Description The star of a teen werewolf show has a nagging sense that something weird is happening to the show’s extremely muscular, hung, and horny cast and crew, but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is.
|Updated||31 Dec 2015|
Patience. Ike knew he sucked at it. He knew that to keep his plan to slowly transform everyone involved with the show from spinning out of control, he had to keep to the plan. Incremental changes, carefully paced, to keep anyone from cottoning on even through the mindwarp he’d built into the spells. That was the key, he’d told himself a million times, as he methodically laid his plans to make the people he worked with hotter than anyone else in the world. But he hadn’t counted on the changes gradually starting to snowball as they fed and ramped up everyone’s arousal and started siphoning out everyone’s deepest fantasies… including his own….
As one of the stars of a sexy supernatural teen drama called Werewolf High, Devon was used to all the attention lavished on his gorgeous face, his perfectly tousled honey-and-brown hair, his usually-only-half-clothed gym-perfected body. His looks were his calling card, his meal ticket, and he knew every inch of his 6’2” paragon of a body—every blemish to be covered with make-up, every imbalance in his muscles to be rectified at the gym, the one premature gray hair in his left temple that had appeared as if according to some long-prearranged schedule the morning after his 23rd birthday.
And all this hyper-self-awareness was telling him—something—was up with himself. His bod. Something strange. He just—couldn’t put his finger on what. It was unsettling, like someone telling him his award-winning hard, round bubble butt (really—MTV or somebody had given him the “Best Butt” award two years running) somehow didn’t look hot in the jeans he was wearing, and there was no mirror in which to check out the condition of his ass.
He blinked, feeling muzzy, as if surfacing from out of a deep daydream. It was the second or third time today, he realized as he tried to focus, and that irked him, too. He’d been zoning out a lot lately, even during takes—as he’d just now been doing, apparently, judging by the way everyone from the director to the grips was watching him with varying degrees of attentive, long-accustomed patience. Yes, it was a take, and he’d shifted out of it, clearly. He was on set, standing in the main classroom set’s doorway. The crew was watching him with the usual patient indifference, and as his mind fluttered about Devon thought, not for the first time, that though the cameramen, grips, lighting and sound guys, runners, and so on were the usual assorted mix of young cuties and grizzled veterans, buff hopefuls and unflappable old pros, on average they were the best-looking crew he’d ever worked with.
Someone was lounging against the doorjamb right next to him, muscular arm thrown around Devon’s bare shoulders. But he’d lost track of what scene it was, or really exactly what was going on. The only sound was the fait whirring of the weirdly effective air conditioning, which today had so thoroughly overcome the heat of the lights that it was practically arctic on set. Devon was vaguely aware that his shirtless torso was sporting nipples that were as hard and firm as old pencil erasers.
As he looked around the set, still trying to shake off his sense of disorientation, he heard the director, who’d evidently made a tactical decision to give up on this particular take, calmly call “cut”. Devon shook his head and turned the other way to see, very close to his, the face of his equally supercute, equally teen-looking (and equally shirtless) dark-haired and slightly darker-skinned co-star, Zeke. Zeke was younger than Devon, having been only 19 when he joined the show just over a year back, but they both looked like they were the same age.
Zeke’s character these days was always being scripted as having his arm around Devon’s character, or sitting very close to him on couches (with his arm around him), or hugging him reassuringly (preferably shirtless), or lying in bed with him as they both discussed the plot (in their boxer-briefs)… When had all that started happening, anyway? He and Zeke were just friends, but their characters were acting like they wanted to be more. And had there been this much boy skin last year, in season 1? And, he wondered, thinking of how amazingly buff Zeke was looking, had there been this much to see?
Devon had made the mistake of looking up some of the Werewolf High fan fiction, most of which involved the characters he and Zeke played being more than just best friends. It was a mistake because the romantic encounters between them—an unexpected road trip alone to chase after a runaway new werewolf boy turning into sweet moments of intimacy, a detention charged with erotic tension as Devon’s character struggled to keep himself from transforming from the sheer stimulation of wanting his friend, a dare to kiss that turned into a public make-out of pure abandon—they all stuck in his mind, replaying whenever he and Zeke had scenes right together like this, full of playful physical contact; and that was all the time now, and in fact scenes a lot like the ones in the fictions were starting to show up in the actual scripts, as if a fan writer had started taking over the show.
And the erotic scenes were even more memorable, Devon thought. The fan writers often imagined they had tools much bigger than they did, and that making love for them was a body-wrenching, soul-melting experience far beyond ordinary sex. There was one story, where they were especially fond of each others’ nipples, that had made him come three or four times, once just from drifting through it in his memory while he sat in one of the stalls of the men’s room off set, huge and hard and needing to blow a big, quick load in his hands. That story, with the licking and the sucking all up and down each others’ perfect bods, had been damn effective at accomplishing that task.
Devon looked at Zeke. Zeke’s bright, dancing eyes met his; and Devon’s hard cock—wait, why was he hard, all the way achingly hard, like he’d been getting turned on by something for a while?—pulsed and pushed out some wet precum onto his bare abs.
He glanced down, startled at the feel of the hot precum on his cool skin. He stared at the plainly visible head of his thick cock thrusting impudently out of his jeans—just the head was visible, but still! He quickly looked up at the director, a moderately hot (both physically and reputationally) young up-and-comer named Hoc Jones, in alarm. “Shit, Jonesy, was my dick in shot?” he said. He reached down to try to adjust it so it was out of sight, but even in his firm, strong grasp he rediscovered that when it was this hard it simply wouldn’t move. All the trying to shift it around accomplished nothing but getting himself a palmful of goo.
“When isn’t it?” sighed Zeke quietly, almost in his ear. He was sounding, Devon realized, more envious than exasperated. His warm, comforting, well-muscled arm was still around Devon’s broad, sculpted shoulders, which meant that Zeke was very close. In fact looking down Devon could see, from his vantage point, Zeke’s own hardon. It was not tall enough to stand up out of his jeans like Devon’s did, but the thing was clearly hugely wide—as much as half again as wide and thick as Devon’s own plenty-wide tool. Devon goggled at it, startled at not previously having realized his constantly flirty, always-aroused co-star was this big.
Was Zeke really that big? Obviously he was, but was that reality? How had he not realized that Zeke was that big? He prided himself on being able to tell the size of everyone’s cock, and had made a thing about in here at Werewolf High, where everyone seemed bigger than average for some reason. Had he pegged Zeke as being hung this big, and this fat? His brow furrowed as he tried to remember, only as he met Zeke’s eyes again he was immediately trying to figure out why he was trying to remember, and why he thought there was something strange.
Zeke playfully wiggled an eyebrow at him, and as they stared at each other Devon completely missed most of the kinda sexy, long-haired director’s patient explanation, delivered in a kind of sing-song as if for the tenth time, about how they always positioned things in front of his exposed cock in postproduction.
“…And that’s why ratings are up, dude,” Jonesy was finishing up. “Everyone knows it’s there. They feel its presence.”
“I sure do,” Zeke said in a saucy undertone. He began moving around to press his crotch against Devon’s. “Actually, this is my favorite way to hide it,” he added, his stubbly cheek brushing Devon’s, on the other side of his face from the cameras, and Devon found himself having to suppress a moan.
All at once Devon was done feeling adrift. He decided to meet Zeke on his own ground. He shifted his hip around a bit and forward just enough that their rock-hard cocks were mashing against each other through their jeans. “Likewise,” Devon said softly, letting the corner of his lip turn up a bit. Devon’s waistband was damp around his leaky cock, which he was sure, from the look in Zeke’s eyes as he glanced down and then back up, eyes riveted in Devon’s, Zeke found very arousing. Zeke began gently shifting his groin around against him. Devon realized he could very easily get in too deep too quickly with this kind of game.
