The right blend

by BRK   

In this sequel to “One Hot Summer,” Thad returns to Colorado, still in Zac’s upgraded, hyper-hung body. When he finds he’s no longer able to morph himself back into what he’s supposed to look like, his only hope is his sexy and capable second-in-command, Aleksei.

One Hot Summer, #3 16 parts (1 new) Added Mar 2023 Updated 2 Dec 2023 16k views 5.0 stars (8 votes) 44k words (#81)

Sometimes you don’t know what your kinks are until you’re staring them in the face. And then, of course, it’s too late. Everything you thought you had figured out about what gets your motor running gets rejiggered faster than you can say Kurosaki Ichigo, and you’re left with a whole new lust apparatus with no off switch and no user’s manual or help video in sight.

Me, you’d have thought I’d have gone for my boss of two years, like practically every homo this side of the Front Range. And, sure, Thad Loukanis, owner and chief cannabis-engineer of Thad’s Hashery of Colorado Springs, Colorado, was the unquestioned epitome of hotness. The guy was a 6-foot-7 Adonis and built like a pro gymnast with souped-up genetics, and that’s just for starters. Then there was that almost stereotypical sexy-Mediterranean swarthiness to his smooth, olive complexion, punctuated with the chestnut-brown eyes and the lush wavy near-black hair he usually, though not always, kept tantalizingly short.

See, Thad was… he was too perfect for me. Not that I didn’t measure up, or that he was out of my league or anything. It was more like he was a prototype, an idealized mock-up, when what I wanted was the real thing. I wanted a connection, more than I wanted marble-hewn muscle and effortless charm. Thad never seemed to fully relax around me even after I became his number-two. There were secrets he wasn’t ready to share with anyone, even me.

He was a hell of a package, though, and his tight tee shirts, that crooked smile that popped the faintest hint of a dimple, and those sharp, bewitching bedroom eyes had all the boys swooning. It was an appreciation that translated into clicks, likes, and a whole lot of repeat business on our website and social media and a ton of in-person traffic through our retail store, too. A steady stream of guys of all ages and types made the expedition to our little out-of-town ultra-modern mart to pick up Hashery-brand varieties of weed or tour the specialty greenhouses out back… and maybe catch sight of our dreamy, even-keeled, always charming proprietor. Rain, snow, or buzzards-in-the-sky heatwave, there was always a guy or three up here at the farm wanting a taste of Thad, even if it was only the kind of morsel you got from raking your eyes over his stacked, eerily perfect physique.

A lot of these high-flying Thad groupies were worth a long look themselves, with a tendency to wide smiles, broad shoulders, outgrown shirts, and exposed socks or ankles from jeans that were maybe an inch shorter than they should have been. We had to have, on average at least, the most hunky and aesthetically admirable clientele of any business in the state, gyms included; and even the cheery, permanently-half-zonked guys that consumed our mind-altering wares on the regular seemed vaguely aware that Thad’s was where the buffest and yummiest stoners all got their mary jane.

Maybe it was just that I’d been observing our customers closely for two years, but to me it was kind of obvious if you looked at it objectively. The website and packaging on all the various publicly-sold strains never claimed anything more than strong flavor and “lasting effects,” and Thad so far hadn’t let on any more than that to me, even in private. But it didn’t take Brains from Tracy Island to make the connection that our most regular and most loyal customers were the same well-baked dudes most likely to be sporting ripped seams spreading tightly across bowling-ball delts, and hard, round muscle-butts pushing out pants they hadn’t noticed yet were getting a little too tight. Which, in turn, made the secret strains that Thad sold only privately, and that only he dealt with, that much more suspect.

So, yeah, my feelings when it came to my good-looking, bonerific, amiable but closed-mouthed and occasionally closed-off boss were, to say the least, complicated. He was a good man and a fun guy to watch a Broncos game or go white-water rafting with, but I was starting to feel a tiny, persistent buzz in the back of my head telling me that if he didn’t truly trust me, I might be better off using my business degree to help build some other home-grown business—one where I could become a real part of the story.

I was thinking about this a lot over the long Fourth of July weekend. Thad was off visiting his big brother, who I gathered ran the family pizza business out east somewhere, and I had the shop and grounds all to myself. I have to admit, the temptation was strong to go digging through the house—the shop was attached to the side of Thad’s simple but spacious two-story farmhouse, with the greenhouses behind—but my morally obsessive grandma Jo wouldn’t have stopped at rolling in her grave if I’d stooped that low looking for dirt and secrets. No, she’d have dug herself out, borrowed someone’s phone at talon-point, and posthumously sent me a long, passive-aggressively worded email spelling out just how disappointed in me she was.

Rifling through Thad’s stuff was more my brothers’ speed anyway, which, in itself, was an even better discouragement. Aleksei’s life-hack number one: anything my degenerate brothers Viktor and Vlad were willing to do was something I should run far away from. The fact that I was even thinking about digging through Thad’s files and papers was just proof of my curiosity and growing frustration with Thad’s lack of openness.

It was late Tuesday afternoon. Outside it was already dark, mostly thanks to a raging thunderstorm that had been parked over the area for hours and was still going, beating hard against the little blacktop outside and noisily shaking the building around me. I was just finishing boxing up the mail orders and was thinking of locking up early when the shop bells over the door tinkled, signaling a customer had braved the storm. I looked up, and everything just seemed to stop.

The man who entered was tall, good-looking, and extremely ripped—not chiseled and bulky like Thad and a lot of our equally generously sculpted customers, but extremely hard and defined, with a body fat so low you could count every intercostal and see the rippling of his flat, cut abs even relaxed, each smooth, firm brick broad and elegant as it gave way to the others above and below like the sandstone strata on a canyon wall. This display led irresistibly up to the firm, rounded protrusion of his meaty, modestly proportionate pecs. This was a man made to be admired, with the eyes, and then with the rest of you.

I could see all of this because from the neck down he was wearing only baggy jeans and a pair of old boots, leaving every inch of his lanky torso exposed under the soft fluorescents of the store. His skin was a warm medium brown and his straight black hair was short enough most of it was hidden under a worn green ball cap, which was the only other thing he had on that I could see.

I… couldn’t even understand my reaction. I knew he was beautiful and that I was drawn to him before I had even fully taken him in, but then he lifted his sweet, entrancing face, and our eyes meeting set off a firecracker in my chest. I actually put a hand to my sternum, as if to make sure there wasn’t a gaping hole there and everything was still where it should be.

I was facing the front of the shop and its glass windows and door. The storm outside made it look almost black, but I could see the shapes of some nearby trees bending into the wind. Lightning cracked somewhere nearby, followed by a loud roll of thunder. Belatedly I realized my newcomer was drenched—because of course he was. Even if he’d parked near the door, just the walk from his vehicle to the entrance would have gotten him soaking wet. His sleek, hairless skin was beaded with water, his cap was sodden, and his jeans were clinging to—holy fuck, that can’t be a dick half-filling his pants leg all the way to his knee, could it?

Get your act together, Aleksei. Dream bod and leg-ferret aside, this guy needed a towel. The trouble was, I didn’t have one to hand. As a kind of stopgap I pulled off my own extra-thick brick-red Hashery tee shirt as I rushed toward him from around the counter. He looked at me in surprise as I approached him and started blotting the moisture off him with my wadded-up tee. “Uh, hi to you too,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone that hit me right in the balls.

I froze, glancing up at him with an awkward smile. The guy had to be a long and limber 6-foot-5, and I had bent a little to dab at his abs (which were undulating lightly while he breathed down at me, pulling at my attention). The eyeline between us felt almost vertical. I straightened myself up and swallowed a little—the angle hadn’t much improved. My pale skin felt like it was prickling with heat, which made not sense to me. Height alone didn’t normally do it for me, but something about this guy and the vibe I was getting was pressing buttons I didn’t even know I had.

At least I didn’t have to feel too self-conscious about my own shirtlessness. I wasn’t buff like him or swole like a lot of our patrons, but I was naturally lean and fit, even without all the gym work everyone around here seemed to be doing whenever you weren’t looking. Only thing that stood out about me was my shoulder-length ash-blond hair. Everyone I knew had short hair, even this guy, and despite how proud I was of my mane I’d almost cut it off three times in the last six months.

I swallowed again. “Sorry, sir,” I said. “Is there something I can help you find?” I looked at the shirt in my hand; then, as it was now too cringey to keep wiping him down like he was a Toyota who’d pulled into my car wash, I offered him the balled-up tee. “Uh, or I could find you a towel, if you like,” I added lamely.

The man looked at me almost fondly and took the shirt. He was tired, I realized as I watched him wipe his shoulders and arms. It felt like he’d been struggling with something, exerting a lot of mental effort. Which made sense—driving through a storm this intense for any length of time was an ordeal. “Here, come, sit,” I said impulsively, guiding him to a polished walnut bench to one side of the shop floor. He sank onto it gratefully, dotting his forearms.

I sat next to him, acutely aware of a heat somehow radiating from him despite his having just been out in the cold rain. I seemed to absorb it, somehow, like he was sending off waves of warmth and beauty and lust solely for the benefit of those around him. My pulse quickened and cock started to react… which naturally got my brain veering back toward that inexplicable bulge I’d seen. What was that? Was he… wearing something underneath his jeans, like long johns or something, and they’d gotten wadded up somehow? Maybe he was smuggling some kind of illicit substance, with parcels taped to his thighs minimize the chances of discovery—though what kind of contraband was fat and tubular like that, and who he needed to hide it from, was beyond me.

I shook the distraction away and kept my attention firmly on his face. “I’m Aleksei, by the way.”

He looked up at this, as if my introducing myself was slightly unexpected. Something in his eyes seemed conflicted, though I couldn’t imagine why. “You don’t know me?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, examining his heart-stopping face again just to be sure. I allowed myself a small, abashed smile. “I’d remember if I met you before. Are you an online regular?” Maybe I was supposed to recognize his voice from phone orders, but, if so, that wasn’t ringing any bells, either.

I was having trouble thinking straight, which might have been part of the problem. This guy was just too intense to sit next to. I was trying to fight my arousal, but my cock was straining to get hard in my work trousers, and the thing was above-average enough in size that a bent, stymied half-boner trapped in the tight confines of my crotch could easy approach downright painful. My tactile senses were overwhelmed by the simple presence of his magnetic body, my olfactory apparatus could not get enough of his scent, and my field of vision was increasingly consumed with his face. I couldn’t look away. I wanted desperately to move even closer, to touch him for real with the caress of fingers and the brush of lips.

This is wrong, I thought helplessly. Unnatural…

No, not unnatural. On the contrary, it felt infinitely natural. But it wasn’t coming from me, from my nature. This lust and need was seeming into me from him.

He looked intently at me, setting my shirt aside, and I tried to focus. “Aleksei, it’s me,” he said seriously, unguarded for a single moment. “I’m Thad…’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.” That last part sounded oddly like a sudden swerve, like he’d inexplicably changed what he was going to say in mid-speech—not just the “ex” part, but the whole the boss’s boyfriend thing. He cleared his throat, then added diffidently, “He must have mentioned me?”

“Not… that I remember,” I said distractedly. I’d been watching a few beads of water trailing down the sides of his face and realized he was still wearing that sopping-wet ball cap. It was so soaked the green looked almost black. That won’t do, I thought. In a lightning move I reached up and pulled it off. The beautiful man’s eyes widened comically, and he reached up to stop me, a second too late. “Wait—!”

I stilled and stared, the forgotten cap in my hand dripping silently onto the floor by my feet as I gaped at two tall, pointy doggie ears twitching high and alert atop his head amidst a tumble of damp black hair. Unable to help myself, I reached up with my free hand to touch them. They had the coloring and shape of a German shepherd’s, and the skin and cartilage and short, soft fur between my fingers felt… exactly the way they looked.

The ear I was fondling twitched in my hand, and I pulled my hand back and laughed. “They’re real,” I said, reaching for them again.

“Yeah,” Thad’s supposed boyfriend said, sounding as though he had very mixed feelings about his doggo ears. “I’ve been trying to get rid of them, but…”

I had fleeting images of the poor guy going from surgeon to surgeon, all them refusing to do the operation, and I felt weirdly horrified. “Don’t,” I told him earnestly as I went back to gently playing with his doggo ears without permission.

When my gaze flicked back down I saw chestnut-brown eyes warm with affection, almost like he knew me already just from the few minutes we’d spent sitting here on his bench, both of us half-naked and him dripping with rainwater. He ducked his head slightly. “I need to look at least a little normal,” he said, almost apologetically, glancing up at me through his long lashes. “But… I discovered I can’t do it alone.”

I nodded. The not-going-it-alone thing made sense. That kind of a life-changing operation would be daunting enough even if you did have someone at your side, and to face it solo would be awful. I held his gaze, trying to convey my empathy, and as he lifted his chin to stare back at me I saw… a glint of something in his eyes, almost like he was considering me as a candidate for the person he joined forces with, if I could be adapted to that kind of role. I found this… oddly appealing, so much emotion swelled in my throat.

It was weird. Such a twist might have been impossible to conceive of under any other circumstances. I had just met this guy. We were utter strangers to each other.

But something had changed in me in the last five minutes, like the cosmic demiurge had put the world on pause for a second just to monkey around with my config settings, then started everything up again. There was Aleksei before this moment, and Aleksei after. Because I had, after twenty-six long years on this planet, finally discovered my type, my kink, and my fetish: tall, sweet, rangy, exquisitely buff, radiantly beautiful, possibly inhumanly hung, possessed of touchable dark-golden skin, mesmerizing eyes, and pert, soft, twitchy, emotionally responsive doggo ears.

It was not just that he was hot, because I knew from hot guys. I lived in a microuniverse of almost nothing but hot guys in every flavor and personality. It was the sheer extra-ness of him—the way his existence and his animus and his physical being all colored so far outside of the lines that all-new fucking lines had to be added to the thing. That was what I was a goner for.

And if that was real, that meant that my sexual and emotional fulfillment was probably pretty much down to this exact man in front of me.

“The ears stay,” I told him firmly, hand stilling behind the ear I’d been fondling. Then, my willpower shot to hell at this point, I moved in for a soft kiss.

It surprised him, I could tell. But he responded quickly, answering my gentle kiss with one of his own. Our lips parted briefly, almost reflexively, but our tongues only touched in the demurest of greetings before we pulled back from each other, basking in the unexpected moment.

I wanted to keep skritching, but I didn’t want to be a pain about it. I wasn’t quite ready to pull my hand back, though, and so I found myself stroking the back of his head instead. His hair was soft and thick, and shortish enough that this, too, or maybe it was my imagination, almost felt a bit like stroking doggo fur.

“So, you didn’t tell me your name, Thad…’s ex-boyfriend,” I said, drawing out the cryptic moniker just the way he had. I paused for effect. “Is it… Rex?” I teased.

The object of my sudden, inexplicable infatuation sighed dramatically, as if he were pretending exasperation. “Sure. You can call me Rex,” he conceded flatly.

The give took me by surprise. “Yeah?” I was conflicted. It wasn’t who he really was, but it’d be fun to call him that. Who was I to demand total truth from someone who had just met me, anyway?

He reciprocated my petting then, sliding his fingers into my mane near my left temple, sending tingles all through me. He watched me for a beat, maybe guessing what I’d been thinking. “I’ll tell you the whole story, maybe,” he said guardedly. He bit his lip in a way that made me want to kiss him again. “Right now,” he added meaningfully, “I think I need to get out of these wet clothes.”

I immediately felt bad about making him sit here flirting while he was soaked and probably uncomfortable, and pulled back a bit in embarrassment. “Right, right!” I said, jumping to my feet. I thought about the storm outside, which only seemed to be getting worse. The back of the shop and the white interior door that led into the main building were right in my line of sight, like a fait accompli. “Why don’t you clean up and get changed here, in the house?” I suggested. “I’m sure Thad wouldn’t mind.”

Rex smiled up at me. “I’ll bet.” He flicked his gaze toward the rear door and added, “I’m not sure I remember the way, though…”

There was that glint again.

I… wasn’t a player. It was out of character as fuck for me to be acting like this, and conversely I was under no illusions that Rex’s flirting meant anything more than that he was a basic horndog with extra relish. But I was stuck on him, and the fact I was stuck on him and the low-key anxious need to know why I was stuck on him meant that I wasn’t going to let this guy out of my sight. “Think of me as your copilot,” I told him, reaching out my hand to help him up.

Rex grinned widely at this. There was an in-joke there I wasn’t privy to, I was fairly sure, giving me a ghost of a reminder of my taciturn boss and his tendency not to tell me things. Either way he took my hand and stood. Things were now progressing toward…whatever they were progressing toward.

Quickly turning away to finally adjust my boner, I left Rex’s side only long enough to turn the lock on the shop door and flip the “Closed” sign, then hurried back. Together we headed toward the interior door and the privacy that would allow that next stage to come into fruition, while the windows rattled and the black storm howled and roared around us.

I don’t even know why I decided to snowjob poor Aleksei like that. I think I spent too much time around the twins. Those guys were a bad influence.

I was in a weird mood anyway. I had been riding high on all the change I’d been able to do, those last few days at Mike’s. Undoing giantification. Opening everyone’s eyes to the power inside them. Joining bodies with Zac. Giving the platinum-haired QB a perfect little twink body he could share with his other half… which had ended up being two perfect little twink bodies.

So much had happened I couldn’t even keep track of it all. I was still gobsmacked at the fact that we’d actually twinned my brother. Sort of. One of them actually had my old body now, but that was a lot less intense than the fact that there were now two Mikes mooching around the family manse, running the pizza biz, having lots of sex with crazy-hot guys (themselves included), doing a buttload of pot, and basically… living their best life. I was a little envious of big bro, to be honest, not least because it was my mutant mj that made it possible. I’d never altered my own reality like that.

My early discoveries linking the properties of cannabis to little-understood action centers in the brain had drawn me into a tunnel-vision life of experimentation and development. The business wasn’t even my real passion—the Hashery was mostly a means to funding my trials and refinements. All those years I’d been laser-focused on crafting and refining various specialty-strain cannabis sub-breeds, ending with what was at present a core cohort of fourteen high-intensity targeted strains focused on specific transformation loci.

I’d done everything I could to build solid data on the intricate workings of my clandestine strains. I’d carefully calibrated my own nightly tokes with low-dosage blends of this strain and that, mixed with my ordinary breads-and-butter brands of high-quality weed. I’d slipped a bit of various select ultraweed varieties into random packages of the famous high-quality wares we sold to the public, and charted the results as best I could. Gradually, too, I’d acquired a few clandestine private customers whom I supplied with cautiously blended versions of my secret red-pack strains. All of it as a way of understanding and improving just what I was capable of doing with my increasingly powerful hardcore ultraweed.

And it all went exactly to plan. I’d gradually accreted an ever-growing community of buffer, taller, extra-stoned customers, not to mention an enhanced version of my own previously unremarkable bod. And then… what? Did I enjoy the eye candy? Take advantage of the flirting and the guys draping their arms around me left, right, and center? Naw. I crunched the numbers and grinned at all the freaky hexagons I got to draw as I mapped out the stranger and stranger chemical structures of my amazing, evolving bodyshaping pot. I got my (increasingly unwieldy and usually ignored) hardons at the desk in my lab, and it wasn’t from ogling the Hashery Fanboys PicThread feed. Anyone else would have been boning just from all the cocky guys posting selfies with their dopey grins and their broccoli bags and their sleeveless tees showing off their bronzed and brazen bicep peaks; but all I saw as I scrolled my feed, and collected my testimonial letters and emails and all the come-ons I got in person from guys who’d unknowingly tweaked themselves along with their brains, was numbers. Numbers, and matrices, and the intoxicating potential to refine what each strain could do even further, to the point of almost surgical precision.

Who’d have guessed—leveling up and intensifying my drug of choice… was my actual, high-inducing, perspective-shrinking drug of choice.

I’d been sending a ton of the stuff to my laid-back pothead of a big brother, under the heading of gratitude for introducing me to the stuff way back when and thereby starting me down the path of success. Truth was, I just wanted to see what he would do with it. He’d always been a steady hash user and the epitome of chill and relaxed, but the fact that he hadn’t originally planned to end up the family pizza scion and wasn’t completely happy in that role added just that touch of frisson to his placid existence needed to catalyze an unconscious motivation for change. I send him the special stuff along with the regular, and dropped a few hints that with regular use the premium varieties might gradually induce certain kinds of… masculine improvements. My Mike-savvy told me he’d probably keep on with the regular stuff himself and instead sneakily try out the growth-catalyzing strains on hot college guys he was too shy and passive to actually go after. So I’d gone ahead and secretly made sure the “regular” batches weren’t quite as mundane as he thought they were.

Then I’d shown up for the Independence Day weekend, and it was like walking into a literal fantasy. A muscle-growth Shangri-La. Between Mike’s dosing of certain of his employees, their own shenanigans as they got wise and started spreading the growth to their friends, and Mike himself building up an increasingly strong extrasensory nexus between them, I’d stumbled into a dream sequence where everybody was an impossibly hot, insatiably stoned-’n’-horny muscle giant—except with all kinds of fascinating variations according to temperament and appeal, from the just-for-fun gorilla arms on the hairiest of the beasts to the cute redhead who’d gleefully shrunk instead of growing. Big bro was at the center of it, calm and a bit confused as he worked out what was going on and more turned on than anyone.

For me looking up at these giant dudes was the most literal heads up you could get. For ages I’d been obsessing with the mechanics of slow, incremental improvements, but seeing someone take those masculine enhancements from minute to mind-blowing was a lightning strike to the brain. I’d been driving like somebody’s grandad, and Mike and his buds had taken this Maserati and floored it, with me agape in the back seat wondering if I even knew what a car was for.

I hadn’t even been savoring my own carefully modulated improvements, much less the slow, infinitesimal beefening I’d incited to varying degrees in my customers and employees. And here were there guys turning their amps up to fourteen, outgrowing all possible clothes, laughing like muscle-hunk satyrs and spraying each other with more hot, spiky-smelling cum from their enormous hard cocks than the U.S. Navy could spatter the sides of their ships with in a decade.

(Note to self: investigate infiltration of special-strain high-fiber “herbal seasonings” into the Navy food supply.)

Then came the end of the trip and that escalating climax of transformations, of a kind and magnitude I’d barely imagined was even possible. Not only had I accidentally twinned my own brother, but I’d ended up driving home in the sleek, upsized, hunkified body of a guy I’d just met named Zac (while the extra Mike tooled around in mine). It was a completely revised existence with the barest connection to anything I know, from the neck-tickling, forearm-thick erection, to the pair of very real German shepherd ears Zac and I had received as a jocular lesson in humility, to the dizzying memories of sharing bodies and raw, easy lust and off-the-charts mutual pleasure that I still couldn’t shake because they were still constantly blowing my mind every time I thought about them.

I’d pointed my truck toward home in a kind of daze. I had a dim idea I’d eventually need to reshape this body so it would look more like the Thad Loukanis everyone expected to see (and who had at least two cameo-shot-driven PicThread fan accounts that I knew of). Reshaping was a thing—heck, the last thing I’d seen as I put Mike’s town in my rear-view was a couple morphing themselves into perfect replicas of each other—and I’d been part all of the size-management and reconfigs that had filled the last day or so of my visit. So that would have to be the plan, at some point. But as I drove buck naked across the prairies of middle America, a corded brown arm I was already getting used to out the window of my truck, dog-ears twitching in the wind and a steel-hard dick the size of Florida tapping wetly at the notch in my collarbone, I knew I wasn’t ready to give up this body just yet. I had just had an awakening, and though I hadn’t meant to end up looking like the ultimate version of a certain star quarterback’s eager, stat-loving, and occasionally mischievous boyfriend, the body I had now was absolutely symptomatic of everything I hadn’t been doing with my ingenuity, and everything I hoped to try and experience from this point forward.

I’d taken my first metaphorical group swim back in Mike’s own private Brigadoon, and on my way home I decided to try a solo lap or two during my Kansas stopover, just to get a taste for what it would be like to be… like this. The stopover was happening regardless. Though I’d gotten a reasonably early start, at least for someone who’d been sated to insensibility the night before on a heady mix of climax and impossible transformation, I’d decided early on I’d break the trip into two legs and get a hotel for the night somewhere along the way.

So it was that as the sun set in Kansas I pulled off the highway more or less randomly at an exit that promised the requisite food and lodging. It wasn’t until I was decelerating around the gentle curve of the exit ramp and caught sight of the friendly-looking lights of the Snooz-Away Motel just a few hundred feet down State Road 43 from the stop-sign intersection ahead of me that I realized I had a problem—a very, very big problem. Walking into the office in my current state was not a reasonable possibility.

I slowed, then, stuck for options—there being no other amenities in sight beyond the aforementioned cozy accommodations, the gas station next door, and the Burger Jack across the empty two-lane by-road—I found myself pulling off clandestinely right behind a shrub-footed billboard just off the exit ramp and into a secluded little arbor obviously intended for more law-enforcement-oriented pursuits. There, as the gathering dusk settled around me, I set about making myself reasonably presentable through the delicious expedient of delivering unto myself a most epic orgasm ever produced by means of hands, mouth, and tongue.

