Unicorn Frappuccino: Refill

by Tym Greene   

This sequel to “Unicorn Frappuccino” sees the purple-tracksuit-wearing wizard at his new job, making a delivery to a Starbucks that, four years later, still offers Unicorn Frappuccinos to their customers. And of course unicorn magic comes into play to make things a little more…flavorful.

The sleepy strip mall showed no signs of life so early in the morning, with one exception: a knot of increasingly-grumpy customers waiting in front of the as-yet unlit green and white sign. A chill wind ruffled coats and mussed hair as a delivery van pulled up: its mint green panels seemed to have been painted to look like scales, and there were even vestigial wings and a tail glued to its outsides. None of the waiting customers paid it any attention, assuming that the dragon theming was some company gimmick.

A tall and gangly man emerged from the van in a purple tracksuit that accentuated the spun copper of his goatee. A length of wood, like a knobby branch, had been perched behind his ear and wobbled precariously as he bent back into the van to retrieve a clipboard. Clearly unconcerned about keeping to a schedule, he strolled around to the back of his vehicle and began idly shifting boxes around.

He’d not taken the job for want of money, nor for giving his life some sort of meaning, but simply out of boredom: being an ancient and powerful wizard (despite his looks to the contrary) can lead to dissatisfaction and sameness after so many centuries. But he’d long ago learned that having a bit of structure to his day, a few decisions made for him as to where he goes and what he does, can help provide new entertainments he wouldn’t have thought of on his own. And, naturally, he could always switch jobs or take a little unplanned vacation as the mood took him; all it took was a flick of his wand and a bit of concentrated thought.

“You wouldn’t know by looking at it, but this is the last store on the planet that still serves Unicorn Frappuccinos,” remarked one of the customers, a tall and cheerful fellow with a solid belly, a soft-looking beard, and a video game magazine under one arm.

“Really? I thought they stopped making them—” the wizard did some quick mental math “—dang, five years ago.”

“Yeah, and to think they only lasted like four days in other stores. I come here all the time to make sure I can get my fill before they finally run out of the supplies. It’s really a shame, because otherwise I’d tell everyone about this Starbucks and encourage them all to get unicorns too, you know?”

The customer’s enthusiasm for the fruity drink reminded the wizard of the last time he’d had one, and the transformative “fun” he’d shared with a biker gang. Feeling himself chubbing up at the memories, he switched his attention back to the man standing before him. “Glad to meet another fan,” he said, sticking out one hand while the other held the clipboard nonchalantly in front of his groin. “Name’s Dwennon.”

“Kevin, Kevin Griff,” the customer replied, shaking the wizard’s hand with a warm and tender grip.

At the touch, Dwennon used some of his magic to peer into Kevin’s thoughts, and found them redolent with thoughts of fictional creatures, man-shaped and frolicking like the monsters that illuminated the borders of the antique tomes (some nearly as old as the wizard himself) in his collection. The lewdness and creativity—as well as the deep-seated longing for something that could not be—spoke to him on a deep level, and he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “Pleased to meet you, Kevin. After I make my delivery here, I’ve got a bit of time, perhaps you’d like to get a drink?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Kevin replied with a laugh, “but yes, I think I’d like that.”

A rhythmic squeaking broke the still of the early morning air, and forestalled further conversation. Moving as one, the waiting crowd turned towards the source of the noise: a thickset man was walking a bicycle. He wore a helmet, though it was unstrapped, and the bike wobbled with every rotation of its badly dented front wheel.

“Sorry everyone, I hit a pothole and had to walk the rest of the way,” he said as he chained his bike in the rack and plucked the helmet from his close-cropped red hair. “I’ll get things up and running as quickly as I can.” He spotted the wizard—or, more accurately, spotted the delivery company’s logo that Dwennon had embroidered with a bit of magic onto the breast of his velvet tracksuit. “Got a delivery? All right, meet me around the back, I’ll probably need whatever you’ve got for all these orders.”

He unlocked and slipped through the front doors, locking them behind him before anyone else could lay hold of the handles. With an apologetic wave, he dashed through the empty shop and began the opening-up process. While he was logging into registers and warming up ovens, Dwennon climbed back into his van and let it drive itself around to the back of the building. Starbucks and its strip mall neighbors each had a door set in the blank cinderblock wall that formed the rear of their shared building, leading out to pungent dumpsters and delivery truck-sized parking. The draconic vehicle backed itself up to the proper portal and the wizard hopped back out and began double-checking his list again.

Once the door had been opened for him, he began manually unloading crates of milk cartons and boxes of bananas, enjoying the physical exertion instead of simply magicking them into place. As he carried them through to the back room, he noticed a shelving unit with neat rows of boxes. “Mango syrup,” read a few, “White Chocolate Blue Drizzle” and “Pink & Blue Powders” the rest. All had labels indicating that they were best used by 2017, and Dwennon couldn’t help but wonder if the drinks tasted as good now as they had five years ago.

“All right, all loaded up,” he said after loading the last gallon of heavy cream in the back room’s storage fridge. “Are you sure you can handle that mob? They’re looking a bit rowdy,” he added as he handed over the clipboard for the barista—whose nametag read Greg—to sign.

“Yeah, don’t I know it; but as shift leader I’m the one responsible.” Greg tugged at his beard. “I’m sure most of them will want a Unicorn Frap anyways; I don’t know how we still have so many of the supplies. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great drink—and personally I can’t get enough of it—but I can’t help but wonder if it’s okay, having all those not-fresh ingredients, you know?”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Dwennon replied with a lewd grin. He’d come to a decision, and plucked the wand from behind his ear with a flourish. As his fingers twirled it, they cast a little notice-me-not spell, before transforming the length of wood into a wand-shaped novelty pen. “Here you go, just sign for the deliveries.”

Greg Horne realized with a pink blush that he’d been holding the clipboard and chatting like he had nothing better to do, and signed the form without looking. “I better go let them in before there’s a stampede.”

Dwennon took back the clipboard and pen, which returned to normal once it was safely tucked behind his ear again, then watched as the shift leader crossed the store towards the front doors. Each step seemed to swell his body more, making his clothes fit snugly and his movements become more ungainly. Unseen, the nearly-antique boxes of special supplies began draining themselves, 90s-colored powders and syrups vanishing.