Fighting a perverse temptation to further escalate their sexcapade, Devon clenched his big hands into fists, actively stopping them from roaming Zeke’s hard ass, and, tearing his eyes away from Zeke’s, let them wander about the set a little bit. There were a few “students” in the classroom too, and his eyes fell on the twins, Mike and Mark Yeardley. The motion of their feet drew his attention briefly: their matching black size-13 thick-soled Doc Martens were swinging slowly under the desks, both of them keeping the same rhythm, and it was kind of charming. Back in season one Mike had been cast as the quiet, skinny, but excitable nerd, and had looked the part; but over the course of seasons one and two he’d developed the proportions of a Greek god (who went to the gym a lot more than the other Greek gods), until by the time they’d gotten to where they were now, the third (or fourth?) episode of season 2, he was as thickly muscled as any 19-year-old Devon had ever met and yet gorgeously proportioned.
Somewhere along the way Mike had brought in his twin, who could also act and who evidently went to the same mythological gym. They were both sitting in the front row of desks, wearing color-coded tank tops hugging their divine torsos (rust-red for Mike, cobalt-blue for Mark), and watching the antics of the two leads with mild amusement and intense interest, hands in their laps, their bulging shoulders and upper arms pressed hard together. Devon’s ultrahard cock throbbed as he absorbed the sight.
Devon remembered how at one of the conventions they’d done earlier that summer he’d been walking though one of the artists’ alley with the twins, marveling at how their 6’3” height was so much more obvious out here in the press of ordinary people (everyone on set, Devon and Zeke included, was 6 foot or better), all three of them wearing matching black tee shirts with no lettering, just the Werewolf High logo in silver across their broad chests, and this fan had come up and pretty much demanded that they kiss for him. The twins smirked and said no, but the guy offered $200, so the twins agreed only if it could be a three-way kiss with Devon. So the three of them stood there, right in the middle of artists’ alley, and wrapped their arms around each others’ broad backs and kissed for a full minute. The YouTube video had gotten, like, a million hits, partly because of the cute ending where the twins took the $200 and jokingly promised to donate it to a group dedicated to fighting twincest, and partly because, as Devon was acutely aware every time he watched it, his own fat club of a cock was pretty obviously visible in several shots toward the end of the kiss. Even though it wasn’t actually from the show the video had somehow been put up for the “best kiss” category at the HotTV video awards, and very nearly won.
Right behind them was Lewis. He wasn’t big and gorgeously built like the hunk twins—he was just gorgeous. Not that he wasn’t awesomely built: his build was more like a gymnast, or one of those tight high school wrestlers who keep ending up getting boned at the district tournaments. But what really drew your eye, Devon thought, was the angelic face. The lips, in particular. Those lips, rare-steak red against a pale, smooth face, full and sweet, just slightly parted to expose a hint of white teeth, were mesmerizing beyond the beauty that Lewis had been soaked in to the level of permanent saturation. You saw those lips, and you pictured them around your cock.
Lewis was watching him, his guileless boy-god face intense and absorbed, as if Devon were the impossibly beautiful one. As Devon stared at the luscious mouth it seemed to fill his vision, and he thought it felt as if Lewis’s hot, sweet mouth actually were around his big, partially exposed cock. He saw the tip of Lewis’s red tongue emerge from that mouth as if in slow motion, and as it licked the lips Devon could swear he felt that warm, strong tongue coil around his hard, doubly aroused cock, and then—fuck, no, not now!—he was cumming——!!
“Okay, from the top,” Hoc said suddenly, and Devon’s eyes snapped up to see the searingly handsome director calmly running a hand through his rich mane of black hair, and Devon realized they were going to do a take with Zeke grinding up against him. Wait, he had cum, right? Shit, how could Hoc think they were going to do a take with hot, wet cum all over his abs and chest—not to mention Zeke’s abs and chest too, he didn’t doubt, given how close they were standing.
Heart pounding, Devon let his eyes drift over the set, but nothing seemed out of place. The crew, all looking like smoking hot models themselves, watched patiently from the comparatively shadowed world behind the cameras and light stands, their loyalty to the show obvious thanks to the uniform of black jeans and tight brick-red tees plastered to gym-groomed bods. The adorably cute Yeardley triplets, their amazing muscles both huge and at the same time perfectly proportioned, still sat looking on with their creamy bare arms and shoulders pressed together, giving no sign that anything was amiss, and behind them Lewis stared with his usual rapt attention, his abnormally long and stretchy tongue peeking just the slightest bit out of his deeply sensual lips.
Devon cut his eyes away quickly—it wasn’t safe for him to look at Lewis’s lips for too long, he knew, having found out the consequences too many times to count. As he raked his eyes down and away from Lewis and his orgasm-forcing mouth he looked past the trips’ big, bare feet, all six of the big dogs still swaying to the trips’ shared internal tempo, and remembered fondly how quickly they’d all abandoned footwear once it had become clear the trips’ feet were going to be permanently naked. Automatically he wriggled his own toes and flexed the fronts of his slightly oversized but perfectly shaped (and HotTV Award-winning) totally nude feet against the hardwood floor of the schoolroom set, even as he lifted his eyes to find their place of greatest comfort—Zeke’s beautiful, sweet, exuberant face.
He met Zeke’s gaze, still looking for ridicule or repulsion that he’d jizzed all over himself in the middle of the everyone, but he saw nothing but the same frank and fervent lust that had been there since Zeke had joined the show a year ago as a too-pretty teen fitness model turned actor. Zeke had been barely 18—three whole years younger than the supposedly more experienced Devon, he thought wryly—and seemingly boiling over with a 14-year-old’s hormones. Devon blinked at him now, feeling his breaths come in soft, shallow pants, their eyes meeting at the same level (both of them had been hired for their 6’6” stallion-like physiques).
None of this made sense. Had Zeke actually not noticed Devon cumming? Devon wondered, on the edge of freaking out. But that seemed impossible. Zeke watched Devon all the time, though, and noticed everything Devon did, so that didn’t make sense. He glanced down between their hard, obsessively built bodies, but while the head of his blunt cock and exposed four or so inches of his fat shaft were slick, it was obviously just precum.
He checked Zeke’s crotch while he was at it, but both of Zeke’s double-fat boners, each of them somehow, uncannily, twice as wide as Devon’s freaky dick, were similarly damp-tipped but unexploded, the wetness of the heads clearly the result of the copious, near-constant flow of thick, clear precum that Zeke was pushing out of both his mutant boners. (Incongruously Devon remembered Zeke showing him a tweet he’s gotten from some fan, asking in all innocence why the waistbands of Zeke’s jeans always seemed to be damp. Zeke had replied that it was usually pretty hot on set.) As he watched with avid interest as the cocks slowly churned out what Devon was suddenly sure was pre more delicious than he’d ever tasted he felt Zeke’s thousand-megawatt smile, and lifted his head to grin back at him. Devon was kind of proud that only he knew for sure what Zeke was really packing down there, because only he had this vantage point and could stare down Zeke’s pants into his hormone-flooded co-star’s constantly surging cocks.
He kept forgetting the set surrounding them. The take. Shit. How the fuck was he going to be able to concentrate when their supercocks were pressed together so hard it felt like they were both mercilessly shoving thick iron pipes at each other? Devon suppressed a small whimper and looked into Zeke’s pretty eyes.
