Walk to class

by iciss

 When you can grow guys as you pass until they can’t resist each other, it’s tough to hold back even if you’re running late.

Added: Mar 2009 3,194 words 22,452 views 4.6 stars (14 votes)


I was having increasing difficulty controlling the urge to use my abilities whenever and wherever I could. It all came to a head one day when I was walking to class, particularly horny for some reason and with nothing but cock and muscle on my mind. I had long since used the power on myself and on my boyfriend, so we were now a couple of muscled-up horndogs who didn’t mind if the other guy went looking for a little tail on his own.

And on this fine September day, with the temperature climbing to a beautiful 70, that’s exactly what I did. No sooner was I out the door and going down the stairs of my apartment building when I saw a guy coming up—typical Boston waif, not unattractive but with no masculinity about him, his designer jeans and indy t-shirt hanging off his lanky body. It hit him right as he looked up at me, his pretty green eyes passive, then widening in amazement at what was happening to him. I was two stairs away from him as his chest, arms, and shoulders exploded into the tee, ripping it instantly from his torso and leaving his now-gleaming, utterly ripped upper body bare. He moaned, his jeans tearing, as a ripe muscle ass grew out of nothing, and as I reached him, I groped his tight abs with one hand and expanding cock with the other, stroking the stiff lump under his jeans from 6 to 9, then 11 inches. I leaned in to kiss him, and when I pulled back, the man staring at me finally was a man, gorgeous as he stood there busted out of his hipster clothes.

But I had to move on, and besides, the guy’s dick was already firing its heavy load into his jeans anyway as he glanced down at himself and realized what he’d become. I was out the door, turning down the street headed for campus. A couple of skater kids, probably seniors at the local high school skipping class, sailed by on their skateboards, the loud rumbling on the asphalt giving everyone notice of their presence. I shot a glance in their direction right as they both disappeared behind a car. The rumbling stopped abruptly—I heard one of them pull up, the click of the board on the pavement telling me he’d gotten off, while the other continued a second longer before there was a loud thud against one of the cars parked on the street. I grinned and kept walking.

As I came to the gap between two cars, I glanced over and saw just a glimpse of the first guy, the one who’d managed to stop, bent over on his hands and knees, groaning softly. The cars were parked tightly, so I didn’t get a good look, but I got the gist—an arm with deep definition testing the seams of a black t-shirt, a massive thigh swollen to fill almost to bursting a previously baggy pair of jeans, a face that, as the kid raised his head to see where his friend was, showed pure masculine beauty.

And speaking of the other kid, the next car was the one he’d run into, and he was sprawled on the hood, his body enveloping itself with muscle as he writhed sensually on the metal. I didn’t slow down, but neither did he, and before I’d pulled even with the transforming skater dude, he was sitting up and staring at his bro. Swollen delts and traps had made short work of his grungy t-shirt at the top, and the new shelf of muscle that was his pecs was flexed hard as he tried to feel out his new body. The other kid came closer, putting his hand to his own crotch and stroking gently what I could tell was now a 9 or 10-inch beast of a dick, throbbing into his jeans. He pulled off his shirt, barely breaking eye contact with his buddy, the move so sensual I swore I was looking at a porn star.

“Fuck, man,” breathed the kid on the hood of the car, grabbing his own 10-inch pole under his jeans and groping it hard. “Want you bad, bro.” His eyes were glued to his friend’s knockout body, swollen pecs topped by juicy nipples, deeply carved abs that crunched along with the guy’s now-overgrown biceps and triceps as he ripped his friend’s shirt off the rest of the way, exposing the other guy’s equally muscled up physique.

The other kid looked up at his buddy. “Want you more, stud.” How anybody could look into that model-gorgeous face and hear that and not fucking cream his pants right then, I didn’t know.

A few seconds later the two skater dudes were kissing deeply, groping each other’s massive shoulders, shaggy heads, bubble butt asses under their tightly strained jeans. I was so turned on that when I turned away I accidentally shot a lustful look at a guy in a Red Sox hat walking down the street toward me—he instantly exploded with muscle, his previously loose green polo now hanging on by a couple threads to a torso that looked straight out of the NFL, and his now backward-turned Sox hat perched attractively above his handsome, well-defined face. He staggered as it hit him, his dick firing six or seven shots into his jeans, but quickly recovered and stood up straight long enough to look at me with his gorgeous blue eyes as I passed.

As I approached the light at the end of the street, I changed a couple guys sitting in a black SUV waiting for the green—one second they were sitting in their car, chatting about who knows what, girls, football, the driver’s arm hanging lazily out his window, the next I can’t even see the passenger guy, but I can sure as hell tell what he’s doing as the driver, whose arm out the window is now cabled with muscle and whose twice-as-big pecs are heaving, leans his head back against his seat, clenching his eyes and groaning, “Yeah, Brandon, bro, suck that fuckin’ cock, straight boy, aw shit—”

I crossed the street and passed the coffee shop in the next block. When I started by it, there was a group of four more typical effete Boston hipsters hanging outside, drinking coffee. By the time I’d passed it by, there was instead a group of four muscled-up kids of no more than 20, only two of them still wearing any semblance of a shirt, and those two rapidly relieving each other of the denim restraints on their aching cocks, the other two lustily feeling their new pecs, eight-packs, and arms as they made out hot and heavy.