Greg paused just a few steps from the entrance, let out a belch that frosted the window with icy breath, then finally burst out of his clothes.

An equine rump was exposed, its glossy white hide dusted with teal streaks, and its nether parts pink and quivering. That donut needs a bit of icing, Dwennon thought lewdly. It was at that moment he made his decision: remembering the fun he’d had at the truck stop all those years ago, and of course all the different magical misadventures in the interim, he flicked his wand, eyes turning momentarily black as the magicks flowed through him. Now not only would no one balk at the sight of a half-naked equine barista (or anything else within the shop, for that matter), but the customers would be much more likely to join him in his new inhumanity.

Even as he finished casting the spell that slackened reality’s cold grasp on the coffee shop’s interior, he could feel it being wrenched from his metaphorical hands, twisted by a stronger force. His confusion was swiftly resolved as he looked back at his initial target. Unicorns, of course. Why am I always forgetting that? Oh well, whatcha gonna do? he thought with a wry grin, deciding to kick back and watch the show. With a flick of his wand, his remaining deliveries for the day teleported themselves to their various destinations, instantly freeing up his schedule.

The new centaur meanwhile stepped out of his shredded clothing—which vanished once he broke contact—then re-tied his apron around the point where his upper and lower torsos met. As he bent to unlock the door, Dwennon could see that his hair had lightened from red to pink, and his blunt and pearly horn sparkled in the morning light that streamed past his waiting customers. There, now he doesn’t have to worry about his busted bike any more.

The crowd lined up and Greg clip-clopped back around to take up station behind his register; just as Dwennon had intended, not one of the other people noticed the baristaur’s new form (nor the dangling balls and exposed hole that winked at them as he walked away). Taking orders, Greg was as polite and cheerfully professional as always, laughing lightly as he apologized for the wait and thanked each customer for their patience.

Kevin, Dwennon noticed, ordered a Trenta-sized Unicorn Frappuccino, slipping a few bills into the tip jar with a bashful smile. Apparently this was a common special order for the tall man, and the baristaur took it in stride. Indeed, it looked like Greg was eager to get started making the extra-large drink, but there were more orders to take first.

In line immediately behind Kevin was a grouchy-looking man in a rumpled business suit. Just as he was about to place his order, a trio came through the doors, bypassing the line and heading swiftly to the back: clearly the other employees of the morning shift had arrived. Dwennon could see Greg’s grateful look, as well as the subtle eye-and-head gesture that seemed to be saying: “Please take over the register so I can start making these drinks!” The grumpy businessman gave his name—Allan—then stomped off to wait for his order.

The first employee to pop out of the back room was a bubbly, mother-hen type. Greg swapped places with her (resulting in an awkward little dance as he tried to maneuver his taur body in the small space behind the counter), telling the next customer: “Dixie here will take your order, and thank you for your patience.” Then he sidled over and began making drinks.

The wizard watched with rapt attention as the baristaur’s dexterous hands made light work of the first few orders. Obviously he was balancing the recipes in his head, knowing what had to be done and when, and in what order, and how to shuffle all the drinks together so that each one was completed as efficiently as possible without neglecting the others. So smooth and fluid were the motions that Dwennon hardly noticed some odd goings on.

As each coworker had emerged from the back room, wearing their official green apron and customer service smile, Greg had reached back beneath himself to gather a bit of precum from his pink-and-blue mottled shaft. He then used the slickly-coated hand to pat them on the shoulder, or help “straighten” their apron strings, or give a quick high-five. All while juggling cups between the espresso maker, the brew station, and the Frappuccino blenders.

It was also easy to miss the fact that some of the ingredients Greg was now using weren’t exactly…standard. The whipped cream canisters, for example, were left on the counter, neglected; instead, each drink that needed a frothy sweet and milky topping would be held beneath the barrel of his equine torso for a moment. His upper torso bent, his face contorted, he’d snort through his horsey nostrils, then straighten back up, the drink now covered in what seemed to be a perfect swirl of pearlescent whipped cream.

At one point he leaned over to one of the other employees—Hamilton, according to his tag—and seemed to be asking for a favor. Hamilton nodded and smiled obligingly, but the effort was too much for his already-straining shirt: it burst just as Greg’s clothes had, revealing a pink body dusted with scruffy-looking bristles. His broad nose had begun to turn up, and Dwennon could see from across the room that the other barista had two lines of nipples running down his front. Greg leaned close, their bodies touching, and pulled the hog’s apron to one side, giving him more room to grip the topmost nipple and milk a jet into the upheld cup. Hamilton groaned, the pleasure causing his changes to finish more rapidly, a thick and stubby horn emerging from his forehead. Greg thanked the hognicorn with a quick peck on the cheek, and turned his attention back to the in-progress upside-down latte.

One of the blenders finished its job, and Greg danced his way over to it. With a deft twist of his wrist, he painted a zigzag of neon blue around the inside of a Trenta-sized cup, then dumped the blender’s pink contents inside. A quick reach under his hindquarters gave it more than the normal amount of whipped cream, but the crests and mounds of sweet frothy “milk” were still barren. After a moment’s thought, Greg leaned forward: running his fingers through his mane, a shower of pink and blue sparkles descended, most of them landing on the drink, and all of them fizzing with little jolts of leftover magic. “Kevin, got your very special order here,” he called with a loud and cheerful voice.

Dwennon watched as the large and handsome customer leapt up, leaving his magazine to hold his table, and crossing the store in a few strides. But when he reached the counter, both men seemed to stumble: as Greg handed over Kevin’s drink, their hands touched on the cup like the meet-cute from some 2000s romcom.

“So, how is it?” Greg asked, his lengthened torso giving his voice a deep sonorous quality that made the hair on Kevin’s arms stand up.

He took a long sip, his body visibly relaxing as the mix of sweet and sour flooded his tongue. He clearly didn’t want the flavor to stop, gulping the Frappuccino down by mouthfuls as he moaned a wordless reply. His face seemed to be stretching forward, the bearded chin and lips drawn out until they matched Greg’s in horsiness. Their eyes met; Kevin finally let the straw slip from his new muzzle. “Would you like to try a taste?” he asked in a husky voice, leaning forward.

