Kit unwittingly unleashes his curse-power on his cheating boyfriend, triggering life-changing consequences for them both.
Added: Apr 2021 4,482 words 6,099 views 4.2 stars (10 votes)
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My parents are not human.
That’s all I know about them. I don’t know if they’re pagan gods, or aliens, or sapient shapeshifting emus. I only met my mom once, and my dad never. She came to my foster home when I was ten. It was right after school when no one else was home. I answered the doorbell, and there was this woman on the stoop in a severe sky-blue skirt-suit and a face from a magazine—literally, I saw it on the cover of Good Housekeeping the next week at the grocery store, straight blond hair, vacant brown eyes, flawless skin, the works. She frowned down at me for a minute, then told me in this flat, cold voice that as her son I had a special gift: I could curse people if I needed to. Only the person cursed and I would know, she said.
More frowning. I gaped up at her. Then she just turned and left, clomping down the porch steps in blocky heels.
Until I saw the magazine I thought she was a random, half-broken social worker telling me to stand up for myself, and that she’d had meant the whole “her son” thing figuratively, like, “My clients are all my children.” But standing there in the checkout line, staring at a pretty thirty-something lady offering me a lattice-top blueberry pie from the impulse racks, I had to snort a laugh. My real mom had finally appeared, only instead of taking me home she’d put on someone else’s face and dressed like a 1960s stewardess just to do a cryptic-message drive-by and then disappear again, probably forever.
That visit was the most confusing part of my youth, but the otherness implicit in what she’d said and who she was, or wasn’t, fell right into a pattern of disconnection and isolation I was all too familiar with. My childhood… let’s just say only saving grace was other boys and what they had in their pants. I grew up bitter, half-unsocialized, and with a voracious love for sucking big, hard cock.
Fast-forward fifteen years. An argument with my boyfriend. Not the first, but definitely the most agonizing.
“It didn’t mean anything,” Kevin growled, somehow making it sound like I was the bad guy for making a big deal out of him finally fucking the gym-rat coworker who’d been flirting with him for months. He was as angry as I was. Angrier. Even the chest-hair escaping from his tight white tee shirt seemed to be bristling ominously. He took a step toward me.
I stood my ground, fighting the urge to put the bed between us. He might have had six inches in height and thirty pounds of muscle on me, but you don’t survive growing up in the system by letting yourself become the victim. Plus, if I’d wanted to run, I was SOL—the bedroom door was behind him.
I bared my teeth. “The fuck it didn’t,” I said. “All you do is look at muscle guys. Only, just looking isn’t enough anymore, is it?”
Another step toward me, almost closing the distance between us so that he was looming over me. Kevin’s normally handsome face was a mask of fury. I can barely recognize the man I’d fallen in love with like a fall from a cliff, despite knowing better than to trust anyone but myself. “All guys look, Kit,” he grated. “We can’t help it.”
“Oh, I know, it’s such a burden,” I shot back sarcastically. I felt hot, like my skin was suffused with some kind of warm energy. I’d never been this angry. “There’s hot, hung muscle guys everywhere around us, and we can’t help but look. Feels good, right? Goes right to your dick, right?” There was an edge to my voice now, a weird, eerie kind of resonance, almost like I was speaking with two perfectly overlaid voices. I barely noticed. “Checking out hot muscle hunks makes your big dick even bigger, doesn’t it?” I shouted, almost unhinged.
Kevin froze. Going for his cock was, so to speak, a low blow—Kevin was actually a little embarrassed by his hefty eleven-incher, despite my early and earnest devotion to its beauty and the way it fit so perfectly in my mouth, I was spoiled for any other cock. It was mean of me, I knew, to imply he was all about how hung he was. But I was losing it at this point. Reason had not only taken a back seat, it’d been bound and gagged and stuffed in the trunk.
My stereophonic insult seemed to hang palpably between us. We stood there, right at the foot of our bed, him looking down at me, his eyes uncertain now. “What did you say?” he said.
