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Grow Up!

A collaboration between myself and Aardvark.

This story was altered from its original form and updated.





“HEY!!! PORTER!!!!!!”

“WHAT?!” Porter appeared at the top of the stairs, staring down in anger at his little brother Bode at the foot of them. “WHAT, BODE? The house better be on fire!!!”

“I wanna play the Playstation.”

“You have seen me set it up for you ten. Thousand. Times. Why can’t you do it yourself?” Porter said with a huge amount of annoyance as he trudged down the steps.

“I always mix up the cables,” Bode shrugged, completely without remorse. The family entertainment center was a bit out of date. The amount of cording behind the television was enough to confuse even the most adept of techies.

In the bedroom, Freddie rolled his eyes and set his phone on the bed. He and Porter hadn’t really been doing anything. Just laying back and shooting the shit about what they wanted to do over their last summer before senior year. So far, the only exciting thing was Harry Greco’s big party this Saturday. Because of Bode, they couldn’t just do whatever – he couldn’t be left home alone.

Seriously, if the kid could just be a tiny bit older, Freddie and Porter’s lives could be so much easier.

Walking into the living room, Freddie saw Porter wrestling with the entertainment center. Freddie arched a blonde brow as he assessed everything. “Your family does know that HDMI cords have been invented, right?”

Porter snorted. “You think my father knows anything about technology other than Microsoft Word and Internet Explorer? He’d look at this and say, ‘Oh, it’s not that bad, Port! Get in there and help your little brother!’”

“He’s right!” Bode chirped from his position on the La-Z-Boy near the television. “When are they coming back?”

The venom exuding Porter’s face could have dissolved solid stone. “They told you literally yesterday. You seriously don’t remember?”

Bode shrugged. “Nope.”

Freddie facepalmed. “Two weeks. They said two weeks.”

“Oh. ‘Kay. Are you done, Porter?”

Before Porter could answer, there was a loud crack and a shower of sparks and the brunette leapt back from the television. Bode yelped. Porter hissed and made sure he was uninjured while Freddie checked the television.

“This,” he announced, “is dead. Looks like your dad’s modernizing whether he likes it or not, bro.”

“I’m telling mom!” Bode announced, hopping off the La-Z-Boy and making for the phone. Freddie ran after him.

Porter groaned and put his head in his hands. “I’m in so much trouble now.”

“Bode, put the phone down,” Freddie commanded as the younger teen approached the family cell phone.

“Porter broke the TV and I want them to buy me a new one so I can play games while they’re gone! I can’t use the one in their bedroom, you can’t plug anything in cause it’s on the wall!” Bode reached for the phone but Freddie batted it away. “Ow! You shocked me!”

“It’s your fault he had to tinker with it in the first place!” Freddie snapped. “You have a laptop, play games on that! Stop trying to just fuck up Porter’s life for no-”

“That’s a bad word!” Bode gasped. How could anyone be so innocent at this age? Probably because his mother babied him so much.

“-FOR NO REASON,” Freddie continued. He gave Bode a light nudge as he held the phone up out of the other boy’s grasp. “Grow up!”

“No! I wanna play games!”

“GROW UP, BODE!” Freddie said again with another light nudge, except this time Bode went sailing across the room as if he’d been shot out of a cannon. “Holy…” Freddie said, jogging over to the younger boy on the floor.

Porter showed up then and saw his friend crouching over his little brother. “What’d you do?!”


“It was… it was nothing…” Bode said, sitting up and giving his head a shake. “I was being rude.” He looked up at Porter. “Sorry, P. I know you were just trying to help me out. I won’t tell on you.”

“Uh… thanks.”

“Maybe I…” Bode stood up and smoothed down his rumpled sweatpants. “Maybe I should buy us a new TV.”

“You? You don’t have that kind of money, Bode, TVs are expensive.”

“I have… some money…” Bode said, in a vacant voice. “Yeah… I’ll go upstairs and look at some TVs online.”

Porter and Freddie watched Bode walk back up the stairs and to his room. “That was weird,” Freddie murmured.

“Least he’s out of our hair for now.”

Upstairs, Bode shut the door to his room and groaned, running a hand over his forehead. “Weird… I didn’t… didn’t feel sick when I… uh… oof…!” He put a hand over his stomach, which let loose a rumbling growl.

“Unnnh…” he moaned, grimacing. He staggered for his bed, flopping onto it and idly pawing around for his laptop. His hand felt weird. Like it was too big… What was going on here? This was bizarre.

“I… I need to get…” What? Get what? His mind grasped for the end to the statement, but found nothing except… workout techniques? What the-?

The feeling of too-bigness crept up his arm, and he groaned. This wasn’t right. He rolled over and grunted, as his crotch began to feel tight. He tried to loosen his sweatpants, but the bulge was already there, growing larger and lewder by the minute.

“F-Fuck,” Bode murmured, now unconcerned whether it was a bad word or not. He tried to put it out of his mind, though he kept absently pawing at his cock, which ached inside his underwear. To distract himself, true to his word, he opened up his laptop and went to the Best Buy website to search for TVs.

Some of them were pretty expensive, but Bode was excited to see a 4K one at a holiday discount with all the trimmings, including everything he needed for gaming. It was $800 – Bode knew that was a lot of money for a TV, but it was worth it. He rummaged through his backpack… why did this darn thing have so many pockets? Finally, he found a Velcro wallet with Bart Simpson on it. It had once been Porter’s when he was Bode’s age, and had gotten passed down. Their mom didn’t like Bart Simpson because he was rebellious, which made Bode like the wallet more. He pulled out his school lunch card, an unused movie pass he was saving for the next Spider-Man movie, and finally found what he wanted: his American Express Platinum card. He wondered if he had enough reward points stored up to get the TV for free. And how to get it? In-store pickup? Bode wasn’t sure if he could drive. He didn’t have a license. Did Porter have a license?

Nah, he’d just have it delivered.

With a few more clicks and a number typed in, the TV was headed their way. Bode smiled to himself and sat up. His stomach still ached and gurgled with a ferocity the likes of which he’d never experienced before. Maybe he needed some Coke. The carbonation would settle his stomach.

So Bode went downstairs, calling out “TV’s on its way” as he turned to go into the kitchen. In the living room, Porter called back, “Thanks, kid.”

Kid? Bode didn’t like that. He wasn’t a kid, was he…? Well, yeah, he was kind of a kid. So why did he feel so much older? Ugh, this made his head hurt. He opened the fridge, grabbing for a beer… Wait, beer? No, a Coke. Red can, swoopy-swirly logo. Can in hand, he headed into the living room.

“So what are we doing?” he asked.

Freddie and Porter regarded him as if his appearance – a teenager with the arms and hands of a seasoned stevedore – wasn’t unusual. A collective “nothing” met his question.

“Hmm. We could… I dunno, play charades until the TV gets here?” Bode suggested. Freddie and Porter stared at each other for a moment. There wasn’t anything else to do, they figured, so why not? “I’ll go first,” Bode said, hopping up in front of the entertainment center.

He thought for a moment. Scratched his chin. Then he raised both his arms out to the sides and slightly above his head, flashing a double peace sign and a big fake smile.

“Arnold Schwarzenegger!”


“Hulk Hogan!”

“Um… uh… Gaston!”

Bode’s brow furrowed. He’d thought it was super obvious.

“John Cena!”


“The Rock!”

No!” Bode said, dropping his arms in annoyance. “Richard Nixon! The V-sign! He made it when the Vietnam War ended!”

Porter and Freddie stared up blankly at him.

“Sheesh, you guys have never heard of Nixon?”

“Was he a bodybuilder?”

No, he was the president!” Bode grew more exasperated. “A bodybuilder? Why on Earth were you guessing wrestlers and Hercules?”

“We thought you were flexing.”

“I just have big arms,” Bode shrugged, and it was an understatement to say the least. Biceps as big as cannonballs had wedged his sleeves up under his arms. His upper arms – massive, veiny – looked to have roughly the same circumference as his waist. It looked freakish.

“You go, I guess I’m not good at this,” Bode barked to Freddie. Freddie leapt up immediately and Bode smiled, reaching up to rub the older teen’s hair. An odd gesture, but no one mentioned it as Bode sat down cross-legged on the floor and folded his gargantuan arms over his chest.

Freddie went, almost bending in half and moving his legs to make a sprinting motion. Bode grunted and adjusted his legs a bit

“An ice skater!”

“A sheep!”

Freddie looked at Porter like he’d grown a second head and signaled a “no.”

Porter kept shouting out increasingly outlandish answers while Bode grunted, pushing out his legs. They pulsed and throbbed, and the feeling of too-bigness crept down them until there was a tearing noise. His sweatpants had burst! And yet Freddie and Porter didn’t notice!

Bode looked down to see two redwoods jutting from his pelvis. Enormous thighs, swollen with fat, meaty muscles which would have been rubbing together if his enormous package wasn’t separating them. It strained against his undies, which looked like they’d give way at any moment. Bode idly massaged it as he flexed his enormous calves. After a minute, making sure not to pop a boner in front of the boys, he looked up.

“Usain Bolt,” he called out. Freddie hopped into a normal stance, grinning. “That’s right!” He returned to his seat. Porter stewed as Bode strode up.

“Alright, you go, sport,” Bode said, noticing Porter’s irritation. He chuckled fondly and shook his head. No one noted the “sport” comment, and Bode plopped down next to Freddie. He looked the other one over and took in just how fit Freddie was. It looked good. Really good, in fact…

Bode had never noticed how handsome Freddie had become. Freddie and Porter had been friends for years, thick as thieves, so Bode saw Freddie almost daily, which had made Freddie’s puberty seem less abrupt. But the boy next door had grown up beautifully. He had a strong chin, a broad chest that Bode knew would eventually get a lot thicker, wide shoulders, and a nice deep voice. Bode imagined an older, bearded Freddie wearing a suit and tie and reading the news. He’d be good at that. And when that tie came off, the neck muscles underneath… the top of that muscular chest on view…

Out of Porter’s view, Bode’s hand wandered up to the middle of Freddie’s back and began rubbing. He felt Freddie’s sharp intake of breath, and the neighbor boy’s blue eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t pull away or look over. Bode’s fingers were stretching across Freddie’s back, his palm widening, his knuckles popping as big as quarters. More muscled bulged its way out of his arms, spreading up into his shoulders, and the crew neck of his t-shirt started to pull apart as Bode’s collarbone began extending, eventually bumping him into Freddie. Freddie didn’t move as Bode’s shoulders forced them to snuggle together, growing massively broad, twice as wide as Freddie’s. Bode slid his huge hand down to Freddie’s lower back, and his pinkie rubbed along waistband of Freddie’s underwear. He smirked.

“Are you guys paying attention?!” Porter snipped.

“Sorry P!” Bode said, his voice cracking. “We’re lookin’.”

Bode grunted, adjusting his stance some more. He felt broad and kinda heavy, but not especially thick. Mm, he’d have to fix that… He took a deep breath and turned to watch Porter, who was standing bow-legged and had his hands out before him like he was trying to hold a large gut.

Hmmm. “The Fatman?”

“The what?” they asked.

“Oh, I guess neither of you were around for Jake and the Fatman, were ya,” Bode muttered, not even sure he was around for that show. “Keep going.”

Another deep breath and he found himself groaning as his shirt was pulled out. He tugged at it to no avail and grunted again, only succeeding in tearing the shirt off. Muscles bulged underneath his just-short-of-ponderous gut. Abs formed, and he rubbed it. All solid muscle. This was so strange…

“A sumo wrestler?” Freddie called.

“Right!” Porter called out.

Bode clapped a hand to Freddie’s back. “Good job, son!” he enthused.

Freddie blushed. “Thanks, Mister Arnell,” he said, getting up to take his turn.

‘Mister Arnell’? Since when did Brode qualify as a mister anything? He wasn’t… he wasn’t old enough, was he? Brode frowned as Freddie began to pose and flex before the TV. The teenage muscles bulged and Brode grunted uncomfortably as his loins responded perhaps a bit too favorably. Freddie had been held back, so he was 18. He was legal. But… this was his son’s best friend. They were practically brothers. And wouldn't getting with Freddie be unfaithful to Alan?

Wait. His son? Alan? What the hell was he thinking? His frown deepened as he looked back up to Freddie, who was now doing a pec bounce.

Brode belched, feeling Coca-Cola bubbles simmering in his throat. Brode arched his back, his mouth dropping open. His chest felt so tight. He rolled his shoulders back, extended his arms a little, trying to stretch it out. But the muscles didn’t feel like they fit correctly under his skin. He could see little stretch marks forming around his shoulders and under his nipples. He hiccuped, and his chest heaved up, but it stayed raised and began to swell. His view of his lap and stomach vanished. Brode looked down agog at his pecs as they inflated, and suddenly they began bouncing in rhythm with Freddie’s. But now they were much bigger than Freddie’s, and growing still, stretching out enormous and thick like a couple of car tires.

“It’s uh-” he said, staring at Freddie. He cupped his hands under his pecs, their weight now so ponderous that he was irrationally scared they were going to fall off. Freddie was making some odd gesture around his neck, little flicks with his fingers.

“He’s, uhhh, wearing a necklace?” Porter asked.

Freddie shook his head no.

Brode felt a tickle and looked down to see hair suddenly flowering out over his pecs. He grinned. Long curls erupted through his skin, covering it in a healthy coating of fluff, just enough to poke through all his collars. He liked being hairy.

Freddie raised his arms high above his head.

“I think,” Brode said, easing up onto his feet, “that you’re impersonating me!” And as he announced it, his body began stretching upward, muscle exploding out of his mountainous frame, until his chest was eye-level for Freddie – no mean feat, seeing that Freddie was six feet tall. He stared down at the neighbor boy with a grin. “Pretty good, kid. I liked the chest hair bit.” He scratched at his furry pecs and bounced them for Freddie, who stared hungrily.

“I love your-” Freddie started to say, before realizing what he had almost admitted in front of Porter. He went crimson and sat down, leaving Brode towering over the two older teens. He looked down at them – but couldn’t see them. All he saw was his chest.

Unsure of how to continue, Brode tried to tap his chin as he pondered, but as he did, his lats exploded out, and his arms couldn’t quite move to meet his face. He grunted in irritation and stepped back a bit. Freddie was staring up at him adoringly. Brode grinned at him salaciously before his face fell. A tearing noise stopped everything else dead and he felt his big, fat dick slap his thighs.

“Dude!” Porter yelped as Freddie moaned. Brode didn’t stick around to find out what he was moaning about, and beat a hasty retreat upstairs. His cock grew the whole way, hardening and snaking up to fit the underside of his musclegut. Thick, prominent veins snaked along its length and even fully hard the foreskin clung to the swollen head. It stopped around his bellybutton and as soon as Brode entered his room and plopped onto his bed, it exploded, shooting cum all over his tremendous ball gut. He bellowed in pleasure, tweaking one of his prominent nipples and leaning back, one hand furiously jerking his meat. Good God, this felt divine!

After almost a minute of unloading, Brode fell back, panting and chuckling as he felt the cum on his hairy gut. Incredibly thick, sticky, and piping hot. God, he was a virile sonuvabitch. But… something felt wrong. This all felt wrong. The more he thought about it, the more wrong it felt, and his mind was soon reeling.

He tried to marshal his thoughts. His name was… Brodae. No…? Wait… maybe? It might be Brady… He decided he’d come back to that. Age. Right, that was easy: he was, uh… 20? 30? No, wait! He was 45, definitely. Had his kid at 28.

