The right blend

by BRK

 In this sequel to “One Hot Summer,” Thad returns to Colorado, still in Zac’s upgraded, hyper-hung body. When he finds he’s no longer able to morph himself back into what he’s supposed to look like, his only hope is his sexy and capable second-in-command, Aleksei.

Added: Mar 2023 8,008 words 1,968 views 5.0 stars (1 vote) This story was commissioned via Patreon Story Commission.


Sometimes you don’t know what your kinks are until you’re staring them in the face. And then, of course, it’s too late. Everything you thought you had figured out about what gets your motor running gets rejiggered faster than you can say Kurosaki Ichigo, and you’re left with a whole new lust apparatus with no off switch and no user’s manual or help video in sight.

Me, you’d have thought I’d have gone for my boss of two years, like practically every homo this side of the Front Range. And, sure, Thad Loukanis, owner and chief cannabis-engineer of Thad’s Hashery of Colorado Springs, Colorado, was the unquestioned epitome of hotness. The guy was a 6-foot-7 Adonis and built like a pro gymnast with souped-up genetics, and that’s just for starters. Then there was that almost stereotypical sexy-Mediterranean swarthiness to his smooth, olive complexion, punctuated with the chestnut-brown eyes and the lush wavy near-black hair he usually, though not always, kept tantalizingly short.

See, Thad was… he was too perfect for me. Not that I didn’t measure up, or that he was out of my league or anything. It was more like he was a prototype, an idealized mock-up, when what I wanted was the real thing. I wanted a connection, more than I wanted marble-hewn muscle and effortless charm. Thad never seemed to fully relax around me even after I became his number-two. There were secrets he wasn’t ready to share with anyone, even me.

He was a hell of a package, though, and his tight tee shirts, that crooked smile that popped the faintest hint of a dimple, and those sharp, bewitching bedroom eyes had all the boys swooning. It was an appreciation that translated into clicks, likes, and a whole lot of repeat business on our website and social media and a ton of in-person traffic through our retail store, too. A steady stream of guys of all ages and types made the expedition to our little out-of-town ultra-modern mart to pick up Hashery-brand varieties of weed or tour the specialty greenhouses out back… and maybe catch sight of our dreamy, even-keeled, always charming proprietor. Rain, snow, or buzzards-in-the-sky heatwave, there was always a guy or three up here at the farm wanting a taste of Thad, even if it was only the kind of morsel you got from raking your eyes over his stacked, eerily perfect physique.

A lot of these high-flying Thad groupies were worth a long look themselves, with a tendency to wide smiles, broad shoulders, outgrown shirts, and exposed socks or ankles from jeans that were maybe an inch shorter than they should have been. We had to have, on average at least, the most hunky and aesthetically admirable clientele of any business in the state, gyms included; and even the cheery, permanently-half-zonked guys that consumed our mind-altering wares on the regular seemed vaguely aware that Thad’s was where the buffest and yummiest stoners all got their mary jane.

Maybe it was just that I’d been observing our customers closely for two years, but to me it was kind of obvious if you looked at it objectively. The website and packaging on all the various publicly-sold strains never claimed anything more than strong flavor and “lasting effects,” and Thad so far hadn’t let on any more than that to me, even in private. But it didn’t take Brains from Tracy Island to make the connection that our most regular and most loyal customers were the same well-baked dudes most likely to be sporting ripped seams spreading tightly across bowling-ball delts, and hard, round muscle-butts pushing out pants they hadn’t noticed yet were getting a little too tight. Which, in turn, made the secret strains that Thad sold only privately, and that only he dealt with, that much more suspect.

So, yeah, my feelings when it came to my good-looking, bonerific, amiable but closed-mouthed and occasionally closed-off boss were, to say the least, complicated. He was a good man and a fun guy to watch a Broncos game or go white-water rafting with, but I was starting to feel a tiny, persistent buzz in the back of my head telling me that if he didn’t truly trust me, I might be better off using my business degree to help build some other home-grown business—one where I could become a real part of the story.

I was thinking about this a lot over the long Fourth of July weekend. Thad was off visiting his big brother, who I gathered ran the family pizza business out east somewhere, and I had the shop and grounds all to myself. I have to admit, the temptation was strong to go digging through the house—the shop was attached to the side of Thad’s simple but spacious two-story farmhouse, with the greenhouses behind—but my morally obsessive grandma Jo wouldn’t have stopped at rolling in her grave if I’d stooped that low looking for dirt and secrets. No, she’d have dug herself out, borrowed someone’s phone at talon-point, and posthumously sent me a long, passive-aggressively worded email spelling out just how disappointed in me she was.

