Stadium brew

by BRK

Three cousins at a football game down some concession-stand beer, and before long they’re in a deserted men’s room getting bigger and hairier and hornier for each other.

3 parts 15k words Added Nov 2023 Updated 23 Mar 2024 16k views 4.9 stars (47 votes)

Part 1 Three cousins at a football game down some concession stand beer, and before long they’re in a deserted men’s room getting bigger and hairier and hornier for each other. (added: 11 Nov 2023)
Part 2 Joey, Mike, and Jerry are now huge thanks to some tainted stadium beer. Soon, however, the question shifts from “how hot is this” to “what should we do with the rest of it?” (added: 13 Jan 2024)
Part 3 On their way to outgrowing Joey’s house, the brew-enlarged cousins decide to recruit a cute real estate friend of Xander’s to find a new and larger abode for all the beer-biggified hotties. (added: 23 Mar 2024)
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Part 1

My cousins and I are big fans of the local pro football team, which in these parts requires some justification. They’re not doing that great. Not like they’re catastrophically losing every game—that might be fun to watch in its own way, but on TV, maybe, not decked out with your gear and your buddies at the stadium. But Jerry, Mike, and me, we’re total in-the-stands fans going back to our college days. We’re still there for every home game, sweats on and beers in hand, rootin’ for our guys ‘cause they’re trying, god bless ‘em. When they score, it’s so thrilling and unexpected, it’s like an orgasm you didn’t know you were building up to—and it’s not just you, it’s everyone around you, too.

I love it. For me there’s nothing that gives me more pure, soul-cleansing pleasure than seeing that big goofy spontaneous grin bursting over Jerry’s consta-stubbly face when our guys struggle through like champs and win themselves a first down, or the way Mike jumps out of his seat cheering like a maniac when our speedy little running back makes a perfect catch and weaves through the enemy horde for an honest-to-goodness touchdown.

To say we’re in the minority on this point in town might be underselling it. There’s a steady crowd at the home games, guys like us, maybe, but there aren’t a lot of us. Attendance is thin, and sometimes, if the team is having an awkward run of bad luck like they have been lately, it dips low enough you’re sitting there looking around and wondering if there’s been a zombie apocalypse and you missed all the push notifications letting you know. We don’t mind, of course. We just cheer louder. I can’t be sure, but I think the tight end actually looked up and saluted us before a fourth down the other day. The local TV coverage of the games has definitely cut to us a few times—my sister always sends us the clips, and it’s fucking hilarious the way they use words like “die-hard” and “unstoppable” to talk about us instead of, you know, the actual team.

We’ve been up on the jumbotron a few times, too. Well, if you could call it a jumbotron. Maybe it’s just a “tron.” Anyway, once between plays they put me and Jerry up on “kiss cam” as a joke, and so of course Jerry and I had a quick pretend-smooch on camera to the hoots and cheers of the scattered crowd. Then Mike pretended to be jealous and demanded his turn with Jerry, which was awesome. Well, Jerry is pretty handsome if you’re into sarcastic, square-jawed Nordic lumberjack types. Mike’s cute in his own way, a bit shorter but tight as fuck, dark-haired and blue-eyed unlike me and Jer, and apparently he has access to this limitless supply of energy from somewhere. I always say, his girlfriends are pretty damn lucky. Me, I’m average, though I’ve kept in shape at least. Just your regular Joe Football Guy.

So, yeah, fewer fans might be bad for them, but we’re okay with it. Better parking, better seats—and you don’t have to wait at concessions.

Not that things always go right for those guys, either. Last home game, we were having a laugh walking the concrete promenade during half-time, trading jokes about how many times Butterfingers Bukowski had almost caught the ball so far that game. On the way we decided to beer up at the nearest concession stand before heading back down to our seats. When we got there, sure enough, there was no line. In fact, there was no one in sight.

I leaned forward curiously, peering into the shadowed interior of the little build-in stand. “Hello?”

At that, a guy popped up suddenly from behind the counter. Though, when I say “guy,” he was more like a guy and a half. He was big, is what I’m saying, a head taller even than Jerry, packed with muscle and hairy everywhere. Any bigger, I thought to myself, and he’d have trouble freeing himself from the confines of the stand he was working.

He was so extra they apparently didn’t even have uniform shirts that would fit him. The coral red and white company polo he was squeezed into looked like it had been borrowed from his kid brother, straining at the seams and showing at least two inches of fuzzy washboard abs. I kind of wanted to rip it off him, and I wasn’t quite sure why except that it had to be uncomfortable.

“Uh, hey,” the concession beast said. His voice was suitably low and rumbly, which seemed to surprise him for some reason.

“Heyy,” Mike purred. I looked over at him in surprise. For some reason he was looking at this guy like he was a waffle breakfast with chocolate chips and raspberry compote. I mean, I got it, there was something compellingly ultramasculine about Concession Beast Guy and I kind of wanted to smell him—’cause, what does a guy like that smell like, anyway?—but Mike was not exactly known for noticing anything without boobs.

Then I looked back at Concession Beast Guy and reconsidered. I mean, those pecs were pretty prominent. Out-thrust, you might say, totally dominating the long flat torso below them. Kinda rounded, too, a bit, at least compared to the flatter, more blocky-type pecs my guy Jerry sported. Still definitely pecs, though. Especially with all that hair fighting to clamber out of the V of his polo collar like a mass of escaping prisoners.

Concession Beast Guy cleared his throat, looking over the three of us and lingering on Jerry. “W-what can I get you?” he said, all low and sepulchral, his voice resonating through me in a way that made my nuts tingle. “The beer—”

“Exactly what we’re here for,” Jerry said. I had no doubt he’d noticed the guy looking him over, but he got that all the time, the jerk. “Three big ones, bro.”

Concession Beast Guy looked pained. “That’s what I was about to say,” he said. “I think there’s something wrong with the last keg. I just put it in, but it tastes kinda weird. Like there was an accident at the brewery or something. I was just disconnecting it.”

“What, it’s gone bad?” Mike said cheerfully. “Beer is beer. I don’t think beer can go bad.”

“With this swill, how could you tell?” I joked.

Jerry smiled for the guy, all bright and fearless, and I saw the other man’s throat work as he swallowed, taking in my cousin’s effortless handsome-guy charm. “C’mon, man, second half’s about to start. Beer us up, would ya?”

“Beer us up… beer us up… “ I whisper-chanted, and Mike eagerly joined in.

After a few seconds of this Concession Beast Guy grinned and held up a hand. “All right, all right.” He pulled three of the large clear cups off a stack and filled each from the tap, his eyes on Jerry the whole time, flitting occasionally to me and Mike. We got a big thing of pretzel bites and cheese dip, too, because, you know, you’re at a stadium, you eat stadium. Jerry tapped his card, and then the three of us were headed back to our seats, properly equipped with noshes and amber intoxicant, none of us quite able to shut up about Concession Beast Guy and what an absolute unit he was.

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

We were barely halfway through the third quarter when Mike suddenly looked kinda reeled a little, like someone had shoved past him—not likely, as there weren’t any fellow spectators within two rows of us either direction, unless the miscreant was invisible. I glanced at the two-thirds-empty plastic cup in Mike’s hand. Okay, invisible, or liquid and flavored with hops, malt, yeast, and, going by my own janky pour, old sweat socks left over from the drawn of time.

“Shiit,” Mike said, blinking unevenly. Then he grinned and looked over at us, his blue eyes focusing on our bemused faces. “Dudes, I gotta piss,” he announced drunkenly. A roar of excitement went up from the crowd, like they approved of this sentiment. I didn’t bother to look down at the field—the roar had come from the visitor’s tiers on the other side of the stadium.

“Congratulations,” Jerry said dryly, digging a pretzel bite into the cheese and twisting it for maximum coverage before popping it in his mouth.

“No,” Mike insisted, “I mean—” He stood up suddenly, interrupting himself, and looked around wildly for someplace to put down his beer, before he remembered there were team-branded cupholders built into the backs of the seats. He stuffed his beer into one and turned back to us, now looking a little uncomfortable. “Like, I gotta piss. Like a fucking racehorse.”

“Uh huh,” I said. “No wonder you’re a top ad copywriter. Your command of the English language and metaphor is fuckin’ exquisite. “

“That’s not all that’s like a racehorse, looks like,” Jerry commented. “When’d you stop wearing underwear?”

I looked over, and sure enough, the shape of a kielbasa was obvious hanging against the left leg of his yellow team-branded sweats. Mike looked confused. “Huh?”

“And shaving?” I added. Normally Mike’s model-cute face was as smooth as milk, so much so it was like a trademark for him, but apparently I had only just noticed he was sporting a fine crop of dark, day-old bristles across his jaw and around his pretty-boy mouth.

“I shaved this morning!” Mike protested. He winced. “Dudes, I gotta go!

“So go!” I said, amused. I reached over and dunked a pretzel bite of my own.

“You want us to come with you?” Jerry asked. “Are we going to gossip about our homeroom teacher and steal condoms from the wall dispenser, too?”