Wait, kid? Since when did he have a- oh, right, Porter! Good kid, made his old man proud in and out of the gym. But why couldn’t he shake the feeling Porter was his older brother? Shit… why was he so sure Porter was from his ex-wife Sheila? He tried to remember, and all that came to mind was a hard-fought custody battle, winning sole parental rights when Porter turned six… then Porter, himself, and his then-boyfriend Alan going out for a celebratory pizza.

Porter had eaten until he’d gotten a tummy ache and Alan had held him all night long. Brodae chuckled at the memory, and gasped when he realized how deep his voice was. Loud and booming like a foghorn. It felt wrong. But why? WHY!?

“Nothing makes sense anymore!” Brodae snarled, rubbing his bald head. Wait, when did he lose his hair? He had a full head of it… well, wait, he did, up until two years ago when Alan… oh. Oh, god, how could he forget his husband getting cancer? Brodae had shaved his head in solidarity once the chemo started, and kept doing it even after… after Alan had passed away. He and Porter still had nightmares about it sometimes…

Brodae sat back, rubbing his eyes as they watered. It still hurt. It still didn’t feel entirely real. Had it really happened? He shook his head. Even if it wasn’t real, which he was sure it was, he couldn’t waste anymore tears on it. Moving forward. That’s what he had to do. No doubt he’d meet someone with as good as he looked! Wait, how did he look?

The titan staggered to the mirror and gaped at his reflection in shock. Why did he have some kid’s face!?

He moved his hands back up to run them over his smooth head. This gesture pushed his pecs up against his chin, smushed his deltoids against his cheeks, and exposed his furry pits. Another shot of cum splattered over the mirror and onto the floor. He had two voices in his head and both told him he wasn’t supposed to look like this. One was talking about his body – the hundreds of pounds of muscle – and the other was talking about the smooth baby face on top of that mountain of virility.

He and Porter had both gotten so much bigger after Alan died. They’d taken their grief out on the gym. They still cried together, sometimes – Porter had come into Brodae’s bedroom just last week in the middle of the night, his handsome face wet with tears like a child’s, and he’d spent the night in Brodae’s embrace. They hadn’t mentioned it since. Brodae knew his boy wanted to be a strong man, but even strong men just needed to let it out now and then.

“M-Mister Arnell?” Freddie’s voice was on the other side of the door. “The TV’s here…”

Brodae opened the door, his naked body on full display. Freddie took a nervous step back. “I’m sorry, sir-”

“Don’t apologize, son. Does Porter need me?”

“I don’t think so,” Freddie said, walking into the room and shutting the door behind him. “I think he’s got… everything under control…” Freddie’s nose was almost buried between Brodae’s hairy pecs.

He began kissing them. Brodae rubbed his head. “Thanks.”

“I wanna… I wanna be just like you…” Freddie gurgled between kisses. He wrapped his lips around Brodae’s nipple and sucked as the big stud guided him over to the bed.

Brodae stroked his dick and felt a rubbery texture. A condom. He pulled on Freddie’s shorts and yanked them off, and the teen fell back on the bed with a gasp, spreading his legs wide, staring up at Brodae’s angelic face, moaning and mewling with desire.

Brodae groaned back, his jaw cracking. “Fuckin’ Christ!” he swore, rubbing it. It was now comically square, and it didn’t quite fit his face at all. He began to thrust into Freddie’s hole, and the teenager moaned his appreciation. Brodae’s face continued to change.

His nose was wide and thick, jutting out and bending in the middle. Most would call it a hawk’s beak nose, but Brodae always thought of it more like an eagle’s beak. Big, majestic, and possessing impressively broad wings – just like Brodae (well, he had impressively broad lats, but the principle was similar). His lower lip plumped up a bit more than his upper one and his lower jaw jutted out a bit more, too. Combined with his heavy new brow and thick eyebrows, he’d look classically brutish if it wasn’t for his jaw and newly clefted chin. He looked downright superheroic.

His thrusting was picking up speed, and both he and Freddie were moaning and hollering fit to bring the house down. It was a wonder Porter hadn’t run in with all the noise. Finally, with a roar that would make a gorilla duck for cover, Brodae came hard into Freddie’s tight hole. He shot rope after rope of thick cum deep inside his younger lover, then collapsed onto him, bringing him in for a kiss, his thicker stubble rubbing against Freddie’s.

“This is wrong,” he rumbled, running a hand over Freddie’s hair.

“Then I don’t wanna be right,” Freddie replied. It was cheesy, and they both grinned. “I just wanna be yours, Brodan.”

“Son, you’ve been mine for a long time,” Brodan growled back, cupping the back of Freddie’s head with one hand and kissing him again.

They laid like that for a little while, just cuddling and kissing with Brodan’s enormous prick lodged in Freddie’s hole, until Porter walked in. “Dad, I- WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Brodan leapt up in surprise, pulling his dick out of Freddie so fast that the blond teen yelped. “Port!” he grunted. He’d… he’d forgotten… he was stark fucking naked…

Brodan grabbed around for something to cover himself with. He found the only piece of fabric in the room big enough to cover him – a bedsheet. As soon as he swung it around his hulking form, it tightened around him like a cocoon, stitching itself together until it had become a men’s dress shirt, the same navy blue Brodan’s sheets had been. The buttons over Brodan’s chest fell open, displaying his hairy chest, while they pulled too tight over his bulging stomach. The shirt was tucked into a pair of gray trousers with a higher waist than any pants Brodan had worn before, but since he was a man now, this was how he would dress from now on. He was even sporting a nice pair of brown wingtip shoes all of a sudden. As lines webbed out around his eyes and a pair of trendy eyeglasses fell onto his nose, he looked every inch the superheroic dad he had molded himself to be.

Porter blinked at his new father. Hadn’t he been… naked a second before? But no, that was silly… what had he and Freddie been doing…? He’d felt so embarrassed, but now that was only because he’d barged in.

“Sorry, guys,” Porter said, “I should’ve knocked.”

“S’fine. I just, uh, needed advice about something,” Freddie said, still feeling confusion over his newfound homosexuality. All he could think about was standing up and unbuttoning Mr. Arnell’s shirt and kissing him, worshiping him, sucking his enormous, porn star cock…

And he looked at Porter, and Porter had that same chin, that same beefy chest that made his shirts too tight… fuck, Porter was so hot. Had he always looked like that?

“You okay, buddy?” Brodan asked his son, with a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“The – the TV is here, they’ve set it up, you just have to sign for it.” Porter said.

“No problem,” Brodan said, walking down the stairs, opening another button on his shirt and wiping some sweat off his gleaming bald head.

“You Mister Arnell?” the deliveryman asked, dwarfed by Brodan’s immense size.

“Call me Brogan,” the bodybuilder said, his pecs vibrating a bit bigger. He took the clipboard the deliveryman offered and signed. Another button popped off of Brogan’s shirt. The titan chuckled. “Sorry about that, brother! I lose more good shirts that way.” The deliveryman muttered something about a “freak” and ducked out. Brogan smirked at that. Yeah, he was a freak, and he loved every minute of it.

Freddie and Porter entered as the door shut.

“Niiice!” Porter declared, gazing at the television like it was his new best friend. Brogan laughed, but was cut off by his text jingle before he could reply. After a quick glance, he clapped a hand to Porter’s back.

“I gotta run,” he grunted. “Work needs me. You be good while I’m gone, alright, big guy?”

“Aren’t I always?” Porter replied, before hastily adding: “Don’t answer that. Have fun at work, pops.”

“I always do. And don’t stay up all night watchin’ TV. You’ll rot your brain.” Brogan kissed his son’s forehead as Porter made token protests, then wrapped an arm around Freddie’s shoulder. “C’mon, kid.”

“Wait, what?” Freddie asked as Porter did the same.

“You wanted to be just like me, right? Well, you can start now. Besides, we should spend some quality time together, sport,” Brogan replied with a significant look, and Freddie picked up what he meant, nodding. He fell into step with Brogan and they were out the door before Porter could say any more.

They hopped into the huge emerald green F-250 in the driveway – the same color as Brogan and Porter’s eyes – and roared off. The massive DILF glanced over to Freddie as they drove. “About what happened in the bedroom…”

“It feels like a dream,” Freddie murmured.

“One of the best dreams I’ve ever had. Whatever it was, I’m happy with it happening a lot more often,” Brogan rumbled. Seeing Freddie’s face light up, he laughed. “On a couple conditions, son.”

“Name ‘em.”

“We keep it secret until next summer and you make good on becoming just like me.”

“Deal!” Freddie agreed. “I’m so excited! Like, you don’t even know, sir!”

“Simmer down, sport,” Brogan chuckled, turning out of town. Freddie looked confused and Brogan’s smile broadened. “You thought we were going to the gym, right?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“Well, tough luck. Actually, we’re starting on my other job.” The F-250 pulled into the parking lot of a brick building bearing a pink neon sign. It read “Poker in the Rear” and a man’s hand poking a woman’s shapely rear end. Below that read: “Saturday: Gay Night! Sunday: Lesbian Night!”

Freddie blinked a few times before turning to Brogan with a broad grin. “Oh, hell yeah!”

Brogan laughed and gave Freddie a deep kiss. “That’s what I like to hear, my love. Now c’mon, I’m on in 20 and you got a front row seat.”

“Sweet. Can I maybe get a private lap dance later?”

Brogan smirked at Freddie. “You have to ask?”

Well, with Tumblr deciding it knows better than consenting adults a few years ago, I figure it was high time I posted all my stories from there – and some new ones! – over here on MG. I do plan on continuing my Sean series as well, if only for the novelty of fanfiction about other series in the community. Well, that, and I have had that planned out with varying levels of detail for years now.

That said, if you enjoyed this story then like it, upvote it, or gimme some thanks. If you wanna be in my good books, maybe even give me some feedback!

Also… remember the name Harry Greco. This isn’t the last you’ll be hearing of that party.

- Trav

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The Islamic Center: Bathroom Break

A collaboration between myself and Aardvark.

This story is a sequel to his and Mad Dog’s Standing Together, which you can read here. I’d recommend reading it before this one, even if you have already, as some characters do recur. Otherwise, there are minor edits to this as well. Mostly just word choices, some sentence structure tweaks, etc.

Kurt Armstrong sighed deeply. His dad had dragged him to another one of these rallies – ones where people would shout horrible things about “the left” and even throw in some more quiet remarks about how they didn’t like black or Jewish people. Kurt didn’t understand why his dad was so hateful, or where his buddies Jimmy and Isaiah had gone. Their dads had left the group, claiming illness. Kurt remembered their faces when they’d explained to his own dad… they’d looked haunted. As if they were missing something but couldn’t for the life of them figure out what. And it was tearing them apart.

Kurt didn’t feel charitable enough to hope they found what they’d lost.

A roar of fury ran back along the crowd like the shadows on a wheatfield in a passing car. Kurt looked over, moving his blonde hair out of the way, to see two enormous Arab men stroll out of the Islamic Center, clad in some really nice suits. They always looked really well put together, Kurt thought. Tall, broad-shouldered, obviously rippling with insane muscles under the designer suits. He couldn’t understand why they garnered so much hate.

“Because they’re sand ni-” his dad had tried to explain when he’d asked earlier that day. He’d cut the last word short when another huge man shot him a death glare. It was Joseph, the nice black man who always give Kurt change for the gumball machine when his dad wasn’t looking. Nothing seemed to get Joe down, except when people said the n-word or were nasty to girls.

Joe didn’t yell when he got mad, unlike Kurt’s dad. Joe’s voice just dropped really low and got super slow and precise. Each word coming out with seemingly the full force of Joe’s huge muscles behind them. Kurt thought that was so cool. It seemed to work more often than his dad’s screaming, to be sure.

The Arab guys, he supposed, were probably like Joseph when they got mad. Though he’d never seen them angry, not even in the face of all the protesters.

The train of thought was derailed quickly, however. Kurt realized he really had to pee! He looked up and tugged on his dad’s shirt. “Pops?” he asked in his croaky little voice. His father ignored him. He tugged some more on the stained, ribbed cotton. “Dad!”

“I’m busy, Kurt! Either grab a sign and give those suicide bombers what-for or go sit on a bench and don’t talk to anyone!” his dad snapped, a demented look in his eyes.

Kurt sighed and walked to the bench. He didn’t want to carry a sign, even though he knew it would make his dad happy. First of all, it made his arms tired. Secondly, he didn’t care as much as his dad did. Protesting was all Kurt knew, but it didn’t excite him. It was just routine, even boring, at this point. The best part was seeing his friend Isaiah and running around with him, but Isaiah was nowhere to be found today. A worry entered Kurt’s mind: had Isaiah’s dad figured out that Isaiah was Muslim? He suddenly remembered that Isaiah was very devout and serious about his faith, and obviously it was the source of a lot of conflict. Kurt remembered the first time he’d seen Isaiah loosen his tie, roll up his sleeves, and get down on his knees to pray toward Mecca. He had thought he should be shocked, but instead he’d been stunned by how beautiful it was.

But this worry was short-lived, as it was replaced by a more immediate one: the fact that Kurt really needed to use the bathroom! He squirmed on the bench and kneaded his hands on top of his crotch. Maybe there was a tree he could pee behind… or a port-a-john.

He stepped tentatively off the bench, not wanting to make any sudden movements that would unleash his bladder, and looked around. The closest building was actually the Islamic Center, and with the protesters aiming their attention at the stage area where a titanic bodybuilder was speaking with a thick accent, no one was looking at the doors. Kurt kept his eyes trained on his dad’s back, making sure it never turned around… he drew closer and closer to the IC doors and, when he was sure the coast was clear, darted in.

He was worried about being inside the center – he didn’t want to see anything he wasn’t supposed to see, or get in trouble – but it was very much like being in a church, with the same quiet respect permeating the walls. Even the color schemes and decorations felt like “stock religious building.”

Kurt rounded a corner on his search for the bathroom. He didn’t want to go too far into the building and get lost, or wind up in a chapel or whatever they called their place of worship. A corridor with three closed doors and no signs didn’t seem too promising, so he walked across the lobby, noticing a sign next to the main entrance:

Board of Directors
Dr. Moussa Bel-Strom
Muhammad Adaya
Dr. Rizwan Bhatti
Dr. Kamal Hamdan
Iqbal Hassan
Hala Karam
Dr. Kurt Armstrong
Hedab Tarifi
Ali Tweini

Kurt was amused that a guy with his name was up there. He’d seen Kurt Armstrongs before – it was hardly a rare name – but it sure stood out among all the Arab names. He actually found himself thinking about Dr. Moussa Bel-Strom’s name more… something about it seemed familiar… but he’d misread. The sign actually said “Dr. Moussa el-Sala,” and Kurt was not at all familiar with that name. Wait, Kurt? His name was Kurq. Everyone always commented on how unique it was.

He was, however, familiar with the feeling that he was about to pee his pants. Luckily, the sign had brought him right to the bathroom, which was immediately next to it. He darted through the double doors, failing to notice that the sign had added a single symbol: a hyphen. “Dr. Kurq Ar-mstrong.”

As he made his way down the hallway beyond the double doors, Kurq began to feel very hot. It was strange, as this part of the building wasn’t being heated. Why would it be? It was an Indian summer – 75 degrees in mid-October. His dad had been complaining about it on the way in, which had quickly transitioned into a rant about “those fucking libtards and their Chinese global warming conspiracy bullshit” and Kurq had tuned out. Ugly thoughts from an ugly man with an ugly heart, something inside him said… though he didn’t recognize the voice.