Greg nodded and, though it must surely have been against company policy, bent across the counter until his lips met Kevin’s. Heads tilted, jaws parted, and in a moment the two were making out as only equine muzzles can. Long tongues dueled and caressed, and Greg got more than a taste of the drink; his shaft sprayed a puddle of foamy “whipped cream” all over the floor, painting the backs of his forelegs and the underside of his barrel with it as well.

Seeing the mess, Hamilton fairly dove to his knees, his broad snout snuffling as he lapped up the mountains of white froth. A shudder ran along Greg’s spine as he felt the hognicorn’s tongue and lips upon his legs, working their way back. Hamilton tilted his head to one side so his blunt horn wouldn’t get in the way as he engulfed the baristaur’s shaft, therefore preventing further messes and allowing his coworker to resume his kiss without worry.

Kevin had taken the opportunity to take another mouth-filling gulp from his drink, causing Greg to moan at the flavor’s renewed intensity as much as from the warm suppleness of Kevin’s lips and tongue. A hoggish snorting from somewhere beneath the counter indicated that Hamilton had already gotten his first mouthful of fresh unicorn cum.

As the kiss continued, Kevin leaned further forward, sticking out his rump. From his vantage point Dwennon could see a bulge in the denim—indeed, the pants as a whole seemed stressed at various points, pulled taut over bulging hips and legs—and watched as the belt and waistband split first, allowing a tail of bright blue feathers to burst free. As it flagged up and down, he could see that the feathers underneath were bold yellow, and all had a pearlescent sheen reminiscent of Greg’s coat.

The seat of the pants was next to go, and small wonder: Kevin’s butt had taken on truly equine proportions, muscular flanks that quivered and flexed, the grey glossy hide interspersed fading to blue and yellow feathers close by the tail’s base, and replaced by dark scales below the knee. The customer’s shoes had also exploded, unable to contain the thick claw-tipped feet that stretched their smooth soles across the tile.

A pair of oversized macaw wings spread from his shoulders, momentarily blocking the kissing men from Dwennon’s view before they folded and draped like an iridescent gold-and-lapis cape. A grey horn could now be seen poking up from the equine head, and a dark purple tongue stretched between their lips as he finally stepped back from the kiss. The newly-made gryphnicorn snorted, running a hand through the green of his hair and beard, his own equine cock pulsing and dripping as he took his drink.

From underneath the baristaur emerged Hamilton, his now massively-round belly making him look pregnant and forcing him to re-tie his apron nearly at the end of its strings. He licked the last droplets from his lips, then patted Greg’s rump as they both turned to address the backlog of empty cups.

“Allan,” came the next call, “I’ve got your…double mocha halfcaff no whip green tea latte.”

The grumpy customer from earlier stomped his way to the pickup counter, his suit even more rumpled than before, and his manner swiftly shifting to righteous anger. “It’s about time! If you spent as much attention on the rest of us as you did on that other customer, we might not be so…” He slipped, mid-tirade, in some of the cum the gryphnicorn had leaked across the floor, and slid with a bang into the counter. Gripping the edge, he pulled himself up to take his drink, obviously hoping that if he acted normal no one would notice his clumsiness; but when Greg handed over his drink, a stray feather floated down from where it had been hovering in the air and tickled at the baristaur’s nostril.

A mighty sneeze was aimed directly at Allan, covering him in what looked like glitter-glue, or something from one of the Guardians of the Galaxy movies. The shimmering translucent goo dripped from his head, carrying with it all of his hair, and revealing a distended face. As more of the magical snot was absorbed or fell away, Allan’s body began to swell, the slack flab beneath the cheap suit now inflating to almost cartoonish chub. His nearly-spherical belly burst the buttons of his shirt and coat, and his thickening arms rent the sleeves of both into ribbons.

With an open-mouthed laugh, the businessman tore off his shirt, leaving the sleeveless sport coat as a sort of vest over his bare and scale-colored belly. A thick tail (and thicker ass) made short work of his pants and underwear, and the squeaky leather shoes didn’t stand a chance against massive reptilian paws. A horn, sparkling like a sugared pear, emerged from his forehead. The new gatornicorn giggled and asked for whipped cream on his drink: “Thanks, guess I changed ma’ mind,” he drawled.

As he turned to go, he bumped into Kevin, who seemed to be waiting for someone to vacate a chair. Allan dropped his drink in the collision, but falling to all fours he caught the cup just before it hit the tiles. Both changed men breathed a sigh of relief—for the potential wasted drink as well as from the desire to not make a mess for the staff to have to clean. Staying in his low position, Allan gently set the cup down and looked up at Kevin. “Hey, I’m sorry I was rude earlier. Ya know how it is, before ya have your first cuppa joe. Mind if I make it up to ya?”

Kevin smiled obligingly, but before he could open his mouth the gatornicorn had opened his: the long jaw split, revealing blunt teeth and a broad tongue. Rocking back on his round belly, he was able to catch the flaring tip of the massive gryphnicorn’s purple shaft and slurp it up like a noodle. In his previous life, Allan probably wouldn’t have thought it possible to get so much pleasure from sucking another man’s dick, but now it was all he wanted.

Kevin’s hand caressed the gatornicorn’s long face, fingers curling around the stout green horn as if by long habit; soon every tongue-rolling slurp on his dick was rewarded by a stroke of the horn. A crackling of magical potential made his feathers fluff up, but the two continued their pumping until, almost without warning, Kevin came.

It may have been as big an orgasm as he’d have had before his change, but Kevin could tell this release was little more than an appetizer, a warm up for later. His shaft fired several jets of pearly cum straight down Allan’s throat, with only the last few dribbles reaching his tongue. The taste (not to mention concentrated magic) was enough to drive the gatornicorn to completion too: a single spurt splattered against the underside of Allan’s round belly, and his horn released a cloud of sparkles into the air, causing folks in the vicinity to relax a bit, just like he had.

After all, this Starbucks was known for its laid-back and fun-loving atmosphere.

Allan licked some of the slobber from Kevin’s dick and rocked back on his belly. Gratefully taking the gryphnicorn’s helping hand, he heaved himself to his scaled feet, picked up his drink, then waddled away—grinning and whistling under his breath, happy his apology had been accepted, and determined to never be such a grump again—to find a seat big enough for his enhanced rump. Kevin, seeing that his favorite chair had been freed up, turned to sit back in the corner of the shop and wait for Greg’s shift to be over.