Rifling through Thad’s stuff was more my brothers’ speed anyway, which, in itself, was an even better discouragement. Aleksei’s life-hack number one: anything my degenerate brothers Viktor and Vlad were willing to do was something I should run far away from. The fact that I was even thinking about digging through Thad’s files and papers was just proof of my curiosity and growing frustration with Thad’s lack of openness.

It was late Tuesday afternoon. Outside it was already dark, mostly thanks to a raging thunderstorm that had been parked over the area for hours and was still going, beating hard against the little blacktop outside and noisily shaking the building around me. I was just finishing boxing up the mail orders and was thinking of locking up early when the shop bells over the door tinkled, signaling a customer had braved the storm. I looked up, and everything just seemed to stop.

The man who entered was tall, good-looking, and extremely ripped—not chiseled and bulky like Thad and a lot of our equally generously sculpted customers, but extremely hard and defined, with a body fat so low you could count every intercostal and see the rippling of his flat, cut abs even relaxed, each smooth, firm brick broad and elegant as it gave way to the others above and below like the sandstone strata on a canyon wall. This display led irresistibly up to the firm, rounded protrusion of his meaty, modestly proportionate pecs. This was a man made to be admired, with the eyes, and then with the rest of you.

I could see all of this because from the neck down he was wearing only baggy jeans and a pair of old boots, leaving every inch of his lanky torso exposed under the soft fluorescents of the store. His skin was a warm medium brown and his straight black hair was short enough most of it was hidden under a worn green ball cap, which was the only other thing he had on that I could see.

I… couldn’t even understand my reaction. I knew he was beautiful and that I was drawn to him before I had even fully taken him in, but then he lifted his sweet, entrancing face, and our eyes meeting set off a firecracker in my chest. I actually put a hand to my sternum, as if to make sure there wasn’t a gaping hole there and everything was still where it should be.

I was facing the front of the shop and its glass windows and door. The storm outside made it look almost black, but I could see the shapes of some nearby trees bending into the wind. Lightning cracked somewhere nearby, followed by a loud roll of thunder. Belatedly I realized my newcomer was drenched—because of course he was. Even if he’d parked near the door, just the walk from his vehicle to the entrance would have gotten him soaking wet. His sleek, hairless skin was beaded with water, his cap was sodden, and his jeans were clinging to—holy fuck, that can’t be a dick half-filling his pants leg all the way to his knee, could it?

Get your act together, Aleksei. Dream bod and leg-ferret aside, this guy needed a towel. The trouble was, I didn’t have one to hand. As a kind of stopgap I pulled off my own extra-thick brick-red Hashery tee shirt as I rushed toward him from around the counter. He looked at me in surprise as I approached him and started blotting the moisture off him with my wadded-up tee. “Uh, hi to you too,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone that hit me right in the balls.

I froze, glancing up at him with an awkward smile. The guy had to be a long and limber 6-foot-5, and I had bent a little to dab at his abs (which were undulating lightly while he breathed down at me, pulling at my attention). The eyeline between us felt almost vertical. I straightened myself up and swallowed a little—the angle hadn’t much improved. My pale skin felt like it was prickling with heat, which made not sense to me. Height alone didn’t normally do it for me, but something about this guy and the vibe I was getting was pressing buttons I didn’t even know I had.

At least I didn’t have to feel too self-conscious about my own shirtlessness. I wasn’t buff like him or swole like a lot of our patrons, but I was naturally lean and fit, even without all the gym work everyone around here seemed to be doing whenever you weren’t looking. Only thing that stood out about me was my shoulder-length ash-blond hair. Everyone I knew had short hair, even this guy, and despite how proud I was of my mane I’d almost cut it off three times in the last six months.

I swallowed again. “Sorry, sir,” I said. “Is there something I can help you find?” I looked at the shirt in my hand; then, as it was now too cringey to keep wiping him down like he was a Toyota who’d pulled into my car wash, I offered him the balled-up tee. “Uh, or I could find you a towel, if you like,” I added lamely.

The man looked at me almost fondly and took the shirt. He was tired, I realized as I watched him wipe his shoulders and arms. It felt like he’d been struggling with something, exerting a lot of mental effort. Which made sense—driving through a storm this intense for any length of time was an ordeal. “Here, come, sit,” I said impulsively, guiding him to a polished walnut bench to one side of the shop floor. He sank onto it gratefully, dotting his forearms.

