The new cook

by Tym Greene

A potions student decides to use his part time job to test out some of his homework. Hilarity ensues.

Added: 6 Feb 2021 6,529 words 1,227 views 4.8 stars (5 votes)

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Osflyn hadn’t been eager about his new job, but it had been the only one he could get on such short notice. His scholarship may have covered tuition, room, and board, but it did nothing for supplies. And being a Potions major meant a lot of supplies. He thanked the stars that he’d been able to secure a paying position in time…even if it was as a truck stop cook.

The University of the Mysteries was naturally in the middle of nowhere, built into a mesa in Monument Valley and masked by a glamour so only the initiated could ever find it. This also meant that the only access was via an unmarked dirt road branching off Highway 163, teleportation, or some manner of airborn conveyance. Osflyn tried to be thankful for his dad’s old flying bicycle, but it had only the threadbarest glamour, so he had to land about a mile away and actually pedal in to work, just to be sure no one saw him. Maybe after a few classes I’ll be able to cast my own spells, he thought for the thousandth time as he chained the bike up beside the truck stop.

Brushing the red desert dust from his pants, he made his way around the back, snagging his apron from its hook. He’d been at this for a month now, with a routine as familiar as the schedule of his classes. The need to hold down a job (not to mention how long it took to pedal there and back each day) meant less time for practicing, less time for homework. He’d hit upon a solution after sampling the Essence of Inspiration he was preparing for one of his classes: why not make his work work for him?

Running a hand through his mop of red hair, he tried to ignore the clinking of the bottles in the multifarious pockets he’d had his roommate (who was majoring in Magical Fashion and Costumery) place into his ordinary-looking outfit. The night before he’d snuck out, past the University’s guard griffons, and poured a big beaker of Normalall potion into the cistern that supplied the water for the truck stop, as well as the hamlet of surrounding buildings. He had another jar of Normalall in his pocket, masked to look like an air freshener, which he opened and placed before the oscillating fan that was always blowing across the scuffed formica tables and ducttape-repaired booths.

Satisfied, he returned to the kitchen and began heating up the deep fryer, laying out tubs of ingredients, and in general getting ready for his shift. He also placed a notepad on a cleared square of worktop, sprinkled with some Repello powder, so he could keep track of his “experiments” as he worked (without having to worry about anyone else sneaking a peek at what he’d written).

“Hey Osflyn,” said Clark Buckins, the general manager and morning cashier. “Have you got my—?”

His question was interrupted by Osflyn holding aloft a plate of scrambled eggs with cheese and two slices of pre-buttered toast, Clark’s usual breakfast order (albeit with an extra ingredient this morning).

“Thanks kid, you’re really on top of things.” He took his meal to one of the booths just as Bryce, the morning waiter, was coming through the jingling door. The two men nodded to one another, unknowingly breathing deep of the Normalall being gusted about the room, and Bryce waddled up to the counter to get his breakfast—chicken-fried steak with hashbrowns and deep-fried cheese sticks…and a certain additive as well, though different from the one Osflyn had added to their boss’s plate.

Fifteen minutes later, they’d finished their breakfasts and Clark had switched on the buzzing neon “Open” sign. Their first customer, who’d been waiting in his idling truck, shut off the massive engine and lumbered through the door. Feeling unusually nimble, Bryce took his order—a double-patty breakfast burger—and then fairly pranced to the window, handing over the slip with a flourish. Osflyn had to keep from smirking as he watched his coworker’s changes finish. In minutes the chubby, plodding, acne-spangled, perennially-bored waiter had slimmed down, his clothes literally falling off him to reveal a lithe (though still a little chubby) torso and blackfurred lower half.

