Untitled

Local celebrity doesn’t begin to cover what the titan of industry has become, but it’s certainly where he started. Morris remembers him being the talk of their provincial Texan hometown, nothing exciting ever happened around here so why not discuss the now-billionaire who escaped.

No one ever expected for him to return to their suburban ghost town to set up shop. Apparently disaffected with the West Coast preoccupation with burning money in pursuit of LLM’s and other digital faux progress, he felt a dire need to take his money elsewhere. For he is concerned with the world material.

Staring up at a painting of the great man adorning the wall above an elegant single-cup coffee machine, Morris can hardly believe they’re from the same ZIP code. That they walked the same high school corridors. Thick silver-speckled beard hiding a jawline everyone knows is as sharp as his mind, Byron seems like a man from a different age. One to be found amongst the pages of Morris’ classic literature more so than as the chief executive of an R&D company HQ’d in bumfuck nowhere.

And to think, Morris is here to work under him. Far, far, far under him presumably. The email didn’t say who he was meeting with, or really what he was interviewing for, but it must be for a low level clerk position. At least he told himself this as he signed an ‘interview contract’ that he had barely read. 

Obviously said document could have held these answers and more but Morris was too excited at the opportunity to work for Byron Roman to even glance at the thing before signing. And now it’s almost as if it’s been washed from his mind. Perhaps that would be concerning if he were able to really recall it at all. But right now Morris has bigger fish to fry, sure of his intelligence at least, there is little else about himself he is confident about.

Too gaunt to be considered pudgy, too average to be dubbed attractive. Morris, like the CEO, seems to be pulled from the world of fiction, though one rather distinct from the epic Sir Byron Roman is cut from. No, Morris is more akin to a street urchin busking to sell matchsticks. Some Dickensian side-character that would be left on the chopping room floor.

Stealing another glance at the portrait wondering if he should hazard another cup of coffee, Morris can’t believe the sense of gravity he gets from the painting. It’s as if the man were standing her before him, asserting his masculinity through brushstrokes and painted posture alone. 

Coming to this exact realization as he awkwardly averts his eyes and starts brewing a cup, Morris jokes to himself, “Can oi interest you in a pape milord…”

Unbeknownst to the off-duty barista, the receptionist has yet to take his eyes off him. Watching as Morris taps away at a coffee machine that inexplicably has a screen, he scans with concentration more like a machine than a man.

Only when the nervous interviewee sheepishly looks over his shoulder at the otherwise empty room does the receptionist at last avert his eyes. Having apparently gathered everything he needs, when Morris sits down with his steaming to-go cup, the receptionist speaks up.

“Sir Byron will see you now. Please proceed through the door on my left before entering the third room on the right.”

Letting the man’s words hang in the air for a moment, Morris puffs his cheeks and squints as he realizes this is the second time the secretary has outright stated he’s going to be meeting with the CEO. 

The first time he had assumed it was a simple mistake, just a slip of the doorman’s hidden tongue. Having spent even a second longer with the mechanical man, Morris feels confident that he is not the type to speak in err. Nevertheless he opts to clarify.

“Hey! Hi there~ I don’t believe I got your name earlier, Mr..?” His question hangs in the air long enough that he gives up and continues. “Right. Well, I do believe there has been some sort of a misunderstanding? I-I’m here for a simply preliminary interview, surely Mr. Roman had better things to do than-“

“This organization is Byron Roman. If he allows some plain well-read fop to represent him in any regard, and that ungainly grunt makes an embarrassment of his name. Well.”

It’s the most animated Morris has seen the man since he walked in. Despite the cool collected tone he’d swear he saw the man’s eye twitch at the very idea of someone embarrassing the brand. Breezing past being called a grunt and clinging to being called well-read Morris tries to salvage the situation. Sure that if everything goes well that he’ll be working to some degree with the severe man before him, he beats down his nerves to perform.

“Of course! Of course~ I completely understand, sir. The squeaky wheel- err? Rather, a man is always judged by the company he keeps! I am simply surprised that a man as great as Byron Roman would make time in his busy day for an aspirant such as myself.” 

Unlike the previous hidden grin, at this the secretary’s eyes light up with a smile. Like a faithful hearing true testimony of their lord. 

“Well spoken Mr. Baker. Perhaps we’ll have a fruitful working relationship after all. Hold fast to that fervor. Now, if you don’t mind, please away to the next suite. Sir Byron will arrive to join when he is finished with his current business.” Once more gesturing to the door to his left, the secretary’s face resets to its emotionless steel as he awaits for Morris to obey. Coffee cup in his hands he is torn whether to leave it or bring it to the second location. The simple decision almost freezes him in place. 

He can’t help but overthink every single choice before him. Scoffing at himself as he clenches his jaw, in lieu of a decision he follows the path of least resistance and keeps the cup in hands. Still chiding himself for his perpetual lack of volition and his obsession with minutiae, he attempts to beat stoic surety into himself in preparation of meeting a CEO.

The process is interrupted as he crosses the threshold out of the lobby only to find an unremarkable hallway. Warm wooden flooring and vintage wallpaper give the place a homey vibe far more similar to a small-town doctor’s office than the working HQ of a tech company. Even seeing the large elevators at the end of the hallway in a building Morris knows is only the one story tall, he can’t help but be lulled by the place’s provincial decor. 

“It’s like my mom decorated this place…” 

Snooping just enough to check out the other few doors on the way to the promised third on the right, Morris finds only more beige doors. Their handles are covered with a thin layer of dust that his attention just glides past, much like it does regarding the gleaming elevator down the way.

Far less overactive minds would begin telling themselves horror stories and worst-case scenarios about wandering into the back office of a billionaire’s clearly shady studio. Taking a sip of his coffee and stealing one last glimpse of the empty hallway, Morris refuses to give way to anxiety. The rich light roast on his tongue grounds him, it perfectly reminds him why he’s come here today. 

He is not going to be a barista anymore. The lobby’s attendant flickers in his mind as he swallows. A job just like that, maybe one where he doesn’t need to be quite so dogmatic, is that too much to ask? 

Lost in thought as he enters the room. From the side of his eye Morris catches movement and spits up coffee as he flinches into the door in surprise. Instantly worried that Byron has been waiting on him and caught this jittery display, he tightens his posture and forces an awkward smile on his face to feign confidence.

His harried resolve immediately drops when he turns completely only to find a full-length mirror leaned against the wall. Sighing in relief Morris decides to use the opportunity to freshen up. Setting down his coffee he wanders closer to inspect his reflection. 

Hair as unfrizzled as he’s able to get it, there are more than a few curly fly-aways sticking out of his tight dirty-blonde bun. Looking down his baggy button-up there are thankfully no coffee stains on its placket. 

At least everywhere visible is stainfree if nothing else. The same can surely not be said regarding the sweat under his arms, but this is thankfully hidden by a neat cardigan and nigh-medical grade deodorant.