The end of the hall revealed the bathroom, and Kurt glanced between the signs. “Men” was hung on the left door, so he ducked inside… before backpedaling out. This sign was in Arabic. Kurq could read the sign despite never even having been taught. His brow furrowed and he ducked into the bathroom, trying to rationalize it away. Must be the heat. Or maybe it was a trick sign? Kurq gave a low whine, partly out of anxiety regarding what his dad would do if he found out, and partly because he needed to pee like nobody’s business!

A low grunt emanated from the last stall and Kurq froze. Several moments later, a contented sigh followed it and the toilet flushed. One of the giant Arab bodybuilders who ran the Center stepped out. Kurq saw him tuck his massive, hooded dick back into his dress pants and gaped. That was mostly soft and was still almost a foot long, a prominent vein visible along its top. The man zipped up and Kurq looked away. Then a massive paw was on his shoulder.

“How much did you see?” the man asked in deeply-accented English.

“N-Nothing.” Kurq resolutely refused to look at the man, despite a tingling sensation spreading down from his shoulder across his body.

“I apologize all the same,” the man rumbled. “I… could not control my urges. I shall leave. Once again, my sincerest apologies, doctor.” And the titan walked out, not washing his hands.

Oh well, Kurq thought, Rizwan had hand sanitizer in his office and- wait, the man hadn’t introduced himself. How did Kurt know his name? The young man shook his head, not noticing the thicker, more black hair. He charged into the nearest stall and undid his fly. Unfortunately, as he went to drain his bladder, all he ended up doing was letting out a low moan and shooting rope after rope of jizz across the stall. It splattered on the toilet, the walls, the floor, everywhere. His hand pumped and pumped until there was none left, letting out groan after pleased groan. By Allah, he loved being so virile!

Kurqa was panting now, following the minute it took to relieve himself. He’d gone too long without emptying his mighty sack – and goodness, was it ever a beautiful sight! Two grapefruit-sized nuts hung between his legs, coated in wiry black hair and shiny with sweat. His dick, nowhere near as big as Rizwan’s, but a respectable nine inches, bobbed and throbbed in the air, veins pulsing and foreskin drooping over even at nearly full mast. He… wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. It looked comically enormous on him. Kurq swallowed heavily, the unmistakable musky odor of cum filling his nostrils. He’d have to call Shams al-Din, the one janitor who understood how massive his orgasms were. Wait, how did he know that? Distressed, Kurqa decided it was high time to get out of here.

With considerable effort, Kurqa stuffed the entirety of his enormous crotch down the front of his shorts. His testicles had to be tucked between his thighs, and his shaft was as unmistakable through the fabric as the scent of his seed was in the air, but at least he was able to zip up. He took a couple steps and felt his nuts rolling against his legs. It felt so off. Made him walk kind of funny.

Kurqa washed his hands carefully. While he was toweling them off, he noticed something strange: black streaks in his blonde hair. Some areas only had a few black strands, others had dozens that made a stripe. He must have walked under something – gotten dirty – he shook his head, but the black didn’t flake off like he had hoped. It was like his hair had been dyed. Kurqa put a hand on top of his head and tugged a little, and even with minimal force, a clump of black came out. He smiled, glad that it was so easily removable, and threw the hair in the trash as a bald spot spread over the back of his head – an odd look for someone so young. Kurq didn’t see it as his hair was still long enough to mostly cover up the spot, which was about the size of a cookie.

His balls radiated warmth between his legs. Kurt stuck his hand down his shorts and scratched crudely at the damp pubes. He hoped this wouldn’t give him yet another erection, but his rebound time was the stuff of legend, even at his age. His bush was fluffy and full, the only hair on his body, which made it feel strange and foreign to him. Sometimes he joked that he didn’t need underwear at all, that his pubic hair was so thick it was like a pair of built-in briefs.

Did he joke about that? It didn’t seem like something he’d joke about. But he sure had the bush for it.

On the little shelf above the sink was a pair of eyeglasses. Kurqa grabbed them to take to Rizwan, but curiosity got the best of him and he tried them on, just to see how blind Rizwan was. To Kurqa’s surprise, the world suddenly snapped into extreme clarity. He hadn’t even known he’d needed glasses, but when he experimentally slipped them off, then back on, then off, then on, it was obvious how blurry the world was without them. He hoped these weren’t Rizwan’s, because he needed them himself. And, thankfully, they looked good on him. Thick tortoiseshell frames that perched nicely on the bridge of his button nose. Amazingly, they actually made him look smarter. He even sort of felt smarter. He wanted to go outside, talk to his dad, maybe have a little debate about what the point of the protest was and what it was achieving. But he knew that would just get his butt whooped. So would wearing glasses like a nerd, most likely, but Kurqa could barely see without them so he would just have to live with it.

He walked out of the bathroom, constantly adjusting the massive cock straining at his shorts. It made him feel self-conscious, and he didn’t want to go outside looking so lewd. He’d hang out in the center for a bit until he deflated, he decided.

Kurqa strolled down the hall, massive bulge bouncing in front of him like it didn’t have a care in the world. It felt like he was starting to slouch, it was so large. He tried to fix his posture a little, and bent back to crack his spine. With two loud pops, he straightened back up. He barely noticed the extra foot he’d added to his 5’8” frame. Really, the broad shoulders didn’t even factor into his worldview, either, until he had to turn sideways to make it through the door into an empty office.

The interior was really very nice. Walnut-paneled walls with matching cranberry-colored carpet. Bookshelves on the right wall, going right back to the opposite wall alongside window. Another shelf sat on the other side of the window, this one filled more with knick-knacks, awards, and photographs. Kurqat loved it. He felt right at home; and why shouldn’t he? After all, he’d designed the place.

When he’d done that he had no idea, but he was positive he’d done it. His dad would be… well, his father wouldn’t be proud. He, Jimmy, and Isaiah’s devout Islamic faith infuriated their fathers to no end. But Kurqat was sure that if they could just talk, that everything could be resolved. He’d trained for this.

He sat down in the chair behind the impressively-ornate desk. Steepling his fingers, he leaned back, chair creaking as his contemplation began. He could hear the dull roar of the protesters screaming at Muhammad and Hedab outside and pondered how to get through to them.

As he pondered, hair began to sprout across his torso. It was the same as the thick, wiry hair of purest ebony that even now was growing ever-bushier at his crotch. Kurqat grunted, bringing a hand up to itch his chest, only to have it disappear into what could pass for a shag rug. He swore loudly in Arabic and jumped up, racking his brain for when he could have possibly learned that word. Or, for that matter, when he’d had carpeting installed on his chest. His… oh. His expanding, obscenely muscular chest.

Kurqat looked down at his t-shirt. The front was bubbling up, like there was air behind it. It reminded him of when he put his t-shirt over an oscillating fan and giggled as it blew the front up. He wasn’t giggling now. Under his eyeglasses, his eyes were wide, his mouth dropped open in shock. Touching his fingers against the front of his shirt felt like he was touching a stone wall. Two shapes rose up in front of him, pulling down the collar of his t-shirt, black hair pouring out like a cravat. Kurqat pulled his elbows back and grimaced – his nipples were poking like the tops of baby bottles against his shirt fabric, and with a loud crack, his chest heaved out further, growing barrel-shaped, reshaping his entire torso. He was going to need all new clothes – his father was going to kill him. Already, his t-shirt was ripping to shreds as his pecs grew and grew, first as big as melons, then basketballs, bursting into prominence as they broadened practically to the width of the desk.

“Help!” Kurqat yelped as fabric rained down. The striations of his muscled tits were like stripes over the tops of the muscles. His hairy skin was hot to the touch, and he could barely move without falling over because he was ludicrously top heavy. He was never going to be able to hide this, being as wide as three men, with an enormous bust that would smash shirt buttons and defy containment. He’d never be able to wear a t-shirt again. Maybe tank tops, polos, but mostly button-down shirts with most of the buttons open.

Kurqat groaned as his legs began to inch upwards and outwards, as if they were being inflated like balloons. His calves were the first to finish, jutting out from the backs of his lower legs in massive teardrops. The term “thunder thighs” came to mind upon seeing his upper legs. It was honestly a wonder his quads didn’t squish his cock and balls, as massive as they were. Shurqat had to waddle, swinging one leg in front of the other, giant package bouncing obscenely in front. Few knew how much he adored it, being this massive.

Shurqat stopped, realizing he hadn’t even noticed his shorts and briefs shredding. He was totally naked now. The only things left that were still… uh… himself were his arms, stomach, and butt. As he thought this, his ass exploded outwards with two audible pops. The massive man yelped, clapping his hands to his ass. Two beach ball-sized, hair-coated orbs greeted them.

“I just wanna go back to normal!” Shurqat whimpered. He sat back in his chair, shutting his eyes and trying not to cry, wiping away his tears with his hands. He stopped after a moment and opened his eyes again. Big, burly hands, the backs of which sported that same wiry black hair, were damp with his tears. “NO! BY ALLAH, NO!

As he was reaching to wipe his cheeks, his arms cramped violently and flew outward from his body. He felt his skin stretching and his eyes flicked to his left bicep, which was bulging straight up toward the ceiling as it formed into a mountainous peak. Below it, Shurqat’s tricep stretched toward the floor, his arm inflating to gargantuan size – required size, to make his big mitts look properly proportioned. His right fist cracked into the top of the desk as the same growth rocketed up his right arm, growing far, far larger than his father’s, which was Shurqat’s main point of comparison. His nervous eyes traversed along the trail of his body hair – it fluffed out from under his beefy arms, made a sweater over his chest, and even covered his shoulders and back.

The poor young man whimpered nervously as he looked over his beastly mass, covered in fur and hundreds of pounds of muscle. Cum dribbled from the tip of his dick. He didn’t know what to do, or how to get out of here… and he was naked as a jaybird. The first order of business was finding clothes.

Piled messily on the floor, right where his t-shirt and shorts had exploded into bits, were two piles of fabric. Shurqat picked one up. The fabric was shiny and dark blue – a pair of pants. With palpable relief, Shurqat stepped into them, hoping to Allah that they fit. He didn’t bother with underwear, didn’t even think of it – but he had to smile when the blue suit trousers slid up his huge thighs and glided over his massive, hairy ass. They fit!

Shurqat grabbed the white pile of fabric. It also had a sheen to it, and he realized it was a nice shirt. He slid it over his huge shoulders and grinned when he felt the seams hug his back in the right spot, over the six-foot breadth of his lats. Shurqat buttoned up three buttons, but the fourth wouldn’t connect over his chest, so he left the rest open, baring his hairy pecs for all to see. At least some of his torso was covered, though, he thought as he tucked his shirt in and buckled his belt.

A small mirror hidden in the drawer was all he had to make sure he looked alright. He needed to find shoes, but at least his dick was put away now. And his face was unchanged, for the most part. It was his head on the body of a 6’8” bodybuilder. The smoothness of his ruddy cheeks and young, moon-shaped face looked bizarre on top of his torso, with its gentleman’s white shirt half open to expose the biggest, hairiest chest in town. Shurqat practiced a smile. Maybe his dad wouldn’t notice, he thought. If he just sat in the back seat on the way home and kept his head down, he might be able to get away with it.

He turned to leave, thinking he could sneak out the back and rejoin the protest from behind. Yeah, that would work! It would totally- oh, hell. A handsome young man about his height was just across the threshold, looking concerned.

“Doctor el-Sayed, is everything okay?” he asked in Arabic. Shurfaqat understood him perfectly.

“I’m… fine, yes,” the jumbled-up man replied. “Uh, Houssam-” He didn’t know why he knew the name, but he did nonetheless. He knew Houssam to be trustworthy and, indeed, beloved. “Come in.”

Houssam nodded, stepping inside and turning to lock the door. Shurfaqat grinned at the sight of the younger man’s pert ass in his khakis. The other man noticed and grinned back. “Now listen, just because you’re my father’s age doesn’t give you free reign to inspect me like a piece of meat, sweetheart.”

Darling? Why was he calling Shurfaqat sweetheart? And yet… he knew that was right. He and Houssam had been involved for some time now, despite the age gap. Jimmy had been furious when he’d found out, but they’d smoothed it over somehow. Jimmy? Wait, Moussa? Yes, Moussa. He grinned at the younger man, soon looking down at him from a vantage point of nearly seven-and-a-half feet. His muscles responded in kind, expanding even further.

His gut, left out of the action, ballooned out quickly in comparison, solid as a rock and cobbled by powerful abs. A ten-pack. Shufaqat rubbed it proudly. His face was almost left out, too, but soon picked up the slack with a powerful jawline that could break solid stone, a cleft chin, and a proud nose that stuck out like a beak. Slight worry lines formed on his forehead, crows’ feet by his eyes, and the beginnings of bags below. The jawline was soon consumed by a massive beard that cascaded down a solid foot. Shufaqat’s upper lip vanished behind a thick moustache.

A momentary wave of panic flooded the man, but then Houssam leaned up for a kiss. In an instant, all worries left him. He kissed back passionately, wrapping his young lover in his massive arms, dipping Houssam back.

“I love you so much,” he rumbled, again in Arabic.

“I love you more,” Houssam replied, a grin playing at his mouth. As if these were the magic words, Shufaqat’s cock sprouted even further. It was soft for now at 9 inches, but he knew when it was erect, it’d clock in at 18-and-a-half inches. Houssam had measured it one night. Shufaqat had thought it rather silly, but had indulged his husband.

Shufaqat felt his husband’s hand on his belly. “They are about to burst,” he laughed, as Houssam’s fingers glided over his shirt buttons. “Why did you come in, again?”

“I heard crying. I thought you were upset about something.”

“Oh.” Shufaqat suddenly remembered – yes, he had been crying. He couldn’t recall about what. Something about his father… he had been worried… he could remember the tears rolling down his cheeks, which puzzled him, as he had a huge beard now that should have absorbed them. And besides, his father was long since departed.

He turned to get his suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, and he noticed a picture on his desk. Two little blond white boys. Kurt and Jimmy, their names were, standing there in their t-shirts and shorts, grinning arm and arm. Shufaqat recognized them – he leaned in, took off his glasses, and inspected the picture. He watched as their t-shirts turned into dress shirts, as their shorts lengthened into suit pants, and the pair stretched up very tall. Their hair turned black, and beards grew. There were two men in the frame now – Shufaqat had somehow anticipated this – and as their frames blew out into enormous size, Shafaqat realized it was a picture of him and his dear friend Moussa, a few years ago. It had been taken the day of the Center’s breaking ground ceremony. There had been protesters that day too. Shafaqat paid them little mind.

“What are you looking at?” Houssam asked.

Shafaqat put his glasses back on and grabbed his suit coat off the chair. “Oh, I thought I saw a stain on a picture,” he said with a smile, “but thankfully I was wrong. No need to worry, my darling.”

The titan gave his beloved husband a peck on the cheek and let him walk out of the office door first. Shafaqat turned out the light, did one last check of the room to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, then pulled the door shut behind him.

Thanks for reading!

As always, if you enjoyed this story then like it, upvote it, or gimme some thanks. If you really want to make me happy, maybe even give me some feedback!

Until next time, take care!

- Trav

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That first story was incredibly good. Everyone got their wish and then some more.

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Road Trip

Another collaboration between myself and Aardvark.

I have quite a few of these, so bear with me! Again, the story has been edited.

“Remember, guys, we gotta eat fast,” Maurice Pataki said aloud as he piloted the family minivan into a parking space. “We need to make good time so that we-”

“-don’t hit St. Louis at rush hour,” said every other occupant of the car in unison.