“Hey Dix, we’re out of eggs,” brayed one of the other baristas, a burly but scruffy looking guy. “Some hee-haw at corporate decided to leave the egg pucks out of all the breakfast sandwiches…apart from the plant-based ones, but no one orders those.”

“Okay, Jack, hold your horses, I’ll figure something…out?” Dixie, as manager, had plenty of experience in dealing with the little issues that popped up; she thought for a moment, while sipping the Unicorn Frappuccino that Greg had made for each of his coworkers (each drink with a double shot of espresso added in, to help get their morning really started). And as she drank, her body seemed to bloat—especially around her hips. She picked idly at the unravelling fabric of her shirt, and unbuttoned her mom jeans to give her flanks more room to spread out.

Just as the straw was slurping at the bottom of her cup, she came up with the solution: Dixie—or, rather, Dixon—would lay his own eggs. There was an old hot plate on one of the back room shelves, and the newly-minted chickenicorn felt sure that he’d be up to popping out as many eggs as were needed by their customers. He stepped out of the puddled jeans, revealing long and shapely scaled legs, topped by tufts of fluffy white feathers. A golden horse cock swayed with each step, but soon he retied the green apron to keep it in place better. An iridescent rooster tail swayed over the golden hole from which the eggs themselves would emerge.

Jack had been drinking his own teal-and-pink beverage, and his long and floppy ears only accentuated his dopey bucktoothed grin as he stepped close to Dix, their big bellies pressed together. They kissed, chickenicorn and donkeycorn, just as one would expect two coworkers to, with hands caressing backs and hips, their horns glowing faintly. Momentary break over and eggy crisis averted, they returned to making drinks and breakfast sandwiches, using more of their own product than corporate might have approved.

Now that customers were getting their orders filled, there were more little vignettes of change for Dwennon to examine, such as the duel of cyclists. A bicycler in his spandexy togs bumped into a very familiar face—or pair of faces—and got drenched in both drinks.

There had been so many years since the wizard had last seen him…them…(and the personalities involved had so drastically mellowed) that the biker gang leader and his body-buddy had slipped into the shop unnoticed. But now, instead of getting mad and swinging punches, the monoceran centaur simply helped the cyclist blot at the mingled drinks staining his spandex.

“You better get out of those,” the centaur advised, holding out a hand to steady the other as he began peeling off the damp fabric.

“Thanks…”

“Oh, Clyde…well, Ironshod Clydeflap is what my herd calls me, but I’m Clyde,” he gestured to his head, “and he’s Mudflap,” he gestured at the short horsy muzzle with handlebar mustaches that protruded from the breast of the equine half, nestled between sturdy legs and a solidly-plump belly. “We’ve been together for so long, Flap and me, that we kinda think as one now, you know?”

The cyclist, now unconcernedly nude, nodded sagely and stuck out his hand: “Manuel. I should probably wash out my gear, I’ve got a long ride ahead of me and wouldn’t want to get all sticky.”

Clydeflap patted Manuel lightly on the rump. “Nothin’ worse than a sticky ride, though you better be careful not to let your tires streak the floor. They’re super nice to my herd here, and we make sure there aren’t any…troublemakers.” He stomped one of his motorcycle boot hooves meaningfully.

Manuel looked down and saw that he had indeed left a little line of dark grey rubber on the tiles. His cycling shoes with their special pedal-grabbing clips were gone, as were his feet. From the waist down the retired cyclist seemed to have grown an amalgam of struts and pipes and tanks for various fluids, as well as a seat and a pair of thick tires. He also had a long unicorn tail flagging out above his plump pink exhaust pipe. “Wouldja help me wheel out to the parking lot? I don’t wanna make it worse.”

As Clydeflap obliged and rolled him out the door, it could be seen that the puddle of spilled drinks had spread to the tire’s skid mark, merging with it until the whole mess simply sunk into the tiles, as though nothing had happened. The store’s flooring was now springier underhoof and decidedly more difficult to scratch, streak, or otherwise mar.

Through the plate glass windows, Dwennon could see that Manuel had lost his sedate demeanor: as flames grew and spread across the chassis of his vehicular half, the cycletaur made out with Clyde. As their equine tongues jousted, his hands strayed down the unicorntaur’s front to caress the smaller head of Mudflap, coaxing the pink and blue horsecock to emerge and receive its share of attention.

Dwennon had just spotted the shift in the older man’s hair—from greying temples to flames matching his paint job—when the cycletaur peeled out, doing donuts in the parking lot from the sheer exuberance of his new form and the high octane fuel flowing through him. Clydeflap shook his head, as though dismissing Manuel as a “silly youngster,” leaving him to do his tricks on the blacktop while he clopped back inside to get another drink.

A little unspoken drama in the table next to where Dwennon was sitting drew his attention: from the body language, the similarity of form and the difference in age, it was clear he was watching a father and son, each unable to say what was on his mind. It was a simple bit of magic to learn their names—Tim Butters and his father Harry—and the fact that Tim was trying to somehow reveal the fact that he preferred guys over gals when it came to romantic partners. The wizard was just about to lend a little magical assistance when once again the unicorn essence pervading the store reared its head and made its own changes.

The two men seemed to take up more space on the window bench they shared, packing on pounds as they sipped their drinks in awkward silence: Tim in muscle and Harry in fat. The father’s belly soon emerged from the taut hem of his shirt, dark skin hairy and sprouting multicolored stripes. The biceps that strained and then split the sleeves of Tim’s shirt were similarly striped, and his broad shoulders made short work of the rest of the garment, revealing a pair of growths on the muscular back..

Harry, too, had similar protrusions; as though in the middle of a nature program, Dwennon watched as the nubs unfurled, looking for a moment like wrinkled capes, then flexed and flapped and straightened out into broad butterfly wings. Matching the skin—itself now covered with darker fur—and mostly-orange iridescent stripes, the wings too were orange and black, spotted with white along the ends: the patterning of a monarch butterfly, albeit one from a Lisa Frank illustration. As the two men moved, even the slightest shift in position, the colors seemed to coruscate and change, just like the highlights on Greg’s pearly hide.