I sat next to him, acutely aware of a heat somehow radiating from him despite his having just been out in the cold rain. I seemed to absorb it, somehow, like he was sending off waves of warmth and beauty and lust solely for the benefit of those around him. My pulse quickened and cock started to react… which naturally got my brain veering back toward that inexplicable bulge I’d seen. What was that? Was he… wearing something underneath his jeans, like long johns or something, and they’d gotten wadded up somehow? Maybe he was smuggling some kind of illicit substance, with parcels taped to his thighs minimize the chances of discovery—though what kind of contraband was fat and tubular like that, and who he needed to hide it from, was beyond me.

I shook the distraction away and kept my attention firmly on his face. “I’m Aleksei, by the way.”

He looked up at this, as if my introducing myself was slightly unexpected. Something in his eyes seemed conflicted, though I couldn’t imagine why. “You don’t know me?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, examining his heart-stopping face again just to be sure. I allowed myself a small, abashed smile. “I’d remember if I met you before. Are you an online regular?” Maybe I was supposed to recognize his voice from phone orders, but, if so, that wasn’t ringing any bells, either.

I was having trouble thinking straight, which might have been part of the problem. This guy was just too intense to sit next to. I was trying to fight my arousal, but my cock was straining to get hard in my work trousers, and the thing was above-average enough in size that a bent, stymied half-boner trapped in the tight confines of my crotch could easy approach downright painful. My tactile senses were overwhelmed by the simple presence of his magnetic body, my olfactory apparatus could not get enough of his scent, and my field of vision was increasingly consumed with his face. I couldn’t look away. I wanted desperately to move even closer, to touch him for real with the caress of fingers and the brush of lips.

This is wrong, I thought helplessly. Unnatural…

No, not unnatural. On the contrary, it felt infinitely natural. But it wasn’t coming from me, from my nature. This lust and need was seeming into me from him.

He looked intently at me, setting my shirt aside, and I tried to focus. “Aleksei, it’s me,” he said seriously, unguarded for a single moment. “I’m Thad…’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.” That last part sounded oddly like a sudden swerve, like he’d inexplicably changed what he was going to say in mid-speech—not just the “ex” part, but the whole the boss’s boyfriend thing. He cleared his throat, then added diffidently, “He must have mentioned me?”

“Not… that I remember,” I said distractedly. I’d been watching a few beads of water trailing down the sides of his face and realized he was still wearing that sopping-wet ball cap. It was so soaked the green looked almost black. That won’t do, I thought. In a lightning move I reached up and pulled it off. The beautiful man’s eyes widened comically, and he reached up to stop me, a second too late. “Wait—!”

I stilled and stared, the forgotten cap in my hand dripping silently onto the floor by my feet as I gaped at two tall, pointy doggie ears twitching high and alert atop his head amidst a tumble of damp black hair. Unable to help myself, I reached up with my free hand to touch them. They had the coloring and shape of a German shepherd’s, and the skin and cartilage and short, soft fur between my fingers felt… exactly the way they looked.

The ear I was fondling twitched in my hand, and I pulled my hand back and laughed. “They’re real,” I said, reaching for them again.

“Yeah,” Thad’s supposed boyfriend said, sounding as though he had very mixed feelings about his doggo ears. “I’ve been trying to get rid of them, but…”

I had fleeting images of the poor guy going from surgeon to surgeon, all them refusing to do the operation, and I felt weirdly horrified. “Don’t,” I told him earnestly as I went back to gently playing with his doggo ears without permission.

When my gaze flicked back down I saw chestnut-brown eyes warm with affection, almost like he knew me already just from the few minutes we’d spent sitting here on his bench, both of us half-naked and him dripping with rainwater. He ducked his head slightly. “I need to look at least a little normal,” he said, almost apologetically, glancing up at me through his long lashes. “But… I discovered I can’t do it alone.”

I nodded. The not-going-it-alone thing made sense. That kind of a life-changing operation would be daunting enough even if you did have someone at your side, and to face it solo would be awful. I held his gaze, trying to convey my empathy, and as he lifted his chin to stare back at me I saw… a glint of something in his eyes, almost like he was considering me as a candidate for the person he joined forces with, if I could be adapted to that kind of role. I found this… oddly appealing, so much emotion swelled in my throat.

It was weird. Such a twist might have been impossible to conceive of under any other circumstances. I had just met this guy. We were utter strangers to each other.

But something had changed in me in the last five minutes, like the cosmic demiurge had put the world on pause for a second just to monkey around with my config settings, then started everything up again. There was Aleksei before this moment, and Aleksei after. Because I had, after twenty-six long years on this planet, finally discovered my type, my kink, and my fetish: tall, sweet, rangy, exquisitely buff, radiantly beautiful, possibly inhumanly hung, possessed of touchable dark-golden skin, mesmerizing eyes, and pert, soft, twitchy, emotionally responsive doggo ears.