I chuckled. We had done those things in high school, though it was an old memory. Those were some shitty off-brand prophylactics, too, but, hey, free condoms were free condoms.

I glanced up at Mike. He was grimacing, hopping from foot to foot like an NPC running a comical “needs-the-W.C.” animation. The visitor’s crowd erupted again, indicating yet more chagrin for our stalwart would-be champions down on the gridiron.

“Fuck, now I need to go,” Jerry griped. The truth was Mike’s antics had stirred my bladder to sudden and urgent rebellion, too, though I was glad it was Jerry that said so. We sheathed our beers and got up, leaving the tray with the pretzels and cheese behind us perched on Jerry’s closed seat, and tromped quickly up the steps after Mike toward the cement promenade and the facilities nestled away therein.

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

The men’s room was large, clean, and completely empty, but we took adjacent urinals anyway, ‘cause … I dunno. I’d caught whatever Mike was feeling about wanting to stick close to my guys, I guess. Being next to Jerry’s solid presence and Mike’s comfortable physical energy was warming me inside, pulling me closer to them. Though I have to say, as we all whizzed away endlessly onto the white porcelain, me gratifyingly conscious of Jerry to my left and Mike to my right, more and more it was my own body I was most acutely aware of. Everything felt weirdly on the verge of amplification, in a way that was as much of an edgy turn-on as being next to Jerry and Mike. My muscles were achy and quivering for some reason, and my skin felt hot and itchy. I felt thick and heavy, though I probably could have run five miles easy right then, if I ever stopped pissing. And my shirt was, I dunno, shrinking or something. Bizarre. I felt drunk, too, but in a weird way. And from half a beer? Maybe we should have listened to Concessions Beast Guy.

“Man, I hate pissing with a boner,” Mike whined, breaking into my thoughts.

I looked over. “Shit, bro, that’s not just a boner,” I said without thinking, staring at the fat pipe of an erection Mike was now directing upwards, aiming his stream at the upper back of the urinal. “That’s, like, a whole skeleton.”

From my left, Jerry snorted derisively. Mike smirked, twisting that inexplicable new beard beard of his up into his dimpled cheek. “Yeah, I’m the one who fails at clever language,” he taunted. “You both need to stick to IT.”

I was still looking at his monster erection, which was making all kinds of sexy feels creep through my already tingling body. “Bro, have you always been that big?” I heard myself ask, trying to ignore the way my own cock was rapidly stiffening in my hand from all the sensations washing through us.

Mike looked down at it admiringly. “It looks huge, doesn’t it?” Mike said, sounding awed. He looked over at us and grinned even wider. “Not as big as yours, though. Or Jer’s!”

I tore my burning gaze off of Mike’s crazy tool and dragged it to my own. I couldn’t quite make sense of what I was seeing, because the pink, hard, paper-towel-tube-sized hard-on I had in my right hand was not at all what I was used to seeing when I looked in that direction. I blinked a few times, brain failing to connect. “I must be so drunk,” I said.

Then I looked over at Jerry, who… well, let’s just say the erection he was sporting was so big, he’d actually had to take a half a step back.

“So, so drunk,” I said stupidly, unable to look away.

As if turned off at a main valve somewhere our three streams of urine ended all at once, and then we were just standing there, feeling physically hot and turned on, with giant dicks in our hands.

Suddenly the itchiness and the constraints of my incredible shrinking tee shirt became intolerable. Letting go of my raging erection I scrabbled at the neck of my shirt like it was eating at me. The other two did the same—I think Jerry had actually reached for his extra-heavy team-branded tee before I did. We hauled them off almost in unison. Jerry used his to wipe the tip of his forearm-sized brute of a dick, like there was something about to happen that required the distinct separation of the two functions of that particular organ. Mike and I followed suit before we all tossed the shirts aside, like the concept no longer applied to us.

Jerry was looking massive somehow, like his true brawn had been hidden by his clothes. He was easily twice as hairy as I thought he was. His whole looming, beef-thick body was just covered in russet-blond hair, like his system was teeming with strength and machismo and his core DNA was obsessively determined to show him off as a fathomless source of raw masculinity. And… maybe it was the shock of seeing how big he really was, but just looking at him I had the oddest sense that he was swelling before my eyes, incrementally growing in size and muscle and off-the-charts manliness.

Meanwhile, Jerry was looking intently at me, his eyes dark with… appreciation, or something. “Dude, you are ripped,” he said, licking his lips, and to my amazement I saw his hand start to move along his ridiculously thick sex-pole, like he really appreciated what he saw.

At some level I did feel big, my muscles thrilling with increasing size and power as my whole being pushed itself toward something more, taller, mightier, and lustier. Areas of softness or smoothness were melting away, hardening into planes and bulges of steel-hard flesh. The process seemed to be swelling me slowly upwards, like I was straining away from the floor toward the nubbly dropped ceiling of the empty men’s room.

None of those feelings made sense to me. The input I was getting from every part of my somehow steadily expanding body might as well have been in a foreign language and an alien alphabet. I couldn’t grasp it. Instead I rasped, “You’re stroking off to me? You’re the one people should stroke to.”

“So I see,” Jerry growled with a slight smile, his voice lower and sexier than I’d ever heard it. I wondered what he meant, until I realized I was slowly jacking my impossibly massive dick to the manly splendor of my cousin’s increasingly hot, increasingly hard, increasingly hirsute, utterly irresistible magnificence.

“Dudes,” Mike said. “Maybe we should—”

I looked over at Mike and almost gasped. He was like a god, and not the effete, ultracivilized kind, either. His muscles were swollen and altogether perfect, and his dark body hair, finer than Jerry’s, swirled and spread across his chiseled muscles like the art of the universe, like he was some kind of keen-eyed, perfectly proportioned, javelin-hurling barbarian demigod. A demigod with a 12-inch, wrist-thick monument, erected, perhaps, in tribute to his greatness by his awed and hormone-riddled worshippers.

“I mean,” he was saying a little hectically, his dark blue eyes raking over me as he rapidly caressed his own slab-o-cock, “we can’t go back to our seats like this…”

“Dude, we can’t just nut into the urinals,” I objected more or less automatically, distracted by my cousin’s hairy, swelling, intoxicating heroic warrior-beauty. “It’s too thick to flush, right? And it’ll just sit there, like, announcing what we did.” I knew this for a fact, from high school. For that matter, so did Mike.

Mike nodded rapidly, several times. “Okay. Okay. Uh, I’ll do you, first, okay? Then—” Without specifying what would happen “then,” Mike abruptly stooped over and, without warning, swallowed up my pre-leaking, up-pointing monster almost a third of the way down the shaft.

I barely remembered I was in a public men’s room, deserted though it was, in time to keep myself from yelling out my pleasure. I’d had good blow jobs before—a few even from guys, not that Jerry or Mike or my sis or anybody knew that—but in the fevered state we were in it felt ten times better, like I’d never truly tasted a hot mouth and an eager tongue wrapped around my pleasure-seeking, throat-hungry tool. “Rrrrrrrrrsah,” I rumbled, unable to completely keep from vocalizing my pleasure.

“Nice idea,” Jerry murmured from right behind me, close enough I could feel his heat radiating across my naked back and tight ass. He leaned even closer. “I think I’m too big for mouths, though,” he breathed, close to my ear. “What I should I do to take care of my unspeakable problem?”

I was overheating, and probably unable to formulate words anyway thanks to the way Mike was deftly sucking all rational cognition straight out of my oversized, stone-hard prick. But it was a moot point—Jerry didn’t wait. No sooner had he finished speaking than I started to feel his plank-like erection sliding between my gym-honed thighs, driving forward until his groin was pressing hard against my ass. Then he curved into me, his ponderous, thick, furry pecs mashing deliciously into my shoulder blades, his bent thighs hard against mine.

Fuck. All at once I could picture us, always like this. I saw it, a glimpse of heady perfection—the three of us waking in a very large bed, Jerry behind me, his larger, thicker form melded into mine, his joist of a dick shoved between my legs, while Mike devotedly serviced us both.

I made a plaintive sound in the back of my throat, unable to let go of this vision. I looked down, past my protruding, decently fuzzy pecs, and saw an amazing sight: Mike enthusiastically deep-throating my enormous dick, managing almost half of it now, his own dick out and being pounded frantically and artlessly with his right fist while he devoted all his talent and technique to my own carnal stimulation. Meanwhile, between my legs erupted the front end of a cock maybe twice as big as mine, leaking so much pre that Mike could stroke it lube-free with his other hand while he fellated me like all this was what he was born to do.

All of us were now very obviously larger than we were. At least our game day uniform of team-themed sports gear meant that our sweatpants were turning into capris instead of ripping painfully off of us—though it seemed all of us had ripped through our tennis shoes without noticing, our bare toes sticking out past the soles of our sneaks like some kind of allegory of adolescence. All I really felt, though, was an overall sense of burgeoning size and tireless strength, overlaid by the brain-melting pleasure of Mike’s fellatio and the impossible rightness of Jerry’s thick monstrosity shoved between my legs and pushing urgently against my thighs, taint, and balls.