Harry and Tim now looked at one another, their faces pushing out into matching feline muzzles, the clearest differences being Tim’s longer beard and muttonchop-style tufts, and the streaks of grey fur giving Harry a distinguished air. An ear twitched, a rumbling growl emerged from the depths of one of their chests, and in a moment they were together, tongues rasping, breath huffing, eyes closed as their paws roamed their bodies, tearing off the last bits of clothes, exploring fatherly chub and filial muscle. Neither one noticed the black-andorange striped horns spiraling up from their foreheads, not even when they brushed against one another and sent out a burst of sparkles.

The low guttural growling that rumbled their throats seemed almost to contain words, as though each were professing his love for the other, but soon actions took precedence. Groping down along his father’s hairy round belly, Tim’s paw-like hands found their target: the striped equine dick that seemed to curl like a cat’s tail against his fingers. With gentle insistence, he gripped the head and pulled it towards his own crotch, holding it in position for his own cock to engulf, one snake swallowing another.

Despite watching a butterfly-tiger-corn father fucking his son’s dick in the middle of a Starbucks, the oddest thing to Dwennon was that both hybrids were purring, despite the fact that big cats shouldn’t be able to. Damn unicorn magic, always throwing a curveball, he thought as he watched Harry’s shaft withdraw, glistening and dripping, only to have Tim’s slide into it in turn. The younger buttigercorn gripped the table, claws digging into the wood, unable to resist the pleasure of getting sucked off by his lover’s cock.

Meanwhile, the couple sitting at the table next to the altered father and son had been having relationship troubles of their own. Dwennon hadn’t been paying attention (not surprising, given how pleasant a show the buttigercorns were putting on), but it seemed like the primary complaint was how each was always too busy for the other.

In the midst of “You always…” and “Well, you never…”, some of the iridescent black and orange sparkles ejected by the felines’ horns were caught by a gust of air conditioning and wafted down to land on the couple’s heads.

“Do you smell something, Zach?” Zoe asked, breaking in on her husband in mid-tirade.

“You know, you’re right, it smells…sweet?” Both of them snuffled at the air a bit, their noses darkening and dampening, especially as tongues flicked out to lick them. He placed a hand on her shoulder, as though by propping himself up he could drink in more of the delicious scent. She did the same. Neither noticed when their hands sunk through fabric and skin, their arms merging into a single column of flesh and bone… and one that was rapidly shortening.

As their own bodies dragged the couple closer together, they started panting, pulses racing into synch. “I don’t know what it is,” Zach said, “but it reminds me of our honeymooooon.”

Unfazed by her husband’s howl, Zoe continued sampling the air. “You’re right, nngh, it’s getting me all hoooooooorned-up.” An attempt at rubbing her foot against her husband’s shin resulted in their legs joining as well, hastening the merger. In moments where an arguing husband and wife had sat was now a two-headed canine, obviously male (it’s hard to deny a groin overburdened with twin sheaths and four balls), and still scenting the air. Then, moving as one, the foxlike muzzles parted in happy grins, the batlike ears focused on their target.

Zo and Zach stood, turning to the dick-fucking buttigerflies and introduced themselves. Given that they’d become corgicorns, it was unsurprising that the merged couple was short of limb, stockily-built, and with horns as blunt as their constantly-wagging nub tail. Dwennon watched as a deal was struck and Harry and Tim disengaged from one another, making use of the duo-cephalic dog—one head for each of their cocks—while they continued their makeout session.

Along the store’s side wall was a broad picture window, looking out onto the strip mall’s narrow band of landscaping and shaded by a few trees that had been planted next to the sidewalk. The length of the window was taken up by a broad slab of solid wood, a worktop with space for half a dozen or so customers who wanted to study or write instead of chat. This morning, there were only two occupants, clearly shown as students by the piles of textbooks and notes they’d already set up.

The one nearest Dwennon—whose name was Nate, judging by the big letters painted on the front of his binder—was obviously having difficulty focusing. He hadn’t once turned the page of the anatomy textbook he was ostensibly reading, and he kept picking up his phone to scroll through his social media feed. Ironic, Dwennon thought, that he’s trying to study male anatomy but keeps looking at pictures of naked women. A subtle little bit of magic and the hot chicks he was swiping through became increasingly hairy, chubby, and muscular, until at last he was looking at nothing but gay bear porn.

Sightly put off, though none the less aroused, Nate set down his phone and tried to turn his whole attention to the diagram on the page. “…bladder, urethra, colon,” he muttered, running a finger over the terms to cement them further in his mind. “Vas deferens, pubic symphsis, seminal vesicle, glans, corona, corpus cavernosum, corpus spongiosum, anus, Testes, PENIS!” his voice rose louder with each part, until he had stood up, shouting the last word over and over.

Nate clamped both hands over his mouth, but the sounds were only muffled. Another similarly-muffled sound came from the dramatic tent in the front of his pants: “Hey, would you keep it down up there? Some of us are trying to sleep. Oh well, I might as well take charge, since you’ve clearly only got one thing on your mind.” And as though suddenly his body were being remote controlled, Nate’s arms dropped and began unbuckling his belt. His jaw was shut tight but from the puffing of his cheeks he was still trying to say his new favorite word.

As the buckle and fly were undone, a purple thong was revealed, the front pulled tight around his not insubstantial erection and the tip dark with precum. The strap snapped and the shaft was freed, only it didn’t bounce and waggle like a normal erection. Instead, it curled back as though looking up at its owner. “Thanks, bub,” said the same voice as before, as the end flattened to take on a more equine shape. “Name’s Etan, and since you’ve got—”

Nate interrupted him with an uncontrollable burst of, “Penis, dick, cock, butt, penis!”

“As I was saying,” the dick named Etan continued with a slow shake of its glossy head, “since you’ve clearly got only one thing on your mind, it’s up to me to take charge. We’re thinking with the other head today.” And with remarkable deftness the shared body kicked off its shoes and used its lengthening toes to finish undoing the rest of his clothes.

Once naked, it was clear just how much the body was changing. The nipples, for one, had drawn closer to the centerline of the torso, and risen up until they were nearly at Nate’s clavicles, while a second pair had emerged on either side of the “freshman fifteen” belly. Using the chair for balance, Nate/Etan flipped over, until they were standing upside down.