‘I’ll be fine’ He tells himself on loop, tugging his cardigan down to cover a wrinkle. Looking downwards his pants are simply too long and bag atop dress shoes he only pulls out for very special occasions. His belt still slightly limp even on its most extreme loop, Morris feels nerves prickle on the back of his neck. He absolutely won’t be fine, he looks like a fucking mess!

The barely positive mantra he’s been clinging to is succinctly batted away as the reality of the situation pelts away the hope he’d been foolish enough to trust. He hadn’t even applied for any position in particular, simply thrown his resume at the company’s inbox alongside a pathetic cover letter asking to be used however they see fit. 

As if their CEO would waste a second of his day besides to come down here and chastise him for wasting his important company’s time. The receptionist held more worth in a finger than could  be found in all of Morris put together, and he thought he’d be able to work a job like that!? He’d crumble under the slightest obstacle, some rich investor chews him out and he’d dissolve. Morris feels himself tearing up at the very idea.

Or perhaps he’s simply halfway to weeping for being a dumbass who thought things could be better. Always thinking. Too much thinking. He feels his fingers clench into his forehead before he even realizes he’s put his face in his hands. The pain of his fingernails scratching brings him back to his senses and after making sure he didn’t leave splotchy red marks on his hairline he takes a deep breath and turns away from his watery-eyed reflection.

Now’s not the time.

If this is real, and it must be. Then this is a massive opportunity he simply can’t waste because he got in his own head. He’s too smart for that. He’s smart, and Byron Roman himself has a position in mind for him. This is-

BING BONG DING DONG- DONG DING BONG BING

“Jesus christ…”

Nearly jumping out of his skin, it’s clear that despite telling himself to calm down he has remained well on edge. Looking up to find the villainous implement that startled him, Morris is shocked he didn’t notice the clock before now. Still recovering from the jumpscare he can hear a subtle tick-tock, grounding him in reality as he attempts to find calm.

Centering himself on the consistent clicking of gears nearby, Morris sits in a small chair and sets his bag down beside him. Time to lock in. Reaching down to paw through the couple of belongings he saw as necessary, Morris debates whether it’s best to read through his printed resume or to focus wholly on setting his mind at ease.

Obviously he’s not going to just scroll on his phone. At worst he’ll stumble across something that’ll stress him out more. At best he’ll look like some screen-addicted zoomer right when Mr. Roman walks in.

Fingers glaze the worn cover of his trusty bible. Melville’s masterpiece. Moby Dick. Thinking of the tome and the vastness of the sea within, the classicist feels the constriction in his chest just melt away. Focused on the sound of North Atlantic gulls in his mind, buoyed by the persistent ticking of the newfound clock, how could Morris ever  notice the slightest hissing now emanating from the nearby overhead vent. 

Book in hands, he turns it over a few times before opening it to some choice section on whales and their constituent parts. Morris at last relaxes back into his chair. Despite doing everything right, as  he reads his pulse continues to rise. First putting his hand on his chest to feel its racing beat, Morris shakes his head and pointedly ignores how it suddenly feels warmer in the room to read the passage before him.

Fanning out his button-up he frowns and tells himself the discomfort is all in his head. Shifting in his seat he feels the pooling sweat in pits and resolves to ignore it. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he squints at the text and begins to whisper it aloud to himself.

‘Gnawed within and scorched without, with the infixed unrelenting.. Uh?’ Hearing something bump in the hallway he turns to hopefully see his interviewer interrupting him only to find it’s presumably in his head. Scratching at the side of his chest, carefully not shoving his hand deep in his pits, Morris purses his lips and looks back to the book, unknowingly skipping a few lines.

‘Or, if for any reason thought to be corpo- uhhh? Corporately, no. Corpor-really? Corporeally? Jeeez, god… I must be more stressed than I even thought.” And he certainly thought he was plenty stressed. 

Leaning back against his chair, Morris closes his eyes and simply tries to find peace in the darkness. His foot anxiously taps on the floor, at first matching the ticking before rapidly outpacing it. And then it falls heavier. His shoes were tight from the get-go having rarely been worn, but suddenly it’s almost like they’ve gotten tighter in the last few minutes. 

Every muscle in his body tensed, he uses his anxious tension to jump up with a start and pace the otherwise empty office. This does nothing to abate the discomfort in his shoes, but as he does so he begins to find that it is not only his feet that are suddenly acting up. Crossing his arms tightly as he patrols the small suite, his cardigan tugs against his shoulders like it never has before.

With a scowl he looks down at his wrists exposed from both his sweater and shirt. Imagining the surely pristine suit his town’s idol is sure to arrive in he easily works himself up anew about his foolish daydreams. Even worse than before, as if every already extreme emotion had heightened. As if they were still heightening. 

Throwing his arms down and swinging them to simply remove them from his sight, he refuses to acknowledge how the twigs twitch with every sway. Muscle fibers that have been inactive save to froth milk and open novels suddenly twinge and burn with a need Morris doesn’t understand. 

Struggling to make sense of the strange sensation, with pursed lips his fists cramp and at last it becomes perfectly clear. Aggression. Morris is filled with the all-too unfamiliar need to punch something. His consistent pacing back and forth immediately stops as the urge takes pride of place in his mind. Staring as his dainty hands curling into fists, Morris watches mouth agog as the veins on their backs throb. 

The sound of his knuckles cracking larger with the force of his clenching is absolutely clear. Wispy blond strands that have long decorated his wrists seem suddenly darker in this office light, to say nothing of the fact that it seems like there are altogether more of them.

Hidden by his cardigan sleeves, Morris suddenly feels his forearms filled with force. Not knowing what a flexor or extensor even is, Morris is dumbstruck as he feels muscles reflexively constrict. Higher up his arm, and far more eye-catching, he is stunned as he sees his sweater catch on biceps like he’s never seen. Muscle like he’d never even been able to imagine on his unimpressive form.

Everything else is washed from his mind as he sees his arms continue to bloat. The shock from his sudden violent streak and even the slight pain still pinging from his shoes pinching more and more, everything fades away as a grin overtakes his shaky face. Panting almost as he lowers and raises an invisible dumbbell, Morris watches as with every lift his sleeves are strained further. And his arms continue to grow. 

Hands stretch further from the end of his sleeves as the scratchy, darker curls spreading up his forearm continue to thicken. Doing everything short of drooling at his biceps bulging thicker, when it starts to strain against the dress shirt beneath, his vacant expression twitches into one of frustration. 

Nose flaring in irritation, he unintentionally takes a deeper breath and gasps as he suddenly notices a pervasive stink has begun to fill the room. Sure that it simply can’t be coming from himself he raises his heavy right arm to look underneath and can hardly believe the sight. Sweating through both the dress shirt and the thick, once baggy cardigan, Morris can’t take his eyes off the dark, spreading stain in his armpits.