And then another one, because it seemed my libido was so high in this body that jizzing copiously down my own throat once to the point of nearly choking on my own cum and orgasming so spectacularly I saw gods and demons applauding was not enough to make this damn, majestic, arm-sized dick go down.

Finally, after the third go, I was… well, not so much “soft” as pliable enough I could probably manage to stuff my wang down a pair of pants. It would have to do, I thought with a grin. I dug in the canvas duffel of clothes the twins had left with me and found, in addition to a few interesting items I’d definitely return to later, a very loose pair of heavy-weave jeans; a sturdy pair of boots; thick socks; and the green ball cap I’d been wearing before I left to hide my one truly inexplicable set of transformations. I pulled all of these on in the truck, every article of clothing feeling, in my present multi-mega-afterglow state, like a grudging but very funny concession to dumb societal rules that didn’t seem to quite apply to me anymore.

There were a few tee shirts in the bag, too, but there I drew the line. The no-shirts rule had been infused in me, maybe literally, during my brief stay at Mike’s. In the end I zipped up the duffel and started up the truck for the short trip to the motel without even seriously considering covering up more than halfway.

The matronly but not unattractive middle-aged lady behind the desk in the motel office barely looked up from her phone long enough to check me in. I had to register under my real name, since the only ID I had said Thaddeus Loukanis on it, and thank goodness she didn’t notice or query the disconnect between the photo and what I actually looked like at the moment. The soccer jock in the yellow uniform smock manning the register at the Burger Jack, though—man, did his eyes bug out. I’d always thought it was just an expression, but I not only saw all the whites of his eyes, I practically saw the sockets behind them, too.

I listened to him softly panting as he keyed in my order, which took a while because after a day of driving and all those cumfests behind the billboard I was hungry as fuck. I needed greasy, salty, delicious beef, and not just the metaphorical kind.

The smock had a nametag that just said “Bill” on it, and I took a chance that was his name. “Thanks for feeding me, Bill,” I said, trying for mildly suggestive without making a big deal about it. Not that I needed to do much. I dunno whether it was the power of my physical attractiveness in Zac’s augmented body, or some kind of pheromones I was physically emitting, or maybe extra-sensory fuck-waves I was putting out there from the mental change centers my superweed had awakened in me, Mike, and the rest of the gang—but I knew this guy was hard for me. He aching for it, and he was riding so close to the edge being this near to me he’d probably jizz in his pants if I so much as licked my lips at him.

He kept his eyes on the register, but his breathing got a bit rougher. “My pleasure,” he said quietly as he finished ringing me up. He gave me my total and I paid, and then he went back and started some fries and went about making the rest of my food. I looked around. No customers, and no other employees. Apart from Phoebe over at the Snooz-Away Bill and I might be the only people on Earth at the moment, and I was willing to believe the laconic, Reddit-addicted desk clerk had silently receded right back into the black never-never she’d momentarily surfaced from when I’d first stepped into the motel office.

I returned my attention to my new friend. “We alone here, Bill?” I said, raising my voice just enough to carry back to him.

He glanced furtively up at me as he assembled my first double cheeseburger. “Yep,” he said.

I nodded. “Why don’t you make that to go,” I suggested, as bland as can be.

Bill nodded jerkily and started making my burgers slightly faster.

A few minutes later Bill was walking with me from the temporarily closed Burger Jack back to the motel, eyes straight ahead lest they sneak one glance too many and end the show before it began. He was taller than I expected—I was used to towering over people, having crept my height up to nearly 6-foot-7 by the time I’d driven out to Mike’s, and my Zac 3000 bod wasn’t that much shorter; but Bill had to be over six feet himself, and built very much like a small-college athlete. Once inside my room I set down my big bag of food, made sure the door was locked and my cap was in place, then turned to my lusty admirer and winked. “All yours, bud,” I said, spreading my hands at my hips.

Bill shivered, staring hard at my torso and my legs and especially what was shoved inelegantly down my jeans. He dropped to his knees and then, to my amazement, as if this were a process reserved only for the most elect of fellatees, he set about unbuttoning, unzipping, and pulling down my jeans with only his teeth.

I was amused and impressed, and the sight of him denuding me in such a singular way was enough to get my monster wang and huge cue-ball nuts going all over again. The second he got my pants down far enough my thing leapt up and practically slapped him in the face. We both watched in awe as it rose to its full, ridiculous hardness, until the damp, red, nearly-fist-sized head was nuzzling against the top of my sternum like that was where cocks were supposed to go.

Dazed, Bill got to his feet, it being more than obvious this was one blow-job that could not be delivered from the usual classic position.

Maybe blow-job isn’t the right word, anyway. The implication of getting sucked off is just that—taking a guy’s hard prick into your mouth and using all your internal oral resources to deliver the maximum of dreamy pleasures possible in there. My dick? Only a dude as big as a room could deep-throat a cock like this (as I knew from actual experience). But Bill wasn’t daunted. He deftly used his lips, his mouth, his tongue, and his hands to deliver as much pleasure as he could manage to every square inch of my enormous dick, and my suddenly slutty and oversensitive system had me moaning wantonly from the sheer awesomeness of multiple forms of stimulation at once.

Urgency started building in me and I bent to help him, while at the same time letting him know he was still the maestro in charge of making me shoot my massive, gargantuan load. He responded with even greater fervor, while maintaining his attentiveness and his constantly shifting, multi-prong attack.

“Yeah, dude,” I rasped loudly as I helped him lick around the upper reaches of my shaft. Fuck, he needs more tongue, I thought. Either that, or I need less cock! In that moment the very idea was ludicrous. Then Bill set me on fire with a long, wet, undulating lick from balls to crown.

“Yeah! Fuck, yeah!” I crooned. “Bill, man, I am so close.” At the sound of his name on my sloppy, lust-hungry lips he whimpered against the flesh of my hot, too-big prick. With one hand he fumbled at his own pants and pulled out a long, thin, uncut cock and started jerking like mad.

That did it. The flood was coming! “Get ready,” I warned him, and then I was gushing cum like Mentos dropped in a two-liter of Diet Coke. At first we tried drinking it, but the pressure and quantity was so strong that Bill had to hurriedly step back to keep from getting his uniform soaked.

We panted at each other for a long time as I finished cumming, until both of us were staring at my barely-softened, still towering cock and the huge mess I’d made all over myself, Bill’s face, and the motel’s cheap crimson-and-gold industrial shag carpet, the synthetic fibers of which weren’t even trying to absorb the puddles of goopy white spunk. Then our eyes met, and Bill grinned such a big, goofy, cum-smeared grin I had to laugh.

My burger knight returned to his fast food purgatory not long after, but I got in a jizzy kiss before he cleaned up and left. I got naked, ate my food in comfortable silence, and got in bed and put on the TV for a while to wind down, my dick eventually flopping heavily across my thigh like it knew it had to rest at least some of the time. As I half-watched a John Oliver rerun I found myself idly fondling one of my doggo-ears. I should get rid of these guys, at least, I thought. Maybe I wanted to hold onto my new ride for a bit longer, at least until I got closer to Colorado Springs, but the ears, while awesome, were even more freakish than the cock and the ability to turn hormonal college jocks into panting sybarites.

I closed my eyes and focused. I knew what I needed to do and exactly how to concentrate. Using all of my mental assiduousness, I directed my doggie ears to go back to where they came from.

Nothing happened.

I tried harder, screwing my mental acuity up to the maximum. I kept at it until I started getting a headache, then slumped back against the padded headboard. I reached up to feel, but I already knew what my fingers would find: soft, pointy, black-and-gold-furred skin and cartilage. I hadn’t been able to alter a single atom of my strangest and most interesting augmentation.

A welter of explanations occurred to me one after the other, all easily discarded. It wasn’t because Bran had given to me and so he had to undo them. This wasn’t freaking Bewitched, and the ears didn’t have DRM encoding. I should be able to alter my body regardless of how it had gotten that way, just as I’d helped alter Jay and Zac and the twins, just as Jay and Zac had altered each other until they looked exactly the same. It wasn’t because I was tired, either—hell, with this body and the energy levels I felt all the time I could run a mile right now now, no sweat. Probably literally.

It was easy to sweep aside all the false answers to my failure to morph, because deep down I knew what it really was. The special mind-awakening cannabis I’d bred, the stuff I’d slipped to Mike in concentrated doses and blended into the rest of the various strains of growth-inducing weed he’d passed on to with his friends, was true to the nature of pot itself: it was meant to be shared. My ultrapot created not isolates but a community. We’d all seen it and experienced it, as nodes emerging from a fog, connecting every man in that house to each other, myself included.

The abilities my stuff sparked in the mind weren’t singular but communal. The bottom line was that I hadn’t changed anyone those last couple of days in Muscle Shangri-La. It was always a we. The changes had come about through potent mental connections between two or more awakened men.

The conclusion was equally clear. Without the ability to totally share the experience, short of driving all the way back to Mike’s with my (metaphorical) tail between my legs I was stuck looking exactly as I was.

The unexpected feeling of powerlessness the situation left me with had me mentally disconnected for most of the rest of the next day. The remainder of the trip through Kansas and eastern Colorado was a blur. I got gas; I might have eaten. I have a vague sense of maybe making a trucker standing at the next urinal to me in some rest stop or other involuntarily, cum-spittingly hard. I dunno.

The heavy, black storm on the horizon I’d been driving toward for hours finally broke all around me at some point, but I don’t really remember. I was a blank.

As I left the interstate and started winding through the storm-drenched main streets of Colorado Springs, though, I finally started to resurface. I was master of this situation. I hadn’t just grown this weed—I had fucking engineered it. I could get back my ability to change myself. I could be Thad-that-was, or a canine-feature-free Zac-Thad, or a guy with a Thad head for work and a Zac head for fun, or… whatever the hell I wanted.

I just need to map out the right methodology to make that happen, I mused as I drove through the pelting rain toward the Hashery. Developing a new strain that would stimulate a solitary morph control was… feasible? I was pretty sure? But it would definitely take time, if it was possible at all. The easier solution by far would be to awaken someone else. Someone I liked and trusted.

It’s an embarrassing testament to how distracted I was, by my plight and my recent experiences, that the identity of my very own Mr. Liked and Trusted didn’t reveal itself to me until I actually stumbled sopping wet into my own store and the clever, fit, extremely capable and generally adorable Russian gentleman in question was very uncharacteristically using his own thick tee shirt to blot my wet, glistening torso. Then he straightened, pulling his long hair back behind his ear and staring into my eyes with real desire like he’d just discovered the very concept of infatuation, and as we sat down together on the sturdy bench by the door I remembered two very important things.

The first was that Aleksei didn’t actually like me very much.

The second was that, at the moment, I didn’t look even the slightest bit like me.

I smiled at him, and saw his nascent, if unaccustomed, willingness directed toward the stranger he perceived at yet subconsciously almost knew. This was it. He and I could definitely be the “we” I needed. I just had to mix up a bit of very special weed, share an intimate toke or two, and then my besotted young colleague could be just… like… me.

We entered the house, Rex leading the way despite his claims not to remember how to get around in his ex-lover’s place. I followed, stomach fluttering as I crossed the threshold from the shadows of the stubby intervening foyer between shop and house into the dark, still kitchen at the back of Thad’s open-plan, simply-furnished abode. It was like my internal alarms were almost but not quite going off, the way a tea-kettle starts to hesitantly whimper a bit before shrieking its guts out.

I kept telling myself I was being silly. You’ve been in here hundreds of times, I admonished my skittish psyche, and so has he, probably. You’re not doing anything wrong. It didn’t work, though. I wasn’t calmed, because the problem wasn’t that I was sneaking into Thad’s house while he was out of town somewhere, having fun with his pizza-purveying brother. It was the guy with the long, broad back and amazing, wet-denim-hugged ass I was currently following up Thad’s broad, sturdy cherry-wood center-of-house stairs the way you trailed after a hook-up who’s brought you home to his cozy boudoir and his king-sized bed and his The Weeknd playlist and his drawerful of condoms, flavored lubes, and the toys he’s set aside just for guestplay. It was that existential premonition, like a leak from another universe—the feeling that was telling me the steps I was taking right now, at this very moment, were leading me into an altered existence from which I could never return.

For some reason, my big, hard, messy tool liked that idea a lot.

I’d finally gotten to adjust and straighten out my troublemaking cock the moment Rex had turned his beautiful bronze-brown rain-dappled back on me, revealing the drops and rivulets neither of us had swabbed clear of his exquisitely smooth skin, and ever since then it had been throbbing with thick desire, trying to push through my pants like a big, fat divining rod toward Rex’s hard, round glutes and the hints of the sweet, spelunkable crevice between offered by those wet, low-hanging jeans. My dick wanted him, rubbing wetly and impatiently against my pants like a dog wanting out, and my brain and libido wasn’t far behind. Everything about Rex drew me to him, pulling at my hands and mouth and skin as fervently as it did my raging cock. The suddenness and utter totality of my smoldering lust for this intoxicating stranger was itself alarming—but my panting erection and heavy, hot, churning balls didn’t care much about that, either.

I’d kissed him! I’d touched him, drowned his smile and his sultry voice, demanded he keep his mutant doggo ears, and then… I’d kissed him. This guy—he was a stranger. Just a random guy. Except obviously not. There was nothing random or mundane about Rex. Which isn’t even his real name, I told myself frantically. How was he having such an effect on me? Was he doing this to me, maybe unconsciously, like a low-band radio wave that his body broadcast straight into mine?

Or maybe Rex was just the dream guy I hadn’t known I’d been looking for. Was this… kismet, or something? Love at first sight?

I snorted derisively at myself. This was not love. My slavering, steel-hard dick was not in love. Carnal devotion at first sight, maybe, but definitely not love. My heart pounded in my ears like it wanted to tacitly undermine my certainty on that score, drowning out the muffled chaos of the worsening storm outside.

We gained the top floor, and Rex headed unerringly for Thad’s bedroom and the gleaming en-suite. Proof, if I still needed it, that Rex had been here before—that Rex had been, at some point, a part of Thad’s life. I stopped myself awkwardly before I followed him in, realizing a bit too late that I hadn’t needed to dog the guy’s heels all the way into the damn shower cubicle. Instead I hung back in the spartan, neatly appointed bedroom and listened pathetically as he turned on the water. He hadn’t closed the door. Invitation, or supreme self-confidence?

I could peek. Just real quick. Just to see him naked in his perfectly sculpted splendor, like… appreciating Michelangelo’s David, rendered in vivid, moving sepia, every shifting muscle radiant with life and strength. And then there was the thing that was unlike any classical sculpture. If I peeked, I could verify the promise of that impossible tubular bulge down the leg of those sopping wet jeans as I drank him in…

I clenched my fists. This wasn’t me. I still couldn’t believe I’d kissed him. If I surrendered myself, I would be the reckless one. Years of showing up my foolhardy brothers held me back at the very brink. I had impulse control. I had a brain that I valued more than the abnormally intense passions that governed my family and led them monthly into one ridiculous situation after another. My dick throbbed, but I was in charge, not him.

I let out a breath and looked around Thad’s room. Characteristically, he’d left the place magazine-photo-shoot clean and tidy so he could return to a welcoming space after his trip. The bed was made with a simple navy duvet and crisp-looking lavender sheets, the dark blue carpet was vacuumed, and the surface of the long, low twelve-drawer solid oak bureau was clean and almost entirely unencumbered apart from a small lamp and an empty bone-white change dish on the end near the door.

I should make myself useful, at least, I thought. Discarding the stray thought that “uses” might be found for, say, my very eager mouth, I turned to the bureau, looking for clothes that I could leave in the bathroom for my guest to change into after his shower.

Tucking a loose lock of hair behind my ear as I bent over the drawers, I got to work. I quickly found some underwear, then rooted through the tee shirts for the ones that wouldn’t be too bad a fit on my showering visitor. Finding a size “XL” raspberry tee (old, or left by a lover?), I set the shirt and briefs on top of the bureau, then started looking for jeans or sweats for him to wear. Rex was a bit smaller and less bulky than my thick-muscled, 6-foot-7 dreamboat of a boss, but he was plenty tall enough—inches taller than I was, maybe six-four, six-five, I’d guessed—and I figured I should be able to find something that would more or less fit.

While opening and closing drawers hoping to find stacks of neatly folded pants (ideally in various sizes, all carefully ordered and labeled, despite knowing perfectly well I was in Thad’s bedroom and not the fucking Gap), I came across a bottom drawer that was packed not with clothes but with hefty, block-like bundles of red-label Hashery weed with funny mythological names and cryptic keywords hand-lettered onto each individual bag.

I blinked at the little hoard, recognizing this a stash of the special-blend strains Thad didn’t stock in the store below, or share with the general public. The smell hit me—weird, because the bureau wasn’t airtight and I should have noticed it as soon as I came. It was powerful, stimulating and sneaky like it was designed to worm its way into you, with notes of rainforest, black pepper, iron, and musk intertwined with the purest cannabis redolence I’d ever encountered. It was like, this was cannabis unbound, a purer and more dangerous form than most people even knew existed.

I’d worked with Thad’s retail strains of weed for two years, handling it, soaking it in, checking the greenhouses, very occasionally enjoying a smoke or two. It had seeped into me over all that time, making it a part of me, even if I didn’t partake in the quantity and enthusiasm of our improbably hot and hunky regulars. I was used to the regular stuff. This was beyond, in the same way a fathomless ocean was beyond a swimming hole. This was the real stuff, potent enough to twist your fate in directions even the gods wouldn’t foresee or understand.

I considered, trying to take in what I was seeing rationally. Why was it here, anyway, and in quantity, instead of the storage lockers out back—the ones that only he had the key for? Did he toke the special stuff when he was home alone, after working with the mundane varieties all day? Or was it here to share an intimate, premium smoke with certain special visitors?

I felt a rush at that for reasons I couldn’t adequately explain, my wet, achingly hard cock flexing desperately in my pants. Here it was—the back room, as it were. The part of the business and of his life that Thad had rigorously excluded me from, and Thad… well, Thad was far away, wasn’t he?

You’re the responsible one, I reminded myself harshly. You are the responsible one.

“I see you found the good stuff,” a low, luxurious voice said from behind me. “Want to share?”

I hadn’t heard the shower shut off, but now I was acutely aware of the silence of the room, with the faint sound of the storm wailing outside reduced to muted, ambient sound effects. He was out of the shower, behind me, with his naked body all warm and wet and probably irresistible. I felt him, even before I looked. I don’t know whether it was aroma, or something more complex he was sending out into the room, but I felt his body, on the back of my neck and in my mind, as though he existed to be sensed.

I let out a shaky breath and straightened, turning slowly to face him.

He was looking down at me with burning intensity. I couldn’t hold his hot stare long. I glanced up first—his doggo ears were high and pointed, emerging from his shortish, straight black hair like they belonged there. Then I let my gaze trickle down him like the shower he’d just emerged from, taking in his handsome face fringed with a hint of dark stubble along the sharp jawlines… elegant curve of his traps and the fist-thick mass of his pecs… the ridiculously perfect cuts of his flat, chiseled eight-pack… and then…

I gulped. He wasn’t naked. This was—this was almost worse. He had tied a thirsty-looking, brilliant white bath towel around his narrow, tight waist, the way I thought only people in movies did. It hugged the flare of his waist and shapely gymnast’s thighs more wickedly than any split-sided cocktail dress had ever done on a gold-digging femme fatale, but the thing that really dried my mouth was that when it came to decency the towel was entirely moot. Because below the hem, brazenly and nonchalantly kissing the upper reaches of his left knee, was, very real and very visible, the turtlenecked, pointy, rare-steak-pink head of Rex’s impossibly enormous cock.

What would that feel like in my hands? What would it feel like to possess—to have a cock so heavy, with so many square inches of sensitive, lickable flesh… and a body, too, that had to be as utterly sensual as it was arresting? I had to know. I didn’t know how I would find out, but I had to know.

My gaze shot back up to his searing brown eyes. They were flecked with amusement even as they darkened with a hot, simmering hunger. Everything about him overwhelmed me. “How—?” I rasped, hating myself for my id-driven reactions and for my own inferior level of potency. If he touched me now I would lose it, in more ways than one, and I literally could not process whether that was a good thing or not. I don’t even know what I was trying to ask. How was he—what? So sexy? So huge? So impossibly perfect, attractive to the nth power? So in control of everything I was feeling right now, the arousal and need that felt like it was wrenching upward, more and more every second I looked at him?

I expected him to be smarmy and make a move on me. But he was utterly serious when he replied, “Like I said, Lexy… it takes a friend. A co-pilot.”

I stared hard at him. Only my friends called me Lexy, Thad included. I didn’t know this guy. I felt like I shouldn’t read too much into it—it was a fairly obvious shortening of my name—but I couldn’t expunge the lingering sense that it was some kind of clue.

It was the “co-pilot” thing that held my attention, though. I’d agreed to that, already. Maybe under the influence of Rex’s inhumanly sensual charm, but I’d agreed to it.

Silently, I nodded, once. Rex’s smile was crooked.

He directed his gaze down at the open drawer, then back up at me. “So, the question stands,” he said, moving an inch closer and putting my pants in immediate danger of soaking. “Want to share some of Thad’s special weed and… see what happens?”

There was no air on the room, but somehow, I didn’t need it. I’d given up trying to think. I nodded again, quirking my lips in a small smile. This time, Rex grinned, his perky doggo ears twitching with happiness, and… I dunno if a heart can orgasm, but that’s sure it what I felt like happened to me in that moment as my poor besotted ass smiled back up at him.

The next morning the storm had cleared, and a strangely bright, yellow-hued dawn blazed through my windows at me like the sun was reaching into my bedroom to slap me awake. I had serious morning wood—or morning sequoia in my case. The intriguing natural smell of my cockhead was almost literally right in my face along with the echoes of sweat, semen, and a whole lot of very intensive pot. My impulse was to wrap my mouth around it and bring myself to yet another orgasm, which, given my teeming hormones lately, would be mere moments in bringing about. I settled for a quick lick around the sensitive rim, because several sensations I needed to pay attention to were piling into my synapses like football players on a fumbled pigskin.

I wasn’t alone in my big, comfy bed, for one thing. The body curled up against me from behind was not only warm and strong, with a brawny arm thrown around my augmented Zac-torso under the covers, but was also possessed of a morning poker of his own that was rutting on a slow, automatic rhythm against my lower back.

Distracting me from this pleasant envelopment was something a little more unusual, though not, by this point, unfamiliar: an awareness in my mind of another consciousness, tentatively linked with my own through a gossamer connection forged through a combination of necessary and contributing factors: a few shared bowls of Eros epsilon psych-linking weed; my own familiarity with mind-nexusing thanks to my recent experiences with Mike and his aggressively connected gang; and Aleksei’s adorably transparent need, accompanied by a yearning willingness to experience a kind of intimacy with me beyond the joy my enhanced, sex-radiating body could give him.

It had definitely succeeded. Power and energy had already started flowing between us, and I could tell we were already near the point where Lexy and I could work together to, well, normalize me just a little. I was strangely uncertain about how quickly I would go back to being “Thad,” and I had to do some serious thinking about that, but I knew some things had to change.

We’d had sex, before the pot and then again after. The first time was fast and, yes, furious, and neither of us had lasted long. He was fascinated by my neck-nuzzling, super-sensitive erection, licking and stroking if feverishly like he had to account for the pleasure of every single part of it. Unlike my friend Bill from the little side-quest on the way home he didn’t let me help at all, either. Not with hands or mouth. It was all his, all the junk I possessed—the whole torso-length shaft and the grapefruit balls as well. He made me cum even faster than I could, and he was blasting uncontrollably from his own meaty ten-inch tool the moment the first gusher erupted from my gasping cockslit.

Then I’d prepared the bongs with the special shit and we smoked languidly in my bed, half hard and half satiated, like we were at halftime. He asked what I was like being irresistible and impossibly hung. Mostly I made up a bunch of guff, though I told him about my little Kansas stopover. He laughed. I asked him about his job and about himself, as a way of feeling around my own willingness to sleep with him when I had never allowed myself to indulge in what had been a long, low-simmering attraction to my intensely cute second-in-command. His answers were reassuringly in line with what I already knew, though he was cagey about his employer—conscious, perhaps that as Thad’s supposed “ex” I might be sensitive when it came to our mutual friend.

I mulled over the me-sleeping-with-Aleksei thing. I decided I had given myself the loophole that I was currently “someone else,” and so it wasn’t Thad spilling all this spunk and getting all Lexy-cozy—it was “Rex.” I was totally not fooling anyone, of course, least of all myself; but as the weed had deepened our horniness, bringing the glow of our minds in sight of each other while our ability to perceive on the nonphysical plane progressed, I had decided this was my only “pure” chance to get royally fucked by Lexy’s red-hot, titanium-hard power tool before the weed and various revelations changed everything. It had been an impulsive decision, and one not one that had come from the most exceedingly rational parts of my brain. But the pleasure of Lexy cumming inside me then, and the warm, pleasant soreness of my ass (my technically virginal ass, given I’d only possessed this body a few days) now, allowed me to effectively cast aside all regret.