It was not just that he was hot, because I knew from hot guys. I lived in a microuniverse of almost nothing but hot guys in every flavor and personality. It was the sheer extra-ness of him—the way his existence and his animus and his physical being all colored so far outside of the lines that all-new fucking lines had to be added to the thing. That was what I was a goner for.

And if that was real, that meant that my sexual and emotional fulfillment was probably pretty much down to this exact man in front of me.

“The ears stay,” I told him firmly, hand stilling behind the ear I’d been fondling. Then, my willpower shot to hell at this point, I moved in for a soft kiss.

It surprised him, I could tell. But he responded quickly, answering my gentle kiss with one of his own. Our lips parted briefly, almost reflexively, but our tongues only touched in the demurest of greetings before we pulled back from each other, basking in the unexpected moment.

I wanted to keep skritching, but I didn’t want to be a pain about it. I wasn’t quite ready to pull my hand back, though, and so I found myself stroking the back of his head instead. His hair was soft and thick, and shortish enough that this, too, or maybe it was my imagination, almost felt a bit like stroking doggo fur.

“So, you didn’t tell me your name, Thad…’s ex-boyfriend,” I said, drawing out the cryptic moniker just the way he had. I paused for effect. “Is it… Rex?” I teased.

The object of my sudden, inexplicable infatuation sighed dramatically, as if he were pretending exasperation. “Sure. You can call me Rex,” he conceded flatly.

The give took me by surprise. “Yeah?” I was conflicted. It wasn’t who he really was, but it’d be fun to call him that. Who was I to demand total truth from someone who had just met me, anyway?

He reciprocated my petting then, sliding his fingers into my mane near my left temple, sending tingles all through me. He watched me for a beat, maybe guessing what I’d been thinking. “I’ll tell you the whole story, maybe,” he said guardedly. He bit his lip in a way that made me want to kiss him again. “Right now,” he added meaningfully, “I think I need to get out of these wet clothes.”

I immediately felt bad about making him sit here flirting while he was soaked and probably uncomfortable, and pulled back a bit in embarrassment. “Right, right!” I said, jumping to my feet. I thought about the storm outside, which only seemed to be getting worse. The back of the shop and the white interior door that led into the main building were right in my line of sight, like a fait accompli. “Why don’t you clean up and get changed here, in the house?” I suggested. “I’m sure Thad wouldn’t mind.”

Rex smiled up at me. “I’ll bet.” He flicked his gaze toward the rear door and added, “I’m not sure I remember the way, though…”

There was that glint again.

I… wasn’t a player. It was out of character as fuck for me to be acting like this, and conversely I was under no illusions that Rex’s flirting meant anything more than that he was a basic horndog with extra relish. But I was stuck on him, and the fact I was stuck on him and the low-key anxious need to know why I was stuck on him meant that I wasn’t going to let this guy out of my sight. “Think of me as your copilot,” I told him, reaching out my hand to help him up.

Rex grinned widely at this. There was an in-joke there I wasn’t privy to, I was fairly sure, giving me a ghost of a reminder of my taciturn boss and his tendency not to tell me things. Either way he took my hand and stood. Things were now progressing toward…whatever they were progressing toward.

Quickly turning away to finally adjust my boner, I left Rex’s side only long enough to turn the lock on the shop door and flip the “Closed” sign, then hurried back. Together we headed toward the interior door and the privacy that would allow that next stage to come into fruition, while the windows rattled and the black storm howled and roared around us.

I don’t even know why I decided to snowjob poor Aleksei like that. I think I spent too much time around the twins. Those guys were a bad influence.

I was in a weird mood anyway. I had been riding high on all the change I’d been able to do, those last few days at Mike’s. Undoing giantification. Opening everyone’s eyes to the power inside them. Joining bodies with Zac. Giving the platinum-haired QB a perfect little twink body he could share with his other half… which had ended up being two perfect little twink bodies.

So much had happened I couldn’t even keep track of it all. I was still gobsmacked at the fact that we’d actually twinned my brother. Sort of. One of them actually had my old body now, but that was a lot less intense than the fact that there were now two Mikes mooching around the family manse, running the pizza biz, having lots of sex with crazy-hot guys (themselves included), doing a buttload of pot, and basically… living their best life. I was a little envious of big bro, to be honest, not least because it was my mutant mj that made it possible. I’d never altered my own reality like that.

My early discoveries linking the properties of cannabis to little-understood action centers in the brain had drawn me into a tunnel-vision life of experimentation and development. The business wasn’t even my real passion—the Hashery was mostly a means to funding my trials and refinements. All those years I’d been laser-focused on crafting and refining various specialty-strain cannabis sub-breeds, ending with what was at present a core cohort of fourteen high-intensity targeted strains focused on specific transformation loci.