The Mexican take-out place was in the next half-block, and I peered inside as I went by. There’d always been some cute Latino guys behind the counter there, and I saw a couple of them as I looked in. I thought hard, and within a couple seconds they had reacted, their pecs swelling into their aprons, their arms bulging with new definition in their bis and tris and delts, their faces taking on even sharper exotic beauty. I actually slowed for these guys, and was rewarded as one of them dropped the tongs he’d been turning the chicken on the grill with and grabbed his buddy’s shirt and apron, ripping both apart with one massive flex of his new arms and pecs and shoulders. The other guy looked down in amazement at the cords and bulges and ripples of flawless muscle he now had under his perfect cinnamon-brown skin (not to mention the raging hard nearly footlong prick he now had bulging into his pants), then glanced back up at his friend, still holding his destroyed shirt in his hands. The shirtless dude grabbed the other hot Mexican’s head and kissed him, hard, both boys’ newly powerful arms and hands ravaging the other’s body.

Fuck, I thought. I was about to fire a hot load of my own in my jeans right then, and I wasn’t even halfway to class.

That didn’t mean I let up at all. The next store down was a Chinese take-out place, and there were a couple guys loading trash in the alley as I walked by. A couple seconds later, the two Chinese men were bent over, swelling into their white t-shirts as their impressive traps pulled the straps of their aprons up and tightened them against their thickening pecs.

I watched them too long, though, because as I looked forward again I nearly ran into a couple Boston cops walking out of the restaurant with a couple bags of food. I was so surprised I just let a flood of power burst from me directly into the two slightly out of shape men in blue. They never had a chance. The one holding the food let it splatter on the ground as his body erupted with muscle. Buttons sprayed in every direction as his chest flared into the uniform shirt, seams ripped at the shoulder and neck, revealing muscular development at a level the officer had never dreamed of. The gorgeous peaks and valleys were held in by pale, freckled skin that revealed the cop’s Irish roots; when he finally looked up again, the sharply defined but angelic face made me lose my breath.

A moment after that, his partner grabbed him by his now-sculpted midsection and placed him hands out facing against their patrol car. I wondered how he had the strength to do that till I noticed that he too had grown massive biceps and pecs that had all but ripped his blue uniform shirt from his upper body. The second cop, whose ridiculous body also showcased his Irish heritage, now ground his 11-inch erection against his partner’s well-muscled butt, the fabric of both guys’ pants enhancing rather than dulling the pleasure. Their BPD-issue firearms thunked together in their holsters as the two guys rutted.

The second cop quickly ripped what was left of his partner’s shirt off, followed by his own. Two sets of firm but supple pecs, two shredded midsections, two pairs of power-swollen guns blossomed into view. The guy in back let his hands trail all over his buddy’s cut-up body, putting his years of experience at frisking dudes to good use. Then the second cop was reaching around to unbuckle his partner’s belt and shuck his pants, stroking the guy’s new 10-inch prick along the way. A second later his own pants came down and he was driving his dick into his partner’s virgin Boston PD ass.

“Yeah, gimme that cop dick, Bri,” grunted the muscled-up stud on bottom, the subtle Southie accent on the word “cop” reminding me that these guys had been the straightest of straight men a few seconds ago.

“You wanna fuck this tight ass?” said the other one, turning to look at me, his amazing glutes flexing hard as he fucked his partner.

“Fuck yeah,” I said, “but I gotta keep goin’. Sorry, Officer.”

“Your loss,” he said, his own accent driving more power into my now-aching boner.

Immediately in front of me as I kept walking were a pair of black teenagers leaning against the side of the restaurant. They stared in amazement at the scene just a few feet from them. “Hey, what’d you do to them cops?” one of them asked loudly.

“See for yourself,” I answered. Before the words had even left my mouth, the two kids were swelling with strength, their baggy tees and drooping jeans filling up with muscular bulk. One of them moaned as he ripped his shirt from his chest, and as he looked up I saw he now had a body like 50 Cent and a face like Taye Diggs. Both guys’ dicks throbbed with lust, now tenting their jeans with their more than footlong, ultra-thick cocksnakes. The guy who’d ripped his shirt off stared as his buddy pulled his shirt off too, revealing an equally fantastic body, double or triple the muscular development he’d had on him before.

“Damn, you fine, boy,” he said, looking up and down his friend’s body like he might have looked up and down a girl’s backside before.

“Huh. Like I’ma let you touch this body, Jermaine,” the other guy answered. He turned and walked over to where the cops were still roughly fucking, knelt down in front of the bottom hunk, and started sucking some fat muscle cop dick. Jermaine just watched for a second before he noticed that the officer on top, Brian, was looking over at him and then glancing down at his still flexing and unfilled muscle ass. It didn’t take long for him to get the hint, and he walked over, wrapping his thick arms with the new sick-ass definition around to clutch both the other cop’s shredded abs and his buddy’s bobbing head. His jeans came down a second later and his dick, probably near 13 inches, sprung out and slapped against one of Brian’s tight ass cheeks.

