The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

His fever flirted with 104. That was the line Thomas and Jillian had set for the hospital. Jillian had set it, anyway. Thomas was deep in a gauzy haze of fever dreams and wretched, limping trips to the bathroom. And sweat. So much sweat.

“Drink more fluids,” Jillian commanded. Her take-charge, no-nonsense attitude was perfect for high fevers, if less fun in the day to day of marriage. But she was in her element, changing out sodden pajamas, mopping up toilet misses, and generally overseeing the shaking mess that was her husband. Thomas drank gallons of fluids.

It was a weird fever. Mainly because he was hungry—starving. He ate continuously, chewing weakly, his body ravenous for fuel. At one point he crawled out of bed, found a bag of old candy corn, ate it, and then crawled back, not once standing up. There were cans of tuna with dent marks where he had, fever-crazed, tried to open them with scissors. After that Jillian took a few days off work to nurse him.

And strangest of all, as he started to recover, was that Jillian kept spending time near him. Not just nearby, but in the room—that abused set of reeking sheets and sodden, discarded clothes. Tissues littered the floors. He had to look gaunt and pale, and smell like intestines. But his wife kept finding excuses to stay in the bedroom, reading patiently, doing crosswords, or just staring, sometimes, at the walls. Breathing.

“I must smell like an open toilet,” Thomas said, at one point. Jillian had a strange look on her face.

“No. No you don’t,” she said. Then she sniffed at him, carefully, like he was a piece of suspicious fruit. “No,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Not at all. Not at all.”

Was this even real? Thomas wasn’t prepared to believe in anything. He had talked to the toilet yesterday, convinced it had feelings. “So how do I smell?” he said.

“Good,” his wife said, curtly. “You smell good.”

GOOD? He had sweated deep within the bedsheets. The mattress itself was wet. He was a disgusting factory of disease. But there was Jillian, covertly sniffing his shirts when she thought he was asleep. Jillian excusing herself to go the bathroom a few minutes later. Jillian whimpering from orgasm—that had to be a sex dream of some kind, of the kind he half-remembered. Thomas had strange, aching erections, his nerves hot and raw.

Jillian stayed in the room for all of it. Her eyes watched him. She was well-dressed, in a very short black skirt, and a knit blue sweater that must’ve shrunk in the wash. It certainly clung tight to his wife’s tits. He was horny, very, weirdly horny, and the way she kept flashing him with dark blue panties wasn’t helping, but he felt too gross to say anything about it.

“Do you want a blowjob?” she said, abruptly. Thomas was finally able to sit up in bed, now. He had gone through four bowls of cheerios and was optimistic about keeping them down.

“Excuse me? You want to have sex?” he said.

“I didn’t say sex, did I?” Jillian said. “I said, blowjobs. Me, sucking you. Off.”

“You want to blow me,” Thomas said. He was too addled to just say ‘yes’.

“Yeah,” his wife said. She licked her lips. Not as some sort of sex signal. Because she wanted them wet to blow him. “I want to blow you.”

“I mean… feel free. But I haven’t showered in a week and a half,” Thomas said. He managed to throw off the bed sheets. He was definitely improving. Despite shoveling endless calories into his mouth he had clearly lost a lot of his previous excess weight. He had been doughy. Now his stomach was flat, taut.

Jillian wasted no time. She stripped down his underpants. His cock rose to full mast. It was...

Thomas blinked. No, he didn’t have that girth. He was not a tower into the sky. That was not his dick. His dick was boring. This one was impressive. Had all those erections… no… that could not have been his dick GROWING.

“It’s… bigger,” he said. He needed to check his temperature. It was time to hit the hospital. No one grew bigger dicks. The hallucinations were too intense.

“Yeah, you haven’t noticed?” Jillian said. “It’s been… getting… really… big.” She lowered herself halfway near his cock, then stopped. His proper, master’s degree wife sniffed, then again. On all fours, smelling him. it was weirdly animal, but no less hot. She put her face, without hesitation, into his pubic hair, and inhaled deeply.

“What are you DOING?” Thomas asked. When Jillian came up for air, she looked… different. Vague, unfocused. Her mouth hung open. She looked for all the world like she had just done a few bumps, on his pelvic bone. She looked drunk.

“You smell really hot,” she whispered at him. And then started to suck his cock. Hard. Jillian wasn’t totally against blowjobs, but not like this. She had her mouth wrapped around his dick, licking, sucking. Just trying to get him to cum, as fast as she could. When he did, and it didn’t take long, she tensed her lips around his shaft, making a seal. Thomas had no idea how she sucked him dry. He could tell he was shooting thick jets of jizz deep into her mouth. But only eventually did she slowly slide off, keep her mouth shut tight, and slide beside him into the damp sheets.

His wife grinned, dazed, her eyes unfocused and pupils large. Her mouth was still swimming with sperm. She tried to sit up and failed, landing on the other side of the bed. She giggled.

“You’re CANDY,” she whispered.

Three months later....