As if he were dreaming about the same thing, Lexy cuddled closer behind me, nuzzling his face into my shoulder as he rocked his morning wood along my spine, and—

Huh, I didn’t remember Lexy being quite that big.

A phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I reached for it automatically. Checking the screen I saw that it was mine (Jimmy and Jase had rescued it at some point and stuck it in the bag they’d left me, along with the clothes and other goodies), all juiced up after a night on the charger. The incoming message was a text from my hot-blooded greenhouse guy and groundskeeper, Amir, asking me why the shop wasn’t open and why the fuck I wasn’t answering my messages.

I glanced to the top of the screen—shit, we’d slept in to nearly noon! That Eros stuff was some powerful weed, especially on top of a long drive and a few layers of serious afterglow. I remembered I had told Amir I’d be meeting up with him this morning to go over some plans that had been delayed by my trip. Plus I opened up the shop most days, being more of a morning person than most of my employees. For all I knew there walk-in customers milling in the gravel parking lot, wondering if they were too stoned to remember when we were supposed to be open.

“Lexy,” I said, reaching under the covers to gently shake the arm that was tossed over my flank. The arm only contracted, holding me tighter, as Lexy murmured damp, sleepy protests into my neck. “Lexy, we gotta—”

Another text came through from Amir. “Are you home? I’m coming up.” I stared, the hairs rising on my arms as I realized I was even now hearing the thump of boots on my stairs. Aleksei didn’t need to be discovered in bed with the boss, I thought hectically. Amir talked to everyone, and it would be around town in hours.

“Lexy—” I began urgently.

The door to my bedroom burst open, and there was Amir, fire-eyed and mane-haired, heroically silhouetted by the sunlit stairwell window behind him. At thirty-seven he was a picture of mature, timeless masculinity, from his heavy boots and dark, battered jeans to his thick tee-shirt betraying the expanse of wiry, dark chest hair pushing against it from within, to the bristling beard that seemed to be so endemic to him, so intrinsic to his high-testosterone character, I wasn’t sure he hadn’t been born with it.

I sat up, exposing the brown arm wrapped around me under my own. Hurriedly I moved the blanket back up to cover my huge dick, but Amir’s furious eyes were fixed on my face, not anything below. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded hotly, a hurricane of indignation. “And why are you sleeping in Thaddeus’s bed—”

Aleksei stirred behind me, drawing Amir’s attention. His jaw dropped, and he added haltingly, “—with your—your—!”

He couldn’t manage to finish the thought, so he regrouped and shouted, “Who are you?! Where is Thaddeus? Where is Aleksei?”

“I’m… here,” Aleksei said from behind me, sounding confused. Only—it did not sound like Lexy, at all.

I whipped around in bed to face him and gaped, as stunned as Amir. It was like the bed had become a mirror, one side reflecting the other. Staring into my eyes was the face I knew from the hotel mirror, the face I had received by virtue of merging most unexpectedly with one of Mike’s sexy crowd of customers and friends. Instead of the familiar, pale, angled face of the boyishly cute, long-haired right-hand man and irreplaceable stalwart of Thad’s Hashery, the visage staring back at me was the one that Aleksei knew as “Rex”—smooth honey-brown skin, short black hair, doggo ears, and all.

“What?” Aleksei said, brows furrowing.

Man. Call me narcissistic, but I was feeling that same undertow that Lexy had felt with me. Something about this body was aggressively arousal-inducing, and fuck if I didn’t want to kiss that confusion right off that gorgeous twice-stolen face.

I had felt it from him, the night before. The more stoned he got, the more into me body he was, wanting to know how it felt, what it was like. He must have one powerful mind, I thought, to seize hold of the the mutual connection so easily. Either that, or the Eros epsilon was a lot stronger than I’d thought it was. A niggling thought told me that Aleksei’s transformation could not have happened without my own help and collusion, but I ignored it. I couldn’t go there, not yet.

“No, I mean, Aleksei, who works here,” Amir said, also confused. He folded his arms over his chest, which made him look very intimidating and sexy as fuck. Maybe he wanted to be the dilfy meat in a “Rex” sandwich, I couldn’t help thinking. I could certainly see, or maybe sense, the effect we were having on him. I knew nothing of Amir’s sex life, and maybe he liked guys or maybe he didn’t, but even from across the room the two of us were doing a number on him. Our bodies, our cocks, even unseen, were riling him up under that thick, hairy skin of his, and I would bet my house that if I and Aleksei stood on either side of him, right now, our quivering pillars and touchable bodies in easy reach, he’d succumb as easily as a penguin sliding into the sea.

“Look,” Amir insisted roughly, as if he were pushing aside stray thoughts, “either tell me who you are, or I will call the police.”

He must have figured we might have a legit reason for being here or he would have done so already, I thought. “Sorry,” I said, adding pointedly. “I just woke up, so—” Amir’s lips tightened at this seizing of the offensive—he knew he was the one who’s awakened us. “I’m Rex, Thad’s ex. He got delayed at his folks’ and asked me to, um, step in. For a few days.”

Amir’s gaze flicked to Aleksei, who by now was looking down under the covers and gaping at the muscles he’d bloomed overnight—not to mention the arm-sized raging erection. My own brain was short-circuiting, but somehow the right synapses fired and I understood what Amir had seen: a hunk exactly like me, who answered to “Aleksei.” Or something that sounded like it. I turned quickly back to Amir. “This is my brother, Alex,” I added blandly.

I felt Aleksei look up sharply at that, but my attention stayed on Amir, who at the moment was busy checking out our matching doggo ears. Fair enough; if I were in his place I’d take shared, pointy German shepherd ears as a sign of being related even over literally identical faces. “He’s helping out, too,” I explained.

Amir nodded. He seemed to have gotten over the shock of seeing twin brothers sleeping together. Maybe he figured we were both so viscerally attractive we literally couldn’t help it. I could buy that, having seen this body from the inside and the outside, and having directly felt the heat of Aleksei’s desire and obsession through our nascent, if already strengthening, mental bond.

What would that be like, to grow up that way? I though, amused. My thoughts drifted back to Jimmy and Jase… but those two, with their Clark Kent specs and their irrepressible gift for fomenting chaos, were a reality unto themselves. Even without the special body-morphing weed. I smiled fondly, remembering.

Amir cleared his throat. “Well, one of you had better open the shop, and check the online orders, too,” he said curtly. “This is a business, not a fuck palace!” With that he turned and stomped out. The heavy thunk of his feet down the stairs reverberated through the house, followed shortly after by the slam of the back door leading out to the yards and greenhouses.

I stared after him for a few seconds after he had audibly left the building, then turned back to Aleksei. He had the same expression on his face—the expression that said, “Did he just say ‘This is not a fuck palace’?” All at once, we burst out laughing. Then, as we grinned at each other, still chuckling and staring into eyes that neither of us had a birthright to, we leaned in and, inevitably, kissed.

Rex and I made out helplessly for a few minutes, like it was our natural state, our mouths and muscles and cocks a single thing that could hardly tolerate separation. This in itself was weird enough for me to hesitate and break off. As I pulled back, staring in aroused bewilderment at this stranger I was somehow joined with, in the utter silence of the house we heard a distant banging that made my doggo ears twitch.

I knew that sound. We didn’t open late often, but sometimes in the course of the day you have to leave the shop momentarily to gather supplies from the storeroom or take care of personal business. It is of course a rule that as soon as you do a wild customer will appear and thump, politely but firmly, against the glass shop door, and the metal of the frame against the deadbolt produces a distinctive rattle. I was surprised to hear it all the way up here in Thad’s bedroom, but… well, the house was quiet, and, fuck, I had been so distracted following a certain sodden-denim-clad ass last night, I couldn’t remember whether I’d even closed the door into the house from the attachment. For all I knew every door between us and the shop was standing insolently open in shameful testament to my impatient, slavering lust.

We both looked toward the door, then back at the other. Rex’s slightly chagrined smile seemed to mirror my own. “We’d better get down there before they try the front door to the house,” Rex said.

I nodded. Customers did have a bad habit of walking around the shop and checking the doors of the attached house if the shop door was locked—especially during business hours, though not exclusively. Interesting that he knew that. Was it a guess, that patrons would be likely to behave like that whenever a store was attached to a private dwelling? Or did he know from direct experience? “Or Amir decides to help them instead,” I added, as if we were listing potential retail calamities.

Rex shuddered theatrically, and we both grinned. Again, I had to wonder: was he guessing that our brusque, frowny, hot-tempered greenhouse manager was terrible at customer service based on having met him for thirty seconds—which, fair enough had been thirty very representative seconds—or did he have actual first-hand knowledge? I liked the mysteriousness Rex projected, but part of me craved to expose everything about him so that there would be nothing between us. It was a familiar feeling.

I reluctantly tabled all Rexly enigmas as I climbed out of bed and was confronted with a much more urgent problem. “What the hell do I do with this thing?” I asked as I turned to face him, my massive, clavicle-high erection batting at the hollow of my throat like a cat trying to smack the dot from a laser pointer.

Rex lounged in bed, ignoring the identical behavior of his own monster dick. “Looks good on you,” he purred, his smile turning slightly lascivious.

A flush of heat stirred through me. My balls—huge, hefty, and very tight at the moment—seemed densely freighted with near-boiling arousal, and I was sorely tempted to metaphorically throw everything to the wind, climb back into bed with this man, and find out exactly how far I could shove this dick into that magical, perfect ass.

But I was raised to be the responsible one, if only by default after the first two brothers had proven themselves useless practically before they were out of diapers. Thad wouldn’t thank me if I let his business go to seed while he was away with family. I focused on Rex, who was show no such signs of rectitude as he eye-fucked my new form, one hand straying idly to the wide, iron-hard erection traversing his torso. “C’mon, seriously,” I nagged. “It’s your fault I’m like this.”

His eyebrows lifted—damn, even that looked sexy on him. “My fault?” he repeated, amused.

“Well, yeah,” I said, gesturing at my transformed body and ungodly cock, which I didn’t dare even come close to touching. “You did this to me. Fix it!”

This time Rex looked genuinely surprised. “I did this to you?” he echoed.

I have him a hard look. The parroting thing was getting old. And how could the onus here be in dispute? He clearly had some kind of physical morphing power, which he’d used on himself the last time he had access to the necessary catalysts—Thad’s special hash and a willing “co-pilot”.

At first meeting I’d thought he’d been born this way and was looking for help going through surgery to normalize his mutations—though the size of his dick was so inhuman it was clear in retrospect that I’d actually doubted there was anything mundanely genetic about his abnormalities without realizing it, because on waking up to find myself identically transformed I was already primed to accept the obvious explanation. Rex had changed himself at some point in a few pretty extreme ways, which suggested a certain lack of control when under the influence. This same lack of control must have resurfaced last night: given the opportunity to scale back his own self-willed anomalies, he’d instead succumbed to temptation and wreaked his magic on me until I was just like him—ears, cock, inhuman beauty, and all.

To me it felt like a kind of rebellion on his part, like… not only was he not giving up his ears-and-cock body, he’d escalated the offense and given me one, too. Defiance by proliferation.

My oldest brother Viktor was like that. Once he’d had a spill on his bike on the way to summer school that tore up and, basically, ruined the thin tee shirt he was wearing. So he hauled it off and just brazenly strutted into the school building and right through the halls with nothing adorning him from the waist up except a wide smile and the stud in his right ear, like he was the cock of the walk and had license to do such things because he was him. When the vice stopped him, angrily demanding to know how he dared exhibit such singular audacity like a fox in a henhouse, Viktor randomly grabbed a passing senior—it turned out to be Leroy Keene, top scorer on the all-state lacrosse team—and literally ripped his shirt off, too, essentially not merely refusing to redress his behavior but doubling down on it. Leroy was a smiley, easy-going guy by nature and happily went with it, and the two of them started gathering a crowd and boisterously agitating the injustice of shirts right there in the science wing corridor. There ended up being shirtless protests for two weeks until the district responded, rather insidiously, by installing a brand new, extra-strong, high-powered central-air system. Soon after that everything went back to normal, except with pokier nipples.

I should not be thinking about poky nipples, I reminded myself. I glared at Rex and gestured at the immensely heavy giant steel-hard erection still bouncing wetly against my collarbone, as if he needed reminding what the issue was.

Rex shrugged. “How do you normally get rid of a hard-on?” he asked, as if he were an enlightened guru patiently guiding an initiate toward a self-evident answer. He glanced down at his own mirror-image phallic monstrosity, red tongue darting out briefly, and it hit me, like the discovery of a second sun in the sky, that his cock—and therefore my cock—was very much in reach of what I now knew to be his loving, attentive, extremely talented mouth.

“Sh-shhi-i-t!” I whispered shakily, and then suddenly I was going to cum. Oh, fuck.

“Drink it, Lex!” Rex coached as I stared down at my purple cock-head, so close it was like I’d zoomed in on it. I understood doing so would be a practical way of limiting the mess, but just the idea—

“Do it!” he urged, and I was already climaxing, the bright pleasure of orgasm sizzling up my spine as I bent down and wrapped my mouth around my cockhead. I was barely in time, the slick of my cum drenching my glans and rocketing against my soft palate as pushed down further, my grapefruit-sized nuts contracting hard as thick, wet pulses of pleasure shot up my arm-sized dick and crashed hard against the back of my throat. I grabbed my cock with both hands, as much to stem the flow as add to the pleasure, but my orgasm relentlessly pounded through me and I entered a white-hot reality saturated with an ecstasy to fierce and intense to be endured.

Just as quickly it subsided. My mouth disengaged with a pop, and my massive dick, straight as a flagpole before, now listed to the side, sagging slowly as it reluctantly deflated like a bouncy house after the birthday party’s over and the guests have gone home.

“So hot,” Rex said smugly, having watched the whole thing. I glanced up, still swimming in the immensity of my orgasm. My mouth felt abused and my chin was smeared with jizz. My doggo ears twitched again.

Rex was observing me with rapt appreciation. He hadn’t cum himself yet, but somehow I could feel that he was very, very close. “Maybe we’ll keep you like this for a while,” he said, his tone teasing, like I might not be given a say.

I narrowed my eyes at him, but just then we heard another round of banging at the shop door, and I knew my choice words on the subject would have to wait.

I wiped my mouth on a discarded towel and set about making myself presentable. Quickly, I found a pair of Thad’s jeans—Rex’s were hanging in the bathroom and would still be damp, and my own would now be too small for me—and with some difficulty managed to manhandle my not-exactly-flaccid monster dick down one of the legs. At least the fact that the pants were too big (because they were Thad’s) provided an advantage in that regard. I pulled on a red Hashery tee shirt from one of the drawers (this also was Thad size, a 3XLT, but I wasn’t swimming in it like I should have been) and turned to go—then abruptly rounded back on Rex in a panic.

“I can’t go down there like this!” I said, pointing to the top of my head and the German shepherd ears I’d acquired there.

Rex just lifted his eyebrows. Seeing that he had no ready solution, I looked around hectically before spotting something that might work. Striding over to the open closet, I grabbed the straw cowboy hat Thad had picked up on a trip to New Mexico off the peg on the back of the door and dropped it on my head.

I turned back to Rex with a grin, adjusting the hat from the front as if I were tipping it politely at him. He was laughing his approval. “Catch you later… pardner,” I said, nodding stoically at him.

Rex was still laughing. “Absolutely,” he said. He was actively stroking his adamantine cock, the beast already having left quite a mess along his collarbone and around the base of his throat. Despite his chill demeanor I knew he was definitely close to cumming, even using a certain amount of conscious effort to hold back and edge himself before releasing. I wondered how I could tell so easily.

Okay, mysteries later, I thought as I toed into an old pair of Thad’s too-big sneakers, sealed the Velcro, and hurried down the cherry-wood stairs. Time to pretend to be normal.

I felt the weight of it more than anything as I jogged down the stairs and into the back kitchen, reversing our route from the night before. The constant brush of warm, solid cockflesh against the whole long length of my thigh—a thigh longer than I was used to, like everything else about this upsized body—was weird and exciting, but… fuck, this had to be ten pounds of thick, snakey, knee-length phallus I was hauling around, to say nothing of the denser, much expanded balls I’d barely packed behind the fly of Thad’s loose-fitting jeans. The weight of my new junk pulled steadily at my groin muscles, but like all the rest of me I was seemingly iron-strong down there, too. If anything, the steady, low-key tug was eerily nice and low-level gratifying.

My shoulder brushed against the door frame into the mud room, and I had to amend my assessment. Actually, more than anything, I was feeling the pleasure this body generated merely by existing. Not only did this Rex-bod draw men to it like a magnet, going by Rex’s stories and my own otherwise inexplicable behavior the night before, but it felt amazing just to be inside it. Every touch, even from an inanimate door frame, was like a roué’s caress. I shivered, and my doggo ears twitched in appreciation from within the confines of my borrowed straw cowboy hat.

Doggo ears… muscles… a knee-length cock… some else’s face… why was I not freaking out?

Mysteries later, I repeated to myself. I got to the solid white door separating the shop from the house and found that I had, in fact, closed it behind me last night, though my sex haze at the time prevented me from remembering having done so. I’d even thrown the deadbolt. That meant Rex and I had both heard the banging on the shop door across the store, through a heavy external-grade door, and all the way upstairs. My canine third and fourth ears flicked again under the hat, and I mentally directed my attention to the top of my head as if panning upward in my own personal internal narrative.

Were these things not just real and movable, but functional? Did I actually have the auditory capabilities of an Alsatian in this strange, stolen body?

The banging came again, louder now that I was just the other side of the door into the shop. It didn’t sound angry or impatient, just determined. Our customers were a steadfast bunch when it came to getting their weekly supplies and the occasional special treat. Mysteries later!

I flipped the bolt and entered the shop, closing the door behind me as I made eye contact with the two guys on the other side of the glass trying to get in. The shorter, closer of the two, the one with his fist up ready to try another thump against the reinforced glass of the shop door, saw me and smiled, lowering his arm immediately as I strode across the store.

“Sorry guys,” I said as I unlocked the deadbolt and gestured them inside. It was warm and sunny out today, I noticed, a nice contrast from yesterday’s storm. The shop seemed cool and sheltered compared to outside, like a respite taken from the hot sun under a massive oak tree. “We had a bit of a late start this morning,” I explained to the two sauntering in.

“No worries,” the knocker said with a grin, passing by me with a quick but thorough ogle before strolling into the shop, hands in pockets. His buddy followed, glancing quickly at me and then looking away with a blush.

I had immediately recognized my two customers as a pair of regulars, Eric and Henry. They worked the deli counter at the local Myway! Megamart together and seemed more or less inseparable. I hadn’t seen any outward signs that they were more than very close friends, though “close” was for sure in the most literal sense possible. Wherever Eric was, always cool and confident, chances were his quiet, unassuming buddy was inches away.

They were an arresting pair, and I’d noticed them right away, practically the first week I’d started two years or so back. Though Eric was the leader, as it were, being the more extroverted and more likely to engage with others—slinging his arm around you for a selfie, that kind of thing—it was the shy one, Henry, who looked like a runway model: lanky, long-legged, and naturally buff, with a handsome face, dark blue eyes under messy reddish-brown hair, and a bright, open smile he didn’t show very often. Eric was several inches shorter and generally more ordinary, though he was trim and good-looking, freckle-faced with straw-blond hair; and his near-constant smirk, more wry than malicious, was quite endearing. They both dressed simply, Eric today taking advantage of the sunny summer weather with a tank top and long khaki shorts, Henry in a black tee and jeans; but it was Eric that sported the twin black earrings in one ear and the braided black bracelet snuggling his right wrist.

Eric and Henry were one of the chief reasons I was less than shocked by the cannabis-assisted morphing ability Rex had demonstrated so far at least twice. It was, as I had observed, an incontrovertible truth that most of our customers got better looking and generally hotter over time—to a mild degree, almost as though that were just something that happened around here. But Eric and Henry were well ahead of the pack. Over the two years of their regular Hashery patronage I had watched both men become progressively more ripped: Henry in a sleek, classical way (he now strongly resembled Michelangelo’s David in the elegance and proportion of his firmly-muscled physique), while Eric became more sturdy and swole without being too huge, like an action movie star or the more realistic sort of superhero. His triceps, shoulders, and pecs had gotten particular attention, it seemed to me—though, I reminded myself as I took up a position leaning against the counter and watched him wander the store, Eric’s ass had become decidedly more noticeable as well, and his lats looked like they were trying to escape his tank top.

All that might have been ascribable merely to diligent attendance at Giles’s Gym, the hardcore iron bug establishment in town. Other aspects of their slow, incremental transformation were, however, to me not so easily explained.

I was absolutely certain, for example, that the two men had been close to being of a height when I’d first met them. Now lean-’n’-hunky Henry towered a good five inches over Eric—not the sort of results you got from pushing yourself on the incline press or pounding out five sets of preacher curls.

There were other things, too. When I first met them Eric had had plain brown hair, like a mouse or a muskrat. In the present day it was a lush, fast-growing golden wheat color, and not from a sudden, Friday-night-whim dye job. The change was the culmination of a hundred weeks of minute shifts in hue, luster, and vitality. He buzzed his own hair a few times a month these days, I’d heard, and another customer, a mutual friend, had confided that there was a pool in town over how long he’d go on trying to keep it short before he gave in and let it grow the fuck out.

And then there was Henry’s package. Before yesterday, I would have said the puppy he seemed to be smuggling in his Underoos, going by the size of his bulge, suggested the biggest, fattest cock and heftiest balls I was ever likely to see outside of a Gumroad download. This was obviously no longer the case, as I knew from the very heavy, very real taut-fleshed monster now warmly crowding one of the legs of my borrowed pantaloons, but the fact remained that the shy boy’s awkwardly protruding basket had steadily developed in ponderous prominence bit by bit over the time I’d known him. I’d watched that edging outward of his package in occasional fascination over the years, as with the rest of the changes to my regular customers in general and these two in particular; and when you see someone go from nothing to write home about in the junk department to strangers asking if you had an OnlyFans account, or a shy sidekick looming over a buddy who used to be almost the same height, anyone not in a happy, persistent marijuana haze (which, fair enough, generally excluded most of our client base) might start to wonder what could conceivably be making it happen.

Given that there was one thing all these subjects of progressive hunkification had in common—in a word, us—it was not too difficult for me to eventually suspect the likely agency. Thad excluding me from his after-hours work on a series of “special” strains of signature cannabis pretty much sealed it for me. The only mystifying element was why I had only put the pieces together recently, and not earlier on.

I’d been unsure what to do with this information, tethered as I was by my need to be the Aleksei people saw me as: capable, reliable, the man who held the fort while others went off and did as they liked. No matter the scenario—family, work, a trip to the grocery store—I was the straight man (not literally) in a world of eccentrics. Even the very product I purveyed conformed to this trope. I won’t say I never partook—I enjoyed the basic-brand cannabis we sold occasionally, usually Saturday nights while binging up on steamy k-dramas—but I was like an abstainer compared to everyone else I knew, Thad included. Even Amir toked like the pot equivalent of a mukbang YouTuber when he was off shift with his feet up in his upland cottage, though he’ll tell you that’s only when it’s storming out like a world of banshees and the barometric pressure requires a sympathetic emotional resonance.

So, it was with a certain sense of awed exhilaration that I realized something, standing there against the front of the sales counter with my arms crossed, contemplating Henry and Eric sneaking glances at me as they wandered the aisles of cannabis and cannabis-adjacent goods. What I realized was this: in that moment, transformed as I was, I was not, in fact, “the Aleksei people saw me as.”

I grinned, increasingly gripped by this sudden insight. Fuck, I wasn’t Aleksei at all, I told myself—I was “Alex,” Rex-the-interloper’s twin brother. Aleksei, after all, wasn’t six-four, honey-brown, ludicrously hung, and stupidly attractive, as I now was. Aleksei did not possess these solid, unfamiliar muscles pleasantly stretching my Hashery tee, or this weight on my groin like I had a giant dick made of lead. He sure didn’t have soft and adorably perky doggo ears. Even the straw cowboy hat I’d donned to them added to the transformation. Had I worn it as the old Aleksei people would have laughed, but now it seemed to fit—because my image, today, was as malleable as my very physique. The connection to Rex, an exotic stranger who’d suddenly manifested in my life as if visiting from another universe and whom I now identically resembled, completed the break. Aleksei was yesterday, Alex was today,

This… this was my chance to invent an entirely new me—and that me, I decided in a flash of excitement, was going to be different. Better. Active, not passive. Someone who initiated rather than observing from the sidelines. Maybe it was permanent, maybe it would be like a vacation, but either way this Alex was going to be—

No, not “Alex,” I interrupted myself. That wasn’t enough of a change. Rex had gone with “Alex” only because I’d unknowingly answered to “Aleksei,” but… Wait. Wait. “Alex” was Rex’s twin brother. Which meant that of course it would end up being Rex and Lex.

I huffed a little laugh to myself. Lex. I liked it.

I glanced up at the boys, who quickly looked away and pretended to study our selection of cheese doodles. My grin twisted mischievously as I decided the next tack for this new persona to take.

“So you’re the new dude,” Eric ventured, taking a sip from the coffee I’d brewed. He looked me up and down as he said it, as though he and Henry hadn’t been furtively scoping me this whole time, then offered his free hand for a shake. “I’m Eric,” he said, “and this in Henry. We’re around here a lot.”

