Added Jun 2020 4,155 views 5.0 stars (2 votes) 2,001 words
Tobias is giving me that look again as he returns from the bar with our drinks. The one that says he’s full of devious plans.
“You know, Nick,” he says, his sensual lips twisting every so slightly as he hands me a glass of merlot, “you’re to give in sooner or later.” He keeps the other glass for himself, a champagne flute, and takes a slow sip, watching me closely. I follow suit, taking a nice swallow of the mellow red as I eye him right back.
We’re at a black tie fundraiser. I hate tuxedos but I’m happy to go to these things because Tobias looks amazing in a tux. Also, he looks amazing naked. And in any intervening stage of dress or undress, and in any conceivable combination of clothes and accessories. Tobias is so good at looking good, he would contrive to look fantastic in a muumuu or a meat dress. My favorite is when he’s wearing a shirt that’s open all the way down, so you see this strip of tan, delicious torso from that kissable little collarbone notch all the way down to his happy trail.
But there’s something about a tux on Tobias that makes my blood rush just that little bit faster. Everything about him is exquisitely sculpted, from his carefully honed muscles to the planes of his face to his perfectly malleable brownish-blond locks, and when he’s done up to the nines like this in if-you-have-to-ask-the-price formalwear accentuated by a smidge of prep and product, his aura seems magnified and those piercing blue eyes just seep straight into your soul.
The fact that he’s a boytaur, like most of his family and about a quarter of the young gentlemen at this particular swanky soiree, only amplifies the effect. To look at Tobias’s strong, elegant, four-legged form, whether he’s gussied up in flawless black tie or mooching around your kitchen in old, Aztec-patterned pajama bottoms, is inspire the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, this is the ultimate, ideal form of humanity.
Me, I’m pretty enough, but I kind of carved out a bigger chunk of marble for myself that Tobias did. Oh, Tobias drives himself hard at the gym, all right. But once he got the proportions he wanted he went all out for shape and definition, until he looked from head to toe like he had been painstakingly chiseled by a master craftsman with a serious case of androphilic lust. I, on the other hand, went for both. The upshot is, I’m broader in the shoulder than Tobias, my arms and pecs are considerably thicker, my six-pack is harder, and with my legs and ass in the exceptional shape they’re in I basically look like I spend all day every day killing myself doing thousands of laps in the pool.
I look pretty good in a tux, too, in other words. I just look a bit less like I was born in one, and more like I’m going throw the tie and jacket aside the moment this shindig is over and start up a pick-up rugby match with the wait staff and a few of the more adventurous partygoers.
I take another big swallow of my wine, still watching Tobias back, mostly because I just like looking at him. We’ve been at this for weeks now. We both want to get married, but he keeps saying that I’ll have to “convert” for there to be any chance of the marriage actually happening. His family, you see, is dead set against him marrying anyone but another boytaur, and Tobias claims he’ll be cut off and set out on an ice floe if he defies them and marries me anyway.
I’m ninety percent sure he’s full of shit. Sure, it’s remotely possible he’ll be disinherited if he marries a “mundane” like me, not that Tobias doesn’t have his own money thanks to the boytaur B&B brand he started and the modeling work he still does now and then. Personally, though, I’m convinced his real motive is that he just really, really wants to see me with four legs (and with that second big cock in back, not doubt). I find this very amusing, and I’ll admit there’s more than a little temptation to go along with his deception on my end. I happen to think I’d make a pretty fine boytaur, but I’m really enjoying seeing how far Tobias will take this.
I’m also curious about how he’ll arrange the transformation once I agree. I’m almost certain he’ll spring it on me publicly, just like he did when he proposed. (We were at an upscale gay club in Amsterdam, and Tobias cleared the floor and danced with me to that ridiculous cover of “When a Man Loves a Boytaur” before bending down on two knees to present the ring box to me, to the wild applause of all and sundry.) He likes the spectacle, my Tobias.
No sooner do I think this than I start to realize I’m feeling a little funny. My body temperature is off, waffling between hot and cold, and my insides are quivering anxiously like they’re about to start moving in circles in a game of musical chairs. I stumble just slightly, and when I catch Tobias’s eye he’s definitely not quite smirking. “You should finish that,” he suggests helpfully, nodding toward the wine I still have in my hand. “Before you drop the glass.”
Instantly, I know. My body is in revolt, but I keep my feet and stare him down in amazement. “You decided to do it here?” I say, a little incredulously. I’m trying to keep my voice low, though we’re already attracting looks and whispers from the milling swells.
His rakish smile blooms wide, and I almost gasp. Even under the circumstances, his beauty wrecks me. My pulse starts thumping hard as he says, with an impish glint in his eye, “Where better?”