I’d done everything I could to build solid data on the intricate workings of my clandestine strains. I’d carefully calibrated my own nightly tokes with low-dosage blends of this strain and that, mixed with my ordinary breads-and-butter brands of high-quality weed. I’d slipped a bit of various select ultraweed varieties into random packages of the famous high-quality wares we sold to the public, and charted the results as best I could. Gradually, too, I’d acquired a few clandestine private customers whom I supplied with cautiously blended versions of my secret red-pack strains. All of it as a way of understanding and improving just what I was capable of doing with my increasingly powerful hardcore ultraweed.

And it all went exactly to plan. I’d gradually accreted an ever-growing community of buffer, taller, extra-stoned customers, not to mention an enhanced version of my own previously unremarkable bod. And then… what? Did I enjoy the eye candy? Take advantage of the flirting and the guys draping their arms around me left, right, and center? Naw. I crunched the numbers and grinned at all the freaky hexagons I got to draw as I mapped out the stranger and stranger chemical structures of my amazing, evolving bodyshaping pot. I got my (increasingly unwieldy and usually ignored) hardons at the desk in my lab, and it wasn’t from ogling the Hashery Fanboys PicThread feed. Anyone else would have been boning just from all the cocky guys posting selfies with their dopey grins and their broccoli bags and their sleeveless tees showing off their bronzed and brazen bicep peaks; but all I saw as I scrolled my feed, and collected my testimonial letters and emails and all the come-ons I got in person from guys who’d unknowingly tweaked themselves along with their brains, was numbers. Numbers, and matrices, and the intoxicating potential to refine what each strain could do even further, to the point of almost surgical precision.

Who’d have guessed—leveling up and intensifying my drug of choice… was my actual, high-inducing, perspective-shrinking drug of choice.

I’d been sending a ton of the stuff to my laid-back pothead of a big brother, under the heading of gratitude for introducing me to the stuff way back when and thereby starting me down the path of success. Truth was, I just wanted to see what he would do with it. He’d always been a steady hash user and the epitome of chill and relaxed, but the fact that he hadn’t originally planned to end up the family pizza scion and wasn’t completely happy in that role added just that touch of frisson to his placid existence needed to catalyze an unconscious motivation for change. I send him the special stuff along with the regular, and dropped a few hints that with regular use the premium varieties might gradually induce certain kinds of… masculine improvements. My Mike-savvy told me he’d probably keep on with the regular stuff himself and instead sneakily try out the growth-catalyzing strains on hot college guys he was too shy and passive to actually go after. So I’d gone ahead and secretly made sure the “regular” batches weren’t quite as mundane as he thought they were.

Then I’d shown up for the Independence Day weekend, and it was like walking into a literal fantasy. A muscle-growth Shangri-La. Between Mike’s dosing of certain of his employees, their own shenanigans as they got wise and started spreading the growth to their friends, and Mike himself building up an increasingly strong extrasensory nexus between them, I’d stumbled into a dream sequence where everybody was an impossibly hot, insatiably stoned-’n’-horny muscle giant—except with all kinds of fascinating variations according to temperament and appeal, from the just-for-fun gorilla arms on the hairiest of the beasts to the cute redhead who’d gleefully shrunk instead of growing. Big bro was at the center of it, calm and a bit confused as he worked out what was going on and more turned on than anyone.

For me looking up at these giant dudes was the most literal heads up you could get. For ages I’d been obsessing with the mechanics of slow, incremental improvements, but seeing someone take those masculine enhancements from minute to mind-blowing was a lightning strike to the brain. I’d been driving like somebody’s grandad, and Mike and his buds had taken this Maserati and floored it, with me agape in the back seat wondering if I even knew what a car was for.

I hadn’t even been savoring my own carefully modulated improvements, much less the slow, infinitesimal beefening I’d incited to varying degrees in my customers and employees. And here were there guys turning their amps up to fourteen, outgrowing all possible clothes, laughing like muscle-hunk satyrs and spraying each other with more hot, spiky-smelling cum from their enormous hard cocks than the U.S. Navy could spatter the sides of their ships with in a decade.

(Note to self: investigate infiltration of special-strain high-fiber “herbal seasonings” into the Navy food supply.)

Then came the end of the trip and that escalating climax of transformations, of a kind and magnitude I’d barely imagined was even possible. Not only had I accidentally twinned my own brother, but I’d ended up driving home in the sleek, upsized, hunkified body of a guy I’d just met named Zac (while the extra Mike tooled around in mine). It was a completely revised existence with the barest connection to anything I know, from the neck-tickling, forearm-thick erection, to the pair of very real German shepherd ears Zac and I had received as a jocular lesson in humility, to the dizzying memories of sharing bodies and raw, easy lust and off-the-charts mutual pleasure that I still couldn’t shake because they were still constantly blowing my mind every time I thought about them.