I hid a smile behind my own lidded paper cup of extra-special caffeinated goodness. He sounded almost like he was prepared to show me the ropes, him being the experienced customer and me the newbie. “Lex,” I said as I took his hand and shook, trying out the name.

“Lex, huh?” Eric said. “Cool.” It sounded nice when he said it, which I found slightly surprising. I’d had a lifelong aversion to shortening “Aleksei” in any way, but… well, that was the point, wasn’t it? I wasn’t Aleksei anymore. And the proof of that was the steamy dark roast I was presently enjoying with my customers. I let my hand linger in his a moment before disengaging. The three of us took another sip, the sexual frisson palpable in the air between us.

The Hashery offered a wide range of basic-brand edibles along with the varieties more suited to smoking, including strains that were developed especially for coffee or tea. We usually had a small urn set up in one corner, along with edible-munchie samples, as an encouragement to linger, along with other inducements like a comfy sofa and the flatscreen in the far corner that showed nothing but Bojack Horseman, silent but with subtitles, on a six-season loop. (Not that our customers needed any of it—our average in-store time was half an hour easy even without all that.) Aleksei was diligent about setting the goodies up, but didn’t have any for himself, being too responsible to get buzzed on the job while certain coworkers might be distracted or busy and depend on him to actually make sure stuff got done.

Thad was away, though, and in a manner of speaking Aleksei was, too. And Lex—he wanted to play.

It was a mild audacity to start out with. I’d decided that I would make coffee for the patrons, as always—just not the tame, business-as-usual house blend I usually made. A quick “be right back” to the boys, a dash upstairs to the drawer of top-secret contraband drawer for the deep, dark, extra-potent experimental version of our coffee-compatible strain, and here we were. I hadn’t hesitated. The only part that gave me pause was the certain knowledge I wouldn’t run into Rex still pleasuring himself when I got up there: somehow I knew he’d finished with that (satisfactorily, as you might imagine) and had decided to go down and walk the greenhouses with Amir in his role as Thad’s proxy. I was almost aware of him, as though my mind had geotagged his ass and could track him slowly traversing the rows of flourishing, carefully-tended potted pot plants arrayed behind ther glass walls five hundred yards or so directly behind me. That was the part of all of this I tried to ignore as maybe a little too eerie to deal with.

There was plenty of other stuff to distract me.

Like this coffee. I’d only had the regular, basic Hashery brew a few times, but this stuff was bold and rich as fuck, and not just in the normal sense a dark roast usually was. It was like… a song you were used to hearing as a two-voice duet, only now there was a full men’s choir backing them up, plus a rock band and fucking angels singing in registers you heard not with your ears but with some extra dimension inside your head. It was heady, and hard to get enough of. I took long gulps of the hot beverage, feeling the warmth inside my exciting new body on multiple levels. I could tell Henry and Eric were enjoying it too—though, as old hands with the stuff we sold, they were way more relaxed about it.

“So how new are you?” Eric was saying. He was standing close—I thought I could taste the coffee on his exhaled breath, or maybe that was the pot telling me I could—and Henry was right there with him, Eric’s shoulder pressing familiarly against Henry’s firm chest directly behind him. “We haven’t seen you around town or anything,” Eric went on, his eyes sliding off mine to graze across my jawline and then snapping back up. Henry’s eyes were pinned on mine, like he could see inside me and wanted to ogle my inner hotness as much as Eric seemed to be into my ridiculously sexy exterior.

I smiled at Eric and felt his pulse quicken and cock swell. Fuck, what a rush being Lex was, causing reactions like that with the simplest of smiles. “Brand new,” I said. The boys thought that was sexy, too, like I was fresh out of the box and all theirs for the shaping. They drank from their cups while I watched, feeling like I was basking in the heat of their skin, inches away. There was a thrum of connection between us. Was this what it was like to be turned on while you were high? Why had I avoided this kind of scenario before now? Aleksei had been missing out.

Just to keep them there with me I asked them to tell me about the town—playing dumb, as though Lex had just blown in from Saskatchewan or South Succotash or wherever. Eric happily obliged, regaling me with anecdotes about colorful locals and past situations he and Henry had gotten in, one apparently involving a goat… I was watching his eyes and wasn’t really following. Henry chipped in occasionally, quiet but not silent, and blushed cutely at some of the raunchier revelations Eric shared with me. The whole time we all stood there, closer than three dudes having a conversation over caffe grandes typically would—and I mean a lot closer. There was no rush to be anywhere else or do anything different. We were just three turned-on guys swilling mutant coffee, enjoying the pleasure of sexually-charged proximity and the nascent, gently throbbing presence we were increasingly experiencing in each other’s minds.

I found myself thinking about the specific changes I’d clocked in Henry and Eric, as my eyes drifted across his neck and the bulging curves of muscular shoulders exposed by his pink, summery tank-top. That wheat-gold hair of his looked really good on him. Supposedly it grew extra-fast, but Eric kept hacking it off. A real shame, I thought. It would look so hot longer, grown out. Curling against the tanned curves of those firm, rounded traps.

The connection between us felt natural and unquestioned, and through it I could start to imagine tendrils of possibilities. What the golden hair behind his ears would look like a shade or two longer. A bit of growth developed in my imagination like a time lapse, first an inch or so, then progressing more, minutely, a bit more, and a bit more… I watched the microscopic lengthening of his follicles in fascination, like an AI that was modeling an analogue of Eric that was suited to my own inner tastes and desires—

“Whooooaaa,” Henry said suddenly, breaking into the flow of my thoughts.

I glanced at the taller man, noting that he wasn’t staring at me anymore. His gaze was down, locked on the back of Eric’s head.

I blinked and looked at Eric, suppressing a gasp. I thought I had just been following a mental flight of fancy, but it seemed that something decidedly more real had been going on. Unless I was completely delusional (and given the events of the last day or so that wasn’t totally out of the question), the imaginings I’d been exploring across the not-so-notional bond three-way between us had led, out here in actual, physical, molecules-and-atoms reality, to a little Eric-reconfiguration—at least when it came to the lush, wheat-gold hair I’d been fixating on with a pot-toker’s intensity for the last few howevers. Hair that now, far from being close-shorn in the back as it had been, was curling profligately all over Eric’s yummy traps, exactly as I had pictured it doing.

Eric paused in mid-story, blinking up at us. “What?” he asked cluelessly.

I stared at him with a slow, shaky smile.

Here’s what I knew. I’d sussed out that our regular Hashery pot had been engineered so as to naturally induce slow, incremental changes in its users, in various ways according to the different varieties. It followed that the secret, special super-pot the development and trials for which Thad had not included me in must do the same: slow changes, but more intense or specialized. This explained outlier levels of more extreme transformation, like the abnormal changes Eric and Henry had experienced.

This, though. This kind of change over the course of minutes, not years—this was a shock. Like, for example, waking up in a copy of Rex’s body had been a shock, after a night of secret-blend-pot-fueled intimacy with Rex.

Maybe I had it all wrong, but right then there seemed to be only two possibilities to explain this—what Rex had done to me and what I had done to Eric. One was that this pot was really amazingly strong. World-changingly strong. Or… that it awoke in certain individuals a rare mutative ability, one that Rex already possessed and—I guess thanks the bizarre fact of me now being a physical copy of him—I apparently now did as well?

Henry was now looking at me again, his cheeks warm and his blue eyes bright with understanding. Understanding, and hunger. He wanted to see more. Suddenly, in a hot rush, the me that was Lex understood temptation in a way that safe, reliable Aleksei had never, ever known.

Amir and I were in the back storage shed, checking the palettes of supplies like the special-blend perlite-peat-vermiculite we used as greenhouse potting soil (which were looking a bit low—water damage from a brief flash flood during the big storm I’d driven through had left us with only five 18-pound bags) when I felt it—a sudden surge of spiky, heated emotions rippling through my nascent super-cannabis-induced bond with the man I was having increasing difficulty thinking of as Aleksei.

Instinctively I looked up and toward the house and the shop, right in the middle of a conversation with Amir. I must have had a slightly alarmed expression, because Amir broke off what he was saying to frown and ask, “What’s wrong?”

I felt Amir’s flinty gaze on me, but I kept my attention on the sensations seeping aggressively through our connection. It felt like Lexy wasn’t so much trying to communicate as experiencing a bit of emotional overload. I wasn’t sure he was even completely aware of the link our sharing of the special weed and a very intimate night had created. Probably he thought that it was a lingering side-effect of the pot, him being able to distantly sense my presence and rough location like a pinprick in the mind, just as I could now position him by distance, direction, and relative elevation; but the connection was there. If anything it was a bit stronger now thanks to Lexy’s intense emotional state… and, shit, that was definitely more secret-label pot suffusing that almost cannabis-virgin brain of his.

I spared a grateful thought to Mike and his pals and the weekend I’d spent seeing my weed in action. I’d played around with this mental connection a few times in the past, but Mike’s fuckfamily had literally opened my mind to the full potential of the cannabis bond. Lexy, however, was a newbie. He hadn’t even grasped that he had gradually changed himself to emulate my corporeal configuration in every detail last night, down to the doggo ears and the solid knee-length megawang. No, he’d been sure I’d deliberately done it to him, like I was such a narcissist I thought everyone should be as hot as me and was going around changing the whole Front Range urban corridor into myself one dude at a time. I might have contemplated a few tweaks and twists for my boyishly pretty second-in-command last night during some of the less lucidly rational moments we’d shared in bed the previous night, feeling the rush of having a connection and changes potentially being open to me again, but making anyone look like me had been pretty much the last things on my mind. Anyway I’d been sure we’d have to build the link up over a string of nights together before it was strong enough to pull off the reversion to my Thad form I’d been aiming for this whole time. That Lexy had been able to develop a strong enough communion between us to leverage a full-body transformation was almost as much of a shock to me as the change itself had been to Lexy.

Maybe there was something about Lexy that made him more adept at the mindlink-enabled, super-cannabis catalyzed body remolding thing than I was. I had to admit that grated a bit, seeing as I had invented the stuff that made it possible. But then, Mike’s friends were all naturals, too, as attested by the canine ears currently twitching atop my head—these having been almost negligently gifted to Zac, whose body I had more-or-less accidentally ended up inhabiting, by a hairy, easygoing gorilla-armed stoner in the group as a lesson in humility. To me it seemed a little unfair: I’d been the one experimenting and fine-tuning a dozen-plus varieties over years of clandestine effort, only for ringers like Brandon and Lexy to swoop in and develop an easy transformation proficiency literally overnight. But I was also enough of a pothead to see my own creation spurning me for prettier brains as pretty fucking funny.

What Lexy was transmitting now seeming in tune with my theory: he was radiating the kind of awed alarm you might experience if you discovered one day you had superpowers by, say, accidentally squeezing your phone too hard and turning it into a twisted hunk of metal the size of a crispy bacon strip. It wasn’t exactly words, but the sense of Lexy’s agitation came through clear enough. I changed him… did I change him? what am I doing?… am I stoned? is this real? … what the fuck did Thad put in this pot?

My face twisted in a small smirk. It looked like Lexy had decided to get a handle on what the secret strains I never talked about could do by sharing a round with a couple of regulars, and things were already getting out of hand. I felt a quiver of excitement in my intestines.

The thing was, all this time I had cautiously been limiting myself to painstakingly slow nudges to my customers and a few friends over months and years, not wanting to rock the boat with anything too noticeable. Then I’d shown up looking like this, and far from the world ending I had instantly seduced my sexy, formerly-reserved right-hand man, almost by accident. Not only that, next morning Amir had walked in on the two of us looking like cloned refugees from a fantasy-themed gay romance novel and barely batted an eye. Consider the boat rocked, I thought.

Maybe it was the rush of seeing the guys back at Mike’s changed so radically, and Lexy, someone so close to me, not just getting bigger and more hung but actually becoming someone else, and at a rate even more breakneck than most of what I’d seen at Mike’s. Maybe it was knowing there was an undo button, given the right amount of effort and volition and a willing partner. Maybe it was the unexpected existential liberation of not actually physically being Thad anymore that had started at that Burger Jack on the way back and had only gotten stronger once I was home, unrecognized, and responded to in entirely unfamiliar ways.

I don’t know what it was ultimately, but I was feeling… reckless. My inhibitions were snapping like balsa wood at a karate exhibition. I might regret it later, but this me, this person I was in this moment, was all the way done with wary and gradual.

I focused on Lexy’s mind, a singular external node in my consciousness that I could reach out to with ease as though he were in the room with me and not six hundred feet away in the shop. Go for it, I thought to him.

I felt Lexy’s shocked surprise at my mind connecting actively and deliberately with his. Beyond his node I could feel, much more faintly, two others—the regulars he had connected with, their bonds still tentative. Rex? What’s going on? he thought back to me. Am I stoned? This stuff is strong, but… dude, the hair… the hair grew…

I was smiling now. Just like your dick grew.

Lexy was definitely flying high as a kite on my super-weed, because my mentioning his junk and its new size instantly distracted him. Diiiickkk…

Yeah, buddy. Dick. Think about dick. See where that takes you.

“The twin thing is real, then, I take it,” Amir groused abruptly, cutting into my goading of Lexy. “What’s he doing, asking you for a price check?”

I blinked and turned my chin back to stare down at my crackerjack but irascible facilities manager, his mighty brows lowered like a storm-laden sky, mirroring the equally thick but well-trimmed beard below. It took me a split-second to remember the lay of the land as it now stood between us: that Amir had, quite naturally, assumed me and the transformed-to-look-exactly-like-me Aleksei to be twin brothers—what were the other possibilities?—and that to him both of us were perfect strangers (or so he thought). I gave him a cocky smile. “Something like that,” I said inscrutably.

Amir hmphed, unimpressed. “We should head over to the Farm and Feed, replace this peat,” he said. “There’s a few other items low in the inventory, too. Some of the dry cement was ruined along with the peat.”

I shrugged. “Makes sense,” I said. “Go on, then. Alex and I will hold the fort.”

His expression became a notch more thunderous, and I had to suppress a smile. It looked so cute on him, not that “cute” was a word my fortysomething he-man groundsperson would ever allow to even be thought about him in his presence. “Two man job for heavy materials like that,” he insisted stolidly. “Company policy.” He held my gaze, daring me to challenge him.

I wanted to laugh. Of course, there was no such policy, as I well knew, being the founder and sole law-giver of said company. But “Rex” wouldn’t know that. What was really amusing was that Amir, transparently, did not trust me and my “brother”—actually the owner and his longtime second-in-command—alone on the property. Still, I had to admit I appreciated his protective instincts when it came to came to the Hashery and everything I had put so much money and effort into, even if it meant I had to be chaperoned around my own land for a while.

Heading over to the Farm and Feed would also provide an opportunity for Amir to get gossipy with whomever he might encounter there, staff and patrons alike. Folks in town tended to be low-key curious about what happened up at the Hashery, and Amir was unabashedly communicative of what he had seen and what he thought about it. I found I was less worried about that here and now than Thad—then-Thad I guess I should say—might have been. Besides, I remembered what had happened with my brother’s pizzeria, and I had an inkling that a few whispers about the “twins” might be good for business. Even folks who’d never toked a single puff in their lives might just wander up here to get an eyefull and maybe guilt-purchase a Dr. Pepper or a trial-sized Dash-o’-Hash.

“All right, then,” I said easily, slapping Amir affectionately on his steel-sinewed shoulder and nodding in the direction of the garage and the brace of Hashery four-by-fours waiting there. “Lead on!”

I don’t know why getting crazy blitzed caught me by surprise like it did. Sure, I’d had the coffee-cannabis before with hardly any effect, but then I’d barely had more than a mouthful to satisfy my curiosity—and that was the basic stuff Thad sold to everybody. This—I’d consciously chosen to dose myself on weed from the secret stash. Thad’s hidden supply. The super-strong special strain. And then I was shocked to find myself transmuted into a high more intense than I’d ever experienced.

It was scary, it was unexpected, and it has kind of hilarious. Super-strong weed is super-strong. I giggled.

I was staring into beautiful light-brown eyes—Eric, the shorter, more extroverted member of the meat-packing couple. Heh, meat-packing. ‘Cause they worked at the meat counter.

I remembered what else I was feeling. Horny. And alarmed. My eyes flicked to the wheat-gold hair now curling over his traps like a hair-waterfall caught between moments of an infinite, infinitesimal cascade. I had—had I—?

I boggled. Scared, surprised, amused, aroused, alarmed. I was stacking up emotions like… like a big stack of… stackable things. How high could you stack them? Could you have, like, infinite emotions?

What the fuck? What was happening to me? What did Thad put in this stuff?

I stared at Eric, then at the taller, shyer Henry, both of them standing close, our physical intimacy feeling more and more like a mental connection with every passing second. Somehow—maybe it was the intensity of my high and the communicativeness of those light-brown eyes and his body heat and the certain knowledge he’d been made incrementally hotter and hotter over the last two years, but somehow I could almost feel Eric’s simple hunger for me. It was an id-like carnal response to my borrowed, enhanced perfection of finely sculpted muscle, sleek skin tone, and imperious attraction. He was high, too, but he wasn’t stacking up any reactions beyond a full-on all-consuming lust. He was hard—he was adjusting himself right now. I thought being high was supposed to mess with your libido, that moderately certain belief possibly being the reason why my heavy, knee-length throat-fucker was currently only twitching with the state of heated interest between the three of us and not trying to rip my pants open; but Eric clearly hadn’t gotten that memo. He was so hard, he was like the gold standard for cock hardness. Or iron standard. Definitely iron standard. I giggled again.

I glanced up from Eric’s light brown eyes to Henry’s dark blue ones, such a striking contrast to his messy red-brown hair. I could feel him, too. His buzz was more complex, almost as multivariate as mine. His simmering lust for me and Eric separately was layered with fascination at the interactions between us. There was a sense of powerful stimulation at the awareness of how our mutual high had seemingly caused Eric’s hair to grow right the fuck out of his head, an unexpected culmination to years of being turned on at his and Eric’s slow transformations. Most of all, suffusing that was an almost overpowering craving to see more. More change. More power exerted over the protean masculine form.

My dick shivered and stretched a bit down the leg of my jeans. The a/c was on in the shop but I was warm, like the three of us were a human furnace. I watched a tiny bead of sweat form at Eric’s temple and trickle down to his chiseled jaw before dropping onto a sheaf of new-made mane. Henry watched it as well, excited.

Fuck, was this real? Was I real? Was I doing this, or was it even happening? Did I want more, too?

Go for it.

The voice was in my head, only it wasn’t a voice or words so much as a feeling and a connection. A connection, I realized, that I’d already been latently aware of since this morning. Maybe before that, really. I’d thought I’d started feeling it during our first fuck, off our balls on whatever we’d shared from Thad’s special drawer. It was stronger now, like there a tiny star on permanent orbit around me. If I hadn’t been as high as a telecom satellite I think I might have freaked out, but in that state the connection itself seemed utterly natural. If there was a surprise it was who it was—I still wasn’t convinced I was really on his radar, or would go out of his way to talk to me, when he looked like—

Oh yeah.

Fuck, he was hot, and I was hot. And I was—or, something was—It was wild here. Wild, and awesome, and awesomely flux-y.

Rex? I thought back, confused and excited. I knew he was far away across the grounds, which made hearing from him weird and exhilarating. I wanted to send him a postcard, letting him know how awesome things were here. Having a moment, wish you were here.

But I didn’t have to. He could feel what I was feeling through that node, I knew he could. All of it, or at least, all of the super-intense stuff wilding me out like an emotion kaleidoscope. My arousal, my confusion, my awed shock at the way that Eric’s fast-growing wheat-gold locks had time-lapsed from short-cropped to shoulder-overflowing right before my very eyes in mere heartbeats, lengthening from normal to crazy…

Just like your dick, Rex thought with a very perceivable smirk, and my heart stuttered. I had a kind of stoned flash flood in my head and all at once the thought of dick completely consumed me. Dick. Diiiiick. I felt myself grinning comically.

Rex was amused. I could feel it, which was awesome. Eric grinned, too, and Henry’s eyes glinted. We were all thinking about dick.

Mine was getting perceptibly longer, thickening incrementally at the same time as it slowly snaked down my leg. I told it not to get hard—not yet. The three of us had other dicks to play with. No—the four of us, ‘cause Rex was with us too, in my head. I was connected to Rex just like I was to Eric and Henry. More than that, I could feel his arousal as strongly as my own, especially when I focused on it. It was like I was establishing an increasingly stable equilibrium between us. A chance summer-shower rivulet carving a channel, accreting reinforcements, on its way to being a concrete-sided canal.

I was all about feelings and arousal and heat in that moment, and I could feel Rex’s heat and arousal and heat as solidly as Eric’s and Henry’s, mixing with my own. Me and Rex and Henry and Eric and…

Eric’s pretty sepia-brown eyes distracted me again. “Wanna make out?” I blurted, and, I swear, those words never touched my brain—they came into this world right there on my lips and went straight out into the open air between us  without consulting any of the rest of me. I didn’t mind, though.

Eric’s eyes lit with interest and he beamed up at me, eager and willing—but even before that there was a wash of excitement through our connection, sizzling through Henry standing close behind and beside him. He was deeply jazzed about the transformations, but he didn’t want to feel them—he wanted to see them, with a cannabis-enhanced intensity that felt almost too strong across our new-made, still feathery bond. Henry’s desire felt like it was urging me on, a cheering crowd to drive me forward, putting fire in my belly and power in my legs. He had slid a hand up and under Eric’s now-shoulder-blade-length waterfall of lush, slightly wavy hair, cupping his nape, but his eyes were on me. He couldn’t wait to see what would happen.

Rex was watching too, curious and alert and emotionally invested in ways too complex for me to understand. He was there but not there, his heated presence close, a ghost-twin of me crowding our threesome and making it four. Like Henry, Rex wanted to see what I would do next.

Fine by me, I thought.

Very deliberately, I slid my own hand under Eric’s cascading locks, finding a spot of well-muscled shoulder just under where Henry held him. Our fingers brushed as I bent to bring my lips against Eric’s, and I felt Henry close his eyes with a surge of pleasure as Eric’s sweet mouth made contact with mine and we instantly opened for each other.

We were all closer, even Rex’s ghost-presence, all pressed together. I physically felt Eric’s hard-on against my hip, decidedly above-average in length after two years of minute enhancement and extra-wide, too, more flat than torpedoish. Unexpectedly it was also bent at the middle—almost like a boomerang, though the angle wasn’t that extreme. Fuck, what would that be like inside you? I could sense Henry’s too, pressed hard against Eric’s round and extra-firm left butt-cheek through their jeans. The taller, lankier man’s tool was a good twelve inches long, ramrod-straight and very fat. I reveled in the awareness of both of them and moaned into the kiss, my tongue seeking Eric’s, and maybe Henry’s too, even though it wasn’t him I was kissing.

Eric pushed his long, bent cock against me, hungry and needy. I was seriously chubbed and I could feel ghost-Rex was too, our massive cocks swelling to mid-shin and pushing against the seams of our jeans, but with an unexpectedly iron command I forced them not to get truly hard. This wasn’t about that. This was about the kiss, and the whirlpool of shared pleasure the four of us were feeling, and especially Eric and Henry’s forge-hot, stone-hard, shudderingly awesome dicks, and Rex and I were just there to share their pleasure and maybe stimulate it a bit, boosting things to a new level.

I deepened the kiss, bringing all of us closer as I clasped his neck, Henry’s fingers sliding under mine. I wanted to share this kiss with both of them, make it more. Our tongues seemed unnaturally strong and sinuous, wrapping around each other in the tight, shared confines of our mouths as Eric gently humped me and Henry pressed hand against both of us. My spine tingled with the giddiness of it. I breathed in sharply through my nose, twisted my angle sharply, and then—yes, there it was, I was tasting Henry’s tongue as well as Eric’s, all three pleasure-muscles twisting luxuriously in writhing, slippery-hot stimulation. I quaked with the ecstasy of it, my cock threatening to stiffen to hardness and rip open my pants despite my orders. Ghost-Rex was crowding close, feeling just as turned on, just as overwhelmed. I could almost feel his hand on my back, sliding down to my ass as we somehow intensified our impossible threesome kiss.

A lightning flash of pleasure tore through us and my control frayed dangerously. A firestorm of lust escaped from me, overflowing my pitiful mental barriers and gusting through us as a unit. I felt a pulling, our little universe distorting along our axes like taffy, and it was a second before I realized we were being pulled to expand physically, the force of desire stretching us taller—an inch—two inches—

No, fuck! This was supposed to be about the cocks! I giggled inwardly as my tongue wrestled with Eric’s and Henry’s longer ones, Ghost-Rex hugging us, kissing my neck with sizzling lips, our cocks riding against seemingly needless physical constraints.

I grappled for focus like I was bobbling a cake of soap in the shower. Dicks, I told myself deliriously, dicks and dicks and dicks—

It was a short ride to the Farm and Feed, the dusty, dark green company four-by-four sure-footed on the four-lane blacktop winding gently through the foothills west of the city. Amir was tense, and I could tell he wanted to ask me a lot of questions but respected Thad enough not to badger someone his boss trusted. I waited, playing the part of guest and interloper and feeling uncomfortably like it wasn’t entirely an act. Amir knew me, but right now I felt like the embodiment of the me that Amir didn’t know.