It was my turn to take a step toward him, glaring up into his dark gray eyes. “Checking out hot muscle hunks,” I repeated, punctuating every stressed syllable with a poke to the chest, “makes your big dick bigger.” I heard the two-track resonance this time and paused. My vision darkened and for a second I literally saw red, like the world was bathed in deep, saturated crimson. My skin felt so warm I wondered if Kevin could feel it coming off of me like a frontier kitchen stove.
Kevin’s eyes widened. He took a step back. “What did you do?” he whispered after a moment, sounding scared.
I blinked at him, my vision clearing and returning to normal. My brain was still distorted by the rage I’d built up, and while the anger was draining fast I still wasn’t grasping what had happened. “What?” I panted.
All at once Kevin’s fear was replaced by a sudden disgust. “Fuck you,” he sneered, his voice low and terrible. He turned and stomped out.
My brain finally caught up with everything I was feeling. Everything that I knew and that Kevin knew. Horror washed over me like a frigid tide over a forsaken beach. “Wait!” I cried. I was rooted to the floor for another few seconds, but I managed to get my feet moving and stumble after him. “Wait!” I cried again, rushing out of the bedroom and into the main room of the apartment. There was no sign of him. I checked the bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway outside. Nada. He was gone.
I fell against the wall by the front door and slid to the floor. “I didn’t mean it,” I said softly to no one but myself.
I spent a few wretched weeks trying to hunt Kevin down through his friends and family members, most of whom I’d gotten to know over the course of our ten months or so together. But Kevin did not want to be found; and he must have invented quite the tale, starring me as the bad guy, seeing the way his loved ones all treated me like dirt. His sister slapped me and told me to die in a fire… and sitting there in the coffee shop with the side of my face burning as I watched her storm off I couldn’t tell myself I didn’t deserve it, even if only he and I knew the real truth.
He’d quit his job, too, according to the folks at the law firm he’d been office manager at. He’d never liked it there, so I could at least hope the sudden life-quake I’d induced had brought better employment circumstances, if nothing else. Maybe he’d even found someone who was good for him—someone, in other words, who wasn’t dysfunctional, curse-spitting son-of-an-alien-shapeshifting-emu. Should be a pretty wide field, I thought miserably.
I tried hating him, reminding myself of what he’d done. It didn’t matter. I tried forgetting him, but I couldn’t. I carried him inside me everywhere I went. I made a concerted effort at falling back on my usual defense mechanism, lying in bed ranting to myself about the brutal, fucked up, heartless world we lived in and how the human race unfailingly and eternally sucked giant, smelly horsecock, but all that long-borne misanthropic vitriol now felt childish and flaccid. The world hadn’t fucked me up this time, I had done the job myself.
As the months passed I surfaced slowly from my self-imposed gloom and started to notice the world around me. It seemed… different. For one thing I couldn’t escape the impression that the Earth was more densely populated with muscular men than it had been before my funk. Everywhere I went—my apartment building, the grocery store, clothes shopping, gas stations, my car share clients—no matter where I was I saw guys of every race, nation, age, and size, all with one thing in common: muscle. It wasn’t everyone, and for the guys I did see it on it was all different, a panoply of hotness: a thick and burly powerlifter build here, an elegant aesthetic build there; densely corded gymnast types, tight swimmer types, sleek runner types; vein-rippled or with undisturbed curves, covered with hair or smooth as marble. The only thing that was consistent was that they were built, strong, and hot as fuck. Handsome, too, with scintillating smiles and glinting eyes as they caught my glance over the gala apples in the produce section or shot me a wink when I checked them out in my rear-view mirror. (They were pretty generous tippers, too.) Sleeveless tee shirts were ubiquitous, followed closely by those thin, long-sleeved tees that lovingly hugged your biceps and forearms (and everything else). In movies, TV, YouTube—everything visual—the proportion of fit, buff, ripped, or swole guys seemed to increase to a level even higher than the previous already ridiculously disproportionate norm. Sexy muscle guys were everywhere.