Stunned, his face burns bright red and then feels starkly itchy itself. The urge to scratch is waylaid by the far more powerful need to shove his head into his pit and inhale deeply. Get some of that sweat on his face… Maybe it’d stay there, stick on his upper lip and he’d get a deep whiff of his musky male odor with every single breath.

“Nnno… That- I cann’tuhh…” Words dissolve from his mouth and mind as his lips simply fall open.

Tongue almost lolling, his neck that had been surreptitiously thickening itself begins to lean towards his waiting pit. Converted to the cause, his barely cognizant rational self, tries to make sense of his need. How is he to fix the issue without truly understanding it. He has half a mind to unbutton his shirt and let his pits breath to the open air.

Mind wont to picture the bushy tangle of pit hair that must be hidden beneath these restrictive layers, he does just that. Thicker than his pubes and almost as scratchy, he imagines the chalky deodorant he threw on this morning simply melting away. Absolutely overwhelmed by the prodigious musk his pits produce, proof of his own prodigious manhood.

Lost in a daydream, one hand slowly reaches over to scratch the armpit he imagines and finds it just as hairy as he imagines. Stomach quivering as higher thought continues to vacate. Buried beneath two tops, even still his fingertips can still feel the deep scratchy strands that have begun to stretch well beyond their underarm stomping ground.

Lips twitching into a grin, Morris moans quietly to himself as blush returns to his pale cheeks as its skin tightens and grows rougher. Standing limply in the center of the room as he continues to fill out his clothes, there are a couple inches of straining dress socks showing from the pants that were ever too long. 

On the opposite end of the garment, his growth is far more drastic. Never much of a shower or a grower, Morris’ petit package has more than filled his lucky pair of briefs. While one hand remains preoccupied with his pits, the other enthusiastically goes to cup a cock slowly twitching larger.

Quickly struggling to remove a belt now constricting his widening waist before it snaps, at the very same moment it clinks against the floor he hears his swelling cock strain his briefs. When it at last breaks free from his underwear and begins throbbing down the side of his pant leg, obviously visible, Morris’ hips twitch forward and he is brought back to the unmistakable reality of his situation.

“OHHHhhh GOddd~” Panting as he tries to make sense of this must-be nightmare, Morris stumbles over to the mirror to try and free himself from this manic hellscape. Thicker lips drooping open surrounded by stubble darkening from its blonde peachfuzz into a real man’s beard, he forces his face into his hands and tries to convince himself that these changes aren’t good. Cock throbbing in response it’s not looking good. 

Thick breath mists the mirror, hiding the vacant look in his eyes as they trail up and down the reflection of his body’s new almost pornographic proportions. So focussed on the meaty arms hanging at his side, he had yet to notice how a forming chest suddenly strains the buttons on his shirt. Nipples encircled by lancing curls are absolutely visible through the sweat-stained top. 

Hunger and need fill the spot left by intelligence in his eyes, he forces a hand to his mouth to stop a loud moan as his chest cracks wider, at last tearing the pitiful dress shirt. Strange new strength filling him more with every moment, he is again felt with the impatient urge to make use of it. To fight, to ff- fuck. Forcing his fist into his mouth he bites down to feel anything but the oppressive sensation pulsing from his cock at the idea.

Desperately willing himself to settle down and figure out how to wake up from this hallucination, Morris slams the fist not cupping his cock into the wall as he bites down hard on his lip to try and force himself back to his senses. “FUCK!” 

Clutching his injured mouth he stomps a foot in pain as the taste of iron fills his mouth. This marks the end of his dress shoes as the seams on its front burst open to reveal long toes almost completely visible beneath the sparse threads of a sock barely hanging in there. The sound of leather tearing continues as his freed foot continues expanding and tears the tattered shoe in two. 

Apathetic to the small trail of red dripping into the thickening stubble on his chin, he looks down at his mismatched feet. One with a shoe hanging on its ankle, still widening beyond the pale. The other barely hangs in there, shining leather filled to the brim with the mass of a foot simply far too large.

Gasping in pain at the feeling of his left foot trying desperately to match its pair’s growth while still confined, there’s an ice cold pit in his stomach as he at last realizes he can’t be dreaming. It just feels too much, too good. And then the other shoe bursts open, sending fabric and laces flying, the slightly humid air of the office a balm to the sole. 

Somewhere increasingly buried in his mind, he struggles to understand. If he’s not dreaming, then this is real. His back cracks as he adjusts to stand slightly taller. This is impossible. 

Staring at the remains of the most expensive piece of his outfit now hanging from both ankles, Morris tries to understand. It’s what he’s best at, making sense of something. Thinking. He has a degree. He was in debate and wrote for his university’s paper. At least he’s pretty sure he did? 

Furrowing his brows as they begin to thicken from their patchy blonde, Morris finds it suddenly difficult to recall. Concern at his situation rapidly gives way to frustration which gives way to apathy. He’ll just wait for Byron to come in and explain everything. Surely he’ll know what’s going on.

As it begins to become more and more difficult to recall his higher education, his thoughts begin to drift increasingly to Byron. Picturing the great man does no favors to his libido, his trigger happy crotch is eager to twitch with fervor as Morris struggles to control himself. 

No matter what he’s not going to be caught masturbating when the mysterious executive walks in. Despite wanting nothing more in the world to do so, he moves to sit down and struggles to tuck the massive cock in between his thighs before doing his best to cross the thick trunks. 

Vaguely recalling he brought some book with him, Morris looks at the novel tossed aside and picks it up. There’s a flicker of recognition as he knows it’s a book he really likes. But as he reads the title he has to stifle a laugh as in lieu of that ingrained peace, he simply reads the words ‘Moby Dick’ “Pffff WAH HAh ah- Hrm.” Clearing his throat as his voice cracks lower, shifting to one which yearns to guffaw rather than giggle.

Steeling himself, as much as he’s able. Morris recovers slightly and sternly tells himself he likes this book. That he’s a big reader, he’s got a degree in books. This is his favorite book. But even as he flails to remember what exactly a B.A. stands for, the memories of going to university feel less true. 

Surely he’d be smarter then…

When that thought flits to his mind the pride he holds in his intelligence returns. Determined to prove it by reading a book thicker than he can clearly remember reading, he opens it to a random page once more: Chapter 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.

Eyes glazed over, the language is far too advanced for his simplifying mind to even begin to comprehend. Still, they drift over the lines enough for him to pretend he’s grasping anything before at last they catch on something: ‘Squeeze! squeeze! Squeeze!’ Exclamation points calling to him, Morris continues to read Ishmael’s account of processing spermaceti. And unsurprisingly, he begins to laugh.