“That’s right.”

Maurice hopped out of the car and slammed the door shut. Behind him, in the backseat, his sons Vince and Braden were fighting over who would open their door. Just like they fought over everything. Braden had reached for the handle but Vince had knocked his hand away and opened the door himself, before Braden pushed it shut again from the inside and made an ill-advised attempt at wrestling Vince, who was three years older and had the size to match.

“Guys,” Maurice said, wrenching the door open himself, causing both boys to spill out. “Chill out. I know you’ve been stuck back there a while but cool it.”

“He started it!” Braden whined.

“Don’t care. You want Burger King?”

“I dunno,” Braden shrugged, keeping a few steps behind his family as they trudged into the state welcome center.

“Well, they’ve got Burger King, Starbucks, Sbarro, or Panda Express. And you’re not having Starbucks again,” Shoshannah informed him. They all remembered what had happened the last time Braden had had Starbucks and still got strange looks from their neighbors. Vince snickered. Braden elbowed him, and was shoved for his trouble. “Vincent Michael, if you do that to your brother again, I swear to God you will spend the rest of the trip in the hotel room.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I can, and your father will back me up.” Maurice, for his part, decided to simply look away and gesture to the Panda Express.

“Hey, buddy, they got your favorite over at Panda, I think,” he said.

Braden perked up at that. “Shanghai Angus?” He smiled at the $10 bill his father handed him, said a quick thanks, and bounded over to the line. Vince, wanting to get something at least reasonably healthy to stay in shape for college wrestling, followed. He was still fuming.

“Y’know, when mom and dad find out what a little fag you really are, then they’ll kick you out,” he muttered.

Braden smiled sweetly at his brother. “If I’m the fag, then why was the daddy porn in your search history?”

Vince growled, shoving Braden up against the wall. “You shut the fuck up!” he hissed. The staff were staring, but no one made a move to help.

“Hey!” came a booming bass. “You leave him alone!” Coming towards them across the truck stop was the biggest man Braden or Vince had ever laid eyes on. He looked as wide as he was tall, with muscles that would make Mr. Olympia green with envy. The titan’s skin was a pleasing tan, and his features identified him as Filipino.

Vince dropped Braden to the ground and took two uncertain steps back, head tilting back to look at the man’s face over the monstrous pec shelf. “Wh-Who the fuck are you?”

“Name’s Kai,” the bodybuilder grunted. “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to rough him up?”

“H-His-” The words died in Vince’s throat. He was now painfully hard, looking at Kai. A red blush flooded his cheeks, and he took off running so people wouldn’t notice his erection. Kai watched him go, snorting dismissively.

“What a punk,” he remarked, before turning back to Braden, who was still on the floor. His face was level with Kai’s enormous package. Kai grinned and offered one of his enormous hands. “Here, lemme help you up.”

Once Braden was upright, Kai stood close to him throughout their time in line and made pleasant conversation about nothing in particular. Braden didn’t mind this at all. If Vince came back – though it was doubtful he would – Braden had protection. Kai ordered himself two bigger plates – an enormous amount of food – then insisted he pay for Braden’s meal, too. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks,” Braden replied. “Uh, well, I’d better find my mom and dad. Thanks, Kai.”

“Don’t mention it. Though, hey, you’re still giving me a ride later, right?”

Braden blinked quizzically. “Excuse me?”

“A ride? You said, and I quote, ‘A handsome boy like yerself is more’n welcome in my rig.’ It’s cool if you forgot. See you over there in, say, a half-hour.” And Kai walked off to another table, leaving Braden very confused and more than a little weirded out. Kai had never seemed hostile, or even unfriendly, but the fact that he expected something from Braden for saving his butt made Braden feel uncomfortable. As he spotted his parents and hustled over to them, Braden resolved to not leave their sides until the family was on the road again.

“No drink?” Shoshannah asked as Braden set his tray on the table.

“Oh. I guess I… I forgot one. No big deal, I’m not that thirsty.”

“Where’s Vince?”

“He ran off somewhere,” Braden said, snickering internally at it being the truth. “Guess he had to pee or something.” Then he paused, considering the repercussions of what he was planning to say. He went for cliffs notes version instead of the full story: “He was picking on me and this huge guy told him to stop, so I guess he got embarrassed.”

“Huge guy?”

“This huuuge Asian guy,” Braden said, puffing out his cheeks and spreading his arms wide, in an impression of extreme muscularity. “His arms were seriously like… twice as big as yours, Dad. Anyway, he told Vince to knock it off, Vince left, and then I guess this guy thought I had a car or something and he asked me for a ride.”

“A ride?”


His parents exchanged a salient look. “What did you say?” Shoshannah said.

“I said I can’t drive, I don’t even have a license yet,” Braden lied, “and then he just smiled and left. It was no big deal. I wasn’t scared.” He took a bite of rice at the end of this sentence, spotting Vince approaching in the distance. “Don’t tell Vince I told you anything,” he said to his parents.

“We’ll talk about it later then,” Maurice said, which Braden felt might actually be worse. But he would just eat his food and stick close to his parents for now.

Vince huffed back up to the table, still a bit red, and desperately trying to play it cool. He leered at Braden across the table. Maurice glanced over and gestured down with his head. “Son, your fly?”

“Shit!” Vince hastily zipped up.

“Language,” Shoshannah admonished. “Now, go get something to eat.”

“M’not hungry.”

“Nonsense. We’re not eating again until after 7. Go get something.”

“Fine.” Vince got up, and as he did so, he noticed Braden’s arms and snorted derisively. “Oh look, the twerp finally hit puberty and all he got out of it was nasty-ass gorilla arms. Lucky, lucky.”

“Vincent, I just said-”

“Alright, sorry, mom.”

Braden looked down as Vince hustled away and nearly spit his sweetfire chicken over the table. “Wh-What the-!?”

Thick black hair coated his slender arms. It was wiry and had the occasional grey streak mixed in. Braden gulped. Maybe it was a trick? Some of this was longer than the hair on his head, which wasn’t that long, admittedly, but… still. This was excessive! He tugged at it, and hissed at the sharp pain it elicited. “M-Mom? Dad? What’s going on? When did this happen?”

Maurice looked over. “What do you mean, kiddo?”

“The hair!”

“Oh, sweetie, there’s some grey in there,” Shoshannah remarked. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’ll be fine. We’ll take you to Dr. Ahmad when we get back home.”

They didn’t understand at all! Why did they think this much hair on his arms was normal? Well, he reasoned, surely Dr. Ahmad would see this was not normal. You didn’t become a general practitioner or whatever he was without knowing that, right? Right! It was probably just some kind of hormonal imbalance…

Braden stood up from the table. “I’m, uh, gonna… be right back.” He stood up – then remembered that he didn’t want Kai to find him and pester him for a ride again. So, to cover his odd behavior, he just walked to the condiments area and grabbed more napkins. He used one to scratch at his hairy arms. He thought back to the car ride – he’d been playing on his Nintendo Switch and had been looking at his hands that entire time, and he couldn’t remember their backs being covered with swirls of black hair.

The only thing that made him feel somewhat okay was that he knew Vince was probably jealous. A quick glance to the table confirmed he was back. He had peeked back over to Braden, covertly inspecting his younger brother before Braden turned around.

Braden sat back down and resumed eating. “You guys think I have time to buy something before we leave?”

“Buy something? What do you want to buy?”

“Maybe a sweatshirt.”

“Braden,” his mom sighed, “you don’t need to be so self-conscious about your arms. Nobody cares but you.”

Braden looked at the salt-and-pepper pelt on his left forearm. He wondered if maybe people SHOULD care. “I just meant…” he started to say, intending to lie and say he just wanted a souvenir, but he knew the jig was up. He plopped his legs outward as he slumped in his chair.

“Ow!” Vince barked. “Don’t kick me!”


His mom looked under the table. “Braden, stand up.”


“Up, up!” She gestured with her hands. “You too, Vince.”

Vince and Braden looked at each other, then they both stood up.

“Stand back to back. Maurice! Look, look!” Shoshannah’s voice was filled with delight.

“Well I’ll be!” Maurice exclaimed. “They’re the same height!”

Braden heard this and felt his stomach drop. He knew that Vince was experiencing the same feeling. The brothers turned and looked at each other, right in the eyes. They were exactly the same height. Braden took a step back and looked at the ground, feeling gawky and awkward, and not wanting to trigger Vince’s anger.

Maurice was less tactful. “The doctors did tell us they thought Braden would eventually be taller, right Shosh?”

Vince, for his part, didn’t look angry. On the contrary, he looked as though he’d seen a ghost. Confused, and a little frightened – mostly, Braden hypothesized, because he was now poised to give Vince a run for his money in the size category.

The brothers took their seats once more. Vince kept stealing surreptitious glances at Braden, who found himself smirking in spite of the fear roiling in his gut. Wait, was that fear? He wasn’t so sure now, but didn’t let it get to him. His feet felt constricted in his shoes, which he felt was a more pressing matter.

Grunts of displeasure left him, and he wriggled his toes around, trying to get comfortable. Then, with two loud rips, his feet tore free of their prisons. Braden felt the air hit them and let out a content sigh. Much better. Glancing down, he saw they were now enormous, hairy things, with toes like fat sausages. Probably around size 16. They were, he thought, rather attractive. After all, didn’t men with big feet have big-

And then his dick began to reel out like a firehose. Braden could see Vince at the opposite end of the table, looking down at him, jaw dropped and what must have been the most confused boner in the history of boners. Braden didn’t know what came over him, but he winked at Vince, flashing him a grin. Vince bit his lip, watching Braden’s nuts swell and dick grow longer and longer. Neither of their parents had reacted in the slightest, and they both knew now that it would be futile to point the odd changes out. They were the only ones aware of the changes to reality.

“What the actual fuck?” Vince mouthed. Braden just shrugged. He didn’t want to be lewd, so he covered his bulge with one of the napkins he’d retrieved. His parents didn’t seem to be noticing, though he knew it would be sort of weird if they’d been staring at his twig and berries anyway.

Braden wanted to smooth things over. He could feel the awkwardness and as the youngest kid, he always felt it was his job to diffuse. He opened his mouth to ask his mom a question about what TV they could watch that night – but instead, he burped. Loudly. There was a screech as the table was thrust back toward Vince, who cried out as his meal splattered over his shirt.

Braden leapt up and felt something fall out of his lap. He instinctively reached to grab it and found his hand smacking against a small, hard bulge in his abdomen. As Vince and their parents all tried to pick up Vince’s food, Braden was standing and lifting up the bottom of his t-shirt, staring at his small, round belly. He had never had one of those before. Barely an ounce of fat, in fact. And this still wasn’t terribly noticeable – in fact, if his t-shirt rested naturally, you could barely see the round stomach holding the fabric out – but it was more of a belly than Braden had ever had. About the size of half of a basketball, and just as hard. It had erupted outward with enough force to shake the table before settling back down. “Sorry!” Braden said, lurching forward and having to adjust his walk to compensate for the extra few pounds in his midsection. He extended his hairy hand to Vince, who took it.

“What the hell was that?!” Vince said angrily, staring directly into Braden’s eyes.

“I didn’t mean to,” Braden insisted, as his mom toweled off Vince’s t-shirt. “Sit right there, I’ll… I’ll get you a replacement.” He went back on his promise to stay with his parents the whole time. He didn’t want them to see that he’d suddenly put on a few pounds anyway. He didn’t want anyone to see, really… he held his hands over his protruding stomach as he walked back to Panda Express, debating the whole time whether he disliked his hairy arms or his food baby more. He could only hide one, at least until he went to the store and got a sweatshirt.

Once he picked up the replacement Panda Express, he turned to return to his family. He looked up, and there was Kai. Braden froze.

“Brayde,” Kai greeted, smiling and waving. Brayde waved back. Wait… wasn’t there an N on the end of his name? His brow furrowed; he honestly couldn’t remember. His arm looked different when he put it back at his side. Both of them did. Muscle had bubbled up under the skin, leaving it taught and vascular. Vince had a decent physique, Brayde knew, but this was a step above even his brother’s musculature. These were the arms of a welterweight bodybuilder.

How did he know that?

Something was very wrong here, and Brayde was increasingly convinced that it was Kai’s fault.

The enormous Filipino was saying something, but Brayde honestly wasn’t paying much attention anymore. He was realizing that he was only about four inches shorter than Kai, too… then, they were eye-to-eye in the span of a blink. Brayde lurched back, turning tail and running away. Kai called out for him, but Brayde did his best to shut him out.

Brayde didn’t stop until he was safely out of sight. He looked around to see he’d made a beeline for the gift shop. Well, this was as good a time as any to get Vince’s new shirt, he thought. Now what was that boy’s size?

“That boy”? Brayde shook his head. His mind felt gummed up, like gears were stuck. He couldn’t think of Vince’s size. All that was coming to mind was a 4XLT, and that was way off. He stared at the shirts, frowning at the size tags, before finally decided “fuck it” and grabbed a medium.

He slapped the $10 on the counter and exited the shop, making sure Kai was nowhere in sight. Staring at the shirt, he chuckled. “This thing would never fit me,” he remarked. “Not broad enough!” He hadn’t even noticed his shoulders expanding.

Vince certainly did, however. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Vincent!” Maurice barked. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me!?” Vince cried. “What’s wrong with Braden!? He’s turning into… into… I don’t even know!”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Brayde shrugged, playing it cool as his shoulders goosed further outward. The seams of his t-shirt were popping. As he sat down, his shoulder crashed into his dad’s side. Maurice moved to the end of the table, and Brayde moved to the center, shoulders slowly growing wider and wider until he took up the entire side of the table. His head looked tiny atop such an enormous expanse. The tears in his t-shirt collar reached to the top of his sleeves.

“What’s that there?” his dad said, pointing to the sweatshirt Brayde clutched in his hairy hand.

“What’s – oh! I almost forgot. I got this for you.” Brayde thrust the sweatshirt out to Vince, who took it. “I felt bad that I got food on you.”

“Oh.” Vince took it.

“What do you say, Vincent?” Shoshannah asked, and Vince’s cheeks burned red as she spoke to him – a college athlete – like he were a small child.

“Thanks,” Vince grumbled.

“No problem, son,” Brayde responded back, before correcting himself. “Uh, Vince. Put it on. I wanna see how it fits, I might get one for myself. My clothes ain’t… aren’t… feeling too comfortable.” He looked down at his massive, hairy feet. “And I need some shoes,” he muttered under his breath.

Vince stood up and pulled the sweatshirt over his head. He had some trouble finding the opening for his head, so Brayde stood up and helped him. The vast height disparity couldn’t be missed – Brayde was a full six inches taller than his older brother.

Vince smoothed his ruffled hair, then looked up at Brayde, wide-eyed. “You… you…” he stammered.

“Aw, I know, I’ve grown a little bit,” Brayde said, staring down at his older brother.

“No, I mean your hair-”

“I know, gorilla arms,” Brayde said, rolling his eyes.

“No, Braden, your HAIR, it’s like… it’s falling out-”

Brayde reached up and touched his scalp, and noticed a few strands of hair floating past his eyes on their way to the floor. Nervously, his fingers slid back across his head. He felt skin – far too much skin – before he got to the hair. And instead of the dense locks he was used to, he felt thin patches with plenty of space between each follicle. Like he had about one strand for every ten he had previously had. “Wuh-oh…”

“Don’t be mean to your brother, Vincent,” Maurice chimed in as the boys sat down, Brayde continuing to inspect his balding dome. “You know he’s sensitive about that.”