“Just keep it real,” Zeke said reassuringly. “Like always.” Devon nodded minutely, as if them doing their scenes with their boners at full grind was what they did everyday, even as Hoc called for quiet on the set.
Ike realized he was gnawing his fist like a cartoon character. He dripped his hand to his side, where it joined its opposite number in squeezing and clenching itself like a prize fighter reassuring himself he still had fists right before the big match. He should be thrilled. Everyone was buff and way hung and improbably sexy, even himself, and people seemed to be liking it all—but it was all gonna derail like the train from The Fugitive. Fuck, there was already a dude on set who was completely naked, and looked like he’d just stepped down from a pedestal somewhere in ancient Greece (that is, if the ancient Greeks had known any Korean demigods to sculpt somewhere in their pantheon). And where the fuck was everyone’s shoes? He looked down at his own feet, aware they looked got and sexy and kinda turned him on, and his stomach fluttered, only now realizing just how easily he could get drowned in his own gathering tsunami…
That was the thing, Ike told himself, feeling the edge of panic creeping round the recesses of his mind. It was all accelerating, just like his masters had warned them, and it was maybe too late to stop it and probably too late to keep it from blowing way, way out of control. Someone was going to figure it out. Probably Devon, he was easily the smartest, at least of the actors. And becoming aware of what you weren’t supposed to be aware of, his masters had said a million times, was a sure ticket to physics-wrenching pandemonium.
He’d have to plant something after all—some sort of real-world fallback “explanation” for any changes anyone became aware of. Maybe a few different layers of it. It shouldn’t have been necessary, it was a sure sign he’s screwed the pooch. He shivered, knowing the momentum of the magic would cause an even bigger mess if he just stopped the whole thing, but scared of what would happen when it all went over the cliff…
Devon walked off the set fighting his powerful, near-constant urge to grasp his exposed cock, thinking that he wasn’t quite sure how he made it through the rest of the day’s shooting. Even after they’d finished the comparatively dialog-heavy classroom scenes and moved on to a crazy, amped-up chase scene through the hallways and basements sets, tearing around corners just barely out of reach of some new10-foot-tall, five-foot-wide CGI monster that would get added in in post-production, but which right now was empty air and pure imagination, Devon still felt like concentration was an effort. Not because his mind was dull—on the contrary, it was racing, going over every tiny scrap of the last few weeks that had felt just slightly weird, but only if you looked at it out of the corner of your eye.
He huffed to himself in frustration, scrubbing his hands through a trademark honey-blond coif slightly damp from perspiration as he headed toward the craft services table to get another water bottle. He smiled politely at the dreamy crafty who jumped to hand him a clear bottle, quickly resubmerging in his thoughts as he pulled off the cap and took a long swig of the refreshing, cool liquid. He couldn’t really put anything together. If the engine of his mind was racing, he thought sourly, he was also spinning his wheels. He sighed, taking a drop of solace in the fact that at least he hadn’t caught any gray in his hair yet.
The director, Hoc, was heading toward him, looking like he had something more than the routine of tomorrow’s call sheet on his mind, and Devon felt his leaking boner squeeze hard at the thought that Hoc’s intoxicating beauty was soon going to be dousing him implacably with arousal at point-blank range. Even as he was thinking these things an eager young PA in the crew’s requisite dark red tee and black jeans appeared at Devon’s elbow. “Are you ready for me, Devon?” he asked, his voice a cute mix of deference and excitement.
Devon turned to look at him. He was a boy-next-door type with shortish, wavy ash-blond hair and a more than decent body. Actually he was packed into the tight outfit—Devon thought he looked like he’d been working out since he was five, only, he thought appraisingly with the part of his mind that never missed cataloging a hot dude’s body, instead of big he’d ended up dense. Those pecs stretching out the Werewolf High tee were big, yeah, but Devon’s experienced gaze told him that when flexed they were as solid as concrete, and that the kid was definitely as strong as the generously muscled Yeardley trips combined. Even the kid’s big bare feet looked weirdly strong somehow. He refocused on what the kid had asked and realized he’d been zoning a bit and hadn’t understood him. “Ready for what?” he asked stupidly.
For an answer the brick shithouse PA just glanced down at the wet and exposed portion of Devon’s supercock and then met his gaze again, eyes dancing even as they sought Devon’s approval and permission. Devon abruptly remembered the end-of-day blow job he’d managed somehow to get written into his contract, and, feeling a stab of embarrassment at the ridiculous situation, stalled by taking another long swig of his blessedly cold water. The young PAs tended to take turns performing this, um, service, Devon thought. He reached back in his memory to see if this one had had a go, but came up dry. He sighed. He would have to ask. He already felt himself blushing. “Have you, uh,” he said, leaning toward the kid and trying to keep his voice sounding cool and casual, “had one, uh, this big?” He knew the kid would know he wasn’t boasting about his freaky cock so much as checking to make sure his new friend could handle Devon’s massive tool. It was kind of a responsibility when you were as big as he was.
But the kid—Adam? Andy?—was nodding happily. “Oh yeah,” he said, then paled as he realized he’d made himself sound a little too experienced. “I mean, we practice? Cause you’re so big?”
Devon was amused in spite of himself, but his big cock was flexing against his abs in anticipation of the imminent immersion in a hot, and competent, mouth. “On what? Zucchini? Dildos?”
The kid, whom Devon decided was definitely called Andy, smiled easily back at him. “Naw,” he said, and pointed across the set to the sound engineering station. “Billy? The sound guy? He’s almost as big as you, so we practice on him a lot.” Devon considered this and decided it was probably true—he’d noticed that the lean and lanky Billy was definitely packing a well above average quantity of meat. Andy, meanwhile, was wiping nervous hands on the sides of his jeans. “So we’ll be ready?” he added, and that seemed to be Devon’s cue to either send him packing, or offer him an audition. He nodded, and Andy immediately fell to his knees and, hands behind his broad back, went straight for the button of Devon’s jeans with his teeth.
Devon almost panicked—for some reason he hadn’t been thinking they’d do the b.j. right here on the edge of the set with everyone still milling around, hunky actors and hunky teamsters alike—though he wasn’t sure why, since his end-of-day blow job was always done pretty much right here by the crafty table. His eyes fell on Zeke, sitting a few feet away—he actually had a small bowl of popcorn in his lap, which he was sharing with Calvin, the tightly muscled half-Korean floor manager, who somehow managed to get away with wearing absolutely no clothes, ever. They waved at him, and Devon rolled his eyes and mouthed “fuckers” at them. They laughed.
Well, there had to be something good about being the star, Devon told himself with a certain amount of amused resignation.
But before Andy, who, in an impressive display of dental acumen, had already unbuttoned Devon’s jeans and was already pulling down the zipper, could show off any of his more advanced oral skills, a source of radioactive beauty arrived right next to them and began buffeting them with constant, imperative arousal. Devon knew if he weren’t already boned he’d have sprung instantly from flaccid to achingly hard just by being near Hoc, and that was without looking at him, which he and Andy both now did.
Devon nearly came at the sight of the unnervingly beautiful Hoc, his face obviously crafted by gods and his eyes gleaming with pure blue-tinged sunlight, but he was distracted by the fact that Andy had his thick piece out and actually was cumming, his left hand barely having to grasp his cock as he started splattering three hefty spurts of hot jizz in his free hand. Then in a flash the kid’s cock was tucked away and Andy was calmly licking his hand as if he’d actually set it in a tray of tapioca pudding. Devon stared agape. Of course he’d seen this behavior countless times—he knew you had to be able to cum at least 20 times a day if you were going to last as a PA on Hoc’s team, and the quick palm-and-rub, with subsequent lick, shared or otherwise, was pretty much the standard reaction to Hoc talking to anyone on the crew for more than a few seconds at a time (the effect on actors was more psychological, Devon had noticed)—but for some reason having it just happen there and then like that was a little shocking.
