The swan and the beast

by LoverDanny

When shy, disciplined Noah is accepted into a prestigious ballet company, he’s determined to disappear into the corps—until something begins to change. His body starts to grow: harder, hairier, hungrier. Muscle builds beneath his skin, and new heat stirs inside him.

The city hit me like a slap across the face—sharp, wet, and full of something that smelled vaguely like ambition and piss.

The cab let me off a block away from the studio, traffic thick with honking sedans and bored pedestrians who moved like they owned the damn sidewalks. My suitcase rattled over cracked concrete, its little plastic wheels catching in the seams of the city like my entire life was about to fall apart. And maybe it was.

I stopped at the base of the building. The sign above the wide glass doors was in chipped gold lettering:

Duvall Ballet Company.

It felt like something sacred. The kind of place that didn’t want me inside it. I pulled in a deep breath, square in the chest, just like my old teacher told me. Then I exhaled and stepped through.

The air changed immediately. Cold. Smelling of rosin, sweat, and polished floors. Familiar, but different—like a church to a lapsed Catholic. There was a receptionist who barely looked up. Just waved her hand toward the elevators, her long nails clacking against a clipboard.

“Third floor. Orientation. You’re late.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, my palms clammy. I tugged the strap of my duffel higher on my shoulder and walked.

The elevator was lined with mirror panels. I couldn’t help but look.

It wasn’t just nerves. I knew I didn’t belong. Not here. My reflection confirmed it.

Too soft. Too boyish. My cheekbones hadn’t come in yet, and my jaw was still round in that way that made people ask if I was in high school. My shoulders sloped gently under the cheap thrifted sweater I’d thought looked classy in the mirror that morning. My thighs pressed together too easily, padded with years of pliés but not the definition that real dancers had. I’d shaved that morning, but already I could see a faint shadow above my lip, not quite a mustache—just the awkward memory of one.

I turned away. Better not to look.

The studio on the third floor was massive, sun-drenched, and intimidatingly silent. A wall of windows opened onto a courtyard that looked like something out of a modern ballet film—steel and glass and beauty. The floors were immaculate. Sprung wood, the kind that ate hours of sweat without complaint.

There were already fifteen dancers, maybe twenty, warming up on the floor when I entered.

They looked like gods.

Leotards clung to hard angles and long muscles, calves flexing like marble, backs straight and poised, every move economic and precise. Their bodies shimmered with the faint glow of oil or sweat or just being superior to me. Men and women alike—all lithe, lethal, and devastatingly graceful.

I felt like a worm.

“Elbows in,” someone barked. The voice cut the silence like a whip. I flinched.

A man stood near the far mirror, arms folded behind his back like he was inspecting troops. He was tall. Older. Balding, but only slightly. His presence commanded the room.

“Victor Duvall,” someone whispered beside me. I hadn’t noticed the guy enter, but he stood close now, brushing my arm with his sleeve. “The director.”

I turned. The guy had that same ballerina body—thin waist, wide shoulders, legs that could kill. His hair was short and platinum blonde, but his eyes were ice blue and vaguely mocking.

“I’m Elijah,” he said without smiling.

“Noah,” I said, my voice catching slightly. I cleared my throat.

“Of course you are.”

I didn’t know what that meant.

Victor Duvall clapped once. “New ones. Front and center.”

I froze. Elijah gave me a little push in the back.

There were only four of us who stepped forward. Two girls in high buns and tight black leos. A guy with a sharp jaw and dark skin. And me. The round one. The slow one.

Victor paced in front of us like he was inspecting livestock. He stopped in front of the dark-skinned guy first.

“Lift your shirt.”

The guy obeyed instantly, baring a tight abdomen with crisp lines. Victor nodded once. Moved on.

He stopped in front of me last. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t speak. Just looked.

I felt his gaze slide over me. My neck, my chest. My hips. My thighs.

“Strip.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your layers. Off. All of them.”

The room had gone quiet. Everyone was watching.

I hesitated for half a breath. Then nodded. Fingers shaking, I peeled off the sweater. Underneath was a tight-fitting tank—white, already damp under the arms. My stomach pushed slightly against the fabric. My nipples were visible through the material.

Victor tilted his head, studying me. “You’ve never trained under pressure.”

“No,” I admitted.

“Your posture’s lazy. Your arms are weak. But…” He stepped closer. “You have something.”

My heart slammed in my chest.

“You’ll stay.”

I exhaled, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.

Then he turned and walked away.

Victor’s approval didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like consent to bleed.

The others resumed warming up, backs to the mirror, lifting legs high and holding impossible positions. I was frozen in place, still in my tank top and cheap black tights, feeling every set of eyes flick toward me when they thought I wouldn’t notice.

I pulled my sweater back on, fingers trembling. My skin burned—not from exertion, but from shame. My nipples were stiff beneath the cotton, reacting to more than air. Something about the way Victor had looked at me—measured me like raw meat. As if there was something inside me he wanted to carve out.

I stumbled off to the side and found a space on the floor. Tried to stretch. My hip flexors ached from the bus ride. My lower back popped softly. I reached for my toes, but my gut folded, pressing into my thighs like a reminder of every late-night snack and skipped cardio session.

“Elbows in,” Victor snapped again—but not at me this time.

I glanced up. Elijah was at the barre, spine straight, chin poised.

He moved like something not quite human. Effortless. Perfect. His legs extended in clean, impossibly smooth lines. His hands were poised, severe, every gesture a blade. The tendons in his neck were taut with focus. His lean arms tensed with each motion, but it was his back—oh God, his back—that held me.

The sweat-darkened shirt clung to carved muscle. Shoulder blades shifted beneath it like wings preparing to unfurl. His waist tapered into a V so tight it made my stomach clench.

I knew I was staring.

I also knew he knew it.

He turned slightly, caught my gaze, and raised a single pale brow. Then—without breaking eye contact—he peeled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. It was small, maybe unintentional. But I felt it like a slap.

His chest was smooth, angular, touched with just enough shadow to catch the eye. His abs shifted under his skin as he moved, each ridge defined with the casual cruelty of perfection.

He looked sculpted. Untouchable.

And he was showing me exactly what I didn’t have.

I looked away. Heat swelled in my face—and lower. My tights grew tight. I crossed my legs, heartbeat galloping. Inhale, exhale, count to eight. Anything to tether me.

This wasn’t just a dance studio. It was an altar, and Elijah Petrov was the high priest.

After class, the new students were told to wait in the dressing rooms for assignment. We hadn’t even danced properly. But I was already soaked in sweat—not from movement, but from adrenaline. From something else.

I peeled off my shirt, trying to be casual, drying my chest with a towel. But my skin—God, it felt electrified. Every brush of cotton was a jolt. My nipples still tingled.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Still soft. Still boyish. But—

I leaned closer. Was it the lighting?