Of course he’d tried to text his boss again as soon as he’d gotten past the shock of discovering two identical, ridiculously hot ‘n’ hunky doggo-eared strangers cavorting not-so-innocently in Thad’s bed. The pings for Amir’s wtf-texts had come through not long after a be-hatted Lexy had trundled down to the shop to take care of the customers banging relentlessly on our front door, and I decided I needed to lay down a sort of standing fib to justify “Rex”‘s presence.

Sitting up in bed and ignoring my massive erection (for the time being), I’d thought a moment and then typed out a response. I contritely apologized for being out of contact and confirmed I was staying at Mike’s for a while longer (true in a way—at least, someone who looked just like Thad had joined the commune there) and that I’d sent my good friend Rex to take up the slack. Thinking quickly to try to ward off Amir’s objections I tacked on, by way of explanation, that my ex was a good egg and that he ran his own gourmet chocolate shop in Pueblo—hinting, I hoped, that Amir should therefore consider him to be as familiar as I was with issues of supply, bookkeeping, and customer service. I actually had worked at such a shop part-time for several months while I was at Colorado State-Pueblo working on a masters at the cannabis research institute there. Amir knew this, and thus by implication my groundskeeper was also supplied with a plausible scenario for Rex and me hooking up and getting serious for a while during this known segment of my own personal history.

Then, as I’d watched the little typing dots bounce, I’d belatedly remembered an additional wrinkle—namely that my second-in-command was also “missing” and needed to be explained. Typing rapidly, I rushed in another text letting poor Amir know that, oh yeah, Aleksei had called out with the flu for the week and that Rex’s brother might stop by to help out.

The dots had dropped away, started up again, then vanished for a few long seconds. I’d watched the screen anxiously, sure my web of lies was way too tenuous to withstand Amir’s notoriously fierce glower. Finally he’d responded with a terse, “Understood. Enjoy your vacation.” Left unsaid but heard loud and clear was the addendum, “We’ll talk when you get back.”

Now, in the truck, Amir was in a state. His hands gripped the steering wheel hard, his sharp eyes all but burning into the road. I swear, the chest hair covering his solid pecs was bristling under his thick-weave brick-red Hashery tee-shirt. For my part I wan’t sure whether to be nervous or amused. Amir seemed to be formulating and discarding various comments, his volatility warring with his ingrained reserve around people he didn’t know. That was the amusing part. If he’d known it was really me sitting there next to him in the matching Hashery tee and worn, green doggo-ears-hiding ball cap… well, he’d have let me have it, no question.

Finally we got to a red light. He fumed for a minute, then burst out, “Cannabis isn’t the same as chocolate!”

Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation, or maybe Lexy’s increasingly elevated state was seeping through our bond, but I couldn’t keep myself from laughing out loud at this non sequitur. Of course, this only made him angrier. “I know it isn’t, Amir,” I said, still chuckling. Still, something in my new smooth baritone seemed to calm him. He grimaced, but his hold on the wheel loosened slightly.

I understood where he was coming from. He was emotionally invested in the Hashery and all he’d helped make happen, and as an expert in marijuana cultivation he was second only to me. To him, I was an outsider, a randy chocolatier who had no business running a high-end weed farm and retail dispensary.

“Look, while I’m here we’ll work together, I promise,” I said, ears twitching under the hat. “Anything relating to the cannabis or the greenhouses I will defer to you. Fair enough?”

Mollified, Amir tossed me a glance but said nothing. The light turned, and we continued the rest of the way to the Farm and Feed in a silence that was, I hazarded, not quite as uncomfortable as before.

All this time, the whole way to the store, I could feel ol’ Lexy getting higher and higher and hornier and hornier through our connection. By the time we were at the sprawling farm store and Amir and I were walking the wide aisles between stacks of feed, soil, cement, and whatnot, things were coming to a head. Not literally, but figuratively for sure, and for all the three of them were right there in the Hashery in full view of anyone who might come in, literally was not far from happening, either.

It was kind of fascinating, and a definite turn-on. I’d encountered this kind of remote-access virtual sex before, when I’d been drawn into the wildness at Mike’s and making love was something that you could accomplish almost without actually having to be with a person. That had been more diffuse, in a way, in that it involved a metric fuck-ton of cannabis-fueled arousals and orgasms shared among eight or so other people with severely overlapping lusts and libidos. This was more intense, more intimate. Maybe as a result of that one-on-one connection, and Lexy’s previous co-piloted transformations strengthening our bond, the effect on me now was more extreme. It was like I was being pulled almost physically into their three-way stand-up not-quite-fucking, and it was delirious, euphoric, and disorienting as hell, all at the same time.

I was passing a big palette piled high with fifty-pound sacks of barn lime when everything suddenly seemed to kick up a notch. I stumbled, thunking my shoulder against the unmoving stack, and I let it hold me up a second—fortunately those bags were heavy and settled in and definitely not going anywhere.

Amir had dropped back a few paces to gab with one of the staff (a straw-haired six-foot-eight beanpole in a blue apron who didn’t look a day over 19), I assume explaining who I was to the kid and how I probably wasn’t a grifter out to steal the pot farm out from under his boss. My momentary totter caught both their attentions and they were next to me in an instant. Amir looked troubled and a bit wary, but the kid was all open-faced concern. “You all right, sir?” he asked with a squeak.

Swamped as I was in the heated, intoxicating haze of Lexy’s extra-strong, extra-stoned arousal, I decided to let the lime bags hold me up a little longer. I managed a shaky smile for the kid. He looked familiar, I thought. Probably a customer. If so, I’d have to check on his purchase history later. Him ending up being that tall and that skinny at the same time was a low-lier statistically for my products, though I reminded myself he could have come by his ponderosa-pine proportions naturally without any nudgings from the hash farm up the road. His apron had a white oval with his name, Lester, stitched into it. Didn’t ring any bells, but the truth was right then I might not have recognized my own name, whatever that was.

The kid, Lester, still looked worried, so I tried smiling wider. “I’m okay,” I told him in my best deep-and-smooth calming baritone. To Amir I added, “My brother seems to have put out the good stuff for the customers.”

Amir narrowed his eyes but seemed to read between the lines as intended—that Lexy had not only borrowed some of the special-stuff for whatever he was putting out, but he’d sampled it, too. (Coffee? I thought I could taste coffee, or maybe I was smelling it.) Meanwhile, Amir and I had already helpfully, and accidentally, established the fabled “twin thing” as an excuse for Lexy’s and my empathetic bond. I was guessing he wouldn’t have any trouble taking it the rest of the way and inferring that Lexy’s high was, in fact, affecting me as well. I’d been lying a lot to Amir, either openly or by omission, so the fact that this one was genuinely true was gratifying.

Amir confirmed my reckoning by turning his head back to the kid and muttering, “Twins,” with a sideways nod my way.

Lester’s eyes went round and he beamed at Amir. “My cousins are like that,” he related excitedly. “Identical twins, right? Ronny says he always gets sick as a dog whenever Donny’s wife serves him meatloaf.”

“You don’t say,” Amir deadpanned. Then, unwillingly drawn in, he asked, “Why doesn’t Donny get sick from the meatloaf?”

“Oh, he does!” Lester answered with a grin, nodding. Amir frowned.

They gabbled on a bit more, but I barely followed any of it as Lexy’s libidinous high escalated more and more, ramping up to stratospheric levels just since we’d gotten to the store. It was affecting me physically now, seeping hotly through bone and muscle. I was getting aroused, too, my balls tightening and my cock nudging its way down my pants, though Lexy’s own controlling will seemed to be preventing actual erection for either of us—unlike his partners, who I could feel were as hard as humanly possible. Lexy was kissing one of them, or maybe both of them—there seemed be some confusion about this, as there was only one mouth was joined to Lexy’s in a feverish snog, but Lexy was nonetheless wrestling with both boys’ tongues somehow… as though the other one’s tongue had opened a branch office in his kissing buddy’s mouth, maybe. I could feel their cocks widening minutely—one of them was already wide and flat and it was slowly creeping even wider, bowing out slightly in the middle as it inched its way messily along its owner’s hip. The other one was long and torpedo thick and was somehow getting harder as it incrementally grew, millimeter by millimeter, as though some sort of permanence was infusing its state of erection—like no amount of time could ever let this cock come down from being hard and achieve a more flaccid, unaroused state.

The surge of power and sensation increased and it was like I was there. Holding Lexy, groping him, kissing his neck. Fuck, I could taste the salty sweat where my lips had brushed along the side of his beautiful neck. My other hand found a wide, warm back, then long, soft hair, then a hand… two hands…

“Hey!” Amir barked, nudging me hard in the ribs.

I staggered inwardly, and for a split second there was the feeling of being torn apart. I blinked, and the sensation was gone—mostly, though I still had the faint sense of something having been… I dunno, separated. I blinked, the bright lights of the feed store high overhead oddly dazzling me for a second.

My hard-headed (and hard-bodied) groundskeeper’s hard stare had at least some edge of concern, which was reassuring as far as it went. Lester was looking downright alarmed.

I was feeling lightheaded and generally strange. I needed to sit down and regroup. I essayed another weak smile at both of them. “I think I’m… going to go wait in the truck,” I said. Amir grunted.

I straightened at last, regaining my feet, and as I did so I could not fail to notice that I was now looking Lester right in the eyes. I might have even had an inch on him.

I swallowed. I knew for a fact that even in boots my new “Rex” body was six-foot-five, tops. Which could only mean that in the last few minutes I had unaccountably gained three or four solid inches in height. No doubt the cuffs on my baggy jeans and the bottom hem of my Hashery tee would betray this truth as clearly as my leveling out and maybe passing my beanpole acquaintance here, each of them having drifted up a couple inches or so. I didn’t dare look. Fortunately, I was wearing a Thad-sized shirt (from when I had been taller) and the aforementioned boots, so the effect was probably mitigated. If I had been wearing tennis shoes and no socks, my ankles would have been feeling a bit of a draft just then.

Now, Lester didn’t know me from Adam, so his amazement at my being a notch taller than him was, I was certain, all about how a six-foot-eight guy like him very seldom met anyone his height or taller, be they thin, muscular, or otherwise. Amir, on the other hand… I wasn’t about to look right at him, though as I turned my back on the two of them I could feel his stare burning into me like an acetylene torch.

Well, I thought as I headed back towards the big sliding doors and the sub-baked parking lot, my half-hard shin-length dick lending a certain stiffness to my gait, as a first outing with the staff that certainly could have gone better.

It was with great difficulty that I resisted the urge to stomp after Thad’s retreating “friend” and confront him, now, before this ludicrousness went any further. I’d been suspicious of “Rex” from the moment I’d laid eyes on him and his incestuous lover fucking around in Thad’s bed; and the uncanny arousal washing uncomfortably over me every time he got near, like the very air around him was conspiring with him, seeping into me and rattling all the locks on some very firmly closed doors, had only confirmed my deep-seated misgivings about this too-tall, too-hung, too-perfect stranger. Something about him was disconnected from reality, like a shark in a bathtub, and I’d been determined to unearth exactly what kind of threat to the Hashery he and his brother represented even before I’d watched him twist himself taller before my very eyes in the space of three heartbeats, as easy as Superman bending a tire iron and just as freaking impossible.

But I had a job to do, and I couldn’t succumb to the temptation to protective rage and berserker unreason. I’d already lost it once on the ride down, before I’d clamped back down on myself. I was better than that, stronger than that.

From puberty onward it had been a matter of fierce pride that I almost never let my seemingly extra-strong dosage of fire and vinegar rule me or control my actions—unlike my parents, who if nothing else set an example of how not to handle one’s own volatile temperament. No, I was a rock. An angry rock sometimes, as my sister often razzed me; but I knew who I was and what I was responsible for. With Thad and Aleksei both absent, the need for self-discipline was paramount. A storm was coming, and the captain and first mate had both had the fish and were out of commission. It was down to me.

I made short work of collecting the peat, dry cement, and other miscellany we needed on my list, and before long I was standing at the front desk settling the invoicing with Orel, the assistant manager, while Lester rolled the dolly with our purchases out to the truck. I watched him disappear through past the wide sliding doors thoughtfully.

“You seem distracted, old buddy,” Orel said pleasantly. I glanced over at him briefly. He was a cheerful, middle-aged fellow, pale and bony with wispy hair that seemed to be fading year by year, as if the retail life were leeching the color from him; but he always had a warm and genuine smile even for the most entitled of customers. Seeing what he dealt with every day, I often wondered how he did it. He was friendly with everyone, but if you were at all nice to him he was downright chatty—good for me, as I liked to keep up with what was going on in the area. “Everything okay at the Hashery?” he asked.

“Not sure,” I said shortly, eyes black on the now-closed entrance doors. “You ever see him before?”

“Who? Lester?” Orel asked, sounding puzzled. “You’ve met him before. He’s been here, what, ten months or so?” He huffed a laugh. “I thought he was tall when he started, but I swear he’s still growing. Might be knocking his head on the rafters if he keeps going much longer,” he joked.

I finally turned back to face him. “No, not the kid,” I said irritably. “The guy I was with.”

“Ah, the hottie,” Orel said, nodding sagely.

I narrowed my eyes at him, though I couldn’t help an exasperated half-smile. “Not you, too,” I said. My own junk was still coursing with the stimulating heat of the fucker’s sustained proximity, and I was uncomfortably aware that the present conversation was merely postponing the moment when I’d be trapped in an enclosed space with him again all the way back to the farm, trying to pretend the barely twisting, baby-foothill road demanded every iota of my attention. “Besides, what would your wife say?” I teased him.

Orel winked at me. “‘Give me a full report,’ probably,” he said with a grin. “Your boys are just her type, all tall and muscley and—well, I’m straight and I kind of see her point. I know for a fact that your boss is on her freebie list, and—”

I stopped him. “What exactly do you mean, ‘my boys’?” I asked.

Orel cocked his head slightly. “You know they’ve been calling it the Hunkery, right?” he said. “Your store seems to draw all the hot, hunky guys out of the woodwork, all flocking up the hill like bees to a hive. We’ve even started taking bets—any tall, muscley, good looking guy comes in, we take odds he’s a Hashery Boy.” The assistant manager glanced around at what could be seen of the huge store from where we stood, as though hoping to see one of the boys in question. “I never knew there was so much tight, sexy muscle out there.”

He seemed to recollect himself and turned his eyes back to me, and I watched in some surprise as they flicked down my thick, necessarily tight brick-red Hashery tee. “Present company included,” he added. At this point I couldn’t even tell if his saucy tone was just to rile me. People like to do that—try to get on my nerved judge enough to nudge me into hulking out emotionally. A long time ago that kind of behavior in itself was enough to get my molars grinding, but after long years of meditation I’ve decided to find it amusing.

“I’m not a ‘Hashery Boy’,” I said flatly, holding his gaze as though daring him to glance down at my chest again, the ghost of a smile playing at my lips.

“No,” Orel taunted, eyes twinkling, “you’re definitely a Hashery Man.” He smiled, then gave up the game and glanced toward the doors I’d been staring at. “So who is he? You hire one of your best customers? Sounds like a risky move for a pot store.”

I’d looked back toward the doors too, though from where we stood we couldn’t see anything of the parking lot or the truck where the object of our discussion was waiting for me to return. “He claims to be a friend of Thad’s,” I said after a moment.

“Claims to be?” Orel echoed.

As we watched the wide glass doors slid open and Lester came back in, pushing the now-empty dolly. As he passed through and the doors rolled closed behind him he stopped and adjusted what had to be a very healthy-sized erection under his apron before starting the dolly rolling again. A moment later he was gone, swallowed up by the main aisle leading toward the back of the store.

“Thad vouches for him,” I admitted at last. “But he and Aleksei are away, and… well, there’s something off about him, is all.” I didn’t mention the equally suss twin brother, not wanting to get Orel drooling again.

I turned back to my friend. His expression was philosophical. “Thad trusts you, Amir,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to get to the bottom of things.”

He held his gaze, no doubt resisting wiggling his pale brows through a supreme effort of will. I squinted at him. “When did you become a perv?” I asked.

He grinned. “When did you become a monk?” he shot back.

I grimaced. “See you around, Orel,” I said, turning on my heels and heading toward the doors myself. Orel’s soft laughter fell away as I left the store and the doors slid closed behind me.

Rex was leaning against back of the truck as I approached from the store, watching me warily, arms crossed over his thick chest, his stupid ball cap shading his eyes. I ignored him for the moment, instead taking a long look in the bed to confirm the cargo was secured. Then there was nothing for it but to pull open the driver’s side door and climb in.

Rex did the same. He got himself into the seat and pulled the door shut. I pulled mine shut at the same time. The silence afterward was profound. I wasn’t looking at him, but I could feel Rex holding himself stiffly against the passenger door—not cowering, just aware that I was upset for reasons that had to do with something he felt guilty about.

I frowned. There was something familiar about this tableau. Thad didn’t like dealing with me when I was angry, either, especially when I was angry and right (which I usually was). Maybe this Rex guy had gotten the straight poop on me from Thad. If they really were friends, Thad could have been filling him in for years. That idea should have comforted me, reinforcing as it did Rex’s reputed connection to my boss and therefore the legitimacy of his presence. Instead my ire was, if anything, stoked deep into redline territory by the consequent infuriating awareness of just how much had been going on that I hadn’t known about.

Without looking at him, I let out a long, controlled breath and said, “Explain.”

Rex shifted awkwardly in his seat, making the upholstery grumble. “Explain what, Amir?” he said diffidently after a moment, watching me the whole time, like he was giving me an out. Did I really want to have this conversation?

I’d been reining it in pretty well up to this point, but Rex speaking my name that way, like we’d working side by side for ages, made me finally lose it. I was so angry my beard was bristling with static energy. I rounded on him, the cab of the truck feeling small and full of big men and muscle and sexual energy, and my amped up emotions filling the rest of the space to saturation. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said sarcastically. “How about your unnaturally perfect body? Or your impossible knee-length dick? There’s a conversation-starter.” In a lightning move I reached up and whipped the ball-cap off his head, causing his dog ears to pop up and twitch in irritation. “How about these!” I raged, gesturing with the hat at his canine appendages. “Or the fact that you’re so sexually provocative and intrusive just being near you makes my dick crave your ass and my blood burn for you to kiss me! Or how about the fact that I just watched you grow four inches taller right in the middle of the fucking Farm and Feed!”

Rex gaped at me for a beat, then his lips twitched and his dog ears perked up. “Your blood burns for me to kiss you?” he repeated. He sounded a little smug, and more than a little turned on.

It was unbearably temping. We were so close in the small cab. I could grab his neck and mash our mouths together before you could say “lost weekend.” My tongue fucking ached to taste his. My hands yearned to feel every honey-brown inch of his stretched-out, lanky muscle-bod. And that was ignoring my dick, which—well, it didn’t want to be ignored, let’s say that. I wasn’t sure exactly when in the last two minutes it had gotten rock hard and utterly desperate, but it had, and my heated-up balls felt like they were on maximum overdrive, producing flood-level quantities of hormones and cum—enough for us both to drown in.

I tried not to pant as I retorted, “Is that really the one you want to focus on?”

His smile grew slightly, but only on one side, becoming a bit more lopsided and and even more intoxicatingly irresistible. “Kinda,” he said cheekily.

Enraged, I grabbed the fabric of his tee shirt right over his chest into my fist and yanked him toward me, our mouth crashing together like colliding freight trains. We kissed hard and hungrily for a few delirious seconds, then I shoved him back—only far enough that my face was right in his, inches away. “Are you conning me, Rex?” I growled hotly, my arousal only intensified by the kiss. Damn it!

“Amir—” Rex said gently, blinking at me. His breath was hot and savory on my lips. I realized that he wanted, maybe needed, to resume the kiss just as much as I did. Maybe all the sex-compulsion he filled the air around him with affected him, too.

I tightened my grip on his shirt, shaking him a little. “Are you conning Thad?” I pressed.

“What? No!”

He tried to pull away, but I held him close, my eyes boring into his, our breath mingling. “Then explain.”

Rex seemed to need to focus for a second, as if he were fighting through a low-grade high. Odd, as I was pretty confident he hadn’t taken anything today. I knew the physical signs, working where I did, and he wasn’t showing any of them. “The pot we sell—” he tried. “—that the Hashery sells—”

I interrupted him. “I know it slowly grows the customers,” I said blandly.

Rex seemed surprised. “You do?”

“I’m not blind. Those effects,” I ground out, “are minuscule and accretive. It doesn’t explain donkey dicks or fucking doberman ears!”

There was that slow, crooked smile again. Fuck, was that a dimple? “German shepherd, actually, I think,” he said.

I held his gaze, shaking him slightly again, though this time it was a bit playful. I might be a hothead, but in an intimate setting I’m also very responsive to the moods of others. “Not… the… point.”

Rex huffed lightly, then on an impulse he leaned forward and stole a brief, soft kiss. I let him, my fat dick quivering in my pants at the criminal lack of touch. Or tongue, or ass. Especially ass.

Rex licked his full, red lips and continued. “I—Thad—he developed… special strains,” he said, his voice a low rasp. He still seemed to be making an effort to concentrate on what he was telling me. “They create much more intense effects.”

He saw my eyes narrow and jumped in before I could object that that still wasn’t enough. “No, there’s—how do I put this. One factor that only… recently became obvious was that the special strains create—”

He paused, and I stared him down, demanding he finish. He licked his lips again. “They create mental bonds between two or more people sharing the high,” he said. “Over time those bonds become deep enough that you can… change… each other.” He twitched his dog ears in demonstration—the dog ears I somehow kept forgetting about, because everything about him was immensely distracting. And now he was telling me…

We were still barely centimeters apart. I needed a second to process, and while my brain was chewing on that I gave in and stole a kiss of my own. Finally I met his eyes again. “So… it’s not a twin thing,” I guessed.

Rex shook his head slightly, causing our noses to brush. With a slight smile he said, “It’s a superweed thing.”

I nodded, then kissed him again, because I really couldn’t help it. I kept it brief, though, because all this felt really urgent, like something dire was happening that I was almost seeing, almost understanding. “And what happened just now in the store…?” I nudged.

Rex nodded, then hesitated. When he spoke, he seemed to be choosing what seemed most important to tell me. My anger wanted to flare a bit again at that, but I let him finish. “Lex seems to be… adept at strengthening bonds and effecting change in—” He stopped, and his eyes widened in alarm, while at the same time becoming less focused. “Shit, he’s linking with me again…” he said. “He was—preoccupied?—before, but… shit!”

“What’s wrong?” I demanded, but I knew. I could already tell what was happening—Rex’s scalp was now pushing against the ceiling of the cab, forcing his head forward. At the same time, his tee shirt was pulling out of my fist as his chest expanded, stretching the fabric tighter and tighter across his thickening pecs.

“Unh!” he grunted, grabbing at his pants leg, which was now pulled absurdly tight around both his actual left leg and a cock that looked like it was trying to become his middle leg, all crammed into too little denim. He looked up at me urgently. “We have to get back,” he said.

Though impossibly turned on, I dutifully started the truck and squealed out of our parking space. Watching all that slow growth of our increasingly humpy and Adonis-like customer-base—the so-called Hashery Boys, as Orel had said—must have built up a growth fetish in me I hadn’t known I had, because seeing that previously-glacial hunkification time-lapsed into seconds was the hottest thing I had ever seen or imagined. “What’s going on?” I barked.

Rex was distressed. “It’s Lex,” he panted. “He’s too powerful and he’s incredibly high, and he can’t—unh—he can’t control it. Not trying to. Growing all of us, getting off on it. And there’s something else,” he gasped.

I turned onto the highway and then glanced over at him, almost blowing my load at how huge he was getting. A few more minutes, I thought, and he might literally be too big for the truck. Shit. “What is it?” I asked impatiently.

“S-something’s egging him on,” Rex said. “I keep hearing it.”

“Hearing what?”

“‘More,’” he said, huffing painfully. “‘More, more, more.’”

“Son of a bitch,” I swore. I pressed the accelerator all the way down, and we tore out of the little retail-industrial patch where the Farm and Feed was, racing back up the mountain road toward the Hashery. “Can you hold him back at all? Mentally?”

“Trying,” Rex said. “He’s so strong…”

I glanced over again. Rex looked pretty strong too, literally—like, “rip this truck in two” strong. His shirt was tearing off him as I watched, exposing golden-brown delts the size of boulders and pecs that were even bigger—irrationally, inconceivably bigger.

Despite the crisis I was actually close. I stomped down on the accelerator. “When this is sorted out,” I growled, “you’d better let me cum in your ass. This hard-on is your fault!”

Though obviously experiencing considerable discomfort, Giant Rex managed to grin over at me from where he was all but filling up the right side of the cab. “It’s a deal!” he grunted, and I sure as fuck was holding him to it.