Meanwhile, Andy was still on his knees, looking up at the beautiful director expectantly. To his surprise, Hoc nodded toward him and said, “Go ahead with what you were doing, Andy,” and Andy dutifully returned his attention to Devon’s crotch. As Devon stared at Hoc he felt Andy finish lowering the zipper and, extracting his cue-ball-sized testicles, begin licking them with a level of skill and devotion that could only be called craft. While Andy went about his business to considerably distracting effect, Hoc took a moment to consult something on his tablet computer. Devon took the opportunity to finish off his water and toss it toward a nearby trash can. He figured he’d need to be hydrated in a moment.
Hoc looked up and met his gaze at the exact same moment that Andy wrapped his hot mouth around Devon’s supercock, and Devon had to force himself back from cumming not just from his cock but out of every cell and orifice. Hoc had something he wanted to tell him, and blowing his immense wad would have to wait. He shifted his eyes to look off toward the set—looking at Hoc was disruptive to mind and body, and greeted him with a polite, “Jonesy.” His eyes drifted back toward Hoc, but he kept them firmly pointed down, so that he was looking more or less at Hoc’s handsome, caramel-colored feet. He sure has big toes, Devon thought, trying to distract himself. Wait, do his feet each have six toes?
“Hey, great stuff today,” Hoc said, and Devon’s mind took hold of Hoc’s rich baritone voice, which seemed to thrum through him, so that he forgot all about Hoc’s hot and sexy feet for the moment. At the same time Andy was demonstrating real talent as he mouthed Devon’s straining cock, and Devon was seriously afraid his fuses would blow and he’d check out from the rush of pure pleasure inducement. He realized Hoc was waiting for a reaction, but he didn’t trust himself to speak; so he just nodded, and Hoc went on.
“So here’s the thing,” Hoc said. “With this new group of monsters, the CGI team is asking us for a favor. And I said we’d all be happy to help.”
“D-doing what?” Devon said. He wondered at the idea of being happier than he was right then. Hick cock belonged in Andy’s hot, deep, eager mouth, and his eyes and skin and even his hair seemed to drink in Hoc’s precious, radiating beauty as if it were the purest, most delicious whiskey.
“They want us to do your wolf transformation effect on set rather than in post,” Hoc said evenly.
This didn’t make any sense to Devon, and he knew that wasn’t just because his 14-inch cucumber dick was at that moment being expertly hoovered by what Devon imagined was last year’s all-Iowa high school wrestling champ (and yearbook winner for “Cute jock most likely to go to Hollywood and blow amply hung TV hunks”). He gasped, shuddering with electric pleasure at something Andy did with his tongue, and then tried speaking again. “So, what?” he said, “I’m supposed to just grow into a hairy, eight-foot-tall, four-armed wolf-dude right here on set?”
He waited for Hoc to join him in scoffing the plan, but Hoc just said, “Yep.”
Devon was so surprised he looked directly at Hoc, which caused a surge in precum from his cock that nearly chocked Andy. The surrealness of their conversation, however, trumped the director’s magnetic beauty, at least temporarily. With a sudden twist of his stomach he recalled the wave of internet rumors about Hoc Jones’s connections to the Jones pharma conglomerate, which had supposedly spiked some college team’s Gatorade with something strange and untested. He thought about how big and gorgeous they all were, himself, the Yeardley trips, Zeke, even Andy the cocksucking PA. He tried to stare his Adonis of a director down. “You dose me with something?” he said in a low, flat voice.
Hoc raised an eyebrow, even as his glance flicked to the garbage can where Devon had just tossed the water. But what he said was, “You’ve always promised to help the show any way you can.” Then he smiled, a huge friendly smile, and Devon had to look away again, feeling his cock and nips get ever so slightly harder from the beauty of his smile. He felt his will weakening and chided himself for his own susceptibility.
“Anyway,” Hoc carried on, “we’re shooting the TF scenes tomorrow, so I thought we could do a test run now.”
“What?” Devon objected. “Right—unf—now?”
Hoc’s voice sounded soft and reasonable. “I think you’ll find it easier if your, ah, juices are flowing.”
Devon frowned. In his peripheral vision he could sense Zeke watching with extreme interest. He found his eyes meeting Andy’s. The kid was methodically working Devon’s enormous cock deeper into his throat, while staring up raptly at Devon’s sexy face and hunky bare torso. It flashed briefly in his mind to wonder what it would look like from Andy’s perspective. “So, what, just concentrate or something?” he asked Hoc, still keeping eye contact with Andy.
“You’ll find the trigger in your head,” Hoc said, but he sounded a little unsure. “Picture the end result in your head and just—remake yourself.”
“Oh, just that,” Devon scoffed, and just then Andy rammed Devon’s cock all the way home down his throat with a final, herculean shove, his big blue eyes looking up at Devon filled with absurdly adorable pride. He gasped loudly, and off beyond Hoc he heard Zeke and Calvin applauding and whistling at Andy’s feat.
“Do it now,” Hoc urged suddenly, forcing every ounce of his considerable magnetism into his alluring, commanding voice. “Your blood is rushing, your body is reacting. You’re in flux, Devon. Do it!”
Devon didn’t hear him with his ears, he heard him with his whole body, a body writhing with a kind of capacity to transform that Devon had never, ever imagined. It was heady, intoxicating, and as intensely powerful as a surge of lightning slamming through him. His gasp opened up into a shout and then a roar, as his cocks and his nipples and the cells of his body from his scalp to the fingertips of his four big hands, only they were partly claws, to the balls of his feet seemed to cum all at once, only with a hundred times the force and intensity of an ordinary orgasm. It was like the whole world was shooting hot cum right now and every single sensation from all those billions of orgasms was surging through him and him alone. He was huge and it felt absolutely wonderful to be this huge.
He looked down from a considerably loftier height than he was used to and surveyed the wreckage, enjoying the constant low-level torrent of pleasure that seemed to course naturally through this amazing body. Both Andys had managed to pull off his cocks before the size increase had really started, which was a good thing—he didn’t think even he could get his mouth around either of the shoulder-high, coffee-can-thick cocks rubbing against his very furry medicine-ball-sized pecs, still erupting with stray spurts of cum. Each of the Andys had fallen back and was gazing up at his giant towering furry overmuscled werewolf creature form in awe, each still cumming from three footlong cocks onto Andy’s beautiful, pink-flushed wrestler physiques. He blinked to realize both Andys were completely naked, but then he remembered—today was the start of the crew’s new “no uniform” uniform. They looked very pale and… human, lying there at his huge werewolf-paw-like feet, both pulling their long, flaxen hair from their faces with lithe, six-fingered hands. He’d been wondering what today, naked crew day, would be like. Funny how the new dress code for the crew meant that only the actors were wearing clothes on set. Not that any of them was wearing much on the show these days…
Fuck. The whole crew was naked. That meant … Hoc is naked too. The realization hit him like a sack full of hard cocks. Unable to help himself he turned to gaze down at his director, and the sight of him rocked him like an aftershock and drove another quart of cum out of his fencepost cocks and, Devon realized with a flood of profound pleasure, his nips were cumming for real as well—it hadn’t just been his imagination. Hoc, grinning up at him in satisfaction, was the boner-forcing Adonis they’d all known him to be, his voice enough to drive anyone on the crew to cum from all three cocks. Or all six, in the case of the hunky, amber-skinned three-legged Korean floor-manager Calvin. But what was now fully on display was exactly what Hoc was packing.