I know what he means. To his way of thinking, why bother fiddling with social media when actual society will spread the word for you? It almost makes sense.
My feet are, understandably, feeling unsteady—enough so that I’m actually looking forward to getting two more legs underneath me to assist with balance and rectitude. I look at my wine sloshing gently in its glass, figure, “Fuck it, I might as well make sure I get the right dosage”, and down the rest in one gulp, handing Tobias the empty glass. He passes both it and his flute off to a waiter who’s paused to gawk at us, then gives his whole attention to me. Just in time, too, because at that moment there’s a tremendous rip and instantly my head seems to fill with an inrush of hot, churning oatmeal. I grunt, lurching a bit to my left, and I feel more than see Tobias as he grabs my arms and says, “That’s it, just a minute more. Fuck, babe, you are going to be the hottest boytaur ever. Everyone’s going to take one look at you and say, ‘Nicolas, you are, without a doubt, the world’s most sexy, beautiful, utterly… captivating…’ uh…”
His voice trails off, and I can’t think too much about why, or how alarming that is, because I’m too busy feeling like I’m being torn down like a demolished building and re-erected in super-high-speed time lapse. My head is all scalding sludge and below that is a mess of incomprehensible sensations. All I’m sure of is Tobias’s firm grip on my arms. Well, that and the inescapable truth that every beady eye at the gala must be hot-glued on me and my ass while Tobias completely fails to finish what he’s started saying, which, the more my brain realigns and reels toward a passing semblance of mental competence, the more worrying it becomes.
After another confused moment I regain enough blurry vision to discern Tobias looking up at me with an expression of awed stupefaction. He’s still gripping me, but… wait, looking up at me? Since when am I this much taller than Tobias?
Behind him stands a handsome older boytaur with a salt and pepper goatee and an even more expensive-looking tux than Tobias’s. His similarly dappled eyebrows are lifted high on his forehead.
“I believe the word you’re looking for to complete that sentence, my dear Tobias, is ‘centaur’,” he drawls, as both of them continue staring up at me. “If you were going for boytaur, I’d seriously consider terminating your metapharmacologist.”
Only one word of all that registers, though. I meet Tobias’s beautiful gaze. “Centaur?” I repeat woozily. He nods, eyes wide.
I look down. The top half of my tux is intact, though it’s incredibly tight now, my muscles having evidently expanded to new levels of sculpted swole as part of the transformation. My hair is longer too, lapping against my shoulder blades. I tear off the black tie and rip open the top of my white shirt, scattering as few buttons and exposing a but of (unaccustomed) chest hair, as I continue gazing downward.
My trousers are gone, and my boxer briefs with them. My shoes are gone too, somewhere. And where normally I’d expect to see what should be, without my nether garments, a pair of tanned, shapely bare legs and ass in all their glory, there is instead the better part of a large, strong-looking, very handsomely proportioned chestnut stallion. As my confused senses sort themselves out I try shifting my feet a bit, and the clop-clop of my hooves on the ballroom floor rings through the cavernous space.
I suddenly realize can’t wait to try running. Full speed, down an open track. Wind in my long hair, no tuxedo or anything else to restrain me, just me and the raw potency of my new existence…
This is bizarre, I tell myself. Unexpected and unreal. How do I truly feel about this? But I already know. I feel incredible. I am powerful, unstoppable, and beautiful in an entirely new way. And, as the tendrils of my expanding senses reach my new horsey equipment, I realize I am freighted with more lust and sexual prowess than I ever imagined in my humble human form.
I meet Tobias’s brilliant blue gaze. He’s smiling. No, he’s beaming. He’d hoped to turn me into an eye-catching, athletically ideal boytaur, a perfect partner for a perfect man; but this—this is better. He likes me like this… a lot.
He bites his lip. “Sooo… my plan, for when you finished turning into a boytaur,” he says with a bit of chagrin, “was to say, ‘Sorry, not sorry.’” He does a little head tilt back and forth for the last bit, which is, of course, adorable.
I smile down at him. “That would have been exactly the right thing to say,” I admit. He knows I wanted the boytaur thing as much as he did. He was playing with me, and I was playing with him.
“So instead, my gorgeous, sexy, impossibly manly centaur, I’ll just say… I love you. I love you so much.” He means it, but that doesn’t stop him from tilting his grin into a smirk, and adding a saucy wink. There are a couple of “aw”s from the assembled crowd.
“I love you too, my sweet Tobias,” I say. Then I put on a troubled expression. “But there is a problem.”
His brows draw together. “A problem?” he repeats.
I nod, barely able to hold back a grin. “If you truly want to marry me,” I tell him, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to convert.”
Tobias grins. “You try and stop me.”
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