, no wonder that guy was cheezed, he teased himself. I’m hot as fuck! Manually shifting his tightly packed bulge as best he could he went to rejoin his friends, grinning in disbelief at himself for being such a horndog he’d managed to turn himself on.
Ray decided he liked Marcel’s apartment. Unlike his own place, a one-bedroom cookie-cutter apartment completely interchangeable with every other apartment-tower one-bedroom ever made, Marcel’s digs consisted of the top floor of a solid, four-story Victorian house in an older but still nice neighborhood. The house was painted a jaunty yellow and had a deep, shady porch Ray knew would be quite pleasant on a hot, sunny day. The apartment itself was reached by a run of narrow stairs with mushy carpeting and was sunny and compact. To Ray it smelled like rich, gourmet coffee, which he liked a lot. There was a coffee shop downtown he ducked into sometimes just to steep himself in the aromas for a bit, and Marcel’s place reminded him of it.
He followed Marcel into the living room and at his gesture dropped gratefully onto the futon-couch abutting a wide, watermelon-tinted wall. After an hour or two of sexy hijinks at the office Marcel had decided to repay him for their night of wanton abandon with a tour of the studios where his soap was shot; apparently he could get into the place despite the production being down for the holidays, though Ray didn’t know if his access involved a well-aimed wink at the security guard they passed (clearly a fan of Marcel’s) or was more routine. Marcel had been sure to show him the judge’s chambers, and had seemed as tempted as Ray was to bend it once again to certain nonjudicial uses, but they managed to keep their pants on and continue the impromptu tour. This turned into a long walk through the city center as Marcel talked about his experiences as an alien and an actor, and Ray told stories about crazy clients and the most bizarre lawsuits he’d been a part of. He even mentioned Madam Sofia, hinting that he had reason to believe she was the real deal without going into why—though, as he told Marcel about her bright fuchsia hair (striped with lemon) and her twin pocketbook dogs and her demands that all her legal filings be in italics, it occurred to him that even someone who seemed crazy but turned out to have genuine supernatural talent (or, at least, genuine supernatural connections) might still, in the end, be nuttier than a pecan pie.
Dinner at a cozy Thai restaurant was followed by more walking that had landed them back at Marcel’s, and while Ray was happy to get off his feet and maybe do a little midnight necking with his cock’s most ardent fan he couldn’t help thinking about poor Danny, stuck socializing with his alumni buddies when he probably would rather have joined them on their pedestrian jaunt through the studios and around the city. Ray had texted him a few times to check up on him and learned that he’d been unable to get away this year after the brunch, meaning he was likely doomed to be dragged through all the day’s events this time. He remembered Danny’s newly enhanced libido and smiled, wondering how he was going to get through it.
Speaking of libidos, Ray was feeling a resurgence of need himself. He watched Marcel’s round, pert ass receding into the kitchen as he went to make them a pot of tea and felt his blood running fast and hot, and his comically oversized dick weighing heavily in his groin.
To distract himself he looked around Marcel’s living room. For all Marcel was an up-and-coming TV star his flat definitely belonged to someone at the “struggling newcomer” stage rather than the “made it big” stage. Large framed posters of classic noir movies hung on several of the walls, and one of the corners held a bookcase packed with vinyl LPs, a midline phonograph standing on a small end-table nearby. There was no flatscreen that Ray could see, though there might be one mounted in the bedroom instead, or Marcel might stream everything on his phone or laptop; but it amused Ray to think that Marcel wasn’t interested in watching TV despite being one of the people employed in the business of giving other people something to watch. Some sausage-makers know better than to actually eat the stuff, he thought, amused.
He got up and walked over to Marcel’s record collection, glancing curiously over the spines. Blues, jazz, some artists he didn’t recognize. Some were genuine vintage LPs in scuffed outer sleeves, others looked like pristine, glossy reissues. He was standing there, wondering about the measurability of how much was lost transferring sound to vinyl compared to digital when he had a sudden, strange sensation, like a wall of stiff but porous membranes pushing through him hard, and he shivered, hard, and had to blink several times to clear his vision.
“Fuck, look at you,” Marcel said with raw appreciation from behind him. Ray looked over his shoulder to see Marcel standing in the kitchen doorway, drinking him in hungrily.
“I don’t know what’s sexier,” Marcel said, raking his eyes over Ray from top to bottom, “your body or your giant cock. Oh, wait,” he added with a wink, “never mind.” Marcel smiled licentiously and turned back to the kitchen just as the kettle started whistling.
Ray stared after him in bemusement. He knew Marcel loved his huge, luscious, insatiable dick, but his body wasn’t all that…
He looked down and gasped silently.
Somewhere in the last few moments, between one second and the next, Ray’s body had completely changed. The skinny, picked-last-for-sports body he was used to was gone. Instead, Ray beheld a hard, slate-carved physique that looked like his own wet dream—in fact, staring at the delicious, Olympic-gymnast proportions of his shoulders, arms, chest, abs, thighs, and calves, he had a feeling that with a little time in front of a mirror he could probably nail down exactly which muscly, lickable wet dream his body had suddenly been molded to resemble.
Even his clothes had changed. His go-to casual outfit was a long-sleeved tee or button-down with loose pants, but all at once that look was gone, and instead he was wearing his lone, sky-blue tank-top and a pair of jeans that, while not skin-tight, did not hide the perfection of his thighs any more than they did his ridiculously large bulge—a bulge that was definitely straining from Ray’s flushed reaction to his own instantly bulging and crazy-beautiful bod.
And it wasn’t just that he had become suddenly, thirst-trap-level hot. He felt remade. Where before he had been pleasantly fatigued from their outing, suddenly Ray felt tireless, like this body came not only with strength and endurance but limitless stamina as well.
His hand shaking slightly, he pulled out his phone and double-checked the time, already knowing what he’d see. Just after twelve. It was the book, of course. Obviously, the resolutions he’d made to spice up Danny’s life had unexpectedly come back hit him as well—again. But… how?
He closed his eyes and tried ignoring the feeling of power and vitality coursing through his muscles and the rush of arousal making his dick struggle against its tight, compressed prison, instead trying to conjure the resolutions he’d made so far.
The one about the dick-growing sweetener had been the resolution that had affected Ray as well as Danny, and after a day or two coming back to it in his mind a few times he was sure it was all down to phrasing. Most of the resolutions involved things that would start happening in the new year, like the ones about Danny’s libido and cum production. But the dick-growing resolution, as Ray had written it, made a statement about the KiSweet that was true, past, present, and future; the change was that Danny recognized it. Since the resolution had been about the nature of the KiSweet, it had also affected Ray as well (and everyone else who used it). Danny would not have noticed, the fine print Ray had read specifying that only Ray would be aware of all the changes—except that, uniquely, the wording of the dick-growing resolution in particular had explicitly made Danny aware of the effects and what had caused it.
He fought to remember the phrasing of the muscle-growth resolution as his intense arousal tried to temporarily nullify his capacity for reason. Too bad he’d ended up leaving the book at the office again. What the fuck had he written? Something about how Danny’s cum lets people grow their muscles. If they want. Ray grinned, opening his eyes and looking down at himself again. Evidently, Ray had wanted.
Clearly, this resolution had ended up being a “Danny’s cum does this” all-time absolute instead of a “from now on Danny’s cum will do this” projection. Danny’s cum now had always instilled an ability to grow muscle… and the night after the dinner party Ray had swallowed and otherwise partaken a lot of Danny’s cum. Ray was now in a timeline in which he had made himself an extremely awesome muscle-bod yesterday, just as he had awoken the day before in a timeline in which he had, over several months, slowly accreted a 16-inch monster cock. Because he was the only one aware of the resolutions, he was the only one who would even know what had happened. If he had this right, that meant that everyone else who got a cum injection from Danny would give themselves muscles and not even be realize what they’d done. Maybe. He’d need to follow up on that for sure. Line up a few volunteers, he thought dryly.
What was he missing? Was anything else going to be boomeranging back on him? He thought about the other resolutions: about guys getting turned on by Danny and tending to snuggle and make out around him. Oh, and Danny’s tongue. He was pretty sure those were all “from now on” resolutions that only affected Danny himself—and, of course, any guys in his immediate proximity. That was going to be fun to watch at the conference.
Ray was going to need to buy new clothes.
Wait. Wait. He went back to the wording of the resolution, as best he could remember it. Danny’s cum makes guys able to grow muscle if they want to. Able to grow muscle, if they want. Was that—was it just once?
He stared down at his pecs, the straps of his tank top laying across their upper curves as if to highlight their symmetry, and willed them to expand just the slightest bit.
And they did.
Holy fuck! He could grow his muscles!! His dick jerked and bucked at its restraints like an enraged bull trying to bust out of its pen at a rodeo. He was so turned on he thought he might black out. Fuck, what had he done—?
“The tea is ready! Do you want milk in yours?”
Ray swiveled wide-eyed to face him. Marcel met his gaze and was instantly concerned. He set down the mugs on the coffee table, coming over to him. “What’s wrong, Ray?” he asked, rubbing his hands comfortingly along Ray’s newly impressive upper arms. Marcel himself seemed unchanged—perhaps he had not “wanted” the muscle growth. His soap-star personal-trainer body was already perfect, after all, and his face… for a moment Ray was lost in his exquisitely handsome features, the man’s classic Gallic beauty achingly framed by fresh stubble and messy, end-of-day hair that drove Ray wild.
“I’m sorry about the tea,” Ray rasped.
Marcel had just enough time to draw his brows together in confusion before Ray pounced, engulfing Marcel in a kiss that lasted long enough for Ray to shuck his pants and underwear as quickly and as violently as possible. The second his dick was free he was pressing it hard between them, practically stabbing Marcel in the chest as he held him close and kissed him ravenously.
He broke free, panting, and gasped, “I need to cum. Now. And that’s just for starters.”
Marcel beamed at him, half innocent, half rake. Ray found his gaze steadying and alluring all at once. “Oh, cher, you will cum,” Marcel said. “As many times as you need.” His lust-darkened hazel eyes danced as he added with a grin, “I swear it.” Ray grinned too and dove in for another kiss, knowing that Marcel was the kind of man who always kept his promises.
It was only on arriving at the airport that Ray realized he’d forgotten one small detail when he’d invited Marcel along for the “gay conference”.
It wasn’t that Blake was glaring hatefully at him from his spot five seats down from him and Marcel in the opposite bank of airport gate-area uncomfortable chairs. If anything, Blake was ignoring him. But he was ignoring Ray so intensely and so venomously Ray was surprised the paperback he was pretending to read hadn’t burst into flame.
He looked like he had gotten over his momentary recourse to Absolut therapy, at least. His rosy skin looked smooth and healthy, his neatly trimmed platinum hair was perfectly coiffed, and he’d clearly given more thought to his ensemble than the frumpy post-holiday masses clogging the whale-wide passages and moving walkways. It did look good on him, Ray had to admit: said outfit including a blindingly white button-down shirt, opened low enough to show his artfully sculpted cleavage, with a thick smooth weave that teased you into thinking he was wearing a light jacket over a bare chest; richly-colored cobalt-blue trousers with sharp creases and pert little cuffs; and svelte white athletic shoes so pristine it was hard to imagine Blake actually wearing them out in the real world. Ray thought the man had never looked so preppy. When he’d first arrived, shortly after Ray and Marcel had, Ray had had to hold himself back from whispering to Marcel something bitchy about Blake thinking they were traveling to Austin by yacht.
Now, with nothing better to do until Danny got there, Ray let himself stare at Blake, knowing it was bugging the paralegal not to respond. He knew if he were honest with himself he was more than a little conflicted when it came to Blake. His default setting was defiant self-assertion, which was grating enough most of the time that Ray was grateful he reported to Danny and Blake wanted nothing to do with him. Usually, though, he projected a confident, unadorned smugness that was easy to ignore. This prickly demeanor was a recent development, and Ray couldn’t help but be aware of the extent to which he was the author of Blake’s discomfort. Literally the author, in fact, when it came to the fact that Blake, whose hefty tool, he guessed, had always been a go-to ego boost, was now surrounded by coworkers with huge, ruler-busting monster wangs. And it sure wasn’t Blake’s fault that his hot trophy boyfriend was such a committed size queen that their separation on meeting the transformed Ray and Danny was almost a foregone conclusion. Sure, Marcel’s jumping ship for the S.S. Sixteen Inches was probably as much about Blake’s attitude and preening as it was about Ray’s oversized junk; but the fact remained that Ray had outright stolen Blake’s boyfriend right in front of him and then acted like Blake deserved it for being a stuck-up pretty boy… all because Ray had had used a magical book to inadvertently give himself a cock so big his mouth was already used its texture and taste.
He turned to look at Marcel, sitting in the next seat to his left in the otherwise empty waiting area. His beauty was a little less… staged than Blake’s, though it was still deliberate: his Gallic skin, for one thing, was very well taken care of, and the fitted coral-red tee shirt, distressed jeans, and boat shoes he was wearing were as carefully chosen as Blake’s, if not quite as flashy. His loose, dark hair looked casual and un-fussed-over, but Ray knew better, having watched his new lover primp and cajole his hair into just the right shape that morning with a mix of awe and amusement. Marcel was on his phone, flicking through a news feed, and with his eyes down Ray could see the subtle swipe of guy-liner he’d watched him apply, an accent he suspected few noticed who weren’t looking for it. He sure hadn’t, before today.
Marcel felt Ray’s eyes on him and looked up. Ray smiled at him, but then his mouth scrunched to the left. When Marcel lifted an eyebrow in enquiry, Ray tipped his head back and to the side slightly, in Blake’s direction. I feel bad, he told Marcel without speaking.
Marcel gave him a soft smile that managed to both convey his affection and tell Ray he was being silly, all at the same time. It was my choice, he seemed to say.
Ray felt himself melt a little as he fell into those clear, hazel eyes. Marcel’s smile turned suggestive, and heat crept up the back of Ray’s neck. His carefully-stowed cock swelled a little, testing its restraints, and he let out a ragged, impatient breath. “I’m glad we’re not flying commercial,” he confided in a whisper.
Danny had texted him that morning with some unexpected news: he’d managed to cadge a private jet to Austin thanks to his college buddy Archer. This had been a huge relief to Ray, who hadn’t been relishing the prospect of being stuck in a business-class seat trying to hide a giant hard-on under one of those miniature pillows they give you on commercial airliners. And he had no doubt there would be hard-ons, what with being crammed in between Danny and Marcel on either side of him the whole way. After getting the details from Danny he’d quickly leveraged Danny’s platinum-class airline membership to convert their four commercial tickets into vouchers against future flights, and now here they were, in the waiting area for the remote gates reserved for private fights, knowing that now, if he boned up en route, at least everyone on the flight would already be in the know about just how much cock Ray was packing. Of course, it would be pretty gauche to whip his pillar out and let Marcel go to town on it right there in the cabin—Ray knew he would be pretty pissed about that, if their positions were reversed. Maybe swanky corporate jets had bathrooms big enough to fuck in, or something. He could only hope.
Suddenly Marcel looked past him and lifted both of his thick, dark brows. “Who’s that?” he murmured approvingly.
Surprised, Ray turned to see, feeling his own eyebrows slide up his forehead as he caught sight of the group of five singularly impressive men strolling toward them like a male-supermodel version of the cocky power-walk from The Right Stuff. They all had shoulder-bags or satchels or gym bags with them, prompting Ray to wonder: Were they coming with them?
Ray was soon distracted from rational thought, however, by the collective hotness of the group headed their way. Every one of them was exceptionally and distinctively attractive, from the tall, cocky hunk with the blue eyes and shoulder-kissing dark-blond mane and the fit, middle-aged, dark-skinned dad to the broad-shouldered, smiling, strong-as-a-steer country boy and the stubbly, hard-muscled, insanely hot Latino sex god. And amidst them all, a step ahead like he was effortlessly collecting an entourage as he moved through the airport like a magnet collected iron filings, was his own handsome but unassuming boss, Danny Louden, Esq., his firm jaw, green eyes, floppy hair, and the tight body hinted at by his loose pants and soft-collared brick-red polo looking not at all out of place among all these brawny, beautiful, sex-radiating specimens of ultimate manhood.
For a moment, Ray’s perceptions blurred so that it actually seemed like the five men were walking toward them in slow motion, and he forgot about everything but the spectacle of Danny and his unexpected posse. “Holy…” he heard himself whisper.
“Indeed,” Marcel concurred.
Weirdly, the effect of the group’s hotness seemed to intensify the closer the men got. As they entered the cul-de-sac boarding area where their private-flight gates were Ray suddenly realized with a rush of heat that all four of Danny’s friends were rocking hefty erections as poorly hidden by their high-end casual outfits as their bulging shoulders, thick arms, hefty pecs, and thick, powerful legs. The lush-haired blond with the perfectly-planed face had on a thick deep-lemon v-neck tee that clung to his aesthetically ideal muscles like a second skin; his dark-olive chinos encased not only long, elegantly sculpted swimmer’s legs but, like a prize for the observant, a long tube-like bulge that angled straight toward his left pants pocket, as though to tease onlookers with the possibility of reaching in for a feel. The sexy-cute cornfed farmboy wore an open light-green button-down over a white undershirt, and both were straining so hard at the shoulders and upper arms Ray wanted to see him do a double-bi just to put that fabric to the test; his black jeans hugged his round thighs and did nothing to hide an average-length, club-like lump reaching almost straight up just to the right of his bulging zipper. Though not as ripped as the others, Ray could tell the dark-skinned dad was extremely fit even despite the thin navy blazer and tailored lilac Oxford, and the way his loose-cut dark-blue trousers shifted as he walked baldly hinted at a curved kielbasa of a hard-on. And the Latino sex-god’s elaborately-patterned shirt, featuring large gold-and-black dragons wrapping around his delicious torso against a starry cobalt background and open to his mid-chest, seemed designed to heighten sculpted, honey-dark, hair-dusted proportions so inviting they made Ray’s hands itch. The bulge in his worn, relaxed-fit jeans made by his raging erection was massive and unapologetic.
That’s when Ray noticed they were all looking at him, their handsome faces registering interest and curiosity over the simmering lust they’d already projected. Had Danny mentioned him to them? What had he said? Ray glanced at Danny at the center of the group, taking in his hot boss as he smiled and waved at Ray.
Abruptly, like he’d swallowed a pill that produced instant results, Ray’s level of arousal jumped hard from a low purr to sudden redline. All at once he felt flushed and hot, but the pleasant nature of this sensation was quickly submerged by urgent discomfort in his groin, as his massive cock fought to get hard and tried to bend itself in half against the constraining fabric.
He leapt to his feet, Marcel rising with him, wide-eyed and pink cheeked. Ray had just enough time to see Danny register surprise at Ray’s alarmed reaction before he spun to put his back to the newcomers and the rest of the terminal. Shoving both hands into his pants, Ray struggled to straighten his enormous dick before it fucking broke off. Marcel had turned with him and was doing likewise, using one hand to straighten his own hefty prick to lie along his hip. “I’m glad it wasn’t just me,” Marcel murmured, eyeing Ray’s efforts with amusement.
Ray grunted, finally managing to free his dick from his clingy boxer-briefs and manhandle it into a straight-up vertical position. He stared down at it as it stood there tapping eagerly at his chest, radiant with heat and hungry for mouths and hands and every kind of stimulation. With a shudder of need Ray managed to pull his heavy tee shirt over it, though not before looking up and noticing a slack-jawed airport worker in gray coveralls not twenty feet away gaping at him through the window from the tarmac outside. He seemed to be reaching for a pocket, too, like he might pull out his phone and start taking pictures. Ray gave him the finger and the guy shut his mouth and scurried off.
He glanced over at Marcel, who smirked and shook his head at the obvious cock-pillar thumping his shirt, a glint in his pretty eyes. Ray sighed. The shirt he was wearing was Marcel’s, which should have made it baggy on him given their height difference; but with his recent increase in beautiful brawn and the 16-inch super-thick iron-hard pole he was hauling around, even a size-large heavyweight dark-brown tee with the cursive legend “I eat pain for breakfast” couldn’t do much to mask his current state of extreme and literally towering arousal. He wanted to suck himself so bad, too, preferably with Marcel’s help. And even Blake’s. And Danny and his smoking-hot hunk-retinue. Just the thought of all those mouths and hands made him surge perilously close to the edge, and it sucked that he couldn’t do any of what he was thinking. Not here, anyway.
Marcel was grinning knowingly at him now, irrepressible as always. Ray growled low in his throat, exasperated by his self-engineered predicament and Marcel’s enjoyment of it. He couldn’t resist diving in for quick, deep kiss, though, which was happily reciprocated. Then he turned Marcel by the shoulders to face Danny and his friends just as they rolled up in front of them, positioning himself a little behind his lover like a pregnant actress hiding behind the back of a chair. It wasn’t much cover, and obviously Danny and his friends would still be able to see everything, but he could at least try to stave off a public commotion until they took off.
“Hey, Danny,” he said in rasp, meeting his boss’s gaze. His chagrin faded as Danny’s lusty green eyes seemed to dose him with even more intense arousal. His hand was still on Marcel’s well-defined shoulder as he stood behind him, and the heavy infusion of libidinous craving made him squeeze hard against Marcel’s nicely rounded delts. He sensed Marcel feeling exactly the same, and it was only now that Ray belatedly remembered what he’d written in the resolutions book.
“From now on I will always,” the prompt had read, and in the following blank Ray had innocently written the potent reality alteration he, Marcel, and Danny’s friends were now experiencing: TURN GUYS ON. The apparent and unexpected strength of those three little words surprised him, though—it was as if he had written “AND HOW!” after them.
“Afternoon, Ray,” Danny responded with transparent casualness, his green eyes alight. As was apparently their longstanding ritual he kept them on Ray’s face despite the elephant-trunk in the room, i.e., Ray’s rigid, aching, fever-hot, and very insufficiently-shielded erection. After a moment Danny turned his fond look on Marcel. “Afternoon, Marcel,” he said, in the way you greeted someone who should be only an acquaintance but the taste of whose jizz you are intimately familiar with.
Danny then glanced to the right with a crooked smile. “Afternoon, Blake,” he added. “Ready to go?”
Ray turned his head to see Blake staring at Danny slack-jawed, eyes alight, book forgotten. He was shoving surreptitiously at something in his lap with the heel of his free hand, though it was unclear whether he was aware he was doing it. After second or two of lag time Blake fluttered his eyes and seemed to come back online. “Ready, boss,” he responded, hand now pressing into his lap. Then his eyes seemed to heat and he added, “Very ready.”
Ray narrowed his eyes at Blake. He didn’t want to share Danny—at least, not with Blake. So why did he want to run his hands affectionally over Blake’s tall, tight body and mash their lips playfully together? He reeled a little inside—that made no sense. And yet the desire was there, to cuddle close and casually make out with the haughty but handsome paralegal, defusing all the latent tension between them and…
Shit… and make things more pleasant. By making out.
The other new resolution.
Blake’s bright blue eyes met his just then, and if the way they dropped a moment later to Ray’s mouth was any indication, he was feeling exactly the same imperative. The confusion line between his platinum brows told him the impulse was just as unexpected on Blake’s end. Ray deliberately turned away and squeezed Marcel’s shoulder again instead, leaning forward to kiss the side of his neck for good measure.
“So, introductions,” Danny said, gesturing for Blake to join them, which he did with some reluctance, awkwardly holding his hand in front of his crotch. “Guys,” Danny went on, gesturing to them, “this is my paralegal Blake, my legal secretary Ray, and their friend Marcel.” Ray suppressed a smirk. Tactful, Danny. “Boys, these are my alumni friends, Archer, Brock, uh—” He paused, noticing for the first time that the remaining two friends were kissing passionately. “—Ted, and Cam,” he finished, leaning into their names pointedly to get them to come up for air. They did, unabashed and smiling. Danny shook his head slightly in bemusement and turned back to Ray, Marcel, and Blake, whose hand had inexplicably found the small of Ray’s back. Ray was so turned on he didn’t even mind that it was Blake—if anything, he kind of wished the hand would move lower.
Maybe if he made his ass just a little thicker it would draw Blake’s hand downward, cupping his hard, round, attention-hungry glutes…
No. Shit, no. Just because he was the only one who knew he had full control over his muscles now didn’t mean he should just randomly grow and shrink himself. He looked over the four men shrewdly, looking for clues. Three of them were impressively built, and while Archer might have sculpted himself a body like that—he seemed like the kind of guy who always worked hard to look good and stay strong—he had a hunch that farmboy Brock and Latino sex-god Cam were a good ten or twenty pounds brawnier today than they were yesterday, without even knowing it, while Ted, like Marcel, had probably tightened himself up unconsciously without feeling a need to grow himself. Ray wondered just what Danny had gotten up to with his alumni buddies, and in how many different combinations and venues as the night and morning progressed.
“Archer’s the one who’s graciously loaning us the use of his jet for our trip to Austin,” Danny was saying.
Ah. Ray smiled up at Archer. “Thank you,” he said, meaning it. “I’m more grateful than you know, believe me.”
Archer’s light blue eyes twinkled. “I can imagine,” he said, dropping his gaze to the head of Ray’s giant cock, which from his perspective was just visible over Marcel’s shoulder. He then pulled out his phone, though his gaze lingered on Ray’s equipment for a moment before he finally looked down at his screen.
“Are all of you going to Austin with us?” Marcel asked.
“Absolutely,” Ted said easily. Ray was a little surprised by this. They were all lawyers, and probably very busy lawyers. Were they all fallow so close to the New Year’s holiday? Or had they pushed their various schedules and hearings back just for the privilege of staying close to Danny for a couple of days and letting him make them rock hard and insatiably randy the whole time they were with him?
“We decided we’re not done with ol’ Danny just yet,” Brock chipped in, flashing a brilliant smile and throwing a long, haybale-hefting arm around Ted’s shoulders. No sooner had they looked at each other than the two of them were making out, as if that was just what you did around Danny. Which it was, thanks to Ray.
Almost unwillingly, Ray turned his head to look at Blake. Blake was staring down at him, his full, pink lips curved in an unconscious smile as his hand stroked Ray’s lower back with firm, minute strokes. It’s just a kiss, something in him urged. Kissing when Danny’s around is a good thing…
“Captain says the jet’s ready,” Archer announced just then—very opportunely, Ray thought. “ETD thirty minutes.”
Danny shouldered his bag, glancing around at his unwittingly assembled harem with a smile. “Shall we?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked with Archer toward the glass doors that led out onto the tarmac. Marcel and Ray grabbed their bags and followed, the others trailing behind them, a veritable parade of masculine strength, lust, and arousal.
As Ray passed through the doors into the cool afternoon air, he thought, This is going to be one hell of a trip.
Ray and Marcel held hands as they strode across the tarmac to Archer’s private jet, and Ray decided not to wonder whether it was primarily the result of Danny’s male-intimacy penumbra or their growing mutual affection. He knew how he felt about Marcel, and that, unlike his newly ripped physique or his impulse to snog his in-office nemesis, was something he could be sure hadn’t changed since yesterday.
He noticed Cam was keeping step with them, the chilly January breeze ruffling his half-open dragon-themed shirt. He was grinning at Ray—and, more particularly, at the poorly-hidden indomitable erection under his borrowed shirt. Ray smiled back at him, feeling the same powerful urge to make out with him he’d felt when he’d been standing with Blake before. Ray didn’t mind too much—Cam looked like he was probably a talented kisser.
“Okay, I gotta ask,” Cam said, leaning close, his smooth, baritone voice amping up Ray’s febrile desire to introduce their tongues to each other. Nodding toward Ray’s giant cock, Cam continued, “Is there something in the water at your office, or what?”
Ray barked a laugh. “Not in the water exactly,” he admitted. As Cam’s expression he asked, “Ever hear of KiSweet?”
Cam looked incredulous. “That’s an urban legend!” he scoffed.
Ray bit his lips together and shook his head.
“No way!” Cam said. He pondered this a moment, then grinned. “Got any more of that stuff?”
Ray nodded his chin toward the massive shape pushing out one side of Cam’s distressed jeans. “I don’t think you need you need it, dude,” he commented.
Cam grinned. “Oh, it wouldn’t be for me,” he said. “A couple of the guys at the D.A.’s office, though…” He trailed off, then looked ahead to where Danny was just now reaching the parked airplane. “All my life, I don’t know how I never realized how insanely hot a hard cock was,” he said, an undercurrent of wonder in his voice. “I guess I never saw one that was big enough before to really catch my interest!”
Marcel leaned into speak into Ray’s other ear. “And that is how size queens are born,” he laughed.
Ray turned to him with a smile. “You should know!”
Their transport turned out to be not the small puddle-jumper type he’d expected but a mid-sized Gulfstream twin-engine wide-fuselage cabin jet that, from the looks of it, could probably take then to Acapulco or Oahu as easily as Austin. Ray whistled internally as he took it in and mentally revised Archer’s financial stratum upward. As they climbed the steps and entered the cabin, Ray saw that the light gray and white interior was divided into two sections: a set of very comfy-looking seats, two facing two with two more across the aisle, and beyond that a long couch on one side and another pair of seats facing each other opposite. Ray looked at the couch longingly—it barely took any imaginative effort to picture himself lounging naked and hard on that couch with Marcel, Cam, Blake, and who knew who else going to town on his cock, his mouth and every other part of him.
Geez, he needed to cum. He really, really needed to cum.
Danny and Archer were talking to the captain and co-pilot, who looked weirdly like a suburban husband and wife who’d decided to cosplay the movie Airplane! for their latest date night. Archer’s eyes snagged on Ray’s chest-high erection as they passed, but said only, “Have a seat anywhere! We’ll be taking off shortly.”
Ray and Marcel moved aft, near the couch. Marcel offered to take Ray’s bag and stow it with his against the aft bulkhead. Ray handed him his bag, then turned—and found himself face to face with Blake.
He’s so turned on right now, Ray thought, taking in his pink cheeks and dilated pupils. He found his eyes falling to Blake’s lips again, but he forced them back up to the taller man’s lust-dark eyes. He barely noticed as Blake rested his hands on Ray’s hips, and Ray did the same.
“I want to…” Blake said, then faltered. He closed his eyes, then continued. “I want to apologize for the mean things I’ve said about you.”
Ray blinked at him, surprised. He wanted to make a catty remark, like, “Which time?” But something in him needed to deconstruct their mutual antagonism, box it up, and put it away. With a pang of unexpected contrition, he said only, “Likewise.”