A faint shadow under my jaw. Not much. Just a whisper of something new. The hint of change.

I touched it with trembling fingers.

“You’re in 4C.”

I spun. An intern with a clipboard stood in the doorway.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Roommate’s already there. Elijah.”

My stomach dropped.

The dorm was on the top floor. Two beds. Two desks. One closet. One side already claimed—rows of black tanks, designer joggers, cologne bottles arranged with military precision. The other bed was bare. Mine.

The water was running. Steam slipped under the bathroom door, curling through the air like smoke. Then it opened.

Elijah emerged in a white towel, steam trailing off his shoulders. His skin was flushed, glistening. Water traced the grooves of his torso, collecting in the hard lines above his hips.

“You’re the new kid,” he said, voice low, already half-bored.

I swallowed. “Noah.”

“Right.”

He crossed the room to his dresser, bending to grab black briefs that hugged him indecently well. I looked away too fast. Nearly tripped over my suitcase.

“You dance?”

“What?”

“I didn’t see you move. Do you dance? Or do you just stare?”

I flushed. “I—I do.”

“Hm.”

He slipped on a tank, still damp from the shower. Skin glistened beneath it.

“Victor likes projects. You’re soft. But he sees things in people.”

I sat on the bed, palms sweating.

Elijah turned, eyes unreadable. “Just be careful. What he builds, he also breaks.”

That night, I lay awake, listening to Elijah’s slow breathing. My body throbbed. Every inch sore from strain, every nerve lit with something more.

And I was hard. Again.

I reached beneath the sheets, fingers brushing the shape of my cock. I thought of Elijah. Of Victor. Of hands on my body that didn’t belong to me. Of sweat. Of heat. Of power.

When I came, it was silent. Shameful.

By morning, the sheets were damp.

But it wasn’t just from the dreams.

I stood before the mirror, breath fogging the glass.

I didn’t look the same.

Hair. On my chest. Sparse, curling.

My abs—barely there—felt tighter. My arms ached with growth. My thighs felt… heavier.

And I didn’t want it to stop.

Orientation was a blur. Rules barked like commandments.

“You do not miss rehearsal.”

“You do not leave early.”

“You do not question Victor.”

Victor didn’t greet us. He simply stood at the front, eyes cutting through us.

“First years, center. Strip to your base layers.”

My stomach turned. But I obeyed.

I peeled off my hoodie. My black compression shirt clung to me. My nipples visible. My tights too tight. Every inch of me screamed unworthy.

Victor stalked past like a wolf.

“You’re holding water,” he growled in my ear. “Carbs? Salt?”

“I—”

He moved on.

My skin burned.

Then class began.

Hours blurred together. Pliés, tendus, drills that melted my legs into trembling stalks.

Victor’s voice snapped across the studio. His cane jabbed. Corrected. Molded.

He hovered near me the most.

“Your thighs are weak. Fix it.”

“Engage your core.”

“Again.”

I obeyed.

But each movement brought friction. Heat. My tights gripped too hard, rubbing. Pressing.

I was… aroused.

Desperately.

By the break, I collapsed. Drenched in sweat. My chest heaved.

I lifted my shirt to breathe.

And froze.

A trail of hair—coarse, dark—ran from my navel to the waistband.

I touched it. Shivered.

Elijah was suddenly there.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just sore.”

He crouched. “You’re sweating a lot.”

“It’s hot.”

He sniffed. “You smell… different.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

And he walked away.

My body was vibrating.

Heat flushed through my chest like I was being unzipped from the inside. Panic clawed up my throat, tangled with a flicker of arousal I couldn’t control. Was I turned on? Terrified? Disgusted? I couldn’t tell. My skin prickled like it was too tight, every nerve overfiring. I wanted to run. I wanted to be touched. I wanted it all to stop.

Victor broke us down all day.

But I moved.

I kept moving.

Because Elijah was watching.

Because Victor wanted me broken.

Because something in me was awakening.

In the locker room, I peeled off my tights. My thighs were thicker. Heavier.

Not fat.

Full.

And there—hair. Real hair. Chest. Stomach. Groin.

My scent filled the air. Male. Musky.

My cock hardened on instinct.

I sat. Shaking. Overwhelmed.

The musky scent of myself—thicker now, sharp and undeniably male—coiled in the air like proof of something obscene. My thighs brushed together with new heft, hair scratching against skin. I stared at my hands resting on my knees, fingers trembling, remembering how they had explored the new swell of my chest, the foreign tension in my arms.

What was happening to me?

This isn’t right, I thought. This body isn’t mine.

Heat crept up my neck, not from arousal this time, but from deep, shivering humiliation. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Scrub myself raw. Hide from the weight of my own transformation.

I pressed my fists into my thighs until they ached. My cock was still semi-hard, stubborn in its defiance, throbbing like a traitor. Tears threatened to rise. I blinked them back.

Why did it feel so good? Why did that make it worse?

But I didn’t feel afraid.

I felt… alive.

Later, shirtless at the dorm window, I saw my reflection in the glass.

Collarbones sharper. Neck thicker. Veins rising in my arms.

Sweat glistened on my chest. Hair caught the light.

My body was changing.

And I wanted more.

“You don’t sleep either.”

I jumped. Elijah stood there. Bare-chested. Eyes burning.

“You’re changing,” he said.

“You can see it?”

He reached out. Touched my chest. Traced the new hair.

“You smell different.”

“Do I?”

His hand hovered at my waistband.

“Elijah—”

He pulled away. “Rest. Tomorrow gets worse.”

He vanished into the dark.

And I stood trembling.

My body still humming.

My cock still painfully hard.

And I knew: This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.

I couldn’t sleep.

My sheets were damp with sweat. My heartbeat thudded against my ribs like a warning bell. I tossed and turned, muscles twitching, the scent of myself—raw, musky, male—clinging to the sheets like guilt. I kicked off the blanket and sat up, breath ragged, skin clammy.

The room was too warm. Too quiet. My fingers trembled as I slipped out of bed.

The floor was ice under my feet. The tile in the bathroom made me flinch, sharp and wet against my soles. My hand shook as I turned the lock.

Every part of me was humming, panicked. A trapped energy crawling up my spine and across my skin, begging for release or reversal or something. I needed to look. I needed to know.

The itch beneath my skin wasn’t just hormonal or restless—it was shame. Panic. My body was foreign, raw with sensation, bristling with changes I hadn’t asked for.

I crept into the bathroom, bare feet silent on cold tile. Locked the door behind me.

My reflection was a stranger.

The light buzzed above, harsh and yellow, casting my frame in unforgiving contrast. Chest hair—real, curling—fanned across my pecs. My abs were no longer imagined but emerging, shallow grooves in soft flesh. My neck was thicker. My arms looked like they belonged to someone stronger.

I hated it. Wanted to own it. Couldn’t stop looking.

I grabbed Elijah’s razor.