It wasn’t as tough a decision as you might think. I was still living at home, and my parents were either absent (mom had a sixty-hour-a-week job plus commute in Salina, an hour away) or resentful (dad was permanently laid off and hated that I still glowed with the youth he’d lost). No sibs, and my soccer besties had already booked it after high school to places where the weekend highlight wasn’t knocking windows out of the abandoned soap factory.

The Burger Jack was okay. They paid well, surprisingly, but the franchise was in the middle of nowhere, off an interstate exit no one got off at. We got a handful customers a night if we were lucky, and when there was a rush—a bus full of rowdy, abusive wrestlers on the way to an away meet, entitled cheapskate evangelists from the meeting hall up Route 32A every Sunday noon—I longed for the quiet again. The franchisee, a dumb, grumpy, mustachioed lump who demanded we call him Diablo, was the kind of man who communicated poorly, had a bad habit of changing the schedule to inconvenience us out of pure, random vindictiveness, and stank worse than the rotten hamburger patties someone left out in a heat wave that time. When your life is a doldrums like that, someone like him breezing in, seeding you with delicious, tingling, all-saturating arousal and then, at the moment of mutual climax, sating you with this perfect, utterly complete gratification that lingers with you for hours and, to some extent, days, becomes the kind of fantasy that even in the cold, rational light of the morning after seems totally worth pursuing.

So pursue it I did, and I mean that literally. I’d already noted the business name and address on the silver heavy-duty pickup he drove: a place called Thad’s Hashery out to Colorado Springs. I did some research: there was a website with lots of different varieties available in person and mail-order, plus testimonials from a number of satisfied customers, most of whom seemed to be taking time out from posing for Hottest Insert-Occupation-Here calendars to offer their praise of the Hashery’s products and crew. A little more digging turned up a number of online communities; some were made up of Hashery customers sharing news and tips on the latest blends, but others seemed to be Hashery-spotter accounts posting candid shots of these magnificent specimens in the wild as they went about their business in the streets, parks, and swimming pools of Colorado Springs and beyond.

I had the name of the place my sexy visitor was attached to, and I knew where it was. This was a good clue, but it was also true that he might have been headed anywhere and wasn’t in fact en route to his presumed home base when her stopped to share a night of wonder with a buff ‘n’ bored Burger Jack boy. The solution was simple: for an easy twenty I had my friend Darlene, the morning manager at the Snooz-Away, keep an eye on a certain big, ripped, and basically hard-to-miss customer (“the one in the ball cap,” I clarified, all straight-faced and everything) and tell me what happened when he left that day. She stood out front as he drove off in the early dawn light, and confirmed to me that he took the on-ramp heading west, Colorado-bound.

That was enough for me. I knew hooking up with my mystery man again was a long shot, even if I found him, but it was still a shot. I’d been looking to get out and start over somewhere else for a while now, and a dream-guy hashery in C-Springs was as good a place to set out for as any. I packed a bag, ignoring dad glowering at me from the couch. I texted my mom that I loved her and that I was going away for a while and we’d talk often. She wasn’t surprised and told me to be safe and happy. I texted Diablo and told him I was done being jerked around—by him, anyway. He replied back that I should go fuck myself, to which I responded with a cheery “Will do!” Then I motored into town, got my savings and the money grams left me out of the bank, got back in my trusty Kia, and wasted no time vroom-vrooming my little corner of America, the Beautiful into my rear-view mirror as I headed straight for the I-70 onramp and points west.

Is it still “Go west, young man” if you’re already in Kansas? I wondered with a smirk as I merged into the transcontinental traffic. Whatever. No matter what actually came to pass, in that moment I was pretty sure that with a man like him at the end of my journey my fate just had to have become a few shades more interesting.

GPS placed the Hashery on the far side of the city, toward the foothills of the Front Range, and even drew me a line straight to their front door, but I didn’t head straight there just yet. I’d been driving for seven hours, not counting snack breaks (my fast metabolism keeps those abs tight but it’s a real taskmaster when it comes to staving off the grumblies), and I didn’t want to just show up at the end of the day out of the blue with a cheesy smile and holding a big sign that read ROUND TWO, PLEASE. I needed a shower and some beauty rest before I moseyed up there to see what was what.

Knowing the few boons and many demerits of the local Snooz-Away first-hand (man, the stories I could tell you about that place), I elected not to fall back on roadside motels for my overnight sojourn. Instead, I thought ahead, taking a moment early on, as I slurped noisily at the dregs of my large half-and-half malt in the back corner of a Freddy’s Frozen Custard & Steakburgers, to e-reserve myself a nice little room at a b-and-b not far from my final fantasy destination. It was called the Belvedere, and as I finally turned into their driveway, the evening sky before me all red and picturesquely silhouetting the mountains beyond, I had to agree it was a beautiful view.

The Belvedere itself was handsome in its own right, and a bit larger than expected. I’d sort of assumed all b-and-bs were quaint country houses, but this was more like a manor house, done in the Tudor style and seemingly capable of sheltering as many wayfarers as it needed to. I drove around back, half thinking I’d find old-fashioned stables there, maybe an ostler looking to take charge of my steed, but there was just a small parking lot and a whole lot of rolling countryside beyond. I parked, slung the gym bag I was using as luggage over my shoulder, and headed in the main glass doors to find the front desk.

Here, at least, things were more true to form: the woman who greeted me there was the very definition of grandmotherly—not the little old lady Sylvester and Tweety sort but the ebullient, unstoppable matron who sees everything sort. She was tall and trim in a simple tan blouse and maxi shirt, auburn haired, generous but deft in applying cosmetics, and happy to see anyone who walked through her door. “Hello, dear!” she said as I walked up to the desk, setting aside a Kindle and giving me her full attention. “I’m Mrs. Kendall, the owner. Welcome to the Belvedere.”

“Uh, hi!” I said. “I—”

She held up a hand. “Wait, don’t tell me,” she said, pointing a taloned figure up and down my frame as if to guide her scrutiny. I was a little self-conscious of my travel-rumpled purple tee and worn jeans, but honestly I found the motherly attention reassuring. She pursed her lips and guessed, “Impulse getaway.”

I laughed. “Pretty much! Up and quit my job and just started driving.”

Mrs. Kendall hummed and gave me another quick once-over. “Baseball?”

I grinned. “Soccer.”

She nodded. “Should have guessed from the legs.” She held out her hand. “ID, please.”

I got out my ID and passed it to her. “I’ve played baseball too. You, uh, always psych out the guests like that?”

She shrugged as she keyed in my info. “It passes the time.” She glanced up curiously. “You visiting or staying, Impulse Boy?”

Amused by her inquisition, I said, “Not sure yet. Why?”

“No reason. GRAAANT!”

I took a half-step back from the sudden shift in volume, though Mrs. Kendall, for her part, hadn’t even looked up from her terminal.

A tall, well-muscled, dark-haired and very shirtless young man came through the glass doors opposite the ones I’d used and moved into the little lobby area with us. “Here, gran!” he said, his low baritone as sexy as the rest of him. His smile was easy, and my thickening dick hoped the rest of him was, too.

I knew I was gaping at him, but I couldn’t quite stop myself. He was a few inches taller than my rangy 6-foot-2, tanned, and buff as fuck, with a delicious, lightly hairy torso and long, long legs that filled out those soft old jeans even better than I did mine. In fact he was perfectly proportioned all over, like his body had been literally fleshed out by a gay Instagram artist who specialized in perfect men—more casual than cut, like having acres of rock-hard muscle and flat, chiseled abs that guttered the sweat of an afternoon’s work was just the way some guys were. He was handsome in an open, idealized kind of way, though the lines of his dark brows and sharp jaw suggested a playful edge to his innocence. He was watching his gran, waiting for orders, but I could tell he wasn’t oblivious to me staring at him, either.

Mrs. Kendall still hadn’t looked up, but I wouldn’t have put any money on her not being aware of everything going on in front of her. “Take Bill here up to 31 and make sure he’s happy with everything, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Grant turned to me. “Hi, Bill. I’m Grant.”

“Hi, Grant.”

Mrs. Kendall coded a key card in the little machine and finally looked up, holding the card out to me. I reluctantly tore my eyes off of Grant and took it from her with a mumbled “thank you.” She smirked at me—just full on smirked. “You have a good night, now.”

“Okay,” I said, slightly dazed, as though I were agreeing to take her advice.

Grant nodded toward a nearby hallway, and I followed him. In the close proximity of the connecting corridor I could smell his sweat—it was a clean and a bit sweet, like grass on a summer’s day.

We found the little elevator and got in. “So what brings you out here?” he asked conversationally. The doors trundled closed and he pressed “3”, starting the glorified dumbwaiter lurching upwards.

I was distracted enough by being closed in a tiny box with this young godling that I just blurted out, “I decided to visit the Hashery.”

His eyes lit up. “Cool!” he said, beaming. “Cool cool cool. I need to replenish the old stash myself. I can drive you up tomorrow, if you want! They like it when you come in pairs—there’s a discount and everything.” He aimed his high-wattage smile at me. “You game?”

My brain must have short-circuited, because I just grinned goofily at him and said, “Only if you promise to dress exactly like this!” I gestured at his unencumbered torso and thigh-hugging jeans, as if my come-on needed clarification.

Grant just grinned. “It’s a date!”

Just then the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Grant gestured me into the corridor. I exited the car in a mild haze of happy-lust, Grant close behind me, and as we navigated the narrow upstairs corridor of the old wayfarer’s inn I found myself wondering if I really had wandered into my own personal fantasy.

No sooner were we closeted in my room and I’d dropped my bag on the folding X-legged luggage rack by the dresser than Grant was producing a lighter and a really fat joint from his back pocket. “Might as well finish off what I got,” he said with a grin. “You ever had Hashery pot, Bill?”

I was going to say I knew my way around a bit of weed just fine, but the point seemed to be that the stuff from the Hashery was no ordinary marijuana. I smirked up at him and raised my hand, palm-wide, like I was announcing myself at a meeting. “Total virgin here, Grant,” I confessed cheerily.

He looked me over. “Twunks as hot as you are not allowed to be virgins,” Grant observed with a wink. He proceeded to spark up his mega-joint, taking a few puffs and holding the smoke in before letting it out in a slow stream. Then he passed it to me between finger and thumb, those provocative brows raised in a kind of challenge, like he was offering me membership in his secret cannabis cult. “This is some serious shit,” he said. “You ready?”

I stared at this smiling, sun-toasted beauty with no small amount of awe. This whole time I’d reckoned my mystery man as something singular, and he still outstripped Grant in many ways, so maybe he was their king, or their Dionysus; but between him, the pics online, and this very real and all but irresistible man before me, I was starting to believe that the hunks I’d met so far were only the tip of the iceberg.

Well, fuck. Accepting the joint, I brought it to my lips and took a long, practiced drag, holding Grant’s avid gaze the whole time. If this was what the men of the Hashery were like, then let’s just say I was more than willing to be inducted.

Life is about limitations. At least, that was what I used to think. You stay in your lane, you let the world’s expectations shape your life, and you get what you’re supposed to get. Anyone trying to change their path down the endlessly twisting, time-walled existence tubes we’re all sliding through at a velocity one notch faster than we think we are was fucked in the head and literally asking for trouble.

I thought that way even as a kid, and looking back at my early influences I’m not surprised. My parents fought everything and everyone and were miserable because of it, not that they’d admit they were anything but smugly, defiantly clam-happy fuckers. My dad was hot shit as a teen—a state of affairs that was pretty much inevitable, what with his devastating good looks, embedded family wealth, and casual proficiency at sports and academics—and the whole thing bent his brain so much he started thinking he was entitled to everything that wasn’t already being handed to him. He was angry all the time. Every store was putting something over on him; every boss was taking advantage of him; every stranger was jealous of him and what he had; every female wanted his dick and was too stuck up to say so. Marrying the prettiest girl in school didn’t satisfy him, because every day there were all these other pieces of ass who wouldn’t admit they were hot for his A-plus body and legendary bed skills. Nailing a primo job at the Lexus dealership wasn’t enough, because the sales manager was secretly playing favorites and didn’t deserve the job anyway—not as much as he did. Everything was a fight. I wrote in my snark-journal that his abs were still perfect at age 44 because he was constantly clenching his gut in a simmering rage, and that he probably had the tightest ass in Colorado, too, for the same exact reason.

Mom was worse, not from her own merits but because she was Mrs. Hot Shit. Grocery store managers cringed when they saw her. Other moms either hated her or kowtowed to her as some kind of alpha matron. Her whole attitude was sharp-elbowed, confrontational, and demeaning of anyone who wasn’t her. It was all so exhausting, and—worse, from my perspective—so patently unrewarding.

With parents like that I could very easily have been turned into an avatar for my parents’ entitlement, especially as it was clear early on in my adolescence that I had inherited Dad’s looks and innate potential for a perfect, long-limbed supermodel physique on top of Mom’s lush auburn hair and startlingly blue eyes. Fortunately for me I had an older brother, Kevin, on whom they naturally lavished all of their attention and efforts to make the world revolve around them, leaving me to my own devices. In a house full of self-seeking, aggressive loudmouths, my teenage rebellion was to step back, keep my words to myself, and mind my own business. I watched, did my work, accepted what my parents would have kicked off at, and assured myself that this was the rational man’s path to simple social and human gratification.

Meeting Eric seemed to reinforce all of this thinking somehow. The story of how we met is kind of funny: me picking up a dropped red mitten, catching up with him and silently handing it to him, and the two of us instantly becoming best friends. It sounds like it should have happened on the first day of kindergarten rather that sophomore year in high school, and honestly I kind of wish it had. Eric was my height, maybe an inch or so shorter than my own not-too-impressive stature. He was already pretty ripped at 15 from years of wrestling and hockey, with an easy grin and these pretty sepia eyes that locked onto you and made you feel like you mattered. My soul somehow relaxed when I met him, like I’d been squeezed as tight as my Dad’s ass until I saw those loose, square shoulders and that cute, wide-smiling face.

Eric went with the flow and didn’t get angry at anything. Whatever was going down, he was there for it, with bright eyes and a tiger’s grin. His whole family was the same way. He had a ton of brothers and sisters, a fact that led to a lot of ribald jokes about his parents’ rabbit-like tendencies (it didn’t help that their last name was Cabot), and they were all as keen and naturally even-tempered as my high-spirited, ready-for-anything best bud.

We hung out all the time. Studying together, smoking pot in his room, making out on occasion when we ended up snuggling in his bed during a Hunter×Hunter marathon, like buddies do sometimes, you know? We hadn’t done more than that, really; but we were around each other enough I knew he had a big, bent dick, and as we graduated high school and started working together at the store deli counter, hanging out and gaming and basically being in each other’s pockets, I was… well, I was starting to wonder what it tasted like. I kept it to myself, though. He didn’t see me that way, I was sure of it—I wasn’t even sure I saw him that way. And anyway, expecting something just because I wanted it was the kind of asshole attitude my Dad was famous for. So I didn’t ask. I dreamt about it sometimes, though, creating these little pocket fantasy-scapes in my imagination where Eric was even bigger and even harder and wanted to feel my worshipping tongue on his stiff shaft and my hot mouth around his wide, seeping cockhead just as much as I did.

At some point, I think the summer after we graduated and got a two-bedroom place downtown together, a friend clued us into the Hashery and how their weed seemed so much more, hm, effective than the usual stuff we were used to getting. When E and I were toking Hashery weed we soared every time, like it adapted to our body chemistry to give us the trip we needed, risk-free. Even the come-down was sweet and calming, too, like the high wasn’t ebbing away so much as seeping all the way into us, infiltrating our cells and marrow and making our physical and mental beings that tiny, infinitesimal bit better. That was the fantasy, anyway, and it certainly lined up with how things were going for us in general. Henry started seeing real gains in the gym, and I had this funny growth spurt where I realized one day I was taller than my formerly same-height buddy. We were both hard a lot, too, for no particular reason, work, home, gym, whatever, but I figured that was just the euphoria of actually having things good.

I started forgetting my old stress and latched onto my friendship with a more exuberant-than-ever Henry, letting my eager, extroverted best bud be my ambassador into the world outside of us while we reveled in just being us. I was sure that I finally had things figured out. Just slide down the life-tube instead of clawing at everything around you like the crazy people I was related to, and happiness would find you—and if you were lucky, it would come to you in spades.

I shouldn’t have been too surprised to learn I had it wrong, but the real eye-opener was the twist of exactly what I hadn’t understood about my own perfectly ordinary life and how I went about living it.

We were at the Hashery that day on a whim. E and I were driving around, off work and at a loose end, and our Cherokee just sort of took us up the mountain toward Thad’s. E was driving, and he winked at me as we took the turn up the highway. “In the mood for some special brownies?” he asked.

I grinned at him. He was looking fucking ripped these days, with hard round muscles popping out everywhere you looked. He knew it too—he’d been wearing tank tops a lot more these days, though maybe that was because I was the one buying them for him and he liked to tease me. We were in an interesting place, flirting with each other without doing much about beyond the increasingly frequent makeout sessions when we were really high. Keeping the will-they-or-won’t-they thing going between us was like a game. We were edging each other, and the buzz was its own kind of high. One of our favorite ways to tease each other was to shamelessly come on to the searingly hot guys at Thad’s—especially Aleksei, the fit, elfin-faced Hashery counter guy with the long blond hair and the wicked smile. He loved flirting right back, and I think he’d cottoned on to how turned on I was watching Henry and him act like they were just barely keeping their hands off each other.

I grinned back at E as he downshifted for the hill. “Maybe they have something more… lickable,” I suggested.

He laughed and kicked the speed up a notch, zooming us up the road toward our destination.

It turned out Aleksei was out that day, and instead there was a new guy—this tall, crazy-buff, honey-brown dreamboat with a straw hat and eyes that would have made me bone up if I hadn’t been 80 percent there already. He looked like he was more an invention of the mind than a flesh and blood dude with parents and taxes and a favorite take-out spot. Walking into the shop and seeing him was like entering a place of heightened perceptions and intensified pleasure. This guy was giving off sex vibes in waves, maybe literally—I almost thought I could feel it on my skin, buffeting me like UV waves made heavy and palpable—and we gravitated toward him like there hadn’t ever been any other man on Earth before him.

Then we had the super-strong cannabis kaffe this dream guy shared with us, and fuck, everything was magnified off the charts. We were swimming in hot, pulse-pounding sex. The space between us seemed to evaporate. Of course I let Henry take the lead, and he was more than willing, and we were all hard and close together and Henry and this guy Lex were making out like they’d been doing it this whole time, maybe forever, and I felt…

I felt like we were melting together, the three of us—no, the four of us, because there was another guy joining us, physically just like Lex but somehow mentally very different, though I couldn’t tell how. He was pressed close behind Lex, there and not quite there. All of us were close together and getting closer. I could feel us melding together in our minds, twisting our bodies and our existences in a way that was beyond anything I could have imagined.

We were changing. Growing. It was as though, for each of us, our distinct four-dimensional existence was as malleable as salt-water taffy.

Lex was changing us, or maybe I was. Because there were things I wanted to see and fantasies I wanted to make real, and my desires threaded through the twisting and the melding and the reshaping, guiding and coaxing. As my gaze locked onto Lex’s equally feral, hungry, pupils-blown stare, I started to understand being in a whole new way.

Yeah, we were sliding down these tubes, and things went easier if you didn’t fight what they had in store for you. But if you opened your eyes, you realized something exciting: the tubes branch. There isn’t just one path to stick to and play it safe. There were all kinds of paths! Thick tubes, thin tubes. Tubes that are obvious, and tubes you only see out of the corner of your eye. I think E had known this instinctively, and his—our—happiness owned a lot of the way he unconsciously found just the right tubes to slide down as we went.

But maybe you could choose whole new tubes. Maybe, primed by the intense potency of Thad’s reality-liberating weed and the explosive heat storm of multiple-guy mega arousal, you could twist your way down the unlikliest of tubes and into a new life. A new universe, one that you had only dreamed of. One where fantasies were possible, even normal; and the way you dreamed of being was, thanks to this chosen twist of fate, the way things had always been.

As I stared into Lex’s eyes and felt our tongues wrestle ecstatically in Henry’s mouth, as I twisted our four souls and bodies together, changing, escalating, in the midst of all this uncontrolled excitement I found myself laughing. When it came to limitations, it turned out I could not have been more wrong.

I was Thad. Once upon a time, I was Thaddeus Loukanis, 25, botanical engineer and inventor of new strains of cannabis that unleashed the impossible in the human mind. Then I went to visit my brother, whom I’d been sending my change-promoting blends without his knowledge or understanding, and found myself in the midst of a muscle and cock free-for all from which I managed to escape only after being crammed into the magnificently altered body of my brother’s pizza shop’s best customer’s boyfriend, Zac. This was a man who’d giddily sailed along the furthest edges of erotic morphomania before learning his lesson thanks to a very baked housemate and a pair of German shepherd doggo ears—ears that, as if I were carrying my own penance for my part in this very uncontrolled experiment, I still possessed, along with the Zac-plus augmented body I’d been accidentally stuffed into on the one night things went just a little bit too far.

I drove home feeling less and less like myself. Not only was seducing a burger boy partway home, a very out of character moment for the inward-looking and workaholic Thad, immensely gratifying but, with my present looks and the arousing aura I projected, it was literally as easy as ordering extra pickles on my double-beef Jack Supreme. When I got back to the Hashery the place felt alien in the terrible storm I’d driven through. My own second-in-command didn’t recognize me, and in that moment I more or less became what he saw me as: a beautiful, storm-drenched, abnormally-proportioned outsider in a body made out of pure carnal excess, tossed on the shores of my own life like existential jetsam washing up from the seventh sea.

Oddly, in a way I was better able to connect with Aleksei as this stranger than I had over two years as employer. The dog ears led to me being jokingly monikered as “Rex,” and because I was feeling only the most tenuous connection to Thad that became who I was. I even started to think of Thad as someone other than me. And when I remembered that my own body was still back east with Mike (okay, it had a copy of Mike’s soul in it rather than mine, but still), and kept having to talk about filling in for my absent friend, the shift in self-perception became more and more irreversible.

Then, under the influence of my extra-strong nexus blend and some very intense lovemaking, Aleksei bonded with me; more than that, through some innate quirk of his genetics combined with the circumstances of our link, he managed to gain much greater and more immediate control over the physical changes my weed made possible than I had ever seen, even during the wild, cum-spraying, giant-filled change-apalooza back at Mike’s over the Fourth of July holidays. In the process Aleksei had unconsciously copied my transformed body overnight, turning himself into a perfect dupe of my mutant, heavily-muscled, knee-hung, insanely arousing doggo-earned form.

Interestingly, this seemed to liberate him in the same way it had me, and at least temporarily he willingly shed his identity as Aleksei and took up the role of a second interloper, Rex’s twin, Lex, as much an outsider as his equally arousing brother. I could feel the personality shift through our connection as he let go of inhibitions and worries I hadn’t even known he had, allowing this body and its anonymity give him a free pass to enjoy whatever his new existence brought him.

But Lex didn’t know how strong he was, and the proof of that was… me.

I’m not even sure exactly when it happened. I was with Amir, we were out on a run to the Farm and Feed, and I was feeling the bond with Aleksei—Lex—getting more and more intrusive despite the distance between us. I felt his arousal, his excitement, the blurring of his thoughts as the cannabis altered his feelings and perceptions, and all of that was seeping through me like gas through a grate. More than anything I felt his need for the change he was craving to include me, and he was pulling me to him so strongly and irresistibly I actually started to feel myself crowding behind him back in the store. My physical body was nowhere near him, but I was feeling my bare chest pressing against his back as intensely as I was feeling his dazzling marijuana delirium and his raging sexual desire. I pushed closer, my hand on his arms as he dove deeper into a fathomless kiss with a muscle-pumped, long-haired regular—Eric. His taller, even more handsome boyfriend—Henry—he was so close behind him he was practically joining in the kiss, and I realized I could feel all of them. The four of us, me, Henry, Eric, Lex, we were weaving together like a plait, driving ourselves around and around toward progressively less cautious alterations to our physical beings. Our connected minds were flooded with thoughts of swelling height and thickening muscle and jostling tongues and, louder than anything, cocks, cocks, and cocks.

Bleary with the edgy euphoria of orgiastic escalation I noticed as if from a great distance that we could still fell “Rex” across our distant connection. Rex was still out on that shipping run, far away, and we were drawing him into the growth remotely, getting off on the excitement of it even as the four of us reveled in what we were physically experiencing in that very moment.

Of course, if I had been in my right mind rather than drugged with pleasure and super-strain cannabis, I might have said, “Wait, I’m Rex. What the hell?”

But Rex was on the store run—we could feel him there, Amir bristling with consternation next to him. And I was here, with a cock far too big for pants and some voice in our overlapping minds egging Lex toward more and more transformation. I was here, so I couldn’t be Rex, and Lex was in front of me, my growing chest pushing hard into his back. I looked down. We were alike. His coloring was the same as mine. His brawny, hard-sculpted arms were like mine. He was wearing the straw hat, which I knew hid Rexa-Lexa doggo ears, and I could feel the doggo ears under my ball cap—which I still had despite my shirt vanishing, just like Lex’s had. Or maybe I hadn’t had a shirt that day, or maybe ever? I thought I did, but so much was shifting, uncertain, open and changeable, my memories splitting and forking like a slash of lightning.