Catching motion behind Blake in his peripheral vision, Ray looked past Blake’s square, tennis-pro shoulders to see Cam, Ted, and Brock engaged in a three-way make-out session. Hot. Ray’s aching cock surged and tried to get even harder.
Blake shifted closer, wanting Ray’s attention. His chest and abs brushed against Ray’s monster erection through their clothes, and Ray bit back a moan as he met Blake’s gaze again. Their hips moved closer too, almost automatically, and Ray felt the press of Blake’s fat ten-incher against his waist.
Blake licked his lips. “I want to bury the hatchet between us,” he said, sounding only slightly unsure as to why he might want such a thing. His eyes dropped briefly to Ray’s lips and then back up.
Just then, Ray felt Marcel’s encouraging hand on Ray’s shoulder. Knowing Blake was currently under the influence of Danny’s sex-nimbus, however, Ray thought it was only fair to remind Blake of one of the chief reasons he didn’t like Ray lately (the other, of course, being the throbbing flesh-tower they currently had gently pressed between them). Clearing his throat, he said, “Marcel and I—”
Blake cut him off. “Just…” He closed his eyes for just a second, as if letting go of something, then looked past Ray at the man standing behind him. “Just make sure he’s happy and stuff,” he finished with a quirk of his lips, turning his needy gaze back to Ray as he did so.
“I promise,” Ray said with a crooked smile, conscious despite his jesting tone of a vow being made to both Blake and Marcel. Marcel stroked his shoulder and kissed his neck, just as Ray had done back in the lounge. Blake, for his part, was staring hard into Ray’s eyes, as if only peripherally conscious of Marcel and his couple-ness with Ray. Blake had stated his injunction almost distractedly, too, as if smoothing things out between them was so much more important in this moment than his failed relationship with Marcel. Ray, with the part of his rational brain that was still working, registered again how the effects of his latest resolutions seemed way more potent than he would have expected. He’d have to try to get to the bottom of these “and how” intensifications… later.
Blake smiled, even as Marcel moved closer, pressing his own boner against Ray’s perfect ass and caressing his bulging shoulders and upper arms. Talk time over, Ray’s lizard brain announced. “So,” Ray said, smiling saucily up at Blake, “we good?”
Barely a moment later Ray and Blake were making out, deeply and passionately, like that was completely normal for them. We are very good, Ray thought, even as Marcel pressed closer behind him and began mouthing hotly along Ray’s sensitive neck. Ray released all his concerns and anxieties, including whether the detente with Blake would stick. Such worries were immaterial. Just then, for Ray, the present had wholly swallowed up the future as well as the past, and all that mattered was the unbridled pleasure only a planeful of hot and horny guys could provide.
Though he’d gathered a few hints somewhere in the course of the evening’s events that Archer had managed to wangle a suite at their hotel for their last-minute trip to Austin, it was now well past midnight and Danny’s new friends showed no sign of leaving the large, well-appointed adjoining doubles Ray had originally booked for himself, Danny, and Blake oh those many moons ago, before a strange little book had changed his boss’s life and that of everyone around him. At least the maddening need that had suffused them all on the plane and which, if anything, had escalated on the move from private jet to hotel suite seemed finally to have relaxed a few alert levels. From where he stood by the balcony door, Ray, still hard and ready for more, felt like a general looking out over a battlefield after a momentous fight; except instead of corpses the beds were littered with naked muscular men languorously kissing and cuddling each other, and instead of blood everyone was covered in unreal quantities of cum (most of it Danny’s), Ray included.
Most of the beds were occupied by couples enjoying the heady pleasures of mutual afterglow, but the pairings (and triplings) had been almost random and constantly shifting all night, like each round of sexual congress had been a gear in a larger meta-dynamic—as though all eight of them had been making love together as a single, Danny-powered organism, creating pleasure in every conceivable pattern amongst them. Still, he kind of liked the couplings they now found themselves in, and hoped the fact that they were winding down in these patterns would persist. In the nearest bed, slick, unflappable, supremely sculpted Archer was lying under Blake, who now nearly matched him in elegantly carved brawn. They were alternating kissing with murmured conversation, their gazes boring into each other. Ray wasn’t sure if he was watching a coming together of mentor and protégé, or an idealized man meeting his younger equal, but he was fascinated and inclined to ship these two just to see where such a connection would take the two men.
Beyond them, in the further bed, Cam and Ted were making out sloppily. Unsurprisingly, newly-minted size-hound Cam had spent most of the time on the plane and in the hotel with either Ray or Danny—Ray could still feel the shape and heat of Cam’s impressive tool in his ass from their last round of fucking—but it turned out Cam was also a connoisseur of expert sensual kissing, and between fucks tended to gravitate to Ted, whom Ray agreed was easily the best kisser out of all of them.
Ray turned and padded over to the open connecting door, his seemingly indefatigable hardon swiping across his suddenly Insta-worthy pecs as he moved like an obscene metronome. In the next room, in a queen-sized bed so mussed from energetic play it looked like flotsam from a shipwreck, Marcel lay dozing atop the hugely muscled form of Brock, the latter stroking his back slowly with a sweet smile on his lips, his big cock twitching and flopping down below despite the big guy being almost asleep himself. Ray couldn’t quite believe how huge the boyishly cornfed patent attorney had gotten—and all over, too, not just the pecs and shoulders like Ray had done at first. He was more uniformly proportionate now. In fact he’d taken some time during a lull and consciously modeled himself on Archer’s carefully planned physique, though he’d deliberately held back from the full fitness-supermodel level of sculpted swole that Archer—and now Blake—had achieved. (He still wasn’t sure if Archer had grown himself at all, or if he’d already looked like that before. He’d have to cyberstalk him for before pictures.)
Brock, meanwhile, had been unconsciously growing himself like crazy all night, finally plateauing at a nearly-Hulk level of completely ripped, zero-fat swole, and Ray was honestly half-amused and half-alarmed at the morning-after prospect of Brock’s perplexity at not fitting into any of his own clothes. He knew the magic behind the resolutions was self-protecting, but the built-in unawareness imbued in everyone but him could only go so far, surely. It might be up to Ray to talk Brock into shrinking himself. Would he have to tell him the truth? Would he believe him? Was this the kind of scenario that conjured Ravenfinder wizards or MIBs from the “oversight authorities” so ominously mentioned in the disclaimer? Ray was half-scared and half-curious. Maybe it was a good thing Brock had pushed the boundaries of plausibility, if he got to find out what happened next in cases like this.
He looked to the side and saw Danny lounging happily in one of the chairs by the window in the second room, swigging from a bottle of water, thick-stubbled and tousled in a way that made Ray’s hard-on flex with appreciation. Like Ray he was covered in Danny’s own cum, and like Ray Danny sported a red-tinged, mega-sized boner that showed no sign of flagging. His lay against his torso as he half-reclined in his chair, its gentle curve making its impressive thickness look like a bending road that sloped away from Danny’s crotch as if toward parts unknown.
That Danny was still hard and ready for more was not too surprising: increasing Danny’s need to cum and the amount he came each time had, after all, been Ray’s first two resolutions. What he didn’t quite get was why Ray himself was apparently just as tireless. The only thing he could figure was that the increased orgasms and increased semen reality-changes had been tied to the KiSweet as a by-product of the increased cock size, as the most efficient means of implementing all three resolutions. He wasn’t sure if he bought that, but it was an indisputable fact that he had cum like a geyser six times tonight and still wanted more, and that his boss, the actual target of the more-climaxes/more-spunk resolutions, was in pretty much exactly the same boat he was.
Danny caught Ray admiring him and winked. Ray entered the room and walked silently over to him. As he did so he marveled at how all of his senses were so heightened and pleasure-soaked that even the feel of the thick pile carpet under his bare feet was a low-key turn-on.
Danny set his bottle on the table beside him and rose to stand directly in front of Ray, their monster erections sliding along each other as they shifted to face each other. Ray wrapped his young-godling arms in a comfortable embrace around his boss, and Danny followed suit with a soft smile, letting their megaboners press lightly against each other.
“Still haven’t had enough, I see,” Ray teased.
Danny shook his head, smiling in disbelief, then moved in for a long, intimate kiss. It was like their other kisses at first, but partway through Danny broke down at last and let Ray feel just how long and talented his tongue was for the first time, making Ray moan into the kiss as they two of them ground their slippery cocks together. When they finally broke for air they were both panting lightly. Danny was watching him closely, as if to gauge his reaction to Danny’s unnaturally long tongue. Ray just smiled and said, “Finally.” Danny grinned.
Ray was close just from the kiss and the feel of their bodies and cocks rubbing together. “Let’s go take a shower,” he suggested quietly. Danny nodded, pleased by the idea, and they walked together back across the second room toward the deluxe en-suite bath, Ray dragging a finger over the snoozing Marcel’s pert buttocks as they passed.
The shower was a mutual success, and Danny, finally tuckered out, collapsed happily onto the remaining bed, a look of supreme contentment on his face as Ray tucked him in. He planned on joining him and getting some shut-eye himself, but first he tiptoed into the next room and retrieved a couple of items from his bag. Making sure the four hunks in that room were genuinely asleep, he then snuck back into the other bedroom, turning the lights out in both rooms as he went.
Once in the second room he moved over to the small circular table and sat in the chair, flicking on the (thankfully weak) table lamp and checking for motion from the other three occupants. Seeing none, he settled into the chair, uncapped his gel pen, and opened the resolutions book he’d managed to retrieve from the office in case he needed to fine-tune his reality-changes during the “gay conference” trip. Now he was glad he’d done so, because there were a couple of things he definitely wanted to try to do.
He’d made Danny capable of more and crazily productive orgasms, and that plus his now-constant environment of turned-on men meant mondo cock-eruptions for his libidinous boss. To Ray all that was amazingly hot, enough so that his at last mostly soft cock perked up immediately as he thought about it. Still, maybe he should give Danny more control over it. He leafed through, looking for the right resolution to use, and finally settled on one that read, “One thing that makes me happy about myself is:” followed by a blank line. Ray let his pen hover over the line for a moment before carefully adding, I CAN CONTROL HOW QUICKLY I CUM. Ray sat back, nodding. That way, if he needs to cum, he can cum, on command as it were.
It suddenly occurred to Ray to check the time. There were a few phones on the table, some of which were plugged into chargers—amazing that anyone had been mentally focused enough to think about phone batteries on a night like this, though if he had to pick he would guess Archer, at least, out of all of them, would have the necessary self-possession. He grabbed one of the charging phones and woke the screen. To his surprise, he saw that it was only 11:50. He would have sworn it was later than that. Though they had crossed a time zone westward, so maybe that was what had thrown him off.
He returned his attention to the book, pleased the changes he was making would be implementing tonight rather than tomorrow night at midnight. There was really only one more he wanted to try for.
He paged backwards in the book and found a resolution that began: “From now on, I will always”, with a long line after it. That one would just work, he decided. He only had a few minutes left, anyway. Quickly, Ray wrote: BE COMPLETELY HARD AND READY TO ORGASM…
“Whatcha working on?” asked a quiet voice.
Starting, Ray instinctively slapped the book shut and pushed it aside. Even as he looked up to see Marcel’s smiling, curious face his heart stuttered as he realized what he’d done. He hadn’t finished the resolution! He’d meant to write that Danny would BE COMPLETELY HARD AND READY TO ORGASM ONLY WHEN I’M NAKED, to give clothed Danny more control over his giant cock and even more giant libido while he was mixing with folks in public and so on. Now, though—fuck, what had he done?
He tried to keep his face blank and relaxed as Marcel sank into the other chair, nodding inquiringly again at the resolutions book. “Oh, it’s… a kind of journal,” Ray stammered, heart pounding. “I’ll show it to you someday.”
Marcel nodded. His gaze was fixed on Ray’s, and he got the impression Marcel had something on his mind besides Ray’s midnight doodling in a mysterious book. Something had piqued his interest, and he’d been waiting for a moment alone with Ray to bring it up.
Marcel’s expression softened into a lopsided smile, his hazel eyes dancing. “So,” he said. “KiSweet, huh?”
The Southwest LGBTQ Rights in Public Education Conference—usually called APEX (the “A” being borrowed from its recurring venue, the sprawling Austin Convention Center) and known to Danny, Blake, and Ray simply as “the gay conference”—was an annual three-day gathering of attorneys, legal professionals, and educators with lectures and panel sessions on legal trends and issues in primary, secondary, and collegiate public education relating to LGBTQ rights, protections, and vulnerabilities. The event was always held just after New Year’s in the break between semesters, and despite the name it was no longer restricted to the southwest, drawing practitioners of various stripes from all over North America; occasionally, notwithstanding the differences in overseas education systems, professionals from other countries attended as well, particularly from Taiwan, Vietnam, and Colombia. As an openly gay attorney specializing in contract law with a growing focus on LGBTQ individuals and LGBTQ-owned or LGTBQ-friendly small companies doing business with the city, its school system, and the local formerly-private state college, Danny was a fixture at APEX and had been a panelist twice since Ray had started working for him, and a guest speaker at one of the main sessions two years back. Ray figured it was probably a good thing that he wasn’t doing anything like that this year. Things would be crazy enough around Danny without him being the literal center of attention for an entire mass of attendees made randier just by proximity to his boss’s irresistible sexual convection.
APEX always kicked off with a casual, fully-catered luncheon mixer ahead of the more formal keynote address that took place later that night. After that the attendees tended to descend on every bar, dance club, and public entertainment in a ten-block radius, and in recent years pop-up concerts had started cropping up in various strategically-located venues near the Center for the post-keynote crowd; the year before the city had finally started organizing the shows and publicizing them to locals and attendees. His two previous turns at APEX Ray had been happy to go with the flow, keeping Danny’s schedule straight for him but otherwise bumping contentedly along as an inconsequential supernumerary like the handful of other aides tagging along with their bosses for the trip. This time, as he lay in a cozy hotel bed mapping out the day ahead with a warm, snoozing Danny curled up against him, his head on Ray’s recently-grown gymnast-thick pecs and his rigidly curved 13-inch erection erupting wetly from the tight gap between their hips, Ray knew he was looking at three separate events at which Danny’s extreme, and extremely contagious, horniness were likely to wreak considerable havoc… or would do so, without at least some kind of stage-management from Ray. And Ray would have his work cut out for him, especially as any sort of resolution-imposed reasonableness damper would have to wait until midnight rolled around again, a full day and half the night away.
The trouble was, Ray had no idea what he was actually going to do to keep the luncheon mixer, the keynote gathering, and whatever post-meeting show they ended up going to from devolving into massive, cum-covered fuckfests. He blew out his lips in frustration, idly caressing Danny’s long, thick chestnut-brown waves with slow, gentle strokes as he did so and fighting down his own omnipresent arousal. It was early yet, only faint hints of gauzy rose-tinted light seeping through the slight gap in the heavy curtains; but Ray just didn’t see how he could develop any real solutions to his problems before the luncheon started at 2 o’clock and the conference, and all the Danny-centered weirdnesses bound to come with it, officially began.
He mulled over the previous night’s disastrous resolutions with a frown. Thanks to his unfortunately-interrupted effort to regulate Danny’s heightened sexual need via a corrective resolution, his previously merely horny boss was now in a permanent state of mega-arousal instead, complete with a massive, tireless erection and a constant urge to blast his monumental orgasms whenever and wherever he was. Even now the slumbering Danny’s wrist-thick, stone-hard monster curling up between their naked bodies looked alive and eager for stimulation, like it would be ready to spectacularly explode with cum from the slightest lick or caress from Ray without Danny even needing to be conscious enough to fully enjoy it. Ray’s mouth watered at the thought of inducing Danny’s orgasm like that, and his own fat and ruddy 16-incher started to inflate automatically where it lay heavily across his pale, well-defined torso, edging up his defined abs toward his plump, mostly hairless chest. Soon it was completely, almost painfully hard and staring coaxingly at Ray, tapping at his sternum with its already wet and seeping head. Ray found himself smiling helplessly, a little overwhelmed at all the unexpected changes brought about by a few words scrawled in a magic book.
His thoughts turned to the other resolution from the night before, the one that gave Danny control over his orgasms. Unlike the always-hard-and-ready-to-cum injunction he’d inadvertently inflicted on his boss, which had been stipulated as a “from now on” transformation, the orgasm control he’d given Danny had been phrased as a description of Danny’s existing capabilities. Ray was now pretty sure that resolutions worded as present-tense descriptions immediately became retroactive, with the target’s awareness of the stated facts about his body winding their way into the past from the point the resolution came in to effect, Danny himself remaining unaware of the reality alteration: thanks to the disclaimer on the magic book, only Ray knew about retconned changes like that. Danny’s control over his own orgasms was now, from Danny’s perspective, something Danny had been able to do already.
Ray was fascinated by the whole idea of the retcons he had created. Was Danny’s cum-control something Danny now believed he been capable of his whole life, going back to puberty? Maybe… maybe not. Ray remembered that the increased-orgasms and increased-semen reality-changes from his first round of resolutions had ended up being tied to the KiSweet and positioned, “in-universe” as it were, as a by-product of the increased cock size—at least, that was the only possible explanation Ray could think of for his own KiSweet-induced cock growth having been accompanied by the same increase in orgasm frequency and productivity Ray had aimed at Danny.
For Danny, Ray, and the unknown and probably not insignificant number of worldwide consumers of the product, obscure and discontinued though it was, the cock growth and orgasm effects were all both gradual by-products of KiSweet use and progressively accretive in proportion to the quantity of sweetener ingested over time.
All of which pointed at a lurking question that made Ray’s stomach flicker and his pulse accelerate a little as he lay there cuddling with Danny, his own monster erection staring at him unrelentingly from mere inches away: was it possible that orgasm control been tied to the KiSweet the same way orgasm frequency and productivity had? Had Ray unwittingly given himself, via the iteratively more and more potent KiSweet he and Danny had both been ingesting on a daily basis over the last three months, the uncanny ability to climax and blow his load whenever he damn well wanted?
He stared back at his massive, ponderous, impatient erection, feeling his hot, heavy balls churning tirelessly between his newly fit thighs, and impulsively aimed a single thought at his excited equipment: Cum.
Almost instantly a lightning-fast warning of a coming orgasm shivered through Ray, like he was a volcano and an intense eruption was building so rapidly he was mere seconds from blowing the top of his mountain and ejecting untold amounts of hot, white jizz-magma all over the surrounding countryside. Shit, he hadn’t thought this through. Urgently he grabbed his absolutely rigid monstercock in his free hand and craned his head forward to wrap his mouth around his wide cock-head, all while trying not to jostle the sleeping hunk whose head was pillowed on his chest. His release struck him all at once with gargantuan levels of pleasure even as hot, thick cum started gushing mercilessly into his mouth like a garden hose on its highest-pressure setting. Ray gulped it down desperately, trying to keep up, but he was spraying so much spunk into his mouth he started to choke and had to pull off, and the eruption kept going, torrents of cum smacking into his face like it wouldn’t ever stop.
But it had to end somehow. Could he force it to stop, the same way he’d started it? Frantically, he tried marshaling his scattered concentration and sent a single command to his balls—STOP!
Amazingly, within seconds his colossal orgasm had fully subsided, the high-pressure rush of cum painting his face suddenly dropping to a final spurt, then dribbles pattering audibly on his chest. Ray let his head fall back, panting through jizz-covered lips, feeling only half-satisfied. His release had been curtailed but not completed, he guessed—he still felt like he had finish cumming, immediately, his balls and cock throbbing painfully from their compressed, incomplete climax.
“Starting without me?” Danny murmured, sounding sleepy but amused.
Ray looked down at him, huffing a laugh as he imagined how he must look. “Want some?” he asked, a little giddy. “I got more!”
Danny grinned, his dark eyes reminding Ray of Danny’s constant need. “I could use a little help myself,” Danny admitted. “I feel like I’m about to shoot a thousand orgasms!”
Ray just nodded. Danny got to his knees and climbed over Ray so his curved erection could be aimed directly at Ray’s face while he bent over Ray’s monster. As soon as their mouths were stretched over each other’s cockheads they both burst into ecstatic release and started cumming like it was a physical necessity. Ray was shooting just as heavy and copious a spray as before, but Danny was somehow managing to control his own release to a speed Ray could keep up with. It was as if the months of retroactively being able to induce his own orgasms had allowed Danny to gain a level of control through sheer repeated self-training. Ray, nearly delirious with sustained mega-orgasm, nonetheless managed to focus enough mental energy to direct his junk to slow down, and though the results—big intermittent bursts instead of a steady, consciously-tempered stream—lacked the finesse of Danny’s practiced orgasmic modulation, Danny was at least able to grinningly keep up with Ray’s endless release, using his hands, tongue, and lips to intensify the mind-melting euphoria surging through Ray in escalating waves of unbounded pleasure.
Finally, after a few minutes Ray began to feel purged and sated, and he let his climax fall gently away. Danny, still cumming hard into Ray’s mouth like he might never stop, got to work diligently licking the cum away from Ray’s incredible head and shaft even as he kept on nutting at full blast. Ray’s cock was only slightly softened, making it bendable enough for Danny to shift and turn it in his hands as he mouthed and licked the entire sensitive and red-tinged organ free of excess jizz. Ray was sure that the sensations Danny was giving him, combined with his soaring afterglow and the wonder of having Danny’s hot, heavy cock in his mouth (or at least, the top few inches) and swallowing down his never-ending cum, were quite possibly the next best thing to the actual brain-melting orgasm he’d just been enjoying for the last several minutes.
Eventually Danny finished cleaning Ray’s dick, and at the same time his own eruption slowed and then stopped, though from the look on Danny’s face as he bent toward him Ray was certain Danny could instantly start cumming again if he wanted to and just keep going and going. Danny moved closer and his lips met Ray’s. Both of their mouths were slathered in spunk, and they enjoyed a wet and very messy kiss that went on so long Ray found himself getting hard again—and of course Danny had never gotten even a little bit soft. It occurred to him that he and Danny could literally wallow in constant, nonstop sex without end for hours… or even days. In fact, he thought dazedly as the kiss deepened, he could probably craft a resolution to get rid of any bodily needs but orgasming and imbibing or internally absorbing cum, letting them fall into a permanent euphoria of mutual pleasuring that could go on forever and ever…
Then, like he’d been coyly holding it back, Danny finally let his questing, extra-long and stretchy tongue fully expand into Ray’s eager mouth, and with a long groan all rational thought slid out of Ray’s brain and stayed out of reach for quite a considerable amount of time.
Blake was dreaming about Marcel, but the man was paying no attention to him. As usual.
They were at a prom, weirdly. Blake knew he often drifted back in his dreams to the old exclusive, top-drawer high school he’d attended in one of the tonier suburbs of Chicago. He’d been a king back then—the good kind, a handsome and benevolent monarch-bro who took care of his subjects and made everyone happy just to see him looking good and exuding confidence.
He didn’t think he’d ever seen Marcel in one of these dreams before, but there he was, slow-dancing with Ray, in the center of the dance floor like this was their high school and their prom. They were both shirtless, naturally, and looking very fit, with bow-ties around their necks and Ray’s unbelievable, leaking dick throbbing hard and straight and physically hot between them as they danced. Blake realized he was shirtless, too, with tuxedo trousers and his own blue-black tie. He should be shirtless. Every one of his muscles was thick and strong and exquisitely crafted to aesthetic perfection, laboriously sculpted for the sole purpose of public admiration. But that wasn’t happening this time. He knew he looked good enough everyone should be staring at him, oo-ing and ah-ing at the honed and sculpted pinnacle his form obviously represented; but the hundreds of shirtless, bow-tied men on the dance floor, all of them swaying in twos and threes under a shifting, dappling light to a live band’s slow rock ballad, were all ignoring him, casting furtive glances instead at the sweet, winsome couple at the center of the dance floor. Marcel and Ray, for their part, seemed to be in a world of their own, nuzzling and kissing each other as they moved, Ray’s giant cock almost seeming like a third dance partner between them.
“They make a cute couple, don’t you think?” asked Danny at his shoulder. Blake looked over to see his boss, shirtless and bow-tied like the rest and looking not too shabby for his age, watching the two men fondly. He couldn’t see Danny’s own huge erection, but he could feel its warm, wet tip brushing messily along Blake’s hip just above his waistline. Blake’s own dick twitched in response.
Dark thoughts briefly resurfaced in the back of his mind about how he wasn’t the biggest dick around anymore, but Blake forced them down angrily. Ten thick inches—as wide as three fucking fingers and as gorgeously shaped as the rest of him, with a flare in the middle and a broad, elegant head everyone loved to lick—that was bigger than everyone he’d ever met except Danny and Ray. That was plenty prestigious. Besides, his cock was prettier than theirs. He used to say that guys who claimed “size isn’t everything” were just sore losers, but now he knew it was the god’s-honest truth. Blake’s cock had been the best all along because, just like his pecs and his arms and his thighs and his ass, Blake’s dick wasn’t just big—it was fucking beautiful, too. Perfectly beautiful, even. The definition of what a cock could be. He was hard just from thinking about how good his dick looked hard—a circumstance very frequent in occurrence, going back practically to Blake’s very first erection.
He gave Ray and Marcel another look. Marcel looked happy and relaxed, like he seldom had with Blake. Blake had met Marcel at a Hot Springs Harbor wrap party he’d been invited to by a grip he was fucking, and he’d hit on him mostly because of how cute and smartly dressed and low-key popular he was. They’d look good together, he knew, and Blake liked that idea a lot. Dating a TV star would get him some cachet with his friends, too, and Blake hadn’t yet shaken that craving for gang approval he’d known since his well before high school days. But now, Marcel looked different, and he realized he’d been kind of a dick. Marcel’s happiness hadn’t really entered into the mix. He was so used to assuming guys would appreciate being with him that he’d written off their on-and-off sex and random fights as flukes. Seeing Marcel actually enjoying himself with someone else made him a little rueful at how seldom he’d seen Marcel feeling that way when he had been with Blake.
“Yeah,” he said to Danny, his tone quiet. “They are.”
The scene shifted, and the prom became a high-end strip club. Ray, still in his tuxedo trousers and bow-tie, was now dancing alone and with considerable flair on the rounded, neon-bordered center-stage. His rigid, chest-high cock was so stiff it was shifting only the slighted bit this way and that with his movements, drops of wet precum flinging off to the sides and spattering the stage, and the occasional front-row patron, every time he twisted and twerked. On smaller platforms flanking Ray’s Marcel and Danny, dressed in the same uniform of trousers and bow tie, were performing as back-up dancers, their energetic moves synchronizing with each other while Ray did his own thing between them.
Blake sat back in his deluxe seat, a whiskey in one hand, fully aroused and very hard in his slacks. Ray, he had to admit, actually looked very fine as he moved and gyrated, his muscles nicely defined and extremely limber and his pale skin seeming almost porcelain-smooth in the spotlight. He slid into a pulsing crouch, and with each bend and rise his enormous cock was gliding wetly up and down one cheek or the other, just missing his open, leering mouth. With every averted suck the audience moaned impatiently, wanting to see that thick, hot shaft slide into that wide, wanton hole. Blake smirked, realizing he wanted to see that, too. He’d somehow never thought of Ray as sexy before, not even when he’d started realizing what the man was packing down below; but now he could see it. And yeah, his own dick was better and beautifuller, but… he did kind of want to lick allll the way up that long, thick, salty shaft.
Ray wasn’t what he needed, though, he thought as he watched the man skillfully and mercilessly tease his audience. Not really. Maybe… maybe it was time Blake grew up a little. Just fucking around and dating guys who looked good on his arm—that was stage one of being a stud. He was man enough now to move up. A partner, someone who was Blake’s equal. A challenge, even. That would be hot, a guy who was as strong and as aggressive and even as beautifully built and hung as he was…
Wait, that was… When had he started thinking like that? That wasn’t his type. Was it?
On stage, Ray opened wide, and the whole crowd was leaning forward, their tension and excitement palpable in the air, and… then the lights suddenly shrank away to blackness, like the whole scene was rapidly receding into the infinite reaches of the universe.
Blake opened his eyes and knew he was surfacing from a dream. In place of sexy stripper Ray going down on himself in a darkened club, he saw the arrestingly handsome face of Danny’s hot friend Archer, lying on a pillow only a foot or so away and watching him closely. His understated orange-spice cologne lightly caressed Blake’s olfactory senses, mixing with the pervasive smells of sweat and intercourse. Both of them were under a white sheet and a thin blanket together, and only Archer’s pallid face and shoulders were visible: his round, perfectly-sculpted traps and delts seemed almost idealized in isolation, just like Blake’s must look to him, he hoped.
Not that Archer wasn’t a step up from Blake in a lot of ways. Dim morning light did nothing to hide the other man’s calm, commanding allure, and those ice-blue eyes seemed to both see inside him and draw him in at the same time. Blake was younger, true, but he was mature enough now to know all that meant was that he had some catching up to do.
“Hi,” Blake said. There wasn’t much other sound—raspy sleep-breathing from another bed behind them, the push of an air-conditioner on high. They were in a hotel room, he remembered, and there had been lots of sex. Blake had made practically everyone in their group cum at one point or another, but he’d found himself gravitating toward Archer more and more as the night progressed. Blake had been hard all night, unable to get rid of his boner even after cumming three or four times, and Archer had been just as unstoppable.
In fact, Blake was rock-hard now, too, his dick straining to be pushed into a mouth or ass as soon as humanly possible. Was that because of the erotic dream he’d been having, or was it just from knowing he was sharing a bed with this godly, gorgeous prototype of masculine beauty, a rare match for his own hotness?
“Hi,” Archer replied. He sounded amused, but his gaze didn’t stray a millimeter from Blake’s. Almost as if he couldn’t help himself, Blake drew a hand up from under the covers and stroked his thumb along Archer’s exquisite cheekbones. Archer let him, still watching him with admirable intensity.
“Do you like me, Blake?” he asked after a while.
Blake let his hand still, so that it was cupping Archer’s sharply defined cheek and jawline. He marveled at Archer’s poise. Anyone else asking that question would sound uncertain or insecure, he thought. From this guy, it sounded like… like a job interview. An invitation to prove himself and progress to a new level of intimacy.
Blake smiled. “I do,” he said. Then he smirked and added, “I like you a lot.” Coming from Blake, this meant “I’m turned on as fuck and I need to get off on you,” and Archer heard his real message loud clear.
“I like you a lot too,” Archer rumbled suggestively, his eyes visibly darkening.
They’d better do something about it soon, then, Blake thought as he licked his lips. He hoped Archer wanted to sixty-nine as much as he did, because the only thing he yearned for more in that moment than Archer’s long dick in his mouth was Archer’s talented mouth around Blake’s own raging beauty. Fortunately, as it turned out, Archer was thinking exactly the same thing.