Hoc didn’t have three legs the way Calvin did. Calvin literally had three of his long, swimmer’s legs, with two crotches in between each sporting the triple-permaboner cockcluster that the whole crew had in common. No, Hoc had three legs in that his soft cock was as wide and thick as his muscular thighs, draping down from his soccer-ball nuts, the enormous head almost kissing the cum-drenched floor of the set.
The fact that Hoc was soft when everyone else was hard just emphasized the power his intoxicating beauty had over them. That leg-sized phallus got hard on its own terms, Devon thought with a sudden pang of aching cock hunger deep in his guts. Just the sight of the colossal organ made Devon try to cum again, only he was pretty much spent, the liquid he was forcing from his cocks and nips instantly lost in all the other cum he’d gotten all over the floor and everything else around them and all over himself, the hot jizz probably working deep into his pelt.
Hoc was staring hard at him, and Devon wished he wouldn’t. His balls might each be bigger than his head but they hurt when something made him want to cum and they were empty, just like anyone else’s. Desperately he tried to fend off Hoc’s attention by scanning the room from his elevated vantage. Everyone was joining in the group blow job that they’d all started doing whenever Devon had his contractual b.j., and it was a pretty wild sight from this high up.
Zeke, his nest of five footlong boners each as wide as two wrists proudly thrusting out of his artfully worn cutoffs, was kneeling in front of the comely three-legged Calvin, ministering in turn to the trio of cocks in the Korean boy’s left crotch; the sound guy Billy, the top few inches of his single towering cock plainly visible over his broad, bare shoulder as he faced away from him, was taking care of Calvin’s other cock-cluster. Devon had always meant to ask Billy how he’d managed to avoid ending up with three cocks the way the rest of the crew did; presumably his cock being three times the size of the others’ had something to do with it.
Over on the schoolroom tables the two sets of Yeardley twins, one a year younger than the other, were all sixty-nining, and Devon couldn’t really tell which was which—the main giveaway was that they younger twins had ten-packs and the older set had stone-carved twelve-packs, but he couldn’t really see their abs as they writhed sweatily on the desks. Beyond them Lewis was making out with David, the very buff and astonishingly limber young actor who’d joined recently to play Devon’s unexpectedly discovered younger brother. Somehow, despite being the new guy, he’d laid claim to the hottest, most coveted prize on the cast, the right to make out with Lewis and feel his hard, cocklike tongue filling your mouth. Those two were almost literally making out every second they weren’t actually on camera.
Then Hoc called out his name, and Devon’s eyes snapped to him instantly. “Turn back,” Hoc commanded sharply.
And for all he was an eight-foot-tall nightmare beast he was as helpless to resist the godly director as anyone else.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to slip back into his lesser human firm with great reluctance. As he forced himself smaller, feeling writhing erotic essence of his body push into a tighter and narrower space, he realized that he could deal with being smaller, being cute of face again, being hairless and completely unbeastly—but the arms, the arms felt too good. The press of muscle as his arms hung together, thick upper arms pushed hard against each other, was a constant stimulating pleasure. He forced himself smaller, feeling his upper arms flex against each other on each side, and was surprised to hear the slightest of whimpers in the back of his throat.
He flashed on a particularly vivid fan fiction where Zeke’s character had found away to halt Devon’s transformation into the wolf-beast halfway, so that Devon had ended up this big, overmuscled, four-armed man-beast, covered with hair but not actual fur, writhing in untamable arousal from the trapped energies of the transformation. In the story Zeke had worshipped that wondrous half-transformed body, and had reveled in being almost brutally ravished, trapped in a muscle cage of arms and legs…
Devon grunted and tried to force himself smaller, but suddenly he felt spent, weak-kneed with fatigue. He opened his eyes. He took stock of what he could see and feel. The fur was gone—in fact he was pretty sure he had no hair at all below his neck—but in other respects he had fallen short of making it all the way back to normal. He had tried to carve his baselines into his head before he shifted, but he felt like he had run out of shift-back energy well short of where he’d been shooting for. He was definitely still taller than the 6’9” he’d started out at, and, looking down at his massive body, probably a hundred pounds of muscle over his base weight. His precum-spurting permaboner cocks should have been shoving into the bottoms of his pecs, but they were still almost shoulder height, and way too thick. But most obviously of all, he still had four thick, long, luscious arms. He lifted his four hands to stare at them, startled to see that each of them had six long fingers and a thumb on either side. Were they at all like that before? He couldn’t remember.
He gave Hoc a sheepish sidelong glance. “The arms won’t go,” he said with a slight blush, as if he had otherwise managed a perfect retransformation to normal. He was startled to realize that Hoc was staring at him with the look of someone trying to hide their arousal—a little hard for someone with a five-foot-long, thirty-inch-around fully erect hypercock sticking straight out from the director’s crotch and streaming hot precum all over the two Andys, who were, Devon realized in some shock, still cumming, or perhaps cumming again, just from staring up at Devon. These two facts—that Hoc had gotten his impossible cock hard from watching him transform from a huge wolfbeast into a megahuman, and that the Andys came constantly (or repeatedly) from the mere sight of him—wrenched Devon’s mind into a new perspective. He had the sexual power here. He was no longer in thrall to Hoc. He smiled down on his uncannily beautiful, hyper-aroused director.
“I’m keeping them,” he said, in a low, soft voice, looking Hoc right in the eye. From the floor came two long moans, the Andys obviously deeply turned on either by Devon’s confronting Hoc, or by his pronouncement that he would keep his enormously hunky four-armed dream bod.
Hoc blinked at him. “Of—of course,” he stammered. “We’ll write around them. We’ll say that only the people who know you’re a werewolf can see them—”
“Hey, hot stuff,” Zeke now broke in. His superhorny younger costar caught sight of Devon’s not-quite normal megabod and had turned over his attentions to Calvin’s leftmost bouquet of cocks to an eager PA so that he could wander over and salaciously ogle him. Zeke was looking up at Devon greedily, seemingly thrilled to be no longer the same height; anyway he was beaming, and the cluster of double-wide cocks shoving up out of tight, almost worn-through cutoffs was visibly flexing and covered with a constant flow of leaking, liquid arousal.
“Hey yourself,” Devon said, then added, “Hey, let’s go to the hospital set, there’s a scene I want to do with you.” As Zeke grinned even wider, Devon turned and offered his front hands to the two Andys, who seemed to be unable to stop cumming. As he helped them up they gazed at his many fingers wrapped around their hands almost deliriously. “C’mon,” he added. “I’ve got parts for you guys too.”
As they walked off, the mega-Devon’s arms around Zeke on one side and one of the Andys on the other, with his arm around the other Andy, Devon heard Hoc bark, “You three, help me with this!” and three eager PAs answering, “Yes, sir!”, and Devon laughed out loud.
Devon climbed carefully out of the back of the SUV and straightened himself up to his full height, nearly eight feet these days. He took a moment to enjoy the pleasant warmth of the sun beating down on his enormous, tanned doubled shoulders after the luxurious, nipple-hardening chill of the car. Meanwhile the two Andys had clambered out of the vehicle and were already standing in front of him, staring up at him with almost unnerving intensity, their blue eyes shining with undisguised lust, affection, and admiration.