Jerry started thrusting, and I wanted to moan from endless depths, like a chasm in the earth. “This is crazy,” I panted mindlessly, my heart racing with a level of need that truly scared me as all the wonderful sensations intensified. “We—we’re so big… so hard….”

“I can’t get enough of you, Joey,” Jerry said, low and dark, cutting into my protests. He pressed even closer, wrapping massive arms around me, and I had to force down an actual whimper at how good it felt.

This went on for… I dunno. Minutes. It might have been longer, though it was too much pleasure even to endure for the space of a heartbeat. Eventually I was driven past the point of holding back. “Guys,” I said suddenly, pleading. “Guys—!”

“Mike, dude, get ready,” Jerry coached from over my shoulder. “Joey’s going to blow.”

Is that why they call it a blow job? I thought, too bleary to think straight. Then the tingle started, quickly turning into an electrocution of pleasure up my spine, and my cum welled up against the dam and burst through with a smash of utter ecstasy, and then I was cumming desperately, mad amounts of jizz tearing up my enormous fuckstick and gushing straight into Mike’s cum-loving gullet. “Oh, oh god,” I said, my voice rough and deep. Mike was not anywhere near to keeping up, but he didn’t care, he just swallowed as much of my prodigious spend as he could while his bearded face got messier and messier with cum. Fuck, if I weren’t already cumming I’d’ve blown my wad just from that.

Jerry seemed to feel the same way. “Fuck, Mike, that’s so hot,” he rumbled in my ear. “Oh, oh shit—” Then he was spraying cum, too, spattering chaotically like a broken sink all over Mike’s finely-furred demigod chest and past him onto the tiled floor. Then Mike was cumming, too, and for a few seconds we were all cumming together, our earth-shattering orgasms somehow complementary, fitting together like one of those jigsaw puzzles you actually make from wood and a jigsaw, sanded and stained so this it was snug and perfect and beautiful.

When it was over at last Mike straightened up and hugged us, mostly, I think, because we were drawn to each other physically like magnets, and he belonged in my arms while Jerry wrapped his burly Herculean arms around both of us. I felt the gooey wetness of Jerry’s spunk as Mike’s torso mushed against mine, and I started to chuckle. “Guys, I think we missed the point of not nutting in the urinals.”

“Whatever,” Jerry murmured contentedly in my ear.

“Yeah, whatever,” Mike said into my newly fuzzy, new thickened pecs.

Eventually, and very reluctantly, we broke the embrace and wiped ourselves down with our ex-tee shirts before tossing them in the garbage, Determinedly ignoring the pools of cum we were leaving behind we then left the men’s room as the massive shirtless man-beasts we now were, though only Jerry had grown so big he now had to duck under the exit doorway.

“Still only the start of the fourth quarter,” I noted, checking one of the nearby screens. “Shall we go watch the rest of the game?”

The others agreed, and we headed back to our seats, transformed but still regular football guys, if a bit huger and brawnier and hornier than most. We’d root for our guys ‘cause that was who we were—though if they ever put us up on “kiss cam” again, they were sure to get one hell of a show.


Part 2

After the game ended, me and my cousins just kept going as we were. You’d think it would be this big crazy-angsty life-changing thing, getting way bigger and way hairier and way the fuck hornier while suddenly having the hots for your best football buds; but it really wasn’t. We just went with the flow. Pretty appropriate for something started in the men’s room, right? Yeah, I got the jokes and the dick. Pick one, and don’t say “jokes”!

We must’ve made quite a sight as we sauntered our way up the stadium steps and around the circular concrete promenade toward the exits after the game. We were in high spirits, and not just because we were still feeling the warm, buzzy-bee joy of our spectacular, lingering orgasms an hour on from the three of us having collectively nutted a fuckin’ punch bowl’s worth of thick, hot, smelly cum all over each other, not to mention a good part of the northeast tier men’s room. No, we were jazzed as well as jizzed—our usually hapless home team had actually given the solid and stoic visitors, ominously suited up in black, a real run for their money this time and had almost won, 13 to 14. A real coup for a team that seemed to lose as often as rain was wet and night was dark.

That was a big rush, almost as good as blowing your load. I mean, you can nut anytime you want, right? But seeing the team you love succeed against all odds is its own kind of thrill. Not that the two things didn’t kind of blur together that day. After that game we were so wound up, all three of us needed to cum like it was December first and we’d been good boys all fuckin’ November.

Anyway, there we were, walking in this tight knot of hairy human muscle ‘n’ testosterone, arms around each other’s bare shoulders (we’d literally bust free of our shirts in the bathroom pan-orgy-onium and then had to use ’em as cum rags). The three of us were laughing and keeping each other close, ‘cause that brawny tactile contact between us was both constantly delicious and extremely necessary. We were huge and half-naked, too, if you didn’t count our new fur-pelts that covered our way-heavy chests and tight, carved bellies like a rug, as thick and sexy as the heavy newborn beards covering half our faces.

Not only were we big and riled up, we were turgid to the point of three-quarters hard, too, and massive down there all out of proportion to our overgrown muscles. Even Jer, now a true Nordic brute edging past 7 feet tall and carrying around enough total muscle mass for two serious bodybuilders his size, had had his monster dick blow up even more than his beef had. Like, you know how on the news when they say “accounting for inflation,” except the inflation was Jer’s colossal jutting-out-to-here pec-shelf—it was so heavy-looking, like, the definition of ponderous; and the amount of dick he grew was way more ridiculous than that. Which you could tell, just casually strolling past us, because, true facts, there was no hiding that aircraft carrier—especially seeing as it was pretty stubborn about not going down past a certain point no matter how much he came. Just like all of us, right then, to be honest. Did we give a fuck? Fuck no.

Jer’s boost in height meant he had his arm dropped over my shoulders—that was heavy, too, and it felt amazing pressing down on my new heavy-duty traps and delts—while I had mine around his barn-door-sized, lightly hairy back. It felt warm and strong and I felt a little pride I could reach his other flank and latch on there like were were snapped into place, like two action figures designed to lock together. Meanwhile, though it wasn’t as dramatic, I had my own height advantage over Mike so we were more or less doing the same thing, and feeling just as fitted together. We made quite a trio, and I knew I belonged in the middle. With our similar coloring and proportions I was like a smaller version of Jerry, big and thick and dirty blond, though maybe not as arresting in terms of head-to-toe beauty.

Compared to us, meanwhile, Mike had that darker hair which had made for really striking results down below… and up top, too, with his dark walnut-brown beard and sexy eyebrows making his blue eyes and smile really pop. Just his face really made me want to see my fat, footlong-plus superhard fuckstick shove between those sweet, eager lips again as soon as humanly possible. He wasn’t as tall compared to us, maybe 6-foot-3 now compared to my 6-foot-7 and Jer’s own doorbuster dimensions, and at first glance his muscles weren’t nearly as impressive as Jer’s—he looked like a really ripped world-class gymnast now, apart from the fact that he was covered in more hair than Tom Selleck ever dreamed of. But get anywhere near him and you started to pick up on how densely packed his muscle looked. Feeling his bulging shoulders under my forearm and biceps was like resting my arm on a row of cannonballs. And, maybe it was the skin contact and how iron-hard he was, but I could almost sense how his traps and dents and the rest of him was simmering with all this repressed strength and energy—like he had this protean earth-shifting power that was kept contained under intense pressure. Jerry looked like he could lift a car, just from the size of him, but as we walked together I started wondering idly if Mike actually could—and the thought alone almost made me stiffen up again and blow another load.

Then, as we walked. we unexpectedly encountered another turning point in our very eventful weekend. As we were strolling out together we passed the fateful beer stand where we had met our massive precursor, Concession Beast Guy, and seeing it, my brain slipped a gear and started nudging me like a buddy spotting a prospect no bro would willingly pass up.

The first thing I noticed about the stand was that while it appeared completely abandoned, it was neither shuttered nor secured. All the product and displays were still out, like its casher had just stepped away to the john and vanished off the face of the earth. I remembered how CBG been rattled when we saw him, like he was alarmed and unnerved by everything that was happening to him. It wasn’t a big leap to conclude that he must’ve just bolted not long after encountering us, ghosting the stand (and the stadium with it) without closing down.

The empty stand now called to me. It was like an invitation you didn’t expect from your favorite pizza joint, complete with free coupons and a dozen loyalty card punches.

I stopped us, feeling a flutter of excitement. “Dudes, check it out,” I said.

“Aw, I was hoping to see Beast Guy again,” Mike said, and I could hear the lust in his voice. He’d been pulled in by the guy’s compulsive beauty before, and maybe now he wanted to compare notes, as it were.

I looked up at Jerry, and I could tell that he, like me, was already past the absence of the vendor to thoughts of what he’d been vending. “You think it’s still there?” he asked, his voice all deep and rumbly in a way that registered all through my very unsated junk.

“Wait—you want to, what, take the rest of the funky beer?” Mike asked, catching up quickly. That super-potent growth swill might have made us look more like beasts but it hadn’t dumbed any of us down, thank the gods of horny muscle growth.