I’d pointed my truck toward home in a kind of daze. I had a dim idea I’d eventually need to reshape this body so it would look more like the Thad Loukanis everyone expected to see (and who had at least two cameo-shot-driven PicThread fan accounts that I knew of). Reshaping was a thing—heck, the last thing I’d seen as I put Mike’s town in my rear-view was a couple morphing themselves into perfect replicas of each other—and I’d been part all of the size-management and reconfigs that had filled the last day or so of my visit. So that would have to be the plan, at some point. But as I drove buck naked across the prairies of middle America, a corded brown arm I was already getting used to out the window of my truck, dog-ears twitching in the wind and a steel-hard dick the size of Florida tapping wetly at the notch in my collarbone, I knew I wasn’t ready to give up this body just yet. I had just had an awakening, and though I hadn’t meant to end up looking like the ultimate version of a certain star quarterback’s eager, stat-loving, and occasionally mischievous boyfriend, the body I had now was absolutely symptomatic of everything I hadn’t been doing with my ingenuity, and everything I hoped to try and experience from this point forward.

I’d taken my first metaphorical group swim back in Mike’s own private Brigadoon, and on my way home I decided to try a solo lap or two during my Kansas stopover, just to get a taste for what it would be like to be… like this. The stopover was happening regardless. Though I’d gotten a reasonably early start, at least for someone who’d been sated to insensibility the night before on a heady mix of climax and impossible transformation, I’d decided early on I’d break the trip into two legs and get a hotel for the night somewhere along the way.

So it was that as the sun set in Kansas I pulled off the highway more or less randomly at an exit that promised the requisite food and lodging. It wasn’t until I was decelerating around the gentle curve of the exit ramp and caught sight of the friendly-looking lights of the Snooz-Away Motel just a few hundred feet down State Road 43 from the stop-sign intersection ahead of me that I realized I had a problem—a very, very big problem. Walking into the office in my current state was not a reasonable possibility.

I slowed, then, stuck for options—there being no other amenities in sight beyond the aforementioned cozy accommodations, the gas station next door, and the Burger Jack across the empty two-lane by-road—I found myself pulling off clandestinely right behind a shrub-footed billboard just off the exit ramp and into a secluded little arbor obviously intended for more law-enforcement-oriented pursuits. There, as the gathering dusk settled around me, I set about making myself reasonably presentable through the delicious expedient of delivering unto myself a most epic orgasm ever produced by means of hands, mouth, and tongue.

And then another one, because it seemed my libido was so high in this body that jizzing copiously down my own throat once to the point of nearly choking on my own cum and orgasming so spectacularly I saw gods and demons applauding was not enough to make this damn, majestic, arm-sized dick go down.

Finally, after the third go, I was… well, not so much “soft” as pliable enough I could probably manage to stuff my wang down a pair of pants. It would have to do, I thought with a grin. I dug in the canvas duffel of clothes the twins had left with me and found, in addition to a few interesting items I’d definitely return to later, a very loose pair of heavy-weave jeans; a sturdy pair of boots; thick socks; and the green ball cap I’d been wearing before I left to hide my one truly inexplicable set of transformations. I pulled all of these on in the truck, every article of clothing feeling, in my present multi-mega-afterglow state, like a grudging but very funny concession to dumb societal rules that didn’t seem to quite apply to me anymore.

There were a few tee shirts in the bag, too, but there I drew the line. The no-shirts rule had been infused in me, maybe literally, during my brief stay at Mike’s. In the end I zipped up the duffel and started up the truck for the short trip to the motel without even seriously considering covering up more than halfway.

The matronly but not unattractive middle-aged lady behind the desk in the motel office barely looked up from her phone long enough to check me in. I had to register under my real name, since the only ID I had said Thaddeus Loukanis on it, and thank goodness she didn’t notice or query the disconnect between the photo and what I actually looked like at the moment. The soccer jock in the yellow uniform smock manning the register at the Burger Jack, though—man, did his eyes bug out. I’d always thought it was just an expression, but I not only saw all the whites of his eyes, I practically saw the sockets behind them, too.

I listened to him softly panting as he keyed in my order, which took a while because after a day of driving and all those cumfests behind the billboard I was hungry as fuck. I needed greasy, salty, delicious beef, and not just the metaphorical kind.