Stroking his new goatee flirtatiously, Bryce leaned against the stainless steel edge of the pass-through window as he watched Osflyn preparing the order. The front door’s jingle, however, drew him from his reverie and he turned the full focus of his lustful gaze on the motorcycle cop striding in. “Howdy Cruz,” the waiter drawled, gesturing the cop at a table and handing him a menu that was slightly less beat-up than the others. He then spun nimbly on one hoof, refilled the trucker’s coke glass and pranced back to the window.

Osflyn had taken a peek at the front of house while the burgers were sizzling, and had to admire the strength of the Satyricon powder he’d fried into Bryce’s hashbrowns. It had been his own formula, and the speed and intensity of the transformation was remarkable. The Potions student took quick notes between flipping patties; the satyr had lost easily a hundred and fifty pounds, as well as about a foot of height, in the transition…he also seemed to have lost his inhibitions, trotting around the little diner completely naked apart from his short apron and flirting with both of the customers like he was a gracious southern belle. Even Osflyn had to admit that his uplifted goaty tail looked pretty cute.

The smell of almost-burned beef brought him back to his job, and he finished preparing the trucker’s burger. He slid it into the window, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of something white. Turning to one side and sticking his head out a bit, he could see Clark perched on his stool behind the pie case and register, reading the newspaper as usual. What was unusual was the fact that Clark seemed to be covered in white feathers.

Osflyn grinned deviously. “Hey boss,” he said, watching as the other man placed the newspaper down on the counter, smoothing it flat with appendages that seemed to be more wing than hand, and turned to face him. The name tag pinned to his shirt no longer read Clark. Now it said Cluck, which was appropriate given the man’s bright yellow beak and the scale-covered legs Osflyn could see below the white-feathered plumpness of his boss’s torso. “Just wanted to let you know we’re almost out of eggs.”

“Out of eggs?” Cluck practically squawked. “How can that be? We’ve only just started brawkfast.”

“I know,” the potioner-in-training said as Bryce whirled the burger away, replacing it with the cop’s order slip. “But it looks like they got cracked when they were delivered.” They had not, of course, in fact there were enough eggs in the walk-in refrigerator for the next few days’ worth of breakfasts, but Clar-Cluck didn’t need to know that, not if…

Just as Osflyn had hoped, a look of deep concentration came over his boss’s face, and with something halfway between a cluck and a grunt, the chickenman’s whole body relaxed. A tube Osflyn hadn’t noticed before, dangling from the underside of his boss’s stool, bulged with a white ovoid, carrying it gently down to land in a basket tied between the stool’s legs. “I’ll keep working on it. Whoever heard of a trawwkckstop diner without eggs,” he said to himself as he turned back to his newspaper, occasionally making chickeny sounds.

Meanwhile Osflyn had finished assembling the cop’s garden salad. The diner was so small, it was easy to hear just about everything that was said in the front of house, so he knew a bit of the backgrounds of the frequent customers and had prepared a few appropriate potions in addition to the more random assortment he’d needed to do for his homework. Because of this, for example, he knew that Cruz’s graveyard shift made him regular at the diner—the only place open at this time of day—and he had recently been trying to reduce the damage greasy trucker food had done to his figure.

Osflyn watched as Bryce sashayed up to the counter, deftly picked up the green-laden plate, and slid it in front of the cop. The satyr lingered, draping himself across the back of the opposite booth, clearly interested in more than just the usual good service diligence. Cruz was obviously trying to ignore Bryce’s amorous (or at least lustful) attentions as he worked his way through his salad…as well as a good dose of Circe’s Prime Philter, diluted to half-strength. Midway through the salad, the cop’s thick nose had begun to stretch, pushing forward and upwards, flattening out. His ears were growing too, but Osflyn only noticed them when they knocked the cop’s cap askew. Cruz took it off, placing it on the scuffed table beside his plate, and revealed a rapidly-balding and -pinkening scalp.