While earlier he was reading to focus on the text, now he almost needs to sound out the words for them to sink in. Following the lines with his fatter finger “All the morn-ing long; I squeezed that- hehheh, Sperm till I myself almost melted into it HAH HAhah- Huh… Sperm… Squeeze…”

Biting the lip that has miraculously healed already, if only he could recall the injury, Morris’ now sperm focussed and squeeze happy mind can only do what the written page suggests. Dropping the tome as he manspreads in an office chair that now creaks beneath his heavier load, he swallows the drool pooling in his mouth. Looking to pants now decorated with small tears, the once-academic stares at the too squeezable cock stretching halfway down his meaty thigh.

Pants so tight he can see the thick veins through the tearing fabric, Morris’ mouth falls open as he drools outright, beginning to rub his own whale through pants seconds away from tearing apart altogether. Feeling it scratch against his curl covered thighs and the cheap satin of his dress pants, he can scarcely recall that he’s in this room let alone the reason why. 

Pool of pre rapidly pulsing through the vicelike pants, Morris’ moans echo as he can recall no reason at all to quiet himself. As he can recall nothing but the pleasure emanating from his wanting cock. Louder than the clock, completely covering the ever-present hiss of the vent that has been steadily increasing; not that Morris ever stood a chance at noticing. His twitchy hips rut as he spits up over himself from excitement at release that is soon to come. 

Every aspect of self and every stray neuron firing is focused on the rising pressure in his crotch. Morris can feel his balls pull up as his free hand clenches the chair about to break underneath his weight. Legs extend as every muscle flexes, and just as that sweet release is on the precipice of freeing him from the grand weight of his worries- the door knob turns. 

Clad in a tailored three-piece suit more expensive than Morris’ apartment enters the prodigal chief himself, Byron Roman. Morris veins run cold at being seen in such a compromised position by that most influential man that has ever stepped foot in their podunk shared home town. Bolting up like a bullet, the horny man’s spine is straight as a ramrod.

So too is his cock as it finally wins the war against his cheap dress pants. Sending a small stream of pre flying as it bursts free from confinement, Morris can’t help but cross his eyes as it bounces in the air. Hazarding a glimpse, he can hardly believe just how impressive his dick is. Almost twice its previous size and veinier than his arms after the best pump he’s ever had, Morris would have cum at the very sight were he not wholly stunned from being in the presence of Byron.

Closing the door behind him as he enters outright, there is no surprise on the executives face as he inspects the goods. Striding to meet the man, he holds his hands behind his back as he inspects every inch of the man standing firmly at attention. Expressionless as he takes in every detail of Morris.

Zeroing in on whatever bodypart of Morris’ strikes his fancy, as he stares Morris continues to grow. Accelerating from the attention of the great man before him, as if every muscle and mindless body part were trying to make him proud.

Starting from behind, Byron takes an interest in the man’s ass. Morris twitches as his glutes expand, what remains of his briefs fall irrevocably into their crack as his hairy cheeks hang larger in the open air, stretchmarks painted across their prodigious mass like the work of art it is. 

Eyes trailing upward, Morris' waist fills out to give his silhouette the most powerful shape one can imagine. Connecting his heavy chest with wide hips and heavy thighs, there is no way someone could look at the drooling man and imagine anything but strength lying within him.

Finishing a slow lap around his aspirant, Byron stands in front of Morris and does one last look down and up. Landing on his face, Morris feels his jaw sharpen underneath the perpetual stubble that coats it. His chin juts out like a superhero’s while his cheekbones and brow ridge grow just as prominent. There’s a small crack in the air as Morris feels his nose reshape into something either aquiline or one that has simply broken and rehealed.

Still frozen in place, Morris’ stunted mind only just realizes that he’s at eye-level with Byron Morris. It’s so unbelievable that it almost breaks him free from whatever trance he’s in. Feeling the sweat drip down his exposed midriff as a breeze in the room sails through the treasure trail etching itself up his puffy abs mostly hidden by his strong gut, a needy grunt ekes out of his throat.

Finally, Byron gives any real indication that he’s anything more than a passive observer. Waiting for his guest’s glazed eyes to look back at him, the CEO smiles. “So. What is it that brings you in today?” His voice is like an upright bass alone in an orchestra hall, tightly controlled, smooth, and completely attention grabbing.

Unable to string two thoughts together he grunts and tries to explain himself, “I- I, uhh… J- Job- s ssir…” Struggling to swallow drool still spilling from his overactive glands, he tries to stand even straighter to hide the obvious mess he’s in. Taking a deep breath to recover from the strain of speaking, he inhales a hearty dose of his musk and struggles against the handful of twitches his body enacts in response. 

“I hope you don’t mind the subterfuge, from your letter I did gather you were quite desperate. So much so you were quite lax reading the fine print of- Well, I imagine you can’t recall anyway so what is the point, right old- Er? What was your name again?” For the first time Byron reaches out to touch Morris, brushing some shred of torn cardigan stuck to his sweaty skin as he asks the question

“I’m Mo- Mo…” Finally thickening enough to be the caterpillar-like brows he’s always admired on other men as his brow ridge bulges lower, his eyebrows furrow as he tries to recall the simplest of answers. Waiting patiently, Byron starts to massage his bicep, distracting him all the more. It’s his name. It should be engrained within his mind, within his self more than anything else. 

Byron’s hand travels up his shoulder before shifting over to cup his heavy pecs, prodding them as if he’s inspecting livestock with a grin. “Come now boy, you must know your name! I read your very brief resume- or I briefly read it, rather. Hm, I suppose you couldn’t mind such a dig at this point ah ha ha!” With each laugh he presses firmer into the man’s chest, delighting as he quivers with need. 

“I’mmm Mmmnhh”

Byron reaches up to grasp the man’s jaw with his free hand while he travels down the whole of his torso with the other. Batting away the shirt as he easily sails down sweaty abs and haphazardly detangles scratchy body hair, Byron smiles as he forces the man to look directly in his eyes. “You wouldn’t mind if we just gave you a new one? After all, what could you want more than a fresh start under my wing.”

Needily nodding, the now nameless man melts as Byron at last graces his cock with attention. Lightly grazing its veiny surface with his manicured nails, the executive gives one small tug on the meaty cock’s head and watches as pre that has been trickling down his shaft drips onto the floor. 

Eyes darting to the book lying on the floor, Byron smirks as he brings his hand to his mouth to sample the sticky ichor glazing his hand. “Moby, hm? Isn’t that swell.” 

Tongue hanging limp from his mouth as he pants like a dog, he must agree the name feels fitting. It feels like him. Or he would if there was a single thought in his mind. At the moment any higher consciousness, much like his blood, was rushing to that most turgid of organs. He was just waiting for Byron’s permission to finally become. 

As Byron’s hand reaches to grasp what little of Moby’s cock it’s able, the new hire feels the peace he was always longing for. Mind simplifying with each small tug and twist of the fingers, he feels all he is and was drain into his balls as they pull upward.