The smock had a nametag that just said “Bill” on it, and I took a chance that was his name. “Thanks for feeding me, Bill,” I said, trying for mildly suggestive without making a big deal about it. Not that I needed to do much. I dunno whether it was the power of my physical attractiveness in Zac’s augmented body, or some kind of pheromones I was physically emitting, or maybe extra-sensory fuck-waves I was putting out there from the mental change centers my superweed had awakened in me, Mike, and the rest of the gang—but I knew this guy was hard for me. He aching for it, and he was riding so close to the edge being this near to me he’d probably jizz in his pants if I so much as licked my lips at him.

He kept his eyes on the register, but his breathing got a bit rougher. “My pleasure,” he said quietly as he finished ringing me up. He gave me my total and I paid, and then he went back and started some fries and went about making the rest of my food. I looked around. No customers, and no other employees. Apart from Phoebe over at the Snooz-Away Bill and I might be the only people on Earth at the moment, and I was willing to believe the laconic, Reddit-addicted desk clerk had silently receded right back into the black never-never she’d momentarily surfaced from when I’d first stepped into the motel office.

I returned my attention to my new friend. “We alone here, Bill?” I said, raising my voice just enough to carry back to him.

He glanced furtively up at me as he assembled my first double cheeseburger. “Yep,” he said.

I nodded. “Why don’t you make that to go,” I suggested, as bland as can be.

Bill nodded jerkily and started making my burgers slightly faster.

A few minutes later Bill was walking with me from the temporarily closed Burger Jack back to the motel, eyes straight ahead lest they sneak one glance too many and end the show before it began. He was taller than I expected—I was used to towering over people, having crept my height up to nearly 6-foot-7 by the time I’d driven out to Mike’s, and my Zac 3000 bod wasn’t that much shorter; but Bill had to be over six feet himself, and built very much like a small-college athlete. Once inside my room I set down my big bag of food, made sure the door was locked and my cap was in place, then turned to my lusty admirer and winked. “All yours, bud,” I said, spreading my hands at my hips.

Bill shivered, staring hard at my torso and my legs and especially what was shoved inelegantly down my jeans. He dropped to his knees and then, to my amazement, as if this were a process reserved only for the most elect of fellatees, he set about unbuttoning, unzipping, and pulling down my jeans with only his teeth.

I was amused and impressed, and the sight of him denuding me in such a singular way was enough to get my monster wang and huge cue-ball nuts going all over again. The second he got my pants down far enough my thing leapt up and practically slapped him in the face. We both watched in awe as it rose to its full, ridiculous hardness, until the damp, red, nearly-fist-sized head was nuzzling against the top of my sternum like that was where cocks were supposed to go.

Dazed, Bill got to his feet, it being more than obvious this was one blow-job that could not be delivered from the usual classic position.

Maybe blow-job isn’t the right word, anyway. The implication of getting sucked off is just that—taking a guy’s hard prick into your mouth and using all your internal oral resources to deliver the maximum of dreamy pleasures possible in there. My dick? Only a dude as big as a room could deep-throat a cock like this (as I knew from actual experience). But Bill wasn’t daunted. He deftly used his lips, his mouth, his tongue, and his hands to deliver as much pleasure as he could manage to every square inch of my enormous dick, and my suddenly slutty and oversensitive system had me moaning wantonly from the sheer awesomeness of multiple forms of stimulation at once.

Urgency started building in me and I bent to help him, while at the same time letting him know he was still the maestro in charge of making me shoot my massive, gargantuan load. He responded with even greater fervor, while maintaining his attentiveness and his constantly shifting, multi-prong attack.

“Yeah, dude,” I rasped loudly as I helped him lick around the upper reaches of my shaft. Fuck, he needs more tongue, I thought. Either that, or I need less cock! In that moment the very idea was ludicrous. Then Bill set me on fire with a long, wet, undulating lick from balls to crown.

“Yeah! Fuck, yeah!” I crooned. “Bill, man, I am so close.” At the sound of his name on my sloppy, lust-hungry lips he whimpered against the flesh of my hot, too-big prick. With one hand he fumbled at his own pants and pulled out a long, thin, uncut cock and started jerking like mad.

That did it. The flood was coming! “Get ready,” I warned him, and then I was gushing cum like Mentos dropped in a two-liter of Diet Coke. At first we tried drinking it, but the pressure and quantity was so strong that Bill had to hurriedly step back to keep from getting his uniform soaked.

We panted at each other for a long time as I finished cumming, until both of us were staring at my barely-softened, still towering cock and the huge mess I’d made all over myself, Bill’s face, and the motel’s cheap crimson-and-gold industrial shag carpet, the synthetic fibers of which weren’t even trying to absorb the puddles of goopy white spunk. Then our eyes met, and Bill grinned such a big, goofy, cum-smeared grin I had to laugh.