He slurped up the last of the dressing, his hoof-tipped fingers clicking on the plate as he put back down. He looked up, his eyes meeting Bryce’s, and a smile lit up his whole piggish face, revealing the two pairs of short tusks he’d grown in the last few seconds. His belly strained his uniform, which also seemed to have grown as a result of the Philter; Osflyn reminded himself to note that effect. Bryce slid into the booth across from Cruz and Osflyn could see that they were playing footsie…hoovsie…underneath. “Technically I’m off-duty now,” the hog grunted softly.

“Well, why don’t we get you another plate to keep you busy,” the slender satyr teased, “and we can go out back when I have my break.” The suggestion made the officer blush, turning him a darker shade of pink and causing his ears to drape in front of his eyes.

Osflyn was tempted to continue watching the romance playing out at table two, but he remembered the other customer: it wouldn’t do to miss the effects of any of his “homework.” It was easy to find the trucker, and to see exactly what changes had been effected by the Mephitase that had been sprinkled on his burger.

The trucker was very much filling his booth by this point, having burst out of his clothes and—Osflyn shifted his head to one side to get a better look—yes, his shoes too, and small wonder: he’d swelled up, adding what must have been an extra hundred pounds of fat and fur. Glossy black and white hairs had sprouted all over his exposed body, highlighting the curve of his belly (especially where the table edge dug into it) and the heft of his moobs. But along with his girth, he seemed to have acquired a more fastidious nature, dabbing at his skunk-muzzled face with the corner of a napkin, and drinking his coke with a claw-tipped pinkie extended.

Even as Osflyn watched, the trucker shifted, lifting one plump buttock as though he were trying to release a fart…but instead, a massive floof of fur was unleashed, his tail growing in in less than two seconds. Perhaps I over-dosed him. I’ll have to check my notes on this, the red-headed potions student thought, watching as the trucker finished his meal, slid with some difficulty out of the booth, and paid for his meal—fishing his wallet out of the remains of his jeans like that was where he always kept it.

Bryce pranced over with the usual “How was your meal”-type question, and received a kiss from the trucker, long and slow, and obviously enjoyable for both men. Their sheaths were plumpening, their shafts sticking out, and right there in the middle of the diner. Osflyn smiled proudly at the fortitude of his Normalall brew (not to mention the dose of Hormonade he’d added to the big coffee urn as an afterthought, which would explain the general randiness he was noticing), and then he heard the skunk trucker say as he broke the kiss: “Give that to the chef, that was the best burger I’ve had in a long time.”

Waiter and cook both watched as the wide tail and wider rump swayed their way out the door, watched through the plate glass windows as he climbed in the truck cab—had it been that big before? And Osflyn could have sworn it had been painted with red flames, not black with a broad white stripe down the middle…but his musing was broken by the sound of two goat hooves approaching on the dingy linoleum. “This is for you, sweetie,” Bryce said, pulling Osflyn into a kiss just as the skunk had.

As much as he enjoyed it, especially given the satyr’s obviously well-practiced tongue, a sudden worry ran through the cook’s mind. Quickly he ran through the effectiveness of the various potions he’d used on his coworker. Satyricon and Mephitase both required a minimum dosage of at least a tablespoon to be effective, so he wasn’t in any danger of being tainted by that, and he’d taken the standard Normalall antidote that morning, so he’d be able to keep track of all the changes he was making to the fabric of reality. Then he remembered the Hormonade. He felt his blood boiling, his pants becoming uncomfortably tight, and his nipples were sensitive to even the slightest brush against his shirt.

What was worse, even though the door bell dingled, he didn’t even want to look up, not when there was the cute black-goateed face mushed against his, those horns to hold, the furry rump to caress.

“Yo, Brycey-boy, you got company,” Cruz said sotto vocce from his booth where he was making his way through the plate of scraps Bryce had gotten him. “Though I wouldn’t mind joining in on that little party,” he added as though to himself.