It wasn’t long before I kind of became one myself. The big gym down the block from me was always full, and as I passed it one day on the way to the corner pharmacy I slowed to stare through the windows and almost walked into one of the guys coming out of the place, who turned out to be my across-the-hall neighbor, a friendly, sandy-haired hunk named Shaun who was so tight and densely-packed without being huge he looked to me like he could swim laps all day without tiring, or do a thousand pull-ups on a bet, smiling brilliantly the whole time. He was packing, too, though that didn’t seem unusual these days either. He grinned when he saw me. “Hey, Kit, just the man,” he said. “When they told me signing out about the fifty-percent-off deal they’re starting if you sign a friend, you, buddy, were the very first person I thought of.” He gave me a once-over, as if to say, Damn, boy, you’d look good with a bit of beef. It wasn’t the first time he’d looked at me that way, either. I knew Shaun was straight—I’d met his longtime girlfriend, Deanna, who was as ripped as he was—but casual once-overs between guys were pretty routine these days, and the pings I’d gotten off Shaun suggested at least a sliver of bi-curious on top of all that.
I glanced inside the gym again. The place was packed, so I wasn’t sure why they were offering membership deals; but the truth was that being around all these muscle guys had been making me feel extra-scrawny lately. And while I was still rough-tempered and heartsick over Kevin and what I had done, I couldn’t ignore how nice my sweet, hunky neighbor was to be around, and how I needed more good stuff like that in my life if I was to start living again.
I nodded, giving him the almost-smile I was starting to be capable of these days. “Sure, why not,” I said. We headed back into the gym together to sign me up.
I was at the deli counter mulling over meat choices, appropriately enough, when it happened. The glass front of the refrigerated case was clean and reflective—it was a new store a little out of the way for me, but the prices were decent and the selection was fantastic—and as I rechecked the various kinds of turkey on the left side of the case I caught a glimpse of something that sent a cold shiver up my spine. It was a pair of dark sweat pants, lingering for just a moment. One side was normal, giving only a hint of long, rippling thighs and calves. The other leg, though… something wrist-thick and incredibly long was wound in close spirals going down the leg, like the coils of a massive, industrial spring or a literal anaconda wrapping itself around its prey. The heavy, charcoal cotton fabric of the sweat pants held the snake-like helix close, like its semielastic tension was part of what was keeping everything close and in place. Just looking at them I could feel the coils’ increasing weight and heft in my mind as they curled around and around down the leg, almost as if I was bearing it myself.
I stared. I nearly turned around, but I couldn’t bring myself to face him. The legs paused, hesitating, then disappeared behind me. A long moment passed while I viciously derided myself as a coward and a fool.
The noise of the store seemed to dial back to normal around me, as if it had been on a soft mute before, or maybe time slowed for that brief moment of recognition and remorse.
“Sir? What can I get you?” the fit-looking young woman behind the counter asked again, just as patiently as before.
I blinked up at her and took a slow, deep breath, and her eyes dropped to my chest for just a moment in appreciation before meeting mine again with cheery professionalism. I tried a half-smile. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I’ll take a pound of the cajun turk—”
“Can you undo it?” growled a low, dark voice in my ear.
I shivered again, harder. Almost unwillingly, I turned slowly to face him.
Kevin was still taller than me, though somehow he was even more handsome despite the scowl he was giving me. He’d grown out his dark, wavy hair, and his one-day stubble made him look like he belonged in a cop show with lots of fanservice moments in locker rooms and love scenes, preferably with each other. His skin was gently tanned a shade past his usual tawny tone, making the clear whites of his eyes and the small glinting stud in his left ear stand out all the more. He was standing close, almost looming—so close, in fact, that I could feel his warmth in the chilly air of the store’s meat section. Looking up at him now rocketed me back in my mind to that moment I had let unreined anger wreak unspeakable vengeance.
“I still love you,” I blurted. Somehow this seemed important to say. “I never stopped. I’m so—”
Kevin leaned closer, his dark gray eyes almost blazing. “Can you undo it?” he demanded, his voice even deeper and rougher than before.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out for a second. I had to force the words out. “I-I don’t know!” I said. His eyes narrowed slightly, and when I thought he might be about to turn away in disgust I added almost desperately, “I’m willing to try.”
Kevin gave me a long look, his mouth tightened in a hard line. “If you let me,” I repeated, calmly this time, “I’m willing to try.”