“About how thin his hair is?” Vince mumbled.

“Well, the hair on his head,” his dad laughed, and Brayde wheezed out a chuckle as well. He had to. Sure, he didn’t have a lot of hair left on top, but he sure did have plenty on his arms and… well, his legs too. It looked like he was wearing a nice pair of black leggings under his shorts. He had a rush of anxiety about it. He desperately wanted to shave his legs, but that was what girls did, and he weren’t no- er, wasn’t a girl.

“Are we done?” Brayde asked as he piled trash onto his empty tray, desperate to change the subject. “Think we could maybe hit the store again before we go? I wanna get me one o’ them sweatshirts.”

“I’ll come with,” Vince said. Everyone looked at him. “What? A guy can’t get a souvenir?”

Maurice gave him an odd look, as if trying to gauge if Vince was going to do something stupid to his brother. Eventually, he simply shrugged. Shoshannah waved them off without a thought, clearly a bit stressed.

Vince fell into step with Brayde. “Dude, what the actual fuck is happening to you?”

Brayde glanced down at him. “Even if I did know, son, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“You did it again!”

“Did what again?”

Vince looked uncomfortable. “You, uh, you called me son.”

Brayde blinked. “I… no. No, I didn’t. You’re hearing things.” An angry flush ruddied his cheeks. He ducked into the store, seeing that, in spite of it being a truck stop gift shop, they had fitting room. A mirror sat inside. Brayde quickly entered, and saw himself for the first time.

After a moment, he laughed. “Gawdayum, I look like a mess.” His legs, long but scrawny, stood out most to him in that moment. “How the hell am I even keeping myself up?”

As if to say “we know, right?” his legs began to inflate with muscle. His thighs exploded out so powerfully that Brayde wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d bruised each other on impact. The tattered remains of his shorts fluttered to the ground. He wanted to be frightened of the changes, but he just couldn’t. It was just so right! Thunder thighs, he decided, were a great look on him. Spreading his stance to allow for both his heavy, low-hanging basket of cockmeat and balls, plus his enormous thighs, his calves bounced out, too. Huge hams, like the ones his ma used to make for Christmas dinner. All this perfect beef, packed tight under skin covered in such thick hair that he felt pride when Vince whipped open the curtain behind him and swore.

“Jesus Christ! You’re hairier than a gorilla, bro!” he hissed, shutting the curtain.

“Thanks, son,” Brayde grunted, smiling at his little older brother over his shoulder. Vince blushed again, and Brayde laughed. “What, are you afraid I’m gonna do something weird to you?”

“I don’t know,” Vince admitted. “Nothing feels real anymore.”

“Vince, this is just… I dunno. Some weird shared hallucination. Kai spiked us with some contact drug. Who knows. It’ll pass.”

Vince stared blankly at Brayde’s broad back, watching as his brother posed in the mirror. “If this is a shared hallucination, then I should be able to change you, shouldn’t I?”

“I mean, I guess so?” Brayde shrugged, pumping up his shoulders some. “Ooh!” He began rolling his shoulders, slowly building them up and tearing his shirt’s seams to bits. After a few moments, he had a pair of massive cannonballs that flanked his small head. “Niiiice.”

As he began to flex a little more, Vince piped up again. “It’s just that, if we’re hallucinating you turning into some kind of, I dunno, grizzled bodybuilder, shouldn’t you have a better butt than that flat old thing?”

Brayde found himself propelled forward so quickly that he almost hit the mirror, barely catching himself with his hands. Vince was hollering that he had been kidding, but Brayde paid him no mind. The growing titan tilted his hips and grunted, spreading his tree trunk legs wide as his khaki shorts rode up painfully between his taint and cheeks. The shorts had reached to Brayde’s knees when he’d walked into the rest area with his family; now they looked like a pair of briefs, and they were splitting down the back as Brayde’s ass cheeks quivered and spasmed. Out bounced a thick, prominent butt, like two basketballs jostling for position, but as Brayde writhed, his ass lost its tightness and spread wider. More flesh spilled out in all directions, each pulse making the fat cheeks jiggle more, like Brayde was doing a ridiculous dance. There was a crack as Brayde’s hipbones widened and his pelvis realigned to better support his now monstrous booty, which looked less like two basketball and more like two couch cushions. All that remained of his shorts and underwear were the waistbands and a thin strip running up between his cheeks.

Vince stared in confusion at the gigantic backside of his younger brother. Brayde was scratching his butt as it got hairier. “Do me a favor, wouldja?” Brayde said over his shoulder as he struggled to hold up his huge butt. “Go an’ get me a big t-shirt an’ a big pair of shorts so I can cover alla this.”

Vince, normally not one to be cooperative, immediately obliged. He grabbed a white boys t-shirt from the bottom of the pile and a pair of khaki shorts from the back of the rack. When he returned, Brayde had removed his own shirt behind the curtain, revealing his bony chest with a small patch of black hair in the center, only two inches in diameter. “Looks dumb, huh?” he said, pointing to the little circle. “I’ll shave it off eventually.” He took the clothes from Vince. “Thanks, son. Real helpful. Let’s see here…”

Brayde pulled the t-shirt over his head and a loud rip could be heard as his head pushed through the too-small opening. A few more strands of hair detached from his scalp as it popped through. Vince noticed a button on the front of the shirt, which looked out of place – like a factory error – but the rip spread further down the center, and there were actually two more buttons below the first one, with matching holes on the other side. The entire top of the t-shirt split open and out flopped two big collar points around Brayde’s neck, which had already doubled in thickness and was widening more as he spoke to his brother in a changing voice. “Kind of a weird t-shirt, huh?” he asked his brother in an unrecognizable tenor, an octave below his high squeak from minutes before. The points of the collar were getting wider, and a plaid pattern was sneaking into the white fabric. In a matter of seconds, there were flap pockets over both sides of Brayde’s chest.

Buttons were spreading down over Brayde’s stomach as he stepped into the shorts, which got longer and longer as he shimmied his legs through. “Kinda scratchy,” he grunted, massaging his crotch as light blue spread out over the front of his new pants – not khaki at all, but denim, and rather high-waisted denim at that. There was nothing cool about Brayde’s look as he pulled his jeans high and tucked in his work shirt, allowing his small belly to push against the button of his jeans.

“You look like a farmer,” Vince said, as the new plaid of Brayde’s button-down shirt finished forming.

“I do not,” Brayde said, poking at his stomach and trying to minimize its appearance. “I dress like this every day.” And he did, to his surprise – all he could remember was opening his closet and all the plaid button-downs hanging there. Wasn’t he a t-shirt guy? No, he wore button-downs. Tucked ‘em into his jeans and left the collar and top three buttons open. He’d always done that. Brayde ran his fingers up between the open buttons of his current shirt and fluffed his chest hair. It grew thicker at his touch, spreading over his chest, curling outward, gaining some grays mixed into all the black. It rolled up to his collarbone like a built-in undershirt. “Dad’s chest ain’t this hairy is it?” Brayde said. “Looks like I’m wearin’ a sweater!” he laughed, a loud boom of a laugh, like cannonfire, nothing like how he had laughed before. His voice was morphing with each word, getting deep and ponderous, like molasses.

As he did so, his gut began to vacillate, bulging in and out. Vince stared at it incredulously, leaning in slightly until, with a final, loud “HAW”, Brayde’s gut popped outwards, hitting Vince in the face. He was immediately flung backwards, tearing the curtain off the rod. Blood was seeping from his broken nose.

“Aw, hell!” Brayde cried, almost falling over thanks to his enormous new gut. He collected Vince in his arms and dashed past the dumbstruck attendant into the restroom/shower area. Every curse in the book passed his lips as he tried to run water on the blood. Vince was keening and whimpering. “C’mon, reset! This is my hallucination, ain’t it? Ain’t it?”

It was, to Brayde’s horror, becoming evident that this was all too real.

“Please, fer the love a’ Gawd, fix this! Whoever ’r whatever is doin’ this, jus’ fix this boy!”

There was a loud crack, and Vince’s nose stopped bleeding. He stumbled back from the sink. Gingerly, he tapped his nose, and felt no pain. “Wh-What did you do?”

“Asked ‘em t’fix ya,” Brayde replied.

Vince pulled his basketball shorts out and looked down. Brayde arched an eyebrow.

“Uhhhh, Brayde, maybe next time be more specific,” Vince said, blushing. “‘Cause I didn’t have a foreskin before.”

Brayde threw his head back and laughed at that. “I think we can live with that, champ.”

Vince looked at Brayde and blinked. “I… you…”

Brayde followed his brother’s line of vision and looked down at his new belly. It was no wonder words failed Vince. They would fail most people. Standing out in front of Brayde was the most monstrous belly either boy had ever seen. It was bigger than a beach ball – almost like Brayde was pregnant with a fully grown adult. It started at the base of his chest and reached more than two feet in front of him, arriving in rooms two steps before Brayde did. His shirt had added so much fabric to accommodate it that it looked like he had a plaid tablecloth wrapped around his midsection, and even show the fabric was skintight and the buttons were puckering over its mass. The shirt was tucked into a pair of enormous men’s big and tall jeans, held up by a belt with a buckle the size of a saucer. Not that the buckle could be seen, since it was hidden on the underside of Brayde’s belly.

“You’re not supposed to have that,” Vince stammered, poking his finger into his brother’s gut. “Mom’s gonna get mad – she’s gonna make you work out.”

“I do work out!” Brayde said, his voice as low as a voice could go, deep as thunder in the distance. He ran his hands up over his gut and his fingers touched the buttons that threatened to pop at any moment. “I’ve been this big fer years, haven’t I?” It was a genuine question.

Vince shook his head. “We walked in here 30 minutes ago and you were maybe 5’4” and 100 pounds soaking wet. Brayde, you have gotten so huge that I’m pretty sure a low guess on your weight would be 400, 450.”

The man’s face bunched up, trying to think. “But… I ain’t been that size in nearly 35 years, roundabout the time I hit puberty. I mean, son, I’m 55 years old!”

Vince shook his head. “No! You’ve just turned 15 like three days ago!”

“I… fuck… m’head hurts.” Brayde shook his head, grasping it in one massive paw. “M’name is Wayne-”


“Hush now, sport! Daddy’s thinkin’!” His brain felt as though information was flying through it at warp speed, yet the actual mechanisms were deadlocked. It was so frustrating. He growled, trying to think, trying to pour all his energy into establishing his identity.

Crow’s feet tugged at the corners of his eyes, and laugh lines etched themselves into his face. His own nose cracked and went crooked, which he recognized as a poor resetting from when he’d first met… Oh, shit, how could he forget his first husband, Paul? Fucker had a mean left hook, almost as mean as he was in the sack. A low chuckle escaped him at the thought. They hadn’t been properly married, of course, times being what they were, but they’d shared a house, kids, a chocolate lab, finances… the sense of loss around the end of the 80s when it came to take Paul. He couldn’t even say that name, all these decades later. Horrible fuckin’ disease, and may Ronald Reagan burn in Hell for letting it kill all his friends.

“Brayde! Little bro!” Vince was desperate now. “Speak to me, please! Y-You can’t change! You can’t… not be my brother…” Some part of Wayne realized that his older brother, deep down, did love him. But then it was gone. And Wayne began to wonder why the hell he looked so… incomplete.

“Arms’re too small,” he grunted, flexing them. He mimed bicep curls, and the muscles engorged themselves. In a few imaginary reps, he was rocking his proper, hairy monster arms. 30” biceps, roadmapped by veins, split at the peaks. His triceps were so massive that they practically tore his sleeves. He hit a double bicep pose and grinned as his sleeves were ripped open. He tore them off, leaving him in just a vest. “Better!”

“Brayde, please!” Wayne ignored him.

“Shit, that ain’t a chest!” he growled. “Practically fuckin’ concave!”

Wayne’s spine straightened and he puffed out his furry chest with a big grin. He shut his eyes, grit his teeth – he was thinking real hard – he felt the front of his shirt bubble outward slightly, his nipples pressing against the back of the shirt pockets.

“You’re 15!” insisted the voice behind him, but Wayne was changing so quickly that the thought of NOT being a 50-year-old man was getting more unappealing by the second. He was forgetting his schooling, forgetting about video games, his favorite movies, and the more he forgot, the bigger his chest grew. Already big enough to render shirt buttons useless, it was now reaching to far bigger levels. The pecs lurched outward further and further until gravity took its toll and pulled them down to rest on top of his high belly, making his torso prominent as a battering ram.

Tiny nipples disappeared with two pops, replaced by fat, suckable, wine cork-sized ones. The pecs gave another great heave, leaving the gut pushing out only a few scant inches, and settled. The fur on them seemed to poof out just a little more, and thick stubble coated his jaw. Wayne grunted happily. His cock was harder than it had ever been, or so he thought. He looked around, and saw a cute kid – jailbait, probably not long out of high school – standing behind him, tears in his eyes. The old trucker laughed.

“I know, I know,” he drawled. “Big ol’ fucker like me’s a sight fer sore eyes, ain’t he?” He swaggered forward, and the kid took two steps back. “What? Ain’t lookin’ fer action, cutie?” The kid’s eyes widened, horrified, and he shook his head.

“I… I…” The kid was about to break down. Wayne’s paternal instincts kicked in; he didn’t raise six kids and not know what to do in this situation.

“Hey, hey now,” he rumbled, kneeling down slightly to better get on the boy’s level. “Sorry ‘bout that, son. Misread the situation! Why don’tcha tell ol’ Wayne whassamatter, huh?”

The kid gulped, his eyes looking all around as if trying to find the right words. “I, uh, lost my brother recently,” he bit out. It was like a part of him died with every syllable. Wayne’s heart broke.

“Good Gawd,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry, sport. Was… was it quick?”

An almost hysterical-sounding sob met the question. “It… it took about a half-hour, then he… I was such a douche to you- er, him. I’m just so sorry!” He broke down crying on Wayne’s hairy cannonball of a shoulder, wrapping his arms around the daddy’s burly neck. Wayne hugged him tight and rubbed his back soothingly.

“Shhh, shhh,” he intoned. “Everything’s okay, son. What’s yer name?”


“Vince, I’m sure that yer lil’ brother, wherever he is, loves ya. More than anythin’. He’s in a better place now.”

Vince gave a little hiccup and pulled away. “Th-Thanks. But…” He looked Wayne in the eyes. “I never said he was my little brother.”

For a moment, there was a pause as pregnant as Wayne’s gut looked. “I… uh… sorry, Vince. I gotta go.” He stood back up to his full height, and began to turn away as Vince’s sobs began anew. Something inside him told him not to, and he listened. The massive dad put a hand on Vince’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “Gimme yer phone. Don’t ask why, jus’ do it, awright?”


Somehow, Wayne knew the unlock code, which he had no Earthly right to anymore. Vince didn’t seem surprised. Wayne put his phone number in, snapped a quick contact photo that barely fit in the small frame, and handed the phone back to Vince. “If ya ever need to talk, or need me to, I dunno, come runnin’, y’call me, ya hear? I didn’t raise six boys fer nothin’.”

Vince nodded, leaning in and giving Wayne a tight hug. Wayne returned it and, in that moment, felt like he’d done something more right than he could ever truly know.

“I’m thinkin’ ‘bout retirin’, anyway. M’husband, er… late husband, Paul, he was from Freeport, up in New York State. I was gonna head up there. Ever been?”