The satyr managed to pull himself away from the kiss, blushing a bit despite his new nature, and pranced over to tend to the new customers. Osflyn, meanwhile, turned his back on the front of house for a few minutes so he could catch his breath and get his head on straight. Giving himself a decisive shake, he returned to his notes and began documenting what had happened so far, nearly breaking out in a cold sweat as he described just how hot that trucker had been, and how horny his coworker was; he managed to make note of his own contamination by the Hormonade, and hoped that such a level of dedication would give him an edge when it was time to be graded.

He was so busy taking account of the effects of his potions that he didn’t notice the new customers until Bryce tucked three order slips on the little carousel in the window. He had to hustle now, and added potions and powders to the food at random. He’d barely finished the first order—literally just scooping a bowl of vegetable soup from the pot and arranging it with some saltine packets—when the satyr added another ticket. “We’re really busy all of a sudden,” Osflyn remarked as he handed over the soup.

Bryce shrugged his bare shoulders with a graceful eloquence. “Eh, it’s nothing out of the usual.”

Osflyn nearly smacked his forehead; how could he have forgotten? With such a high dose of Normalall wafting through the little diner and flooding the water supply in the area, a meteor could crash and unleash a zombie horde and no one would bat an eye. He shook his head and went back to the orders, making quick notes of which meal had which…additions. He’d take a look at the customers once he had a spare minute. Hopefully the changes won’t be too hard to spot, he thought as he flipped more patties on the grill. It was so hard to keep from jerking off—even his hand on the spatula handle felt more like he was gripping a cock. I wish I had the makings of a Fokuz Draught. Oh well, maybe I can get some help from Bryce or Clar-Cluck later, if things slow down.

Finally, he’d caught up with the orders and had a chance to peek out—notebook in hand—to see what alterations his potions had effected.

At first glance, it looked to Osflyn like most of the potions had failed. Then he saw that the pair of double burgers were untouched because the two guys who’d ordered them were too busy arguing to do more than peck at their fries. And the bowl of soup was still too hot for the second trucker (who was a great deal plumper than the first customer had been, or was now that he’d been skunked) who was just opening a packet of saltines to dunk in.

The last order, however, had been the first consumed, and he watched as a skinny man pecked at his iceberg salad. He was wearing a thin white cotton shirt, but even still—and despite the early hour—he’d already sweated dark splotches down his back and under each arm. It also looked like he’d used half the napkins at his booth in an attempt to keep his forehead dry, mopping as surreptitiously as he could manage between bites. Checking his notes, Osflyn smiled, suspecting that this guy was about to get a whole lot more comfortable.

And indeed, the changes were beginning: running a napkin over his face and the back of his neck, the customer pulled back a ragged handful of paper, shredded as though dragged across a rake. Shrugging, he crumpled it in his growing fist, releasing it with fingers that were oddly-shaped and tipped with long-curving claws. Yawning from a wide and scale-lipped mouth, he stretched out in the booth, shredding his shirt and revealing his new scaley body.

His body was thicker, easily double the original width of his previously-bony shoulders, and layered with slabs of fat-softened muscle. His pushed-forward head bristled with pink-tipped spikes that rattled softly as he moved, while his glasses had reformed into a pair of wide-set pince nez that seemed custom-made to grip his new snout. Eschewing the silverware, he simply bent forward to eat off the plate like an animal.

Half-animal, Osflyn reminded himself, noting how the Aproporil he’d added to the salad was working, making the diner into a form more appropriate to his desert climate. For a moment he was confused at the iguanaman’s clothes, which still lay in torn piles on the booth and floor around his be-taloned feet—especially since the glasses had re-formed—but on second thought he realized that an iguana wearing clothes was the rarer occurrence. Odd that it didn’t give him better eyesight and just get rid of the glasses, he mused, noting the disparity along with everything else. Still, it gives him a certain distinguished look…his other hand dropped to grope himself through his apron.