I tried to make sense of it. I was in a Rex-like, Lex-like body. Rexa-Lexa, Zacalacka. But I wasn’t Rex or Lex, because Rex was there and Lex was here and I was neither of them. I stared woozily down at my squished-against-Lex pecs, and with the logic of a stoner I said to myself, Well then, if I’m not Rex and I’m not Lex I must be… Pex!

I snorted, and even though they weren’t sure what was funny the impulse echoed through the other three and they snickered too. Meanwhile, the sex-eddy we were making right there in the center of the store was speeding up, spinning faster and faster. Hands were everywhere, muscle and arousal and mouths and lips, all drawing us in more and more. Their sensations pushed through me like they were my own. I could taste their kiss, feel their hardness, the cum churning in heavy balls as the heat swirled around us. I lost myself in 180-proof lust, all of us drowning in that shared thought, cocks and cocks and cocks…

It was a bit of a drive, so Grant and I got an early start. He knocked on my door at seven on the dot, and when I opened up for him, fresh from the shower, I saw that true to his word that lightly hairy, exquisitely honed laboring man’s torso of his was on full display. The still-red early morning sun was behind him, silhouetting his V-shape very nicely while giving the round, striated caps of his delts and the swells of his traps a pleasant orange tinge.

He wiggled those sharp, sexy eyebrows at me. “Ready, soccer boy?” he asked.

I drew in a deep breath, looking him over and feeling my pulse quicken as I did so. Honestly, I was half tempted to pull Grant into the room and forget about my magnificent seducer and his much-discussed Hashery. But… well, I had quit my job and basically crossed a whole prairie to get here, and something in me wanted answers to all the questions kindled by the man who’d given me the best orgasm ever and, inadvertently, woken me up to the stunted nature of my own life. Besides, I was guessing from Grant’s easy, incandescent smirk that after the Hashery my plans for the rest of the day probably involved further opportunities to find out how just much of Grant’s sun-kissed skin I could convince him to expose for my personal delectation.

In the car—we took my Kia—Grant and I talked about Kansas and Colorado and how we’d grown up. We’d both stayed local most of our lives, not really seeing the wider world except through screens and hearsay. It sounded like we’d experienced two different flavors of Middle America, the flats of my world lending folks a more stolid perspective from the mountain fringes he was used to; but there was a lot in common, too. “You have the better weed, though,” I added, smiling over at him lolling edibly in the passenger seat. The new jeans, boots, and no shirt look definitely worked for him.

“Clearly!” he agreed. “Oh—the turnoff is up here.”

We arrived soon after that, and almost from the moment I got out of the car I could feel the sexual stimulation coming out of the building in waves. I was half-hard already from the car ride with my young handyman Adonis, so I gave myself a quick adjustment while the Kia was still between us and headed for the door. The level of arousal inducement radiating from the store was no joke—by the time I opened the big glass door, Grant next to me and the bell tinkling overhead, I was raging hard and in desperate need of a fuck. Walking into the store was like passing through an invisible barrier into a glassed-in tank in which the air itself was transformed into something libidinous and unslakable.

Grant’s hand slid around me, needing that physical touch, and I felt a deep, reverberating thrill as I slid my hand over his bare lower back. We entered the space side by side, our blood racing, overcome with the sex-radiation. That wasn’t all, though—on top of the need to to experience manly pleasure our brains fucking melting with the most intense and transforming contact high I’d ever imagined. It was so strong it roared past merely altering out brains and started flooding into our beings, soaking into us past, present, and future. And that was before we came in range of the cluster of hotness at the center of the store.

We stopped, gaping, our cocks bucking hard in our jeans, seeming to grow and swell just from the sight of them. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking at. There were four men looking like they were trying to have sex standing up with their pants on, slathering their hands all over each other as they kissed and writhed with escalating pleasure; but these were not the kind of men I was used to seeing. Two were relatively normal, though even they were exceptional; but the other two—

I tried focusing on the nearer two as we moved toward them. I don’t remember moving my feet or choosing to get closer. Hell, we might as well have been on casters, pulled toward then by some kind of carnal gravity. One was shorter, and, strikingly, strong hands were compensating for his relative lack of height by holding him up off the ground by the flanks, his sneakers dangling comically, just so one of the the bigger ones could kiss him endlessly and with extreme thoroughness. This despite the fact for all that he was the shortest of them he was still well over six feet, and so massively built his bare, rippling back looked as wide as it was long. High thighs were amazing, too, thicker than mine and just as impressively sculpted. He was smooth all over, barely a follicle around his lower forearms, yet at the same time thick, golden hair was cascading down that almost triangular back, seeming to grow like a time-lapse video so that it seemed to strain and inch toward his stone-hard bubble-butt, lock by lock, even as we watched in simple, extremely aroused awe.

Pressed in close behind him and slightly to one side, stroking that back under the waterfall of blond and kissing his stubbled jaw, was a very tall, very lithe auburn-haired hunk. He had a face that was almost too handsome to bear even seen in profile from behind, and his lean, muscle-packed body seemed to be the very definition of aesthetically proportioned—as adjusted for a man in excess of seven feet in height. Even given his remarkable lankiness and stunning beauty it seemed like he was the least extreme of all of them, almost as though his preference was to enjoy the radical bodies of others rather than have one of his own.

And then there were the two sex giants.

The two were identical, and they both were, I realized, spitting images of the man who’d seduced me away from the Burger Jack and exposed me to unexpected cock-bliss, though somehow I could tell that they weren’t him. Triplets? Clones? I didn’t even know. The only obvious difference between them was their taste in hats, one sporting a straw cowboy number while the other rocked a trucker-style ball cap. They were well past eight feet tall and massively muscled in a way designed to be achingly beautiful, like every proportion involved the golden mean and the analog key to unlock adoration and worship in the mind of any gay man ever. Even so there was something off about the relationship between their size and their form, like, they’d been scaled up to their colossal height mostly vertically and the pecs and delts and biceps and all expanded afterwards, so that their torsos and legs seemed a few notches longer than you’d expect, and their pecs rode high and disproportionately thick over long ten-pack abs. The most unexpected thing about them was the way their cocks were so ridiculously massive, barely rising off the floor even at full erection, that they actually wore three-legged jeans, the middle leg filled with leg-sized cock and nudging between the legs of those on front of them: the nearer one, the one holding up and kissing the blond bodybuilder, had his rager nudging between the muscle-stud’s dangling feet and brushing against the taller one’s leg, while the cock of the one in back was lodged between the knees of the first sex-giant, who seemed to be gripping the stiff hyper-sized cock with the strength in those extra-long legs.

I shivered, holding Grant close against my side. Imagine having a giant ankle-kissing cock your whole life and needing to deal with the mundane ramifications of such a huge wang… like somehow acquiring three-legged jeans to accommodate your impossible junk. And that wasn’t all there was to the phallic proliferation. I could feel their arousal, throbbing through all their cocks, and even with their backs to us I could almost grasp the twin thick, flat cocks shoving high out of the blond muscle-god’s waistband, covering his belly with thick, creamy precum, and his boyfriend’s dicks were even bigger, tall and straight and made for sucking. Some part of me was shocked at these guys each possessing two magnificent seldom-soft pricks each, but that didn’t make any sense. After all, didn’t both the sex-giants have two floor-dragging dicks apiece? It was normal here. Hadn’t my own double complement of ten-inch throat-pokers, so unheard of in my neck of the woods, helped convince me to follow my double-hyperwanged visitor all the way here? Hadn’t the whole point of Grant showing up shirtless been to get a glimpse of his brazen cockheads nosing past the waistband of his sexy-ass jeans?

I was hot and bothered, completely overwhelmed. My arousal was unbearable. We were close to the four of them now, drifting toward them like our minds were being pulled into a slavering singularity. I grabbed onto a nearby shelf, trying to stop us from burning up in the sun, and turned to Grant, pulling him into a hug and then kissing him, hard and deep. Our cocks rocked against each other, the bare skin of our chests trying to press even closer together. Wait, hadn’t I been wearing a tee shirt a minute ago? I couldn’t think. I’d told Grant to be shirtless for our morning “date,” but my memory seemed weirdly fluid, more ooze than something sturdy, like files in a filing cabinet. Maybe I’d met Grant shirtless at the door, too, half-dressed from the shower, and he’d grinned that bright grin and told me I was dressed exactly right for the Hashery and pulled me out of the room with a laugh, barely letting me check I had my wallet, phone, and keys before we headed off together, equally topless. Had that been what had happened?

Something surged, and everything seemed to kick up a notch. I could almost hear the susurrus under the swell like a sub-bass amp, thrumming a need for more, more, more. My cocks throbbed, sliming my abs as they nuzzled against Grant’s even larger ones pushing halfway up his gently defined abs. My tongues danced desperately with Grant’s, our hands finding every inch of exposed muscle on each other’s backs. We were crazy close, me and Grant and the four intertwined lovers, too, and the only thing I wasn’t sure of was whether their were going to explode with cum at exactly the same singular moment that Grant and I would start high-pressure painting each other with twin coats of hot, salty jizz.

Behind us the door opened, and the bell tinkled. I felt anger, frustration, and arousal, all coming from one man. Behind him, the presence of a third identical sex-giant registered in our heads, like your eyes are closed and you can still feel the presence a third sun on the opposite horizon joining the two already in the sky.

The shock was too much and Grant and I were cumming, and a millisecond later the store seemed to explode as the sex-cluster came too, erupting in radiant pleasure that blasted through us and gave us, like, three extra orgasms on top of the ones we were already experiencing. Grant and I wobbled and held each other up, our brains and bodied drenched in mindless ecstasy. The smell of cum was everywhere, and with the way we were rocking against each other, barely able to stand, I could almost imagine we were on a tall ship, coursing through a wide ocean of sloshing, endless cum.

I blinked, turning to take in the newcomers. As I’d already perceived one of them was yet a third nine-foot tall sex giant, complete with elongated muscle-bod, incongruous hat, and custom-made jeans designed to accommodate two long legs and two even longer hyperdicks, each currently poking their heads out of the cuffs, the glans nosing at the big pool of cum on the floor by his boots. (Instinct told me a similar sight would greet me in the other direction, too: big messes of cum and cockheads looking like they were about to lap it all up.)

The other was a hairy, thick-muscled, dark-skinned man with eyes that were all but sparking with fury. He was shirtless, like all of us, his two ridiculously wide, half-exposed monsterdicks having pumped a lot of cum straight into this dark hair covering his chest and abs. He seemed to be ignoring this, and me and Grant as well. Instead he was glaring daggers at the four lovers who’d started it all.

Not taking his eyes off the group, he very deliberately crossed both sets of powerful, corded arms over his thick, closely stacked pecs—first the top pair, then the bottom, in a closely-synchronized move that seemed like he’d used it before when trying to make an impression. “I understand,” he growled, still glaring at the four men and the sex giants in particular, “that you have a certain need to slake your sexual… impulses. I only ask,” he added, his voice growing dangerous, “that you not do so in the fucking store!”

“Sorry, Amir,” came the response, from two deep voices speaking in not-quite-perfect stereo.

I glanced the other way, and so did Grant. The two sex-giants managed to look both deliciously post-orgasmic and endearingly sheepish. The blond muscle god, now back on his feet, looked happy and sated, his chest covered in cum from his two boomerang cocks; but the seven-foot model hottie looked smug and stimulated. He might have cum from those two towering erections still nudging the bottoms of his well-carved, jizz-coated chest, but to me he looked anything but satisfied.

Grant turned and beamed down at me, making me tingle inside with another dose of that high-wattage grin on top of our lingering afterglow. “Welcome to the Hashery,” he said.

My body thrummed like a plucked guitar string, pulsing along the molecular dimension of my being from the detonation of some kind of sex-bomb right there in the Hashery, its reverberating force so powerful its shock wave smashed through everything around it, rippling outward through us, through the newcomers, through the farm and fields, leaving nothing unchanged and unaffected before finally dissipating harmlessly, its work done, into the hills and mountains around. It had struck each of us like a swelling monsoon, magnifying our already freakishly intense orgasms, soaking though us to our bones and thrilling every cell with unheard-of pleasure. Its transcending intensity seeped insidiously into our four-dimensional beings, infiltrating every part of who we were and the path that brought us here, too strong to be limited even to a single moment in time. There were glimpses of a prurient will behind it, inchoate and half-hidden in the white-out of sensations, but—but, no, that was silly. How could a nuclear orgasm have anything like intent?

It didn’t matter. I felt invigorated, transformed, like I had finally discovered true, all-encompassing ecstasy. You’d think I’d never had an orgasm before, and you’d almost be right. Sure, I’d painted my soccer-boy chest with twin stripes of sweet hot cum literally countless times since I’d gotten my first seemingly indefatigable hardons way back when, and yet the release that had just torn through me was utterly novel and its exhilaration so potent the blissful intoxication of it felt too strong to ever truly ebb away.

I dwelt on those young-me double sprays across my tight torso fondly. Then—another glimpse, blurred and shifting uncertainly. Had there been two stripes, or one? Just as quickly the glimpse shifted again and was gone, washed away into nothing like a stick figure drawn in wet sand erased by the relentless, all-conforming surf, and slippery thought went with it.

I found I was staring up into blue-green eyes. Grant was smiling at me, and I could feel the dopey grin on my own face as we clung to each other, our bare chests slippery with what seemed like enough cum to lubricate all the parts on a Singapore-bound 747. I pushed up on my toes to give him a swift, deep-throated kiss, my tongues happy to be reunited with his vigorous cocklickers, however briefly. Then I dropped to my heels and looked around us.

The air was heavy with sultry layers of musk and spunk, though the brisk morning air was already moving through the store, like an ocean breeze after a storm. As I’d suspected there were actual puddles of cum on the smooth-tiled shop floor from the three hyperdicked, identical giants, as if their size reflected the same indifferent tendency of horses to leave deposits of bodily output behind—only in their case it was masses of messy, thickly viscous jizz they could not help but leave behind like signs of their passing. I grinned at the thought and, without letting go of Grant, addressed myself to the simmeringly angry four-armed force of nature who’d entered the shop almost exactly at the point of detonation.

“If you tell me where the mops and supplies are,” I offered, “I’ll help clean up and all.” It was a natural impulse for me. As the only child of checked-out parents, used to solitary pursuits and small-town jobs where I was often the only person on site for long, dolorous shifts of nothing and no one at all, I’d learned early on that the only way I’d have a well-ordered environment was to take care of it myself.

The young Arab daddy was still glowering with the ferocity of an angry silverback at the four-man unit up front that seemed to have started all of this: the two sheepish-looking giant twins, the happy-happy blond muscle stud, and the lanky auburn hunk with the smug half-smile like he was the secret antihero whose schemes had all gone exactly to plan and then some. I was pretty sure these last two were customers, regulars maybe from their comfort level in the store not employees, but that hairy death glare seemed aimed at the four of them together like a beat cop in an old black-and-white short stink-eyeing his favorite pack of mischief-making ne’er-do-wells. I could kind of feel his ember-hot disgruntlement, like it was there in the shop with us. Actually all of the emotions in the room seemed palpable somehow, as if the heady mix of anger, contentment, chagrin, and anticipation was physically present, sifting potently through the air around us along with the warm fizz of lingering afterglow.

“That’s all right, kid,” the Arab daddy said, his burning stare still fixed on the troublemaking foursome. If shooting fire from your eyes was a real thing I’d be checking the muscle foursome for scorch marks. “The employees will take care of it.”

I grinned—for some reason I was weirdly amused by his bathos-like umbrage. “Please?” I pressed, my midwestern geniality at full throttle. “I’d really like to.”

“I’ll help too,” Grant put in. “If you have some rags, I can wipe down any… surfaces that need it.” One of the foursome snorted a short laugh. Apart from the shop floor most of what was covered in spend was bare, hard-chiseled torsos, all of them at various levels of development ranging from “nice” (mine, mainly) to “fuck yeah” to “holy shit.” I exchanged a knowing glance with my new orgasm-buddy and briefly toyed with the idea of swapping post-sex-bomb clean-up roles with him.

Mr. Hairy Death Glare sighed. His lips were pressed tight in a long, hard line so it came out through his nose, all explosive and testy. “Fine,” he growled, then unfolded his impressive arms and pointed a finger at the four men. “But you are all on my shit list.” Then he turned and jabbed his finger at the third giant, the one he’d come in with. “You as well,” he hissed, before storming out through the front doors of the shop toward his truck, the shop bell clanging loudly behind him.

“What did I do?” the third giant asked, staring after him in adorable confusion.

The eight-foot, massively-pectoraled, double-hyperwanged specimen who’d come in with Mr. Hairy Death Glare gave me and Grant a broad, cock-hardening grin and said, “Come with me.” Gladly, I thought. With an arm around the waist of my extra-tall handyman hunk I trailed after this vision of extreme masculinity toward a side door in the back of the shop, more or less ignoring the foursome, who’d gone back to sharing languid kisses like their brains were stuck above all else on the primacy of proximity and contact in as many forms as possible.

The side door turned out to be a very large supply closet, and our guide—he said his name was Rex—told us to go nuts. I smiled. “So this is your back room, huh?” I said. “Not how I pictured it.” Though, now that my mind was in the getter, there was definitely room for two or three people to have some fun, though if one of them was an eight-foot giant it might get a little cramped. Maybe that was what Mr. Hairy Death Glare had meant about satisfying their “needs” somewhere other than the actual shop floor.

“Brat,” Rex shot back good-naturedly. He was pretty relaxed, in that way I’d seem before where someone who used to be all walled up has finally discovered how to let his hair down.

The “back room” in question was extensively stocked with all kinds of shit, including extra inventory, sales support incidentals (shopping bags, boxes of preprinted loyalty cards, that kind of thing), and cleaning supplies including new-looking string mops, a yellow commercial mop bucket with that upper mezzanine part you can use to wring the mop out in, brooms, cleansers, and so on. There was also a custodial sink and a hose, so I half-filled the yellow bucket with warm water, added some lemon Pine-Sol (a contradiction in terms if you ask me, but nevermind), grabbed a mop, and was ready to rock.

In lieu of cleaning rags Rex handed Grant some thirsty-looking brick-red Hashery tee shirts, size S and XS it looked like, to wipe us all down with. Most of the branded merch was selling great, it seemed—Hashery weed-buyers liked supporting the store, often enthusiastically—but he said tee shirt sales had been falling off a bit lately for some reason, especially in the smaller, slimmer sizes, so they had a bit of overstock. As he said this he looked us both over with a very deliberate smirk, like maybe the shortfall might be partially owing to, well, customers like Grant and me who didn’t wear much of anything up top (not that he or his bros were any less topless than we were). Honestly he didn’t seem too put out by our acute thyrsovestiphobia. Maybe he didn’t mind having a big-muscled shirt-hating clientele too much… and I could certainly see his point. I’d be willing to bet they didn’t order the smaller sizes much anymore, anyway.

Rex started up a playlist over the store speakers—something jazzy and upbeat I didn’t recognize—and we got to work. Grant started by wiping me down first, paying extra attention to getting the cooling, partially dried cum out of the barely-there line of almost-invisible chest-hair between my pecs. Then he worked his way down, progressing to the thin, equally almost notional trail riding the narrow isthmus between my ripping abs behind my long, navel-high cocks, which were still crazy-hard somehow thanks to carnal radiation still flooding the place, just like the much heftier rods Grant had pressed against his tanned, fuzzy abs. Once he was done I made a move to reciprocate, hoping to progress from a cloth-based form of clean-up to something a bit more oral, but he just lifted my chin and kissed me. Then he nodded toward the shop floor with a grin, tossing me a teasing “Get to work, soccer boy!” before heading over to the mischievous, smooch-obsessive foursome.

Rex followed me out to the shop floor with a tablet, saying he figured he might as well check some of the inventory on the shelves while dealt with the mess. We talked while we worked. I learned that the two regulars were Eric (the muscle god with the blond waterfall) and Henry (the lanky one with the smirk), and that the other two giants were called Lex and… Pex. That made me burst out in surprised laughter. “Really?” I said, pausing in mid-swab to glance up at him with an incredulous grin.

There was a bit of chagrin in his smile. “Strange things happen when you’re stoned.”

“I bet.” We both turned to look at him. Oddly, Rex seemed… uncertain about Pex, somehow, like he didn’t quite know what to make of him. Lex, too, but in a different way. I was an only child, so I had no frame of reference, but something about Rex seemed separate from the nearly-merged unity of Lex and Pex across the store from us. I should have found it strange, I guess, given that they were clearly identical triplets and must have known each other forever, but I was more curious about the subtle dissonance between the three of them than flummoxed by it.

The eerie thing was that they looked more exactly alike than actual twins or trips did. My best friends in middle school were twins and you could barely tell they were brothers, and my cousins Doris and Dora dressed alike and talked exactly the same way but still looked obviously different from each other; but these three, they were like literal copy-pastes of each other, down to the firm, deliciously lickable jawlines, or the hard spherical glutes stretching out the tight, endless body-hugging denim of their custom jeans, or the languid set of their wide, bulging shoulders, the exact shape of their bulky, ridiculously disproportionate pecs looming over their cobbled expanses of chiseled abs, like long honey-brown Bifrösts connecting the universes of pecs and groin. Heck, Rex and Pex were even wearing same edge-worn ball cap, with the green bill bent in the same aggressive U and, somehow, the exact same asphalt scuff, faint but clearly visible, marring the front panel fabric all the way on the left side near the stitching. They moved with fluid grace, like their size and proportions were the true human ideal, making me crave a night out clubbing with them, or just a few ridiculous TikTok videos of the three of them doing complicated dance steps to unlikely teenbop beats.

Then, too, there was the fact that beyond their uncanny physical resemblance to each other the three of them manifestly formed a kind of unique enclave when it came to the human race, even within the subtly exceptional range of Hashery-connected hotties, so you’d think that would have connected them more intimately to each other over their shared lifetimes than the closest of ordinary bros. Clearly it was more involved than all that, and I was finding myself more and more intrigued as we worked away in the munchies aisle, a little away from the group we’d just shared a spectacular orgasm with.

So, yeah. I wanted to know more about the undercurrents of their fraternal dynamic, but asking about it wasn’t me. I was too used to being disconnected and alone myself to really know how to talk to people about, well, anything important. Especially if I was horny for their leg-sized wangs. As Rex had already discovered back at the Burger Jack, my brain tends to flood with nothing but warm goo whenever someone like him turns up.

Once I had successfully taken care of the mess of cock effluvia nearest the main door—the stuff Rex himself had helplessly left behind when the sex-bomb hit us all—I continued mopping up the aisle toward the front of the store where the other cum-explosion had been. Mess Epicenter 2 was clear and in the open now, fortunately, the make-out foursome having moved down the sales desk with Grant now at the center of their little already-wiped-down muscle mob, trading deep, delirious kisses with the two regulars while Lex and Pex nuzzled his neck and ears from behind. At least I wouldn’t need to mop awkwardly around boots and sneakers standing in the mess, like a grumpy museum custodian forced to floor-polish around the sandaled feet of calloused gods and imperious heroes.

I was making sure to swab properly and efficiently, squeezing out and reloading the mop at intervals, humming tunelessly as I went. It didn’t occur to me to just do the two messes, though I was sure that was what they assumed I’d do. It didn’t make sense to mop just the spunk-smeared parts of the shop floor when I had the mop out anyway. I expected Rex to object and tell me I didn’t have to go to all the trouble, but I think he could tell I liked helping out. He kept pace with me, silently checking the shelves to confirm the available stock of multigrain chips and brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts matched whatever his tablet was telling him they should be. His perfect muscle butt swayed ever so slightly to the peppy instrumental jazz soundtrack swirling around our ankles like a soft morning mist as we moved, distracting me more in its own way than the full thrust of his extreme mesmeric beauty.

“I was surprised to see you here, Bill,” Rex said unexpectedly after a few moments of comparative silence, the only sounds other than the music being the cock-thrumming make-out noises of the foursome and their body-trapped prey. I paused my mopping and glanced up at Rex, but he wasn’t looking at me, his attention fixed on his tablet.

“Hmm,” I said, leaning on my mop and considering. “Bad surprised, or good surprised?”

He looked up from his tablet and grinned magnificently at me, setting my pulse thudding and making my upstanding hardons weep in appreciation. “Good surprised,” he confirmed, to my relief. I licked my lips, and his smile softened. It occurred to me belatedly that he’d been lingering near me as I mopped because he’d wanted to say this very thing.

He turned toward me so that he was fully facing me. The smooth, curved expanse of his heavy, cement-hard pecs vied to fill my vision, but his heavenly face and vivid chestnut-brown eyes were even more rewarding, firing my blood like his superpower was a heat that stole through the body vein by vein and artery by artery. “It’s hard to explain,” he said, his voice low and close, “but meeting you that day on the road, the two of us in an empty burger joint… somehow, it was exactly what I needed.”

I let out a breath, slightly shocked at how close he’d come to voicing my own thoughts. “Back atcha,” I said after a long moment, letting those very basic words encompass a lot of heady choices and feelings I wasn’t sure I could properly articulate. After a beat I added, “It’s, uh, kind of why I’m here.”