As he stood there basking in the bright SoCal Sunday afternoon light, he let himself take stock of the young men he’d arranged to have assigned as his personal PAs. Even if he was a four-armed, halfway-to-werewolf behemoth these days, he and his Andys did have more than a few things in common. Like him, they were insanely muscled, though whereas Devon’s muscles had gotten huge through constant exercise on the set, tireless workouts, and, lately, the residual effects of his on-set transformations into his character’s enormous werewolf alter ego state that left him an teensie little bit bigger every time he transformed back, the Andys were densely packed with extra helpings of muscle condensed to make the silhouette of a merely ordinarily gifted muscle god; Devon guessed they were much stronger than they looked, and hoped to test that theory one day soon when they were alone, just the three of them, at Devon’s modest but comfortable beach house with the high ceilings and thick soundproofing. The only way they’d be stronger, Devon mused, was if they had four hard, long muscular arms like him, instead of the two perfect specimens each that they sported, pushed out from their bodied by delicious-looking, perfectly sized lats.
More than that, their muscles had a kind of visible potency as they moved and shifted and bulged under their smooth, perfect skin. Devon might be bigger than his Andys by a couple feet and a couple hundred pounds, but his boys were the visible embodiment of masculine power.
And yet at the same time, they were boyishly beautiful. Actually, “beautiful” didn’t come close to being an adequate description: their beauty went straight to his dicks. Devon’s enormous cocks throbbed in time to the old-fashioned mambo wafting out of Hoc’s beach house on the warm, dry summer air as he stared. That was another similarity, he thought with amusement, letting his lips quirk and seeing the Andys’ eyes brighten in response to what he knew they thought of as his super-sexy half-smirk. Devon, drowning in their gorgeous smiles, knew where they were coming from. Like him—there was no use denying it—the Andys were achingly attractive, so that if Devon weren’t close-to-cumming hard nearly all of the time he’d have snapped to 150% pure arousal just being around them, just as they would for him if they weren’t constantly boned.
But then, the whole cast and crew were like that these days. Devon couldn’t keep track of how much he came anymore, though he thought drolly that the Andys probably did, in case Devon were to ever ask them for an accounting. The only difference might be that while Devon’s raw, primal beauty seemed to stir heated, animal passions in anyone who come close to him or felt his hot, golden gaze—amazing how even his eyes were affected by his new shifting ability, and tended to stay blazing werewolf-gold all the time now—the Andys were still the calm, even reassuring embodiment of the perfect, cornfed all-American boy. All that was missing were the straw hat at the overalls.
Devon sighed. That was hitting it a little close, because, like him, they were, for reasons he still didn’t quite fathom, they were dressed only in tight-fitting, thigh-hugging, butt-enhancing jeans that looked as though they’d been made to contour to their every curve, because (Devon was pretty sure) they had. He’d gotten his own custom-tailored denims yesterday, dropped off with Hoc’s compliments, along with confirmation that this afternoon’s party was jeans-mandatory—despite everyone being naked on set these days, and despite the fact that no one’s cocks would be hidden in the slightest by the compulsory dungarees. The Andys, like most of the crew, had tight, overlapping clusters of three fat, footlong cocks (though the Andys were a little more than footlong, he’d been noticing), and theirs were, like everyone else’s, proudly visible, hard and wet, painting their rock-hard abs with intermittent spurts of thin, clear precum as they reveled in Devon’s frank appraisal. Of course, what Devon fantasized the most about was—well, there was more that was hot about lanky, languid Zeke than just his cocks. He wondered if Zeke would be there today—the jeans wouldn’t even come close to hiding his cock cluster, but Devon knew Zeke’s ultrawide beauties would look damn good erupting from cum-damp denim.
And as for Devon’s cocks—well, the fact that they were both as big as one of the Andys’ tightly packed muscle arms and the fat, fist sized heads were a constant temptation where they quivered below his collarbone, thrumming against his nicely thick pecs, made him feel pretty foolish wearing any clothes at all, much less snug jeans that barely even concealed his oversized balls.
And these jeans were snug. They clung to everything but his glutes in particular, as if the supple, rich blue denim somehow got off on hugging and rubbing his hard, round, muscle ass… Devon shook the thought away. “Are you sure we have to wear them?” he asked again. He let a little whine creep in, because he knew it would amuse them.
The Andys grinned, delighted by their boss’s social hesitation and his willingness to share it with them. “Yes,” they said together. Devon sighed. Sensing that Devon was done looking them over, they moved slightly closer, so that Devon could feel the warmth of their tan skin in the gentle, sun-heated breeze.
He responded to their advance by quirking his lips a little more. “How do I look?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow slightly. He usually asked only for the slight ego-boost, since whenever their attention was drawn to Devon’s amazing, overgrown body the Andys often started blasting cum like they were holding back a rickety dam whenever they were around him. Of course, they seemed to be constantly full of high-pressure jizz, as did the rest of the crew, so they could come fifty times a day, the last time as much like a firehose as the first. Sure enough, just the question was making them drink in his overstimulating beauty and he could tell they were physically holding themselves back from cumming, though the spurts of pre from their trios of cocks onto their hard, sculpted abs became a steady stream. But this time he had a real reason for asking, and before they could answer he brushed his fingers against the black scruff under his chin that Zeke had finally convinced him would look sexy on him. He eyed the Andys inquiringly.
The Andys, by way of answer, as if pushed over the edge just by having their attention focused on Devon’s face, which they seemed to find almost literally stunningly cute, started cumming hard onto their thick, chiseled pecs and shoulders. Heart pounding suddenly, Devon felt a massive wave of new arousal swamp his already inflamed libido, and to his shock and indescribable pleasure he started cumming too, huge gouts of hot cum surging up from somewhere deep inside of him, rocketing out of his cocks and nips in what felt like impossible quantities and pressures. Panting, his pulse shuddering through him as successive surges of orgasm ripped through him, he instinctively dropped to his knees so that the red-faced, still-cumming, still-grinning Andys could drink down his jizz, which they started doing with abandon, slurping greedily from the geysers as if from an extra-high-powered water fountain as they bent over Devon’s enormous cocks, arms around each other’s shoulders. They loved his cum and had even sworn to him it made them strong and horny, though Devon would’ve been hard put to it to say how to tell there was much of a difference. They were always strong, they were always full of beans, and they were always impossibly aroused.
After a few minutes of escalating ecstasy their orgasms finally peaked almost unendurably and then subsided, and the Andys, laughing and huffing, flushed up and down their amazing bodies and covered waist to crown with thick, endless cum, fell into Devon’s big, warm arms. They started methodically licking the cum off each other’s faces and necks, as had become their habit lately. Since most of it was on the Andys, Devon had more work to do, but lately he’d been finding he had a lot more tongue when he needed it than he was used to, which both he and the Andys thought was way too hot. Devon held them close, hands rubbing their warm, muscular naked backs and denim-clad asses as he ministered, the Andys humming as they reciprocated.
As they finished off with a sweet three-way kiss Devon heard clapping and realized they had an audience. He looked up to see that there was a crowd of cast and crew members huddled beyond the wide, open doorway and glass walls of Hoc’s huge open-plan house, and as soon as he saw them they started cheering and clapping. Though they were in shadow he could tell that a number of them had blown a wad or two all over themselves or each other, their trios of footlong permaboners red and flushed and seemingly aching for more. Zeke, standing near the front, seemed to be the exception: his five rivetingly beautiful, super-wide slabs of cock were rock-hard, of course, and Zeke’s long, loose bod seemed a little flushed and sweaty, but Devon’s young costar seemed to have held off actually blowing his wad at the show Devon and the Andys were putting on—as if to emphasize his ability to keep Devon, star of the show and, if he wanted to be, lord of the roost, at arm’s length.