Eyes rolling back as his supernaturally rigid posture twitches and almost collapses under the touch of his boss. There’s a blank grin on Moby’s face as he prepares to release the heavy weight of understanding. And with a few simple flicks of Roman’s wrist, Moby does just that.

Erupting like a geyser, everything that made Morris what he was is launched from him in pearly strings. His application and the contract he thoughtlessly signed, his few long years as a barista, his poorly received thesis and the best years of his life precipitating it; all converted to a messy cum splatter on the floor of this corporate office.

 Moby pants as he falls back amongst the pools of his scattered past self. Bleary smirk on his face, the toll of almost doubling in size leaves him drained as his eyelids begin to waver. Pulling up a chair and lighting a cigar that had been hidden in his jacket, Byron Roman watches him overtaken by sleep.

He doesn’t remember too much about the man smoking above him. He doesn’t remember too much at all. But he knows the man is everything to him. And when he wakes up well, he’s going to do his best to make him proud.

Byron Roman never really saw the point in a grunt. His many underlings all served their purposes, true. But a body man, one always at his beck and call, one always by his side. He always imagined it would be suffocating. 

Never has he been more pleased to be proven wrong. Moby has performed every duty even better than expected. Given their steamy first meeting it’s not long before their relationship grows beyond that of boss and muscled-up assistant.

His scientists always pushed one of their own to be the lab rat, but Byron has always preferred the humanities. While mechanical intelligence may have sufficed, Moby’s tortured classical passions gave his final form far more flavor.

Reclined at his desk, incense burning slowly as he stares at Moby standing over watch outside his office, Byron decides it’s time to call it a day. To that end, he calls his grunt over for their now daily ritual. Calling him over, Byron’s mouth curls into a grin as watches Moby’s tight uniform contort and stretch over his muscle with every labored movement.

“You rang boss?”

“Moby be a dear, lock the door and close the blinds.”

Blush burns underneath Moby’s permanent five o’clock shadow as his mouth reflexively falls open. Sprinting to the door to do just that, he bounds back to his boss to do exactly what’s made for.

Undoing his tie, Byron’s already well-excited himself, zipper creaking as this becomes indisputable. Something about their sessions always leaves him feeling rejuvenated himself. When he looks in the mirror after he’d swear his beard is always a touch darker, the neck it hides thicker. Perhaps he’d worry, but fucking and being fucked by the titan simply has a way of softening his many worries. 

"Who the fuck are you, and where is Patrick?" Dorian wanted to yell, as he realised that he did in fact know the man in front of him. It was his boyfriend. Now that he thought about it, for the last hour or so, he memorized to versions of Patrick. The nerdy one that he knew was the "original", because Patrick and Dorian were like twins. Since this afternoon, another version appeared: the one Dorian saw in front of him right now.

As the man turned around, Dorian noticed how absolutely jacked the man was. His back arched out into a V-shape that Dorian never dreamed of seeing in real life. It was only when Dorian saw the man's pecs that protruded from his tight 8-pack abs that he realised that the man who was standing there was completely naked.

"Hey, bro, how are you? Look what finally came today!" the new Patrick said as he waved something that looked like a phone in the air.

The second Dorian saw the phone, he remembered that weeks ago Patrick had been going on a tangent about this reality-changing programme. Dorian had zoned out occasionally, so the details were fuzzy. He started to get dizzy as the version of his boyfriend that worked out daily fought for memory space with the memory of his nerdy boyfriend.

"Seems like that reality-changing thing works!" Dorian said.

"Okay, you zoned out again when I spoke about it, didn't you, bro? Anyway, now I am absolutely your type!" Patrick, his calm and collected Patrick, was jumping up and down like a little kid.

"Oh honey, you know it was never about your looks. I love you for who you are, in fact I fear that this Chronivac-thing is changing your personality. This whole bro-type personality? It's not you, you know?" Dorian looked his boyfriend directly in the eyes and felt sad that he made the man he loved look for such radical solutions to his lack of libido.

"I didn't want to change myself for you, bro. I just hoped that, with a higher libido, I wouldn't mind our relationship being open as much. You know?"

"Also, not a fan that you can change all of reality, and I wouldn't even know. So from now on, the phone will always stay near me, and we can only use it when the other person is looking as well."

"Ugh, why don't you trust me, bro? It's not like I'd make you into anything you wouldn't like." Patrick whined.

"I just don't want anything about me changed for now, babe. We don't know what else is altered without us knowing."

"Babe", Patrick finally called him babe again, "it's not like Chronivac would lie to us, it's not a genie in a lamp situation. I just feel more...relaxed? Also, kinda turns me on to talk like a jock." Patrick smirked.

After Patrick got dressed (a tight shirt and shorts), both he and Dorian made a simple meal together, ate it and settled on the couch. The Chronivac was with them in the kitchen, on the dinner table and at the table near the couch. Dorian watched over it like a hawk, checking every few minutes whether the thing was still there. It was followed by a quick glance over at Patrick.

"Okay babe, not liking the lack of trust you have in me." Patrick blurted out frustrated. He stretched his hands towards Dorian. "I thought tonight was still datenight?" He made his pecs bounce under the tight shirt he was wearing.

"Sorry, honey, I have to trust you." Dorian pulled back from Patrick's grasp. "Sorry, today has been much. You understand, right?" Dorian turned his attention back to the TV.

"To be fair, babe, I don't understand. Sorry, I need a minute, and sorry for what I'm going to do," Patrick said while storming off to the bathroom. The last part of the sentence kind of lost on Dorian, who was getting his phone out of his pocket to text his best friend, Lisa.

"Okay, wow, sooo Patrick got this reality-changing device. It's cool, but scary."

Dorian pressed send and looked to the place where the Chronivac was just a few minutes ago: empty.

"Patrick, what are you doing?" Dorian cried out in panic before his whole world seemed to be turning upside down.

Several seconds later, Patrick arrived back in the living room. "Sorry, bro. I had to do this."

"You can always go to the toilet, silly", Dorian said as he straightened the strings of his jockstrap and turned his ass in the air. "What's that phone you got there?"

"Oh that's my chronivac..." the rest that Patrick said was sort of blocked out for Dorian as he got distracted by the growing bulge in his stud boyfriend's sweatpants.

After the best sex for the couple in ages, the pair went to bed and Dorian checked his phone one final time to make sure his alarm for work was set. His boyfriend was toying with that special phone again.

"OMG, you have to tell me more!" A text from Lisa popped up, but Dorian couldn't remember texting her. When he read about the reality-changing programme, a killer headache formed. Suddenly, he remembered what Patrick promised and what happened earlier tonight. He could feel his consciousness slip. Dorian mustered all his power to reply to Lisa.

"I think Patrick is abusing it. Come help me, please." Dorian barely sent the message before letting his phone slip from his hands. This drew Patrick's attention. Dorian saw how his boyfriend picked up the phone and saw the message.