Only it wasn’t upside down any more. The new pair of nipples now rested atop perfectly normal looking pecs, while the original two were now nestled mare-style in the crotch, right above a rather horsey-looking head, whose bristly mane ran along the underside between a nubby pair of ears. Up top, Etan’s head had also taken form, still very much a big horse dick, but now with eyes of its own. The skin was velvety grey with pink splotches, and there was a rolled ring of loose skin around the base of its neck that looked just like a sheath.

Sturdy hooves capped the former hands, and a long ropy tail swayed behind. The final change came after the Etan head bent to sip at Nate’s Frappuccino. With a shudder and a bit of shrinkage, he remarked: “Oof, too cold. Guess you’ll still be the one doing the eating, little guy.” He lowered the cup to crotch-height and let the upside-down horsehead angle itself to gulp from the straw. “That’s better,” Etan said, not noticing the phallic horn sprouting from his forehead as he reached down to caress Nate’s head, fondling the little ears the way one would with a dumb-but-cute pet.

The inverted student sat back down, holding the cup below the table as Etan resumed Nate’s studies. Occasionally the horsecock horn would spurt out a jet of pearly cum, which dribbled down Etan’s neck in an ersatz mane. One of the baristas walked by, splashing through the growing puddle as he tried to lug out the morning’s garbage.

Next to Etan, however, the other student—Quinn, Dwennon determined with his magic—had been ignoring the goings-on, so focused on her studies that she didn’t even react when a gobbet of cum was kicked up by the employee. It landed on her sweatshirt with its big smiling Draco U mascot, staining the material and soaking through. The wizard could have sworn he saw the logo wink at him, but he shook his head: that would have been silly.

He waited for a better look, just to be sure, but was thwarted when a line of spikes shot through the material, running from the back of the collar all the way down to the bottom, effectively cutting a dotted line. From the sound of tearing material, it was clear that the sweatpants hadn’t fared much better, but Quinn kept on studying, even as her face pushed forward and her neck swelled with scale-covered wrinkles. A line of shorter spikes—rather like a beard—ran down from the middle of her chin and vibrated as she rumbled to herself.

Obviously the paleontology she’d been studying had given her lewd thoughts, because a rhythmic thunking sound soon came from the underside of the long table. Dwennon watched, and saw the telltale grimace-grin, the subtle shifting of hips and torso as she-now-he tried to appease a growing arousal without touching it.

Quinn lost the battle as a long tail—striped with lighter and darker green scales—and a spike shaped horn grew in, completing his transformation into an iguanacorn. Closing his textbook with exasperation (after all, he now closely resembled the dinosaurs depicted on the pages within, and might know more about the topic than mere human authors), he stretched his broad and muscular shoulders, then turned to the student beside him and struck up a conversation. Judging by the thumping beneath the table and the increased flow from Etan’s horn-cock, book studies were about to be abandoned in favor of more hands-on research.

Just then, the barista had returned from taking out the trash. “What’s all that noise out there, Rex?” Greg asked over the as he handed over another pink-and-blue concoction to another soon-to-be-transformed customer.

Rex adjusted his apron on his otherwise nude torso; the puddle of upside-down-icorn cum he’d trudged through had obviously altered him. Like Quinn, his body was covered in scales and his face had pushed forward into a reptilian muzzle. Unlike Quinn, however, his scales were the exact same green as his apron—apart from the bright blue and neon pink striping that flickered down his spine like an LED display, and the spiral curl of his tail. He grinned broadly and pointed his eyes in opposite directions. “Some cycletaur is doing donuts in the parking lot. If I hadn’t been looking both ways I’d’ve been flattened, I might even have needed to take the day off!”

“I’m all for exuberance,” Greg replied, looking uncharacteristically serious, “but courtesy is important. I suppose I should call the cops, for the sake of safety; can’t let this sort of thing get out of hand.”

“Oh, no worries, boss, actually a cop was pulling up just as I was coming in,” Rex waggled an eye in the general direction of the parking lot. Sure enough, Dwennon could see the tableaux playing out through the coffee shop’s front window; he’d been watching the events inside with such rapt attention that he hadn’t even noticed what was going on outside.

Officer Wyatt (according to the gold badge on his uniform) was standing in front of the cyclist-turned-cycletaur, advising him on the standards of road safety. Judging by the body language, each was getting exasperated with the other: Manuel acting like the adventuresome youth he’d become, with high octane fuel running through his veins, and Wyatt trying to make his point to an unwilling audience.

Finally, with an obvious, “Here, let me show you” gesture, the officer straddled the cycletaur’s seat and put him through a few paces, motoring slowly and respectfully around the parking lot, turning the hip-mounted handles to make Manuel look both ways at each little intersection, and courteously pulling to one side to let more impatient traffic pass by. With each rumble of the cycletaurnicorn’s engine, Officer Wyatt became visibly more and more uncomfortable, as though his pants were a few sizes too small.

His uniform sleeves too seemed suddenly to have shrunk in the wash, gripping his bulky biceps the way they did. Dwennon tried to recall if the cop had been so buff before, but couldn’t picture anything but a chubby short man, the sort who grunted when exiting his patrol car’s well-worn driver’s seat. Now, instead, he was a beast of a man, thick and tall, with sleeves and pantlegs splitting around cannonballs of muscle. The skin, Dwennon noticed, was glossy, gleaming with sweat in the mild early-summer sun…it was also blue and becoming increasingly hairy.

Glancing back to where the cop had been giving his lecture only moments ago, the wizard could see a trail of pearly white that seemed to refuse to dry out: the cum Rex had tracked out of the store and through the parking lot as he did the trash run. That explains why he’s becoming—he glanced at officer’s blue cap, as well as the golden, banana-curled horn that emerged from its front—a gorillacorn.

While the cop and his new partner were promenading around the strip mall, one of the customers exiting had stumbled in the trail of seed and spilled his drink (along with a little seed of his own) on the battered old patrol car that sat forgotten by its driver, engine ticking as it cooled. Within moments, the vehicle had shrunk, taking on the form and physique one might expect of a World’s Strongest Man competitor, who also moonlighted as a bantam-weight sumo wrestler.