Ray was cumming again. It felt like he’d been cumming for quite a while. It didn’t seem to matter to his balls—fuck, he felt like he could geyser hot cum all over his face and chest and everything else forever.
Maybe not a good idea, the shambles of what was left of his rational processes told him.
He opened his eyes, focusing with difficulty. Danny was still kneeling at his side, but instead of sucking Ray’s spewing cock he was bent over Ray’s right nipple, teasing the super-sensitive protrusion with his ridiculously long tongue. Both nipples felt beautifully abused, and Danny’s ministrations in the midst of his ongoing orgasm were just starting to edge into too-fucking much. Meanwhile, Marcel, perhaps awakened by their antics, was crouched by the bed next to Danny and was diligently sucking the older man’s monster erection, visibly swallowing as Danny pumped more and more cum into him.
Hot. But… too much. He had to stop orgasming before his brain fucking melted, and Danny’s nipple-play was too incredible to endure much longer. “Sto-o-op,” he moaned at both his balls and his tormenter, getting one last a big faceful of spurted spooge before his release finally tapered and ended, leaving a panting Ray feeling wrung out and shimmering dreamily in warm, happy afterglow. He sank bonelessly into the mattress, all his muscles and bones melting like goo. He was absolutely certain he would never move again, and he was very okay with that.
Danny lifted his head from where he’d been attending to Ray’s nipple and grinned brilliantly at him. “I was wondering when you’d cry uncle,” he rasped. He was still red-cheeked and covered in cum from his hair all the way down, and he looked like he couldn’t be happier. He seemed to consciously let his own constant climaxing subside, and Marcel pulled off his curved boner with a pop, giving the purple-tinged head a few last licks before beaming up at Danny and then at Ray. He looked positively debauched, Ray thought, the way Marcel always did when his normally immaculately-styled hair was all askew like a grassy field with a helicopter hovering over it. The debased effect was enhanced by his bruised red lips and the dark, unshaved scruff lining his chin and jawline. Ray and Danny needed a shave, too, but Danny with his soft-brown bristles looked boyish and playful—whereas a stubbly Marcel, with his glinting eyes and crooked smile, looked dangerously Bohemian.
“Bonjour, mon chér,” Ray told him, smiling affectionately.
Ray grinned. “Howdy,” he replied, in comical Texas drawl. Ray snorted.
“Did you sleep okay?” Danny asked Marcel, glancing over at the other bed. Ray looked that way too and winced—there lay a whole other problem that he’d clean forgotten about. It wouldn’t wait long, either.
They all considered the sleeping, impossibly-muscled behemoth that the cute-jock farmboy-turned-patent attorney Brock had unconsciously made himself into, and that everyone but Ray remembered Brock as always being. “Seems like you ended up with a lumpier mattress than the rest of us,” Danny noted dryly.
Ray mentally shook his head, fretting a little. Brock was almost as big as a mattress—the only place Marcel would have had to sleep really was draped across him like he was the actual bed. He’d have trouble fitting through doorways at his present width—maybe even sideways, he added to himself, noting the impossible thickness of his protruding, spherical pecs, both of which were as big as a medium-sized dog. He was a little surprised the bed-frame hadn’t broken.
Marcel was amused. “It was good. He was out like a light, and thankfully did not move much,” he said, reverting to his usual lilt. “I would have liked it over here, too,” he added with a wink at Ray, “but I try not to interrupt.”
Ray looked back at him, noticing his cum-slicked smirk. “Until you couldn’t help getting a taste of Danny’s cock,” he teased.
Marcel nodded happily in agreement, though his eyes strayed to the gargantuan, semihard phallus draped across Ray’s messy, extremely defined torso. Such a size queen, Ray thought fondly.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of chances at that one, too,” Danny chuckled. “I think Ray here is becoming almost as insatiable as I am.”
Ray glanced up guiltily at Danny, but Danny just gave him a saucy look, and Ray couldn’t help his smile.
Marcel looked between them, intrigued. “Is that… a side effect of the growth you got from the KiSweet?” he asked shrewdly, lowering his voice a little. Ray hadn’t told him much the night before—only that he and Danny had “worked out” the cock-expanding effects that seemed to be tied to the KiSweet after a couple months of them using the stuff (and of Blake not using it and obviously not getting the same effect). But Marcel, as always, was nothing if not quick on the uptake.
Ray looked up at Danny, who registered surprise at Marcel’s question—evidently he hadn’t fully considered the extent to which the cum-control and other effects might be tied to the sweetener. He met Ray’s gaze, checking to see what he thought; Ray, for his part, tried to look like someone who hadn’t actually engineered the effects they were talking about. Well, it was partly true. He hadn’t meant to infect himself with dramatically increased cum production, intensified orgasm frequency and duration, and the ability to turn his massive climaxes on and off like a tap. “It… could be,” Ray allowed weakly.
“Huh,” Danny said. Then he rubbed his hands together, evidently not much troubled by the implications of his radical orgasm enhancements. “Well,” he said, looking between them at the mess he’d helped produce, “I hereby declare that another shower is in order.” He glanced at Marcel, who nodded quickly, then raised a dark eyebrow at Ray.
Ray shook his head. “You two go ahead,” he said evasively, “I’ve got something I need to check on first.”
Danny shrugged and climbed off the bed, pulling the naked Marcel to his feet. Though not as spunk-covered as Ray or Danny, his tight, fit body hadn’t gotten through his cocksucking encounter with Danny unscathed, and there were smears and trails of cum marking his well-made, TV-ready torso. Ray kind of wanted to lick them off… but there really was something he needed look into while he had the chance.
“Come join us when you’re ready,” Marcel said cockily, still holding onto the hand Danny had used to lift him to his feet. “We might be a while.”
Danny huffed a laugh and Ray watched as they turned and headed into the shower together, admiring Danny’s round, meaty glutes and Marcel’s more demure, perkier, and altogether perfect ass as they went. And—geez, how did Danny get that much cum on his back?
Once the other two were safely in the shower, Ray climbed out of bed. His hefty balls felt like a cum-spinning perpetual motion machine, and the weight of his half-hard cock, its simmering readiness to rise to a rock-hard, chest-tapping erection at a moment’s notice, was clearly just as much a permanent a part of him as the need to breathe. His blood felt warm and rushy, too, like a raging mountain stream that never tired of pouring over the rocks and rills, the added heat seeping perceptibly though his skin. He ignored all that as best he could and padded over to the other bed, his fat cock slapping gently between his firm, pale thighs. The light outside had grown some since he’d first awoken, but it was still early and his subject was still sound asleep.
Ray stared at the quietly snoring Brock in awe. Ray himself had put on a bit of muscle thanks to Danny’s gift, and—maybe because he was the only one conscious of it—he was excessively self-aware of his now modestly thick pecs, slightly bulkier delts, traps, legs, and arms, and the subtle six-pack he’d surfaced on what had always been a flat but mostly featureless belly. He’d spent more than a few moments in the last day or so wondering if he’d gone too far, though his own deep pleasure at being marginally buff and Marcel’s open admiration of his sculpted fitness, expressed both verbally and otherwise the night before last, had restrained him from retracting the modest physique upgrade he’d given himself. Now, though, any self-consciousness he’d been feeling was gone right out the window. Brock… Brock was fucking tank.
When they’d met at the airport, Brock had been thickly-muscled; Ray would have rated the boyish farmboy at the high end of the bigger fitness models he’d seen on workout magazines and Insta feeds, and the straining of his shirt across his heavy pecs telegraphed that he’d already unconsciously grown himself a good deal since his encounter with Danny at the alumni brunch-turned-fuckfest the night before. But once they’d gotten to the hotel room and shed all their clothes (along with any pretense Danny’s buddies hadn’t tagged along on this trip for the express purpose of nutting as often and as creatively as possible with Danny and each other), Brock’s muscles had swollen like Macy’s Thanksgiving balloons being inflated. Brock must have been driven by some powerful subconscious craving. For… what? Size? Strength? Manliness? Ray wasn’t quite sure.
What struck him most was that Brock’s fantasy self-image apparently wasn’t about mass alone. Brock’s size increase involved size over meticulous aesthetic definition like Archer and Blake, but he wasn’t bloated in an off-season way: there was no muscle gut and very little fat, just a lot a lot of pure, powerful muscle mass, at an extreme level of growth that made for some wild and wonky proportions. For one thing, the six-footer’s stocky but trim waist had stayed at the 34 inches or so it had been, but above and below that his lats and thighs swelled outward like some kind of fractal diagram. His powerful thighs were at least as thick as his waist, and his calves weren’t that much smaller; his torso widened so dramatically as it went up that his shoulders really were almost as wide as bed, with heavily bulging arms thicker than Ray’s legs depending from them like biomachinery you’d use in construction or demolition. His pecs were enormous, their squared-off thicknesses standing so tall on his chest they partly obstructed Ray’s view of Brock’s ridiculously thick neck and comparatively small-looking face, which looked relaxed and sweetly adorable in repose. His nipples faced Ray dead-on from the cliff-like undersides of Brock’s colossal pectorals, their areolas slightly stretched and with minuscule-looking nubs at the centers that looked like they needed a good teasing.
Brock’s cock was also bigger than Ray expected. Completely soft and laying across the crease of his thigh just below his mountainous quads, it looked to be about ten inches long at its most relaxed and almost soda-can thick. Ray was surprised. He knew the spongy, blood-absorbing corpora of the penis weren’t muscle per se, but it looked like they were enough like muscle for Danny’s growth-gift to work on them. Either that, or Brock had been one lucky bastard cock-wise even before his group hookup with Danny.
Ray looked down at his own twitching monster cock, still semiflaccid but very aware of Ray’s hot-blooded, insta-trigger libido, not to mention how his thoughts at the moment kept turning over the word “cock”. Did he dare test his theory? But Ray already knew the answer. Not knowing would be like an itch he would, in the end, not be able to avoid scratching.
Just as he had with his pecs back at Marcel’s apartment, Ray gazed down and tried training his focus on his flexing, super-thick cock, almost as long partly soft as it got fully hard. His heart pounding, Ray tentatively willed his cock to grow.
It was harder than growing his muscles, like this was something the gift wasn’t quite meant for, but to his amazement Ray could feel that it was possible. He concentrated a little harder, and then all at once his wide, heavy cock seemed to unspool out of his groin almost another whole inch.
Ray pulled in a loud, ragged gasp. He’d just made his cock bigger by force of will! The idea was such a rush, such an incredible turn-on, that Ray was fully hard in seconds—and, sure enough, his rigid, straight-up-and-down erection was now nuzzling the cleft between his pecs an inch higher up that it had been reaching only a half-hour earlier.
Ray stared down at it, thunderstruck and deeply, incredibly aroused. As he watched, precum welled in the wide-looking slit and started sliding copiously down his glans and shaft like a sundae being slowly dribbled in lots and lots of sweet, delicious corn syrup. Without conscious thought he bent his head down and took the glans all the way into his warm and welcoming mouth, swallowing the surge in precum the amazing feel of his lips, tongue, and palate produced against his huge, sensitive cockflesh.
He almost succumbed to the impulse to get himself again right then and there. He wanted to, very badly. But a snort from the sleeping Brock kicked his brain into remembering his surroundings. Self-control was a thing, and he didn’t have much time. Danny and Marcel might emerge from the shower unexpectedly, though he knew they were probably enjoying each other’s bodies too much to be out anytime soon; and Archer or one of the others could come through the connecting door at any time. Ray had to figure out what he needed to do about Brock while they still had the room to themselves.
Reluctantly, he pulled his mouth off of his insistent, throbbing cock. He should undo that extra inch he’d given himself, he thought. Well, he could do it later. The tank formerly known as Brock was the more pressing priority.
Of course… he could just leave Brock like this. Ray seriously considered it. At this size, Brock would be a magnet for muscle worship from all kinds of guys who deeply appreciated extreme exaggerations in the expansion of masculine beef. Ray had seen plenty of websites, morphs, and stories like that, all reveling in exactly the kind of size Brock had given himself. Brock would be admired and cherished by men who’d never dreamed someone his size was even possible in the real world. It could be a hell of an amazing life for him, and his groupies and worshippers would make sure he was very happy.
It would also be a very conspicuous life. He didn’t know Brock, but he knew that that would be a down-side for a lot of people. Some people were like Danny, getting the job done and content to stay out of the limelight; others, like Blake and Archer, were at ease with the attention that came with standing out from the crowd. Intuition told him that the placid and genial attorney before him was more like Danny than Archer in that regard.
Perhaps more importantly, a Gibraltar-sized Brock might be a down-side for the magic and the powers-that-be involved in it. It hadn’t escaped his attention that the worldwide effects of his KiSweet cock-growth resolution had been muted as much as the magic could manage: the product had been discontinued and blackballed by governments, news organizations, and social media, so that it was now seldom-mentioned and impossible to find; the company had foundered and collapsed and its management had fallen out of the public eye completely, never returning to market with a new venture or startup; any video proof of actual growth was consistently denounced as faked; and the whole idea of KiSweet causing cock growth had descended into a minor urban legend that almost everyone treated as a joke. As in every other tale of magic that Ray had ever seen or read, Ray had become embroiled in the classic masquerade scenario; while the occasional muggle like Ray might be drawn into the fold to keep things fresh and interesting, exposure of magic and its effects on a global scale seemed both proscribed and intended to be actively suppressed.
He thought again of the disclaimer he’d memorized. He had accepted and agreed that only he, the reader of the disclaimer, would be aware of the changes brought about by the resolutions. Originally that had just seemed like a description of the overall spell that made the resolutions work: only he would know, and everyone else would automagically have their memories retconned or whatever. But what if it was an injunction and an onus as well? If he read it that way, it was not only a special exemption that only he knew, it was also a responsibility to keep it that way. Making sure no one penetrated the masquerade was on him, and the punishments for not doing so—if the “oversight authorities” had to step in—were (ominously) unspecified.
Still, that was all speculation. The key issue, as he’d realized the night before, was clothing. If Brock could get dressed in clothes that fit him, then at least in the short term—until he could fix things overnight with a resolution, say—it was more a matter of dealing with people staring at his mastodon-sized hulk as they went about their business… and, to be fair, their group was already going to get a lot of stares owing to his and Danny’s enormous, uncontrollable, and difficult-to-hide hard-ons. Unfortunately, Ray strongly suspected Brock having any clothes he could fit into even a little right now was unlikely.
Ray had been thinking about the magic he was invoking a lot over the past few days, and he’d worked out a number of potential theories and mechanisms, including a few that related directly to the body transformations that were consequent to the resolutions Ray had written. From his own experience Ray was convinced that while the muscle growth he and Danny’s other cum-friends had unconsciously given themselves seemed to be retroactive (in that no one noticed a sudden shift in size and brawn), it wasn’t actually retroactive any more than the cock growth was. Ray knew that he (and Danny) had suddenly sported ruler-busting cocks on New Year’s Eve morning that they hadn’t had the night before… yet everyone except Ray now remembered the two of them slowly developing increasingly large bulges over the past three months they’d been using the KiSweet. Likewise, Ray had given himself modestly bigger muscles after the next round of resolutions, but his clothes were still the same as before; and at the airport he’d definitely clocked the too-small shirts and extra-tight pants on a couple Danny’s alumni friends, Brock included.
This made a lot of sense to him. Ray knew nothing about magic, but it had to be easier—less costly, in terms of whatever effort or energy had to exert to make magic work—to change the present than the past. So, if all that held, Brock’s clothes should have stayed the same size as before—i.e., ridiculously too small for Brock’s current body. Not knowing understanding that he had changed (thanks to the mental nature of the retcon), Brock would then discover that his own clothes looked like they were made for Dream House Ken than for his own super-heavy-ultra-megaweight-class bulk. And what kind of brain-breaking cognitive dissonance would that produce?
The only out was if the magic or the powers-that-be had already helpfully stepped in overnight and turned all Brock’s XL shirts and tees into tents that that guy could actually wear when he was this size, despite Ray’s gut sense that they were more likely to operate only at a more macro level. Either way, everything else was conditional on finding out whether that had happened. His first priority, then, was finding Brock’s clothes from the night before and checking to see if they’d been suddenly boosted to size XXR (extra-extra-ridiculous) in sympathy with Brock’s current menhir-like stature.
His priorities clarified, Ray quickly scanned the floor near Brock’s bed, moving slowly around the end to check both sides while valiantly ignoring the nearly neck-high erection clamoring for his attention. There was clothing strewn about, for sure, lots of it, but he quickly realized that it was far from clear whose it was: they’d all done a lot of moving around and changing partners the night before, and clothes had been the least of anyone’s concern apart from removing them and casting them aside as quickly as possible. Ray spotted his own heavy, saturated-navy tee shirt from yesterday tossed cavalierly on the carpet near the connecting door, the dark precum stains near the collar visible even against the deep hue of the shirt.
Okay, it was doing him no good just flailing around. He had to think. He closed his eyes, trying to make himself process what he needed to. What had Brock been wearing?
Drawing a long, calming breath, Ray took himself back to the airport and slowly formed an image in his mind of the group of them approaching. Four very sexy men, trailing behind Danny like a posse. Brock was in the middle… smiling brilliantly, keen to embark on this adventure, wanting more of the pleasure Danny had shared with him… his gleaming, too-tight white undershirt plastered to his abs and pecs, the unbuttoned, light-green Oxford he wore over it visibly straining against his growing, thickening muscles…
Ray opened his eyes and smiled. He had seen that shirt, and he knew just where it was.
Padding quietly over to the connecting door, he pulled it open and passed into the other room. Quickly, he tossed the two beds a quick glance. Cam and Ted were still asleep in the further bed, cuddled tightly around each other like they were trying to compress into a single, eminently kissable hunk, but the aesthetic-Adonis twins, Blake and Archer, were on their sides opposite each other in the nearer bed, engaged in a quiet but athletic sixty-nine.
Blake looked up as Ray entered. His blue eyes were drawn momentarily to Ray’s sternum-sliming hard-on before he looked up at Ray and winked, gesturing briefly with the hand he was using to stroke Archer’s hefty shaft for Ray to come join them. Ray just smiled and waved, before turning to retrieve the light-green shirt he’d previously spotted tossed over one of the floor lamps. Shirt in hand, he spared one more look for Blake and Archer—Blake’s attention was already back on pleasuring Archer’s long, almost fancy-looking cock, while Archer did likewise for him. He tiptoed back into the other room and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving it slightly ajar.
He had to admit, detente with Blake was one of the least expected outcomes of his magical meddling with Danny’s sex life. Only a few days earlier, at the dinner party at Danny’s house, Blake had been angry about Ray’s giant cock; and Ray had to admit he himself had felt antipathy at best for his abrasively cocky office-mate, at least most of the time, over the past year or so. But some combination of Blake’s personal resilience after hitting bottom and Danny’s very powerful guys-are-affectionate-around-me power had seemed to have eroded Blake’s animosity almost completely, leaving behind the collegial friendliness of a coworker and the cock-hound’s natural appreciation for a big, lickable dick—an appreciation he’d probably been fighting and felt conflicted about all along, maybe.
Even now, Ray himself kind of wanted to go back to the other room and snog Blake for a while. He knew that that was just the resolutions talking, but that definitely didn’t make the desire any less real. Not that he’d actually do it—interrupting a sixty-nine was a pretty rude thing to do.
Oh well. He and Blake could make out later. With a sense of foreboding he held up Brock’s shirt in front of him. Damn it! he thought sourly, letting out a deep sigh—it was still just an extra-large. Ray would swim in it even with his few extra pounds of muscle, and it had fit its owner well enough yesterday (well, just barely). But there was no way this morning’s Behemoth Brock would even be able to get his forearm into one of these sleeves.
So much for the powers-that-be, he thought. Looks like it’s down to me.
Knowing there was no time to waste, Ray set the shirt aside on the nearby table and moved to the bed. Climbing onto the mattress to kneel in the narrow space left between Brock’s bulk and the edge of the bed, he grabbed a massive delt and shook it gently, bending low next to the man’s ear. “Hey Brock, wake up a little,” he said soothingly.
Brock’s eyelids fluttered. Man, he’s got some long eyelashes, Ray thought to himself. He’s, like, half-pretty, half-handsome.
Brock looked sleepily up at him and smiled. “Morning,” he said. Almost immediately his eyes slid down to Ray’s huge, thumping cock—not that it was a long journey—and he smiled even wider. “Aw, this is my second-favorite cock,” he said languidly. He reached up a hand and began stroking it, and Ray shivered.
He thought of moving Brock’s hand away and trying to make him concentrate, but… actually, this might be easier if Brock was distracted. The head wasn’t far from Brock’s mouth, and Brock’s stroking had shifted it even closer, so that globs of Ray’s thick, clear precum were dripping across Brock’s stubble and firm, rounded jaw. Ray gave Brock a saucy smile. “You can lick it if you want,” he suggested.
Brock didn’t need convincing. He pulled Ray’s 17-inch monster erection down to his rare-steak lips and shoved his ample tongue up to lap along the shaft just under the head. Ray braced against a flood of pleasure, almost losing his focus. As Brock continued using his tongue around all the most intensely sensitive upper reaches of Ray’s magnificent cock, he bent a little closer to Brock’s ear and cooed, “That’s it. That feels amazing, dude.”
He let this go on a while, letting Brock sink into what he was doing, talking him through it with easy comments about how good it was and how much pleasure Brock was giving him. Soon Ray was sliding the head and the first few inches gently into Brock’s mouth, Brock’s hand still working the wet shaft just below what was in his mouth. “Yeah, so good,” Ray purred. “Put all your focus into that. Yeah, dude. Just you and me and my beautiful cock.” Brock hummed agreeably around Ray’s cockhead, his just-awakened consciousness fully absorbed in the task of worshipping Ray’s mighty dick.
Fighting to keep hold of his rational thoughts, Ray kept murmuring suggestively into Brock’s ear. “That’s it, Brock. You’re so hot. I love a guy who’s muscular like you—big but not huge. You can see yourself, can’t you, all that thick muscle, just like a beautiful, sexy bodybuilder. So fucking hot.” As Ray spoke, Brock got more and more into sucking and stroking Ray’s enormous wang, and Ray was more and more afraid the building pleasure would swamp him completely and he’d lose his chance. He kept going, keeping his voice low and seductive. “Yeah, your muscles are perfect for you, just the right size for people to admire without being crazy huge. Beautiful and hard and strong, just like all those hot, thick-muscled guys on the fitness magazines. You know that’s such a hot size, just like you. You could be one of those guys, your muscles are just like theirs, thick and sexy and perfect…”
Brock was mindless now, all about getting Ray off and feeling that cock against his mouth and tongue, and Ray knew he himself was speeding toward the point where he wouldn’t want to stop himself from cumming, whether he could control it or not. Brock was way too good at this, and clearly loved lathing and mouthing Ray’s incredible dick and orally making it swell and throb, and cum, almost as much as Danny and Marcel did (well, and Ray himself, for that matter).
He only had seconds to go. He thought it was working—Brock seemed less bulky than he had been before in his peripheral vision, but he didn’t dare move or break his patter to check.
“You’re so incredibly hot, man,” he went on in a low, steady voice, smoothing his tone out like the babble of a river, a constant flow of reaffirming white noise filtering deep into Brock’s brain under all the pure hedonistic thrill. “You’re like one of those handsome, hard-muscled movie stars everyone jerks off to, like—like—”
Fuck, like who? That was the trouble with babbling—you weren’t working your words out ahead of actually saying them. He had to say someone, right now, or risk breaking the flow. Henry Cavill? It was such a cliché to translate “sexy muscle-hunk actor” as “Henry Cavill”… but Ray honestly couldn’t think of another muscular movie star he could count on Brock having heard of—and at least Cavill has the brawniness and raw masculinity Brock had clearly been unconsciously shooting for. Criminy! The next time he had to shrink someone, he’d definitely plan it better. “Like—Henry Cavill,” he said, rolling his eyes inwardly at himself. “Or—or—Jason Momoa? Nice, beautiful, thick muscles just like them, not too huge but just right…” Shit, he was messing this up. Not too huge but just right? Who was he, fucking Goldilocks?
Suddenly Brock’s other hand, the one that wasn’t slowly pumping the upper span of Ray’s cock near his lips, reached up and grabbed onto Ray’s bare butt-cheek, shoving it forward so that Ray’s cock pushed deep into Brock’s hot, hungry mouth. “Oh, yeah, like that,” Ray huffed. His plan fumbled out of his head like a slippery bar of soap, and he found himself falling all the way into the pleasure Brock was giving him. Geez, was he—was he deep-throating Ray’s impossible prick? Unh, just the idea was simultaneously overwhelming, pushing him to orgasm immediately, and so amazing to feel that he strained to hold back his release so he could enjoy this just a little while longer. The hand on his butt pushed him slowly in again—his cockhead slid into the back of Brock’s throat a second time, and Brock growled his satisfaction around it. Fuck, that was—fuck!
Suddenly Ray was done. He just barely managed to hiss, “Brock, babe, I’m gonna give you so much cum—” Then he exploded, his whole body erupting in a monumental orgasm as he released jet after jet into Brock’s mouth, only half-consciously keeping the flow from full-force gusher so that Brock could swallow it if he wanted to.
And boy, did he want to. Ray kept cumming, and Brock kept gulping it down, until finally Ray realized he had to force himself to stop cumming or he’d just keep jizzing massive loads down Brock’s throat all the damned morning until it was time to leave for the conference. And maybe they’d say “screw the conference” and keep at this indefinitely.
Shutting down his orgasm with a shudder of warm pleasure, Ray sat back bathed in a narcotic afterglow, panting and a little sweaty. He pulled out of Brock’s mouth with a pop, letting the head play across the other man’s sweet, cummy smile for a little bit, drinking in the simple, sated contentment on the man’s handsome, stubbly farmboy face. Brock’s eyes opened languidly, and Ray met Brock’s twinkling, light-brown gaze, smiling down at him as the pleasure kept washing through him.
“That was one hell of a way to wake up,” Brock said happily.
“Want me to return the favor?” Ray asked. He glanced back to check the state of Brock’s body with a fluttering stomach. What he saw had him feeling impressed with Brock’s powers of visualization. Ray couldn’t be quite sure, but it sure seemed that from the neck down Brock’s sprawling, hair-dusted, loose-limbed body now looked… exactly like Jason Momoa’s hard-muscled physique circa Game of Thrones, down to the heavy, round pecs and rippling, deep-carved abs. It was so evocative of Momoa’s character Khal Drogo, in fact, that Ray half expected to see the character’s painted-blue warrior’s stripes across his shoulders and chest. There were a few differences—Brock’s coloring was more a soft, amber tan than Momoa’s coppery tone, and Brock’s boyish face had remained exactly the same as before even as his body had changed again.
The overall divergence from a half-hour before, though, was dramatic. Actually Brock was a lot more defined now than when he’d been the size of a brock outhouse—so much so it was almost subliminally wrong for Brock. To Ray, the gargantuan, if proportionate, bulk Brock had achieved before suggested he’d been more about beef than about getting cut or scrupulously crafting the perfect Archer-esque classical proportions, though Brock’s Momoa-muscles also seemed dense somehow, at least compared to Ray’s own much more demure physique.
Well, at least he’d fit through doors now. I’ll just have to watch for any signs of murder and pillaging, he thought wryly.
Almost as an afterthought he noted the status of Brock’s cock—his supposed excuse for checking Brock out down below. It hadn’t changed at all, which was not too surprising—evidently Brock had decided at some level that Brock’s own hefty tool was a good fit for a Jason Momoa body, in the absence of any concrete information on what the actor was actually packing. Brock’s softening monster was still huge… and from the evidence painted all across Brock’s Momoatastic abs it looked like there was no need for Ray to help him out just now.
He looked back at Brock, who was smirking proudly up at him. “I came when you did,” he confirmed, “but I’m happy to take a rain check.”
“Sold,” Ray said easily, bending down for a sloppy kiss. He got off the bed, once again ignoring the fact that he was still hard and ready. “Want to shower with me?” he asked, nodding toward the bathroom. “Danny and Marcel should be out soon.”
For an answer Brock climbed easily to his feet. He was still a tall and muscle-heavy guy, but strong and agile, and from the looks of it, full of energy. He seemed about to head around the bed and make for the bathroom with Ray, but then he paused and turned toward him, his expression clouded.
“Did you mean it? What you said?” he asked. There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, though when he met Ray’s eyes his gaze was steady.
Ray frowned, not sure what he meant, so Brock glanced down at himself quickly, then back up at Ray. Ah, Ray thought. Now he understood. He closed the distance between them and folded the taller man in an embrace.
“Your body is perfect, dude,” he sighed, grinning up at him. “You have no idea how perfect.”
Brock beamed down at him and bent for a kiss, and Ray had to stop himself from humping Brock’s hefty Momoapecs, however pleasant the prospect of doing so might be. He could wait until Brock was recharged and ready to go again. After all, he had a rain check to collect on.
The free-standing, professionally-made sign positioned outside the broad double doors to the convention center’s banquet hall read, WELCOME TO THE APEX KICK-OFF LUNCHEON MIXER—THANKS FOR COMING!
Ray couldn’t help smirking as he passed by it with Danny and Marcel. It was my pleasure, he thought smarmily. It really was, too. One might think that producing literally quart after quart of spunk over the course of a busy, fuck-filled morning would come with a trade-off in the ecstasy that innate human biology had cunningly married to the delirious spike of orgasm, but, as Ray could testify, if anything the prolonged releases of which he and Danny were now capable had the opposite effect: his frequent, endless climaxes seemed to produce a building, unstoppable euphoria that slowly intensified to mind-melting levels over the course of an open-ended, minutes-long superorgasm.
Not only that, but that heightened euphoria also seemed to tail off extremely slowly after full satiation and the final cessation of climax—so much so that even now, an hour after his latest cumfest, an extended multiplayer event starring himself, Danny, Marcel, and the downsized but still huge and very eager Brock, the effects of that lush, five-minute firehosing of hot, copious jizz erupting from deep inside his very soul (or at least, that was what it felt like) lingered sweetly in Ray’s mind and flesh, leaving him still half-floating in a pleasant, persistent compound afterglow that seemed stubbornly reluctant to fade to normalcy, long after the orgasm itself was only a beautiful memory. It had been quite a mutual pleasuring, and it was only after lolling in bed together for a good half an hour that Brock had wandered off into the other room to see how randy his friends were, chest hair on his Momoa-pecs thick with smelly spunk, while Ray, Marcel, and Danny laughingly took yet another shower.