Vince gave a small smile. “Just graduated from their high school, actually.”

Wayne laughed at that. “Small world! Hey, why don’t I call ya when I’m all moved in an’ y’can c’mon over fer dinner!”

“I’d like that a lot.”

Wayne’s phone buzzed. He was going to be late to his next delivery if he didn’t hustle. Tucking it away in his cleavage, he patted Vince on the back. “Vince, I gotta run. But remember, your brother will always love ya, no matter where he is. Now be safe, an’ don’t forget t’text me. Take care now, son.”

“You too,” Vince said as the big man walked out. “…Braden.”

Kai was waiting by Wayne’s big rig when the massive daddy stomped out. The burly trucker grinned at him and greeted him with a hug and a just-the-right-side-of-lewd kiss. “Howdy.”

“Hey,” Kai replied. “So, we’re ready to hit the road?”

“Sure are,” Wayne confirmed, hopping into the cab. Kai followed suit and they were soon underway. He could feel Kai’s eyes on his massive erection.

“So, about my payment?” the bodybuilder asked, licking his lips. Wayne grinned at him.

“Take a wild guess, son.”

Wayne had to give it to the kid, it was one of the best blowjobs he’d ever had. Paul had been right, all those years ago. It did always paid to be a good samaritan.

Thanks for reading!

Remember, if you enjoyed this story then like it, upvote it, or gimme some thanks. Maybe even give me some feedback?

Until next time, take care!

- Trav

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I love your guys morphing into muscle freaks with monster cocks. 

I’d like them to be also more dominant and quite aggressive while fucking their friends. Good job!

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13 minutes ago, Toro said:

I love your guys morphing into muscle freaks with monster cocks. 

I’d like them to be also more dominant and quite aggressive while fucking their friends. Good job!

Well, I would do more of that, but remember these are collaborations written a few years ago. I wanted to go further, but Aardvark never seemed interested in going that far. Once I get to my own material, we'll probably see more along those lines. :)

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Men at Work

Yet another collaboration between myself and Aardvark.

This story, like the others, has been edited.

Francis Daly had mixed feelings about his twenty-first birthday.

It wasn’t about being able to drink legally. No, that was just fine. Stupendous, in fact. The four glasses of jaeger that sat drained before him on the table proved that quite ably. O’Malley’s Bar and Grille was never short on this, no sir!

The problem, to Francis’s sensibilities, was the simple fact that he was getting old. Legal drinking age now. In a flash, he’d be 30. Married to his girlfriend Molly, most likely, with two or three kids. Then after that he’d be 40, 50, 65, 80… He shuddered at the thought. The point was, things were moving far, far too fast for his liking. It seemed like just yesterday he’d been 16, sneaking out at night to get into this very bar. Armed, of course, with his fake I.D. alongside his buddy Edgar Porter, who was currently wailing along to “What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?” on his right.

Across the table was Calvin MacTavish, his neighbor from across the street, and a valuable member of their Grand Theft Auto Online crew. He was only a teenager, but fancied himself much older, and had gotten in with his own homemade fake I.D. Calvin was nursing a Long Island iced tea, which Francis was amazed he could keep down and still remain so lucid. Then Calvin’s head slammed to the table hard enough to knock over his Long Island.

“Whoa! Cal, dude, you alright?” Francis asked, leaning over to give Calvin’s shoulder a shake.

“Mrrmfine,” Calvin slurred. Edgar hadn’t noticed, and Francis elbowed him.

“The fuck was that for?” he cried. “Just ‘cuz you’re the birthday boy doesn’t mean you get to be a dick like that!”

“Cal’s fucking wasted, Ed. C’mon, we’re taking him home.” Edgar grumbled, but agreed. They held Calvin up, supporting him with their shoulders, then bundled him out the door and began to make their way to Edgar’s Ford Taurus on the far end of the gravel parking lot. It was then that the police car rolled in. Francis froze.


The sirens weren’t on. Maybe the cops were off duty… driving around in a patrol car… in their uniforms. Yeah, maybe not.

It was unclear why the police were even present. There hadn’t been any rowdy activity in the bar, but the fact that they were there was as undeniable as Edgar and Francis leading a very drunken, very young-looking Calvin to the car. The cops were getting out of their car as Edgar and Francis picked up speed and all but tossed Calvin into the back seat of the Taurus. Francis could feel the cops looking at him, but they hadn’t said anything yet, so he jumped into the passenger seat as Edgar started the car up.

“You boys okay in there?” one of the cops said from across the parking lot, but Edgar was just starting up the engine, and though he and Francis had heard the policeman, they both pretended they hadn’t.

Calvin sat up with a start, as if awakening from a long nap. “PIGS!!” he shouted with a point of his finger, before slumping back down with a giggle and closing his eyes.

Edgar peeled out before they could see the reaction of the policemen, though they could hear one call into his radio, “This is Officer Valencia, Officer Coleman and I are…” before he faded out of earshot.

About halfway down the road, the flashing lights and sirens caught up to them. Francis hadn’t sworn this much since he’d dropped that cinderblock on his big toe back in sophomore year. He’d said after that he could never picture himself going into construction work. Edgar had just laughed at him.

Edgar, however, wasn’t laughing now. In fact, he was meeting Francis “shit” for “fuck.” A real police chase wasn’t a fun little distraction or minor annoyance like in GTA. He swerved onto a disused road so abruptly that Calvin’s head collided with the door. A loud, slurred “what the fuck!?” burst from behind them.

“Sorry,” Edgar shouted back, “but I’m trying to get us out of the mess you caused! Oh, goddammit, it’s a dead end!”

They rolled up to a chain-link fence surrounding the old construction site. It had been the owner’s intent to build a hotel on the property, but unfortunately, the economy had crashed. Now, almost a decade later, it still sat empty, slowly growing more decrepit. Francis wasn’t thinking clearly, but there was enough of an idea in his head that he quickly hustled them out of the car and through a hole in the fence, onto the site.

“C’mon, we’re gonna hide in there!” he said, and they quickly made their way into the mostly drywalled edifice, carrying Calvin as best they could.

“This is trespassing! This! Is! Trespassing!” Edgar kept hissing, though he didn’t stop running.

“My legs work, okay?” Calvin said with annoyance, though he was clearly walking much slower than his two friends.

“We’re gonna get in so much trouble,” Francis squeaked.

Edgar stopped in his tracks. “We’re following you!

“Just keep running!” Francis slid under a pile of stacked drywall panels that made a small hiding spot. Calvin crouched next to him, but there was no room for Edgar, who threw himself behind another wall, audibly swearing all the while.

“Shut up!” Francis growled, and Edgar complied.

The three men waited for a little while, no sounds except the chirping of crickets, a faint whistle of wind, and their own breathing. After about twenty minutes, Calvin emerged, feeling far more lucid. He shook off Francis’s hand as he went.

“Cal, come back! What if the cops-”

“Dude, they aren’t coming!” Cal cut him off. “I’m going to explore. Come with me if ya want, but don’t sit there all night moaning about a bunch of pigs!”

He wandered off and Edgar slipped out after him with a semi-apologetic shrug to Francis. The birthday boy grumbled, then followed. “We’re going to get into so much trouble.”

The site was dirty, and the drafts had built the dust up into piles in the corners. Cobwebs hung in tatters, while fresh webs sported wolf spiders that peered down at them with suspicion. Francis, who didn’t much care for anything with an exoskeleton except his hermit crab back home, hung close to his friends. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Nowhere,” Calvin answered as Edgar replied, “Everywhere.”

“Gee, you’re such a great help, the both of you.” Saying that made Francis feel even older. Dammit. He couldn’t escape this, could he?

Down the hall, they found a room filled with lots of abandoned equipment. It was blocked off by a wheelbarrow that contained a sledgehammer and a hard hat. Edgar grinned and plopped the latter onto Francis’s blond curls. It was far too large and managed to obscure the other man’s vision. He tipped it up and frowned at them.

“There, happy birthday, boss!” Edgar and Calvin laughed.

“You two are a regular riot, aren’t you?”


Calvin tried and failed to pick up the sledgehammer, grunting with exertion before falling back onto his ass… which promptly, to everyone’s surprise, popped loudly. Calvin stood, suddenly dizzy as his center of gravity shifted. He was suddenly an inch taller than both Francis and Edgar. His ass was a sculpted, muscular piece of art. He gasped in shock, feeling his god-like glutes.

“G-Guys, what the actual fuck just happened?!”

Francis blinked, rubbed his eyes, then blinked again. The ass was still there, jutting like a shelf off the even taller Calvin. “I… I-I… I think we had too much to drink… Must be hallucinating.”

Edgar spluttered in derision. “All of us hallucinating the same thing, Francis? Bullshit!”

“I think we should go,” Francis said. He made a move to take off his hard hat, but his fingers slid against the plastic dome. “Dammit.” He tried again, growing panicked and shrill. “It’s stuck! It’s stuck to my head!”

Calvin, as the tallest in the group, had the easier reach. He tugged too, and finally the hard hat popped off Francis’ head… sending a shower of golden curls falling all over the ground.

“Th-that’s bad isn’t it…?” Francis squeaked, looking at the hair blowing away in the breeze. His two friends were staring at his head.

“Dude, you… shit. Half your hair just fell out,” Edgar whispered.

“Am I bald?!” Francis ran his hands over his head.

“No, it’s just… there’s just a lot less of it.”

The hair on his scalp wasn’t soft and flowing anymore. The rest of his hair began to float away as he rubbed his fingers across it. Coarse, bristly fuzz replaced it. Maybe an inch-and-a-half of hair was there now.

“What the fuuuuuuck!?” Frank cried. “Oh, mierda, what’s happening to us?”

“Wait, what was that you just said, bro?” Cal asked. “Me-air-duh or something?” He was taller still now, towering over them at six-foot-three. Frank realized that he was catching up to Calvin, however.

Edgar, for his part, decided to get out of Dodge. He stepped back slowly, forgetting the wheelbarrow until he’d bumped into it. With a yelp of alarm, he fell back into it and tumbled over the other side, disappearing into a cloud of dust. Calvin ran over to grab him.

“Ez?” he called. “Ezga, you alright, bro?”

Since when did Calvin start using the word ‘bro’ so much? Frank wondered, stretching a bit. His son said it all the time; it was just so… American.

Wait. Wait, what the fuck was he thinking? Frank shook his head and ran over to help Calin, who, to his lack of surprise, didn’t need the help. He hauled Ezga right up off the ground and brushed the dust off him. But the dirt on his face stuck fast. It looked almost like a stubbly beard.

Frank tried to help with it. He tried to brush it off, even spitting into his hand before he wiped Ezga’s face, like he’d used to when his kids were little and always came home dirty. But the more he rubbed Ezga’s face, the furrier it got. Ezga wasn’t supposed to have a beard. He couldn’t grow anything there, but when Frank looked at his buddy, he could see black whiskers shooting out through Ezga’s pores, blooming from dense five o’clock shadow into a full-on beard.

Ezga was looking down cross-eyed, patting his cheeks as they vanished under a forest of bristles. His eyes – the whites of which practically glowed in the darkness, especially when contrasted with his dark beard – darted to Frank’s t-shirt collar, and he pointed feebly before going back to trying to pull his beard off. Frank couldn’t look below his own chin, so instead he patted his fingers against his collar, expecting… well, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t to feel hair. He stuck his hand down the front of his shirt and felt a small circle of hair on the top of his chest, poking up out of his t-shirt. It was spreading… he could feel it… his chest actually felt warmer now, as if he had on another layer of clothing. Hairy chest… like a gorilla… all that black fur…

“No, no,” he shook his head, trying to rid himself of the mental image of a plaid work shirt with four buttons opened to show off the black sweater he called body hair. But all too quickly, it became real. He took a deep breath in shock as the green plaid materialized, only for his gut to barrel out into a solid gut as he exhaled. The rest of the buttons popped clean off, one lodging itself in Calin’s earlobe. Frank’s eyes widened in shock and he walked over.

Madre dios, Cain, I’m so sorry! Let me see that,” he grunted, his voice deepening.

“See what, boss?” Cain asked. Frank was shocked to see that the baby of their group wasn’t a little twinky nerd with mousy brown hair anymore. No, this man was undeniably masculine, but in equal measure supermodel handsome with a square lantern jaw. And his features bared his heritage for all to see. Cain was Chinese now, and a damn fine-looking Chinese dude at that. Frank licked his lips. Cain grinned, pearly whites showing. It was sex in dental form. Frank felt a stickiness in his briefs. Fuck. He’d blown his load.

“Th-The… button. What in the-?” Frank stared at the small ear gauge Cain now possessed. Cain arched a shapely brow.

“Whatcha talkin’ about, Fran?” he queried, turning to Ezga. “He okay, Ezig? I ain’t no doctor, bro, I can’t fuckin’ tell.”

“Might wanna watch his weight,” was all Ezig said, and they all looked back to see Fran’s muscled belly swell larger, puckering the two buttons that remained clasped over it. Fran’s entire backside – shoulders, lats, hips, butt – were spreading out to support his heavy front. His chest was bloating up into a pair of bowling-ball sized tits that spilled out through his open shirt. He looked enviously at Cain’s chest, which was solid and ripped.

“I ain’t fat,” Fran said as confidently as he could.

“We know, boss,” both men nodded.

“I’m just… BIG!” Fran swelled again as he said it, growing taller and wider, hair bursting in carpets over his arms and legs. But instead of watching his own body grow, he was looking at beautiful Ezig, whose eyes were so large and hypnotic, whose hair was pouring out of his head now like a black waterfall, spilling over those rippling shoulders like something out of a shampoo commercial. Fran missed having hair on his head.

At that, what hair he had left seemed to thicken even further. If one didn’t know any better, they’d mistake him for a bloated, muscle-gutted Bigfoot. His own facial hair began to bush out into a luscious beard not terribly dissimilar to Ezig’s. But his husband’s- er, his friend’s was more wiry and rectangular. It reminded him of that one machote Guillermo had shown him on Instagram. Oh, joder, what was the man’s name? Doumit Ghanem! That was it. Handsome cabron. Ezig was nearly the man’s long-lost twin.

Goddammit! No! No, no, no! That wasn’t right! He didn’t have a husband, he didn’t know a Guillermo, he didn’t like men! What the hell was going on? They weren’t like this. They weren’t hulking gay construction workers! They… they needed to leave, he decided.

“Guys,” he said, voice deepening with every syllable, “we gotta go. We gotta get back to normal!”

“What do you mean, babe?” Ezig asked, his shoulders broad enough now that he would have to turn sideways to make it through doors. Even then, his enormous rack and muscle gut would make it a bit of a tight squeeze. His hair had reached his shoulder blades now, and showed no sign of stopping. Fran had half a mind to tell him to cut it. Literally. The other half was screaming about how wrong this was.

“You know damn well what I mean, Eziz!” Fran roared. “We ain’t big, beefy cabrons! We’re skinny little gringos! I mean white boys! Men! Whatever!” He turned to Cain, only to find he wasn’t there. The godly Asian had wandered down to the wheelbarrow in the doorway, which his shoulders now filled, and lifted the sledgehammer up like it was an inflatable fair toy. His clothes had mostly torn off and he was almost totally starkers. Fran could see his long, uncut dick and orange-sized balls hanging low between his massive legs. He chuckled almost fondly – the kid would be a nudist if he could get away with it, that’s for sure – then snapped himself out of it.

“Jan!” Frat called out. “Jan, put that thing down and come on! We gotta fuckin’ leave!”