Mike looked between us and the empty stand. “Uh—you guys really want to get bigger?” he asked uncertainly.

I winked. “Who said anything about us, kimo sabe?” To my right, Jerry chuckled, low and deep.

Mike processed what I’d said for maybe half a second before busting out a heart-stopping grin. “You, Joey-Joe, are a devious fuck.”

I swelled a little at the use of the old nickname. In that moment it felt very intimate, and I resisted kissing him with considerable difficulty. The next time I planted one on my formerly straight cousin, I wasn’t stopping.

I squeezed both my men. “C’mon,” I said, “let’s go keg-hunting.”

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We’d taken our time leaving, so most of the embarrassingly sparse crowd and budget-slashed staff were already gone from the deserted stadium by the time we engaged in our little act of petty theft in the empty promenade. It’d be quick and easy—I knew which tap CBG had used and pointed it out to the guys, so the op would be swift and surgical. Mike was the smallest of us, relatively speaking, so I had him jump over the counter and hand the relevant keg to Jerry while I kept watch. The only snag, as it turned out, was that the stadium used proper 16-gallon kegs, and those fuckers are big and awkward. They’re also heavy—like, 160 pounds when they’re full (and this one mostly was, it seemed, so maybe there were only four drinkers of the compromised brew accounted for including the three of us and Concession Beast Guy)—but Mike hefted it literally effortlessly over the counter like it was cardboard and cotton candy, and Jer carried it one-handed out of the stadium to my sturdy second-hand Wagoneer as though it weighed nothing at all.

We all ended up at my house, mostly because it was an actual house and not apartments like Mike and Jerry had. It didn’t occur to us to separate or go sleep in different places, and honestly I think if someone had suggested it to my that night I would’ve look at ’em funny.

It wasn’t all fucking. I mean, yeah, we took the edge off as soon as we got back. In the car I had developed an urgent need to know whether Mike’s tight, hot muscle ass would accommodate by footlong torpedo cock as beautifully as his mouth and throat did while Jerry fucked both our legs with his double-huge fence-post of a power-tool, and once we’d dropped the keg and the rest of our gear in the garage we headed straight for my big king-sized bed and got to work on exactly that. Man, I’d never known my kink list started with sweaty, hairy monster pecs and chiseled, furry abs, and I’d sure never anticipated I’d actually be any of the things on my list, but—shit, we were strong enough to throw each other around now, and our blazing, steel-hard, untiring enormous cocks were the stuff of song and legend, the kinds of things elves would sing about while the hobbits ignored the long, elegant, helpless boners the elves were getting in their soft, sky-blue breeches from crooning about the three football-loving men of yore with their sweaty, fuzz-covered satsuma-sized nuts and their huge, mutant, ale-corrupted godcocks.

After lazing in bed for a while, content, sticky, and (for the moment) slaked, we showered very thoroughly and then Jerry barbecued some steaks and corn on the cob I had in the fridge for just such a post-game repast. After that we cuddled bonelessly on the couch while we watched something culturally imperative on Netflix. Okay—boneless isn’t the right word. Probably you should assume that anytime the three of us seem to be just lounging around, we’re naked and cozied up together in bed or on the big couch, casually stroking each other’s overly-thick beer-can hard-ons. I mean, they just feel so good in your hands, why wouldn’t you?

The rude awakening came Monday, and I don’t mean surfacing from dreamland with a sleeping Jerry’s arm-sized erection humping my glutes. The dissonance came from the fact that after an idyllic weekend together, we all had to go to work. Mike did his high-paying ad copywriting gig from home, which meant he could do it from my house as easily as he could from his small but upscale downtown flat—and that would have been ideal if we’d all had similar setups. But Jerry and I worked in IT, him in networks and me in app support, and we both worked in person. Worse, we were at two separate companies, him at the huge headquarters of a soulless multinational just outside of the city, me at a booming startup with a growing IT staff who idolized me; so it wasn’t like we could meet up in the conference room for a nooner or share a quick and dirty smooch in the 48th-floor men’s room.

We’d thought ahead enough to order some work clothes in our new sizes overnighted to us after the fucking and the barbecue that first day. (Dress code: button-up shirts, trousers, comfortable shoes, no ties thank fuck—and yes, we did need the shoes, especially Jer.) But short of playing hooky—harder to do in IT where everything depended on expert availability—there was no planning around the fact that the three of us would be apart all day. Our dicks were already pining for each other as we broke apart at my front door, and as I drove into work in the Wagoneer through the usual traffic and construction mayhem, half-hard and heartsick, I found myself randomly tasting the tang of Jerry’s down-pointing left nipple as though I were still licking and nuzzling it like I’d been that morning, with the ardor of true animal passion.

Fortunately, the silver lining soon revealed itself.

Four of the guys on my staff of young techs, all college-aged bros ranging from not bad to decidedly cute, were very close and had always been friendly and tactile with me and each other. It’s a very relaxed and friendly workplace, and we’re all friends as much as we are coworkers. But when I showed up that Monday looking both cut and swole, complete with a new dirty-blond beard (nicely trimmed—I’d got us a top-of-the-line grooming kit along with our new sartorial requirements) and dense, curly chest hair that showed itself a shade more than I’d expected through the new form-fitting oxford-cloth dress shirt, all four of my guys seemed to want to communicate as much as possible via compulsive, admiring touch. Mostly it was along the firm, smooth surface of my thick, sculpted arms and, now and then, my perfectly round and (or so it seemed) almost irresistible muscle-butt. This was enough to keep me distracted from how much I was missing Jerry and Mike, at least, though of course it did little to help with the constant state of arousal I’d had since my cousins and I had bigged up and furred up in that stadium men’s room only a few days back.

Taj was the most athletic and focused out of the four. Hitting the gym religiously every day before work had laded on a good ten pounds of bulk in the last four months, so I’d expected him to be the one to quiz me on my unexpected results, but he just stayed close, giving my delts and chest and lats a quick squeeze at various points in the day as if testing their heft and concentrated power. (I’d have to introduce him to Mike, for sure—Taj’d be blown away by Mike’s compressed, ultra-dense brawn.) Instead it was Xander, who was skinny and lithe to the point of sylph-like, who came closest to asking about my gains.

“It must have been a lot of hard work building up like this,” he said, caressing my upper arm thoughtfully after everyone else had exited the Monday afternoon team meeting, as though mentally cataloging the amount of muscle there. I gave my biceps a mini-flex, hoping it gave him a quick thrill. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes seemed to brighten as he watched his own hand stroking my gently bulging flesh. Sweat prickled in my underarms, and I wondered if he’d like that, too.

“Just a bit of football,” I answered with a coy smile, as though I’d built up my brawn playing off-league pick-up football like Mark Wahlberg in Invincible.

Taj, who was still right there over my shoulder staring intently at my delts like he was trying to see through my shirt, looked interested at this, but it was Xander who said wistfully, “In that case, we should form a league.” A little frisson of agreement seemed to flicker through the four of them, as if they were subconsciously sharing this little fantasy of visibly ramping up their masculinity with a bit of amateur running and tackling, just like their beloved alpha.

Xander didn’t look up, so he didn’t catch my reaction, but the others must have seen the thunderbolt of inspiration cross my face. “What is it?” asked Evan, the eager redhead. He and Enrique, the snarky one of the four, were hovering close, as if yearning to enjoy my physical presence even if they weren’t actively fondling my mesmerizing body at that particular moment.

I looked around at my techs, already picturing what they’d look like with a pit of extra heft, and my cock gave a hard squeeze in my new sporty-fit, slightly stretchy office trousers. “I was just thinking,” I said casually, including the four of them as I met their eyes in turn. “My cousin runs the network team at Consumer Global Exploitations, and they’re dying to play a few friendly flag football games with an industry rival. What do you say we show ’em how we do things here at SoftCore?”

Xander looked up. I don’t know if it was his infatuation with me or my enhanced ability to persuade people of things, but he seemed genuinely interested despite a lack of history with gridirons and pigskins, and so did the others. “Yeah? You’d do that? Coach?” Xander asked, green eyes bright and curious.

“Absolutely,” I said. I couldn’t help my wicked grin as I added, “I’ll even supply the beer.”

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Two weeks later we were in the locker room, all excited as we geared up for our first “pre-season” unofficial practice game the “CGE Raiders.” (Our team had voted to call ourselves the “SoftCore Prongs” because “the Porns” was too obvious and “the Pr0ns” turned itself into “Prongs” within seconds of speaking it aloud.)

A quick text to Jerry after that Monday meeting had revealed that he, too, had hit on the idea of using our contaminated beer windfall to potentially spruce up his workplace a bit. We roped in Mike and started plotting. Mike had connections at a local private secondary school, his alma mater, and after a friendly meeting with him they agreed to let us use the athletic fields and facilities on Sunday and Monday nights when their team wasn’t using it. (The school and its student body was more focused on their state-ranked swim and chess teams, so the football, field hockey. and soccer programs were vestigial, lucky for us.) This was in exchange for a small donation from our corporations, which the HR folk were happy to include in their respective community publicity budgets once we stopped by and explained things.