I didn’t ask.

I lathered the foam across my chest and started to shave. The hair came away easily, silky against the blade. The skin beneath was smooth, almost too warm. I worked quickly, desperately, shaving my stomach, arms, thighs. Even my groin. The sound of the razor scraping was almost soothing. It felt like control.

Like erasing a mistake.

But with every inch I revealed, I couldn’t deny what was there.

The ridges of my abs, taut and new.

The curve of my biceps, defined even relaxed.

I reached up, ran my fingers down my chest, across the fresh skin. It was… hard. Firm. My nipples stiffened under my own touch.

My cock stirred again, thick and needy.

I turned to the mirror.

Water dripped from my torso, catching in the lines of my abdomen. My shoulders looked broader. I flexed, shyly, almost afraid.

The reflection stared back.

Not beautiful. Not yet.

But closer.

Closer to something real. Something powerful.

My breath caught.

A flush spread across my cheeks.

And then, just once—trembling, almost involuntarily—I flexed harder.

A strange thrill shot through me.

I looked strong.

I looked… good.

Then doubt surged up like bile. Was it okay to feel this way? To admire what was happening? My face burned, suddenly ashamed. I wasn’t supposed to want this. Not like this. Not in secret.

I took a step closer to the mirror, breath hitching. I flexed again, slower this time, but the guilt tangled with desire, shame colliding with hunger in my chest. It felt wrong. It felt good.

I looked away, but the image stayed with me.

I smiled, only a little, before turning off the light.

And as I slipped back into bed, clean and bare and still aching, I whispered into the dark:

Don’t stop.

The first thing I noticed that morning was the hair.

I had shaved it all the night before—my chest, my stomach, my thighs—everything. But now, standing in the pale light of dawn, it had returned. Thicker. Coarser. Darker. Like my body had rejected the razor. Like it was claiming itself back, faster, stronger.

It was alarming.

I ran my hands over the coarse stubble across my pecs, the tufts at the base of my abs, the creeping line of curls below my navel. My skin tingled, not just from touch, but from the wrongness of it all—like something unnatural pulsed just beneath the surface.

Panic surged. I went to the bathroom, heart hammering. Locked the door. Turned on the light.

My reflection looked older, rougher. More masculine. My jaw carried new shadows. My neck looked thick. The hair wasn’t just back—it was more defiant than before.

I grabbed the razor and shaved again.

Each stroke was frantic. Foam smeared across my skin as I scraped it all away, wincing as the blade tugged through resistance. My chest was harder now, the muscle underneath making each pass more difficult.

And when I rinsed away the suds, I found myself staring—not at the hair, but the shape.

The way my pecs lifted. The cut of my waist.

I swallowed. Shyly, I flexed.

The muscle pushed up, high and round under the skin. I felt the weight of it. The strength.

And for one terrifying second—I didn’t hate it.

Then I pulled my shirt on, fast. Packed my dance bag.

And went to rehearsal, still buzzing with shame and confusion.

It started before we even touched.

The announcement came mid-rehearsal—Victor’s voice slicing through the studio like a blade:

“Elijah. Noah. Center. You’re partners now.”

My heart stopped.

The studio, already warm with sweat and friction, seemed to tilt. Elijah didn’t react—not with a sigh or a glance or the tightening of his jaw. He just stepped forward, smooth and silent. Like a shadow drawn toward mine.

The others cleared space. I stood in the center, breath tight in my throat, body damp beneath my leotard. My heart thundered in my ears. The studio’s mirrors stretched all around me, reflecting my body a thousand times—soft, flushed, hairy in places that hadn’t been hairy before.

I didn’t know what I looked like anymore.

Not really.

Was I grotesque? Strange? My nipples chafed against the thin fabric, stiff and raw. There was a thin sheen of sweat darkening the small of my back, pooling behind my knees. And my scent—God, it was heavier than ever. Like it was pouring off me.

Elijah came to stand behind me. Close. Too close.

Victor clapped once.

“Prove to me you can move together. Find a rhythm. And don’t waste my time.”

We began with a slow pas de deux.

I’d seen it before—the choreography was basic. Simple lifts. Eye contact. Shared weight. But nothing could’ve prepared me for the feeling of Elijah’s hands on my hips.

They were firm. Commanding. Skin to skin through the thin layer of my dance belt. His fingers found the indent of my waist like they already knew me. My breath hitched. I felt… anchored. Exposed.

“Breathe,” he muttered.

I tried. But I could feel everything. His heat. His steadiness. My own sweat pooling in the curve of my spine. And worse—my cock, already half-hard before we’d started, began to thicken.

No. Not now.

I kept my eyes forward. I moved.

He guided me into a turn, his palm sliding across the small of my back. I stumbled slightly. He corrected with a hand to my chest, fingers brushing—

God.

My nipple was stiff.

He felt it. I knew he felt it. But he didn’t say anything. Just moved on.

The music slowed. Elijah stepped around me, hands ghosting over my arms. We were close now. Faces inches apart. Our breathing fell into sync. The choreography demanded a lift—his hands sliding under my thighs, gripping tight.

As he hoisted me, my body arched—and my cock pressed against the front of my leotard, painfully stiff.

And visible.

So. Clearly. Visible.

I landed and immediately folded forward, pretending to stretch, hiding my face. My skin crawled with shame. Heat flooded my ears. I wanted to vanish.

But it was too late.

I’d seen it in the mirror. So had Victor. So had the other dancers.

So had Elijah.

My erection was a dark outline, stretching against the soaked black fabric. It pulsed with every heartbeat. My cheeks flamed.

“Elijah,” Victor said coolly. “Step out. I need a moment with Noah.”

I froze.

Elijah hesitated—but obeyed, walking away without a word.

Victor approached.

He didn’t look angry.

Just... interested.

He stopped in front of me, arms crossed.

“Do you know why I paired you two?”

I couldn’t speak. My body was buzzing. My cock ached. Shame beat against my skull like a second heart.

“Because tension makes art,” he said softly. “Want. Shame. Desire. That’s what makes a dancer unforgettable.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re transforming,” he said. “Faster than I expected.”

I looked at him, panicked. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

Victor smiled. Not kindly.

“I do.”

After rehearsal, I ran to the locker room.

Locked the stall. Peeled off my leotard, breath shallow and broken. My cock was still half-hard, slick with pre-cum. My underwear ruined. My thighs trembled—not just from exertion.

I sat on the toilet and buried my head in my hands.

Something’s wrong with me.

But when I reached down and touched myself, the shame melted into something hotter. Needier. Confusing.

I pictured Elijah again—his breath on my neck. His hands on my hips. That look he gave me when he thought I wasn’t watching.

And I came.

Hard.

Panting. Gasping. Forehead pressed to my damp thighs.

That night, Elijah didn’t speak to me.