Glossy black and white skin stretched over bulbous muscles and round belly, and a whale fin tail (tipped with red lights) swayed behind him, just as the chrome exhaust pushed forward into a flexible and tapered cock. No longer needed by his former driver, the orcar strode off into city proper, chrome hood ornament horn glinting. Dwennon stared: I didn’t know it could do that…fucking unicorn magic, weirding things up like always, he thought with a grin and a boner. After all, the orcacar-unicorn hybrid would have been just his type.

He turned away from watching Wyatt stuffing his blue banana into Manuel’s pink and plump tailpipe when a gentle finger tapped his shoulder. Two hulking forms loomed over him, eclipsing the light from overhead and making the wizard blink. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was the baristaur Greg, his equine torso brushing against the feathered-and-furred hip of the nice customer he’d chatted with that morning, so long ago. “Are you here about that drink we were gonna get together?”

“Sort of. You see, we were talking, Greg and I,” Kevin said, his dick flexing and bobbing in his bashfulness, “and we thought, well—” the barista gave the tall gryphnicorn’s hand a squeeze for encouragement. “We were wondering if you’d like to join us.”

Talk about my type, Dwennon thought, pondering the advisability of getting involved with one of the creations of his magic (however far removed, distilled, or altered by the randomness of unicorns) for just a moment, before hopping to his feet. “I think I’d like that,” he said with a confidence he didn’t quite feel yet. “Join you…in what?” he asked as his rational mind took the wheel.

“This,” Greg said, leaning forward to press his lips against the wizard’s. An instant later, a second horsey muzzle joined in, threatening to knock the wand from its perch behind Dwennon’s ear; he didn’t care. The three-way kiss between him, Kevin, and Greg was just too pleasurable for any thought but more. His tongue danced between theirs, savoring the sweetness of leftover Frappuccino.

He didn’t notice his shoes growing tighter, nor the prong of his belt ripping through the holes one after the other. It wasn’t until he felt a heavy hand take his cock and press it up against another member that he opened his eyes and stared down at a coppery brown muzzle. The floor felt cool under his now-bare paws, big as clown shoes, and his cock was pink and nearly as big as Kevin’s. He panted, trying to catch his breath, while Greg chuckled and smooched the gryphnicorn. “That’s some tongue you’ve got there,” he said, prompting Kevin to stick it out…and out…and out, until it dangled nearly to his nipples, long and thick and purple, “didja steal it from a giraffe?”

“No, but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind sharing—would you?”

Disoriented by his change, and the mind-melting arousal of being kissed by two such manly beasts, and unsteady on his lapine feet, it was small wonder that Dwennon slipped in the puddle of pre that had been collecting beneath the three of them. He slid between the grey-scaled legs and ended up staring at the purple hole nestled beneath Kevin’s macaw tail. It looked like something between a glazed donut and a rubber innertube, and Dwennon wanted it.

Before the gryphnicorn could react, the newly-minted bunnywizard had gotten to his knees, pressing his muzzle against the warm and sweet-smelling orifice. Lips and tongue were brought into play, as were tender and soft-furred fingers. He clumsily slid forward, his snout now stuck in the middle of the purple donut, and sliding further. In a twinkling, he was slurped up entirely.

Kevin blushed as mildly as though he’d belched or bumped into someone. “Oh, excuse me,” he said, patting the squirming bulge that had expanded his already oversized belly.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Greg remarked, just as nonchalantly, his hand joining Kevin’s on the warm mound that was rapidly calming down.

Kevin merely laughed and remarked: “I’m full of surprises,” before pulling Greg into another kiss, their bellies pressed together, their cocks dripping freely on the tiles.

His break over, Greg returned to finish the rest of his shift, and Kevin sat back in the extra wide leather chair in the quietest corner of the shop. The hours passed quickly as he read his magazine and caressed his naked belly and enjoyed all the Unicorn Frappuccinos he could drink—any time one began to get low, Greg would dutifully bring over a fresh one, gulping down the old cup’s dregs as though it were a special treat for himself.

At one point, he looked down at the glossy pages with their articles about the latest games and photos of smiling gamers, and was prodded by an odd thought: Huh…were they always this sexy? After a moment’s thought, during which time the words and colors shifted around under his fingers, Kevin shook his head and laughed. Of course! After all, I’ve got six copies at home…I wonder if Greg and I will ever be able to get through one without it getting all sticky.

He turned his attention back to the articles, feeling his shaft pulsing at the mere thought of being curled up with his man, using that big horsy hind end as a pillow as they thumbed through issues of Gayme Informer. It was almost like a drinking game, seeing who could last the longest without spurting at articles like: “Bowser? More like WOWSER!—Single dad opens up about bringing two Italian brothers into his family, and his bed,” and “Goro’s Jobs…Hand Jobs!—The 4,000 year old half-dragon prince reveals the secrets he’s learned over the ages,” and “Dingodile: Hot & Wild!—This hefty hybrid dishes on his secret Outback sauce guaranteed to add inches to your waistline and spice up your sex life.”

Flipping through to find where he’d left off, he realized that a few pages had somehow been stuck together. Slipping a talon between them, he carefully pried apart the leaves, thankful that the sticky substance was still damp (and left his finger smelling deliciously fruity). A section he hadn’t noticed before was revealed: “Gaymers of the Month.”

The photos had obviously been sent in by readers, candid shots showing naked gamers so intent on playing that they didn’t notice their dripping erections, or more-artistically posed pictures of players tangled up in cables like playful puppies, or making out with their consoles and cartridges. Ha! I know how it feels to really love a game, but this is another level entirely. He didn’t notice how familiar some of the pictured players seemed to be: one who was a tan jackal-ish sort with glasses, a goatee, and a long tail that was currently looped around an N64 controller; and another whose hefty belly and mix of scales and fur made him look almost like Dingodile himself, though the broad green and yellow draconic wings certainly set him apart.

He was just about to look closer at the little bio blurb about the chubby drackal when two things happened: Greg clocked out and clip-clopped over to join his boyfriend, and Kevin felt an irresistible stirring in his nethers. He stood, acting on instinct, sturdy legs bent and tail lifted, and with a sound that was a cross between a parrot’s squawk and a horse’s neigh, he deposited a large egg squarely in the middle of the chair he’d just been occupying. Glittery goo that had lubricated its passage and now dribbled down Kevin’s thighs also puddled in the leather of the seat, giving the furniture an almost-alive quality as it soaked in, as though the chair were not made of wood and leather but muscle and fat.