My burger knight returned to his fast food purgatory not long after, but I got in a jizzy kiss before he cleaned up and left. I got naked, ate my food in comfortable silence, and got in bed and put on the TV for a while to wind down, my dick eventually flopping heavily across my thigh like it knew it had to rest at least some of the time. As I half-watched a John Oliver rerun I found myself idly fondling one of my doggo-ears. I should get rid of these guys, at least, I thought. Maybe I wanted to hold onto my new ride for a bit longer, at least until I got closer to Colorado Springs, but the ears, while awesome, were even more freakish than the cock and the ability to turn hormonal college jocks into panting sybarites.

I closed my eyes and focused. I knew what I needed to do and exactly how to concentrate. Using all of my mental assiduousness, I directed my doggie ears to go back to where they came from.

Nothing happened.

I tried harder, screwing my mental acuity up to the maximum. I kept at it until I started getting a headache, then slumped back against the padded headboard. I reached up to feel, but I already knew what my fingers would find: soft, pointy, black-and-gold-furred skin and cartilage. I hadn’t been able to alter a single atom of my strangest and most interesting augmentation.

A welter of explanations occurred to me one after the other, all easily discarded. It wasn’t because Bran had given to me and so he had to undo them. This wasn’t freaking Bewitched, and the ears didn’t have DRM encoding. I should be able to alter my body regardless of how it had gotten that way, just as I’d helped alter Jay and Zac and the twins, just as Jay and Zac had altered each other until they looked exactly the same. It wasn’t because I was tired, either—hell, with this body and the energy levels I felt all the time I could run a mile right now now, no sweat. Probably literally.

It was easy to sweep aside all the false answers to my failure to morph, because deep down I knew what it really was. The special mind-awakening cannabis I’d bred, the stuff I’d slipped to Mike in concentrated doses and blended into the rest of the various strains of growth-inducing weed he’d passed on to with his friends, was true to the nature of pot itself: it was meant to be shared. My ultrapot created not isolates but a community. We’d all seen it and experienced it, as nodes emerging from a fog, connecting every man in that house to each other, myself included.

The abilities my stuff sparked in the mind weren’t singular but communal. The bottom line was that I hadn’t changed anyone those last couple of days in Muscle Shangri-La. It was always a we. The changes had come about through potent mental connections between two or more awakened men.

The conclusion was equally clear. Without the ability to totally share the experience, short of driving all the way back to Mike’s with my (metaphorical) tail between my legs I was stuck looking exactly as I was.

The unexpected feeling of powerlessness the situation left me with had me mentally disconnected for most of the rest of the next day. The remainder of the trip through Kansas and eastern Colorado was a blur. I got gas; I might have eaten. I have a vague sense of maybe making a trucker standing at the next urinal to me in some rest stop or other involuntarily, cum-spittingly hard. I dunno.

The heavy, black storm on the horizon I’d been driving toward for hours finally broke all around me at some point, but I don’t really remember. I was a blank.

As I left the interstate and started winding through the storm-drenched main streets of Colorado Springs, though, I finally started to resurface. I was master of this situation. I hadn’t just grown this weed—I had fucking engineered it. I could get back my ability to change myself. I could be Thad-that-was, or a canine-feature-free Zac-Thad, or a guy with a Thad head for work and a Zac head for fun, or… whatever the hell I wanted.

I just need to map out the right methodology to make that happen, I mused as I drove through the pelting rain toward the Hashery. Developing a new strain that would stimulate a solitary morph control was… feasible? I was pretty sure? But it would definitely take time, if it was possible at all. The easier solution by far would be to awaken someone else. Someone I liked and trusted.

It’s an embarrassing testament to how distracted I was, by my plight and my recent experiences, that the identity of my very own Mr. Liked and Trusted didn’t reveal itself to me until I actually stumbled sopping wet into my own store and the clever, fit, extremely capable and generally adorable Russian gentleman in question was very uncharacteristically using his own thick tee shirt to blot my wet, glistening torso. Then he straightened, pulling his long hair back behind his ear and staring into my eyes with real desire like he’d just discovered the very concept of infatuation, and as we sat down together on the sturdy bench by the door I remembered two very important things.

The first was that Aleksei didn’t actually like me very much.

The second was that, at the moment, I didn’t look even the slightest bit like me.

I smiled at him, and saw his nascent, if unaccustomed, willingness directed toward the stranger he perceived at yet subconsciously almost knew. This was it. He and I could definitely be the “we” I needed. I just had to mix up a bit of very special weed, share an intimate toke or two, and then my besotted young colleague could be just… like… me.


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