He barely looked at me. But when I passed him in the narrow kitchen of our dorm, shirtless, damp from the shower, his eyes flicked over my chest—where the hair was now darker. Curling thicker. I caught him staring.

He turned away.

But his hands were trembling.

The next morning, I woke up before the sun.

Not because of an alarm. Not because of nerves.

Because of the pressure.

My body thrummed—like I’d been held too tightly in my own skin, and something inside was pushing out.

I sat up slowly, the sheet sliding off my chest. The air in the dorm was cool, but I was burning—fever-hot and flushed, my skin damp with a sheen of sweat that hadn’t come from a dream this time. It came from inside. Like my body was still moving, still flexing, even in sleep.

I rose and padded barefoot to the mirror.

And then I saw it.

The first thing that caught my eye wasn’t my chest or my hair or even my face. It was my lats.

They were… wider.

The change was subtle, yes. But I knew my body. I knew what it had been.

And this wasn’t it.

The taper of my torso had shifted. My shoulders looked broader, yes—but the sides of my body now flared out slightly, the beginnings of those muscular wings dancers and swimmers bragged about in locker rooms. They didn’t jut aggressively—not yet—but I could see the lines forming beneath the skin, beneath the sweat.

The V of my torso was unmistakable now. My waist looked smaller, more pinched, almost delicate compared to the breadth above it. But that was only an illusion—my waist hadn’t shrunk. My chest and back had expanded.

I turned slightly, breathing shallowly, and saw the beginnings of definition under my arms. The shape of my upper back had shifted from flat to sculpted—a shadow of something masculine, powerful, and still growing.

I tilted my head and froze.

Even my neck had thickened.

Just slightly—but it was there. A subtle trunking at the base where my neck met my shoulders. Less swan, more… stag. It made my jawline look sharper, my posture taller. And when I rolled my head in a slow circle, I could feel the resistance of newly awakened muscles straining along the column of my spine.

I stared.

My heart pounded harder than it should have for six in the morning.

And then I looked down.

My legs.

Oh God.

They didn’t look like mine anymore.

They were thick—not fat. Dense. My thighs pressed together with a new weight that hadn’t been there before. Each movement made them rub—inner thigh against inner thigh—creating friction I could feel.

I reached down, slowly, hands trembling. My fingers pressed into the meat of my quads and sunk less than they used to. They were harder now, solid, almost springy beneath the surface. Still not cut—not sharp—but full. Like the muscle had been packed in overnight.

My hamstrings bulged faintly when I bent forward. My glutes—once soft, high-school dancer butt—had ballooned. Tight, round, and heavy, like something you’d see on a lifter. Even my calves, always weak and stringy, now flared slightly when I lifted onto the balls of my feet.

I pulled up my briefs.

They barely fit.

The waistband rode low across my hips, the fabric pulled tight over my ass and crotch. My cock ached dully from the pressure. My adductors—the inner thighs—were now thick enough to push outward against the tight leg holes. I could see the faint outline of veins pressing against the skin near my knees.

I staggered back from the mirror, panting.

And then I caught my scent.

Sweat. Musk. Salt and something darker.

Not bad. Not dirty. Just… male.

I closed my eyes and inhaled again.

It made my cock twitch.

Later, in rehearsal, my body moved differently.

Victor called us to the floor for core work and floor rolls, and I could feel the power in my legs when I kicked off. The torque in my hips. The glide of my spine across the floor—smoother now, less hindered by softness, more controlled by the growing strength of my midsection.

I rose into arabesque, and for the first time, my back didn’t collapse inward. My lats caught me. Held me.

Even Elijah noticed.

He didn’t say anything—but his gaze lingered when I bent over to stretch. His eyes locked on my thighs. My ass.

And for a brief moment, his mouth parted.

I turned, heart pounding, and he looked away.

But not before I saw the flush on his cheeks.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The friction of the sheets against my new thighs. The weight of my own arms against my chest. The tickling itch of new chest hair growing darker and denser across my pecs and around my nipples.

I got out of bed, quietly.

Went to the mirror again. Lit only by the hallway light under the door.

I turned sideways.

The shape was unmistakable now.

I was no longer a boy.

Not quite a man.

Something in between. Something building.

Growing.

Desiring.

Becoming.

And tomorrow, Elijah would touch me again.

“You’ll dance without a shirt today.”

Victor’s voice cracked across the studio like a whip.

I stood at center, chest already heaving from the morning’s warm-up. My skin glistened under the high windows, every pore open, raw with heat. I didn’t know why the words shocked me. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard something like that whispered around the company. But this time, it was directed at me.

I froze.

“What?” I asked, too quickly.

Victor took a slow, deliberate step toward me. “Off.”

I hesitated. The room was too quiet. All the other dancers—Elijah included—froze in their stretches, their center work, their glances caught in the wide wall of mirrors. No one said a word. The only sound was the hum of the air vent and the distant thump of my own heartbeat in my ears.

Victor’s eyes didn’t waver. “I want to see what your body is doing. The lines. The corrections. Take it off.”

I swallowed.

Slowly, I reached for the hem of my soaked tank top. The fabric clung to me like a second skin, suctioned to the sweat coating every inch of my torso. I peeled it upward inch by inch, the motion revealing the dense line of sweat-darkened hair crawling up from my waistband, over my belly, between my pecs. As I lifted it over my head, my biceps flexed involuntarily, and I felt the chill in the air rake over my freshly damp skin.

The air hit me like a slap.

I stood there, exposed.

My body had changed more than I’d realized.

Even my face was different now. In the mirror, I caught the shadow that hadn’t been there yesterday—the beginnings of a burgeoning five o’clock shadow darkening the edges of my jaw and upper lip. It wasn’t thick yet, but it was visible, undeniable. I rubbed my fingers over the grainy stubble, stunned by how coarse it felt against my fingertips.

I hadn’t expected it to come in so fast. I hadn’t even wanted it.

But it was there—another quiet, masculine claim on my body I hadn’t consented to.

The heat of rehearsal had flushed me crimson, making every muscle pop in exaggerated relief beneath the skin. My pecs were rounder now, taut but still soft with their new weight. Hair curled around my nipples, dark and damp, hugging the growing swell of my chest. The sensation of air on those tiny hairs made them prickle, hyperaware.

My lats flared subtly from my back, making my arms hang slightly wider at my sides. It gave me a dangerous silhouette—tapered waist, broad shoulders, ridged obliques, and a stance that no longer looked adolescent. My stomach, once pillowy, had pulled inward, not quite chiseled, but tight, like the flesh was resisting the muscle fighting to surface.

That trail of hair from my sternum to my navel—it wasn’t subtle anymore. It was a bold, masculine line, one that seemed to throb with every heartbeat, drawing the eye toward the thick waistband of my tights.