But Jan was too busy growing. His body was thickening up all over, except for his waist, which was so compact that it looked almost freakish below his huge chest and shoulders. His skin had changed color to a shade of bronze, like melted butter poured over him, with black hair and long dark lashes that practically created a breeze. It was no wonder people paid to watch him masturbate and fuck, Frat thought. Jan just did this gig to keep himself busy and have something besides porn on a resume… even just standing there, with his hips cocked and mouth open, he looked like some fantasy, in tiny jean cutoffs and the flimsiest tank top that didn’t even cover his nipples.

Frat felt Eziz’s lips on the back of his neck. His cock sprang to life, the churning hormones changing him even more. But he didn’t want to change. He had a sinking feeling that he was getting older, the very thing he had been fearing at the start of the night.

Frat lurched away, clutching his shifting head. His hair was gone, his body was so huge now, his mind was in turmoil. Nothing made sense anymore! He knew this couldn’t be happening, and yet it was. It was like all the urban legends he’d heard but never believed.

That photo booths could change people.

The gay strip club that made its own dancers.

All the rumors of Hunter Hardy’s secret magical powers.

How the Brantleys weren’t always a veritable bodybuilding dynasty.

Whispers of barbers who altered people with scissors that restyled not only hair, but reality.

Or tales of middle-aged spinster sisters that helped down-on-their-luck youths with witchery.

They couldn’t have been real. If there was one thing in the universe he knew to be true, it was that those were just fantasies! But now, as his body engorged itself into glorious freakdom, as his mind felt like it was a caterpillar pupating into a butterfly, as he tried desperately to cling to what made him himself and his friends who they no longer were, Matt wasn’t sure if there was truth anymore. At least, not as he knew it.

He tried to fight, tried to fend off the changes with all his now-considerable might, but to no avail. The huge Costa Rican roared in frustration, falling back against the drywall. Dust launched into the hair with a fwoosh, and his smooth back, shoulders, and traps were now just as hairy as the rest of him. His cock was hardening faster, balls swelling and dropping lower like water balloons.

Aziz, who now around seven feet and still about six inches shorter than the towering, ripped Jun, moved over to him, rubbing his back. “Matt?” he rumbled. “Matteo, talk to me, love.” This couldn’t have been his best friend, not anymore. This man was easily over 400 pounds of solid, fur-coated brawn. A glorious beard framed his face, his hair cascading down to the small of his back, wavy and luscious. He was an Arab Adonis mixed with just the right amount of Fabio.

“No! Get back!” Matteo roared. “This can’t happen to me! Stop it! S-Stop! Ayúdame alguien, por favor! No, I don’t… speak…” He trailed off as his dick, insanely long, thick, and veiny like his companions’, reached its peak. It throbbed, and the pleasure was so intense that a lesser man would have dropped to his knees and exploded.

“Don’t speak what, brah?” Jun drawled, sledgehammer held on his mighty shoulders as his pecs pressed out a little more. Aziz and Matteo’s followed suit. They were so large that the men looked like they needed bras. Just the right amount out of proportion.

“We got… we got kids?” he grunted to Aziz, who was hunched over him, giving him little kisses.

“Did you take a hammer to the head? Yes, we have children; we’re married.”

“Married…” Matteo rumbled the word like he didn’t quite understand it. “Howzat possible… why are we here so late when we should be with the kids?”

“Why are we?” Aziz mused. “That’s a good question. I don’t know…”

“Hey,” Jun rumbled, “you two gonna stay on the floor all night or what? I’m goin’ home and-”

“Lemme guess,” Aziz cut in, a fond smirk on his face, “turn on your webcam and jerk it until sunrise.”

Jun smirked. “Duh! Tomorrow is my day off, after all.” The titanic Asian teen set the sledgehammer down and helped the two older men up off the ground, then popped a double bi. His crotch was tented so immensely that his zipper was being forced down. “And if ya got it, flaunt it. And speakin’ of flauntin’ it, you guys still got an open invitation to join me. Dudes would bust a nut seein’ a pair of DILFs like your studly selves goin’ at it alongside this hot mofo.”

He hit a side chest, then a most muscular. His shirt ripped right off and the older men laughed. Jun was just like Matteo and Aziz’s twins, Guillermo and Emiliano. Young, hung, and maybe a little more balls than brains. It fit that they were all best friends, had been since kindergarten. An enduring friendship that had survived elementary, middle, and high school and on through graduation.

“Finish this job, muchacho, and we’ll talk,” Matteo said. He looked down, noticed their boners, and grunted. “Fuck, when’d we all get so boned?”

Aziz groped at his crotch, huffing out a rumbling breath. “Dunno, but… aw, hell, you guys wanna head out to the trailer and fuck?”

“Duuuuude!” Jun said in a tone of great relief. “Thought you’d never ask! C’mon, I’m fit to bust a nut any second!”

Some of you who read the first pass of this one might notice the dialogue regarding the police is perhaps more hostile in this version. Well, I never was one to hide my politics. Anyway, if you liked this story, like it, upvote it, gimme some thanks, or hey, maybe give me some feedback!

Oh, and I plan to get to that fuckfest in the trailer, to say nothing of whatever happened to Officers Valencia and Coleman.

- Trav


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This stories are each better than the other. Man you guys did an awesome job

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The Sultan of Druzistan

Another one of mine and Aardvark’s collaborations.

Only one or two more left. The story was given some spit and polish, as usual.

Liam Rennie had thoroughly enjoyed his visit to Raqash, the capital city of Druzistan. Rolling down the street in his friend Ahmad’s convertible, seeing the rich, attractive Arab men in Ferraris in the next lane, their own hot friends holding tigers on leashes like it was no big deal… Oh, and the architecture wasn’t half bad, either. Ahmad had chuckled when he caught Liam staring.

“Take a picture, my friend. It will last longer,” he teased in his silky-smooth bass as they pulled up to the national shopping mall. “Now, I need to make a quick stop. Care to accompany me?”

“Sure,” Liam replied as they made their way into the opulent building. Women in hijabs and men in long, flowing garments intermingled with those in more modern clothing, and the men had beards a good eight times out of ten. Liam was, admittedly, rather good at containing his arousal, but he had a very big kink for Arab men. Especially older daddy types. The Virginian followed his friend as they weaved through the crowds, trying not to get separated. Ahmad seemed to be going to the very far end of the mall. “What is it that you’re looking for, exactly?”

“Nothing that you’d be interested in,” Ahmad said. That, Liam knew, was code for ‘I’m getting something for my back room, don’t ask questions.’ Ahmad was a bookstore owner… well, officially, anyway. From the back of the bookshop he ran a thriving business dealing in alleged occult items. Everything from statuettes depicting Sumerian gods in various startling positions to books so old that Liam was afraid to even look at them too long, as if his gaze would cause them to give up the ghost and crumble to dust.

At last, they rounded a corner and walked into an out-of-the-way shop, past a severe-looking woman and her obviously-spineless husband. They were both white and obviously from New England, given their accents – these people were Boston Brahmins. The woman was in the latest designer clothing with well-kept blonde hair and nine-inch heels that probably cost more than Liam’s entire yearly income. The husband was well-dressed, too, but the whole outfit looked faded and unkempt thanks to his downtrodden demeanor. The woman was going on about how her son needed to be more careful, while the man nodded and wisely said nothing. Liam pointedly avoided looking at them, not wanting to get yelled at as well.

Inside the shop was mostly various types of glassware and pottery. Liam didn’t give it much thought. He didn’t especially care for the designs. Neither did Ahmad, who marched straight to the counter and whispered something to an attendant with solid biceps. The man’s eyes widened and he nodded, calling for the owner before gesturing for Ahmad to follow him into the back room. Ahmad did so.

“Just wait here for me. I shan’t be but a moment!” Ahmad informed Liam, and then the door clicked shut.

Liam looked around the shop, cooling his heels… and saw a young man in an Avengers shirt looking lost. The kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen at the oldest, obviously just out of high school. Liam realized that this must have been the woman’s son.

“Is that one yours?” came a voice from his right.

Liam turned and saw an old man in traditional garb. He had a long white beard and wrinkled skin, but his eyes sparkled playfully; almost boyishly. He smiled at Liam when they made eye contact.

“Mine?” Liam asked. “What do you… oh, you mean, like, mine? Like my son?” He started laughing. “No no no, I don’t have any kids. I’m too young to have a kid that age. I would’ve had to have been getting-” he almost said the words ‘busy in high school’ before stopping himself, in case that was too lewd.

The man seemed to get the drift, and he chuckled. “I apologize,” he said. “This is my shop, I am protective of it. I do not like children left, uh, how do you say…”

“Unattended?” Liam offered.

“Yes, yes.”

“Your English is really good,” Liam complimented, before switching back to the original topic: “I don’t think his mom is paying a lot of attention to him.”

“Perhaps why he is dressed so oddly,” the man said.

Liam looked back at the kid. He hadn’t noticed before, but the guy was dressed strangely. Liam had seen the Avengers shirt, but missed the suspenders that framed the t-shirt design. The suspenders were buttoned – not just clasped – inside the top of what could only be described as formal shorts. They were shiny, like basketball shorts that kids wore, but they were dark blue and pinstriped, resembling a pair of trousers that had been lopped off just past his knees. The kid had also paired his Nike sneakers with tall sheer socks that stretched up almost to his knees, meeting the shorts. It was the look of someone who had no idea how to dress, and was getting no help.

“Yeah,” Liam said. “Poor kid. I wish I could do something for him.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” the store owner chuckled. “I’m sure something will be done for him quite soon. In the meantime… do you know Mister Hajji well?”

Liam turned back to the man, nodding. “Yeah, Ahmad and I have known each other since his dad sent him to the States to go to college.”

The store’s owner shook his head. “No, no. Not Ahmad. His father, Nasrollah, the sultan.” Liam blinked incredulously.

“Wait, what? Ahmad is the son of the sultan? The ruler of the country? I think he would have mentioned that!

“Well, Ahmad has always been the more… willful of the sultan’s boys. He wanted to run that bookshop and its, ah, V.I.P. section, shall we say. So his father didn’t bother to argue.” The store owner shrugged. “It is what it is. Most can’t fathom why Ahmad would stand up to his father. He’s positively gargantuan – all muscle, you know.”

“You don’t say…” Liam replied, trying to picture the man in his head and getting deeply-arousing results. “Could you… ah… describe him to me?”

He looked over to the young man, making sure he was still alright – well, as alright as one could be in that car crash of an outfit. The sight that met his eyes perplexed him. Jesus Christ, this kid’s legs were insane. Giant quads that could probably crush steel sat over calves the size of extra-large Butterball turkeys. He was barefoot thanks to his enormous feet – even larger than Liam’s size 13s – easily size 20s.

“Wh-Whoa. Did that kid have legs like that before?” he murmured to the store owner.

“Hm? Oh. How queer,” the man remarked, as if the sight wasn’t queer at all. “Reminds me of the sultan’s legs. Powerful things they are, you know. Swollen, covered in veins, and constantly competing for space. And they’re not even his best feature.”

Liam’s appetite kept being whet and he licked his lips unconsciously. “Wh-What is?”

The store owner gave him a sly grin. “We’ll get there. Give an old man some time, my boy.”

“Sorry. Please go on.”

Right as Liam said this, there was a bit of a ruckus behind him. The kid’s dad had showed up and had evidently said something upsetting.

“But I don’t wanna go,” the kid said audibly. Neither he nor his father commented on the fact that each of his thighs were bigger than his waist, warping the pinstripes of his shorts, so Liam assumed that must be normal for them… bizarre as it was.

“Your mom’s waiting,” the man said in a Boston accent. “C’mon, Patty.”

“Patrick,” the kid corrected, not wanting to be coddled. “My name is Patrick!”

“Come on, bud, seriously.” The man touched Patrick’s arm. This was a mistake.

“I said I am not going with you, sir!”

“Huh?” Patrick’s dad looked at him strangely.

“I will not be going anywhere with you. Good day to you,” Patrick said, in a bizarre accent – a mix of Boston and something else impossible to place. He hooked his thumbs inside his suspenders and held his chin defiantly high.

“We’re not going to do the ‘strangers’ act here, Pat,” his dad said, backing away meekly. “I’ll make sure we have the car and then I’m gonna come back for you.” He pointed at the spot where Patrick stood. “Stay right there,” he said. The command was so pitiful wimpy that it made Liam wince.

“I will do as I please!” Patrick shouted back as his dad left the shop. His high-pitched voice carried impressive volume. Liam wondered what the hell the kid’s accent was. He would’ve asked Patrick, if Patrick seemed like he were in a good mood. But the way the young man was scowling at the door his father had just walked through… it made Liam nervous, for some reason. He’d never seen a kid even capable of frowning like that. It was a scowl that pulled Patrick’s lips down and made his cheeks sag. Crow’s feet tugged at the corners of his eyes.

Liam looked away pointedly as the young man turned in their direction. “So…” Liam began again, trying to sound conversational. “The sultan. Total monster? Like, size-wise I mean! I bet he’s a wonderful man.”

“Oh, he is!” the old man agreed. “A man who loves deeply and dotes on those he cares for. Never has a bad word – well, except for his enemies and for those who try to order him around. For them, he has no time or kindness. But, I believe you want to know more of his physique.” A knowing twinkle gleamed in his eye and Liam blushed.

“Well shucks,” the twenty-something began in his Southern twang, “am I that obvious?”

The shop owner shrugged. “I would say it’s more that I was once a young, excitable man like you back in my day,” he replied. “Alas, I am in no more position to pursue my desires than you are now. But I hope that one day, that shall change. Now, on with the gossip!”

They both chuckled and the man continued.

“The sultan’s stomach was, at one time, a cobblestone road of square, bread loaf-sized abdominals. Ten of them, in fact!” Liam gave a low whistle and the old man grinned. “I had the same reaction when I found out. Now that his competition days are over, however, he has let his midsection expand. Not with fat, mind you, but more muscle. What is the term I am thinking of?”

“Turtle gut?” Liam offered.

“Yes, exactly. It precedes him wherever he goes, solid and perfect.”

“Excuse me,” came the young man’s voice. His own enormous muscle gut had pushed his shirt up comically, and sat on the counter like a boulder as he inquired as to where the bathroom was. The shop owner leaned back to grab him a key, then gestured to the door next to the one leading to the back room. “Thank you, my dear fellow.”

Liam blinked incredulously. “I swear he looks different every time I see him,” he muttered. The old man merely smiled.

“Onto the sultan’s arms?”

“What about his chest?”

“I said we were saving the best for last, my boy.”

“I thought that would be his, um, well…” Liam blushed and trailed off.

“His dick?” the old man asked shamelessly in an undertone so that Patrick couldn’t hear. Liam gave a startled little laugh and nodded. “Well, they’re tied. Arms first, though.”

“Before that…” Liam said, watching Patrick waddle back to the restroom. The kid had one hand underneath his ball gut, supporting it like a pregnant woman. “…how’s a kid with parents like that get such a big belly?”

“Looks odd now, no?”

“Super odd.”

“Ah, but he will probably grow into it. Let us hope. Just imagine him once he starts wearing the – what are they called? The shirts with the buttons…”

“Dress shirts?”

“Dress shirts! Thank you. Just imagine how tight the buttons will be over his stomach. It’s not bad to have a turtle gut, you just have to dress it right.”

“I guess so,” Liam said, looking at the bathroom door.