He stepped toward me then, our bodies moving closer like reality was contracting for our benefit. I was aware of every inch of him, his warm, looming presence tingling through my fingers, my lips, my unslakable balls. “Because… you were stalking me?” he teased, sliding a finger along my faintly stubbled jaw as the distance between us all but evaporated. I shivered, relishing the way the pleasure of his touch skittered through me.

He was joking, of course, and I could have responded in kind. Instead I met his gaze and said with utter honesty, “Because I knew, somehow, that I belonged… here.”

His smile this time was oddly tender, and I basked in it for a few very loud heartbeats before he bent and kissed me as though, in that moment, nothing was true but that we belonged to each other.

I was in a dark mood as I wrestled with the irrigation pump system behind the main greenhouse. I may have even been muttering to myself. I don’t like situations that aren’t under someone’s control, preferably mine, and it was getting my goat that whatever was happening at the Hashery was spiraling toward the earth like a jet with no engines and I couldn’t figure out any way to get things anywhere close to normal.

And I was the only one who could, because I was pretty sure I was the only person on site who knew the truth.

I saw Rex growing in the car. That was insane all by itself. And then we burst into the shop and it was like being at ground zero, only what happened was an explosion of muscle and cock and the primacy of sex above everything. And I knew. They didn’t bat an eye, but I knew. I knew Rex and Lex and Pex hadn’t always been eight-foot tall muscle gods with a double-helping of tree-trunk cock. Hell, I knew that there hadn’t been a Pex before reality started to spin like a centrifuge. I saw torsos stretch up like time-lapsed redwoods, I saw pecs swell and junk balloon from knee-kissers to floor-draggers. Hell, I saw that kid’s shirt vanish off his body like the tight fabric had melted into the sex-drenched air just before we all came like guests at Caligula’s Saturnalia, exposing a hard torso and even harder erections shoving up out of trousers, as friendly and routine as a fistbump.

And I knew, I knew that I had never, ever been the guy with four beast-strong arms and the permanent hardons too wide to even suck properly. I knew, and yet they all looked at me like that was who I was, and it felt so normal I didn’t even register the full extend of the jarring canyon between what made sense and this place, this altered reality where were all were now. I had four fucking arms—arms the feel as right as, well, as being shirtless and angry-aroused all the damn time.

So I verbally shitposted the lot of them, instantly grokking that their acceptance of the changes had dissolved into pure unawareness, and stormed out. Around the corner I fell back against the wall of the house, sorting frantically through what I knew. I reviewed what I’d seen over the last two years, then the last two days, then the last two hours. Slow progression, then escalation, then, suddenly, radical transformation.

Slow progression felt like Thad. I knew Thad. But Thad had left the building. For all I knew he was at his brother’s for good, and this shitshow was mine to deal with all on my own.

The escalation? That felt like Rex. And Lex, too, I guessed. Honestly what it reminded me of is Aleksei. Aleksei would have gone there. But Aleksei was MIA, too, though something about that was niggling at the back of my brain, the idea waiting to emerge until it was ripe enough and ready.

This sudden insanity—that didn’t feel like Thad, or Aleksei. Or Rex or Pex or Googleplex or whoever. Someone… someone had seen this door being pulled ajar and had not only yanked it open, they’d ripped it off its fucking hinges, letting the angry torrent that was trapped beyond flood through all at once like a thousand chaotic cum-demons to wash us all into the Ludicrous Dimension.

And where from here? Stability? Show change, like I was used to around here? Or was there more radicalness ahead, waiting to pounce? It was funny to me that slow change was what made sense… like human history was all about getting incrementally more hung and nicely ripped over the course of a few years, and the shock now was only when it came all at once, like a singular mind had recklessly unleashed eldritch powers previously known only to sift and seep with a bit of chemical help from my missing boss’s carefully-bred mind-unlocking cannabis.

I had to at least see where I was at. A plan would be next, but first, facts.

I pulled out my wallet. Driver’s license: angry, shirtless, two fucking sets of hairy, hard pecs. Fuck. I checked the pics on my phone. Every damn pic. Me with Thad, Thad looking hot but like I remembered, me shirtless and extraed, like that was thing. I swiped down, digging through more pics. Me with my parents and siblings at my little brother’s wedding—for fuck’s sake, my four-armedness was fucking genetic. Everyone in my family and all my dad’s relations looked like some kind of hairy hard-muscled Arab deity sculpted by a guy with too much marble and big love of arms.

Fuck.

My brain works better when I’m using my hands, I told myself. As I stalked off toward the greenhouses, I snorted. If working with my hands helps me think, I should be a fucking genius.

An hour later I’d fury-fixed five things I’d had on my list for a month, but hadn’t gotten any further with figuring things out, when I heard someone approaching. I looked up to see Rex striding toward me over the lawn, his arm draped around the guy with the nice legs whose shirt had done the disappearing act right on front of my face. “Hey, Amirs,” Rex called, all genial, like prodigiously-junked giants like him and extra-armed beasts like me were as mundane as sunshine and roses.

I straightened up with my other body, too, and glared at him, arms crossed, with both. “Just ‘Amir’,” I corrected him with a growl, and even without remembering this reality I was sure it wouldn’t have been for the first time.

That had been my other shock. I’d felt it like a last wave of the reality bomb that had come with our massive multiplayer orgasm explosion, like a final kick in the nuts to the truth of things before the potency of the release ebbed and normality was recast in utter permanence again, and in that moment, slipping backwards into the past, I’d left half of me behind when I went to the store with Rex (because pickup truck cabs are not meant for three manly men).

It threw me for how out of left field it was. Rex and his two identical “brothers” all had very different personalities—I could sense that, somehow, even beyond what I’d actually seen since everything had a shade weirder the night of the big storm. Me, I just had two bodies. Two bodies with the abnormal complement of pecs and arms and ox-like strength, that is… and of course the never-softening dual throatchokers I now had to deal with twenty-four seven. If nothing else, I could be grateful I didn’t remember high school in this reality and the puerile locker room jokes that must have been an everyday thing. At least handling the two meat suits and dealing with multiplied sensory input was second-nature somehow, as if I’d been born knowing how to do it and honed these skills over the last 37 years. The last thing I would have needed today was trying to hunt down YouTube tutorials on how to deal with suddenly having an extra me walking around.

Rex came up and stood in front of me, beaming. The kid, for his part, looked small and pale next to Rex, though he was nicely built in his own right and very, very cute. His expression was uncertain, his gaze darting nervously between my two matching scowls. I crossed my arms in that dramatic way I had, and he quailed a little, pressing against Rex.

Rex ignored this performance of mine, as though he had known me for ages and knew I was a pussycat. “So, I got a new hire for you,” he said, nodding down at the smaller man. “Amir Hassan, meet Bill Stubbins.”

Bill Stubbins twisted his mouth in a weak smile and offered a tentative hand. I took it with a random hand of my own, keeping the rest of my arms crossed. Bill gulped, and I had to take pity on him, a bit. “Sorry,” I told him, aware I was still scowling. With a sharp glance up at Rex’s face I added, “It’s been a difficult day.” How I said that without gritting my teeth I was not sure.

Rex had the grace to look slightly guilty—he knew he had a role in fucking my life up, though he clearly had no idea by how much. “Do you want me to set him up on the payroll system, or—?” he offered, but I cut him off.

“We’ve had enough explosions today,” I said flatly. I turned by gaze on Bill. “I hope you know what you’re signing up for,” I warned him.

He must have caught the wry note in my voice, because he grinned and said, “Can’t wait to get started.”

“I want to try something.”

I looked up lazily from where I was sprawled in the soft, spongy grass, Eric’s head resting on my chest as I stroked his long, fast-growing flaxen hair. We were up in the idyllic little woodland behind and upland from the Hashery not far from the isolated snuggly cottage where the Amirs lived, lazing bonelessly (more or less) on the slopes that ringed a tiny, forgotten mountain lake that was just starting to reflect the stars pricking through the darkening sky, the western horizon still brimming red beyond the trees. Pex and Lex were with us, nestled in close on either side of us like eight-foot muscle-hunk bookends, their adorable German shepherd doggo-ears flicking occasionally with the passing breeze. The four of us were together like this a lot. The two identical giants hadn’t moved in with me and Eric yet, but I was pretty sure it was only a matter of time. It made us ache inside for the four of us not to be together and physically close, and who needed that? It was a lot simpler just to be together.

It wasn’t quite what I’d intended when I’d slid us down this bizarre, impromptu left-turn reality tube two weeks back, on the single most awesome day the universe had ever experienced… so far. I didn’t mind, though. I didn’t mind at all. I had to think more about how all this had worked, though. The superweed high we’d all had that day had us transcending the mundane world and feeling… something more sublime, like there was this infinite reservoir of inhuman power that changed us in small ways just from us brushing up against it. That was what Eric and I had been feeling for years, I realized. When we were high on Hashery weed we caught a taste of that tingly beyond-power, microscopic tendrils of it seeping into us an ever so slightly improving us with every fucking toke. Only that day, the day the four of us connected, it was… more, deeper. Like, the difference between strolling down the beach and smelling the sea air, letting the faintly damp, salty taste of it into your lungs, and being shoved into the ocean and finding out you have gills and can’t fucking get enough, like you’re Poseidon’s bastard and it filled and saturated every part of you.

The weird thing was, that hadn’t come from us getting high together. I’d thought at first that was it, the power of four, like we were the Charmed sisters only recast as four ridiculously horny guys with lots of muscle and unstoppable cocks. But I remembered the feel of that life-changing high like it had imprinted itself on my marrow. I had felt our four centers of being in the warm effervescence of the beyond-power we’d passed into, and one of them had been, I dunno, on the same wavelength, the exact resonance of the beyond. I wasn’t sure of identities at the time—we were all merging together—but afterwards I knew it was Lex. He was the one that unlocked it. He had slit open the membrane and flooded us with the beyond… and he didn’t seem to be aware of it, or know that I had taken hold of that power and, in my intoxicated state, broken down all my barriers and shoved us down a reality-tube that should not have even existed.

Even now Lex was blatantly oblivious to the fact that we’d all radically and retroactively changed that day, having always been what I had just shaped us into becoming. All of the crew were. I was the only one, apparently. So… what did all this mean? If I was right, then Lex was the Poseidon-bastard, not me, if there was a Poseidon of the beyond-ocean of mutable realities we’d all found when we were superweed stoned. He was the link, but he somehow didn’t know it. Which meant what for me and my anomalous awareness? Was it just that I had the perception and the will to steer the change, more than anyone else? Like, Lex had the keys to the universe-shifting Caddy, but I was the only one of us who could still drive when we were all so stoned out of our minds.

Another thought had occurred to me. If Lex was the Poseidon-bastard, what about his triplet brothers? Lex, Pex, and Rex were physically identical—that much was obvious—but I was pretty confident only Lex was truly attuned to the beyond. He was the one person able to get us there when we were supercannabis blissed and give us real access. Anyway, when it came to the trips, everything I had sensed from them told me they were three very different people. Maybe Pex was more like Rex, in how his emotions felt at least, but… I dunno, Pex was… I couldn’t quite figure him out. Who the heck was Pex?

These were the kinds of thoughts drifting through my mind as we all lay there, basking in the night air by the happy little lake. We were smoking weed, of course, one of the Hashery’s more mundane blends (though still a lot more intense than anything you’d get on the street from your buddy’s brother-in-law’s ex-girlfriend’s cousin with the beat-up truck and the taco obsession), and our four intertwined souls were wafting in gentle arcs and curls over the smooth, still surface of the lake like the very picture of simple, low-key bliss. I thought I’d enjoyed marijuana before, but my previous excursions into the soft, friendly, ultimately ephemeral mental dissociation I experienced under its care, alone or with Eric next to me sharing joints and feeling close, were nothing on what it was like when your core being was entwined with three other souls and you felt a strong semblance of what they were feeling, even more so with a health pot-high widening the connection. It was like, instead of being in the middle of one tornado it was four tornados in one place, all of them thrashing us all at once with pure, subcellular comfort and just enough wild, chaotic gratification to stir the blood and make us want this forever. We were all half-clothed and hard as fuck, but there was no need to do anything about it just now. The longer we were high and horny together, hanging out and banking our slowly building pleasure, the better the ultimate eruptions would be.

My mind sort of caught up with the present, and connected with what had just been spoken. Right. Wanting to try something. Kind of vague, I thought. I should inquire further.

“What do you want to try?” I asked Pex—he was the one that had spoken.

Pex hesitated, like he was trying to figure out how exactly to frame his proposal. I watched him closely, my head resting on one of the folded-up towels we’d brought with us for this little jaunt in the gloaming and then tended to forget about. Pex didn’t talk much, and he acted almost like an outsider compared to his clone-identical brothers, like Rex and Lex belonged here but he didn’t. I caught occasional curls of unease from him sometimes, but our empathic connection, while amazing at sharing physical sensations and general emotions, didn’t let me into his thoughts and memories deep enough to see what was making him feel disconnected.

Well, we all had secrets we wanted to protect—even my happy-go-lucky, extra-extroverted BFF Eric, probably. My gut told me that whatever this proposed “thing” was, it was about Pex’s lingering sense of alienation, and what he wanted to do about it.

Pex’s doggo ears twitched, and he licked his lips. My weed-fuzzed attention drifted to his sexy mouth and machete-sharp jawline. Neither he nor his brothers ever seemed grow much more than stubble on their chiseled jaws, I’d noticed. And their massive pecs and upper torsos were completely hairless, until you hit the deliciously thin treasure trail leading down to their leg-sized cocks and ridiculous balls. Funny how chest hair was so variable in our group, Amir had enough chest hair to cover the whole upper township.

Pex was actually speaking, I realized, and I managed to home in on his words. “I was recently in the company of a small cluster of guys who were… linked like we are,” he said slowly, seeming to choose his words so as to leave out any kind of context. I could tell from our link that he was worried about saying too much, but I had no idea what kind of information he was leaving out. Who were these “guys”? Was this “cluster” bound to each other through premium-strain Hashery weed and, well, mischievous intent like we were? That seemed likely, and that’s sort of what it felt like empathically; but critical something about the identity and/or the circumstances was being held back.

Interestingly I sensed surprise from Lex on my other side—this guy-cluster was news to Pex’s brother. Nice.

I realized that the dangerous entropy of the situation was turning me on, perverse fucker that I was, and I was throbbing wetly against my abs. “Go on,” I nudged, holding back an incubus grin with rather less success than I might have if I’d been unimpaired from three hours of solid pot-smoking mixed with occasional shotgun-style make-outs.

Pex frowned slightly at me but continued. “When I came up here,” he said, “to the Hashery, it was with the goal of—I mean, I love having this crazy body,” he interrupted himself, “but it’s not what I actually look like.”

Eric snorted and drew a long toke. “Sure looks like that’s what you look like,” he said with perfect stoner logic, then giggled, letting the smoke out, so that it came out in little puffs rather than a long stream.

Pex gave us a half smile. He had rolled onto his side and propped his head up with his left hand, causing the massive bicep to bunch in a way that would probably keep his arm from bending much further toward his boulder-like shoulders. “It’s not what I used to look like,” he amended.

I watched Pex curiously, trying to get a handle on what he was saying. Was this about… that day? We’d all changed, but I was sure none of the others had realized it. Everyone acted like they’d always been the way they were. Even for me, the memories of the current reality were so strong, I had to consciously rummage in my brain for echoes of what it had been like before the change. The others didn’t even have that. Their lives had been completely retconned by my little twist in our lifelines—not only memories but old pictures, government records, and the normality of them being the way they now appeared to be.

It was kind of thrilling to think about. I felt a sudden, reckless rush. I wanted to feel it again, and even my own fear, the dread of fucking up the universe, was so hot I wanted to cum so hard I almost nutted right there and then.

But—no, Pex had said—what had he said? He said he had come here wanting to do this, to revert to his old body or whatever. So this wasn’t the universe-flip I’d made. This wasn’t about that day. Something else had forced a change onto my guy Pex here, before that. And it felt and sounded like he had finally worked up the nerve to get past how amazing it was to be a horny, unbearably handsome, eight-foot-tall twin-hyper-cocked muscle giant and try to ctrl-Z his original unwanted transformation. Pex’s changes on the day we met must have been retconned along with everyone else’s—the increase in his pec mass, the growing and doubling of his leg-sized dicks, that kind of thing—but apparently that only went back to the last big whole-body change that had been imposed onto him via supercannabis gestalt fuckery. Interesting.

Lex had also rolled onto his side, head propped up to mirror Pex, an amused, pot-intoxicated smile on his face. “So,” he said to Pex, “you want to be… ‘normal’ again? ‘Cause I sure don’t.”

I huffed a laugh, taking the joint from Eric and sucking in a long drag. None of us were exactly ‘normal’ at this point. I was built and beautiful like a runway model, if runway models came in a flavor that included being a stretched-up 6-foot-10 and possessed of two 17-inch torpedo-thick boners that never wanted to get soft and could barely be separated, so it was like having a single massive double-headed wang you could slide your tongue down the middle of if you wanted. My guy Eric was a rippling, thick-muscled, long-haired superstud, shorter than me but with door-wide shoulders and a brace of extra-wide 14-inch dicks even more tireless than mine were. They both bent a little like boomerangs and, let me tell you, that fat bend felt impossibly awesome shoved down your throat—or up your ass. Plus there were his two talented tongues, super-long and diabolically flexible, and… yeah, those things also felt amazing in your throat and/or ass.

The triplets—well, it went without saying. They were actually metahuman in size and in their uncanny, alluring attractiveness, not to mention the cocks, the disproportionate pecs, and the big, sexy-cute canine ears. They were stunning in ever way and across every delectable surface.

What would that be like? Being that big, that hung, that mesmerically arousing? I had to admit I was curious.

And that wasn’t even taking into account the others, like Amir with his extra arms and the wildness of his having his two bodies… though I was convinced it was still the stacked, fur-covered pecs people tended to notice before anything else. Even the new kid, Bill, had gotten retroactively boosted with a healthy dose of yummy, lickably firm muscle, long twin cocks, long twin tongues, and of course our collective habitual shirtlessness. Not that he or the others knew anything different on any of those counts.

Pex’s smile twisted into a slightly secretive smirk. “I… wasn’t completely normal before, either,” he admitted. I’ll bet, I thought.

Then to the group he added, “What do you say? I want to do this, but we all have to, you know, join in together.” He looked between us expectantly, feeling out our gut responses.

“I’m in,” Eric slurred comfortably, sound veeeery stoned. “I want to see you morph.” He laughed, and then all at once he was cumming spontaneously just from how hot the idea of Pex morphing was. The hot torrent of his sweet, sweet orgasm flooded instantly through all of us, an unstoppable force of pure euphoric power, and then we were all cumming helplessly, reveling in our multiplied pleasure. I bent and started kissing Eric, just because cumming was always better when we could all feel Eric’s double tongues dancing with someone else’s. We kept blowing our loads for a while, and it felt like the physical substance of the world was sort of melting into a steady-state universe of uncomplicated ecstasy, taking us with it, into the inhuman beyond.

We drifted through this sea for a long time before slowly returning to our spunk-covered forms sprawled out by the lake, wallowing in our own pleasure under the infinite stars, the beyond still lapping at our toes. Eric had his head on my chest again—he was barely conscious, though I could feel through our bond that he was as aroused and excited as ever. Lex and Pex both looked languid to the point of liquid, and I was feeling that, too, in stereo from both of them. Good thing Pex had only wanted to change his physical form—none of us wanted to give up this amazing multiplication of physical pleasure and emotional euphoria.

“I’m in, too,” I mumbled belatedly, lying back and closing my eyes so I could focus on the connections linking our intertwined souls. “What do we need to do?”

“Don’t we need the pot?” asked Lex. He giggled. “I mean, the special pot?”

I felt Pex grin triumphantly, even though my eyes were closed. “You’re smoking it,” he said, like he was in an old commercial for dishwashing liquid or something. He was speaking very disconnectedly—the superweed high was getting to him. “I brought it. The strain we needed. The last joint I rolled.”

My pulse picked up. I tried to hide my excitement, though I’m not sure how well I succeeded. This was it. Hadn’t I just been thinking I wanted to feel it again? The thrill of driving someone’s change? And all the things I had been wondering about…

Without saying another word I focused all my stoned attention on our twisted connection, feeling for the threads of change like I had that day two weeks ago.

My consciousness filled with a loose, yet strangely detailed awareness of our physical shapes. I could see/feel all of us—me, Eric, Lex, Pex. Show me, I thought at Pex. He’d asked for corporeal change—what did he want? Show me, I thought, nudging the connection. Show us, Lex and Eric thought, echoing me, our invitation swirling like ribbons around us. Only mine was a ruse, but I was holding that back. I knew what I wanted, and the others were so high, so transported from cum and metacannabis, it felt like this would be even easier than last time.

A faint image came from Pex. It was unsubstantial because he couldn’t seem to decide how tall and beefy he was, like it was fluctuating between various stages of past growth. I peered at the image, frowning mentally. It looked… it looked a lot like like… Thad? But the image shifted, shying away momentarily, and then when it came back it wasn’t Thad, but sort of like him, maybe lankier, still fluctuating a little in height and tight, defined muscle and an enticingly crafty expression. Thad’s hotter brother?

Not that it mattered. The others grasped for the shifting image, caressing it with their thoughts. Then I took control of the flow of change, and the others, blissed out and utterly at peace as they were, let me. It felt like we were half-detached from our bodies in this state anyway, so it was absurdly easy to do what I had planned. When I felt the shift complete I was so proud of myself, so turned on, that I came, and of course we all came then, so hard that we blacked out, still blasting.

When I came to, a very familiar face was glaring at me.

The oceans of the beyond had receded, and the night with it. We were back languishing by the lake, more or less sober and (as we often were) covered in cum. The morning sun was already up over the trees, making the scene look very different from the twilight of the night before: now it was all vivid, full color realism instead of the sultry blues and silvers of the lakeside eve.

Eric and Lex were still asleep, their hard double-cocks pulsing with dreams I could half feel through our entwined bond. It was just us.

“Problem, handsome?” I asked the man occupying my long, lanky, russet-haired body. I felt my doggo ears twitch, and grinned. Awesome.

Dark blue eyes stared daggers at me. “This is not what I meant,” he said. He sounded both vexed and perplexed, like a dad whose toddler had brought him a car engine when he’d asked for the remote.

I clambered to my feet, almost staggering as I adjusted to the much greater mass and higher center of gravity I now possessed. Fuck, these leg-sized cocks were even heavier than they looked, especially stiff. They didn’t lift very high when they were fully hard, so they sort of projected outward, and I had to think about how I’d need to walk as I contemplated padding down to the lake to check the water temperature. I hadn’t changed anything about Pex’s body (now my body)—no wait, I had. I had totally retconned the change, too. No pants. Thanks to our combined, supercannabis-unlocked mindlinked power as directed by my dastardly and superior force of will, none of the triplets wore pants, or had ever worn pants. Well, really, what was the point of wearing jeans, even specially-engineered “four-legged” ones, if your hard-ons were the size of an actual smallish person?

It did mean that people tended to grab them and stroke them super-casually wherever the three giants went, as I now (retroactively) knew; but given their—our!—hypnotic attractiveness it was had to blame anyone for that.

“Henry—!” Pex-in-my-body growled, though I noticed it was now mostly a playful growl, like he was already getting used to the change.

“Call me ‘Pex,’” I said airily, still eyeing the lake and wondering if I wanted to risk it, or just find a hose to pressure-wash the cum off. Then something occurred to me and I turned around to face him with a wicked grin, almost slapping him and the still snoozing Eric with my wet, four-foot boners ion the process. “By the way, it’s ‘your’ birthday tomorrow,” I said, my tone teasing. He narrowed his eyes, picking up on my mischievous mood through our bond. “‘Your’ dads have a big day planned, I hear. Should be interesting!” I singsonged.

Giving up on the lake as almost certainly being too cold, I turned on my heel and headed up the hill instead, toward the little trail that led back to the Hashery. As I walked I felt Pex’s half-serious ire melt into amused exasperation. “You fucker,” he said to my back, chuckling, before shifting his attentions to the others. “C’mon, sluggards, rise and shine. We gotta get cleaned up and—” Then I felt the sensation through our bond of a drowsy, still half-blissed Eric pulling him in, and then him and Pex-in-my-body making out, deep and slow the way Eric loved to do with his best friend. The flood of empathic sensation and stimulation washed deliriously through my own mouth and body, jazzing me up and making my cocks, somehow, even harder.

Man, these things felt good hard. Heavy as a pair of dump trucks, but so good. I was going to enjoy this. The party would be fun, too. Bill would be there. I liked Bill. We all kind of missed him when he wasn’t around, so it was good there was going to be a big get-together where everyone would hang out and have a blast, “Pex” included.

Thinking of my body-swap victim as Pex-in-my-body was a little awkward, though. Huh, I mused. If he’s Pex in my body, does that make him… Hex?

Okay, maybe I’m still a little stoned.

I laughed, glad of the bright new day and the feelings of pleasure coursing through me, even as the gears in my mind turned and I half-consciously wondered what kinds of fun I could have pretending to be Pex… and what I could change next.

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