Victor circled me like a sculptor inspecting raw marble. As he passed behind me, I felt his gaze drop—assessing, devouring. Without warning, he brought the back of his hand sharply across the curve of my ass. Not enough to hurt, but firm enough to make a sound. A smack, echoing through the studio.

My body jolted, heat rushing up my spine.

“Glutes are inflating faster than the rest of you,” he muttered, almost to himself.

And he was right. My ass was growing. Rounder. Firmer. The tights hugged the swell of it greedily, the fabric stretched to its limit. I could feel it—feel the weight of my own cheeks bouncing slightly as I moved. There was resistance now, drag, pressure in every plié, like my own flesh was demanding attention.

He reached out.

His fingers brushed my lower back, just above my ass where a dark patch of hair was growing in, unapologetic, coarse against my skin. A place no dancer wanted hair. But I had it.

“You’re thickening quickly,” he murmured. “Too quickly.”

His voice was close enough that I felt his breath graze my shoulder. I could only breathe shallowly, my chest rising and falling with the weight of a thousand invisible eyes.

“You like this, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

But my cock pulsed in my tights.

He stepped away.

“You’ll perform the solo. Now. Shirtless. Everyone watches.”

A sharp intake of breath from one of the dancers. Silence again.

Elijah looked at me. Not judgmental. Not mocking. Just… alert.

I nodded, throat dry.

The music began—slow, brooding, full of strings. I moved.

The floor was slick with sweat and rosin.

Every twist, every roll, every lift of my arms came from deeper inside me. My back engaged, lats spreading like wings, muscles pulling me upward and outward. My chest bounced slightly with each impact, nipples taut, brushed by the humid air. My thighs burned with exertion, glutes tightening with every controlled leap, slick under the pressure of performance.

And the sweat.

God, the sweat.

It ran between my pecs, tracing the tight crevice of muscle and hair. It beaded down my abs, dripping to the dark line at my waistband. In the mirror, I looked like something more than human—something raw. Animal.

I was drenched in my own scent.

And I felt them watching.

Their eyes traced every motion: the new curve of my neck, the flex of my spine, the swelling mass of my thighs packed into my tights. I felt like prey. I felt like power.

I should’ve been humiliated.

But I wasn’t.

I was soaked in something else.

At the final crescendo, I dropped to my knees, arms spread wide, chest rising and falling like a beast after the kill.

For a beat, no one spoke.

Then, Victor clapped—once.

“That,” he said, “is how you dance like you want to be fucked.”

The words hung in the air.

And I didn’t flinch.

Later, in the showers, I scrubbed my chest furiously—but the hair didn’t come off.

If anything, it had thickened—coarse and damp, clinging to the firm rise of my pecs like moss over stone. My fingers moved over the ridges of my stomach, tracing the line of each muscle, the heat from the performance still radiating through me.

I stared into the fogged mirror.

My waist had cinched, framed now by flared lats, and my shoulders sat high and full, a dancer’s posture warped into something almost primal. My neck—once long and elegant—had become a thick, columnar trunk, and the veins in it pulsed when I flexed.

I rolled my head side to side and felt the tendons stretch. Beneath them, the traps rose like armor, cutting diagonals from neck to shoulder.

I had become… substantial.

I’d gone from androgynous to unmistakably male in weeks.

It wasn’t natural.

It wasn’t clean.

But I wanted more.

That night, Elijah cornered me in our dorm.

“You let him touch you.”

I looked up from my towel. My chest was bare, still damp. Hair gleamed under the overhead light, curls clinging to my sternum.

“He’s my teacher.”

“That’s not teaching,” he snapped. “That’s grooming.”

I stood, my body rising in front of him, casting shadow.

“You don’t get to shame me. You watched.”

He said nothing.

“You like what I’m becoming,” I said, stepping closer.

He didn’t back away.

I pressed my palm to his chest. His skin was hot. Trembling.

“Say it.”

His lips parted. Eyes dark.

“I like it,” he whispered.

And then I kissed him.

Hard.

And neither of us pulled away.

The kiss wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

It was years of silence. Years of denial. Years of watching and not touching, wanting and not daring.

His mouth crashed into mine like he was afraid I might vanish. Like I might change again and become too monstrous to hold. Like he wanted to brand me before the transformation finished and I disappeared completely.

I kissed him back just as hard.

We stood there, chest to chest, breath mingling, sweat slick between us. My palm stayed pressed against his sternum, feeling his heartbeat pounding like a drum against his ribcage. His hands found my back—my new back, the one that flexed and swelled under his fingers—and he gasped into my mouth.

“You’re warm,” he whispered. “Too warm.”

“Then touch me.”

He didn’t wait.

He guided me to my bed without a word, as if we’d rehearsed it. The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I let myself fall, legs spread slightly, chest rising and falling under his gaze.

Elijah stood at the foot of the bed and just stared.

My briefs were soaked with sweat, clinging to the thick lines of my thighs. My legs had spread naturally, like they needed space now, like my quads and hamstrings had grown greedy. The meat of my inner thighs bulged against the seams, and my glutes, swollen from weeks of relentless growth, pushed the waistband low enough to expose the dense, curling line of hair at the base of my stomach.

I watched his throat move as he swallowed.

“You’re not the same,” he murmured.

“No,” I said. “But I’m still me.”

He crawled up onto the bed, kneeling between my legs. His hands went to my waist—not possessive, but reverent. His fingers traced the V of my torso, from my hip bones up toward the newly flared wings of my lats.

“You’re... carved,” he whispered. “Hard here. And here.”

His palms flattened across my obliques, then slid higher to cup my chest.

He exhaled through his nose, awed.

“Your pecs are heavy.”

“They weren’t, a week ago.”

His thumbs brushed my nipples—now sensitive and surrounded by coarse, dark chest hair—and I arched slightly off the bed. The motion pressed my body up into his hands, the new muscle swelling visibly in his palms.

“Elijah…”

He bent forward.

His mouth found my left nipple.

And I saw stars.

Elijah’s mouth was hot—so much hotter than I expected—and it closed gently over my nipple, his tongue flicking across it like he was testing a boundary. Testing me.

I gasped.

My back arched again, instinctively, pressing my chest into his mouth. His hands held me steady at the waist, fingers digging into the newly sculpted ridges of my obliques, and I could feel his breath grow heavier with every tremble of my body beneath him.

“God,” he muttered against my skin, the word muffled by the dark patch of hair. “You smell like… something I’m not allowed to want.”

I shivered.

His tongue traced downward, slow and deliberate. Over the slope of my pecs, now full and responsive. Over the slick, damp hair that crept down the center of my torso. Each inch of me was soaked in sweat, in change, in scent.

He paused at my navel, inhaling deeply.

“Jesus, Noah,” he whispered. “You’re leaking.”

I looked down.

There—soaking through my briefs—was a dark, wide patch. My cock, swollen and twitching, strained against the fabric. And from the tip, a thick bead of pre-cum glistened through the cotton, a signal flare of need.