Feeling out his new reality in the semi-contemplative clean-up-and-make-out interludes between fucks, Ray had already noted an interesting and unexpected side-effect of his seemingly-limitless extended-climax pleasure-building. On the one hand, the rush that came with cumming now was so extreme it was almost addictive, and with a little less self-control it was easy to picture himself seeking orgasms as constantly as he could arrange. And yet, the lingering afterglow he got to experience for hours afterwards was itself so gratifying, Ray found himself enjoying its effects for its own sake. Right now, Ray felt good enough that he didn’t need to cum again right away—though he had to admit he certainly wouldn’t object to doing so, and just at the very thought of cumming his heavy cock, mostly flaccid for once but always alert, perked up and chubbed tentatively against the compression boxer-briefs his retconned past self had apparently special-ordered in quantity, waiting excitedly for stimulation.
Ray wanted to roll his eyes at his own junk’s carnal obduracy. It might be soft for the moment, at least relatively so, but these days it was hard to get around the fact that his upgraded dick and simmering libido responded pretty much instantly to anything manly and sexual, up to and including idle musings about the nature of his own sustained climaxing and the (as it were) mounting pleasure it provided. Not that Ray could exactly blame his body for reacting that way. Extraordinarily euphoric, unremitting orgasming as an unanticipated boomerang effect of his escalating magical meddling in his boss’s once-bland sex life turned out to be a kink that Ray hadn’t known he’d had, flipping his switches even more than the original blowback effect of a 17-inch monster cock he would absolutely self-suck all day long if there weren’t a crowd of guys around all the time these days willing to do it for him.
Ray looked over at his boss as they entered the banquet hall where the luncheon mixer was being held. He was one of those guys that would suck Ray off in a heartbeat. Danny had already said, in so many words, that loved the taste of Ray’s cock, and Ray had watched him lick his lips at the semisweet tang of Ray’s copious spend. (And yes, his jizz was just a bit darkly sweet now compared to before, and so was Danny’s, though still with the full, salty-bitter savor of regular cum. Given the mechanism the magic had used the retrofit their cocks and amplified orgasms, Ray was sure he didn’t need to wonder why.) Of course, Danny had the boosted libido thing too—and, thanks to that interrupted resolution from last night, Danny’s curved, 13-inch beauty was now achingly, lickably hard and ready to blast literally all the time. Danny was boned right row, Ray knew, and he wondered if it was his imagination that he thought he could almost feel Danny’s raging boner, calling out to him, begging for the slaking other men wanted to give it.
The hard-on itself wasn’t visibly obvious at the moment, at least, not unless you knew what you were looking for. Thanks to his gradually boosted size and horniness, Danny, or so Ray gathered, had found himself rocking a stiffie more and more over the last few months, even before the sudden jolt into permaboner territory. The Danny of the retconned recent past had therefore taken to stocking a few ace bandages in his messenger bag to bind his thick erection in place when he needed to do lawyerly things, and he’d brought some on this trip as well. He’d giggled as Ray and Marcel had wrapped the tough elastic pressure bandage tightly around his trim midsection as they’d finally started getting ready for the mixer, telling Ray and Marcel it made him feel like he was concealing his secret identity, which he suggested might be called “Boner Man”. As Ray had pointed out, however, Danny preferred the white kind of compression bandage over the usual brown specifically because it resembled a sarashi, the white lower-torso bindings badass bushido bad boys wore under their long, flapping coats in Japanese anime and manga; so—logically—Danny needed a manga-esque hero name rather than an American comic book-style moniker. Marcel agreed and promised to consult his anime-obsessed brother on the subject, but Danny just shook his head with a smile, and Ray knew him well enough to know he was thinking he was the least anime-badass person they knew—though Ray had already clocked a few notches’ worth of improvement in Danny’s self-confidence since the changes started. There was an intrigued glint in his eye as he deep-kissed Ray and Marcel in thanks, both for the compliment that he might resemble a sexy anime antihero and the fantasy they’d slipped into his psyche of what it would like to be one.
Danny’s fat, arcing dick still made a bulge even under its tight pseudo-sarashi, but when Danny put on a loose, moderately heavy dress shirt and a suit jacket (no tie) the main effect of his rock-hard mega-manhood being literally under wraps was, ironically, to make it look like Danny had a bit of a pudge around his midsection, like he’d eaten too much kielbasa rather than him smuggling one under his clothes. Maybe he had a point with the secret identity thing, Ray thought, amused.
As they entered the mixer Danny spotted someone he knew and, tossing Ray and Marcel a wink, moved off into the crowd. There were already a few dozen milling lawyers in various attire, jackets, sweatshirts, polos, and so on, some carrying plates of nosh or clear plastic cups of juice or soda, with few more sitting around the fifteen or so medium-sized round white tables on the other side of the hall and others watching from the edges. Most were fit and handsome, as usual. Though a broader spectrum of LGBTQ and allied legal professionals attended the conference as a whole, by some fluke the first-day luncheon mixer had acquired a reputation as a meat market; Ray, who tended to be all but invisible as a mere assistant in most lawyerly contexts, had managed to overhear various attendees at past gatherings swapping stories about how they’d joined cross-fit or started a new Vision Quest-style diet-and-push-ups regimen months earlier just to look good for APEX. Ray had to admit that whatever these guys were doing, it was working. He hadn’t seen a roomful of guys this hot and well-proportioned since the last time he’d gone clubbing at Latz—though this bunch was a much more interesting mix of ages and backgrounds than he’d seen at any of the demo-focused gay bars and discos he’d frequented in the past. The ambiance was low-key and inviting, too: the lighting was muted rather than garish, and a pleasant murmur of conversation surrounded them, subtly dampened by well-engineered acoustics—though Ray noticed that underneath the hubbub was a low undertow of almost objectionably bland jazz. Ray briefly considered finding the room’s audio controls later and nudging the music over into something less soulless. Were they in Austin or weren’t they? Remembering Marcel’s excellent LP collection he was sure he’d have an ally and co-conspirator should it come to that.
“I can see why you always insist on coming to this,” Marcel said, sidling up to Ray and looking out over the expanse of hotties with interest. As he’d been thinking about the music it took Ray a second to latch onto what he meant.
“Pfft,” Ray scoffed. He resisted a very strong urge to turn and kiss him, keeping his eyes the crowd of buff gay attorneys instead. Anyway, they’d been making out the whole way down in the elevator. “You’re an actor on a soap opera,” Ray added. “You’re surrounded by dreamboats all day long.”
“They’re not that great,” Blake said unexpectedly from behind them. Ray looked over his shoulder in surprise. Sure enough, the tall, preppy paralegal was standing right behind them, though he hadn’t come down with Ray, Danny, and Marcel. Standing there, dressed and in daylight, it was hard to miss the way he had gone from tight and fit to hard and bulging fitness-mag cover model, particularly given the skin-tight clingy long-sleeved cobalt-blue tee Ray didn’t recognize that showed everything—rather a change from Blake’s usual Connecticut country club attire.
It also made a striking contrast to their own outfits. Ray had on a comfy but unremarkable celery-green Oxford, the kind of thing he always wore to these things—though today it was, not inexplicably, a little tight in the chest. Marcel’s top was a vibrant yellow and brown Aztec-patterned button-down that Ray liked rather a lot. He’d picked the shirt out himself from Marcel’s luggage after their last orgasm-and-shower cycle, appreciating its jazzy graphics and colors and the way its European cut subtly showed off Marcel’s TV-star bod and its short cuffs allowed the cute zombie-tattoo stitching on his right wrist to peek out.
Otherwise Blake was close to normal for him. His platinum-blond hair looked a little long for him but perfectly coiffed as always. Though he stood close and seemed very aware of their presence, his blue eyes were scanning the crowd of legal professionals rather than looking at either of them.
It was not lost on Ray that an event like this was as much about networking for the paralegals as it was for the attorneys, and he realized with a sudden pang that Blake being snatched away for big bucks by some swank firm—a fate both Blake and Ray had been secretly hoping for the last time they’d stood here—was something Ray no longer wanted to see happen. He’d resisted the idea all yesterday as best he could, but… had the “guys get along around Danny” resolution for real started turning Ray and Blake’s bristly relationship into some weird kind of friendship? If so, that might just be the strngest resolution side-effect of all.
“What?” Ray responded, slightly dazed by his own revelation about himself and Blake. What were they talking about? The guys on Hot Springs Harbor?
Blake still wasn’t looking at them as he gazed out over the mixer attendees. Ray noted that this had the effect of emphasizing Blake’s superior height compared to both the classically short Ray and the slightly taller Marcel. Okay, maybe “friendship” might be a step too far.
“They’re not that great,” Blake repeated authoritatively. “Marcel’s the only real hunk in the whole cast.” He said it airily, almost as if Marcel weren’t standing right there; but after a second Blake’s lips were quirking slightly, and Ray was pretty sure that was a reaction to the soft smile Marcel was giving him.
Ray looked between them with… somewhat conflicted emotions. After that ugly scene at the party and Blake’s breakdown at the office, Ray genuinely wanted a détente between Marcel and Blake, for both their sakes. His own growing tolerance/attraction toward Blake felt like a part of that, too, like the three of them were achieving a kind of emotional/sexual equilibrium. That didn’t exactly mean he wanted Marcel and Blake to wander off and rekindle their former intimacy, though. Not without him, anyway.
“So,” Ray said pointedly, “where’s your new other half?”
Blake finally met his gaze briefly, giving him a slightly amused look. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand his meaning or his intent, either. “Archer’s suit shopping,” he said blandly, returning his gaze to the crowd. “He likes to have one nice suit from every city he visits.” Blake disclosed this tidbit as though it were an endearing quirk—which, perhaps, it was, Ray decided, if ridiculously one-percenter. “The others decided to join him,” he added. “They’ll be by later.”
“Uh huh. And… is that his shirt?” Ray asked, nodding at the vacuum-tight blue top he was wearing.
Blake glanced down at himself, brushing a hand slowly over his extremely firm pecs and granite abs, all of which were revealed by the thin, stretchy fabric in exquisite detail, as if helpless to prevent his own touch—though Blake’s caress actually seemed more for the shirt than for the physique underneath, as though it were Archer he was giving affection to through his borrowed compression top. “It is,” Blake admitted. “Mine wasn’t fitting me somehow, and Archer…”
“You look good,” Marcel broke in. “You should dress like that more. Relaxed and…revealing.”
Blake looked up at him, a little suspicious. “You told me once I was too full of myself,” he said, with the slightest edge of the old Blake’s peevishness. “You said I should stop peacocking and showing off.”
“Exactly,” Marcel said. “No need to put a neon frame around l’Adonis.”
Blake gave him an odd look. “He’s right,” Ray agreed, surprising himself. “Just be your usual hot self.”
Blake turned the odd look on him, a small line between his platinum eyebrows. “Hm,” he said at last, as if thinking about how he presented himself to the world might be worth a review at that. He turned his piercing blue gaze out onto the crowd again, and Ray and Marcel followed suit.
By now Danny was already deep into the mix of men, and Ray watched in fascination as the sensory impact of his boss’s presence seemed to work its way subliminally through the crowd like nanoshockwaves of interest and arousal rippling out through the attendees from the epicenter, Danny himself.
The effect showed itself in subtle ways. Before, invisible tides and eddies moved various attendees through a complicated natural quadrille as they moved randomly among each other, shifting from group to group and conversation to conversation. Now, though, the crowd seemed to be tightening into clusters of two, three, and four, standing close and eyes each other with friendly, intimate smiles as they spoke. Plates of finger foods and plastic beverage cups were being handed off half-finished to the tall, hunky cater waiters circulating among them, as though a general consensus had unconsciously developed having to do with the freeing up of hands and the shedding of distractions. Around Danny himself was a tight cluster of eight or ten guys of various races, heights, ages, and builds, some engaging with him in animated discussion, others listening closely, their hands drifting to nearby shoulders or waists. Unabashed bulges swept through the crowd as the air itself seemed to heat, dress slacks and pressed chinos showing roundish protuberances or pipe-like lengths pushing against dark cotton, worsted wool, or stretchy poly blends.
At the edges of the banquet hall stood little knots like Ray’s, some (as in their case) employees and paras, others shyer groups of actual attorneys. All these groups were standing close together as if good-looking, well-build men were becoming physically magnetized toward each other and naturally drew as close as possible; all eyes were on larger group of men who seemed to be progressing slowly toward the inevitable expression of the palpable physical amity that was now permeating the room. Even the tall, built-looking cater waiters in their white shirts, gold vests, and black pants were starting to cluster on the fringes in couples and trios, whispering and watching the crowd with rapt attention as they stood as close together as they could manage.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Blake said in a low, husky voice. Ray, jarred slightly from a profound, almost mesmeric state of slow-building arousal, noticed for the first time that his shoulder was pressed hard against Marcel’s, and their fingers were brushing mindlessly against each other. More alarmingly, his monster cock was working its way free from the balled-up and compressed condition he had packed it away in. If things proceeded that way he’d soon have a 17-inch iron bar shoving straight down his leg, which would be rather intolerable for a number of reasons.
Blake moved closer, resting his hands firmly on Ray’s and Marcel’s shoulders and causing both of them to react with matching shivers of pleasure. Their hands finally grasped each other, hard, palm on palm, their fingers interlacing after a moment’s steadying grip.
“It’s like he makes everyone around him horny as fuck,” Blake rasped. “Why is that?” His hands began stroking their modestly well-muscled traps and delts through their shirts, and Ray’s cock started trying to get hard in earnest. He made a feeble attempt to force it back mentally into detumescence, but it wasn’t listening—and the honest truth was that Ray very much wanted whatever was about to happen.
One of the watching pairs of guys on the fringe near them, a skinny, dark-skinned African-American in a blue blazer and an even skinnier dirty-blond beanpole in a linen suit with short hair and a fuzzy beard, were gently humping as they watched the show, the beanpole in front despite being taller, his friend’s arms wrapped loosely around him from behind. In the crowd itself, three tanned, dark-haired, exceptionally pretty and well-coiffed attorneys standing near Danny, so close in appearance Ray thought wryly they looked like they might be from the same pod, were the first to abandon conversation and just start casually making out like that was what you did at these things, their hands on each other’s backs under their suit coats. Two more on the other side, Latinos twenty years apart but equally smoking hot and already standing so close together they were practically in a clinch, started spontaneously doing the same thing in mid-discussion, again as though it were all perfectly natural.
Blake was moving closer to Ray and Marcel, too, the warmth of his hard body palpable behind them. All the while he was still trying to puzzle things out, like he was working through the facts of a case to himself. “I’d posit that they’re sensing his giant cock somehow, and get all mind-fucked by how huge it is,” he was saying, voice still rough and saturated with arousal. “But Ray here is even bigger.”
At this Blake’s right hand slid languidly off Ray’s shoulder and down his torso until he was cupping Ray’s crotch and the root of his mostly-freed, swiftly hardening tool.
Ray gasped, desire pouring through him like a punctured dye pack, and he gripped Marcel’s hand tighter as though he might sluice some of the excess need off into him. “I thought you didn’t like it,” he panted. He’d tried to say “my cock”, but… even after all he’d done and everything he’d changed about the universe he found himself weirdly uncomfortable saying the word “cock,” not aloud in a crowded room.
Not that anyone in the room would have minded, or noticed. More couples and threesomes were making out now, almost like that was the stated purpose of this gathering. All the guys clustered close in around Danny were touching him now as well as each other. On the far side of the room, one of the cater waiters had divested the two buddies he was with of their vests and was starting in on their shirts as they took turns kissing each other.
Blake bent low and whispered in Ray’s ear. Because he chose the left ear, his words seemed intended for Marcel, too. “I like cock,” Blake hissed, leaning on the word as if taunting Ray’s hang-up over it. “Right now,” he went on mercilessly, “I very much want to suck your cock, Ray.” He licked the edge of Ray’s earlobe, then did the same to Marcel. “I want me and Marcel to suck your giant dick together.”
“Oh la vache,” Marcel whispered, making Ray smile as he remembered the first time he’d heard Marcel utter that curse. His skin felt very hot in Ray’s hand, and Ray had no doubt his long, beautiful, uncut dick was very, very hard. Only the constraints of his clothes and the shreds of decorum Ray felt he had to cling to as a civilized human being in public were keeping Ray from being fully and rigidly boned himself.
Out on the floor everyone was kissing, as though conversation among good-looking gay men had been outmoded and magically replaced by a friendly snog… which Ray supposed it sort of had been, at least for anyone who got close to Danny. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder, somewhere in his heated mind, if the effect were persistent. When they got back to their hotels or to wherever they came from, would it keep up? Would those three pretty-boy pod-guys keep making out naturally from now on, whenever they met? Would the cater waters be constantly snogging and undressing each other? Or did you have to be physically—
Danny started happily kissing two of the guys in front of him, a very cute mixed-race looking guy in frameless glasses and a blocky, ex-boy-next-door aging quarterback type. Next to them, a balding, chunky but fit DILF in a rugby shirt dropped to his knees with an excited look on his face, and though Danny’s back was to Ray sand the others watching it was clear the DILF’s eyes were fixed on the bound but discernable bulge of Danny’s massive cock under his shirt. He got to work freeing it. The guy next to him, a darker, suave-looking Valentino-Mediterraneo type, decided to drop down and join him, his focused expression one of someone wanting to help a friend out with a puzzle.
“Jesus Christ,” Ray swore. His tattered “decorum” was torn away from its moorings and sent flapping away into the sky and lost from sight by the stiff winds of pervasive sex. Letting go of Marcel’s hand he swiveled, reached up his hand behind Blake’s neck and the other around Marcel’s, and brought those smirking, full lips down on both their mouths. They kissed sloppily for a few minutes—and fuck, it really did feel like this was the most completely normal means of interaction between them—but Ray’s problem could not wait long. He broke free and growled, “Help me get it free before it fucking strangles itself.”
Blake paused to give Marcel a smugly raised eyebrow—Ray knew it meant “See? We merely large-dicked ten-inch dudes don’t have this kind of problem”—but then joined a grinning Marcel in shoving their hands down Ray’s (fortunately loose-cut) trousers and working to wrench Ray’s almost-erect cock to a vertical position. “Argh!” Ray hissed. “Don’t break it!”
Soon it was standing free and tall, splotchy red and fully exposed in front of a celery broadcloth scrim, its subtle veins pulsing with Ray’s almost unbearable need. There were exclamations from nearby—some of the spectators on the edge of the mixer must have caught sight of Ray’s monster in their peripheral vision and turned to stare in awe—but then Blake and Marcel bent as one to mouth and lick Ray’s extremely rigid, heat-radiating, precum-slick chest-high cocktower, and for Ray the entire universe contacted to the seventeen magnificent inches of Ray’s pleasure and all the things his two cock-worshipping friends were doing, and were going to be doing, to drive him into brain-gooifying bliss. Ray closed his eyes, wanting to drown in this beautifully complex, exquisitely simple sensation and never let it end.
And yet, even as he slid his hands through their hair—Blake’s, thin and abundant, the order-imposing product giving way to Ray’s carding fingers; Marcel’s, thicker and familiar now to his massages—Ray knew Danny was back there in the room behind him. Danny, being sucked and pleasured, that long tongue causing exhilaration in the men taking turns kissing him, his unconscious, radiating influence subtly but inexorably reshaping the behavior of those around him. He was sure he could almost feel it, like a soft presence at his back, seeping through the three of them, egging on their arousal and their need for friendly, affectionate intimacy with each other, guiding their lives into slightly new channels.
It felt so good. He couldn’t get enough. He wanted more of this, all over. Ray’s mouth in particular felt left out; he wished he could kiss Blake and Marcel while they were lapping their long tongues together up the wide shaft of his ultra-rigid, constantly leaking dick…
And then he was being kissed. He didn’t even know by whom, one mouth turning his head toward a male figure on his left, while another, broader form pressed against him from behind, kissing and nipping at Ray’s neck from the right. Ray moaned, long and rough, and felt his pleasure surge exponentially. The soft beard of the man kissing him brushed against Ray’s cheeks and chin… was this the cute beanpole he’d spotted pressed up against his slightly larger friend before? But then their warm, questing tongues met and Ray eagerly and willingly sank back into pure, irrational ecstasy, everything forgotten but what he was feeling and the catastrophic orgasm he was going to be releasing very, very soon.
Sensing that Ray was moving rapidly into the final stretch, Blake and Marcel each wrapped a hand around the base of Ray’s cock, gripping firmly despite their fingers not quite meeting while they moved their mouths in spine-tingling tandem up the shaft toward Ray’s pre-bubbling head. Another hand joined theirs, long-fingered and strong—from the angle Ray figured this must be the stranger who was ever-so-deftly kissing him. An arm reached around him from behind, stroking his firm, modestly improved pecs, while a stiff cock pressed amiably against the crease of his round, hard butt.
Ray moaned again into his kiss, the combination of pleasures becoming too much. Blake and Marcel reached his sensitive cockhead and seemed to be play-fighting over who controlled the stimulation of its pre-spurting tip, each gently pushing the other aside and then getting shoved back out of the way like a game of king of the cock-hill, each swipe across his tingling gland sending paroxysms of amazing enjoyment through Ray’s overstimulated body. The man behind him kept the full press of his body against Ray’s, his talented mouth sliding up Ray’s neck to that sensitive sweet spot just under the very edge of his jaw. Then the gripping hands started moving—the three hands sliding teasingly up and down the bottom half of Ray’s enormous shaft. Other hands, too: the hand stroking his chest, another gliding along his buff shoulders, another sliding along his left flank—and suddenly it was all too much. His whole body stiffened and he whimpered into the escalating kiss as an orgasm seemed to swell rapidly through his whole body. Ray shivered and thrilled, barely keeping the presence of mind not to grip Blake’s and Marcel’s heads as hard as he could as he barreled into his release. The change in his body and stance told them what was coming and they mouthed and licked and sucked his cockhead expectantly, wanting to taste and drink deep, the three hands stroking his slippery shaft all the way up and down now, driving him straight toward unstoppable climax.
Then all at once he erupted, the sensation so complete and consuming it felt as though he were being turned inside out as huge quantities of cum jetted hotly up his cock and sprayed out as if from a punctured high-pressure container. Blake and Marcel took turns eagerly guzzling all they could, still smilingly pushing each other aside to swallow up ridiculous amounts of Ray-cum as he spurted and spurted and spurted, gasping and grunting through his now-messy kiss. Another jet hit him and he came harder, then again, leaving him dazed and drowning in pleasure as his climax finally, finally subsided.
After a while he realized he wasn’t so much standing as leaning his weight against the thin but strongly built man behind him. He was looking down, and as his focused again the cum-spattered blue sleeve and dark-skinned hand still slowly fondling his pecs behind his still towering cock told him he’d guessed right about who his new friends were. Sure enough, when he looked up and to the left he saw the smiling, fuzzy-bearded face of the skinny, linen-suited man he’d noticed before. His dirty-blond hair was short and fine and very straight, the apparent fuzziness of his beard coming more from the density and softness of its short-trimmed bristles than any nonexistent curl. He was older than Ray had guessed at first glance, maybe in his early forties if the faint laugh lines near his bright gray eyes were any indication; but Ray guessed he was often mistaken for someone a lot younger than he was. The man was smiling affectionately at Ray, and as Blake and Marcel stood the bearded stranger gave Ray a short, deep kiss that seemed like a hello—the new handshake, maybe, of those men who spent any amount of time around post-resolutions Danny.
“I’m Jeremy,” the man said in a sexy, thick Georgia accent, giving him a huge, friendly smile. He then nodded toward the man Ray was shamelessly leaning against. “This here’s my partner, Elias,” he added, and Ray had to wonder what kind of “partner” Jeremy meant, and whether that implied meaning had changed in the last fifteen minutes.
Ray turned and smiled at the handsome dark-skinned man—he was more bookish-looking than he’d noticed before, and definitely younger than Jeremy; the body he could still feel pressing against his was firm and athletic, like Elias might enjoy regular and extremely competitive bouts of tennis or squash amidst his lawyering. Elias grinned affably back at him and they shared the same “hello” kiss that he’d enjoyed with Jeremy. “Sorry about your blazer,” Ray said to Elias when they were done briefly tonguing each other. “I’ll, um, pay for the dry cleaning.”
Elias tilted his head philosophically. “No worries,” he said, his accent likewise Georgian though slightly different from Jeremy’s, like he was from another part of the state. His voice was a few tones deeper, too. “These things happen,” he added.
Do they? Ray thought, still a little dazed. That persistent, intoxicating after-glow effect was still washing through him and would be for a while, but he hoped his thinking ability would come back soon.
“Blake,” intruded his colleague, wiping his swollen lips and introducing himself to Jeremy with a slightly aggressive smile, like he wanted the man to know he had first dibs on Ray (which he so did not, Ray thought to himself, no matter how talented a cock-worshipper he was). Blake’s hair was mussed, but not as mussed as it should have been—he must have already smoothed it down.
Jeremy just smiled back and they shared a deep “hello” kiss.
Meanwhile, Marcel was trying to quickly wipe away the cum around his mouth as well, not completely successfully, before grinning up at Elias over Ray’s shoulder. “Hi, I’m Marcel,” he said, his Gallic lilt feeling like a caress to Ray’s still uberstimulated senses. Ray being shorter than both of them—both Jeremy and Elias were even taller than Blake—meant that it was easy for Marcel and Elias to lean forward and exchange the now-customary deep kiss of greeting, with Ray sandwiched cozily between them.
Introductions thus accomplished, with an effort Ray straightened and took his own weight. Elias remained behind him, though, his arm holding Ray close. “Y’all lawyers here?” Jeremy asked conversationally.
Ray glanced at Blake, expecting him to jump in and proclaim his status and achievements, but uncharacteristically Blake refrained and looked to Ray to answer, as if he were the center of things. Weird. “Uh, Blake and I work for Danny Louden,” Ray explained. “And Marcel’s a TV star.”
Marcel was about to object to this characterization, but Elias broke in. “I thought I recognized you!” he said. “Hot Springs Harbor, right? You’re the personal trainer. Even more handsome in person,” he added, sounding like he meant it as a simple, honest description.
Marcel smiled crookedly. “Yeah, that’s me,” he admitted bashfully. “I don’t know why, but I still get surprised when people know me from the show. I’ve only been on it a few months.”
“And you’re the hottest guy in the cast, like I said,” Blake put in, giving Marcel a friendly smooch that Ray, in his current elated state, didn’t mind too much.
Jeremy gave Ray’s cock a squeeze, and Ray belatedly realized that the man’s strong, long-fingered hand was still wrapped around Ray’s mostly-hard shaft, just above Blake’s and Marcel’s. “So,” he drawled, “you think this Danny can spare y’all for a little while? Because I just woke up not long ago with a hankering for real, honest-to-goodness thick-sliced French toast with powdered sugar and a side of bacon… and I gotta say, these mini roast-beef sliders and the fresh fruit in yogurt dip they got here ain’t going to do it for me.”
Ray thought about this. He turned enough to see what was going on the main part of the mixer, only to quickly ascertain that Danny, now bare-chested and surrounded by at least twelve very turned-on and very friendly guys, some on their knees and others pleasuring all the rest of him, was not going to be done with what he was doing anytime soon. His boss might have cum already—that sure looked like globs of spunk that one pretty-boy pod guy was licking off Danny’s shoulder—but clearly that first climax had been only the beginning.
Ray drew in a deep breath and, consciously avoiding thinking about his own strange role in dramatically changing things for Danny and of all these strangers (which was easy enough to do in his present state), gave Jeremy a serene, half-blissed smile. “That sounds fine,” he said. He was hungry—he knew he needed to eat before cumming again—and right then sharing a meal with four hot and horny friends sounded like the perfect intermezzo before his next explosive orgasm.
As it happened, from previous convention visits Ray knew of a nice little upscale diner nearby that served excellent Texas-style French toast, among other things, and once they’d made themselves as presentable as they could—there wasn’t too much Ray could do about the stubbornly not-quite-flaccid bulge down his right pant-leg—the five of them headed out.
As the little group moved through the banquet room’s wide entrance into the gaudily-carpeted corridor beyond, Ray noted the heavy double doors propped open on either side and paused. Should he close them and give the recreating lawyers, associates, and cater waiters within some semblance of privacy? He looked back, but only two or three hot couples were in view, hungrily making out but still fully clothed; the Danny-cluster of horny, cumming, half- (or more-than-half-) naked men all writhing together at the center of the mixer was just out of view of random passers-by. While he stood there a young-looking, white-blond-haired attendee in a brown henley, slacks, and white tennis shoes passed him, heading into the room. His eyes widened and his forward momentum stalled, but he must have come under the influence of Danny’s orgy-heightened “aroused and affectionate” penumbra almost immediately, judging by the awed smile that spread across his face and the easy accession with which he let himself be drawn into a sloppy, and very handsy, deep-kissing three-way snog with a pair of lanky, ties-askew South Asian hotties.
“Hey, Supercock! Y’all coming or what?”
Ray grimaced, looking back the other way to see the rest of his little band had stopped to wait for him a few yards down the long side corridor connecting the banquet room to the third-floor elevator lobby. Jeremy was closest, smirking playfully at him and unable to help the occasional glance at the bulge of his massive, half-hard cock he’d barely managed to force down his trousers, but the others were also watching him with undisguised amusement: Elias’s smile was steady and unperturbed, Marcel’s eyes were bright and happy, and Blake was looking smug at the way Ray’s cock earned him a little too much attention. They probably assumed he had hung back because he was considering diving into the cum-scrum after all, he thought. Who wouldn’t? There had to be some kind of go-with-the-flow factor built into the resolution-magic—none of the rest of them were worrying about the what-ifs.
Though… as he caught Blake’s eye he realized that wasn’t quite true. Blake had in fact been wondering aloud before about why Danny was increasingly surrounded by hard cocks and mashing mouths; and just now he was giving Ray a very shrewd look, as if it had been niggling at the tall, preppy paralegal that Ray seemed somehow more aware of what was going on and why than everyone else. Maybe Blake’s analytical mind was a little too dangerous to have around.
Choosing not to deal with that problem just yet, Ray instead turned his gaze to Jeremy and tossed his own smirk back at him. “Not yet,” he said, trotting over to join them. As he reached them, Elias draped a pleasantly heavy arm around his shoulders, and Marcel wrapped his own arm around his waist from the other side, holding him tight enough for Ray to appreciate his wiry-yet-impressive strength as they walked. Ray hadn’t always been thrilled about being shorter than most of the guys around him, but today he was finding all the pressed-between-two-tall-guys stuff pretty gratifying.