One loud, aching heartbeat, then another, and another. As I watched something seemed to shift in him, like he had accepted the idea of working with me on this. My shoulders loosed slightly and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
Kevin glanced down at my body, which, after six months of hard work at the bustling, recently expanded gym Shaun and I worked out at, had somehow blossomed from toothpick to Michelangelo’s David. The easy growth and definition had seemed frankly uncanny to me, but Shaun had just scoffed and made blithe remarks about how natural it was for most guys to grow muscle like that and how I should have gotten started in junior high school like everyone else. I’d almost told him I’d embarked on a different hobby back then instead, but I’d kept my homo to myself for a change.
Kevin’s look was admiring and, just maybe, a little hungry. “You look good,” he said after a moment. Abruptly he closed his eyes, as though experiencing a sudden rush of sensation.
When he opened them he must have seen my concerned expression. “It feels good when it happens,” he said, his tone lowering again, though this time it felt like he was confiding in me, the only one who would understand. He shifted his weight slightly, making me acutely aware of what was down below. “It’s only a tiny bit each time,” he added, “but…” He didn’t have to finish. Obviously that tiny bit of growth with every once-over he gave a good-looking, muscular guy had added up, and then some.
I met his gaze. “It… feels good?” I repeated, my long-burning guilt slightly, though only slightly, assuaged. I lifted my eyebrow a little, though, as if to say to him, It’s not all bad, right?
His glare intensified a little. “Don’t get cocky, Kit,” he rumbled.
We held each other’s stare for a few tense seconds. Then he broke into a reluctant smile, and I actually laughed out loud.
“It’s no use,” I whined, falling into an armchair in defeat.
We were in Kevin’s new apartment, a few towns south from the new grocery store we’d met at, which I lived a couple of towns north from. His was nicer than mine, an open and airy two-bedroom in a new secure high-rise—I learned later he’d already been about to jump to a very generously salaried job at a much larger firm when I’d done what I’d done to him. Kevin was standing stiffly the middle of the living room glaring at me, arms crossed over his superhero chest, which a sleeveless hunter-green tee was doing very little to hide. He hadn’t taken off his bottoms or let me see any more of what was coiled around his leg beyond what was obvious through the not-very-baggy sweats. I guess he figured I didn’t need to see it if I was going to undo it, but my eyes kept drifting down that way, following the fat, flat, three-or-four-inch-wide spiral of warm, living flesh as it wound its way down, and new questions kept sparking in my head like stars emerging in the deepening night. He was very healthy, clearly, which was a relief—something inherent in my abilities seemed to have protected him physically, so that the only negative effect was the curse itself.
“So—for real? No one notices?” I said, still staring at it.
My mouth was watering, and I realized I wanted very badly to suck it and make him cum hard in my mouth, however big it was. I hadn’t sucked a cock in eight months. Not since he’d left. I’d never gone that long without, and I was suddenly desperate to fill my mouth with hard dick. His hard dick.
He didn’t answer. I looked up. His stare was so intense and so glacial I thought I might ice over where I sat. Finally, he said, “No one thinks it’s unusual.”
I raised my eyebrows, surprised. “So, what, people can see it, but—?”
“It doesn’t click that it’s unusual,” he said. “It’s just there.”
I huffed. “You don’t get any remarks?”
“One of the paralegals said something once.”
“Yeah? What’s they say?”
Kevin adopted a deadpan expression. “‘Whoa dude, you’re kinda big! Lucky you!’” he mimicked, making the guy sound like an empty-headed surfer.
I laughed. “Sorry,” I said, trying to push down my amusement. “I know you… I know it’s not what you call lucky.”
“It’s heavy as fuck,” he rumbled, like he’d been storing up all his grievances for me, the ones that no one else would ever understand. “Walking is a pain. It’s a damned chore to get it all coiled and keep it from shifting every time I need to go out. I can’t sit at a desk all day—I had to get a fucking standing desk. And,” he added, teeth clenched, “it keeps leaking precum in my fucking sock!”
I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep from barking out a laugh. “It’s not funny, Kit!” he said, though the corners of his mouth were quirking into his dark, sexy stubble even as he scolded me. “How would you like it if you had to walk around with one wet, sticky sock all day?”
I had to laugh. I couldn’t help it. “Sounds awful!” I managed to get out.