I should’ve been ashamed.

But I wasn’t.

I nodded, breathless. “Touch me.”

Elijah hooked his thumbs into the waistband of my briefs and pulled.

They didn’t come off easily—my thighs were too thick, the flesh packed with muscle, dense and growing. The fabric clung to me like it didn’t want to let go. He had to work them down slowly, inching over the round swell of my glutes, the curve of my hamstrings, the bulging sweep of my quads. The waistband caught on the thickness of my adductors where inner thigh met groin, and Elijah groaned softly.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Your legs are…”

He sat back for a second, just staring.

And I saw what he saw.

The way my quads curved outward, round and taut. The striations just beginning to feather across the vastus lateralis. My hamstrings hung like braided ropes, flexing with each breath. My knees, once boyish, now thickened and strong.

I was becoming… undeniable.

“I want to taste you,” Elijah said suddenly, hoarsely.

My head fell back.

“Yes,” I breathed. “Yes.”

His mouth returned with reverence and hunger.

He kissed the crease of my inner thigh, just above the swelling curve of muscle, his lips brushing against coarse new hairs that had sprouted along the skin. Then the other thigh—slow, worshipful, as if he feared this new body might disappear if he didn’t memorize it now.

I could feel my cock throb, dripping more with every kiss.

When he finally took me into his mouth, the heat of it made my whole body seize.

Pressure. Suction. Heat.

But what undid me more was the way he gripped my legs, his fingers curling tight into the massed cords of my quads, like he needed something to hold on to.

My hips lifted instinctively, my glutes flexing hard, and I let out a guttural groan.

“Elijah…”

He moaned around me, the vibration running like lightning through my spine.

He didn’t stop until I was shaking.

And when I came—hard, my mouth open, my body clenched—it wasn’t just release.

It was transformation.

I collapsed, trembling, slick with sweat and heat. The ceiling spun above me. My pecs heaved, soaked. My legs ached from flexing, glutes tight and full beneath me. I was heavy. Real. Here.

Elijah climbed beside me, breath warm against my chest, his palm resting where my heart thudded wildly beneath a mat of sweat-darkened hair.

We didn’t speak.

We just breathed.

“I used to be scared of you,” I said, after a long stretch of silence.

Elijah chuckled softly. “You should’ve been.”

“I’m not anymore.”

He shifted, his hand sliding across my belly, fingers playing in the trail of hair there.

“You’re different now,” he said quietly.

“So are you.”

I turned and kissed the crown of his head.

He didn’t pull away.

His breath had evened out, soft and warm against my chest.

Elijah lay draped across me like he’d lived there for years—like the tension that had existed between us for weeks had never existed at all. His hand still rested just above my hip, fingers curled loosely around the edge of my oblique, thumb absently brushing over a patch of damp hair.

I didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want to break the spell.

But I had to know.

“Elijah,” I murmured, “what did he do to you?”

His body tensed just slightly. Not enough to pull away. Just a stiffening—like a breath he wasn’t sure he wanted to exhale.

“I figured you’d ask eventually.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” I said quickly. “Not if—”

“No,” he said. “You should know.”

He rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow, eyes scanning my face. In the dim light of the dorm room, he looked more human than I’d ever seen him. Less marble, more man. His hair mussed. His mouth red from use. The pale skin of his chest dotted with faint freckles I hadn’t noticed before.

“When I was eighteen,” he began, “I was the new prodigy. Victor called me his ‘pure line.’ His swan. I thought he meant artistically. I wanted to believe that.”

I nodded, silent.

“But it was about control,” Elijah continued. “He broke down my diet. My sleep. My rest days. He wanted my body to belong to him. And I let it.”

He looked away for a moment, jaw tightening.

“I didn’t say no,” he said. “Not once. Not when he touched me. Not when he made me dance until my feet bled. Not even when he started… giving me things.”

“Things?” I whispered.

“Supplements. Shakes. Pills I wasn’t allowed to ask about. He called it optimization. He said I needed to develop faster. He was obsessed with getting my waist down, and my back up. He wanted me to look like… like you.”

I froze. “Elijah—”

He looked at me again, and this time his eyes weren’t cold.

They were scared.

“But I didn’t,” he said. “My body never changed the way he wanted it to. I stayed long, lean. Graceful. Beautiful. But not his. And I think that’s why he lost interest.”

I reached for his hand and took it.

His fingers curled into mine without resistance.

“And now I watch you,” he whispered. “Every day. Your back—your lats—they’re spreading like wings. Your waist is shrinking, and your chest is coming in like armor. Your legs are… Jesus, Noah. You’ve got the body he always dreamed of building.”

I didn’t speak.

He leaned in closer, forehead brushing mine.

“But the scariest thing,” he whispered, “is that I don’t think he did this to you.”

I didn’t sleep much that night.

Not from anxiety. Not from shame.

From sensation.

My body ached—not with pain, but fullness. Growth. My thighs felt heavy on the mattress. My hamstrings pulled with every shift. When I rolled onto my side, the mass of my glutes shifted behind me, muscular and warm. My traps ached, flexing subtly as I adjusted my pillow. My neck had thickened again, just enough that I felt the difference against the sheets.

Even my chest hair felt denser. It clung to my skin like moss in heat.

I breathed in deeply and smelled myself.

Me.

Sweat. Salt. Male.

Elijah stirred behind me. He wrapped his arm across my chest, pressed his nose to the back of my neck, and sighed.

“You smell like sex,” he mumbled.

I smiled in the dark.

The sun through the window painted us in pale gold.

I was already awake, half on my back, the sheet kicked off sometime during the night. Elijah was curled into me like he hadn’t meant to be. His arm draped across my stomach, fingers splayed just beneath my pecs, buried lightly in the hair there. His cheek rested against my shoulder—the one that had grown too broad now for him to fully wrap around.

I stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds between his breaths.

He was still here.

Even after everything. After my body. After Victor.

He was still here.

And I didn’t want to move.

But I had to.

I peeled myself out of bed slowly. Carefully.

Even the way I stood felt different.

My lats flared instinctively, pushing my elbows slightly out as I rolled my shoulders. The shelf of my pecs bounced gently as I stretched my arms overhead, my spine cracking. I turned toward the mirror.

And gasped.

Not because I was horrified.

Because I looked good.

My neck was solid now—thick, supporting a jaw that looked sharper, stronger. My traps rose like carved stone, sloping from the curve of my shoulders. My deltoids had begun to round out, and the line separating chest from shoulder was finally clear. My pecs were full, swelling with every breath, their hair curling and dense now, framing my nipples like natural accents.

My torso had narrowed into something obscene—my waist tight, flanked by sharpened obliques that disappeared beneath the dense trail of hair flowing into the waistband of my briefs. And below that…

My thighs.

Thick. Ripe. Solid.

Hamstrings corded, quads curved like cannonballs, and my glutes...