But even as he was starting to drool over the muscle-bull iguanaman, he noticed movement from the booth where the arguing couple was sitting. Their clothes, unlike the iguana’s, seemed to have dissolved into nothingness, and their burgers sat half-finished on a twin beds of scattered fries. Their disagreement seemed to have stalled, though Osflyn couldn’t yet tell if it were just a pause or if they’d actually stopped fighting. They sat nude in the booth, apparently inching closer to one another.

The two men reached out in unison, picking up their burgers and taking identical bites, then set them back down. It was as though he were watching one of those videos where a game character was re-skinned as something else but still went through the same motions (he grinned a bit to himself at the memory of a “Thomas the Tank Engine as a Skyrim dragon” video he’d seen, back before he’d shown any magical aptitude, back when he was just a normal teen): the man on the left had dark skin and was easily a foot shorter than his companion, who looked almost albino in comparison, and yet they moved as one.

Their shoulders touched, and there was instantly a swirl between them, like cream being stirred into coffee. The inner arms joined the way two strips of Twizzler will on a hot day, but then they were slurped beneath the table, and he could see the seams beneath the armpits sealing up. From two man-widths, they further compressed: one and three quarters, one and a half, finally stopping around one and a quarter the width of a normal man’s shoulders. There was a patchy blended strip running from the neck-shouldery space between their two heads right down their chest. Osflyn assumed it went all the way down. So that’s what “Potion #134” does. I better get that extra credit for figuring it out, he thought with a wry smile.

The two-headed man continued eating, with each hand feeding the head on its side. They resumed their conversation too, but it seemed the argument was dwindling just like the space between them. The white head with his long mane of pale gold turned to the black head and said, haltingly like someone in the midst of changing his mind: “And that’s why I invited my…our?…new boyfriend…I want you to meet him?” He finished the statement with a complete lack of conviction, then shrugged the shoulder on his side.

“Good,” said the other head, taking a sip of Hormonade-laced coffee, “you know I’ve got that cuckolding fantasy.” He said it so matter-of-fact, like there was nothing weird about one head being aroused by the secrets of the other.

There was a dingle at the door, and they both looked up to see a handsome man with long, braided red hair striding in. The two-headed man stood up in his booth and Osflyn could see just about everything: the swirling blend of skin colors did indeed go all the way down, until it reached their crotch where their cocks seemed to have stopped halfway through the merge: it looked something like the shaft of a double-barreled shotgun. They also seemed to have four balls as well, an interesting result that the cook hurried to notate.

They waved the red-haired man over, and he ordered a coffee as he passed Bryce. Then a grunt from the other side of the diner made Osflyn turn away from the sight of the two headed man welcoming his (their?) boyfriend. The second trucker must have finally deemed his soup cool enough to eat, and the results of the Bovimax that had been added to the broth were starting to manifest themselves.

The plump trucker shifted in his booth, his shoulders broadening with muscle as his neck lengthened and thickened. A pair of horns lifted his hat into a cockeyed angle and his face pushed forward into a perfect bovine muzzle, but when the old jeans burst from the swelling body they could no longer contain, Osflyn noticed a problem. Instead of a pair of fist-sized balls swinging low and a forearm-length shaft tucked into its sheath, he saw a plump pink growth swelling, spreading the trucker’s meaty thighs apart.

Well damn, he thought, I guess I messed up the formula somehow. The Bovimax was supposed to give bullish strength, not increase milk production. Even as he watched, the trucker reached down and tugged on one of the finger-sized teats on his—her?—growing udder, shooting a stream with practiced aim up into the coffee cup still on the table. Oh well, maybe Bessie there will let Bryce milk her; we are getting low on cream.

He scribbled a note on the back of an order slip and hung it in the pass-through.

Two more customers came in—a man and a woman—as Osflyn glanced at the clock: he only had a little time left before the end of his shift. I guess these two will be the last for today…still, there’s always tomorrow’s shift, he thought, realizing that he was now looking forward to his job instead of begrudging the time it took from his studies. He looked back at the “fresh meat” and saw a pretty blonde woman and her boyfriend, what could only be described as a muscle stud. He had the ruddy skin of someone who’d just finished a grueling workout, which only made the tribal tattoos coursing up his neck and down his arms stand out all the more.