"Again, honey, I'm sorry. This cock won't be taking care of it self, and I am so f'ing horny. I can't let you find out again" Dorian panicked and wondered what was going to happen as he got swallowed in seas of darkness.

Dorian awoke startled, as if just woken up from a scary dream. Light pierced through the curtains already.

"Fuck bro, I missed my alarm", he said while yawning.

Dorian lazily grabbed at his morning wood and fully woke up in shock.

"how large is my...." was the last thought he had before his mind was flooded with new memories that immediately weren't new to Dorian.

D, as he often refferred to himself now, thought back to the hot sex last night as he let his naked foot-long cock flop free from the blankets.

D flexed his football-sized biceps as his cock hardened. Like every morning, he winked at the camera that livestreamed his bed 24/7. He had to please the audience, Patrick always said.

D got up from the bed and immediately saw himself in the full-length mirror directly in front of the bed.

He knew he saw this every morning, but as if he saw it for the first time, Dorian was blown away by his physique. First of all, his beautiful young face that made him look boy-ish, with blue eyes that swallowed every top as he looked up while sucking on a dick.

His baby face could be misleading if it weren't for the bullneck that followed straight underneath it. Every muscle group stood out in its own marvellous way. His bowling-ball-sized shoulders made him look like a tank, while their curves made way for arms that were larger than most people's legs. His python arms were raised to his sides because of a back that could make some planes jealous.

D admired and flexed every muscle, but he knew what his audience was waiting for.

"Are you guys ready to see the root of my popularity?" D said with his back turned to the camera, seemingly forgetting that his audience could see everything because of all the other mirrors.

"Ladies and gents, but mostly gents. Here is my root!" D laughed as he turned around, moving his hips back and forth in such a way that the top of his dick slammed into his pec shelf.

As he was wanking off, D talked to the camera about all the times he had to skip a class because his dick was simply to hard. That his mind clouded over because he got too horny and had to hold himself in.

"Now, I hardly ever have to leave the house. We even have a pool since we moved to Patrick's mansion! He even told me that's because of you guys I can just lounge around naked or in my jockstrap all day now."

Thinking about his jockstrap pushed D over the edge. He moaned a lot and yelled, "I love my life!" before he jizzed over the mirrors and his own hair.

After he came to, D turned to the camera again.

"Thank you guys, I'll be leaving the camera view now, but I promise you can see tons of content on my OF-page today, tomorrow, every day!" He giggled and jumped around for a few more seconds and then left the room.

D had just started showering when Patrick came into the bathroom.

"Honey, Lisa is here and wants to talk to you. I will let her in, so take your time. It doesn't seem too urgent anyway."

Patrick left the bathroom, and D thought he could hear him mumble something about twinks. It didn't matter, as thinking of Lisa gave D, no Dorian, a headache again. Why had he asked Lisa for help again?

Harkening back to his undergrad days, Xavier staves off sulking as he remembers his college roommate, and, more pressingly, the memory of what happened to him long repressed. Jeremy was a lifelong Longhorn Basketball fan, grew up obsessed and wanted more than anything to be on the team. Being 5’2” and asthmatic, there was never any actual possibility there and by the time he was accepted to the school any hope that he’d have a miraculous growth spurt had long since faded.

That is, until a true miracle presented itself. Thinking back, Xavier can’t believe he forgot this. All this time he couldn’t make sense why he was friends with a professional basketball player, why it took Jeremy who seemed outright made to play basketball two years to join the team. Because before Jeremy was the six four miracle for the team, he was a dweeby fanboy.

And now just in time, as if delivered into his mind when he needs it most, Xavier remembers the small hole in the wall shop Jeremy visited before his drastic change. Unable to wait even a second longer, Xavier takes an early lunch and sprints the few downtown blocks to a small hovel crammed between two bars- designed to totally escape one’s notice until it demands your entry.

Obeying his desires and ignoring the sinister crackle of air changing as he steps inside, Xavier’s mouth falls open as he inspects the strange colorful jars and arcane tchotchkes that fill the ostentatious suite. Normally he’s averse to browsing, but his curiosity burns with an intensity that’s not to be sated. Reaching for a small snowglobe, Xavier’s delighted watching its flakes spinning up as his hand nears. Just before Xavier can touch it though, he feels his neck turned for him to see what can only be described as a witch.

Small, wrinkled, and grinning, she holds forth a small bottle and without a thought Xavier sprints past incomprehensible artifacts and grabs it from her hand. The witch’s words wander into his mind without her opening her mouth. ‘Twill make ye into the perfect man for wee Felix. Put some thought inta what that means fore ye never do so ‘gian’

The sentiment just as quickly flies through his other ear as he feels himself propelled out of the store. Back on the street Xavier turns to find a blank alley wall. One brick dislodges and for a brief moment he hears the cackling voice for a final time, ‘Ai! And do take care o’ cross contamination an’ the like Ta! Ah haha ha!’

Narrowing his eyes as the brick relays itself, Xavier plans to write the whole thing off as a manic episode before he feels the small vial in his hands. Looking closely at the rosy glass he sees Philter of Longing inscribed upon it. Stowing it in his pocket, he checks his watch to see how much time has passed and, with a gasp, he starts his brisk walk back to work.

Returning to his desk, Xavier spritzes himself with cologne he always uses to fish out a compliment from Felix before sitting with a sigh. Potion burning a hole in his pocket, he can wait no longer. Wrenching it free, he ravenously pours the elixir on his tongue and swallows. So preoccupied by its strange taste, Xavier doesn’t spare a thought towards proper usage of this impossible magic, ethically or otherwise.

Mouth puckering with intense acidity, it burns as he chokes it down with a grunt. He swears he can feel it land in his empty stomach, and as soon as it does his arms bristle with goosebumps as his heart races. Suddenly on edge, he jumps out of his seat when Felix stands and leans on his cubicle.

“Hey Zayyyy~ you smell great!” Heeheehee~ Xavier struggles to stop a grin from showing as he puts his arms behind his head. Looking up at Felix peacefully smiling, he wonders if he should try and figure out what kinda hottie he’s going to become. Mind buzzing more with every passing second, subtlety isn’t an option as Xavier opens his mouth.

“Sooo, uh- I know we promised not to talk guys since- well you know.” Felix waits for the other shoe to drop, “But! But! I was just thinking there’s uhh, there’s a guy! Yeah I want to set you up with someone but I’m not sure if he’s your type.”

Despite himself, Felix blushes. Looking bashfully away, he misses the slight fistpump Xavier does to celebrate his real masterwork deception. 

“Well, I would say I don’t really have a type y’know. It’s just kinda there or it’s not if that makes sense.” Keeping as stoic an expression as he can, Xavier tries not to take that as an insult, “But I mean, if you’re twisting my arm about it~ Well who isn’t into a bit of beef, like, a himbo if you know what that is?”