And so there we were, in a long, open, steel-lined space that looked clean, well-lit, and tidy, all the lockers closed and the floor spotless, and yet still possessed that pervasive, unavoidable subsensory redolence that came from ten long years of lingering male sweat and funk. The “Prongs” were all present before me, detachable cloth “flags” attached at their waists and vibrating happily with game-day jitters: Xander, looking slim but fit in a white tee and running shorts; Taj, showing off his gains in a long-sleeved compression tee and clingy gray sweats; Enrique in his college intramural lacrosse jersey and shiny blue shorts, his long curls flopping forward today and half hiding his eyes; Evan in a baggy cinnamon-red tee that clashed with his fiery orange-red hair; and, unexpectedly, a fifth: Gary from HR, a tallish, trim bike nut who’d lit up when I’d explained about the team and begged to be included. Gary was already pretty furry, I’d noticed, though he was more lanky than built, and I was curious to see what our brew might do for him. I towered over them—not by much, and certainly not like Jerry in the neighboring “visitors” locker room, but it sure reinforced my “affable alpha” status.

“All right, men!” I said, looking them over with a smile. “You all ready for this?”

“Yes, Coach!” they cheered, laughing. Enrique rolled his eyes as he did it, but he was as into the blood-pumping camaraderie as the rest of them.

“Put me in, Coach! I’m ready to play!” added Xander. Gary grinned at this, and together they sang a few lines from the chorus of “Centerfield” by John Fogerty. Classic rock was making a comeback, I guessed. Who knew?

“Okay, settle down, yahoos,” I said, feeling a rush of excitement and anticipation as the events of the evening barreled toward us. “We all know the rules, right? All passes forward, and no tackles—at least, not during play. Save that for later.” My team chuckled at this, though Xander and Taj were both looking my remarkable form over like the idea of tackling me was getting increasingly hard to resist.

“Now, follow me. We’ve got a little ritual to inaugurate.” We exited the locker room in single file, lining up in the wide central corridor were a table sat in front of a (mostly empty) trophy case. On that table was a large keg and two stacks of Solo cups, one red, one blue. Mike stood next to the table, obviously turned on from being around so many hot guys. He’d found a white-and-black-striped referee’s jersey from somewhere, making his role in the proceedings obvious (his role apart from ogling all of us, I mean).

Jerry’s “Raiders” were already waiting for us, mirroring our line at the other side of the table. Even with Jerry’s colossal size and height they looked pretty impressive: all five of his guys were over six foot and look like they lived at the gym. “Nice crew,” I said with a smirk.

“Thanks,” he said, the lust in his gaze so strong it felt like a warm brush along my cheek, pecs, and package. “I had my pick.” He was smug as usual about the superior resources he had available to him at his global world-eating multinational.

I had my role, too. I was like the captain of the underdog team in a kids’ sports movie. “Uh huh. We got heart, though,” I joked.

Mike harrumphed importantly and proceeded to explain to all of us the keep-it-friendly ritual we’d come up with. Before the game, and halftime, and after the game we’d line up here and, two by two, one from each team, down a half-cup of our special beer and then “greet” the opposing team member before turning the tap over to the next two. “What do you mean, ‘greet’?” asked Enrique.

Mike shrugged, though his blue eyes were glinting. “Just, you know,” he said cagily. “Handshake, hug, that kind of thing.”

The first two were Taj and a guy from Jerry’s team, Quint, who actually looked like a quarterback, sleek, amber-skinned, PicThread handsome, and aesthetically sculpted in a fitted white tee. As they took their doses from the tap I noticed one of the Raiders, a six-foot-two chiseled-jaw wrestler type in a red torn-sleeve muscle shirt with black, blue-tipped hair long enough to brush his meaty shoulders, looking our line over and then trading places with the guy behind him. Seemed like he wanted to be the one to “greet” Gary, our tall, lanky bike enthusiast. Interesting.

As Taj and Quint downed their beers, eyeing each other the whole time like rival boxers, Mike, Jerry, and I exchanged looks of raw, aroused suspense. My jock was straining with how much I wanted to get hard right now, and nothing was even happening yet.

Taj and Quint shook hands, eyes locked on each other (though they were smiling the whole time, enjoying the very masculine play-acting), then gave way to the next two. We worked through the whole line-up (the built, muscle-shirted Raider who wanted Gary’s “prong” was called Brett), then hustled out onto the field, all of us full of anticipation—especially the three of us who were the only ones who knew what to expect as the evening progressed and all those sweaty young men got bigger, hairier, and, for a little while at least, as deeply and unslakably horny as a man could possibly get.

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By halftime we could already see the changes—in personality as well as size.

Play on the field had been getting more… enthusiastic. Jerry and I, as coaches, barely had to cheer on our guys, because there were there for it from the minute they hit the field, and it only got deeper. Inhibitions were falling away even from the least athletically-minded. The guys on both sides, but especially mine, I thought, were throwing themselves into the game. Xander pounded down the field like a born running back, a fierce grin on his face the whole time. Enrique ripped the flags off the opposition team members with the aggression and cunning of a boy who’d spent his high school years sassing his coaches instead of just his drama teachers and yearbook editors, all while memorizing playbooks and training into the night. Gary was such an effective rusher that by the time the half was over the other team didn’t know he had the ball until he was ten yards down the field.

The passing game was just as hot to watch. Evan didn’t catch every pass, but with each down he was more and more about being exactly where he needed to be. When he grabbed the ball out of the air late in the half he was so thrilled he almost forgot to run and try to get the touchdown. Meanwhile Taj, the one pitching that ball most of the time, was the only one having a real problem—he didn’t seem to know his own strength, and kept either overshooting his receiver—and sometimes the field, sending the ball into the end-zone bleachers at least twice—or delivering his payload with such force that the player catching the ball, Evan or Xander, was knocked down on his back with an “Oof!”

When Mike blew the whistle and everyone lined up outside the locker rooms for the second dose of our secretly compromised stadium brew, you couldn’t just see the changes—you could smell them. All ten players were damp from exertion and holding themselves like they’d had square shoulders and flared lats their whole lives. The whole corridor smelled like sweaty scrotums and spilled testosterone. Everyone was hard, players, coaches, and ref alike, and no one but us three seemed to notice or care—everyone too completely focused on their animal nature. Everyone in that stinky corridor was a growing, lusting, sweating, physical being. Far from being exhausted from an hour of unaccustomed effort, every one of them was full of beans, saturated with energy and ready to go all out, like the first half had been nothing but a light warm-up to get them ready for the real thing. And they were all looking at me and Jerry, like we were the focal points of their stimulation and need.

Taj and Quint faced off first. Taj had had experienced serious muscle gain, especially in his arms, shoulders, and pecs, but his compression shirt was handling it effortlessly—though the height boost meant an inch of flat belly was exposed under the hem that hadn’t been before. Quint’s fitted white tee-shirt, on the other hand, was looking uncomfortably tight, and the sheerness of the damp fabric was revealing a fresh growth of dark chest hair on those rounded and formerly baby-smooth pecs. They watched each other like predators, downing their brew in unison and flicking the cups aside. Then, apparently mutually feeling that handshakes weren’t physical enough, they went in for a fierce bear hug that nearly made my cream in my sweats. Weirdly they turned as they hugged, so that Taj could look at me and Quint could look at his beast of a coach, my cousin. I could almost feel how hard they were, and as Taj stared at me all I could do was stare back, drowning in my own spiraling lust.

The others followed suit, tossing down their growth brew and then going in for tight, muscle on muscle hugs that went straight into my mental spank bank. Gary had ended up getting more of a height boost than most—as had Brett, eerily enough. Had they known, at some instinctive level? Their manly embrace went longer than the others’ had, and involved a lot more contact below the arms than your usual bro-hug. A newly hunkified and testosterone-filled Enrique, just to be contrary, pretended to aggressively bite the neck of his opposite number, Hyun Woo, who’d already looked wide on arrival and was now looking wide and thick. The whole time the handsomer, now-stubbled Enrique watched me with a dangerously lascivious stare, just like all the others.

“All right, men,” I called when they were all done and panting. “Team huddle before the second half!”

As soon as we were in our assigned locker room, surrounded by all the steel and iron semiotics of masculine athletic pursuits, they were on me. “Coach, you gotta help me,” Xander panted as he glommed onto my torso.

“Us,” Enrique amended from behind me, his hard cock pushing against my firm, round glutes as his hands slid frantically over my back and flanks.

Gary was hugging me from the front. All of my guys were taller now, but Gary was already almost up to my 6-foot-7. How tall and thick would he get as the second and third doses took hold? “I dunno what’s happening to us,” he said, his voice a couple tones lower than before, “but we need… we need…”

“Release,” Taj said from where he was humping against my right hip, all while he lovingly stroked my thickly muscled arm with one hand and my right pec with the other. His voice was a shade lower, too, though not as dramatically as Gary’s.