It was easy enough to decide what potions to try out on them, so once Bryce had brought over their order slip he was ready to go. Cooking as fast as he could—he didn’t want to miss a minute of the changes, and hoped they were quick eaters—he heard passionate mooing coming from the front of house. Guess Bryce got my note, he thought with a smile and a bit of jealous arousal. And I guess I made the Hormonade too strong. After all, he was gay, but now he was actually fantasizing about fooling around with a trucker-turned-cow. Shaking his head with a giggle (and knuckling his cock back into a more comfortable position beneath his apron) he placed the two orders on the counter.

Movement caught his eye as Bryce came up to pick up the food: the two-headed man had succumbed to his own arousal, moaning in a duet of arousal as the redhead went down on their shotgun shaft. From the long tongue he could see darting out, and the increase in volume it elicited, the groove running down the middle of the doublewide cock was the most sensitive part, a fact that their new boyfriend didn’t hesitate to exploit. He seemed to be overwhelmed himself with the power of the Hormonade he’d consumed on an empty stomach: his plaid shirt lay in tatters around him, and he hadn’t even removed his jeans, merely unbuttoning and shoving them down so his cock could bob free.

The spectacle was so enthralling that, by the time the cook turned to look at the newcomers’ table, the muscle-stud was already a quarter of the way through his protein plate. The bacon had been the first to go, and now he was at the chicken fried steak. His girlfriend (His wife, Osflyn amended, seeing the matching rings they wore) was taking her time on the garden salad she’d ordered. Both of them had steaming coffee cups in front of them.

Already the man’s clothes were becoming transparent, an unexpected but welcome effect of the Clearall grease Osflyn had used to fry the bacon. As he continued to eat, however, something more odd was happening: instead of the tattoos fading away—the intended result of the Clearall—his nipples seemed to be receding into his skin. He stood up to get a salt shaker from the neighboring table, and Osflyn had to stifle a gasp. Not only were the man’s nipples gone, but his belly button and genitals were rapidly following suit. Maybe it’s not intended to be fried? Osflyn thought, scratching his head between notes; he’d have to ask his teacher why it would nullify the subject instead of clearing the skin of blemishes.

Still, he thought, it’s a good thing he only had two pieces of bacon. Any more and he might end up completely smoothed out! Osflyn tried to suppress a shudder at the thought of the man before him with no ears, no eyes, no mouth, no wrinkles, just perfect flawless skin glazed over his muscles. And he’d probably still have his tattoos. Chuckling, he turned his attention to the woman, who must have gotten a sufficient dose of Naturade by now.

Sure enough, a pair of massive moose antlers were pushing their way out of her hair as her face lost its petite beauty and instead seemed to be reshaping itself on a more massive scale. Her dress split as her shoulders broadened and her torso lengthened, her feet bursting out of their shoes; in a matter of minutes, she was more of a hulking brute than her boyfriend. The tips of her blonde locks started shifting color, like she’d spent too much time swimming in an over-chlorinated pool, and her pale skin grew dusky with hair. On the booth around her, the tatters of dress squirmed and wriggled, sinking into the pleather and sending out sprouts and delicate little leaves.

Entranced, Osflyn barely noticed his stomach rumbling; he definitely didn’t notice his hand reaching down and plucking a stalk of celery from the bar of salad fixings. He hadn’t had a chance to use it on any dish yet; once he was more than halfway through—and realized what he was doing—he’d already begun to feel the changes. He had sprinkled the tub of celery with Tauroil, and felt the telltale swelling shifting feeling in his ass and all down his legs. “Shit,” he mumbled, “I kinda liked these pants.” Still, he had to finish watching the couple finish their changes, so he tried to ignore his growth even as he finished the celery and grabbed another piece.