God. I had an ass. A bubbled, heavy, muscular ass that made my briefs ride up, the fabric pulled into the cleft. It felt hot. Wrong. Delicious.

I adjusted myself, but it didn’t help.

I was hard again.

And Elijah was watching me.

“I thought I was dreaming,” he said quietly from behind me. “But… you really are changing overnight.”

I turned.

He was sitting up now, sheet pooled around his waist, bare-chested, his pale skin kissed with sleep.

He looked like desire.

But also worry.

“I’m scared of what this means,” he said.

“I’m not,” I replied.

He blinked.

“Not anymore,” I continued. “Because if this is who I am, then at least now I get to feel it. I get to move like this. I get to be seen.”

He stood and came to me.

Our reflections stood side-by-side—me, taller, broader, sweat-streaked and hairy, my body transformed into something hyperreal and virile; him, lean, elegant, and suddenly delicate in comparison.

“You’re becoming a man,” he said.

“No,” I murmured. “I think I’m becoming a dancer.”

He kissed me once—slow, deep, with something that felt a little like fear.

And a little like love.

In the studio, we didn’t speak.

We didn’t dare.

Victor paced like a wolf, circling the room, calling combinations, barking corrections. But his attention never drifted far from me and Elijah.

When we danced our duet, his eyes bore into us both.

He could see it.

The shift.

Not just in my body—but in us.

When Elijah lifted me, his hands lingered a little too long on my waist. When I pressed against his chest in a slow spiral, my lips almost grazed his neck.

Victor said nothing.

But I could feel it in the air.

This was no longer about my transformation.

This was about control.

And Victor didn’t share.

After class, he pulled me aside.

Alone.

His hand rested on my shoulder, thumb brushing the edge of my growing trap.

“You’re turning into something remarkable,” he said softly.

“I’m not yours,” I whispered.

He smiled.

“We’ll see.”

The week after Elijah kissed me was the most silent of my life—and the most physical.

We didn’t talk about it. Not the kiss. Not the bed. Not the sweat or the taste of skin or the way I’d moaned into his mouth like something half-feral. It didn’t need to be said.

Because our bodies spoke for us.

In the studio, we danced as if we were breathing each other. He would move, and I would follow, or I would lead, and he would be there before I even knew I needed him. Victor noticed. Everyone noticed. Dancers whispered behind water bottles. The air buzzed around us like static, like heat before a storm.

And my body kept changing.

I felt it when I slept—the soreness, the heat blooming through my muscles. I’d wake damp with sweat, the sheets wrapped around my thighs like a second skin, my cock hard and leaking against my stomach. My chest hair grew back each night no matter how closely I shaved. My glutes felt full. Heavy. The waistband of my tights dug into the swell of my ass now, riding higher each day.

On Wednesday, I pulled on a rehearsal shirt that had fit me just days before. It clung to my shoulders. Tight across my pecs. A stretch through the sleeves. I tugged at it, embarrassed. But I was already late, and I didn’t have a backup.

Victor had us running the pas de deux for the winter gala—an intense, sensual duet with lifts, rolls, and moments so intimate they bordered on obscene.

It was just the two of us.

Elijah stood in front of me, barefoot, body humming with tension. His shirt clung damply to him, darkening where his chest met sternum. He’d started growing hair there, too. Barely more than a dusting, but it was real. His nipples were visible through the cling of his top, taut and flushed.

“Start from the glissade lift,” Victor said. “Noah, don’t rush the plié. I want to see that strength.”

I nodded. We moved.

Elijah’s arms swept under mine, guiding me up into a suspended hold. My back arched, pecs flaring, and I twisted midair, catching a flash of both our reflections in the mirror. His eyes were locked on me—hungry.

When I landed, we shifted into a floor phrase: a slow, aching roll from hip to hip, our torsos folding together like ribbon. Sweat flicked from my brow. My pecs swayed with each contraction, dragging against the damp cotton of my shirt.

Then it happened.

A deep plié.

My spine curved back.

And—

Rrrrip.

The sound sliced through the music like a whip crack.

My shirt split at the shoulders. Loud. Violent. The seams popped in two sharp bursts, the fabric yanked apart by the spread of my lats. It didn’t stop at the shoulders. A tear shot across the back panel like a scar, baring skin.

I froze. Breathless.

The room went still.

All eyes were on me. My arms trembled from the sudden release of tension. My pecs pushed against the now-loose collar. The shirt hung lopsided, like it had surrendered.

Victor walked toward me, slow, deliberate. He stopped inches away.

“Next time,” he said quietly, “dress for the body you’re growing into.”

I nodded. Silent. My skin prickled under the cold air. My nipples hardened under the torn fabric.

“Off,” Victor added.

I stripped the shirt away.

It clung to my back, peeling like wet parchment. Beneath, my chest was flushed and gleaming. Hair curled across my pecs in thick, damp lines. Sweat beaded along the dense trail running down my torso, catching the mirror light like glitter.

I heard someone exhale.

Elijah.

He was staring.

I danced the rest of rehearsal shirtless.

Every motion felt exposed. Raw. When Elijah’s hand slid to my waist during the final lift, I felt his thumb brush the curve of my oblique, just beneath the hem of my tights.

I saw his throat work as he swallowed.

After rehearsal, I found a towel and collapsed on the locker room bench. My chest still heaved. My nipples burned from where his fingers had grazed them. My tights were soaked with sweat, clinging to every groove of my thighs.

Elijah approached. Wordless.

He handed me a clean shirt. One of his.

It was soft, slightly oversized. Still warm.

I pulled it on. It smelled like him. Like lavender and salt.

“Thanks,” I said, quietly.

He didn’t move his hand from where it rested on my thigh.

We sat there, side by side. Breathing.

That night, he showered alone.

I watched him go, shirt clutched in my hands.

I waited.

When he returned, damp hair falling into his eyes, he didn’t say anything. He slid beneath my sheets and pressed himself against my back. I felt his chest hair against my spine. Sparse. But there.

“I think I’m changing,” he whispered.

“I know,” I whispered back.

His hand found mine.

And we slept.

Elijah didn’t sleep through the night.

I woke just before dawn and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, running his hands slowly over his chest. His back was to me, spine curled inward. Steam clung to the mirror across the room, and the soft drip of the shower still echoed.

“What is it?” I asked.

He turned slightly, eyes wide in the half-light. His chest rose and fell with shallow, rapid breaths.

“I shaved before I got in,” he murmured. “I swear I did.”

He turned fully then, and I saw it.

A faint patch of stubble had returned, shadowing the space between his pecs. Just a few hours after he’d shaved it bare, a dusting of dark, coarse hairs was pushing through the skin again. His stomach, once smooth, now bore the beginnings of a trail. Just above the waistband of his briefs, a gentle tuft had formed, catching the light like dew.