“Yes!” Evan said, pushing his way into a spot between Xander and Gary and instinctively nuzzling my rock-hard nipple through my thin sweatshirt. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Please help us,” Xander whispered, even as Gary started untying the drawstring on my sweats and reaching for my raging, abnormally thick footlong fuckstuck. Taj and Xander worked up my shirt, and Evan and Enrique helped them pull it off me. Then they all pulled off their own shirts, exposing beautifully swollen, hair-stippled pecs and burgeoning, bulging shoulders and sweetly thickening arms. I was sure I could actually see all of it growing before my very eyes. It was minute and incremental, but—fuck, watching it happen in this smelly locker room, surrounded by their muscle and sweat and cocks, was as hot as experiencing it myself. Maybe more.

“All right,” I rasped, “but… you better cum quick. There’ll be more time after the—” Gary’s mouth found mine, cutting me off, and my brain filled with thoughts of his long, sinewy tongue. At the same time my hands seemed to find Xander’s long, girthy cock on one side and Taj’s massive, slowly widening iron-hard tool on the other, and I kind of lost track of time and reason as we melted together into a muscley, sweaty, increasingly hairy six-man orgasm machine.

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The second half started late. By the time we all got out onto the field under the growing twilight, stinking of cum, it was clear that things had changed.

Shirts were a memory, and not just for the players. Everyone was topless, packed with muscle, and varying degrees of hairy. All the players were swole, ripped, and rock-hard in every sense. Cocks erupted past elastic waistbands or made impressive tube-like bulges against straining fabric. Shoes were a problem for some, especially the ones with the biggest gains in overall size, like Brett and Gary, both now close to Jerry’s size, though much lankier, and they and a few others ditched their shoes and ran through the natural grass with big, bare feet. Xander, too, had ditched his footwear—maybe his feet had grown to match his already enormous cock, if only to maintain the stereotype, I mused with lusty amusement. He ran even faster without them, and soon most of the others were tossing their shoes on the sidelines in emulation, or maybe just to keep with him.

By the end of the second half the whole concept of flag football was pretty much forgotten. The football would be thrown, only for the defense to attach the quarterback anyway, throwing him to the ground and kissing him ferociously while energetically jerking each other’s stuff, needy tools. Receivers and rushers ignored the ball, preferring to rush each other instead. Eventually it was just a football field full of big, hairy guys almost-fucking, and only Mike’s whistle and the reminder of the third round of the beer ritual got their attention and pulled them off the field.

We decided it was a tie.

In the corridor, everyone poured full cups of beer. For the first time, Jerry, Mike, and I were nervous—maybe it was something about the compounding of dosages, or maybe physical exertion increased the effect, but it seemed like our guys were swelling up a lot more than we had. Gary and Brett were now taller than I was and stretching toward Jerry’s stunning seven feet, and Gary was easily the hairiest on my team, maybe out of everyone. Hyun Woo was as tall as me and even thicker than Jerry, like he was going for three bodybuilders’ worth of muscle instead of just the two Jerry seemed to have, and Evan unexpectedly seemed to be trying to catch up. Enrique seemed to have gotten the density effect, looking extremely built and feeling somehow even stronger than he looked. Xander, now extra-tall and totally ripped with fitness model muscle, had the biggest, longest cock of anyone but Jerry, and Taj was actually thicker than Jerry’s enormous monster tool. And all that—all of that was after only two doses.

We watched in aroused alarm as Taj and Quint, looking like beasts already, filled their cups, chugged them, and then hugged one-handed, jerking each other off aggressively with the other. Like before they turned to stare hard at their respective coaches, like they were jerking us by proxy, and I was so flushed and aroused it almost felt like they were. When Taj and Quint came, Taj still with his eyes locked on me, I couldn’t help it. I came, hard, all over my hairy abs and chest.

It kept going. They kept going. And somehow, I came all five times.

Panting, we all watched as Taj and Quint, already swelling with new bulk, returned to the keg and poured three more cups. One they gave to Mike, who watched them with zombie-like awe. Then each coach was served. Interestingly, Quint served me, and Taj gave his cup to Jerry, as if to emphasize that were were all hot, horny guys together. As I drank, a little anxiously I must admit, Quint stroked my still-hard, slippery erection, holding my gaze as he very, very slowly grew taller, thicker, and hairier right the fuck in front of me. A few feet away, Taj did the same with an equally stunned and horny Jer.

I’d intended to call my team into the locker room for a round of cathartic post-game orgasms, but we didn’t get that far. The aromatic hallway devolved into thirteen huge and growing men fucking hard and passionately. I was utterly intoxicated, as much by the pervasive sweat and musk thickening the air around us as the beer, and all my being was given over to pleasure and release.

After a while I realized I was in a threesome hug with Jerry and Mike, and I laughed. They were grinning too. Jerry was even more of a beast now, easily 7-foot-6 and as hairy as a bear, with muscles that could rip cars apart and a dick the size of some people; but Mike and I weren’t too far behind him. Weirdly, my tool and my massive nuts both felt energized and ready, like I’d never cum in my life, and I could feel there was more to come—I was still experiencing the growth effects of that last dose.

“We’re going to need to get clothes again,” I mumbled against Jerry’s tanned, salty neck, as the air around us filled with grunts and moans and the sounds of constant, gushering cum.

“We’re going to need to get a house,” Mike said sagely, around my nipple.

I had to admit he was right. My place was going to be a little small for us three, now. And it was definitely not nearly big enough for us and our ten huge, hairy, extra-passionate orgasm co-facilitators. At the thought of that, the thirteen of us together indefinitely, pleasuring and fucking each other in every possible combination, I came so hard that it caused a chain reaction and all of us blew our loads together, our thoughts melting into a shared ecstasy of pale, hot, funky, beer-contaminated cum.


Part 3

When we got home, back to my place, it was even clearer how right Mike was about our living arrangements. We were getting pretty close to outgrowing the house. Not literally—not like we had our clothes, which all looked duds meant for vent figures now—but my little one-story bungalow wasn’t going to cut it. 

It wasn’t a wrench for me to part with it. If anything, our getting bigger—twice—felt like a nudge to level up, housing-wise. I’d bought it cheap as an ex-foreclosure, more for the quaint look and the idea of having a house than for how suited it was to me. It was pale pink, which felt at the time like a statement—like “real bros can like pink.” Nowadays, it was just where I lived, and the desaturated salmon siding just looked like old meat. The quiet but dated residential neighborhood was on the wrong side of the interstate for my commute, and the nice older couple three houses down had recently moved out and been replaced by a couple of slobs whose gigantic Afghan hound knew how to climb the fence and did so often, especially on trash day. Man, did that dog love knocking over garbage and spreading it like a yard sale, looking for… I don’t even know what. Raccoons had nothing on that troublemaker. 

It wasn’t until my cousins and I got huge, hairy, and horny that I realized just how cramped it was inside, though. Jerry, now 7-foot-6 and as wide enough you could play handball on his back, just didn’t fit. He was stooping over when he walked, and getting through doorways was a joke—every time he passed from one room to another it meant twisting and bending like he was about to give us a show as a contortionist. It was hilarious. Mike and I weren’t much better—we were half a foot behind him and almost as wide. The third time Mike knocked one of the family pics off the wall in the back hallway with his big, beefy bulldozer shoulders, I went around the whole place and took down every framed photo and put ’em in a closet. Then I started on the table lamps and tucked them well out of the way, too. It was awesome, in a way. The rooms and especially the corridors were filled with the smell of us—sweat and spunk and a beer stink that oozed from our pores, the outflow of a certain corrupted keg that now sat back in its place in the garage, still half full and waiting for more mischief.

We’d needed a shower after our thirteen-man post-game funtimes, and that may have decided me. Trying to clean ourselves off in that little shower stall felt like the house had shrunk and we were in one of those tiny houses that only exist so that people can make ridiculous “reality” TV shows where people bump their heads and everything is the wrong size. The nozzle was pointed at my abs, I could barely move without clocking my elbows against the tiles or putting them through the glass, and I had to kneel to wash my hair. Mike was amused and exasperated when he got out. Jerry took one look and said, “Nah, I’ll stay stinky.” I ended up hosing him off like he was a fucking elephant, which would have been a better option to start with. So the shower was a particular liability, and that was just in terms of the basics of getting clean. Showers were for more than washing off, and we all knew it. I wanted shower sex, damn it, and there was no way that was happening in that little thing.

At least the enclosed yard behind the house was big enough for the three of us to stretch out in, or so I’d thought. The house sat on a quarter-acre plot, most of which was in the back where a fairly healthy greensward sloped gently down to a narrow strip of woods (effectively separating us from a newer development beyond, though you could still see through the trees if you wanted). But as I set up the Weber for brats after our very eventful afternoon of intercorporate tag football and mutant beer growth, I looked around and shook my head—even the backyard felt small. Mike and Jerry sprawled languidly on the grass, the aluminum lawn chaises we used to lay in having proved too small and spindly even for Mike, who’d sat in one and instantly had it collapse under him. (Jerry had used his strength to show off, wadding the wreckage up into a ball, which now sat by the door to the mud room, waiting for trash day. Maybe the dog next door would distract himself playing with it and leave the rest of the garbage alone.) 