“And don’t think you’re going to get away with calling me that, either,” he added to Jeremy, who was walking just ahead of his partner, his grin framed by his light and sexy beard.
“Calling you what?” Jeremy asked innocently, though his tone was rather belied by the fire in his eyes as he looked back at Ray.
Elias chuckled softly. “P’rhaps we could come up with a better name for it,” he mused in his deep Georgia drawl.
Ray rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I—” he started to object.
“Le Tour Eiffel?” Marcel suggested.
“For Pete’s sake—” Ray tried again.
“Too pointy,” Jeremy spoke over him, shaking his head. “We need something tall and thick, like, uh—”
“An ICBM?” That was Blake. They’d reached the bustling main lobby of the convention center/hotel complex, and Blake had stopped, bringing the rest of them to a halt as well, all of them looking at him. Just the way he likes it, Ray thought, though he found he more amused than peeved, as he would previously have been at Blake’s deft talent for the others’ attention. And Ray was not unaware of how much he himself did not mind looking at Blake, especially when he was wearing a shirt like this one that assiduously highlighted every curve and sinew of his hard-won, extremely defined power-swimmer’s physique. Ray almost felt guilty at his own magically boosted, if still demure, pecs—Blake had worked hard for his body even before he’d grown in height and aesthetic perfection to match his new demi-god mentor, and finally being past their long-ingrained mutual hostility meant Ray could appreciate the now-6’4”-plus cocky Adonis for his outstanding, and extremely alluring, appeal. His heavy cock twitched, ready as ever to inflate at a moment’s notice, and he hastily looked away from the tight, chiseled abs he’d been staring at, his mouth slightly open in lustful appreciation; though he knew there was next to no chance Blake hadn’t noticed his admiring perusal and marked himself a little win whatever sort of sex-games tote-board he had in his head.
Jeremy was pointing at Blake, bobbing his finger at him in approval. “Exactly,” Marcel agreed. “Something like that.” Elias looked inspired and thoughtful, as though he were mentally running through a list of potential missile-based names for Ray’s giant wang.
Ignoring them, Ray cocked his head up at Blake, wondering why he’d stopped them. “You’re not coming to brunch with us?” he guessed.
Blake hummed in agreement, his look suggesting he again found Ray’s alertness suggestive of something lake couldn’t quite put his finger on. “I need to head back to the room and answer some emails,” he said. Eyeing Ray up and down he added drily, “Some of us are here for more than fucking.”
Ray’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise, but the jibe was delivered without venom, and Blake followed it up by bending down and giving Ray the deep kiss—with tongue—that was now the Danny-infected crowd’s all-purpose hello/goodbye before turning and sauntering off toward the elevators. As he walked his magnificent, perfectly rounded ass attracted more than a few stares, not least from Ray and his little group. Ray himself was suddenly aware of how much he wanted to shove his gigantic pole of a cock into that ass, repeatedly and with extreme, balls-slapping penetration for hours until he exploded ridiculous amounts of hot, high-pressure cum deep into Blake’s guts, and once again he had to look away abruptly, using every mental trick he could think of to keep his eager, irrepressible monster dick from violently ripping his pants open from knee to crotch in an effort to get at Blake’s luscious muscle-butt.
Elias’s mind must have gone to someplace similar, though, because as they turned and headed for the revolving doors, him and Marcel still hugging a flushed, half-aroused Ray from either side while Jeremy walked just ahead of them, he suddenly blurted out, “Polaris!”
They all stopped again briefly, Elias grinning brightly at each of them in turn. Jeremy was nodding. Marcel looked confused but intrigued, but rather than asking what he meant he pulled out his phone and looked it up. “You mean the missile, yes?” he asked after a second, calling up an article with a picture of the fat, elegantly-tipped, 32-foot rocket. “Because that is perfect.”
“You are not naming it Polaris,” Ray groused in warning, but his reaction only seemed to clinch the adoption of the unwanted moniker with the other three, all of whom were smirking at him.
“C’mon, Polaris-dick,” Jeremy drawled with a saucy wink, turning and heading once more for the doors out to the street. “Let’s go power up.”
Marcel looked around the cowboy-themed diner with interest. Growing up in Bordeaux he’d imagined most of America as Texas-esque, with sprawling ranches, tiny towns, cowboys, and guns on every hip. This was only fair, he’d later decided, given that a lot of Americans seemed to think France was a population of baguette-eating, cigarette-smoking wine-snob hipsters whose homes were all in the shadow of one Paris landmark or another. So it was fun to see this restaurant deliberately invoking all the Lone Star tropes it could manage, including corral-like decor framing the sky-blue walls, booths that put you in mind of horse-stalls (hopefully without the mucking out the latter tended to require), and wait staff decked out on denim shirts accented with red bandannas knotted around the neck, straight-cut jeans, and every kind of cowboy boots you could imagine. The bright-smiling, blond-maned hostess even had a perky, rose-colored straw cowboy hat to top off her ensemble. Too bad the servers didn’t get them too, Marcel thought as she led them to one of the spacious booths near the front window. The right hat—a white Stetson, say—on a couple of these waiters would look “right nice”, as they said in “these parts”. Especially the wide-shouldered one with the sun-baked tan, pale jeans, and very round butt currently greeting a family of tourists a few booths down.
Marcel shook his head and offered Ray a slightly chagrinned smile, though Ray’s smile back as they settled into the booth opposite their new friends, Ray and Jeremy on the inside nearest the window, suggested he hadn’t picked up on Marcel’s momentary appreciation of the pleasantly proportioned server. Marcel was a little ashamed nonetheless. Despite his obsession with huge cock he had always thought of himself as proudly monogamous; it was in his nature to give his affections only to the man he liked. He’d never been tempted to stray when he was with Blake, even refusing the threesome Blake had suggested with his slutty, 11-inch castmate Dean at that first cast party when Blake had had a few too many. And now Marcel had a truly beautiful man, with a cock bigger and more lovely than he had ever imagined possible, and yet on their very first night together he had been lulled into the embrace of Ray’s handsome, tremendously hung boss with him; and ever since, no matter how hard he tried to focus solely on Ray, his suddenly untamable libido kept his eyes roving to all the sexy men that seemed to crop up anywhere and everywhere Ray and Danny went. Just because it all happened so organically, and Ray didn’t seem to mind, did not make it easy to accept.
He settled himself against Ray in the booth, and was rewarded with a happy wiggle of Ray’s butt against his as the four of them took their gigantic, multipage menus from the hostess. At least he could be certain of one thing: Ray truly liked him, at least as much as he liked Ray, and that mutual fondness went well beyond the primal, intoxicating sex neither of them seemed to be able to help sharing with all the hot and horny guys around them. Even as he’d helped Blake worship Ray’s cock back at the mixer, he’d known that Blake being a part of it had just been about everyone getting off. He couldn’t wait until the next time he and Ray were alone, just them, and he could show his man the real depths of his admiration.
His anus squeezed as Marcel thought about Ray’s gorgeously oversized manhood. Soon, he told it. Soon, you will be ready, and you will take him—all of him.
Marcel was still puzzling out the cowboy-themed entries on the brunch menu—were flapjacks the same as pancakes? was there really such a thing as breakfast tacos?—when he heard the clattering of china, and he looked up to see the tanned and wide-shouldered server he’d been admiring was plunking down a round of coffee unasked-for, in wide-mouthed mugs that looked more like soup bowls with handles than anything a breakfast brew might come in. Marcel glanced up at the waiter in surprise, and was nearly felled by his blinding smile. “Cream and sweetener’s right there if you need it,” the waiter drawled quietly, his accent local and very sexy, and as the others were still behind their menus the words, the smile, and the wink all seemed like they were just for him. Marcel felt his skin heating in a mix of arousal and embarrassment, and he looked away, toward the caddy of sweetener packets the handsome, tanned, dark-eyebrowed, and sweetly muscular waiter had mentioned—only to get an entirely new shock. There, right in front of the white packets, the pink packets, the blue packets, and the yellow packets, were several of the distinctively kiwi-green sachets of a certain controversial, recalled, impossible-to-find all-natural sweetener Marcel now knew was the secret of Ray’s growth in size, stamina, and cum-production over the last few months.
KiSweet. They had KiSweet.
He looked quickly up at the waiter, and what he was thinking must have been written on his face because the waiter just smiled even wider and nodded down at his own crotch. Marcel followed his gaze downward and barely refrained from gasping—the straining wad of fat cock pushing out the waiter’s fly made it look like he was smuggling a mango or two down there. Stunned, he met the waiter’s gray-green eyes again, and the guy winked again. It’s all true, that wink said. Everyone says it’s a lie, but it’s all true.
Of course, thanks to Ray’s incautious reference to the stuff and their later, late-night conversation Marcel now knew that the discredited urban legends he’d heard about the fruit-based sweetener weren’t legends at all but actual fact. But encountering someone else apart from Ray who’d figured out the truth (and had made sure to benefit from it) was unexpected… and kind of thrilling. How had it gotten in the diner caddies, though? Did the restaurant actually stock a banned, illegal, and now mostly forgotten sweetener? Or was this one waiter silently seeding it into the caddies from his own illicitly procured stash, just to see what happened to his regulars? Whatever the reason, Marcel found he was consumed with the impulse to shamelessly pilfer the KiSweet packets—all of them, as many as he could find.
The waiter seemed to be reading his mind. Take it, his glinting eyes seemed to suggest. Take ’em all. Who do you want to make bigger?
Oh, handsome cowboy waiter, if only you knew my deepest fantasies, Marcel thought.
Next to him Ray stirred from his menu-perusal, and, noticing for the first time that the four of them were no longer alone, he looked up and smiled at the mischievous hunk waiting on them. As Ray asked about the various options for the eggs that came with the “Southwest Slam”, gathering the attention of Jeremy and Elias as well, Marcel saw his chance and snuck out his hand, surreptitiously palming the six sachets of KiSweet and sneaking them under the table and into his pockets before anyone noticed. Anyone, that is, apart from their very observant waiter.
Brunch itself was good company, good food, and pleasant conversation, but Marcel was too distracted to eat more than a little of his sausage-hash and eggs, and when their waiter insisted on putting together a doggie bag for him late in the meal he accepted with a tingle of foreboding. Sure enough, the large white paper sack he was handed as they were gathering their things and getting ready to explore the city was much heavier than it should have been, and contemplating the reason for that made Marcel harder and more flushed with need than he’d been in days.
The suite was empty and surprisingly neat when Blake returned to it, the ninja-like housekeepers having evidently used the window provided by the mixer and subsequent keynote gathering to revert as many attendees’ rooms as possible to spic-and-span while the occupants were busy elsewhere. Blake pocketed his key card and shut the door quietly behind him, looking around in amusement at the perfectly appointed rooms, which had only an hour before been a mess of disordered sheets, tossed-aside clothes, and the redolence of sex. His lips curled as he thought of the hotel’s industrial-grade washing machines choking on all the cum he and his randy suite-mates had left behind in the towels and bedclothes in the course of the wildest night of debauchery Blake had ever experienced.
Blake shoved his hands in his pants pockets, biting his lower lip pensively. It was stuff like that that bothered him. Something had changed recently, like Blake had walked through some invisible doorway into a parallel universe with a lot more sex going on than he was used to. Not that Blake minded exactly. He was enjoying the new playful dynamic with Ray, and Danny’s obvious happiness was a good thing, even if he was a little too easily distracted by his unstoppable hard-on these days. And then there was Archer. Blake felt a shiver up his spine, and he drew a hand unconsciously across his borrowed shirt where it lovingly hugged his stone-carved abs.
His connection with the lanky, perfect-bodied older man was something altogether beyond Blake’s experience. It was scary new in a way Blake found himself craving deeply, like the first time he’d sailed his dad’s boat into a storm alone. He wanted to explore the strangeness of this unexpected connection, what Archer meant to him and what he meant to the serenely beautiful, blue-eyed man of his dreams.
And there was the rub. He needed to feel at least some sense of control as he entered these uncharted waters, and Blake had picked up on too many red flags lately to feel completely in command of his own destiny right now. Something was going on, he knew it, and he had to figure out what it was and try wresting his life back into his own hands again before he could risk his heart and happiness anew.
Marcel, he thought. His heart sank as he thought of the break-up. New Year’s Eve—only a few days ago, but so much had changed since then.
So much had changed since New Year’s Eve…
Blake spotted his bag on top of the low dresser on the far wall and crossed to it, pulling out his laptop and setting it on the round table nearby. Dropping into one of the chairs he opened his computer, launching the email app out of habit. He only spent a couple of minutes sorting and deleting emails, though, before closing the program and opening a blank page in Word.
He stared at the blinking cursor for a moment, then started a bulleted list. First, he typed Ray’s dick. He felt a little petty starting there, but it felt like the right starting place—after all, it was the reason his sweet size queen of a boyfriend had left him, and it was also the first sign of strangeness he’d noticed. I mean, whose dick just goes from normal to huge in, what, a few weeks? A couple of months? Ray had noticed it, he remembered, and been a little agog over it, though he’d tried to pretend otherwise.
And Danny had started visibly packing more in across that same period of time, too, though they’d both tried to hide their inexplicable wang-growth from him and everyone else. When you were as hung as Ray and Danny had become, though, that was a pretty futile exercise. He added Danny’s dick as the second bullet.
The thing was, Danny had been getting bigger in the weeks before the New Year, but he hadn’t been the raging sex god he was now before this trip. Was it being in Austin? No—he’d seen it at Danny’s dinner party, too. Both Danny and Ray had put on a show for Marcel that night, showing off their ardor as well as their size. Blake’s poor ten-incher hadn’t stood a chance, he thought, his mouth curving in a slight smile. Now that he had a few days’ perspective, he had to say he couldn’t quite blame his huge-cock-loving ex for falling in love with Ray’s beautiful, chest-high monster, either. His own dick thickened rapidly to hardness and he adjusted himself idly, remembering the taste of Ray’s massive, rick-hard dick from only a little while before, and the feel of his tongue dragging along its stiff, velvety shaft and around its musky head.
With an effort, he made himself refocus. He had been thinking about—what? About the slow change in Danny’s size versus the suddenness of his increased sexuality. Right. Danny had been very slowly getting bigger over two or three months, he was sure; but the raging perma-boner thing and the way everyone got hard and wanted to start making out around him was new—brand new. He typed the next bullet: Danny the sex god, feeling more sure of his instincts once he saw it in basic Calibri black and white. He knew his low-key, easy-going boss hadn’t been making him iron-hard and needing to suck face with everyone before, however huge he was. That was recent. Like, since New Year’s recent. Danny himself was aware that he’d started turning guys on more and that his own libido had grown even more than his dick, but he seemed to be going with it. The effects were hard to miss, for Danny or for Blake. Blake knew he wasn’t into Danny the way he was (say) Marcel or Archer—and yet he boned up like clockwork whenever he clapped eyes on his boyishly good-looking boss.
Maybe it wasn’t just Blake, either. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Archer and his buddies were the insatiable horndogs in real life they’d been on this trip. And when had Danny reunited with his alumni buddies? New Year’s. He typed another new bullet: Archer. He knew all four of them were affected by whatever it was, but… his mind was stuck on Archer.
Man, he wished Archer were holding him right now. Kissing him, frotting him, making him feel things Blake had never felt with a man. He’d liked sucking Ray off, and he’d really enjoyed kissing him—it was calming somehow, making out with Ray, like it smoothed out all the locking of horns they’d been over doing the last year. Messing around with Ray was fun and easy. But being with Archer—every embrace, every kiss, every fuck felt like the brink of transformation, like they risked becoming something else just by pressing flesh against flesh, muscle against muscle, cock against cock…
Focus, Somerset, he told himself. He sat back in his chair with a thoughtful frown, mulling over recent events. What else?
After a moment he realized he was feeling up his chest and abs again, enjoying the contours of his own exquisitely muscled torso along with the slight drag of his hand across the body-hugging fabric. That had been odd this morning, the way he couldn’t quite fit into the shirt he’d tried to pull on… the lemon-yellow tailored-fit Ralph Lauren, one of his favorites, and one he knew had fit him perfectly when he’d worn it to work a week ago. His pants were a little short, too, like he’d packed 34s instead of the 36s he needed. Come to think of it, before they’d gone out Brock had been having struggling with his shirt as well, like his beefy Aquaman pecs and arms weren’t what his clothes were used to. Cam, too, had barely managed to pack his hard-muscled brawn into his straining dark-raspberry Rainbow Dash tee and too-tight jeans, almost as though he’d brought along a suitcase full of someone else’s outfits instead of his own. Even Ray’s shirt seemed a little tight. Only Archer, Marcel, and Ted hadn’t really had any problems, like they and their duds knew exactly who they were.
Hesitantly, Blake typed: Clothes?
The thing was, he couldn’t quite focus on why there would be a problem with shirts and pants being suddenly the wrong size. Still, he could feel, almost subconsciously, that he was onto something. Unlike the other things, things he where he (and anyone else paying attention) could see a clear before and after, this seemed almost like a different category of change—one where the objects of the shift could only observe it obliquely, through ancillary effects. That made him a little uneasy—what kinds of factors might be in play that he couldn’t even be directly aware of?
The clothes, though. That was a thing, somehow. He remembered what he’d just been thinking about the Ralph Lauren: that it had fit perfectly the last time he’d tried wearing it. The last time… which was before New Year’s.
He hit the delete key, erasing the question mark.
He fell back in the chair again, considering his list. There was a common theme, he thought; and that theme was male sexual pleasure. His gut told him that meant that there was intent behind it. Someone who wanted to instigate, or experience, that pleasure.
Whose intent, though? Unbidden, his imagination conjured up images of horny gods and mythical beings—Zeus and Apollo fucking with mortals in all senses of the word, satyrs getting their rocks off, that kind of thing. He snorted. Big dicks, lots of sex, hot guys drawn into a fuck-maelstrom… that seemed to him like a very human brand of fantasy. And there was no point in telling himself humans couldn’t do that, because Blake was already past what had happened being impossible. If there was intent, there was a “who.” If he could figure out the “who,” that might just lead him to the “how.”
Abruptly Blake stood and began pacing slowly across the back of the large suite. If there was a “who”… could it be Danny himself? He was definitely at the center what was going on—literally the center at the moment, he thought with a smile, remembering the way everyone at the sexed-up mixer had been revolving around him like he was a proto-star forming a solar system. That felt like something that was happening to Danny, though… like he was the object of a fantasy, not the architect of one. So who was fantasizing about Danny?
He found himself in the suite’s other room where Danny, Ray, Marcel, and Brock had ended up when they’d all taken a break from their Fuck Olympics and grabbed some time to actually sleep, more or less. He thought about the obvious affection between Danny and Ray… the way Ray’s monumental orgasms had been focused on their genial, huge-bonered boss… (He should have added Ray’s and Danny’s weird ability to produce ungodly amounts of spunk to his list, he realized.)
He stopped, seized by the memory of a conversation he’d had with Ray some months back. They’d been talking about Danny and how he seemed focused on work. Ray had tried to fix him up with someone, and Danny had smiled and told Ray not to worry about him before heading out for the night, leaving Blake to chide Ray for his attempt at meddling. Ray had just sighed and said, “I just think he’d be happier if he were having more fun…”
“More dick-related fun, you mean,” Blake had teased him.
Ray had looked up at him with a telling smile. “Absolutely.”
Ray. It had to be Ray. Sweet, kissable, always in the background.
Another memory came to him: Ray, hastily slipping something into his office drawer. And there was that awed, weirdly guilty expression Blake had spotted on him more than once this trip. He blinked, wanting to smack his forehead. All at once it became clear how it was that, out of their complement of three at Louden Esq., Ray and Danny had ended up with enormous cocks and ridiculous geyser orgasms, while Blake hadn’t grown a single millimeter and came exactly as much as he always had. Of course, Ray would have excluded Blake from his fun! He had to hand it to the cute little punk—he hadn’t realized their snarky, unassuming legal aide could be quite so underhanded.
Looking around, Blake spotted Ray’s soft-sided travel bag and immediately went over to it. Without even hesitating he unzipped the top and started rifling through it. Whatever was happening to them, he reasoned, the fact that it had been done to them meant that Blake had a moral right to find out everything he could about it.
It didn’t take his hands long to find the anomaly amidst the clothes and toiletries: a thin, leather-bound hardcover book tucked all the way at the bottom of the bag like a wicked secret waiting to be found. He pulled it out and looked at it in the warm light of the curtain-filtered afternoon sun, holding it before him in both hands. On the front of the book, in silver block letters on black, was a single word: RESOLUTIONS.
Blake grinned wide.
Blake sat at the little round table and began flipping backwards through the book, smugly thrilled by his find and what it might mean.
It was a book of New Year’s resolutions, in the form of statements with blanks in them. Several of the blanks had been filled in, and it was obvious to Blake that they reflected a reality that had been reshaped by these very words. It was also clear from several of the resolutions the that the “I” being referred to was Danny. He was the one who was now always hard and ready to cum, for one, as Blake had already had occasion to observe, and it was certainly around Danny that people got turned on and started making out. There had been some blowback on Ray, true, but—Fuck, KiSweet? Really?
Blake sat back in his chair, astonished and a little chagrined he hadn’t seen it all along. Of course! That explained why only Danny and Ray had ended up with giant dicks—they were the only ones who could even tolerate that shit-tasting garbage. Ray must have planned it that way, knowing Blake thought the banned sweetener tasted like dirt and would never come near it in a million years. What a rip!
Blake blew out a breath, gradually letting go of his annoyance as he bent forward over the book again. At least he had one consolation, his certainty that Ray, goof that he was, had never intended for his own cock to get quite so out of hand, in size or cum-gushery. It was kind of funny, actually, and also a useful lesson to bear in mind as he went forward: that these resolutions might end up causing unforeseen effects. Certainly for those not as skilled as Blake in the art of carefully-worded verbiage.
Some of these resolutions must work retroactively, he decided as he continued paging slowly through the book. Ray had developed a 17-inch dick over three months, but the book itself was new and the entry that had made all that happen—which had to be the one about KiSweet’s hidden cock-growth properties—could only have been written in the book recently, within the last four or five days. Other resolutions, conversely, seemed to be on a going-forward basis, starting from the activation (however that was achieved) of the handwritten entry in question. Like the Danny-making-everyone-horny thing—that was definitely new. He filed this away for the machinery of his brain to work on and kept flipping forward toward the front of the book, logging all the resolutions Ray had written so far as he went. He wondered who had made such an impossibility possible. Wizards? Dragons? Gnomes? Someone who enjoyed words, and tomes, and special occasions. He already knew the most important part, that the transformations that had so blithely rejiggered Blake’s world, for months (if, as it turned out, retroactively), had all been aimed at Danny, but were authored by Ray. Still, it would be interesting to find out someday who was ultimately behind all of this.
He got to the first page and allowed himself a slightly self-satisfied grin as his deductions were confirmed: in the blank under the text “The resolutions in this book are about” was written the name DANNY LOUDEN—very obviously in Ray’s distinctive neat, block-letter capitals. Even the ink was recognizably the limpid blue-back of Ray’s favorite fountain pen.
Blake started back through the book, but froze as he turned the page: on the back of that first page, at the very bottom, there was a block of small, gray type. A disclaimer, Blake thought, fascinated. He leaned closer to read through it. Maybe the dragon-gnomes are lawyers, too.
He mentally snickered at the woo-woo name they’d chosen for themselves (“Ravenfinder World Logistics LLC”? Was Twilight Riverblossom Wizardcorp already taken?), then read on with interest as the text of the disclaimer laid bare the basic mechanism of the resolutions. Everything written in the book became real at midnight, it said—and only people who had read the disclaimer knew that a change had taken place. No wonder Danny was clueless!
Blake felt a Grinch-like evil grin spread across his face as the implications of what he had in his hands started to propagate through his fertile mind. He wasn’t sure what made his dick harder: that the book literally made wishes come true; that they were aimed at someone else who was basically oblivious to all of what was going on; or that out of the entire world only himself and Ray truly understood what was going on. He had the power, right here in his mitts—a power that no one on Earth, apart from its makers, Blake, and his doofy, cute-as-fuck, too-innocent work colleague with the sweet mouth and the accidentally enormous cock, even knew existed.
The heady rush of louche anticipation that came over him just then threatened to seriously derail his concentration. But Blake’s training and intensely analytical mien drove him to stay on task and keep reading the disclaimer for any doubletalk, red flags, and hidden meanings it might contain. His being looped into knowing about this magic would have hidden consequences, he knew that without question; fortunately, the fact that this fine print was even here told him that the rules surely required any user pitfalls be spelled out here in gray and white.
Apart from the changes from the book being “permanent”—not inviolable, though, Blake guessed, if, as he’d gathered from the successive rounds of entries Ray had written, new resolutions could affect old ones—most of the rest of the disclaimer was standard rights-reserved CYA stipulations. The most interesting of these to Blake was the option to interfere or undo if things got out of hand retained by both this Ravenfinder group and unnamed “oversight authorities.” And who might you be? he wondered, his legal spidey-sense tingling. And what kinds of rules do you have that aren’t printed here?
Blake read on. His carefully-groomed eyebrows lifted in surprise at the last sentence, which seemed to be aimed directly at him. “This book,” it said in its stern, silver-gray sans serif, “is nontransferable and remains the property in perpetuity of the person who first read this disclaimer.” It wasn’t hard to pick up on the implied “Which ain’t you, bub” that came after that.
Blake tilted his head at the wording, intrigued. He assumed the “first person” was Ray, which meant the book was his “property”—but clearly that condition only went so far. “If that’s true,” he mused aloud, eyeing the text thoughtfully, “what does it mean to have access to the book, but not own it?” Certainly property law had long separated ownership from use, a distinction that went back to Roman times; but what did that imply in this instance?
Ownership sometimes meant ultimate responsibility, which might come into play if things went wrong and the shadowy “oversight authorities” had to step in. Blake’s egregious misuse of the book could cause Ray to be hauled before the powers that be, not Blake. That wouldn’t be good. He would just have to make sure he didn’t abuse the magic too much, he thought with a smirk.
Ray owning the book might also mean that he had control over its use by others, possibly even a right to revert and roll back any changes made by someone else. Of course, Ray not knowing Blake had access to the book and shared in its secret might handicap his ability to exercise that particular prerogative just a little. Though Blake found himself perversely wanting Ray to know he had the book… and what he was doing with it.
More alarmingly, it occurred to him that ownership in this case could mean that only Ray could write in the book and have the resolutions come true. Blake didn’t think this was likely, though. His instincts told him that that was the kind of restriction a disclaimer like this one would have made explicit. And the way it talked about “resolutions” in a generic way, not tied to the owner or user, seemed to argue against it.
There was one way to find out for sure, Blake thought. And the prospect of putting a nonowner user’s ability to make resolutions to the test amused and excited him at the same time.
Another angle on the ownership thing struck him as he stared at the disclaimer page, his thumb idly stroking the edge of the page where he held it. The text said that the ownership of the book was “in perpetuity,” even though in resolution-creating terms the book was only good for a year. That disconnect might be significant. Why the need to preserve ownership after the book itself became useless? Did the book need to be physically intact for the wishes to endure? Or—and this seemed feasible, given the importance placed on the first disclaimee explicitly owning the book—was it the bond between Ray and the book’s magic that mattered? Was it Ray’s link to the book itself that stabilized and perpetuated all the changes that resulted from the resolutions? If so, keeping both Ray and the book safe and snug assumed a new level of importance for everyone on the receiving end of the transformations. Probably not even Ray had considered these kinds of things—he might even throw the book away or destroy it when he was done with it. It was up to him, then. Ray and the book were in his hands. The latter literally, the former… soon enough.
As Blake was mulling over the “property of Ray” conundrum, all at once the gray text of the disclaimer began fading rapidly, as if the ink particulates were suddenly falling victim to a fatal, self-obliterating allergy to being read, and a moment later the page before him was completely blank. Blake hmphed. He appreciated proof that the book really was magic—it was always useful, and a little thrilling, to have one’s speculations unambiguously corroborated, however well-founded and carefully-arrived-at they were already.
More than that, though, the recession of the disclaimer felt to him like a transfer of agency. Now that he’d duly taken in (and implicitly agreed to, he guessed) all the legal verbiage that encumbered his use of the product, he was free to do as he wished.
Blake smiled—the book might as well have said, “Go to it, boy!” With great relish he began paging through the book anew, his mind churning with possibilities.
Jeremy and Elias, it turned out, were not staying at the hotel. Instead, after an afternoon sightseeing—during which Marcel was recognized twice, once at Mount Bonnell Park and once at the Aquarium—the four of the repaired back to a spacious, extremely modern townhouse condo belonging to a fellow Georgian and Emory alum named Jack who now worked at a high-end Austin lobbying firm. Ray’s unshakable need to get off had been mounting all afternoon, and he wondered if this unknown personage with the upscale lifestyle would expect them to act with a certain decorum in his swanky abode, handing around snifters while Rachmaninoff played on the Bang & Olufson and they all remained primly blue-balled; but when the buddy in question—a short, curly-haired, deeply-tanned studmuffin with bright, friendly eyes and a star tattoo on his delt—met them at the door wearing nothing but cut-off jeans and a rakish smile, his hungry once-over obviously taking in both Marcel’s easy beauty and Ray’s hard-to-miss bulge before inviting them all in, Ray relaxed. He would be erupting with impossible amounts of jizz soon enough, thank god.
As they passed through a sparsely furnished vestibule the size of his living room, though, he found himself worrying a little about his need to get off. Should he do something about his crazily intensified horniness? Maybe another resolution could… moderate things. He wasn’t sure he wanted to let go of these endless afterglows, though. Being as near to the brink of earth-shaking orgasm as he wanted nearly all the time made him feel like he was brimming over with potential ecstasy; but the orgasms themselves left him deliciously saturated with warm, intoxicating pleasure for hours afterwards. Heck, he could still feel the eruption he’d had at the mixer like it he’d just experienced it moments ago. Microshivers of euphoria were still thrilling him all over every few heartbeats, seeding his lingering pleasure. His senses, or maybe his memory, had been intensified, too. The feelings from that afternoon’s release—Marcel’s and Blake’s tongues on his sensitive, towering dick, Jeremy’s soft-bearded kiss, the press of Elias’s young, muscular body behind him—he could easily bring all of it directly to the surface of his mind, almost like it was happening right then.