“Give it to me, kid,” said the cop huskily.

“Yeah, you want this thick-ass dick, don’t you, pig?” Jermaine whispered in his ear as he slid his rock-hard prick deep into the cop’s hungry, untouched hole, his own cut abs and pecs thrusting hard against the Irish stud’s beautifully tapering back.

Now I really had to move on, or I was gonna be late, cream my jeans, or both. Unfortunately, the next storefront was an upscale bar/café where a handsome waiter in a black button-down and black pants was serving lunch to a guy and what I assumed was his girlfriend from the fact that her hand was lying possessively over his on the table. At the same time, though, she was looking flirtatiously at the waiter. The boyfriend, good-looking, mid-20s, dressed in a white and blue check button-down, some nice jeans and a pair of brown sandals, capped by a backward-turned Sox hat, didn’t seem to notice that she was ogling the other guy. Chase two rabbits, you’ll lose em both, I thought.

Instantly the boyfriend looked up at the waiter, who, for his part, dropped the plates of food unceremoniously in front of the girl. She was about to protest when she looked up and saw what was happening to the waiter. He grunted in pain and deep pleasure as his pecs erupted into his black shirt, ripping the top couple buttons off, one of them shooting into the girl’s face. His shoulders broadened, straining the shirt even more as his grunts changed to moans. The guy’s hair grew out shaggier than before and he leaned his head back, his shirt ripping apart completely, tearing at the shoulders and splitting apart at his chest and stomach, revealing the handsomely defined pecs and abs clenched in the throes of his transformation. Quickly a massive tent formed in his pants that looked like it was pushing 10 inches.

“Dave!” I’d forgotten about the boyfriend, but his girlfriend’s shrill cry brought my attention back to him, and my eyes widened. He was now better than good-looking—utterly beautiful—and he’d actually shucked his jeans down to his thighs and fished his dick out of his boxers, stroking it as he stared at the waiter changing. It was clear as Dave’s hand moved furiously up and down his hard shaft that it was growing, too, its aching, leaking length straining higher and harder with each lustful pump.

And his prick wasn’t alone in swelling with strength. His whole body was throbbing with new muscle just like the waiter’s, and within seconds his button-down was ripping at the shoulders with his swelling delts, at the arms under the strain of his expanding biceps and triceps, and at his chest as his pecs became towering mountains of muscle. The waiter, whose growth had slowed as he pulled the remnants of his own shirt off his sleek, tanned torso, now looked down at the boyfriend and immediately dropped to his knees, pushing the guy’s hands away from his near-11-inch cock and swallowing it whole. Dave just moaned louder and ripped the rest of his shirt off, exposing his new fantastic body for the first time.

The girl had long since given up protesting and was now just watching in a mixture of shock and a little bit of lust. But the waiter’s buddies had come outside and stared in derisive amazement. “Holy fuck, man, Brad’s suckin’ cock!” said the blond one to his shaved-headed coworker. I shot him a glance as I walked on, and within a heartbeat he was suckin’ cock too, dropped down to give his buddy an unexpected blow job. The other guy grinned in pleasure, threading his fingers through his straight pal’s blond locks as his own body began to swell and harden, and he watched the boyfriend flood Brad’s throat with sperm while Brad creamed his own black pants.

A couple of typical Boston bikers—dressed head to toe in tight gear that made them look like they were about to compete in the Tour de France—rode by just then, and I grew them even as they kept riding. I saw their arms erupt into their jerseys and their shoulders widen. Their asses and thighs, pumping the pedals, swelled with muscle in ways even 50 miles a day couldn’t do for them. But the biggest changes were above the belt, as the 30 or 40 pounds of sudden bulk on their pecs, arms, and midsections threw off their balance and they finally wobbled to a stop. I caught up with them right as they pulled off their helmets, noticed each other and realized why their dicks were ramrod-hard, each beautiful muscle biker cock making an obscene outline 10 or 11 inches across their hips. Both of them were now nearly busted out of their tight spandex jerseys, the zippers having been forced down by their muscled-up chests. They approached each other.

“Damn, you got fuckin’ big, man—”

“Look who’s talkin’, dude. You look like a fuckin’ linebacker in racing gear.”

“God, you’re hot, bro.” He wrapped one hand around his friend’s tight muscle butt, now a thick shelf of muscle straining his tight cycling shorts, and the other up to softly stroke his jaw and cheek. Their dicks throbbed painfully against one another through the fabric of their shorts, and the contact seemed to set them off, kissing deeply and grinding their erections hard against each other.

I looked up. I was almost to campus. Good thing. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take before I’d join in one of these couples I’d created and just forget about class completely…

Flashback posts:
Saturday Flashback: Autumn Breeze

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