Devon stared at Zeke as he straightened up to his full height and started moving through the entrance into the crowded front room, Andys in tow, their bare feet slapping softly on the warm, sun-baked driveway. He kept his eyes on Zeke. Devon wanted to make Zeke cum more than anyone, not in a group like they’d been doing at least weekly on set since his change, but alone and intimate, and Zeke, the intoxicating work partner who was always, like now, smiling his sweet, beguiling grin up at him, was the one man strong enough to hold his own against Devon’s mesmerizing hotness. That only made Devon want him more. And they both knew it.
“Enjoy the show?” he said, stepping up to Zeke and standing so close he had to look past his own pecs and wet, red cockheads to stare into the young stallion’s dark eyes. Devon didn’t really understand it. He was both older and taller—bigger in every way. Zeke was barely 19 and something like 6’8, and yet even just topping out at Devon’s collarbone, the heads of Devon’s cocks pulsing above his dancing eyes, Zeke was as cool and confident as any giant.
“You bet,” Zeke replied, grinning wickedly, and Devon had to suppress an urge to grab the man with all four hands and pull him up to his lips. Instead he swallowed and, shaking his head as if in exasperation at a kid brother, shifted his gaze away. Most of the crew members, and the younger set of Yeardley twins, were crowding around him now, and as usual when Devon joined the group they were all gently and appreciatively fondling him and feeling him up, to the accompaniment of lots of ooo’s and aah’s and general affirmation. The Andys, with proprietary assertiveness, had taken up the choice spot behind him and were affectionately groping Devon’s hard, round, muscle ass and sliding hands around his narrow, tight waist. No one touched his cocks or even looked at them, though every other inch of him was stroked, and at the same time Devon could feel the intensity of everyone’s awareness of his towering erections as if they were all concentrating their touch on them alone. Even Zeke, though Devon knew that Zeke, too, was looking at Devon’s face, grinning, hands in his pockets, as if he was enjoying the spectacle of everyone drowning in sex.
His heart rate increasing at all the physical attention, Devon looked around for a distraction at caught the eye of Calvin, the floor manager. He was standing behind the others, leaning against the wall of the vestibule with his bare middle foot propped against the wall behind him. He had dark, perfectly fit jeans too, snug and sexy like all the others’, and not for the first time Devon wondered whom Hoc had commissioned to make the jeans and whether Calvin, at least, had had to come in for fittings. He wanted to talk to the laconic, three-legged Korean, but it took a while to get through the ritual at the doorway, especially since he—very unexpectedly—did end up blowing a round of huge, mind-blowing loads from all the stroking and caressing, as if they really had been running their hand up and down his immovably hard cocks.
In fact Devon was surprised to feel one of those weird shifts during this one, a second of his head seeming to swim just between one heartbeat and the next, accompanied by the disorienting sensation of the earth twisting just slightly around him. They didn’t happen often, but Devon had finally started to become aware of their implications, because it had started to dawn on Devon that ever time he felt one of these shifts everyone around him got a little bit bigger, a little bit hotter, a little bit more affectionate, a little hornier, and, he couldn’t help but notice, that tiny bit more into him. It was like a dial being turned that quickened everyone’s pulse even as it tugged at their bodies and cocks. That would be enough to tell him that the phenomenon was focused on him, even without its coinciding with orgasms he had in everyone’s presence, and this latest shift was the clearest proof yet.
Maybe it was because Devon’s attention had been drawn toward him, maybe because he’d been thinking about Calvin’s long, perfect legs in his custom-made jeans, but Devon, now that he was aware of the shifts, was able to tell that Calvin had shifted more this time than the others—mainly because the handsome floor manager was four-legged now, and it was his left rear foot that was propped against the wall. The limber floor-manager still affected a nonchalant pose as he placidly caught Devon’s eye, but Devon knew he couldn’t have been too nonchalant during the mass orgasm that accompanied the shift—Calvin’s taut ten-pack and heavy, completely hairless gymnast’s pecs were, like everyone’s, doused in hot cum from tall, still-shuddering cocks.
Catching Devon’s eye again, Calvin tilted his head toward the back of the house, and then at Devon’s answering nod Calvin straightened up onto his four bare feet and padded sedately off in the direction he’d indicated. Devon made his excuses to his crowd of coworker-admirers, saying he’d see everyone out by the pool for the dancing and for Hoc’s big announcement. Everyone was already sort of swaying in groups of twos and threes to the retro samba-style music that was filling the house and spilling onto the grounds around it, languidly groping and making out with each other as their trios of fourteen-inch forearm-thick cocks juddered and leaked with post-orgasmic pleasures.
Everyone but Zeke, who was standing out from the crowd both literally—he was a head shorter than Devon still, but also almost a head taller than most of the six-and-a-half-foot super-hunk crew dudes—and in that he was ignoring the sea of beauty around him, his smoldering eyes fixed on Devon alone even as a couple of the younger set of Yeardley trips sandwiched him, making out with boyish sloppiness over his gymnast-thick shoulder while the third one lathed Zeke’s neck. “I’ll see you out there,” Devon told him, hearing a little raw huskiness in his voice, and Zeke nodded, deliberately licking his sweet lips.
Devon caught up with Calvin a few minutes later in one of the dark back bedrooms. Like the rest of the house it was open and cool, and Devon enjoyed the moving brushes of air on his shoulders and arms and still-sensitive cocks from the big ceiling fan churning lazily a few inches above his head. He gave Calvin a meaningful look and Calvin, with a quick glance at the slightly ajar door and the white-curtained windows, wordlessly pulled something out of his damp jeans pocket. He handed Devon a small plastic vial about the size of Devon’s thumb. He glanced at the clear, thick liquid it contained and then back at Calvin. “Any problems?” he asked.
Unexpectedly, Calvin grinned. “Nope,” he said. Devon smiled back at him, clapping him in the shoulder, and Calvin winked and loped off, leaving the room to Devon. Devon stared at the vial, all kinds of plans sprouting in his young and playful imagination as he absently rubbed the dusting of dark hair behind the roots of his cocks.
When Hoc, the brilliant and deeply arousing director, had told Devon that he could now do his own werewolf transformations on set instead of relying on the overworked CGI dudes, Devon had cottoned on right away that Hoc, scion of the powerful and mysterious Jones Pharma multinational conglomerate, had had something cooked up that opened up these abilities. He didn’t know whether it was some kind of serum or nanotechnology or what, but he did know two things: Hoc had been able to add it to Devon’s water bottle, and it had taken immediate effect. And something else: Hoc, who practically lived at the studio, would have brought his stuff in and dosed Devon from a stash he’d secreted somewhere on set. And if anyone could track it down, it was the quiet and resourceful, and not a little devious, multilegged floor manager. He hadn’t been wrong abut any of it so far, and that fed him the confidence to keep going with his little prank. He grinned widely and padded out to the main room to find the bar.
Some time later he found himself walking out onto the deck that bordered on the huge Olympic-sized pool, hardly noticing the spontaneous orgasms his arrival induced among the wide-eyed, Devon-enraptured superhunks already out there, either standing by the edge or naked in the pool. Even the hyperendowed Billy the sound guy was blasting cum, though for him this meant more than covering his chest, shoulders, and face with thick spunk. Billy’s jizz shot way up, six feet in the air at least, from the enormous cock towering a good eight inches over his head, before the hot cum fell back and started pattering thickly onto the deck around them, the pool, and all the half-naked (or naked) guys around him, Devon included.