Ray shuddered, his dick plumping in his pants, and he decided to try thinking about something else. He wasn’t very successful, though, as his thoughts only wandered as far as Danny, the one other person he knew was feeling the same kinds of orgasmic effects. Hell, all this had originally been intended solely for Danny—not that Ray had really meant to give his boss more than a bump-up in the sex-fun department. Instead, all his orgasm resolutions had apparently been tied to KiSweet as their real-world mechanism, leading to a slow accretion of orgasm intensity and control for both of them, compounded over months, in place of the innocent nudge he’d meant to give to Danny alone.
Well, he thought, maybe it hadn’t been quite so innocent. Anyway the results, though well out of scale, were still essentially in line with Ray’s basic original goal, which was to make sure Danny had a good time and enjoyed his life more. And by all appearances, Danny was enjoying his life a lot these days.
So it wouldn’t be fair to Danny to take that away with a moderating-things resolution, would it?
You’re rationalizing, he told himself. What does he actually want? Maybe you should, you know, ask him? Just a thought.
Frustrated and conflicted, and not really wanting to be sarcastically sassed by his own superego, Ray decided to table the topic in his head as they entered the long, high-ceilinged, blue-and-green-themed living room. He would just enjoy the evening, his attenuated, near-constant afterglow, and the pleasant view from Jack’s all-glass far wall, which looked out onto a nice deck and yard with a narrow park and the river beyond. The living room was a nice enough space and very welcoming. A large blue sectional in one corner balanced a conversation grouping of low comfy chairs near the glass doors to the deck. The floor was hardwood parquet with a nubby brown and green area rug within the frame of the sectional. That looks… washable, he thought, eyeing the rug appraisingly.
“Have a seat, take a load off,” Jack said genially. Ray turned back to their host to find the compactly-built gym-rat Adonis scoping Ray out again with a slight smirk on his lips. He got the feeling those light-brown eyes didn’t miss much. He was sorely tempted to plump his pecs a little thicker just to get a reaction from him, but he’d already noticed his celery-green event-go-to Oxford was getting a bit tight across the chest, alas, and he really didn’t want to no longer be able to wear it just for the cheap thrill of shocking a guy with a bit of pec growth.
Jack smiled ferally at Ray, pleased his perusal had been noted. “What can I get you all to drink?” he said, keeping the smile as he glanced over his four guests. His speech betrayed just a trace of the Georgia accent his college buddies still bore, Ray noted, muted by choice or erosion after a few years in Texas. It was damn sexy in its own right.
“Er—bathroom?” Marcel asked in a slightly sheepish non sequitur. Ray looked over at him, suddenly guilty at having been so immersed in his own thoughts. Marcel seemed distracted as well, though—the way he was clutching that white paper sack from the diner was a rare sign of preoccupation from his usually easy-going friend. Maybe they all needed to wind down a bit.
Jack barely hesitated, though obviously he was amused as well by the question-answer disconnect. He nodded toward the stairs to one side that led back up to the townhouse’s second floor. “Second door on the right,” Jack said. Marcel nodded, tossed Ray a nervous grin, and trotted up the stairs, still keeping a tight grip on his doggy bag as he went.
Huh. General relaxation was definitely in order, Ray thought.
Elias seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “I’ll have a scotch rocks, double, if you’re pouring,” he said from somewhere very close behind Ray, his Georgia baritone sending pleasant waves through Ray’s system. Ray thought he could get used to having Elias right behind him—then he thought about his pert, round ass and its proximity to Elias’s as-yet-unmet cock, and his whole body seemed to heat up a degree or two.
“What do you have for beer?” Jeremy asked. The slim, fuzzy-bearded forty-something had already dropped into the deep, extra-long cobalt-blue microfiber L-shaped sectional that stretched out from the corner opposite the stairs. Though his question was aimed at Jack his bright gray eyes were on Ray and Elias, and Ray couldn’t help thinking that couch looked both inviting and probably wasn’t new to the kind of sex-capades Ray felt brewing among them. At least, he hoped it wasn’t, because with all these smoldering looks and the presence of all these hot guys his libido was rapidly spiking, and it was looking increasingly likely parts of this room would be spattered with Ray-spunk before too long. Even all this talk about drinks felt like foreplay.
“I know for sure I’ve got Love Street and Thirsty Goat,” Jack was saying with a slight smirk that was fast emerging as his trademark expression.
Jeremy looked at him quizzically. “Are those beers?” he drawled.
“They are indeed beers,” the bare-chested studmuffin affirmed. “I for one like to enjoy a Thirsty Goat at the end of the day.”
“Brave words, Kemosabe. A Thirsty Goat for me, too, then,” Jeremy laughed, his attention already back on Ray and Elias. Ray could feel the heart of the bigger man’s hard body behind him, barely and inch away.
“And for you, Supercock?” Jack asked, looking at Ray, his eyes glinting.
“Wait—what?” Ray sputtered. He knew their host had clocked the half-swollen bulge in his pants, but the coincidence of the name—
He saw Jeremy grinning and narrowed his eyes at him. He must have texted ahead to his friend about him, he thought. Bastard.
“I thought we were going with Polaris?” Elias said from behind Ray, pretending to be confused.
“He can have both,” Jeremy said in his Georgia-peach accent. “Polaris Supercock. Champion of the horny. Inspiration t’ penises everywhere.”
Ray wanted to object that his oversized dick really didn’t need a name and a personality on top of everything else. Instead he looked at Jack and very pointedly said, “You know what? That scotch rocks sounds really good right about now.”
“Good choice,” Elias rumbled from behind him. He shifted closer, so that his firm pecs were brushing against Ray’s shoulders. “I knew we were on the same page.” Jack grinned and disappeared.
Ray leaned his full weight against Elias’s warm, narrow but extremely fit body, sending a rush of hot pleasure through him. Elias hummed his approval, his large hands finding the sides of Ray’s hips. Belatedly Ray remembered Marcel upstairs and added, “And a red wine for Marcel.” Jack winked and disappeared. Ray wasn’t sure what Marcel would pick for alcohol, but vin rouge seemed right. Or, a stereotype. But Marcel did seem to actually like things French people supposedly liked, so…
The lights dimmed, leaving them only the reddening eminence of the retiring sun over the lands beyond the river filtering through the polarized wall-window. Music came on from somewhere, filling the room with a gentle thumpa-thumpa, like they were now in a private club just for the five of them. The throbbing sound slid easily through him, wrapping around his surging, ever-present arousal deep within him. Ray started swaying very slightly to the beat, Elias moving smoothly with him as if they were connected at the hips.
Mmm, this was nice. Ray wanted to see Marcel dancing to this. He frowned slightly, wondering briefly what Marcel was up to, but the thought quickly evaporated as Elias’s hands began sliding slowly up and down his flanks. He endured this stimulation for several quiet moments, Elias caressing, Jeremy watching, himself quivering with suppressed arousal. Finally he heard himself say in a strained voice, “I… need to free myself…”
Then Jack was in front of him, as if the words had conjured him, handing Ray his scotch. He must have just come back with the drinks—there they were, on a tray Jack was cradling in the crook of one sculpted arm—but Ray was increasingly unable to keep track of anything but the sight and scent of the aroused and needy men surrounding him. He felt the cold glass in his hand for a moment between moments, poised in a sexual limbo. Then Jack, now unencumbered, filled his vision: hard-muscled, tanned the color of fresh-brewed tea being poured from the pot, his fat torpedo-shaped hard-on visibly straining at his barely-there cutoffs. His light-brown eyes looked up into Ray’s—nice to be the tall one for a change, Ray thought, even as he pressed back against the taller stud behind him. At this point Ray’s brain stopped working with a shudder as he felt Jack’s nimble fingers at his fly.
“Allow me,” Jack said, his tone and his look telling Ray he was taking control. Ray was more than happy to let him. He drank deeply from his glass, one long swallow, then another. He felt rather than saw Jeremy’s eyes on his throat as it worked. The power of the scotch shook him like a dog, and he felt Elias’s chuckle as his lips brushed against Ray’s sensitive nape, his strong hands still caressing Ray’s lower torso.
Ray’s pants were open now, and soon his chest-high cock would be standing tall for all to enjoy, pulsing to the beat of the music drifting through them.
He felt the glass taken away from him. That was okay, he didn’t need it. He leaned against Elias and smiled, surrendering himself to pleasure.
Marcel sat on the fuzzy dark-blue toilet-seat cover and eagerly opened up the paper sack their cowboy waiter had given him, his heart beating loud in anticipation. He peered in and grinned. As he’d hoped, there was no sign of his delicious, half-eaten brunch. What there was instead was a huge cache of kiwifruit-green KiSweet packets, all ready for Marcel to do whatever he wished to with them. This was it.
He was so hard right now.
He pulled out one of the sachets of the obscure all-natural sweetener, inspecting it closely. He realized that these weren’t just KiSweet, as he’d thought—the usual logo next to the poorly-photographed imagery of a sliced-open kiwifruit had actually been slightly modified to read “KiSweet II”, with a tiny “extra-bold!” underneath in excited italics. Had they experimented with the formula toward the end in some kind of desperate, last-ditch bid to save the company? He didn’t remember Ray mentioning anything about that, but they hadn’t exactly rehearsed their whole corporate history.
He remembered the packets he’d pilfered from the caddy and pulled them out of his pocket. Sure enough, these, too, read KiSweet II.
Marcel tossed the slightly rumpled strays from the caddy into the bag with the others and went back to looking over the packet he still had in his hand. These had to have been part of a short run just before the company bit the sausage, he thought. Whoever the handsome cowboy waiter was—secret scion of a lost branch of the KiSweet clan? disgruntled ex-influencer stuck with the last consignment of a discredited product he belatedly discovered actually lived up to the urban legends?—it could just be that the hunky young man somehow possessed the only trove of KiSweet II in the world… a trove he’d generously and selflessly shared that afternoon with a fellow aficionado of huge, beautiful cocks.
My hero, Marcel thought with a grin.
Now, the dosage. What had Ray said? Un millimeter par paquet? Plus the other effects, incrementing minutely over weeks and months. What would the “extra-bold” version do, though? Maybe nothing, if they’d reformulated it to excise whatever was in it that grew your dick. Or maybe… not nothing. He flipped over the sachet he was holding, checking to see what it said on the back, but there was nothing but the notice “not labeled for individual resale” and “KiSweet Natural Foods Ltd., Queenstown, New Zealand”. Of course, there was no nutrition chart listing millimeters of dick growth per serving. Marcel smiled as he chided himself for being a silly boy.
He bit his lip, eyeing the white bathroom door beyond which, downstairs and for the moment oblivious, lay his quarry. The real question was, how to get this KiSweet into Ray without him noticing—or, failing that, with him noticing too late to do anything about it? Various alternatives occurred to him and were discarded. He could get Jack to bake it into something? No. Getting someone else involved felt… inelegant. Plus, he had no idea whether heat from cooking would affect the properties of the KiSweet. Mixing into beverages—wine? water?—would only make Ray ask why his drink was so sweet. He could wait until Ray was asleep and just pour the stupid crystals into his mouth, but that definitely felt like dirty pool. Not to mention, waiting that long seemed like a challenge he wasn’t strong enough for just now.
Perhaps he should figure out how to deliver the magic substance later. For the moment, he could convert these sachets into a single container for ease of exploitation. He stood, adjusting his hard-on, and opened the louvered closet door, wondering if Jack might have any bags or a container he could repurpose.
There, next to the body wash and the hair-primping products, Marcel’s eyes lit on a cache of clubbing supplies—just as low, pumping dance music started up downstairs. Marcel smiled a wicked grin. He knew just what he was going to do.
Ray woke up abruptly and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head was killing him. Fuck, why had he asked for scotch? Hard spirits always gave him a hangover that felt like wolverines fighting in his skull.
He turned his head slowly, hoping nothing in it would dislodge. He was in a bed, he knew that. It was dark, but faint city lights filtering through a window sketched an unfamiliar bedroom with a few unnerving-in-the-dark Aztec masks leering from the walls. He registered warm male bodies curled up against him on either side, and two sets of snores to go with them: one a gentle susurration he knew was Marcel from his left, tucked under his arm with his head on Ray’s chest, and the other a chainsaw he didn’t recognize. Jack? He seemed to remember their brash host pulling Marcel and him into his king-size bed for some drowsy post-coital fun, while Jeremy and Elias headed to the guest room they were ensconced in already across the hall.
Whoever it was had his back to him and was giving off heat like a furnace, as if to match the noise of his snoring. Everything about this guy was on 11, he thought. Including his cock, he added with a twitch of a smile, remembering the hefty, nearly footlong uncut torpedo dick he’d gotten to taste at length shortly after they’d gotten Ray off the first time.
Speaking of time: what time was it, exactly? He wanted to check, but he wasn’t sure where his phone was. His eyes caught on some red, square-shaped numbers bobbing in the middle darkness, and with a few seconds’ prodding his sluggish brain identified these as the display of an old-fashioned bedside alarm clock. According to the fiery digits, it was now 11:44.
A shiver of anticipation went through him, mingling with the familiar heat of intense, persistent arousal. Midnight was almost here. But—no, wait, there was nothing happening tonight. He hadn’t written in the book that day. He was relieved—and maybe a little disappointed as well.
He realized he had to pee, not urgently but not something he could ignore indefinitely. That posed a familiar problem: He had to pee, and he was hard as a rock. Crazy hard, and huge, too. Fuck, it felt huger and heavier than ever. That would make pissing an interesting challenge. Probably simplest to aim it into the tub, he thought blearily. Carefully, he disengaged himself from the snuggling Marcel and moved to sit up—only to ram himself hard in the side of the face with something solid, blunt, and slimy.
Ray froze. Very slowly he turned his head, letting the press of the blunt object slide firmly across his cheek, leaving a warm, slippery trail behind to mark its presence. Then the thing was against his slightly parted lips, and immediately his pulse quickened and his heavy balls surged as the salty taste of his own pre welled across his lips into his mouth. He panted over it, the feel of his warm breath thrilling through him. The snores of his bedmates were like tenor and bass harmony to his own slow gusts.
Unable to resist, he finally opened wider. His eyes closed in bliss as his firm, apple-wide cockhead slid into his hot, eager mouth. He held it there, breathing through his nose, the head clasped in his squeezing lips and his tongue poised but not yet touching the irrepressible beast.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Marcel whispered, awed and proud.
And then Ray remembered. He’d already been somewhat intoxicated by his own heady arousal and the company of these hot men gathering around him, almost as though he were a down-market Danny creating lust and multi-player affection wherever he went, too. Then the scotch, and there might have been more than one of those, now that he thought about it. The music, the lights, swaying in rhythm as Jack sucked and licked him to climax and Elias held him, moving with him like a reflection, while Jeremy stroked himself, watching. The music deepened, a throbbing dance remix Ray almost recognized, saturating the space around them, and Marcel had rejoined them, sliding into their party like he had never left. He was naked apart from his briefs and dusted all over with dark, glinting powder. Edible body glitter, he’d said with a mischievous grin. And Ray’s job was to lick it alllll off, with no help from the others.
Ray had laughed with the rest and proclaimed himself up for the task. He’d yanked off Marcel’s briefs, which served as a cue for the others to get naked as well until it was only Ray that was still dressed in his nice convention mixer duds, his indefatigable 17-inch erupting obscenely from his trousers like it could not be contained. Then he exhibited his tongue, prompting more laughter, and got to work, lathing Marcel with lust and affection while Elias and Jack pulled Jeremy from the couch and mimicked on him the thorough tongue-bathing he was giving Marcel’s gorgeous soap-star body. Ray was kept returning to the region of Marcel’s long, elegant, red-tinged prick until finally Marcel was completely clean and Ray engulfed Marcel’s raging cock, immediately eliciting from him a climax so sudden and beautiful that Ray started cumming spontaneously along with him, setting off the other three to do the same.
And all that time he’d been thinking, This tastes familiar.
He’d even thought, as he licked the faintly sweet, slightly savory microcrystals off of Marcel’s pleasantly defined abs, that the taste reminded him of KiSweet. But the flavor was more like vanilla, and the sweet aspect seemed darker than what he remembered of the banned, strange-tasting sweetener. And besides, he’d thought, how could Marcel have gotten his hands on any of the stuff, and this much of it…?
How, indeed. He let his tongue slide tentatively around the broadened head of his huge, now much, much bigger than 17-inch, all-consuming erection, even as he felt Marcel wrap a warm long-fingered hand partway around the hot, rigid lower shaft. He heard Marcel gasp at the girth, and felt oddly gratified. Who knew? Making Marcel’s fantasies come true, it turned out, was something that was close to Ray’s heart… whatever that meant for Ray himself.
He shifted his lips and intensified his licking, drawing in an experimental suck, while Marcel stroked the sensitive shaft, shifting his position in the bed to be able to add his other hand on the underside of the beast. All the while, Jack snored raucously next to them, serenely unaware of the accompaniment he was providing to their monster-cock worship.
Marcel quickened his pace, and Ray followed suit, sucking and mouthing the head and the extra-responsive flesh underneath. Suddenly Ray knew he could cum, and he let it barrel through him. Marcel huffed in excitement as he felt the eruption shoot up the shaft. His mouth was close to Ray’s now. At first he thought Marcel wanted a taste of the cock as Ray started cumming, but he soon realized that the amount of cum he was producing was way too much to keep up with—and them Marcel’s mouth was on his, around the head of the cock, and they were both swallowing Ray’s cum even as Ray felt Marcel’s own excitedly gleeful orgasm smacking against Ray’s flanks.
Delirious with pleasure, Ray retained only the presence of mind to subside his orgasm before it got out of hand, though as it was their grinning faces were still covered with cum that they hadn’t kept up with. Ray reluctantly let his dick pop out of his mouth so that he and Marcel could engage in some panting, sloppy kisses.
Eventually, Ray found himself just staring up into Marcel’s supremely happy face and stroking his jaw with his thumb, glad his eyes had adjusted enough to the dark he could see it. Jack, his broad back to them, still snored away.
He smiled helplessly up at Marcel, awash in pleasure that wasn’t all due to the spectacular orgasm he’d just given himself with this man’s help, in more ways than one. He didn’t need to ask “why”, so instead he asked, “How?”
Marcel just beamed at him and wiggled his cum-smeared eyebrows. Ray sighed. “This thing is your responsibility, you know,” he said. Marcel just grinned wider.
Just then, a strange awareness came into Ray’s mind. He had an impression, not quite an image, of the resolutions book, and then of certain pages in it—pages that Ray knew that he hadn’t written on, and yet were now festooned with writing that wasn’t Ray’s usual compact block letters, but an efficient, bold cursive. A cursive he had no trouble recognizing.
Midnight, and new resolutions. Ones he hadn’t made. But how were they in his head, if he didn’t write them? His expression must have changed, because Marcel was frowning now. “What is it?” he whispered.
Ray shook his head slightly, not ready to answer. He turned eyes ceilingward a moment as he tried to process this new knowledge. He took possession of the shifting impressions, looking at each one in turn.
The first one began with the preprinted introduction “People I meet always remain:”; this was followed with the handwritten response …perfectly healthy after contact with my cum, and age or de-age only if and when they want to. Fuck, Ray thought. Danny’s cum ensured perfect health now, and control over aging. That was… huge. He felt a little guilty he hadn’t thought of ensuring people’s well-being through Danny’s cum along with all the carnal folderol he’d laden his boss’s spunk with; but he was more alarmed at the scale of the resolution, especially as he knew more were coming.
He shifted his attention to the next resolution that had come to him. “One thing nobody knows about me is:” had had its line filled in with …after contact with my cum guys constantly exude a pleasant scent that, unknown to them, reshapes their clothing to fit them perfectly. Ray stifled a snort. That’s the clothes issue sorted. A perfect complement to the unaware muscle control that guys got from enjoying Danny’s spunk. Ray could let his pecs pump a bit, like he’d been tempted to when Jack was scoping him out the night before, and his shirt would grow to match!
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that—consequences to growth, potentially inhibiting impulse reactions like the one he’d had to their host that night, might not be a bad thing. Though maybe that only applied to Ray, since he was the only one who knew he could grow his own muscles. Or did Blake know now, too?
On the other hand, with a resolution like that in place he wouldn’t have had to worry quite so much about convincing Brock to shrink to Momoa size. Or at least, the concern would have been doorways first, not clothes.
Ray noticed an extra line of text had been tacked onto the clothes resolution, so that it also read …and makes the guys around them sexy and horny. He mentally rolled his eyes. Of course.
He looked at the next resolution imprinted in his mind. “One thing that’s not a big deal anymore is:” had been answered, interestingly enough, with …guys with huge cocks, whether they’re hard or soft, hidden or exposed. Huh. That one wasn’t about Blake, who, so far as he knew, was still topping out at the very fat and formidable ten inches he was so proud of. Had it been meant for Ray? He knew from his comments at the mixer that Blake was more intrigued than bitter now about the effects of Ray’s and Danny’s giant dicks, in contrast to Marcel, who was infatuated with the size of the things themselves. Either way he was grateful—though, of course, Blake couldn’t have anticipated that Marcel’s mischief with a secret stash of KiSweet and a tin of vanilla-flavored edible body glitter would make this resolution even more necessary than ever.
Another one. “Every day, I will continue to:” had had written after it …remain unaware of Blake’s ability to mentally alter the bodies and desires of anyone he’s ever kissed. Uh oh. That one could be trouble. Though… as much as he was vaguely frightened by the prospect of what someone with Blake’s idiosyncrasies might do with such an ability, especially if it was a secret from everyone but Ray and Blake, the thought that came into his head just then was: There is now someone who can make my cock not quite so ridiculously huge. Should he want or need to do so.
Actually, In light of this entry and the “no big deal” resolution, he realized he now had a choice: he could, if he wanted, see what would happen living life with a huge, super-wide cock that, when hard, was literally in his face. And everyone else’s.
That “and desires”, though. That could go to some dark places. Marcel was on the list of people Blake had kissed, and the memories of Blake’s self-indulgent anger and alcoholic lamentations after Marcel had broken it off with Blake were still fresh in Ray’s mind. Blake seemed better now, healed at some level by Danny’s powerful radius of affection, but still… this one might need a bit of a roll-back, one way or another, if only to protect Marcel. It was strange: someone else getting his hands on the book had suddenly given Ray a sense of responsibility for the consequences of their resolutions that he hadn’t quite felt before. That, and having someone he cared about mixed up in it.
One last entry. He read: “The world is a better place because:” …on becoming real, every resolution in this book is immediately known to all disclaimees. The taunting bastard! He wanted Ray to know he had done this—and he wanted to know exactly what resolutions Ray might make when he got the book back. If he got the book back.
He decided that he and his now fellow-resolution-maker needed to come to an understanding. A war of magic resolutions might be a very bad thing, and some of Blake’s entries seemed… dangerous to Ray. He and Blake would need to talk.
He surfaced from his thoughts enough to be aware of Jack, still loudly snoozing next to him, and Marcel, who was watching him closely, his concerned look coming across as slightly comical given that his face was smeared with spunk.
He smelled really nice, of course, and the scent did indeed make Ray horny. He smiled, and, putting off his concerns about Blake, he pushed his cock out of the way and pulled his man down for a long, slow kiss.
Danny waited for the elevator, feeling sated, sex-stupid, and more than a little disheveled. He needed another shower. How late was it? Maybe a nap, too. He looked down at his bare torso—what the heck had happened to his shirt, anyway?—and noted bemusedly all the drying cum caught in his sparse chest hair and smeared over his firm abs and pink, permanently-boned, 13-inch curved pipe of a megacock. Below that, his slacks were stained with hours of manly emissions, and he bet he had more on his back, his neck, maybe even in his hair. He pictured all the spunk that had made its way onto him, from the mixer orgy (fuck, the conference was randy this year) to the long hours of pleasure with one group after another that had followed. He thought of murder mysteries and werewolf thrillers where someone covered was in blood, making some bystander stare at him aghast—that was when his buddy always reassured them that the blood wasn’t all his. For “blood”, he thought, amused, read “spunk”.
What a wild day. Had he eaten? He remembered a cater waiter stuffing mini-quesadillas and chilled honeydew melon balls into him from behind in a back kitchen while his two colleagues, already stripped to the waist (making their half-aprons over their black trousers look sexily comical), went to town on Danny’s forever-ready, orgasm-hungry cock. That was hours ago. Was it after midnight? Was room service still open? He smiled goonily as he imagined a new waiter, or three, showing up at his room, eyes wide and smiles huge as he opened the door and they took in Danny’s huge, enticing, elegantly bent dick. Somehow, the curve of it seemed to impress people as much as its size and thickness. One lawyer with a cute dadbod and a glint in his eye had actually taken one look at his equipment during one of the later sessions, whistled, loosed in his tie, and said, “That’s one ell of a cock.” Even the pair of young associates currently in the act of sucking him had groaned, sending a pleasant shiver running through him. He cringe-smiled just thinking of it.
Two dark-haired and stern-faced men joined him waiting for the elevator. Though they were wearing dark polos, one black and one navy, they carried themselves as though they were wearing crisp thousand-dollar suits; their demeanor suggested they were in the midst of a fierce argument, though at the moment they were not speaking, or even looking at each other. They were fit and handsome, maybe a little older than himself, Danny judged—junior partner level, if he had to guess, from their age and bearing. When they looked his way their expressions became slightly alarmed, and Danny momentarily felt vaguely self-conscious about his exposed dick. He knew that was not a big deal, though, and the thought slipped away, forgotten. His general state of being shirtless and covered in spend was perhaps more of a problem, but in his present over-pleasured, multiple-orgasm-befuddled state he didn’t quite care.
He tossed them a cheeky smile. “Don’t worry,” he couldn’t resist telling them. “It’s not all mine.”
The two men stared at him. Danny wondered idly what he could tell them as a more plausible excuse for his current disreputable state. He got as far as “I got caught in a spray,” as if he’d been out playfully running through semen-powered lawn sprinklers, when the elevator dinged and the doors opened, grumbling the whole way. Relieved, Danny got in, pressing the button for his floor and then retreating to one of the corners. The two men hesitated, exchanged looks, and got on, using the other bank of floor buttons and keeping to that side of the car afterward.
It was only as the doors were closing that Danny realized he must smell like sex on top of looking like the personification of it, and he couldn’t help but grin. Oh well, he thought. Nothing he could do about it now.
The car lurched and started upward, the three of them scrupulously still and silent according to the universal laws of elevator etiquette. Danny leaned against the wall in his corner, frankly watching the other too. Their argument seemed to soften as they all rode up, and after a couple of floors Navy Polo turned and faced his colleague. His mouth was a firm line, but his eyes were soft. Black Polo held his gaze, his expression giving little away.
“I’m sorry I got angry, Quince,” Navy said, his tone firm despite his words. “It’s just, I think arbitration on the Townsend case is a mistake, and if we—”
Without warning, Quince—the one in the black polo—leaned forward and kissed his colleague right on the lips. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was one obviously freighted with unspoken affection. Navy briefly closed his long-lashed eyes, only opening them when Quince pulled back from the kiss, still staring hard at the other man.
“Why did you do that?” Navy asked, more out of wonder than any real objection.
Quince looked into the other man’s eyes searchingly, as though he might find the answer there. “I don’t know,” he admitted softly. There was a fire in his gaze now, and it seemed to kindle something in Navy’s returning stare as well.
The elevator slowed, and Navy, responding to this cue, suggested, “Why don’t we go back to your suite and… hash this out?”
Quince gave him a small smile. “My thoughts exactly,” he said.
The elevator dinged, and the doors trundled open. The two men departed, eyes on each other and taking no further notice of the grinning Danny as he watched them head down the garishly-carpeted hall together, until the doors finally closed between them.
At first Danny thought there was no one in the suite when he came in, which surprised him a little—he’d half expected to walk in on a full-court fuckfest like the night before. But everyone seemed to have drifted off for the time being into various forms of late-night revelry. The suite was consequently dark and deserted as he closed the door, the only light coming from the little lamp on the round worktable near Ray’s bed.
Then he noticed a tall, masculine shadow move at the far end of the room, beyond the sheer curtains slowly wafting in the cold draft from the open sliding door, and he realized there was someone out on the balcony, braving the post-new-year’s mid-Texas midnight chill. He held back from turning on the overhead lights and, on an impulse, instead of heading for the shower straight away as he’d intended he went to join whoever was out there.
The figure turned out to be Blake. He was leaning his elbows on the heavy metal railing, looking out on the bustling lights and background traffic noise of downtown Austin. A brisk wind ruffled Blake’s shirt and teased Danny’s exposed nipples, but he took up a position next to his pretty, previously uptight paralegal anyway, looking him over in the reflected light of the city and the glimmering half-moon above them.
Maybe neither of those adjectives quite applied to Blake like they once had, Danny mused as he considered his younger colleague. Blake was, as ever, extremely good-looking; Blake and Danny both knew that his looks were one of the company’s most useful strategic assets. The idea that he was pretty had come partly from his sylph-like physique, the stereotypical preppy sort of body that was good for tennis and trimming the sails on a yacht but not for, say, lumberjacking. But Blake had filled out recently, more than Danny had realized—in fact, his broad shoulders, rippling arms and thick chest reminded him a lot of the aesthetically perfect Archer, even down to small details like the taper of Blake’s lats and the roundness of his ass. He could almost imagine Blake had modeled his body directly on Archer’s in his workouts, despite the two men only having met a couple days before. Even his attire was as perfectly tailored to his new proportions as Danny’s meticulous clotheshound friend’s had always been.
Altogether, standing there positioned against the cityscape backdrop like a menswear ad, the gentle wind playing with his open shirt and his short, well-trimmed platinum locks, Blake looked unexpectedly compelling, appearing more elegantly muscular than demurely enticing, a Ganymede made into an Apollo. This Blake looked like he could indeed fell some trees if he wanted to, then afterward make a sterling presentation to the spellbound stockholders of the lumber company, still pumped and sweaty from his exertions.
So, yeah, Blake had changed, and pretty dramatically. He seemed wiser, too—or, no, not wiser, but his petulance had softened recently into a kind of wry engagement. Danny was intrigued by the new Blake, both rationally and sexually. He thought he knew some of what had happened to change his young paralegal in the few short days since his tantrum at the New Year’s Eve dinner—the trauma of the breakup had sobered him, he knew, and the ensuing detente with Ray and Marcel had been, he guessed, unexpectedly rewarding all around; but he wanted to hear Blake’s side of it sometime, if Blake wanted to tell him. Their relationship had never been one of friends and confidants, but maybe that could change, too… after a few more of Blake’s hard edges were smoothed down.