Nodding slowly Xavier gets that, big muscly guys what’s not to like. Not forgetting the philtir still bubbling in his stomach he lets a smirk show, he certainly wouldn’t mind gaining a few pounds. His thin arms are completely obscured by his shirt as he flexes. “No wonder we didn’t work out then, you know I like to stay trim heh!” 

Paying his joke no mind, Felix slowly nods, “Y’know, kinda? I think it’s more of a personality thing though. I can get stuck in my head a lot so it’d be nice to be with someone who’s less of a thinker. Does that make sense?”

Felix can almost see the ellipses appear over Xavier’s head as he narrows his eyes in thought and judgement, “You wanna date an idiot?” 

“That’s- well I mean, kinda yeah? What’s the deal with your guy then?”

“My guy?”

“Ugh! Xavier! You didn’t want to set me up, you just- Whatever girl, I’m going to lunch.”

Perking up, Xavier feels somehow even more pulled to follow his work-crush than usual. “Oh sweet, I’m starvinggg can I come?” Bolting up he finds his forehead bumped by Felix’s hand as his coworker pushes him back into his office chair.

“Zay? You just got back from lunch, did you not eat?”

“Oh shit, yeah I uh, went to the uh, pharmacy? Yeah.”

“Hmmmm… Well I guess I can grab you something, even though you’re being a little ass today~” Felix’s generally touchy feely so reaching out to ruffle Xavier’s hair isn’t out of the ordinary, but as his fingers connect he can’t help but notice something feels different between them. Patting him once on the head, he briefly inspects the man staring at him a little more longingly than he’s comfortable with. 

Turning before he sends any mixed signals, out of sight Felix can’t help but think that Xavier does look a little more attractive than usual? His clothes are sitting better, almost like he’s filling them out more? Whatever, clock’s on and it’s time to go grab, for himself and Xavier apparently, something to eat. “Oh! And do finish that report if you could Zay babe, I’ll have a look when I’m back! See ya~”

And with that there’s a Felix shaped hole distracting Xavier from his work. Having begun sweating as soon as he drank the philter, sitting at his desk he feels the all-encompassing heat continuing to rise. Pulling at his collar, Xavier accidentally pops a button off sending a wafting wave of b.o. into his face. “Bwoof-”

Looking down, Xavier finds two impossible to miss stains in his pits. Wandering away from his desk to ensure their boss isn’t in, Xavier lets loose a sigh of relief as he rushes to change into something a little breathier. Yanking out a change of clothes he keeps in case he ever decides to go to the gym, Xavier feels the button up strain and he smirks. Who needs the gym.

Sure that there’s no downside as his feet are suddenly pinched by dress shoes, Xavier stumbles into the bathroom and locks the door. Squeezes his thicker arms free from his shirt, he laughs at just how much his body has changed. Checking out his sharper jaw as his hair darkens and flops longer, Xavier almost forgets where he is and reaches down to start masturbating. 

Shaking out of his most primal urge, Xavier settles on just posing in the mirror and checking out his new bod. Experiencing what it’s like to truly be proud of the man in the mirror, his excitement at bulging biceps rapidly becomes cockiness. Who can blame him, he’s already so much hotter. Time flies as he delights in the muscle amassing more onto his upper body with each grunting flex.

Kicking off his shoes as they approach two sizes larger, his eyes trail up his thicker legs. Making a note of the thicker hair beginning to coat them, Xavier rubs his burning hot thighs as they already begin to strain his new shorts. “Fucccckk~” There’s some distinct vocal fry in his voice as his fingers trail across every growing muscle.

Tickling the rows of abs carving into his stomach and grasping at pecs beginning to form, it’s unclear how long this new outfit is going to last on his growing form. Putting off further inspection of his body as he feels ass suddenly expand enough to compete with the bulge growing larger in front, Xavier leans in close to the mirror to inspect his changing face.

Obviously he knew he’d be more handsome in some vague sense but it’s truly bizarre to see his face irrevocably change. Pores shrinking as his jaw squares and his darkening hairline reclaims half an inch of forehead, Xavier feels sideburns and other stubble prickling on his cheeks and chin. Before he can truly revel in new facial hair though, he makes eye contact with his mirror-self and gasps. 

Sea blue irises lose their lustre as from the pupil outward crystalline brown speckles begin to overtake their watery blue. Drying up as they do so, Xavier can’t help but blink. By the third the blue eyes he had always adored are completely gone. Beyond the superficial color though, there’s a dullness beginning to creep in. Upper eyelids slightly droopier, his resting expressions slightly more placid. The light behind his eyes dimmer

When someone knocks on the door he clears his throat and shoots out a “One sec!” Adjusting his package as he hears his rougher voice, Xavier shoots one last pose at the mirror, apathetic to how his midriff is already exposed. Scratching pubes growing up into a treasure trail on his way out of the bathroom, the impatient accountant outside can hardly recognize him.

Scoffing at the boor abandoning dress code, when the mousy man enters the bathroom to find clothes discarded and an aura of pervasive musk he can hardly believe himself. Turning back to confront the man trodding down the hallway he finds Xavier already gone, sweaty footprints in his wake. 

The busybody’s lip twitches as he whines, “I can’t believe someone so thoughtless works here!” Already drafting a complaint to HR, when Xavier returns to his desk it is increasingly clear that tidiness shall not be his only barrier to continued employment.

“Oh Shit!” Losing track of time yet again, Xavier falls into his office chair and frantically boots up his computer. Staying strong, he ignores the sound of the chair creaking under his new weight as he takes a minute to adjust to his new palm size. Clumsier fingers eventually log in just before he’s locked out of his account for good.

Face to face with his desktop, he groans mindlessly for a moment before tabbing over to Teams and opening the report sent to him. Should be a cake walk, the easiest thing in the world. Scrolling up and down the document, Xavier can scarcely remember where to start. Eyes glaze over as he tries to read a cell. Thoughts slow as he tries to even remember what each column stands for without scrolling to the top to remind himself.

“God what’suh- Where do I..?”

Squinting, his confusion rapidly begins to grow into a headache as formulae and procedures begin to almost dissolve from his memory. The bright screen burns his darker, duller eyes as he stares blankly at the first hurdle. He knows how to do this, he swears. He’s done it hundreds, no, thousands of times. Basically the expert! Basically the fuckin’ uhhh king! Yeah!

Hands have a hard time staying on the keyboard as his throbbing bulge strains against underwear that certainly did not grow with him. Across his body whatever hair continues to flourish and prickle darkens even further as his fatter fingers play with the thickening pubes masquerading as a treasure trail.

Desperate to sneak a peak, Xavier looks away from that shitty stupid-hard report to inspect something harder. Having to actually lean to look past the new pecs still twitching larger on chest, Xavier feels his cock strain his pants even further. Stubble on his chin surges into a beard and as it scratches his neck he delights to a degree that he almost loses himself altogether.