“The sultan must have trouble with his. Of course, he has the money to have them made. But his arms – heaven help us, his arms! Biceps the size of footballs. Our footballs, I mean, not American ones. And those are just the biceps! The triceps are twice as big, I swear. And you have never seen veins on a man’s arms like those. They must have rerouted a thousand times as his arms kept growing, so now they are all bunched together, like an old telephone cord.”

“Ahmad has great arms, I remember noticing when we worked out together.”

“He has the genetics, that is for certain. The sultan used to carry those boys in his arms when they got tired, and even when they were seven, eight years old… his arms were STILL bigger than their whole bodies!”

“Jeez…” Liam breathed, eyes widening – and pants tenting – at the thought. “And those aren’t even his best feature, you said?”

“Goodness me, no!” the old man laughed. “Those arms are never at his sides though, thanks to his… ah… help me, please, what is the word for this here?” The man gestured to his side just under his armpit.

“Oh, his lats!” Liam answered.

“Yes, lats. They are like the wings of an avenging angel, or a great bird of prey!” the old man said, throwing his arms out wide. “No, more like the rukh of legend. They press the arms out from the torso and make his stance oh-so impressive. It truly is a sight to behold, I tell you!”

“I’ll bet!” Liam agreed, cock painfully hard in his jeans now. “Please, go on.”

“Hmm. Did I mention his shoulders?”

“No, not yet.”

“Oh!” the old man exclaimed. “Cannonballs, my boy! Like cannonballs shoved under his bronze skin! I have never known a man with such enormous shoulders before in all my many years on this Earth. And so broad, as well! It is not often you meet a gentleman who must turn sideways to duck through doorways.”

“Wait, duck?”

“Of course! The sultan stands a little over seven feet tall, you know!”

“Holy mother of…!” Liam bit his tongue to keep from offending, but he felt a splatter of warm, sticky precum hit the cotton of his briefs. “K-Keep going. This man sounds too good to be true. Er, please.”

“Such a polite young man,” the shop owner complimented with a grin. “Not many like you around these days. I’d be happy to. Now where was I…?”

“His back?”

“Oh, that beauty, yes.”

There was a thud from inside the bathroom.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Liam asked.

“A youth like that? Probably not,” the shopkeeper laughed, and Liam smiled too. “The sultan would have trouble fitting in there as well. The way his back is shaped… well, not so much the shape as the breadth. As wide as this, I would wager,” he said, motioning to the sales counter. “He must be as wide as he is tall, or close to it. He has put on some weight now, but when he was leaner, the muscles looked like a hundred heads under his skin. But you know what I mean – Ahmad has a back like that!”

“He does?” Liam asked, trying to remember. Ahmad did have a pretty broad back, now that he thought about it…

“Gets it from his father. It’s a good thing they have money and the space for large beds.”

All Liam could think about was Ahmad’s back. Damn, it was huge, wasn’t it? He remembered them getting caught in a storm at school and Ahmad pretending he was a mother bird, spreading his wings to cover Liam from the rain. And it almost worked, too, his lats were so beefy and wide. Shit-

The bathroom door crashed open and out stumbled Patrick, letting out an irritated curse as his back smashed into both sides of the doorframe. Liam fell back in shock. The kid was towering, threatening to scrape the ceiling, and so wide that he walked very slowly so as not to knock anything off the shelves. His Avengers t-shirt had grown somewhat to fit him, stretching over his enormous gut and back, but still looked obscenely tight. “My father didn’t come back did he?” Patrick asked the shopkeeper.

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” the shopkeeper replied with a polite frown.

Patrick scoffed. “He is an incompetent fool, I am sorry to say. Why his wife chose him- well, I know all too well, but it would be impolite to say.” A knowing smirk graced his features.

Liam was surprised at how well-spoken he was, especially for his age… er, whatever that was. With his enormous size, it was very difficult to tell.

“So, tell me,” he continued, “what are you talking about?”

“Just pottery,” the old man said quickly. “Nothing that would interest a young man such as yourself.”

“I admit, I don’t know much about the subject, no,” Patrick replied. He grunted a little and turned back to the bathroom. “Ah, please excuse me once more, gentlemen.”

“Of course,” the old man nodded. Patrick ducked down into bathroom once more.

“I wonder what’s up?” Liam pondered.

“At that age? I couldn’t imagine,” the shopkeeper said knowingly. Liam chuckled.

“My mama would have lit my ass up if she caught me doing that in public.”

“My parents would have had me stoned, no question. But we are nearly finished.”

“Right, go on, sir!”

The old man cleared his throat. “Tell me, do you enjoy buttocks?”

“You’ve heard that ‘I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie’ song, right?” Liam replied, feeling more at ease with his host. A chuckle greeted this.

“No, I cannot say that I have, but they could only have been speaking of our beloved sultan!” he declared. “Like two halves of a basketball, they are. A beautiful mixture of muscle and fat. I hear he has all of his trousers special made because of it and still has difficulty pulling them over the impressive girth of it all!” The old man swooned a little. “I noticed Ahmad’s was the spitting image of his father’s as he went into the back room with Faiaz. Tell me, is it as good?”

“Better,” Liam answered automatically. “I’ve seen it up close.” And, to his slight confusion, he realized he had. He and Ahmad had had sex several times. Liam loved having his face sat on, and Ahmad had once treated him after finals by allowing his friend to be the first to fuck his enormous, perfect bubble butt.

“You,” the old man announced, “are blessed.”

“Well, I’m lucky, but I wouldn’t say blessed,” Liam replied modestly, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing a little.

“So modest! You’ll make some man very happy one day, I’m sure of it.” The old man nodded resolutely, as if there was no more to say on the matter. “Now we come to the best parts of the sultan. The chest and, as you Americans say, the junk,” the old man continued. Liam licked his lips.

“No man on Earth has a larger chest or penis than the sultan,” his host began. “Why, it’s as if his belly exists for the express purpose of holding the pectorals up! I have seen these bodybuilders – like Ahmad – and their chests are incredible, yes, but the sultan’s… well, that comes with age. Ahmad will have it too, one day. The pecs get as big as they possibly can, so large it’s a wonder gravity can even hold them, then they fill out with the extra flesh – the fat, the skin, added to the muscle. A wondrous sight. Like two globes.”

Liam was stroking his own nipples. “Globes,” he repeated.

“Yours are quite impressive, too, my friend.”

Liam looked down at his densely muscled rack bulging over the countertop. It blocked his vision. He couldn’t see his body or feet. Just his shirt all unbuttoned to let his big chest push through it. “Well, um,” he said hoarsely, “my hus-husband, he… he’s been helping me.”


“Yes, he’s a very good trainer. And it’s motivating.” Liam didn’t know why he was saying this. Was he lying? No, were he and Ahmad married? What had happened to his body… he could feel the muscles bulging out every which way. Like Ahmad’s did. Shit, something was wrong with this place. He needed to leave-

There was a loud moan from the bathroom.

“I can tell Ahmad has had an influence on your style. Very slick.”

Liam looked at his French cuffed shirt and his double-breasted suit. He skipped the tie to show off his chest, like Ahmad always did. “Well, I don’t usually dress like this, but… I needed to impress-”

“-your father-in-law?”

The bathroom door swung open. Out came Patrick, now sporting a chest composed of pecs far bigger than his own head. Or several of his own heads, for that matter. The huge tits were shining with a fresh coat of sperm, courtesy of the dick that was flopping around between the teen’s giant thighs. Liam came on the spot.

“The sultan’s penis-” the shopkeeper started to say, and Liam tried to interrupt, but the man plowed on as Patrick’s cock swelled before them. “-it’s a bit like a cricket bat, and those testicles, mm, like ripe grapefruits, or so I’m told.”

Over the now-huge organ a new bit of flesh grew – a foreskin. As it drooped over, Patrick’s pale balls bloomed with black hair that started spreading over his thighs and up over his muscle gut. The teenager grunted. “I’m… still waiting… waiting for my… father. Where is that ignoramus?” he said, voice cracking. Then his eyes lit upon Liam and he grinned. “Liam, that you, my boy? You look spectacular!” Up around Patrick’s neck – which was in the process of swelling to three times its original size – grew a very high white piece of fabric, which then folded back down to his trap muscles, resembling a pointed shirt collar.

“P-Patrick?” Liam stammered, shocked at his own voice’s deep, booming cadence. “What the fuck happened to my voice?”

“It is as beauteous as it always is, my boy!” Patrick boomed gaily in an even deeper voice that made the shelves rattle. The changes were running on autopilot now. The enormous, naked man strode over to Liam and gestured to the bathroom. “I need you.”

Liam, despite his confusion, nodded obediently. “Of course, Pat, of course.”

They entered the bathroom once more, both turning sideways and Patrick ducking, shutting the door behind them. Patrick now looking older and older, turned to his son-in-law with a broad grin. “Liam, I know how you feel about me.”

The younger man blanched. “Y-You do? I mean, what do you… oh, fuck…”

The titan’s cock had grown even larger, and was hardening once more. “Liam, I know you are devoted to Ahmad. I couldn’t be happier that you are part of this family. However… I have seen the way you look at me. And I do not begrudge you anything. I would do the same in your position.” Patrick was growing more and more beautiful, more masculine and fatherly, as he spoke. His weak jaw turned into one that would make even the most lantern-jawed superhero green with envy, replete with a cleft in the chin. Stubble soon buried it as it spread into a thick beard. It hung down slightly onto the pecs, which were hitting Patrick’s impressive chin, but did nothing to obscure the god-like pecs supported by the other man’s giant muscle gut.

“As such, I want to help you out,” the sultan continued. “Not as my son-in-law, but as a fellow man. After all, it’s rare that someone approaching my size or my son’s is at all interested. Or daring.” A brilliantly-white smile of perfect teeth flashed behind Patrick’s thickening beard. The blonde hair on Patrick’s head was darkening and lightening like someone seeing stars. With an audible “phwoomp!” it cascaded down the man’s back, now a grey color with a not-inconsiderable portion of black. Liam’s cock had never been so hard. “Liam?”

“Y-Yes, sir?” Liam said, now realizing he was only about five inches shorter than the sultan.

“You are wearing entirely too many clothes,” Patrick rumbled, pushing Liam against the wall and kissing him deeply. Liam melted, and in short order was totally naked. Patrick chuckled at the sticky mess he found under Liam’s briefs. “The old shopkeeper’s tales have been treating you well, I see.” He scooped a hefty dollop of cum up on one giant finger and slurped it off. “Mm,” he rumbled. “Like fresh honey.”

Liam squirmed in ecstasy, looking up at Patrick like the other stud was his whole world. And for now, at least, he was. “The old man didn’t do you justice, Pat.”

Patrick grinned. “Oh, believe me, my boy, I know,” he rumbled, kissing Liam some more. There was still some cum in his mouth, and it snowballed into Liam’s. “Hearsay can never compare to the real thing. But enough chatter. I need you, and you need me.”

Patrick’s skin darkened as they fucked, going from a pasty white to an enticing cinnamon before arriving at a striking bronze that made Liam’s mouth water. As Patrick’s enormous meat pounded his ass, he licked the sultan’s chest clean, then popped a wine cork-sized nipple into his mouth, sucking on it for all he was worth.

“Ohhh, yes! By Allah, yes!” Patrick bellowed, now sporting a thick Arabic accent. “I’m close!”

Liam cried out in agreement just as they both exploded. Liam coated Patrick’s chest and face with cum, and in return, Patrick painted his insides white with his thick nut. They fell to the floor, panting and reveling in the afterglow. Liam kissed Patrick deeply, running a hand through the titanic sultan’s hair. The huge stud growled seductively and squeezed Liam’s tight ass with one mighty paw.

Alhamdulillah,” Patrick rumbled.

Alhamdulillah,” Liam echoed, realizing abruptly that he could now speak perfect Arabic. “That was perfect, Patrick.”

Patrick’s face screwed up in confusion. “Who is Patrick? My name is Nasrollah, my son. You know that,” he chuckled, ruffling Liam’s hair. “Now, where has our dear Ahmad gotten off to, hmm?”

“Oh fuck! I forgot about him!” Liam replied. He dressed quickly and ran out to check the back room, the sultan following, still in the buff. Ahmad was startled.

“Darling! F-Father!? Why are you naked and covered in seed?” he gasped, trying to straighten his hair. The shop attendant, Faiaz, was red in the face and trying to avoid being seen. Liam didn’t care if they’d done anything, really. He thought he’d be angry, but then he remembered. He and Ahmad were emotionally exclusive and married; they loved each other above all else. But if they found a willing partner, then sex was not off the table. After all, they were royalty, and perfect specimens to boot. It was natural.

Nasrollah seemed entirely unconcerned by his state, even as chest hair continued to flower out from his pecs. He squirmed and wiggled his way back into his Avengers t-shirt, which was now growing buttons down the front, straining just as Liam remembered them doing – someone had talked about that, right? It all felt so fuzzy. There had been a guy wearing that t-shirt… but the t-shirt wasn’t there now, it was an expensive formal shirt made from glossy white silk that clung to Nasrollah’s hulking frame. The logo finished falling away and left behind the custom formalwear, and the top four buttons snapped open as Nasrollah bent down and squeezed into his shorts, which quickly grew into pants. He slid on his Nikes as they stretched and contorted into men’s dress shoes. Huge ones. He shrugged his suit jacket on his frame with a quick grunt, then fluffed his shaggy chest hair. “What are you looking at?” he smiled at Liam, who was totally flummoxed.

“N-Nothing, dad,” he replied, blushing. Nasrollah chuckled and slung an arm around Liam’s shoulder.

“Father?” Ahmad piped up. “You were saying?”

“Ah, yes,” Nasrollah rumbled. “I was asking if you were nearly done in here. Liam and I are growing impatient and wish to eat. It’s almost suppertime, son.”

Ahmad glanced at the clock on the opposite wall and his eyes widened. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “Faiaz and I got, ah, preoccupied with the… the… the intricacies of the artifact.” Faiaz coughed and muttered something about boxing the antique vase on the table behind them and quickly did so, then bid them goodbye.

As they exited, Liam smiled. He was between his two favorite people in the world and all was good. He turned back on a whim, and was unsurprised to see Faiaz wandering off into the crowd as the shop had vanished into thin air.

I really like this one, much as it lays bare my love of hot Middle Eastern men (as if Bathroom Break didn’t do that already). That said, they’re second to East Asian men in my overall rankings, would you believe? Heh. I also like one of the original’s tags: “Making up fictional Middle Eastern ‘-istans’ for fun and profit”.

The more astute among you might note that “Druzistan” means “place of Druze” in Persian. If I was going to make up a country, I wanted it to be at least plausible. Sadly, I didn’t do enough research. The Druze are an off-shoot of Ismāʿīlism – itself a sub-sect of Shia Islam – but do not identify as Muslim. Their beliefs are markedly different to those of both Muslims and Christians, as a matter of fact. Additionally, oftentimes they do not allow outsiders into their tight-knit communities (like Liam), though will try to fully integrate into communities abroad. There’s a lot more in the story that doesn’t quite gel in that regard. But I suppose you could do some mental gymnastics and hazard a guess that Druzistan was, in the past, a majority-Druze state that was taken over by Muslims at some point. Perhaps it was even an independent Jabal al-Druze from the French Mandate for Syria and the Lebanon, then got renamed Druzistan when the Muslims conquered it. Yeesh, bad news for the Druze in which case, though – left as either a minority or a disenfranchised majority in what ought to be their own country? Oof, oof, oof.

So, anyhoo, if you liked this story, like it, upvote it, gimme some thanks, or offer some feedback!

- Trav

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