Kevin was smiling now, even as he tried to keep looking angry. “Plus,” he went on, “if I wanted to fuck someone now I’d have to do it from nine fucking feet away!”
I laughed even louder at that. “You could try bottoming,” I suggested around the giggles.
He pretended to be offended. “Fuck you, Kit,” he said.
“Can’t,” I shot back. “You’re too close by at least a couple feet!”
Kevin chuckled and shook his head. His wavy hair shifted over his face, and he absently pushed it back with his fingers. My heart clenched even as I smiled back at him, suddenly hit hard by how much I’d missed him.
With a small sigh, Kevin moved over and sat carefully on the edge of the new-looking faux-leather sofa that sat at a right angle to the matching chair I was in, keeping his dick-wrapped leg mostly straight in front of him. He gave me a level look, and I sobered quickly. “Why didn’t it work, do you think?” he asked.
I’d tried half a dozen new “curses”: telling him he only had eleven inches, telling him his dick was slowly shrinking until one of us said “when”, telling him that the curse I’d given him was no more. I’d even worked myself into a kind of rage, struggling to remember my emotional state that night, and then tried again. No dice. That strangely resonant doubling of my voice hadn’t even hinted at showing up, and Kevin’s dick stubbornly remained exactly as big as it had been.
I shrugged. “All I can figure is, if it’s a curse, it has to be, you know, a curse,” I said. His brows drew together, and I added, “Like, said with malice.”
He bit his lip. “You don’t feel malice toward me?”
Him? I thought. It wasn’t him I hated. “Kev—” I sighed, but he cut me off.
“No, listen. I’m sorry about Billy. He—” Kevin looked away. “I felt like I wasn’t ready to be fully committed to you. But if the last eight months have taught me anything, it’s… that I already was.”
He met my gaze. It was my turn to look away. I felt sick with self-loathing. Abruptly I got up and headed for Kevin’s bathroom.
“Kit?” Kevin said, sounding worried.
I turned and gestured for him to wait, then turned the corner into the hall bathroom and shut the door.
There was one more thing I could try.
I stared hard at my face in the mirror. I was used to seeing nothing special—mousy hair, pale skin, pallid blue eyes—but just then I was struck by a realization that I actually kind of hot, not just where I’d buffed out but in the face, too, the whole package. I pushed the thought aside and tried to focus my self-directed anger.
“You cocksucker,” I gritted out, sneering at my reflection. “You curse-spitting son of a space emu. You really fucked over your one true love. Are you proud of yourself, fucker?”
I felt the anger stoking, and with it genuine hostility to the me I had been eight months before, the one who hadn’t heard him out, the one who’d resorted to hurling pretty insults that cut my lover deep. “Cocksucker!” I spat, and a thrill coursed up my spin as I started to hear that double-toned edge in my voice.
“That’s right, you love sucking cock!” I accused myself angrily. The doubling grew, and my skin was growing hot, just like before. Was I already having an effect? Would I love sucking cock even more now? Was that possible? No—no jokes, I chided myself. Keep the mood. Keep it going.
“You love sucking big hard giant cock more than anything!” I shouted in unnerving stereo. “So how’s this for a curse: you can only suck a cock if it’s over one foot long!”
I listened for the doubled resonance—it was still there. My skin was burning. I stared even harder into my blazing blue eyes. “And here’s the real curse, cocksucker!” I kept going, pouring in all the hot, bleeding wrath I could muster. “Every time you suck a cock to orgasm it gets one—inch—shorter!”
I drilled into my own eyes, panting hard from having gotten so worked up. I felt a moment of utter stillness, and the world turned crimson red in a way that I now knew meant “So be it.” My scarlet-tinged reflection grinned ferally back at me. Then my vision shifted again and returned to normal, and the heat seemed to seep away from my skin.
I let out a breath, squared my shoulders, and opened the bathroom door. Kevin was standing there against the hallway wall opposite the bathroom, his mouth hanging open.
I pressed a finger under his bristly chin and closed it, meeting his gaze. “Why don’t you get in the bedroom and strip, cockboy,” I said, giving him my most rakish smile. “We’ve got some work to do.”
Update posts: Weekly Update: 24 April 2021
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