Next to them in the grass lay Xander, whom we’d somehow ended up bringing home with us after the game like a stowaway after everyone had reluctantly dispersed from the stadium post-game shenanigans. The others would be over here a lot, all ten of them, but Xander was here already, like a placeholder and a harbinger of the actual squads of grown cock-hungry men to come. Xander was huger than before but still more lanky than bulky, though with a massive wang that outpaced everyone but Jerry in physical size, and even had our giantest giant beat when it came to cock massiveness in proportion to overall massiveness. He looked small next to the twice-dosed Jerry and Mike but huge in his own terms, taking up a lot of space just like they were.

My three hottie overblown muscle-hunks were splayed out on the grass, shirtless and hairy with sunglasses on and with their great big mounds of pecs and their long meaty arms and their massive cocks falling out of the athletic shorts they’d changed into, and they looked fucking massive. In all dimensions, like, space, and time, and density, and everything. They looked like they were taking up a lot more than three regular humans’ worth of the universe… which they were, I guess. There was a long row of flowering red and orange nasturtiums all along the fence nearest them that I’d spent a fair bit of time fostering after the previous owners’ neglect, and today those blossoms, which had looked pretty big before, now resembled glimmering dots of color next to the brawny, hairy, sweat-damp, earth-toned dudes lying in my grass.

It was awesome, and I loved seeing us all being so obviously the wrong size for normal stuff. It gave me a half stiffie just scoping ’em as they relaxed there in the grass, looking basically like alien visitors from the planet Behemoth encased in the green-clad box that was my unexceptional little fenced-in yard. I kind of wanted to watch the three of them fuck right out here in the backyard just to have the sensation of too much of everything—man, muscle, cock, lust—in such a specifically confined space. 

The next step, though, would be a yard and a place as big as we were. The four of us were plenty for this space, and there were a lot more than four of us…

It wasn’t just the 2-D dimensions of the backyard that needed an upgrade to match our own. The fence that came with the house was a 6-foot wall of close-set planks on either side of the narrow yard, the wood treated but unpainted for a more natural look. I’d liked the look of it before, but now it seemed pointlessly stunted, reminding me of the knee-high barriers around a play area at daycare. Even from where I stood at the barbecue, at the center of the patio leading off the sliding glass doors, I could look straight into the neighbor’s yard where a kidney-shaped pool stood empty and unused, weeds and leaves collecting in its dirty basin. 

I glanced back at my guys, my oversized dick flexing in my shorts as I raked my hungry gaze across them. A bit more privacy than we had now would be a benefit to all concerned.

It was pretty clear, in other words, that my little 1940s-era suburban nuclear family homestead, meant for a Darren McGavin and a Donna Reed and maybe a little Darren Jr., was not exactly the best good fit for three-plus abnormally huge, insatiably horny dudes who wanted to be around each other all the time and maybe sex-wrestle the place to smoking rubble. Satisfied the temp was right I started laying out the brats, then, as the meat started sizzling, I turned to my lounging fuckbuddy cousins and our stray IT muscle-foundling. 

“Hey,” I said, and they lifted their sunspecs to leer at me expectantly. I grinned, feeling a rush of raw, heady lust, but I tamped it down. “So, any of you yahoos know a good realtor?”

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As it turned out it was Xander who had a real estate connection—his best bud Jesse, no less. Apparently, they’d met camp as kids and bonded over being the ugly ducklings before evolving into tall, slim-’n’-handsome aw-shucks stealth ladykillers in their teen years. Neither had had the sexual confidence to match their looks or the size of their gonads, but they’d done okay anyway. Jesse had almost gotten married a couple of times, but something kept pulling him back. I was intrigued. Apart from wanting to size up my abode, I now wanted to see how much Xander and his bud had in common when it came to dick. 

I gave Jesse a ring and we talked about square footage, neighborhood, and price range for a bit. He seemed excited. With me, Mike, and Jer officially moving in together, there was a sizeable kitty from our three high-octane incomes. That opened up some possibilities that would have been well out of range for me alone, and the market was on the buyers’ side at the moment, so we could probably get some sweet deals coming our way. Jesse volunteered to stop by on Sunday and have a look at my little cottage, then maybe tour a couple of possibilities. Mike had a work deliverable due Tuesday and Jer had zero interest in the details, declaring himself fine with anyplace at least two of us could fuck in the shower, so it would mainly be Jesse, me, and Xander.

At 1 p.m. on the dot, the doorbell rang. I answered it. We’d ordered another round of clothes in our new sizes, but it was still mostly athletic shorts around the house for us when we wore anything at all, and that’s what I had on—pool-table-green ones that seemed to complement my dirty-blond body hair and beard and, so Mike said, made my hazel eyes “pop.” 

Jesse was tall and slim like Xander was (or, rather, had been), though he had some clear definition under his cornflower broadcloth and pressed chinos. He was handsome, too, a few shades darker than Xander with tightly-curled hair and what they used to call matinée-idol looks. His latte-brown eyes widened comically as he took me in, and he only got as far as “Hi there, I’m Jesse from Sunflower… Realty…” before his autopilot gave out. I grinned as I saw something twitch behind the taut, dark-tan fabric of his nice-fitting trousers. 

“Nice to meet you,” I said amiably, offering a brawny hand. “I’m Joey.” Jesse’s throat bobbed as he took my hand and shook. He actually glanced at his hand for a half-second when he got it back, like it had encountered something not-quite-human. “C’mon in, have a beer,” I suggested, guiding him lightly by the shoulder into the foyer and closing the door behind him. 

He looked around the narrow space near the door. “I can see why you might want a larger space,” he said, eyes drifting back to me as he spoke. I smiled and shrugged, and his stare moved to my crazy-broad shoulders as they moved up and down. Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Hey, brother, what’s goin’ on?” Xander said, appearing from the entryway to the kitchen with a half-eaten hot dog in hand. He, too, was wearing athletic shorts—I’d gotten a buttload of them for the three of us and our respective muscle-and-cock-dozed posses. His were mustard-yellow, not the color was what you noticed when you looked that way. He had trimmed his beard, leaving a swath of sexy brown stubble, but his brown hair was down to his shoulders and needed a good trim. Or maybe not—I kinda liked the “long hair on hairy shoulders” thing he had going.

Jesse’s polite demeanor abruptly changed now that he was facing someone he knew. “Xander, man, what the fuck?” he demanded, his gaze raking over his friend’s taller, thicker, hairier for, snagging on the gigantic soft cock that could not be contained by the small amount of fabric he was wearing—so much so the plum-sized glans and an inch or two of shaft as thick as Jesse’s slim wrist emerged from the shorts and rubbed against Xander’s brown-haired, well-sculpted thigh. “What…” he said again more distractedly, gaping at the cock for a full few seconds before wrenching his eyes back up to Xander’s smiling face. “Seriously, dude, what the actual fuck?”

Xander tried to look nonchalant. “I know, right?” he said. “I think it’s like food poisoning.”

Jesse blinked. “Food… poisoning?” he repeated. 

“Yes,” Xander said. “Only, the opposite of poisoning, I guess.”

My hand was still on Jesse’s shoulder. “Up for a quick tour?” I offered. Jesse nodded, slightly dazed. 

Once we were moving through rooms, with me keeping up a calm, steady patter about the house and the few improvements I’d made, Xander trailing silently behind us, the familiarity of what we were doing helped Jesse recover his equilibrium—enough so he could exchange a relatively calm “hey” with Mike as he worked on his super-laptop at the desk in the study, his straining tight white tee shirt and sweats looking more obscene than Xander’s and my casual almost-nakedness. Jesse’s sang-froid was put to the test when we encountered Jerry taking up the entire couch in the den, watching something on his tablets with his airpods in. He had nothing on but new, multi-XL gray sweatpants, and looked every inch of his 7-foot-6. Not only did you wonder if the sofa could take it looking at my giant cousin, you found yourself pondering how sturdy the floors were. 

Jerry, determined not to be sucked into the whole househunting thing, put up his hand in greeting before going back to his show. Jesse gaped. The hand didn’t help—Jerry’s paw these days looked big enough not just to palm a basketball, but to crush one.

The physical space he occupied at this point was just a little uncanny, to be honest. Intellectually he wasn’t that much larger than the ordinary bros we’d been when we first went to that almost-win on stadium day, or even the slimly-defined, handsome-enough, totally mundane realtor standing next to me gaping at my ultra-male cousin. But the fact was that seeing Jer in his entirety, filling more of the living room than he should have, your brain didn’t quite know how to take him all in. Even for me, myself a human outlier at 7 feet of sweaty muscle and surging hormones, it was almost easier to think the room had shrunk around my bud Jer than to fully absorb how much salty flesh and hot blood and obvious, never-completely-dormant ubercock reposed before us, seemingly relaxing in the interim between slightly inhuman exhibitions of strength and lust. 

One of these was probably due soon, actually, I reflected. Mike’s restless, passion-hungry balls never let him concentrate for too long these days, slowly flooding him with increasingly intolerable amounts of lust until he broke down and went looking for whoever was around to help him magnify his fevered euphoria.