He looked down at himself like he didn’t recognize his own body.

“Is it… because of you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But maybe it’s because of us.”

He stood, walked to the mirror, and tilted his chin. He touched his jaw where the first hints of stubble peppered the line beneath his cheekbones. His armpits were damp, hair curling just slightly when they hadn’t before.

“I don’t want to stop it,” he whispered. “I just don’t know what it means.”

I crossed the room and stood behind him, both of us bare-chested. Our reflections stood shoulder to shoulder—mine broad and hair-thick, his lean but growing, the early signs of transformation mapped out like a secret language on his skin.

I wrapped my arms around his waist.

He exhaled and leaned back into me.

“I can feel it,” he whispered. “My pecs feel heavier. My thighs... they feel tight in my pants. And I keep waking up hard. I’ve never been like this before.”

My hands slid lower, over the subtle definition of his obliques. I kissed the back of his neck. His skin was warm, pulsing beneath my lips.

“I like what you’re becoming,” I said.

His breath caught.

“I think I do too.”

Rehearsal that day was pure electricity.

Victor drilled us mercilessly, barking through counts and corrections, but I barely heard him. Every time Elijah touched me, my skin sang. His grip was firmer than before. His legs moved with new strength. When he bent forward into a stretch, I caught sight of the curve of his ass, tighter and fuller, packed against his tights.

We were being watched—Victor’s gaze never left us—but it didn’t matter.

The climax of the duet came with a lift: I spun into his chest, and he caught me at the waist. But unlike before, he lifted me higher. So effortlessly I nearly gasped.

His arms trembled only slightly with the strain, but I felt the difference.

When I landed, Victor clapped once.

“That’s it. That’s the tension I want.”

Elijah’s eyes met mine. There was fire behind them.

That night, we didn’t sleep in our beds.

We curled together on the floor, a single thin blanket between us, skin on skin. I traced my fingers down the center of his chest, over the growing hairs, the ridges just beginning to take shape.

He moaned quietly, his body shivering under my touch.

“I feel it everywhere,” he said. “My thighs. My ass. My chest. Even my neck aches. Like it’s stretching.”

“You’re growing,” I murmured.

His lips brushed mine.

“I want more.”

We kissed slow, deep, desperate. Our hands exploring what had changed, what was changing. I could feel the tight new roundness of his glutes when I gripped him. He gasped into my mouth, bucking slightly into my thigh.

When I reached down and cupped him, he was hard—achingly so.

We didn’t speak again that night.

We let our bodies do the talking.

And when we slept—arms tangled, muscles sore, chests heaving—I knew something irreversible had begun.

Not just in me.

But in him, too.

(More to come)

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Call of the incubus by DaBook Recent college graduate Adrian Castille has started noticing cults rising up around his city. He investigates, following a cult to an abandoned warehouse, and witnesses a deadly ritual, and finds himself face-to-face with a powerful incubus. He stands his ground, telling the incubus he will be stronger than him. 10 parts 65k words (#60) Added May 2024 Updated 2 Aug 2025 34k views 5.0 stars (21 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Cock Shrinking•Cock Theft•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Hyper Cum•Public Orgasm•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Muscle Worship•Man Scent•Pointy Ears•Butt Growth•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Gradual Change•Transformation•Getting Taller•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Dom/Sub•Sex-Slave•Hyper Pheromones•Incubus/Succubus•Supernatural •M•M/M•M/M/M•M/F•M/Inh

A growing family by OneLuckyGuy89 Tyler Sánchez and his friends are going to prove the Zhao transformation website is a hoax. His father Julian gets home to find a manly musk has filled their home. Just what happened while he was at work? 7,041 words Added Jun 2024 22k views 4.7 stars (9 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Female to Male•Straight to Gay•Muscle Growth•Muscle Gut•Muscle/Strength•Man Scent•Butt Growth•Belly Growth•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Transformation•Voice Deepening•Getting Taller•Forced Growth•Size Increase•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Incest•Brothers•Father/Son•Nonconsensual change•Hyper Pheromones•Supernatural•Immortality •M/M•M/M/M

Body for bargain by MegaMaker Lance wants to get bigger and is willing to make a deal with the devil to make it happen, despite his best friend in the whole world, Jude, telling him that's him that's a terrible idea. 7,837 words Added Dec 2024 19k views 4.3 stars (9 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Hyper Cum•Public Orgasm•Multi-abs•Other Mental Changes•Straight to Gay•Hyper Muscle•Pec Fucking•Hyper Strength•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Muscle Worship•Always Shirtless•Public Nudity•Man Scent•Butt Growth•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Voice Deepening•Getting Taller•Forced Growth•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Lycra/Spandex•Demons•Witch/Warlock/Wizard•Supernatural•Complete•College/University •M•M/M

Out of control by MegaMaker Would you become a titan of muscle and mass if your boyfriend asked you to join him? This is the quandary Bailey faced when his lover, Derick, brought him some strange serums. What would Derick do if he said no? 10 parts 22k words Added Oct 2024 Updated 23 Nov 2024 37k views 4.0 stars (8 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Cock Shrinking•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Always Cumming•Hyper Cum•Public Orgasm•Multi-abs•Addiction•Other Mental Changes•Hyper Muscle•Hyper Strength•Immobility•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Muscle Worship•Always Shirtless•Public Nudity•Man Scent•Voluptuous Men•Butt Growth•Increased Libido•Gradual Change•Voice Deepening•Getting Taller•Giants•Forced Growth•Plausible Size Difference•Size Decrease•Size Increase•Destruction/Violence•Blood•Dom/Sub•Nonconsensual change•Nonconsensual sex•Sex-Slave•Hyper Pheromones•Complete •M•M/M

The real you 3 by MegaMaker For his second year of college Henry gets a new roommate named Roman. Things between them go well, but Roman seems to be hiding something. 3,116 words Added Sep 2024 16k views 2.0 stars (2 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Always Cumming•Hyper Cum•Public Orgasm•Multi-abs•Straight to Gay•Hyper Muscle•Pec Fucking•Hyper Strength•Immobility•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Muscle Worship•Always Shirtless•Public Nudity•Man Scent•Butt Growth•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Voice Deepening•Getting Taller•Giants•Forced Growth•Plausible Size Difference•Size Decrease•Size Increase•Destruction/Violence•Nonconsensual change•Shapeshifting•Complete •M/M

Altered state by YellowJester For two best friends a new video game, Altered State, offers the opportunity to become something more than either could have ever dreamed possible. 18 parts 56k words (#73) Added Nov 2024 Updated 18 Jan 2025 39k views 5.0 stars (64 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Straight to Gay•Muscle Growth•Always Shirtless•Public Nudity•Man Scent•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Gradual Change•Transformation•Getting Taller•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•App•Hyper Pheromones•Mind Control•Complete•Stories with Images•College/University •M/M•M/M/M/...