He smiled at Billy and moved over to where the blushing young phone-pole-cocked beauty was standing with his assistant, the long-haired hottie Raul, and his best friend Cody, the assistant floor manager. Both of them were more like the rest of the crew: instead of Billy’s one enormous cock they had the usual three huge, fat, fourteen inch whoppers most of the guys had. All three of them were well built, of course, though Raul was a bit taller than the others, almost as tall as Zeke, and Cody’s pale skin was filled out with a lot more muscle than most of the crew. They were all flushed and covered in spunk from the involuntary orgasm Devon had made them experience. “Sorry, guys,” he said, winking as he walked up. Even as he approached he noticed their cocks were all shivering and straining, as if they were trying to get even bigger and harder than they already were.
“No problem,” Cody gushed. Billy looked at him almost sheepishly from around his giant erection, biting his lower lip.
Raul exchanged a glance with Cody, then said to Devon, “Can we kiss you? Please?” Billy nodded, and Cody’s eyes were shining.
Devon sucked in a breath. These guys were amazingly hot, and it still sort of surprised him that guys this hot would want him so badly. He smiled and bent down so that his face was mere inches from Raul’s, shivering as he felt the heads and upper shafts of his achingly hard cocks slide up his cum-damp pecs. “If my kiss could make you more like me in one way,” he said softly, “what would it be?”
Raul’s eyes glittered, and Devon could tell that Raul believed that Devon was actually offering this change—he’d noticed he was a lot more persuasive since all this had started that day on the set. People tended to believe him. Of course Devon knew that if anything happened, it was because Raul was changing himself, thanks to the vial of super-serum or whatever that Devon had dumped various strategically chosen bottles behind the bar. He guessed from watching the liquor flow so far that everyone was dosed, or would be before long, and he knew he’s seen this bunch indulging twenty minutes earlier. Devon felt a little bad cultivating the lie, but he was uneasy about the secret of the serum getting out. He hadn’t even told Calvin what it was he was asking him to ferret out for him.
Raul seemed to gather his courage and said, “I would be as tall as you.” Devon raised an eyebrow and Raul’s mouth twitched into a crooked smile. “I want to be a giant,” he said, adding with a glance down at Cody, “—for my muscle muffin.” Cody, looking up at them in awe, met Devon’s eyes almost pleadingly. He grinned and turned his gaze back to Raul.
“You have to believe,” he told him. “Make it happen.” Raul’s shining eyes were locked on his. He was panting every so slightly. Devon knew he was convincing Raul that this was real and possible. “Kiss me,” he commanded softly. “Kiss me and make it happen!” Raul licked his lips and immediately pushed into a kiss, his warm lips moving and pressing against Devon’s for only a few seconds before he felt the brush of Raul’s tongue along the seam of Devon’s lips, demanding entry. Devon opened for him and their tongues met, and Raul hummed deeply, throwing his arms around Devon’s wide, naked upper body. Devon realized that some of the other guys out on the deck and in the pool had drifted over to them and were using their hands and mouths and bodies to gently stimulate him all over. Devon strove to keep his attention focused on Raul. He had a feeling something amazing was about to happen.
Sure enough, as he and Raul kissed, Devon felt a rush of delight thrum through his long torso as the angle of their kiss and embrace started to shift. Raul deepened the kiss, feeling it too, moaning into Devon’s mouth. To Devon it felt as though Raul were pushing himself taller, as if he were shoving himself against the ground, using his own strength to force himself taller inch by inch. Devon broke the kiss to mutter against Raul’s sweaty cheek, “That’s it! Make yourself tall like me!” But Raul desperately reclaimed his mouth, hungrily kissing him. He and Raul seemed to twist around each other, making out hard and fierce—and then suddenly Raul was the one to break the kiss, pulling his head back as he kept his strong arms wrapped around, eyes blazing with raw pleasure and unmitigated joy. Devon and Raul smiled wide at each other. Then Devon lifted his gaze to the crown of Raul’s head, which somehow had topped out a couple inches higher than Devon’s. He met Raul’s gaze again, narrowing his eyes in mock consternation. Raul just cocked an eyebrow at him cheekily.
Careful of all the guys stroking and mouthing and licking his back and shoulders and arms and rubbing his ass and legs and generally working to make him feel good all over, Devon took a small step back, and Raul’s long, sweaty arms fell to his sides. Devon checked him out and wolf-whistled appreciatively. He had matched Devon’s height (and a little more), but his muscles had stretched more than they had grown, expending only enough to make Raul look like a very, very tall pro swimmer. He looked long and lithe and limber as fuck, and Devon had to admit that he was totally impressed with what Raul had done for himself. He wasn’t sure Raul had just pushed himself taller—his loose black hair seemed a bit longer, brushing easily against his wide shoulders, and Devon was pretty sure that Raul’s quivering, ready-to-blow cocks had grown even more than what would have been proportionate to his new height. Somehow the jeans had gotten longer too, still resting against the tops of Raul's long, sexy feet; but then Devon had already guessed there was something unusual about these too-comfy, too-perfectly snug jeans. “Good job,” he said, and Raul, now his only match for height in the entire production, winked at him. They both turned to look at Cody, who must have cum again watching the whole thing. Devon said nothing, but gave him a questioning look.
Cody gulped and shook his head. “What more could I want?” he asked, grinning hugely up at his boyfriend. He seemed almost to forget Devon as he wrapped Raul up in a fierce hug, laying his head happily against the bottom of Raul’s well-defined chest, smiling as Raul’s cocks began gently spurting precum on his neck and jaw.
Devon laughed and moved to face Billy, wordlessly repeating his offer with a single look. Billy bit his lower lip again and moved closer, so that Devon could feel the heat from Billy’s towering cock on his cheek in the cooling afternoon air. Billy glanced at the four or five crew members who were stroking and otherwise tending to Devon, then back up at Devon. “If I could really have something of yours, could it be—that?” Billy said. “That magnetic thing that draws people to you? To—to touch you?”
Devon thought he understood. He glanced for a second at Billy’s rigid, hyperhuge cock, its massive head looming over Billy’s, drooling a constant flow of pre that was slicking both the endless, massive shaft and the stop of Billy’s head as well. “You need more help with this monster?” he asked.
Billy shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I love it,” he said. “It feels amazing. But my own hands don’t seem to be enough. And it needs—” He faltered, his eyes flitting to the young men who were drawn to Devon’s body. With a flash of realization, Devon knew that Billy’s enormous cock needed—craved—the touch of mouths and lips and tongues, up and down every taut, warm, hypersensitive square inch of perfect cockflesh.
Devon drew Billy into all four of his arms, feeling his impossibly huge hypercock press hard against his thick chest and his own suddenly undersized monster dicks. As he did so he caught sight of Zeke, who it turned out was watching the whole show with great interest and amusement from a deck chair a few feet away. Though he was reclining languidly he seemed to be almost vibrating with suppressed energy, like he wanted to be causing trouble, and Devon wondered what was running through Zeke’s overheated brain. He guessed that Zeke knew Devon was causing trouble, too, and maybe wanted in on it—or, at the very least, his own turn. Though Zeke probably knew that Devon always had special plans for Zeke and Zeke alone.
He nodded at Zeke, who nodded back, then he turned his full attention back to Billy. His boyish, blushing face was close, and he was watching Devon with round eyes, filling himself up with him, ready to let Devon reshape him and totally unaware he was about to reshape himself—with Devon’s help. Devon gazed deep into Billy’s eyes. “Kiss me,” he told Billy. “Make it happen.”