Jesse lowered the hand he’d jerkily raised in response, then turned and looked up at me. In a way, I was grateful for my bigger cousin and how his shocking, just-abnormal-enough size made me look a little more normal by comparison. I gave our new friend a reassuring smile; he looked, well, overstimulated. He swallowed, staring at me almost in alarm, like he’d half-forgotten I was big, too. “You, uh, mentioned a beer?” he said finally with a weak smile. 

“This way!” Xander immediately broke in, grinning wide. He thumbed over his elegantly bulging fur-dusted shoulder toward a small side door that was, from here, the quickest way to our illicitly obtained, marvelously contaminated brew. 

Jesse lifted his brows at Xander, then at me. “We have a keg in the garage,” I explained with a wink.

Xander grabbed his elbow. “C’mon,” he said, brimming with joy at what he was about to help make happen. “You’re going to love it—though I gotta warn you, it has a bit of a kick.” He steered his bro toward the door, and with a last glance at the unconcerned man-mountain of hairy muscle that was Jerry they disappeared, we headed for the garage and our latest initiation.

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Xander and I watched Jesse like a hawk, exchanging smirks as we toured a short list of sample abodes he’d scraped together. He seemed slightly distracted as we walked through the slapped-together McMansion in what had to be the cookie-cutter-est neighborhood I’d ever seen; but he held it together as he ticked off the place’s superficial amenities, despite the way his once well-tailored cornflower broadcloth button-down was now straining across his slowly widening back, and his chinos now seemed packed with tight, hard bubble-butt. 

Our second tour, however, was cut short. This was a nearby vacant bed and breakfast with a lot of rooms and a great kitchen but more wear and abuse than I wanted, and when he saw me grimace at the hardwood floors—which were scarred to shit—he nodded and bundled us back to my SUV. 

Once in the passenger seat, he let out a grunt. “I feel weird,” he said. “I think, hf, just one more place, and—arrrgh!!” In a sudden animalistic motion he tore open his shirt, sending buttons flying. “Rggg!” he huffed, staring down dumbly at a thick, hairy chest and flat, furry abs he didn’t seem to quite recognize. “I feel… weird,” he said again, shifting restlessly in his seat. 

“I bet,” Xander said happily. He was leaning forward and rubbing Jesse’s shoulders over the seat. After the surprise of seeing me, then Xander, Mike, and fricking Jerry, Jesse had gulped down his red Solo cup of adulterated stadium brew like it was the first drink he’d had in a week, eyeing Xander and me between swigs like he wanted to grill us about how we got this way but didn’t dare. We’d had a small mouthful ourselves, just to keep him company, and I knew Xander was feeling it fireworking inside him just like I was,

Jesse shivered with the pleasure of this manual stimulation of his growing, touch-loving muscles and looked over at me, eyes slightly unfocused. “I think we can do one more,” he said roughly. 

I was still feeling the massive endorphin rush of watching Jesse rip open his dress shirt like that. I was still wearing just the green shorts, and I was all the way hard in them, the fire of arousal pounding through my veins. “You sure?” I asked. Was he that dedicated to his job?

Jesse raked his eyes over my hairy, expanded frame very deliberately, not missing the throbbing pipe I had in my shorts, then over his shoulder at his brawny, beaming muscle-friend. When he met my eyes they were dark with lust and resolute. The short rip of a seam somewhere along Jesse’s pants punctuated the brief silence. “I think we need… not to be in a car,” Jesse rasped meaningfully, voice even more husky than a second ago. 

I grinned, punched the GPS to load the third destination, and put the pedal to the metal.

The third place was, it turned out, a disused prep school—not an obvious choice, but unexpectedly ideal. The classrooms had already been converted to bedrooms and such, and there was a big library that had miraculously been included in the sale (probably to avoid the hassle of appraisal and auction), excellent facilities, a bit of land and scrub for privacy, and the clincher—high ceilings and big doorways. I discovered all of that later, though, as my first exposure to (spoiler alert!) the future home of me and my sex-posse of thirteen brew-exploded men was the tiled showers off the back-door mudroom. That’s where Jesse immediately led us and then pounced on us both, pushing us against the tiles with a hand on each of our heavy chests and growling, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I need your damn giant cocks right the fuck now!”

Then he stepped back and started yanking at his belt and the waistband of his increasingly tight chinos, while simultaneously trying to shove his shoe off with the toe of the other one. He looked hectically up at Xander, his stupidly fat and leaky cock out and hard, shoving all the way up to his thick chest. “C’mon, bro, help me out,” he begged. his voice echoing slightly in the large, brightly lit group shower room in a way that reminded me of my first experience of this heady manliness upgrade, in the men’s room at the stadium with my two very best friends.

Xander complied with great enthusiasm, and I joined in just as eagerly. Between us we used our strength and literally ripped those chinos off him, tossing them aside along with his shoes and what was left of that nice blue shirt. Immediately, Jesse turned to Xander and kissed him hard and heatedly, groping his fuzzy, swollen stone-carved upper arms as he did so, before breaking the kiss and craning down to suck in the head of Xander’s huge, blue-ribbon cock. “Fuck, bro!” Xander shouted, gripping Jesse’s shoulders, which were swelling before our eyes as if ridding him of clothes had freed him to truly grow at last. 

I stood behind him, dripping cock raging with my massive arousal, and for the moment I just stared. Jesse’s back was becoming more of a V as I watched, his lats gently flaring inch by inch as back muscles thickened and expanded. This was beautiful in itself, and it also provided an increasingly wide expanse of honey-dark flesh to prick and flourish with new-grown hair, striking out into the air and curling thicker and more multitudinous second by second. Xander’s grip on his burgeoning shoulders made it look almost like he was trying to hold back the growth, which was kind of funny.

Then Jesse popped off of Xander’s massive arm-sized dick long enough to turn and stare at me, his eyes almost back with need. “Please, dude, rut me!”

I grinned and did what he asked, stepping forward and grabbing Jesse’s now-impressively rounded cheeks. They felt unusually strong firm, like the striations were made of steel. Seemed he was getting the muscle-density thing like Enrique had, which I thought was pretty damn hot. Jesse was going to be hard and ripped and way the fuck stronger than he looked. I couldn’t wait to test that out, in between rounds of deep-fucking this sweet, tight ass.

For now I let my copious pre slick his deepening butt crack as I shoved my mighty, stone-hard prick up and down between his globes. It felt amazing. Between the passion of the moment, the effects of the little bit of beer I’d drunk, and the heady pheromones we were filling this group shower space with, I was losing myself into the moment. Nothing was real to me but Jesse getting bigger and harder and hairier as I humped him. Then he growled again around Xander’s huge cockhead, and I brushed the head of my pre-slick cock against his hairy hole. He grunted again, urging me to hurry. I moaned and pushed my glans into his hot, tight ass, feeling the resistance of the anal ring as a challenge. 

Xander moaned too. It was like we were all feeling it, like the pheromones were transmitting each other’s pleasure. I could feel what it was like to have a chest-high cock expertly and passionately sucked as intensely as the taste of that cock in my mouth and the feel of another steel-hard prick pushing into my eager, inexperienced ass.

What would it feel like to have another dick behind me, ramming my actual ass while hands gripped me and mouths and tongues found my neck and other sensitive places? I almost wanted to find a phone, call Mike and Jerry and all the others and get them over here, now. 

But they would be here soon enough. All of them, all my keg-grown buddies, they’d be here, fucking with endless ecstasy in this very room, and everywhere else, all over the house. My life would be kisses and muscles and sweat and working out and cocks and impossible amounts of cum, and it was so amazing a reality that I shoved deep into Jesse and came a year’s worth of gushering cum deep inside him. Xander came a split-second later, his inhumanly long dick shooting a tongue of cum into Jesse from the other end. Jesse was cumming even before I was, and a minute later he was still cumming—from a curved, blunt-headed monster dick almost as big as Xander’s, and after only the first dose!—as he pulled off Xander’s spunk-spitting dick and we formed a tight three-way hug, all of us rocking with the delicious spasm of orgasm and the amazing feel of hairy, sweaty, cummy muscle-man in our arms. 

I kissed Xander and Jesse, feeling bigger than before, though I’d only gotten a boost—Jesse was transformed. Crushed between us Jesse was a massive specimen of hard, dense muscle covered in fine, dark fur. He panted at us, grinning from behind a thick beard he hadn’t had before.

He looked from Xander to me in wonder. “I feel like I still need to cum,” he said, lips curving after a moment in a rakish smile. “I could fuck you forever!”

“Better get started then,” Xander said. Concurring, I joined him in a three-way kiss as our crazy-huge, crazy-hard, nearly insatiable cocks throbbed excitedly between us in the goo, rubbing prickflesh against muscle in a way that could get me to cum again just from that. We’d christened our new home with our cum already, but there was nothing that said we couldn’t do it again—and again, and again, until we were all here filling the place with muscle and sweat and the smell of man.

3 parts 15k words Added Nov 2023 Updated 23 Mar 2024 16k views 4.9 stars (47 votes)

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