The blue egg with its yellow speckles sat motionless. Kevin caught his breath and clung to Greg for support—he’d never before laid one so large, after all—while the centaur beamed with familial pride and hugged the gryphon closer. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” he whispered in a grey-furred ear. They watched together as cracks began to form and soon a familiar head emerged.

Dwennon could tell that something was different: he felt springier than he had in centuries, and his fur was no longer the same color as his hair when he’d been human. He lifted and examined each arm in turn, extracting his long bunny feet from the mess of broken shell and slippery goo, but couldn’t place what was different. After all, it makes sense that I’d be the same colors as Dad, he thought, comparing the blue and gold of his fur with the blue and gold of Kevin’s feathers.

A quick flash of worry ran through him, and he looked around frantically: where was his wand? Then he felt a gust of air conditioning brushing against his leaves, and calmed down. Of course, the “wand” was right where it should be: a twiglike growth, complete with a few vestigial leaves, sprouting from his forehead. A moment’s introspection also made him aware of the magic flowing like sap through his body, all he needed to do was point his cock at his target and think hard about the spell he wanted to enact. All was as it should be.

When Kevin lifted the newly-hatched 20-something bunnycorn from the remains of his egg and placed him gently on Greg’s sturdy back, it took an act of will for Dwennon to resist shouting “Giddy-up!” But the baristaur could feel the younger hybrid’s excitement (not to mention the heavy eggshaped balls resting on his spine).

“Let’s go home, Kevin,” he suggested. “I think we could all use some playtime.”

So the newly-minted family left the Starcocks, hooves and talons trailing through the sweet and sticky cum that now covered most of the floor (and many of the surfaces), spreading the joys of Unicorn Fappuccinos to the other shops in the strip mall. The wares of the hat boutique now all had horn-holes, and the shoes in the footwear emporium were of a more metallic variety. The little mom-and-pop (now dad-andpop) health food store had a worker out front showing off the effect of various male enhancement pills and offering free samples of InstaCum-XL to passersby.

Kevin and Greg paused in front of the gym that took up the far end of the little mall, watching guys flexing and pumping iron, lifting one another, as well as stretching and exercising their various holes. Kevin looked down at his own belly, still nearly spherical despite having no longer bearing Dwennon’s egg, and compared it with the guts on display; he was the biggest man-beast, to be sure, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t room for growth. “Maybe we should hit the gym tomorrow?”

Greg leaned over and kissed the gryphnicorn. “I think that’s a great idea sweetheart, for the whole family!”

Neither of them noticed Dwennon stroking his cock and firing off a few blasts of magic to “help” some of the exercisers with their workouts: an extra pair of arms here, a doubly-long tail there, a body seemingly made of rubber, and of course a water cooler filled with a neverending supply of fresh Unicorn Fappuccino, the pink and blue always swirling behind the clear plastic. It may not have been quite what the bunnycorn had had in mind, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of unicorn magic’s inherent randomness. After all, it’s the magic he’d always had, same as his dads.

Later that night, when Starcocks and the rest of the strip mall shops were closed, a rattling echoed from the cinderblock walls of one of the dumpster corrals, then the woos-thump of someone leaping from the trash bin to the ground.

“Man, nuthin. Why can’t they throw away good stuff?” muttered a voice. A scruffy, hipsterish type of guy shuffled to the next dumpster and leaned over, using the brightness of the summer evening to peer into the depths. Amid the white paper cups and split black trash bags, he saw a silvery glint. It wasn’t much, but it was sufficient impetus to hop in and see what he’d found.

It turned out to be nothing more than a Pop-Tart wrapper, flimsy silver cellophane that fluttered from his hand. To add insult to injury, his foot sank into the assorted garbage and squelched in something sticky and wet and still somehow cold. From the fruity sweet smell, he suspected it was leftover Frappuccino. “So gross,” he grumbled as it began to sink into his socks, his shoes already having dissolved away without him noticing.

As his toes flexed and spread in the goop, he realized just how…pleasant it felt. With a snort that fogged up his glasses, he stretched out his toes, relishing the cool slickness of the fluid collecting at the bottom of the dumpster.

An early evening sunbeam angled down into the far corner, highlighting a half-eaten croissant, perched daintily on a napkin, as though waiting for him. A little pearlescent drool still sparkled on the bitten-off part, as though some magical creature had been midway through their pastry when they were…distracted. Well, I’m certainly not gonna turn up my snout at a free meal! he thought, his belly swelling with the other tidbits he’d gleaned from various dumpsters that day.

As grey scales crept up his legs and fluffy feathers began to grow from his thighs and butt, he reached out with one horsehide-covered hand to pluck up the croissant, and with the other began to fondle his dick, running thick fingers over the tapering shape, half avian and half equine. The empty cups and used napkins made a comfy nest for the pigeonicorn to kick back into and really enjoy his snack. Some of the Frappuccino goo (or maybe it was the contents of the mop pail used by the baristas to curtail some of the unicorn cum that was always threatening to flood the floor by the end of a busy day) squelched up around him, soaking his feathery ass and making his leg scales gleam.

His horn—subtly iridescent with purple and green like a pigeon’s feathers—glowed, and the delicious trash rose a little higher around his chubby body, a suitable bed for a self-described trashy guy. With crumbs in his beard and a slightly fuller belly, he cooed too himself and added his cum to the fluid sloshing around him. He used a used cup to scoop up some of it and pour it into his muzzle, dribbling it down his face and chest as well, not realizing that his magic was purifying the sludge, making it perfectly safe for consumption…even if the flavors were a bit mixed up. But sweet and creamy was sweet and creamy, and he still had a belly to fill.

He fished his phone from the remnants of his pants before they finished fading away from around his tailfeathers, and sent a quick group text with sticky fingers, inviting his other dumpster-diver friends to join him for a little night party. After all, what pigeonicorn wouldn’t want to be surrounded with his sexy ratnicorn, unicat, raccoonicorn, and unicrownicorn buddies?

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