Moaning out a “fuccckkk~” in his new baritone, Xavier sucks up drool he didn’t know he was spilling as his hips almost reflexively gyrate in his creaking seat. Reaching down, he pulls up a shirt to expose his hardening body before biting his lip at the mind numbing sight. If only Felix could see him now. The idea sends a shiver down his spine as he expands in every direction at the thought.

Rubbing his built abs with a meaty guffaw, he almost falls back in his chair when he realizes Felix can see him! He’s just gotta send a pic! Laughing at his brainfog, his smirk fades a little as he realizes how much acuity he’s losing. As if he’d possibly be able to remember what acuity even means.

Glee returns easily enough as he snaps a few thirst traps to send over to Felix. He simply can’t get over how good he looks. Staring at just how thick his bicep and pecs are, Xavier just keeps looping the live picture to see the muscle fibres twitch as he presses the button. With each repeat the eyes watching lose even more lustre. 

The already hopeless report fades from his mind as the memory of ever doing analysis of any kind becomes anathe- far too complicated for his increasingly rudimentary mind. As it stands however, the task does not simply disappear and after yet again reminding himself that he can’t just masturbate at his desk, he looks up just in time to see his monitor fade to black. His computer going to sleep,

“Fuck!” he shouts far too loudly. 

Racing back to the keyboard he slams a few keys to try and wake it up in vain. This is chill, it’s okay. He’s just gotta, he’s just gotta remember his log in. And then he’ll remember how to file or do whatever he has to do for Felix. And then Felix will be so proud of him!

The idea fills him with warmth as if it were the only thing in the world, making Felix proud. When the thought of what follows that fills him his cock finally strains his underwear to its breaking points. Clenching his jaw he barely avoids tearing off his pants. Gotta focus. For Felix.

Pastword “Ah shit, typoed” password “Wait no, that wouldn’t be my…” Xavier123 “no… not that… Oh!” Felix123! “Shit…” 

One attempt remaining.

Xavier wracks his brain, pulls out all the stops, desperately tries to remember what he could’ve possibly put as his password. Taking a few deep breaths, Xavier finds himself breathing solely through his mouth now, as if he ever knew any different. Staring at the warning message on his screen, at last the idea comes to him and he starts to enter what simply must be his password

In the end it doesn’t matter what thoroughly calculated password he summoned forth. As soon as he starts rushing to type, still unaccustomed to his heavier hands, he fatfingers the enter key trying to hit shift and is met with a damning message to contact his server administrator. Not like it matters now of course, he can’t remember who that even is, or what a server adminwhatever would even do.

Allowing the screen fade back to black once more, Xavier is met with his chiseled bearded face atop a thick neck and thicker shoulders. Seeing dense, dark curls of chest hair creeping up his neck, feeling even widespread patches race down his massive thighs and across his wide feet, Xavier sighs.

Wondering what he’s going to tell Felix upon his return, Xavier tries to get the gears rolling on an excuse. But after trying for half a second to think of a defense he throws in the towel. His pupils quiver as he realizes just how much his mind has dulled. A second longer spent thinking about it makes him wonder what he even has to make an excuse about, did Felix ask him to do something?

Feeling his chest pang as Felix returns to the forefront of his mind, he can’t find it within himself to be concerned with the increasing vacancies in his too-busy brain. With a sigh he feels the blissful veil of ignorance stretch deeper than he thought anything rightly could. Thoughtless grin on his face, the Xavier who greedily wandered into that shop for a ticket to convince Felix to date him is no more.

In his place is a half-dressed, sweaty, hairy man struggling to get too-tight socks off as he hears Felix return to the office. Turning around like a leaf to the sun, Xavier’s eyes alight with simple ecstasy. “Felix~ You’re back~” His baritone dances even more than it did when he was a tenor, his joy apparent with every crest and fall.

Looking upon the brute of a man getting his sweat all over Xavier’s chair, Felix is of two minds. The first and most reasonable telling him to call security regarding the half-nude intruder. But, staring in shock at the man, seeing the innocence in his eyes, how he hangs on to Felix’s every movement, Felix blushes as he realizes just how predominant Id is within one’s mind.

“Hey, hi, uhm sir? Have you seen someone named Xavier around?”

Nodding and rushing over, Xavier’s face somehow lights up even more, “Yeah! Felix, it’s me! I’m better, you like me now, right?!”

Mind going a mile a minute, Felix can’t make heads or tails, and the cock growing harder in his pants is doing nothing to help. It can’t be him, right? Taking a deep breath to think, Felix’s lungs are flooded with a fraction of the musk radiating off Xavier. Head so close to the man’s pits, it’s a wonder he’s still standing.

Eyes nearly as glazed over as Xavier’s now always are, Felix puts all conscious thought on hold as his mouth falls ajar, wanting more than anything to feel Xavier’s lips on his own. Needier than ever, he’s happy to comply. Leaning down he kisses Felix and feels more pleasure than he can fathom. 

Half-cumming already, he rears back as an echo resounds in his empty skull, magically dumbed down for his simpler mind ‘careful about yer cooties ye plonker!’ Xavier isn’t quite sure what a plonker is but looking down at Felix he quickly wipes his lips on his glistening arm. Too little too late as the witch’s spell has consequences well beyond what she’d intended.

Tail suddenly between his legs, Xavier starts to whine out an explanation of the second hand dose Felix must have just received. Racing through his increasingly spotty memory of the last hour in a bit, struggling often due to his still-shrinking vocab and faculties, Xavier leaves Felix agog and stunned. After a bit he looks up tilting his head, “Well I mean if it just makes me your perfect match, then I shouldn’t change all that much right?”

Nodding excitedly, gladder than anything that Felix is exercising grace regarding trying to manipulate him with magic. Dread fills his eyes as Felix’s sun-kissed blond begins to darken and his jaw begins to shadow with stubble. “What? Something on my face?”

At the sound of shirt sleeves struggling to contain his biceps, Felix realizes what’s going on and takes control of the situation. Ushering his apparent perfect lover out the door and into his car, he has Xavier draft an email to their boss which he must rewrite from scratch, even as his body creaks and cracks amassing strength.

Racing home, often having to adjust his hands on the wheel due to lengthening arms and spasming biceps, Felix ushers Xavier in to inspect his apparently new body. Suffice to say, he’s certainly not disappointed by his wider chest and heavier package. Turning to Xavier whose eyes have scarce left Felix since he returned from lunch, well Felix can scarcely think of a better test run for his new robust self.

It doesn’t take long for the pair to settle into their new bodies, their new lives. Xavier is ever content as long as he’s by Felix’s side, it’s what he was made for after all. For his part Felix is quite pleased with his new muscular form, clearly influenced by Xavier getting off on his own changes under the effects of the Philter of Longing.