Blake was giving him a look out of the corner of his eye, though his classically beautiful face remained in perfect profile. “You’re making me horny just by standing there,” Blake said. Once he might have said something like that sourly, like one who felt he was always excluded by the jealousy or inferiority of others. Now, though, his tone was amused and conversational.
Danny laughed. “I seem to be having that effect on people today,” he joked, leaning forward and casting his eyes out over the urban scene below them as well. The railing was cold against his bare forearms, and yet he nonetheless felt no urge to get in out of the weather. He felt physically and emotionally at peace, at least for now, as though his body were, through some unconscious effort, proof against anything that could assail it.
Blake hummed. When he spoke again his tone was just slightly tentative, like a truth-teller testing unknown waters. “What if I told you,” he said, still looking out at the city, “that you do have that effect on people?”
Danny looked over at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Blake said, “that you really do, physically, make any guys around you horny. I know, I’ve seen it. You’ve seen it too, you’ve just ignored it.”
Danny nodded slowly. A lot had happened in the last day, more than he could explain, but he’d filed it all in his head under “weird convention this year” and not let himself think about it. What had been preying on him was what had led up to the trip. The alumni brunch that had turned into three-way in the parking lot. The guy with the hard-on the bathroom after. His buddies making out in the booth. That… that had been strange. Strange, and exciting.
What Blake had speculated—it would explain a lot.
He shook his head, turning back to the city. “How, though?” he wondered aloud. He thought about Ray, who was also having a lot of sex. Was that because Ray was around him, or because this effect Blake was describing was somehow tied to the thing he and Ray had in common? “I mean, I can’t deny my body has changed…”
“I’m pretty sure it’s because of… what’s happened to you recently,” Blake said, soundly oddly cagey. Was that agreement, or was Blake referring to something else besides the dick transformation that had had so many other cascading consequences for him and Ray both? Before he could ask Blake what he was thinking, the other man looked over suddenly at Danny. “Are you okay with it?”
“What,” Danny said, smiling at Blake, “you mean, am I okay with turning people on?” He made it sound like a silly question.
Blake turned his body to face Danny, one elbow still on the railing. With his shirt open and moving in the breeze, exposing the sculpted granite muscles underneath, he looked more like a GQ ad than ever. Or the cover of a romance novel, about a hunky paralegal who discovered sex and love weren’t mutually exclusive, Danny thought, suppressing a smile. Even his natural scent, brought to him instantly on the breeze blowing over Blake, was manly.
“I mean,” Blake said, sober and curious, “are you okay making guys horny. Making them affectionate. Making them yearn to—” His eyes dropped to Danny’s lips. “—make out.”
The cold wind buffeted Danny’s bare torso and rigid cock, but if anything he felt too warm. If Blake was right there was an aspect of this… effect… he had on people that he should probably try to contain. It might not be fair to induce arousal into the men he met. So yeah, that part was a little troubling.
On the other hand, the longing with which the very self-possessed Blake was looking at his mouth right now was pressing all of Danny’s buttons. He loved making out, and ever since he’d decided, as a sort of informal New Year’s resolution, not to hide the stretchiness of his tongue anymore should the matter crop up in intimate circumstances, he found that he loved making out even more than he had before.
“See,” Blake was saying, still looking at Danny’s lips but with a hard glint in his eyes, “I think you like it. I think you enjoy turning guys on and being the stimulus for them needing to get their rocks off. I think that turns you on big-time.”
Blake leaned forward just slightly, watching Danny for his reactions. “You want to cum,” he said cautiously, as if he were exploring the edges of an idea he wasn’t sure he saw the shape of yet. “You want to cum,” he repeated, more sure. “You want dose guys with your cum. You like that.” His eyes narrowed, and his lips curved slightly, like the shape of what he’d been feeling for was suddenly clear. “But here’s what I think,” he said, completely confident now. “I think you want to make other guys cum even more.”
Danny stared up at the slightly taller godling, mentally comparing Blake’s assertion with what he was feeling in that moment, and there was no denying the fact that he was feeling deeply aroused at the knowledge that his mere presence was, right this minute, making Blake need things. To kiss, to fuck, to cum. Danny’s massive dick squeezed hard, expelling precum onto the cold breeze. “You might be right,” he said easily. He held his ground, waiting.
Blake moved toward him, stopping when he was barely a couple of inches away. Danny’s exposed, throbbing hard-on was nearly brushing against the fabric of Blake’s pants, and he was almost sure he could sense Blake’s fat, straight erection on the other side across the tiny gulf between them.
“You love to make people want it,” Blake pressed, those eyes still hard and bright even as he drank Danny in. “You love it because you love to watch guys lose it. I could stand here right now, right here on this balcony, and stroke myself off, and you would think it was hot as fuck. You’d cum just from watching me nut all over your fuzzy chest.”
Danny nodded. “Sure I would,” he agreed. But if Blake thought that being this assertive would put Danny on the back foot, he’d forgotten who he was talking to. Danny responded with a smiling assertiveness of his own. “You want to do that, don’t you? Because I can see that you do. It’s written all over your face. You want to kiss me like an animal, and cum on me, and make me cum all over the fucking city.”
Blake’s eyes blazed, and then he dove in, closing the distance between them and mashing his lips against Danny’s, that fat, ruler-straight hard-on forced against Danny’s hip in brazen challenge to Danny’s curved monster on the other side. Danny’s tongue snaked into Blake’s hot mouth, and when Blake moaned into their kiss Danny cheered inside. Another win for Louden, he crowed to himself, as both of them pushed toward the litany of pleasure and release that they had outlined for themselves, each of them getting exactly what they wanted.
Ray’s plan for him and Marcel to slip quietly out of Jack’s lavish townhouse on the fringes of dawn before the snoring Jack woke up, thereby avoiding any need to try to awkwardly explain Ray’s overnight penis expansion, was scuttled when a yawning Jack walked in on them in the expansive walk-in closet, trying to stuff Ray’s mostly-soft wang into a pair of dark trousers that, while loose-cut by the standards of normal clothing needs, had only ever been intended to accommodate two legs—not two and a half. Not to mention his balls, which were considerably larger as well and very annoyingly in the way.
Ray, who had the pants mostly on, quickly swiveled so his back was to Jack and started jumping in little hops to set the recalcitrant clothing properly so he could zip up. Even as he was doing this, however, Ray scented a faint, pleasant, manly odor, like a mix of manly musk, seasoned rare steak, and… yes, of course, kiwifruit—and his trousers slowly loosened and remolded themselves to his body, knee-length bulge included, as if custom reshaping were a known property of heavy cotton twill. Blake strikes again, he thought with a grimace, annoyed at the utility of Blake’s new resolution. He caught himself wondering if it might have been smarter bringing Blake in from the beginning, and pushed the thought firmly away.
Anyway, the remolding conformed to his shape from waist to ankle, which, for one thing, made the trousers a little too much like skinny jeans (which Ray hated), and, for another, hugged the knee-length, wrist-thick bulge of his soft dick and the curve of his nuts very, very obviously. He might as well wear see-through Lycra, he thought, exasperated. Angrily, he took back the mental kudos he’d just reluctantly given the conniving paralegal.
Unless this reshaping thing was… adjustable? He frowned down at his pants with all his might, trying to mentally force them into a less obscene tailoring. Come on, manly odor! Do your thing!
Marcel, meanwhile, had turned and greeted their compactly hunky host, instinctively seeking to divert his attention. “Ah, bonjour, Jack,” falling distractedly into his native tongue and giving the name Jack a sexy Zh sound. “As-tu bien—I mean, did you sleep well?”
“Comme un log,” Jack assured him with a rakish grin. “You guys tired me out. So—where you two sneaking off to? I thought I heard you in here, but I figured you were just going at it and leaving me to rest one out.” He sounded disappointed he hadn’t caught them fucking, probably because he would have wanted to join in if they had been.
“Ah, yes, well,” Marcel said. “Ah, Danny—that is, Ray’s boss—he wanted to have a nice breakfast before today’s events in the conference—”
Very glib, Ray thought acidly. You should be an actor. He focused on the dark pants, and, to his amazement, they did start to widen in the lower leg, though very reluctantly. He poured all his attention into making himself look at least halfway decent while Marcel danced. “—And of course we did not want to wake you,” Marcel said, his tone suggestive, as if alluding to the reason for Jack’s deep slumber that Jack had already mentioned.
“That’s fine,” Jack said cheerily. “I’ll join you.”
Beat. “Quoi?” asked Marcel.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to your boss since you told me who you work for,” Jack explained, unabashed. “My firm’s expanding your way, and we wanted to sound him out about consulting on the legal landscape up there, especially as related to LGBTQ+ issues.”
“Ah,” Marcel hedged. “I’m sure Danny would appreciate that. Perhaps—”
“It’s good,” Ray said, turning around. He’d finally manhandled the pants into a less cock- and ankle-hugging configuration, so that they now looked like proper trousers—though the hefty outline of his dick was still visible if you were looking for it. Which Jack definitely was. He hurriedly added, quite truthfully, “I know Danny would like to discuss all that with you.” He nodded to his phone on a nearby dresser, which he’d pulled out while trying to force his pants on. “Let me just text him and let him know you’re—”
“Is it my imagination,” Jack interrupted, eyes on the cylinder running down Ray’s left leg, “or is that thing bigger than it was yesterday?”
Ray tried to act bashful, but he was no Marcel. “Well, the truth is,” he lied, “after all the pleasure you gave it last night, I couldn’t get it totally soft again.”
“Aha, that explains it,” Jack said proudly, looking up and meeting Ray’s gaze with a grin and a wink. “I’m still feeling the rush myself.” Standing there naked, tan, and muscled in the growing light of day, with a seriously dark jaw full of stubble and a tousled mop above, he looked like quite the corporate roué.
“I’ll bet,” Ray said, exchanging a wry glance with Marcel.
“All right, you folks get dressed,” Jack said briskly, clapping his hands. “I’ll jump in the shower, and we’ll head out in fifteen.” He then turned on his heel and left, leaving Ray and Marcel to get on with their suddenly Jackified day.
Danny, as it turned out, was amenable both to the breakfast Marcel had improvised and to Jack coming along. Jeremy and Elias, still sleepily wrapped up in each other, declined to join them, so it was just the three of them as they headed out to Jack’s car twenty minutes later, just as the morning sky was shifting from pink to blue and the birds chattered over the river.
Their number was just as well, as Jack led them out to a low-slung sporty black convertible four-seater of an obscure make Ray didn’t recognize. Jack offered Marcel shotgun, steering Ray to the back. “That way you have an extra seat for your—” He wiggled his brows salaciously and nodded to Ray’s crotch. “—better half.”
Ray snorted. “Better half my ass!” he said, then added, “Wait, let me rephrase that…”
“Your ass is nice, too,” Marcel said with a brilliant smile. Ray gave him a look and climbed into the back seat. Jack started the car, put the top down as the day was chilly but already shaping up to be very nice, and started down the residential streets of upper-crust Austin, headed for the highway leading downtown.
Ray was listening to the pleasant rumble of the high-powered engine and letting the sound and the pleasant rush of cool wind lull him into a relaxed torpor, when suddenly he was jolted to alertness by a clear, calm voice.
He looked around, but there was no sign of anyone speaking. And it couldn’t have been Jack or Marcel, for two reasons: first, they would have had to raise their voice over the wind, but the speaker’s words were level and in a normal tone of voice. Second, it couldn’t be Jack or Marcel for the simple reason that the voice he heard was Blake’s.
I know you can hear me.
He looked around again, feeling stupid for doing so. “Blake?” he said unwillingly, keeping his own voice low so the others in the front couldn’t hear him.
That’s right. How are you this morning?
Ray fought against fear and decided anger was a good substitute. “Blake, what the fuck? How are you in my head?”
Welllll, Blake’s voice drawled, I decided to test out the new abilities I gave myself thanks to your little book. You remember? Changing the body and desires of anyone I’ve ever kissed?
“I remember,” Ray gritted out. “Thanks for showing me your resolutions, by the way.” Cocky brat.
My pleasure, Blake cooed. So I tested out my powers on our boss, first—
“What did you do to Danny?” Ray hissed. Damn it, he’d known that resolution would be the one that would cause trouble.
—and then I thought about it and I realized, there was nothing in the resolution about me having to be near the person I was changing. So I decided to try changing you remotely. And the easiest way to test that was to see if I could change you so you could hear my thoughts if I wanted you to.
“That is… so twisted,” Ray muttered. His eyes were on Jack and Marcel, but they were chatting gaily about Marcel’s soap and ignoring him for the moment. “So wait,” he said. “If you can hear me, you must have changed yourself, too, right? What, did you kiss yourself at some point?”
I did, Blake’s voice said gleefully. I kissed my beautiful bicep. Want to see? Without a pause there came into Ray’s head an image—a memory, he guessed: Blake, standing in front of a mirror in the hotel room, smooching his own flexed bicep. Which? For all the ego involved in the pose and in sharing it with Ray, was pretty hot. Whatever his other faults, Blake was not lacking in any kind of visual appeal.
“I dunno,” Ray said quietly, trying to ignore his arousal. “Changing yourself seems awful risky.”
I can handle it. What matters is… that you liked it. You like my muscles.
Ray did. He didn’t say anything.
You like muscles, Ray, Blake’s voice said.
All at once, Ray realized what Blake was doing. “No,” he growled. “Don’t you dare fucking change my—”
You loooove muscles. You love seeing muscles. Seeing big, thick, sculpted muscles. Growing muscles. Expanding, swelling muscles. You love that, Ray.
“No! Fuck you, I’m not listening!” Jack must have heard him this time—he was looking at him quizzically in the rear-view mirror as they tooled down the highway into town. Ray gave him a meaningless, “it’s nothing” smile.
All the while, he plumbed his thoughts and saw with a sinking stomach that the change had already taken hold. He wanted Marcel to grow his muscles. Could he coax him into boosting his muscles without realizing? Fuck, he even wanted to grow his own muscles. That sounded so hot. He could make them grow any size, too—his clothes would adjust! He could have all the muscles he wanted!
Valiantly he fought the urge, muttering, “You are such an ass.”
Oh, this is fun. I’m going to fuck with you all day. You’ll be hearing from me soon!
“Blake—!” he hissed. “Blake, you take that—” But the voice was gone.
He gritted his teeth, trying to get his mind off Jack’s hard physique, Marcel’s subtler model-crafted look, his own defined, barely boosted body. He was acutely conscious of the press of the soft orange tee shirt he had borrowed from Jack to replace his spunk-stained Oxford—how stretchy it was, how accommodating it would be of pecs that were just a little bigger, or bigger still, or huge, like basketballs—
He pushed the thoughts away, focusing all his thoughts on Blake. Blake, and the book.
He was going to get that book back. He’d get the book, and then he’d “resolve” that beautiful fuckhead into the middle of next week.
Danny had texted to suggest they meet for their impromptu breakfast at Carmelo’s, a medium-to-swank eatery near the city center they’d been at before during previous conference excursions known for its overloaded breakfast-themed menu. Ray thought it was basically IHOP with leather upholstery, real maple syrup, and customers sporting expensive haircuts, but the food was more than decent and in spite of his anxieties he felt his stomach rumble in anticipation. Blueberry waffles sounded good. And eggs, lots of eggs. Maybe with some turkey sausage. Or the tender seasoned steak strips they offered “cold”—those went shockingly well with a pile of waffles doused in a bit of warm syrup. He could definitely use some meat.
Better not let Marcel hear me say that, he thought with a mental huff of exasperation. He’d probably figure out a way to give me another five inches at least. He frowned at his pants, which—despite his inexpert, if mostly successful, fumbling to loosen them up using his man-scent clothing-adjustment powers—still clearly showed the heft of his knee-length, crazy-thick flaccid monstrosity. The weird thing was that he had already been wound up yesterday at being fourteen inches soft and seventeen hard. He should be freaking out that now he wouldn’t be able to hide this thing, ever, even soft, but… mostly he was just peeved at being pranked into inadvertently growing his dick bigger, like he would be if someone tricked him into one of those fictionworld-only scenarios where he showed up at a costume party that turned out not to be a costume party and he was the only one dressed as a sexy cowboy in assless chaps.
Ray puzzled over his curious angstlessness as Jack wound his elite black sportster convertible through Austin’s thin Sunday morning traffic. Why was his response to being stuck with an unhideable neck-high gargantucock registering on the rage-o-meter as “mildly irked”? This should be a big deal, and yet—
And then it clicked. He heard the phrasing of the new resolution reply in his head (read, annoyingly, in Blake’s voice). One thing that’s not a big deal anymore, it went, is: guys with huge cocks, whether they’re hard or soft, hidden or exposed. Having a knee-length monster dick was not a “big deal”—even to its owner. He could have 20 inches, 50 inches, whatever, and it would literally be no big deal. Fuck, with wording like that he could probably take off these pants right now and walk into the restaurant showing everyone the full monty, and no fuss would be made. The worst would be a dirty look, he bet, and that would probably be from the misanthrope who guessed he was in town for the gay lawyers convention and hated him for that.
His eyes strayed to the front seat as they sped along where Marcel and Jack were having a cheery conversation he couldn’t hear more than a few snatches of over the wind and road noise. Heck, he thought, if it was only guys with huge cocks… He imagined the three of them walking into the breakfast place pantsless together and only Marcel and Jack getting hauled away by the cops under the outraged glares of the patrons and wait staff, while Ray just stood there smirking, safe under the penumbra of his megacock exemption.
It was actually an intriguing problem, from a “legal” point of view. Whenever there were blanket rules like that, there were always edges and uncertainties even where things seemed clear-cut and unambiguous. What would be the issues with a stricture that clear and concise? What would be the loopholes? Because there were always loopholes. Complex laws multiplied them, of course, even when eliminating them was the intent; but the simplest fiats hid a nest of uncertainties.
Spotting defects in a law was actually Blake’s savant-gift, so it was interesting to consider whether Blake had thought ahead and considered any enigmas in his own resolution-wording. The fact that the formulation was cast by Blake himself motivated Ray to spot the potential problems, especially if he could do so using Blake’s own customary methodology. He was in the mood to show Blake up just now, after what he’d just done to Ray.
He was still staring idly at the front-seat passengers, he realized, his gaze lingering on the compactly powerful shoulders of their new shortish muscle-friend in the driver’s seat. He did love muscle, especially when it grew. Of course, he couldn’t get Jack to grow yet. Only Danny’s cum gave people that ability to self-grow their muscles, and even then you weren’t aware you could do it (unless you’d read the Resolution book, like Ray and Blake had).
Of course, they were on their way to have breakfast with Danny, which would very likely lead to some or all of them cumming. He just had to get Danny to point that massive, rounded tool of his toward—
He shook his head, hard. Fuck Blake. Fuck that fucker Blake Fuckerset. He tore his eyes away very deliberately from Jack’s bulging traps, but then they snapped more or less automatically to the sleekly muscle-curved shoulders of Marcel in the passenger seat, like his attention was magnetized to maleness and muscle.
Ray licked his lips unconsciously, staring without quite realizing it. Marcel was so hot, and definitely grow-capable. He just needed to—
He squeezed his eyes shut, closing himself off from the sight of Jack’s enticing fitness-freak bod and Marcel’s deliciously elegant soap-star physique. Even so, the two images lingered tortuously in his imagination, calling to him, and he pushed them aside with an effort, filling his head with sunshiny meadows and bouncy puppies and anything else he could pile on to get sex and muscle out of his brain.
Determination grew and solidified in him. He made a fierce vow in his own head, that Jack and Marcel and Ray himself would remain exactly as muscular as they were in this moment. There would have to be consequences, too—he knew the temptation would twist around him—so he fixed the cost of repudiating that vow at something sobering, something he could not ignore: breaking his self-oath, he swore in his head, would mean quitting his job and walking away from Marcel.
Scorched earth—that would tell his ogre-sized libido he meant business.
Angrily, he forced his head back to what he’d been thinking about before, if only to as way to calm and smooth his roiling thoughts. What had he been—? Right. Loopholes. Ambiguities. He took several steady, rhythmic breaths. What had Blake not thought of? He had to one-up Blake, in his head at least, and he needed to do it right the fuck now.
Actually, he’d already kind of had an inkling, before he’d gotten distracted. One of the biggest pitfalls of the law was semantics. Magical resolutions, too, he assumed. What did that phrase “big deal” actually mean—the thing that cocks like his no longer were, even exposed and hard? No one would make a fuss, he guessed—positively or negatively. Wait—if no one made a big deal about how awesome ginormous cocks were, did that mean that Marcel’s exaggerated size fetish would evaporate, and Marcel wouldn’t see anything special in Ray anymore? The thought made Ray’s belly hurt.
They were stopped at a light, and Ray risked a peek at Marcel. He was laughing gaily at something Jack had said. Maybe he was worrying himself over nothing. After all, Marcel hadn’t made a “big deal” about Ray’s cock, not really, right? Not after that night at the dinner party, when he’d caught his first sight of what Danny and Ray had done to themselves with the KiSweet. He just liked them, right? He just really liked Ray’s enormous cock, right? That wasn’t making a big deal out of it.
Was that the distinction? Did something being a “big deal” require people making a public fuss, either in castigation or adulation? Or was there something more subtle?
For that matter—the wording of the resolution had an even more basic ambiguity, he remembered. This was what had got him started thinking about this angle. The “big deal” exemption was for “huge cocks”—but what the hell constituted mantool hugeness?
Ray snickered, feeling like he’d probably encountered a porn star by that name in some video or other. He could imagine the scene in some dingy office. Soft-looking producer, long hair on the sides, bald on top, snide and jaded, leaning over the paperwork; fresh young stud opposite him with a huge grin and a big basket, excited at the prospect of having sex and getting paid for it. “Okay, dude, what name do you want in the credits for the porno?” “Mantool Hugeness!” “Uh, okay, Larry, whatever you say. (snort)”
Seriously, though—what would demarcate mantool hugeness in this case? He remembered studying the Eighteenth Amendment. Manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquor is banned? Fair enough—but what the hell’s “intoxicating liquor” and what’s not? Congress had had to pass the Volstead Act to define exactly what the term meant. Then there was the other extreme, most famously invoked by Potter Stewart in relation to obscenity: no standard, no definition, just “I know it when I see it.”
He considered. Objective cock ranges and expectations, the kind of thing often applied by default in cases of ambiguity, were probably out the window here. Objectively, Blake’s wide and quite beautiful ten-incher was “huge” compared to ordinary masculine standards—but Blake almost certainly didn’t see it that way now that Ray and Danny (and some unknown number of KiSweet devotees worldwide, he needed to remember) had shown him up in, um, a big way. Maybe that was the clincher—whatever Blake, the resolution-writer, deemed “huge” or “not huge”. Was there a gray area that had Blake shrugging and going, “Uh, idk, kinda huge”?
Or maybe it wasn’t up to Blake. Maybe it was what the book thought that mattered. Did impersonal pagan magic have an opinion about human male boner bigness? Or it could fall back on the crafters of the magic behind the book. Or the ultimate authority, the mysterious powers that be hinted at in the emergency intervention clause of the disclaimer. He didn’t want to forget their ominous mention and the way it suggested they were always in the back of all of this, lurking, waiting to dive in and save reality. They could be the ultimate arbiters of phallic colossality.
That made his lips quirk. He imagined some vast, shadowy underground star chamber, a ring of ominous silhouettes all ranged around this spotlit, nervous young wavy-haired twunk in hot pants and party glitter, a sepulchral voice coming from one of the hidden figures growling, “Drop your pants, mortal, and show us the goods”…
He could laugh, but Ray knew instinctively that all this was of critical importance. If he was to gain the upper hand over Blake, knowing how the magic made decisions like this would definitely be an advantage.
The car stopped, and he heard the jerk of the parking brake. The wind and noise had stopped. He looked up in surprise and saw that they were already parallel parked on a leafy downtown side street, almost directly in front of a black-trimmed storefront with Carmelo’s painted in tasteful gold script across the center of the front window. Jack and Marcel were getting out of the car, both of them eyeing him curiously as he sat there like a confused lump.
They were here.
Ray felt Danny’s presence the moment he entered the restaurant, almost like walking into a wall. At first he thought it was the atmosphere of the eatery—warmth, aroma, the pleasure of something familiar and desired. Then he saw Danny, sitting alone in a bright white shirt at a big round six-top table almost at the exact center of the busy dining area, looking happy, slightly flushed, and positively radiating sex, and Ray knew it wasn’t the smell of flapjacks and Canadian tree juice that was sifting through his flesh and teasing his knee-length tallywhacker. Danny had a blast zone, a radius inside which every man was subjected to his proximity effects of guys being turned on and wanting to make out with each other, and Ray had just stepped into it.
He glanced over at his companions where they were standing in front of a “The Hostess Will Seat You” sign to see if they had noticed the threshold crossing, just in time to see them share a glance, grin, and nonchalantly lean in for a friendly, open-mouthed kiss. Ray drew in a sharp breath. They were both handsome men with (as he knew first hand) talented mouths and eager appreciation for big dicks, and just the sight of them sharing a moment of casual oral intimacy made his oversized prick shover and swell. He almost reached down to adjust it, but the truth was it was so long and heavy now it was doing its own adjusting, shouldering the fabric of his pants aside and making its own room. Plus, thing was so big now the head was actually out of reach—he’d have to stoop just to grab the head at this point.
Of course, if he got hard, he would have the opposite problem…
His dick swelled a little more, threatening to start that inexorable ratcheting toward full and towering bonerization, and Ray tried urgently filling his head with meadows and puppies again. He really needed that book back, if only to scribble in an emergency resolution giving guys with face-slapping dicks the ability to control their erections at all times. That would be a useful to the universe as he now knew it.
He closed his eyes. More puppies. A chittering squirrel, too. Those were always distracting. They always seemed so intense, like they were angrily lecturing you on the future of the planet even though they knew you weren’t listening…
Someone was kissing him. No, wait—two people were kissing him. He blinked, and, sure enough, Jack and Marcel were there, filling his vision and beaming slyly at him. “I told you that would get his attention,” Jack said, winking up at Marcel.
“You guys are hilarious,” Ray said acidly. “Please don’t make me spring a woody in the middle of brunch.”
Marcel just smiled mischievously at him, as if Ray had boosted his motivation to get Ray big and boned. Jack, unabashed dog that he was, grinned widely at him, his intentions even more transparent. Ray eyed them narrowly, which of course only amused them further. “Come, tigre. Danny is waiting for us,” Marcel said, with what sounded like deceptive mildness. He took Ray’s hand, and together the three of them threaded through the bustling restaurant toward Danny’s table, along the way passing groups and couples that were unselfconsciously stroking each other’s faces and shoulders or outright kissing—mostly male couples, but straight pairings too. Like at the mixer the waiters were clustering in groups of twos and threes whenever they weren’t on the floor, casually groping and kissing each other in between taking orders and running food, their erections obvious in their black waiter pants.
They arrived at Danny’s table, and no sooner had Ray found himself wondering why a party of four had been seated at a six-top when the place was so packed like this than his question was answered by the arrival of two familiar figures returning from the restrooms, hand in hand. Ray’s heart stuttered when he saw them. Archer gave him a warm, self-assured smile, though not without a quick, all-encompassing glance of appreciation down Ray’s body that made him feel thoroughly worshipped in the space of five seconds; he couldn’t tell if the suit he was wearing, open-collared and tie-less, was new from the shopping spree he’d been on, but it sure flattered his perfectly crafted body. It was the equally sculpted and similarly dressed Blake, though, and his dark Kubrick smile—that look where their head’s tilted down and they’re leering up meaningfully at you like they’re about to execute a truly shocking plot twist on you—that really gave Ray the chills. Especially when he followed it up with a cheery Good morning, Ray! right into Ray’s head that only he could hear.
Ray bared his teeth at him. He shouldn’t have been surprised Danny had brought Blake; it was a longstanding habit for Blake to join Danny at business meetings, as they all knew Blake’s stunning good looks had helped close a lot of deals, though that was before Danny himself had become a semi-unwitting sex god. But Ray was annoyed at Blake’s ability to do things to him, and a little infuriated that thanks to being inside the Danny Zone he very much wanted to spend an hour or two making out with the guy. Maybe naked, with his giant, rigid dick smashed hard between their firm chests…
He wrenched his gaze away from Blake and made a concerted effort to ignore him. “Hey, boss,” he said to Danny with a smile, taking a seat next to his employer. He was having a bit of difficulty doing so thanks to his partially thickened dick. It was past his knee now, forcing him to keep his left leg extended a bit in front of him as he sat, and he was almost jealous of Danny’s big, bent permaboner, which was throwing off carnal desire like a subconscious space-heater. “Feels like we’ve been having separate conventions this year.”
Danny was nodding, a little chagrined. On either side of them the others—Archer and Blake on one side, and Jack and Marcel on the other—were kissing deeply in that friendly-around-Danny way that was more like conversation than sex, though it sure wasn’t helping him with his literally growing problem downstairs—and that was without factoring in Danny’s innate ability to turn guys on, which Ray was feeling the full brunt of. “It’s been a little… off-track this year,” Danny admitted. “I’m sure you’ve found ways to amuse yourself,” he added with a little wiggle of his eyebrows.
Ray found he was staring at him, almost enchanted by how sexually stimulating Danny was. He was handsome, and pretty buff now—more than before, having unconsciously grown his own muscles subtly over the past few days to a new standard of relaxed hotness. Maybe a little younger, too, like he’d adjusted his physical appearance closer to his own boyish self-image. But the effect was much more than that, like a haze of arousal that poured through you, like he was the source of all sex and euphoria and mindless orgasmic bliss. He realized belatedly that his hand had crept over to Danny’s lap and was stroking Danny’s inches-thick, curved, pre-slicked erection, almost without actual, conscious volition, and his eyes were zeroing in on Danny’s mouth.
He flicked his gaze up to meet Danny’s green eyes and was surprised to see a raw hunger there. He loved that he was turning Ray on—that he was turning everyone on around him. He was feeding on it, craving it, wanting more. The fact that he had such a compulsive effect on Ray that he had started stroking Danny without even being quite aware of it was intoxicating for Danny. He wanted Ray to kiss him, too, not just because he liked Ray and thought he was attractive, but because it flipped Danny’s switches to be driving Ray into such consuming, nigh-irresistible lust. With what was left of his mind Ray was more than little shocked that his mild-mannered, easy-going boss was now so deeply gratified by the act of stoking the horniness of guys around him past the point of endurance. Had Ray done that to him?