The woman was no longer a woman by now, nor was she human: her thick-muscled body was covered in a pelt of brown fur, tinged green by moss, and her blonde hair was now a tangle of vines that seemed to have their own motility. Sticking out of those vines were the two massive antlers, two fuzzy ears, and a long jellybean-shaped muzzle. The booth and table around her—pretty much anything she touched—were sprouting like a fertile forest floor. The nullified muscle stud had finished his protein platter, his muscles practically glowing under his smoothed-out skin.

“So, babe, what do you wanna do after this?” He was asking, washing the question down with a swig of coffee.

The mooseman grumbled at her—his—boyfriend, snuffling through gaping nostrils. He grinned, the bestial face handsome despite its shaggy wildness. “Do?” He said with a rumbling voice that sounded like the growl of a waterfall, “I wanna do you, of course.”

The null moaned and Osflyn moaned with him, feeling his arousal rising. Perhaps the Hormonade is being exuded through everyone’s sweat glands? He thought abstractedly, only to be interrupted by something poking at his rump. At first he was confused: no one else was in the kitchen, and he hadn’t moved from the order window…then he realized: the Tauroil, duh. Looking behind himself, he could see exactly what had happened.

One of the prep tables was indeed pressing up into his rump, because he’d grown backwards into it. A red-hided horse body stretched backwards from his waist, and four hooves stood firmly-planted on the scuffed linoleum. The shirt he’d been wearing was now untucked, and the apron’s strings rested right on the join point between his human and new equine backs. “Well, how am I supposed to ride dad’s bike now,” he mumbled, then snapped his fingers with sudden insight. “Of course, the Draft of Bewinger!”

Working fast, he mixed up a batch from memory with the ingredients he had stashed in his shirt’s secret pockets and tossed it back. Even as it effervesced down his throat, he could feel its effects acting on his new equine lower-half, which shifted antsily from hoof to hoof. Sure enough, there was a tingle across the horizontal red-hided back, but there was also an ache in his head and…elsewhere.

“Oh no,” he mumbled, “I must have gotten it—” he was interrupted by a neigh as his face pushed forward, his neck lengthening and thickening, and even his vocal cords shifting. Staring down crosseyed, he watched as a very horsey muzzle stretched out in front of him. Osflyn knew that a pair of massive wings were growing in as well, turning his lower half pegasoid, but behind them, he could feel something else: a heat, a weight, a pressure, and a breeze from the oscillating fan.

Yeah, he thought as he took stock of his changes, I definitely got it wrong. Maybe too much horse nettle, or buckwheat. Whatever the cause, he didn’t have time to deal with it now: his shift was over and he still had to fly back to the mesa before his first class of the day started. Heaving a sigh, he looked himself over in the stainless steel front of the big walk-in fridge.

Sure enough, he’d grown the wings he’d intended, their russet and brown plumage and creamy undersides reminiscent of the ferruginous hawks he’d seen looping through the air outside the University. And he’d also developed a horse head, making him look like an equine minotaur. But the alteration that was most problematic was between his hind legs. Perhaps it’s all the airborn Hormonade, he mused, looking at the twin cannonballs of grey skin that jockeyed for space with his equally-enlarged sheath. He was sure to get teasing for that when he got back to the dorms, but right now, feeling what seemed like gallons of equine testosterone pumping through his body, he almost didn’t mind.

“I wonder what Bryce will think of my additions,” he muttered with a smirk, then laughed remembering the Normalall. Given that a botched concoction was always harder to undo, since all the ingredients had to be counteracted precisely, he was likely to be stuck in this form for a while—possibly until after finals. If that were the case then he’d have plenty of time to let Bryce have his fun. Speaking of which…

Osflyn quickly packed up the rest of his vials and jars, as well as his notebook (which now included notes on his own situation). Clopping out of the kitchen, he passed his replacement, a cute enough guy with straight black hair and a rotundity that Osflyn found himself staring at. On a whim, he said, “Hey Metcalf, have a good shift today…oh, and could you try the celery? I’m not sure if it’s still good or not.”