Danny was panting slightly, his warm breath gusting across Ray’s lips—their mouths were inches apart now, somehow. “Danny,” he gasped, “are you—”
Danny didn’t let him finish. Their lips met, both parted and needy, and Ray’s grip tightened around Danny’s slippery, steel-hard prick. Their mouths seem to seal together, and their tongues reached for each other like lovers reuniting after a long and yearning separation. Danny’s resolution-enhanced tongue stretched and expanded into Ray’s mouth, and Ray hummed happily into the kiss.
You are so hard right now, came Blake’s voice in his head, not as intrusive as it might have been giving its consonance with everything Ray was feeling. He wanted to say “No shit,” but he just deepened the kiss with Danny. In truth he hadn’t been completely hard yet, though he’d had his leg fully extended in front of him under the table the last few minutes, knowing it was inevitable; but as soon as Blake’s voice seeped through his thoughts he was fully, unmovably erect, his boner throbbing and already leaking impatiently against the taut flesh of his leg.
To his left Marcel, perhaps through some sixth sense, was somehow aware of Ray’s condition and had toed off his loafer to slide his stockinged foot along the length of Ray’s heavy erection along the inside of Ray’s leg—all while still making out with Jack, impressively enough. At least Ray hoped it was a sixth sense, though he wouldn’t put it past Blake to have done on of his mental alterations to Marcel to make him aware of the state of Ray’s cock at all times.
Ray was losing himself in his escalating arousal, like the kiss and the slow, slick stroking of Danny’s immovable cock and his own pulsing hardness was his entire being. His capacity to form words and thoughts was ebbing rapidly, so it was more jarring this time to hear Blake’s voice returned to his head. You love kissing so much, Blake was saying, his voice echoing in the thrumming, all-consuming pleasure filling Ray’s being. Blake’s own pleasure seeped through the connection—he could almost sense how much Blake was enjoying making out with Archer.
I do, he thought.
There’s a reason you love it so much, Blake insisted. It’s because your tongue gives you as much pleasure from kissing as your cock gets from being stroked and sucked.
Suddenly, the pleasure Ray was getting from kissing Danny shot up, doubling and doubling again, skyrocketing to the level of an extremely talented blow-job to his very sensitive cock—from a man with a talented, extra-long and stretchy tongue. He moaned desperately into Danny’s mouth, suddenly close, and Danny’s responded enthusiastically, getting off on Ray’s extreme arousal.
Suddenly there was a different voice in his mind. You need to take control, Ray, it said. In his current state, riding the rough edge of an imminent orgasm as he enjoyed a kiss that felt like pure fellatio on top of stroking Danny’s awesome cock and his own too-big boner getting felt up by Marcel’s questing foot, Ray could barely make sense of the words. You need to take control, it repeated. Use the power of the orgasm to assert your ownership of all the resolutions.
Archer? Ray eked out weakly, barely understanding anything but his own increasingly unbearable ecstasy. He seemed to see the handsome, pale man with his bright blue eyes and shoulder-length hair and general sexy-vampire looks, like a dim, translucent floating head in his confused, misty thoughts. He wasn’t sure if the head was the other man’s deliberate projection, or if he was just imagining it. Archer? he repeated. How—?
Blake gave me his ability to change others, Archer explained briskly, like they didn’t have much time. I think, unconsciously. He’s obsessed with me. And with you.
What—? Ray could not think. His climax was coming. He wasn’t going to be able to control anything. What the fuck was Archer even talking about? All the world was was this kiss, Danny’s cock, his skyrocketing pleasure—
Listen, Archer said. The moment of orgasm you are pure pleasure, pure unreason. That’s when you overlap into where the magic comes from—the Source. The Source is human pleasure, Ray. That’s the Source.
Use your orgasm! Archer urged hurriedly, implacable and certain. You are the owner! Take control!
And suddenly the moment was on him. Danny was cumming, and then he was cumming. He was cumming, hard, heart pounding, his existence pure, white-hot ecstasy. Control—I control—I control—I am the owner—I am the owner—!!
He was in a world of white, in between seconds, pleasure without time. Blue-black hand-inked words whirled around him in the infinite void, inscriptions written on the universe, man-sized and swirling around him like zephyrs. He was naked, his cumming cock jutting up in front of him, splattering on the resolutions as the passed around him.
He glanced around quickly, knowing he had no time and all time. Far off in the whiteness there were more words, infinitely many, whipping around in long trains, filling the whiteness in all directions. Those were other spells, other transformations, other stories. But these—these were his words.
Some of them were skittish, jerky, like they might fly away if he let them. He saw at once that these were the ones Blake had written, in his cramped but aesthetically proficient handwriting instead of Ray’s prosaically agreeable block letters. He glared at errant strands. I am the owner, he told them. You belong to me. Instantly they responded, falling instinctively into the same complementary curves and swoops around Ray and his cumming monster cock as the others, a visual harmony of reality transformations.
This was what he had that Blake did not, he thought. Blake might have the Resolutions book in his hands, but Ray was the owner, its sole master. He controlled it and everything about it. He felt that ownership as if it had been physically implanted into the center of his chest.
He was still cumming, and he knew he was cumming in the real world, too. Was that… covered by any of these? He wondered, uncertain. Blowing your load in public had seemed to be okay at the mixer, seeing the way it had all devolved without any objections into a full-blown orgy; but there everyone had been under the spell, and it was in an enclosed space, too, a self-contained event. What about a big restaurant full of brunchers? Him and Danny having huge dicks, and them actually blowing their loads all over themselves and any passing busboys, might be two different things…
He saw the “no big deal” resolution swirling past him and had an idea. Catching his mind on the end of the resolution as it swooped past, at the very end where it said hard or soft, hidden or exposed, Ray concentrated on emending the text. He found the revision came easily to him, and between the space of one self-perceived second and the next the ending became hidden or exposed or cumming. He nodded, grinning. That should indemnify him, and Danny too. And anyone else in the mysterious “huge wang” cohort.
He felt the soaring, consuming pleasure in him crest, and knew that soon his ability to act in this space would fall away. He had time to make one more change.
He knew what that change needed to be. Only one of the resolutions truly mattered. The others, they made the world complicated and interesting, but one of them was an actual problem, out of sync with the harmony of the others.
He should just undo it. Remove it utterly from the canon. Only—he didn’t know how, yet. The knowledge of how to kill one of the resolutions, now that it was written on the universe, was not his.
Altered, then, like the other one.
He found the dissonant resolution as it whipped and slid playfully around him. With his last seconds of presence in the Source he focused on a single word. A name, in the possessive. He used his will, his ownership, to change that name to his own.
And then the white world fell away, and he was back in the restaurant kissing Danny and cumming, both of them panting against each other’s mouths as they violently and copiously climaxed. Danny’s orgasm splashed directly onto Ray like a broken hydrant, while Ray’s was comically shooting right out the leg of his pants and gushering onto the floor and his own now-sodden shoe (and most likely the others’ as well).
Even as he and Danny consciously let their releases subside naturally, he saw a vision of the two revised resolutions on the page—and, interestingly, heard them in his own voice as well, pronouncing the text as it became real. It was just the image before, he knew that, but something must have shifted when he took control, his own preferences settings overriding Blake’s, influenced, perhaps, by the experience of Blake’s voice in his head earlier that morning.
He looked over at other man, just as he broke off his kiss with the too-handsome Archer to stare hard at Ray, and he knew from Blake’s increasing alarm that he was seeing and hearing them, too.
First came the NBD entry. One thing that’s not a big deal anymore, he heard his voice say in pleasingly stentorian tones, is: guys with huge cocks, whether they’re hard or soft, hidden or exposed, or cumming.
Still panting, his sweaty cheek brushing against Danny’s heated skin and lips and his arm around his firm shoulders, Ray smiled, watching Blake avidly. Blake watched him back, not smiling, his pink lips pressed tightly together. The vision shifted, showing the other resolution that had been changed, and Blake’s eyes narrowed as he recognized it. But Ray knew Blake, and he knew that expression. That was the face of pique that Blake wore to mask uncertainty, and even fear.
Ray’s voice spoke again in their heads, calmly announcing the second altered resolution. Every day, it said, I will continue to: Remain unaware of Ray’s ability to mentally alter the bodies and desires of anyone he’s ever kissed.
Blake gave him a smirk, but it was the smirk of a man acknowledging a point won fairly against him. Ray was unable to help letting his own smile spread into a wicked grin.
Nicely played, Raymond, he heard Blake say in his head, and it was in this way that Ray realized, with a frisson of unwelcome surprise, that his change hadn’t been all-encompassing and retroactive. Blake had still had the resolution in his name up until this very minute, and all the things he had done with it had still happened, like making Ray hear his voice and want to grow muscles and get freaking fellatio pleasure through his tongue, plus whatever else he’d done to Danny or Marcel or gods knew who in that time. As if to test this, or maybe to gloat, Blake lifted his hand under his open charcoal suit jacket and blatantly slow-worshipped his own thick, square, Archeresque pecs through his white-pink piqué dress shirt. Then Ray realized that Blake, in an act of sheer, cunning provocation, was letting those beautiful pecs inflate and swell ever so slightly under his caress. Ray followed the movements doggedly, unable to stop himself—fuck, he was actually licking his lips as he watched. He caught himself, pulled in his tongue and wrenched his annoyed stare up to Blake’s pretty blue eyes, which were brimming with fresh quantities of arrogant amusement. His smirk was regained its usual surfeit of cockiness as well.
Ray nodded grimly. Reaching out with his mind, he flexed his perceptions and saw Blake’s entire being fully exposed to him in a strange sort of double vision. He hesitated only briefly, then with surprising ease he found the tweak he needed and spoke to Blake in his own head exactly the way Blake did with him. Thanks, he said. I’ll try to use my new gift… wisely.
Blake’s smirk dimmed just a little. Ray felt a flicker of unease mixed with his little flush of triumph. Worth it, Ray told himself firmly.
His gaze shifted to Archer, sitting close beside Ray’s paralegal friend-slash-nemesis. Curiously, the older man—still the pale, statuesque, idealized model of a handsome, muscled, perfectly groomed lawyer—seemed uncharacteristically self-conscious. His eyes met Ray’s and then shied away, which seemed very unlike the cool, supremely unflappable Archer he’d seen so far on this trip. Even during fucking he’d been serene and constant, hardly breaking a sweat, barely a hair out of place, almost inhumanly self-possessed—
Ray made a small soundless gasp. All the buzzing questions he’d been breeding in the back of his head while he was preoccupied with Blake, how Archer knew what he knew about the resolutions and the Source and Ray’s ability to assert his ownership of the book, were now flooding the front of his mind and trying breathlessly to answer themselves. Was it possible that Archer—?
Archer’s gaze met his again, this time bright and sharp, so acute it seemed almost to skewer him through his soul. Ray shivered. His questions and speculation sped up madly, becoming a blizzard in his mind, and he was becoming quickly overwhelmed, like he might lose himself in the tempest. Then, suddenly, there was a voice, and it was gone—all of it.
“What can I get you guys?” said the voice.
Ray blinked, and looked up behind him to see a pretty, middle-aged, slightly harried-looking uniformed waitress standing by their table, her pen poised over her thick NCR waitpad, half the book already gone. (Did they start a new one each shift? Was it that busy here?) The black, rectangular nametag pinned to her white shirt read BRETT.
Danny looked up at her too, and Ray moved back a little from him, though he kept his arm around his shoulders. “Hi, Brett,” Danny said, giving her his most disarming smile, and her cheeks colored ever so slightly.
Ray was suddenly awkwardly aware of being covered in messy, sloppy cum all around his waist, crotch, and lower torso, along with pretty much the entire floorspace under the table. The dank, musky smell of their combined jizz was overpowering all by itself. “We’re, uh, sorry about the mess,” he added sheepishly, biting his lower lip.
“Not a problem,” Brett said easily, drawing out the first word, and it sounded like she meant it and wasn’t just giving them the usual line of customer-service politeness bullshit. From where she stood Ray knew she could see Danny’s giant, exposed cock and probably the shape of his own very-slowly-receding boner straining his left pants leg as well. Ray guessed his get-out-of-jail card for huge-cock orgasms had worked, though he still wondered where the size cut-off was. Where was the line between ordinary and huge? For all the revelations and ownership-taking he was still chasing true understanding of what he had made himself a part of.
Just a silly book of resolutions, he thought, at once amused by and derisive of his eager naïveté in starting all this only a few days ago, back in the other world he’d lived in before the change of years and the transformation of everything and everyone in his life.
With an effort, he focused—on Danny’s dick, as it turned out. Brett was staring at it, too, and Danny was beaming up at her, not minding the attention or the spunk, it seemed. “These… things happen,” the waitress added distractedly, almost like she meant big dicks just kept cropping up in the world rather than the lakes of seed they produced. She realized Ray was eyeing her knowingly, aware of her admiring stare, and looked away with a blush.
“Yeah, ‘these things happen’, she says,” Jack repeated with a drawl, and Ray looked over to see him grinning wryly back at him, his lips looking bruised and debauched from his make-out session with Marcel. He was pointing down at the table in the direction of their feet, the picture of mock outrage. “You’d better be sure I’ll be sending you a bill,” the extroverted hunk went on, eyes twinkling. “These shoes were brand new! The best Versace knock-offs money can buy!”
Between them, Marcel played his part and pretended to be sympathetic, folding his pretty mouth into a moue and giving Jack a consoling one-armed hug.
“Uh huh,” Ray shot back drily. Realizing his hand was still covered with warm, gooey spunk, he remembered his plans for the day and decided to cross “induct Jack” off his to-do list. “C’mere a minute,” he said, crooking his other finger at him. “You’ve got something on your face.” When Jack leaned forward, suspicious but game with Marcel’s arm still wrapped around him, Ray whipped his hand up in a lightning move and smeared Jack’s face with all the smelly, semimagical Danny-cum he could.
Jack pulled back a second too late. “Gro-oss,” he laughed. Marcel giggled, wrinkling his nose adorably. As Marcel helped Jack wipe his face with several napkins, Ray found his amusement bleeding into arousal—Jack was already changing himself. The compact muscle-man’s shoulders, nothing to sneeze at before, were already visibly broader, as if in the very first rush of his tacit capacity for self-change he’d unknowingly prioritized giving himself the breadth in his delts and traps he’d been killing himself in the gym for and had never quite achieved. Ray knew this was the muscle-growth-lust Blake had induced in him but the pleasure it gave him was still pleasure, and he couldn’t help but look forward to seeing what else had gotten upgraded by the next time they were all naked together. In fact he’d make sure that moment of nakedness came very soon, him, Jack, Marcel, and whoever else.
But then—he didn’t have to wait. With his new power, he could make it happen. The moment of nakedness, yes, but not just that. The growth he craved, too. He could make that play out however he wanted. He’d kissed Jack, and that meant he could grow him, make him want to grow himself, or… anything. Anything he wanted. He could do anything to Jack. Or Marcel, or Danny, or Blake, or Archer… he could find Jeremy and Elias… Brock, Ted, and Camilo… show his fish-lipped college lover, Gene, what cocksucking truly meant…
He could confront his father, make him not hate gays, make him beg for forgiveness…
Fuck. Fuck, he thought, jarred by the unexpected thought. I can’t… I won’t be like that… He remembered that he’d already used this power to change someone, and it had been easy. So easy. Fuck! Where’s the cut-off with this one? Where do you draw this line?
Shaken, Ray again forced himself back to reality. He turned back to the waitress, feeling pale. “S-sorry, again,” he said, trying out his own disarming smile. He pushed the thoughts ruthlessly out of his head, unable to deal with them. He felt weak, his belly empty and hollow.
Food, he thought. Lots of good, aromatic, reassuring food. “Can I, um, get the blueberry waffles?” he asked, remembering his cravings from earlier. It sounded in his own ears almost like he was begging, but he kept going, unloading his order on her in a rush. “With eggs over easy and turkey sausage? And toast. And a large orange juice. And coffee.”
Danny huffed a laugh at him while Brett scribbled. “Hungry?” he teased.
Ray gave him a watery smile, taking in his adorable, semi-blissed boss and feeling a new flush of Danny-arousal, almost as if the preceding orgasm had just been a dream and he was ready for the real thing. He welcomed it. It was bracing, like a new stormfall clearing his decks mentally, and he let the sensation gain strength and energy between him. “I… seem to need replenishing,” he answered his boss with deliberate ambiguity, need renewing in him like a tempest.
Danny chuckled. “Me too,” he said, cheerful and brisk. He looked up at Brett long enough to give her a simple, “Same for me.” Then time seemed to skip and they were kissing again. Ray was hot and buzzing all over, gratefully deepening the kiss.
It wasn’t until they’d all given their orders that he surfaced enough to realize Archer hadn’t spoken up, and when he looked over to see why the reason seemed plain enough. Archer wasn’t there. And either he’d taken his place setting with him for some reason, or… he’d never been there in the first place.
Ray stared at the empty chair across from his, brows furrowed. He was feeling floaty and very turned on from the long kiss and just from being close to Danny, but… he knew Archer had been there. He had been there this whole trip. Right?
Blake evidently decided to take advantage of Ray’s distraction, tapping Danny on the shoulder and saying “My turn” when their boss turned his heart-fluttering smile his way. Danny was amenable, and soon they were deeply immersed in a dirty and rather orally athletic make-out session.
He leaned toward Marcel, who still had an arm around Jack and was helping wipe off the last vestiges of Danny-jizz that Ray had smeared on him. “Hey, Marcel,” he said still frowning at the vacant seat, “where’s Archer?”
Ray turned his chin to look at him. “Archer,” he repeated.
Marcel looked perplexed, but willing to play along. “Archer, like with a bow and arrow?” he asked, lips quirking slightly.
Ray stared at him, already knowing where this was going. A feeling of vertigo loomed at the edge of his mind, ready to wash over him. “Danny’s friend,” he said, his voice sounding remote in his ears. “The guy who flew us down here.”
Marcel’s expression cleared. “You mean Ted?” he said. At Ray’s blank look he continued. “Ted was the one who flew us down here. Remember, he told us the story about how he and his brother had windfall cases the same year and decided to go in on a plane together?” He cocked his head slightly. “Why do you call him ‘Archer’, though? Is there a joke?”
Ray faked a smile. “Sort of,” he said. “I’ll explain later?”
“Naturellement,” Marcel said, and his expression was so open and affectionate in that moment that Ray leaned in for a kiss that, for once, was not about compulsive, torrential sex. When they broke the kiss Marcel’s smile made his heart skip.
Brett returned with big mustard-yellow mugs of coffee for everyone (tea for Marcel) and tall glasses of frothy, high-pulp o.j. for himself and Danny. Ray sat back away from the table as they were served, disoriented and uncertain.
Life went on around him. Danny and Blake had settled into a marathon snog that they both seemed to be enjoying without a need to escalate. Jack and Marcel made conversation as they doctored their mugs, lots of milk for Jack, sugar and lemon for Marcel. Ray followed it with only half his mind, his gaze unfocused as his subconscious mind started spinning answers and questions.
“I think you slept very well last night,” Marcel commented to Jack. “You look very rested.”
“It’s true, I was so zonked last night, thanks to you guys,” Jack said happily. He stirred his coffee loudly with his spoon, like he was ringing a triangle. “I slept like a log in swaddling clothes. It was amazing. I had this weird, involved dream where Sex and the City got all mixed up with the Star Trek reboot movie.”
“Is that weird?” Ray asked with a smirk. Picking up his mug in both hands and taking a sip, he added, “Though I agree, it is difficult to imagine those women in Starfleet. Were they playing the Star Trek movie characters?”
“Sort of. It was, like, Carrie was fucking the green-skinned space babes… Miranda was the Tyler Perry admiral, all stern and snarky, ready to drum Carrie out of Starfleet…”
Marcel laughed lightly. “Nice.”
“Charlotte was this even more overachieving version of Chekov…”
“I would tease you for being manly and yet knowing Sex and the City, but I am guilty myself.”
“Thank you,” Jack said with a grin and a mock salute, as from one manly junk-TV fan to another.
“And,” Marcel added, “more importantly, I need to know about Samantha. Was she iced out of your dream, also?”
Half-listening to this, some synapse in Ray’s head-archive flickered, trying to alert him to some preexisting connection between Samantha and Star Trek—one possibly explaining how the properties had gotten mixed up in Jack’s dream, even—but he was too disconnected to break into their talk. There was something off-kilter around him: the room wasn’t spinning, exactly, but it was like some underlying level of reality was. He felt weirdly blurred, and uneasy about the fact that he felt uneasy.
“No, she was there,” Jack assured him, taking a gulp of his milky coffee. “She was the angry Romulan villain.”
Marcel laughed. “That is funny. I can picture that.”
“Yeah, she was all furious because Mr. Big dissed her in the future and got her wife killed in a supernova.”
“Interesting,” Marcel said judiciously, taking another sip of his tea. “Still involved and yet reflecting the feud. And meanwhile, Starfleet Carrie was getting lucky?”
“Yeah,” Jack nodded, rubbing his chin. “The fucked up thing was that she had this huge dick, like, way huge, almost Ray-sized. She was literally fucking everyone. Uhura’s green roommate, everyone.”
Marcel’s eyebrows shot up. “She did?”
Jack nodded. “And… now that I’ve said that, I’m picturing Sarah Jessica Parker that way off set, too.” Marcel snorted into his tea. “I can’t get it out of my head now,” he persisted with a smile, teasing Marcel now. “Her pounding poor Matthew Broderick, making him her pussyboy…”
Marcel looked up at him, frowning slightly. “Matthew Broderick?”
“Her husband. You know, Ferris Bueller.”
“Oh, him. He’s married to her?” Marcel said. Ray nodded. “I met him once. At an afterparty. He seemed sad.”
“Maybe because he didn’t realize beforehand his wife was a top.”
They chuckled and drank from their mugs in unison. A runner in the restaurant’s white and black uniform arrived with the food, flushed and erect in his heavy work pants, whether from being near Danny or from whatever he’d been engaging in before bringing out the food. Heavy white plates thunked down all around. Silverware clattered. Noise from other tables: talking, laughing, kissing and murmuring. Ray’s waffles were plunked in front of him, smelling amazing.
Suddenly it was all too much. He stood abruptly. The others looked up at him in surprise, Blake and Danny even pulling apart from their pre-meal foreplay to gaze curiously up at him. They were all different manifestations of sex, Ray thought in some corner of his head, looking at them. Blake aggressive and shrewd, Danny endlessly game and ready, Marcel the epitome of sweet, strong, masculine allure and desire, and the newly muscle-augmented Jack uncomplicatedly randy and insatiable.
Having everyone’s attention just made him more uncomfortable. “I—gotta get some air,” he announced. Before anyone could ask any questioned he lurched away from the table, trudging awkwardly toward the door with his cum-sodden pant-leg clinging sloppily to his huge, half-hard cock.
No one paid him much attention as he slid between passers-by toward the red-painted wooden bench sitting between matching cement planters across the wide sidewalk from the restaurant. He dropped onto it, urgently trying to get his bearings and get a handle on why he was so upset, but all he could think about was the cold, slimy cum saturating his lower pants leg and adhering to his skin and his oversized prick. Walking had made it worse, the fabric rubbing across his sensitive, fist-sized cock-head in a way that was half-pleasant, half-unbearable.
He gritted his teeth, watching the moderate side-street pedestrian traffic pass in either direction in front of him. Here he was, with a very obvious forearm-sized dick, orange-sized nuts, and the evidence of enough cum for a Roman orgy, and the ordinary folks of Austin were barely giving him a gander. A few looks, maybe, but most of these were of the nice-looking-buff-dude-with-a-big-package variety.
Fuck it. If it really is no big deal, exposed or otherwise…
He pushed his cum-drenched shoes off, then, knocking them aside, he stood up and, almost defiantly, he shoved down his pants, exposing his giant, slippery, super-heavy junk for all to see.
A couple of jocks clapped and hooted, then passed on. A knot of sorority types giggled and took a picture before moving on. Everyone else seemed not to care too much. No big deal.
He stepped out of the wet, uncomfortable pants and knocked them aside, too, thunking his bare butt back down on the bench with a frown as more people passed and the morning warmed toward a Texas-mild January day. His dick flopped onto the red bench between his legs, hanging over the edge like it was resting from its exertions, girding itself for all the excitement yet to come.
Ray let out a long breath.
The thing with Archer had thrown him. He had been on the trip with them. Everything else was exactly the same up until this morning. Blake’s body was still a facsimile of Archer’s, and that couldn’t have happened if Archer hadn’t been on the trip. Everyone’s memories had been rolled back except Ray’s, and the place setting, too—an extra touch for verisimilitude, to match their memories of being a party of five, not six.
The fact that Ray was the one the remembered Archer meant that it was connected to the book, of course. Archer was connected to the book. It was Archer’s voice that had told him what he needed to do, for Ray to take possession of the magic and prevent Blake’s abuse of the powers he had given himself.
And what about me? he thought pathetically. I have those powers now—who watches the watcher?
But that was obvious enough. The disclaimer had said that there could be intervention if necessary, from the publishers or from the “oversight authorities”—and the dramatic, retroactive nonexistence of the inhumanly awesome Archer pretty much cinched that that was exactly what had happened. The untutored mage had cast a few spells that were too big for his wand, and the witches’ council had showed up, ready to draw nice, clean circles of protective, circumscribing magic around his flailing attempts at inadvertently world-changing sexyfun.
And that was the sore spot, Ray realized. That was what was upsetting him. Not the fact that his resolutions had ended up having weird, global blowback, not his having let Blake get hold of the book and invest himself with stupidly godlike powers, not the fact that things had escalated so much the “powers that be” had stepped in and calmed the waters for him. It was the fact that by the innocent act of filching a book and writing a few joke resolutions in it he had transformed himself. He’d left the simple, ordinary Ray behind at his desk, opening mail and joking with his boss, and now—who the fuck was he now?
He felt someone standing in front of him. He looked up to see Marcel, almost silhouetted by the early morning sun peering over the buildings behind him. He was smiling, like seeing Ray gave him simple pleasure.
“I like that you chose the pantsless look,” Marcel said. “It suits you.”
Ray smiled to himself. Of course. He stood, facing Marcel, looking up into those knowing, hazel eyes. Ray was still shorter, but he could change that now—or he would, if he copied Blake and kissed himself. He smiled humorlessly. So much about himself seemed unfamiliar, and yet this man, with his natural charisma, that pile of carefully-shaped near-black hair, those zombie stitches peeking out from his right shirt cuff, still looked at him the way he always had—with lust, and something that wasn’t lust at all.
“Tell me,” Marcel said, as if Ray would be doing Marcel a favor by letting him hear Ray’s burdens.
Ray’s heart seemed to swell. He swallowed. “Everything’s changed, Marcel. Is changing.” He stared deeper into those bright eyes. “I don’t know who I am. Right now, I don’t know who I am.”
Marcel’s hands were stroking his upper arms, so lightly Ray wasn’t sure when he’d started. “One thing hasn’t changed,” he said simply.
Ray drew in a breath, wanting to grab onto this, afraid to trust it. “You just love me for my giant cock,” he teased, desperate to hear what Marcel would say next.
Surprisingly, Marcel grinned, his smile huge and incandescent. “I do,” he agreed. Ray’s heart wanted to sink, but he waited, frozen, suspended, while Austin moved and turned around them.
Marcel’s eyes were glinting. Actor that he was, he knew exactly what he had done to his audience, and he also knew he had the timing to pull it off. “And,” he said, his smile turning crooked and altogether devastating, “I also love the rest of you.”
Infuriatingly, Ray felt his eyes sting. He was not going to fucking cry. “I love you too,” he whispered, not trusting his voice.
Marcel was still beaming. “Good,” he said, with appropriate gallic sagacity as regarding matters of the heart. “Love is better shared.”
Ray was grinning now as well. He arched an eyebrow at Marcel. “Is that a line from your soap opera?” he asked shakily.
Marcel shook his head. “Non. It is an old saying. L’amour, c’est mieux à deux.”
Ray narrowed his eyes at him. “That… sounds like a Gérard Depardieu movie.”
Marcel laughed, and suddenly Ray had his arms full of lithe, hunky Frenchman. He wrapped him up as tight as he could, just as Marcel was with him, laughing too and reveling in how warm and strong and humanly perfect he felt. Ray wasn’t sure what lay ahead, but with this man in his arms his worst anxieties and fears melted away and were gone from his body and being forever. He just needed to figure out walking around with a kneelength dick, an unwanted muscle lust, a cock-sensitive tongue, and the tempting power to change anyone he’d ever kissed. But he was pretty sure Marcel would enjoy helping him figure it out—and he’d make sure Ray enjoyed it, too.
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Simian massage by BRK Danny, a cold and cocky Yukuza enforcer, is ordered to take care of a double-dealing masseur—only to find himself under magical attack. Added Nov 2023 2,287 views 5.0 stars (6 votes) 5,462 words •Cock Growth•Muscle Growth•Increased Libido•Human to Animal/Anthro•Getting Hairy•Tongue Growth•Dom/Sub•Nonconsensual change •M/M
From the files of the Magic Misuse Office by BRK High-ranking magilegal investigator Liam O'Brien reports on a YouTube video in which twin college students have an illicitly magical effect on anyone watching. 6 parts Added Sep 2017 Updated 4 Sep 2021 19k views 4.9 stars (35 votes) 20k words •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Multicock•Multihead•Multiarm•Multilimb•Multitorso•Replication•Straight to Gay•Muscle Growth•Increased Libido•Transformation•Social Media•Incest•Twins•Selfcest•Merging•Witch/Warlock/Wizard •M/M•M/M/M
The Arsenal of Secrets by BRK Griffin, tired of being smaller than his farm-brute brothers, stumbles backwards into a way to make himself more like what he wants to be: big and strong enough to catch the eye of a beautiful, bashful, broad-shouldered apprentice blacksmith named Wass. 10 parts Added Aug 2020 9,494 views 4.9 stars (11 votes) 26k words •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Multi-abs•Multiarm•Multilimb•Muscle Growth•Transformation•Getting Taller•Size Increase•Fantasy Realm•Complete •M/M
The boytaur next door by BRK Phil moves into a new apartment and is perplexed and aroused to discover that his new next-door neighbor has more going for him than most guys do. 4 parts Added Mar 2022 5,510 views 4.9 stars (11 votes) 7,551 words •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Multicock•Boytaur•Four Legs•Multiarm•Multileg•Multilimb•Multipec•Stacking•Muscle Growth•Always Shirtless•Gradual Change•Getting Taller•Retcon•Witch/Warlock/Wizard•Complete •M/M