“Sure thing,” the other cook replied as he donned his apron. “You know what a stickler Cluck is for freshness.”

Laughing, Osflyn clopped out into the front of house, and instantly found himself weighing whether or not he should skip classes for the day.

The forest deity mooseman had simply by his presence causes his booth to be completely covered in growth, with moss climbing the wall and ferns sprouting beneath the table (which seemed to have taken root), Meanwhile, the nullified muscle stud was up on the table, hands and knees in the remains of their breakfast, his tattooed body on full display while his mooseman wife ate him out.

The two-headed man was similarly occupied. The new boyfriend was still down on his knees beneath the table, sucking their combined shaft. Meanwhile, the albino head seemed to have attracted the attention of the iguana, because they were making out with a fierceness of passion that was making the man’s other head moan in ecstasy. It’s always nice to have one’s fantasies realized, Osflyn thought with not a little jealousy.

Cluck must have been in the middle of ringing up the cowified trucker when another batch of eggs had made their presence known, and now he was squatting on the floor, popping out one smooth white ovoid after another, with the trucker standing over him. It was hard for Osflyn to see at first, but a few steps further and he realized that his boss was pressed against the bulbous udder, sucking on a thumb-thick teat as much as he could with his beak.

A clatter of tumbling pans came from the kitchen, followed by a grumbled, “Damn these hooves of mine,” in Metcalf’s familiar voice. Osflyn smiled to himself: At least I know the Tauroil works fine, and he again was tempted to linger, if only to see what kind of lower half his coworker had grown. But he shook his long shaggy head, red mane flapping, and again decided to do the adult thing and head out to class.

Then he saw Bryce and Cruz.

Like the nulled stud, Cruz was on his hands and knees on the table, with various sauces and bits of food spangling the remains of his uniform and his thick pink skin, hunkered down so his hips and curly tail were at just the right height. Bryce’s hairy goat legs were strong and sturdy as he stood at the end of the booth’s table, hunching up into what Osflyn assumed was now his boyfriend. A pig cop and a satyr waiter, he thought, well, I’ve seen weirder couples. He glanced back at the forest deity, who by now had pulled the nulled stud onto his lap, making him squirm as his innards were filled with moosemeat.

“Oh hey,” Bryce said, noticing the winged centaur behind him. “You heading out, big guy?”

Osflyn had to smile: the satyr truly was a beast made for fucking. He could hold a conversation and not miss a beat of his rhythm. Cruz, meanwhile, was drooling on a pie tin sticky with apple filling and spangled with crumbs. “Yeah, I’ve got classes…” Though, truth to tell, he could feel his sheath beginning to unfurl, and his balls definitely ached with need. Bryce’s tail flicked up, and somehow Osflyn knew the satyr could take him, would take him, wanted to take him…

“You know what, fuck class. Let me get another cup of coffee and then I’ll join you two, sound good?”

“Any time!” Bryce bleated, pulling his tapered cock out so Cruz could flop over onto his back, boar balls and corkscrew dick on full display. “Hey, while you’re there, bring back a can of whipped cream, wouldja?”

Chuckling, Osflyn trotted over to the drink station. Once he was there, however, he didn’t pour a cup of the tainted coffee; instead, he simply chugged straight from the carafe, feeling the heat (not to mention the Hormonade) warming his thick horse tongue, his long equine throat, and both of his stomachs. By the time he returned to the table—whipped cream in hand—his mighty shaft was already unfurled and beginning to drip on the backs of his forelegs, brushing the red hide with every step.

At some point later, when the moans had dulled a bit, someone switched the Open sign to Closed, smearing centaur cum on the window in the process.

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