Kristen had wondered what she meant to her roommate, and the answer was, slightly less than a lot of posterboard. Or maybe a lot less than a lot of posterboard. Because Anna had, without asking permission, used her side of the room, her bed, and part of her desk, as a staging area for the creation of a number of protest boards. For BLANK posterboard, no less—just white pieces of cardboard with nothing written on them, yet. Kristen had been scrunched into a small section of desk.

Perhaps her roommate expected her to just disappear into the computer, headphones on, watching some movie or another or disappearing into kik. They had not been a good match. They had met each other during the school’s move in day, smiled tightly, and assessed each other as a pile of mutual stereotypes. Anna, bespectacled but fashionably so, her backpack festooned with buttons for different causes, ultimately white and ultimately blonde.

Kristen, slight, chinese, nondescript, flat.

Kristen had practically felt Anna’s judgment as another one of THOSE. An interchangeable asian girl, one of the endless crowds that formed the background noise to her own college experience. It was not the first time Kristen had felt slotted in into someone else’s life—that described most of her life—but it was unusually swift, severe, and final.

“So, you’re protesting… boys.” she told Anna.

“No, not boys,” Anna said.

“The flu, then. You’re protesting germs.”

“It’s a virus,” Anna said. She eventually looked up, puzzled. Was Kristen really giving her crap? “It’s the way boys are taking advantage of it.”

“Taking advantage of being… sexier,” Kristen prodded.

“SexIST,” Anna corrected. She was printing all of her placards in dark black ink. The latest one read “NO EXCUSE FOR PATRIARCHY!” “They don’t get to get a fever and simply declare themselves sex gods. They don’t get to use their… FLUIDS… to reverse over one hundred years of work towards gender equality. It’s just not FAIR.”

Kristen shook her head, softly. Anna had an impressive blindspot in justice when it came to the girl who slept in the same room as her. Anna kept assuming that Kristen was an engineering major, despite all the biology and life chemistry textbooks always on her desk. She assumed that Kristen had been raised aggressively religious, which, while true, was not something you ASSUMED. It just seemed unfair to be so repetitively stereotyped by a white girl who had one of those 1920s art deco posters up on her college dorm wall, and actually put buttons on her backpack.

“So what’re you trying to accomplish, here?” Kristen prodded. Anna gave her an incredulous look.

“Just because they’re a little bigger and they... “ she shifted, looked at the floor. Even Anna had to acknowledge reality a little bit. “...smell different… they don’t get to declare themselves King Studs of the planet. They just went through puberty. Again. Big deal. We’re not going to just be handmaidens, caring for their needs.”

Was this a knock on her? Kristen had been taking care of a virus boy on their floor for the past week, making sure he had fluids and was mechanically chewing food. Anna had no doubt assumed it was Christian Obligation.

There was a knock on the door. They both turned to look, tensed. Of course it was a boy—the knock was too loud, from a body still getting used to rigid definition and ropey muscles.

“Can I come in?” said a deep, throaty voice.

“No!” Anna yelled.

“Yeah, I’m coming in.”

A boy pushed inside. They hadn’t barricade the door, exactly, but Anna had shoved some towels on the underside to keep the aroma of altered, sexy male from getting in. The towels stopped nothing. Dean walked in.

Kristen made sure to cross her legs. She sighed, deep within herself.

At the start of the semester Dean had been—forgettable. A boring white boy with ambitions to facial hair, and hexagonal framed glasses that had probably seemed interesting in High School. Almost certainly an economics major. He would’ve never dared enter a girl’s room just because he felt like it.

But like all the rest he had puked and shat and sweated his way through a second puberty, and through barely any effort of his own, outside of some eating, had a six-pack and a chest you could paint a mural on and quads and delts and a downy, full beard. He still wore his old glasses, which were slightly bent at the frames, and one of his old t-shirts, which threatened to burst.

He was dead fucking sexy. Even Kristen tilted her head at him, and didn’t say a word that he had simply pushed his way inside. They waited for what he had to say.

“We’re all going to the dining commons,” he said, pointing a finger out in the hallway, where a bunch more hot guys were probably playing video games. “You coming?”

“Suuuure,” Anna replied, for the both of them. It was probably intended to hold a heavy dose of sarcasm, but came out as a breathy half-sigh. Because around then Dean’s scent reached them.

“Keep your legs CROSSED,” Kristen reminded herself. They so badly wanted to come undone.

They all had it, all those boys. When they had hit puberty one more time all those half-assed human pheromone emitters had really been cranked up.

They all smelled like liquid sex. They all were intensely hunky. They provoked incredible, endless desire.

What made it particularly difficult was that they didn’t smell like—like cologne. There was none of the urbane, cosmopolitan or even cowboy stuff traditionally associated with hot men. Mahogany and other woods, leather, fine bourbon, maybe a hint of cigar smoke. None of that. This was an animal smell. It smelled like the zoo, a dirty zoo. And like a classic musk it was making Kristen wet, and think about breeding, pretty much all the time.

The physical reactions were routine. She was wet. She was wet a lot. Kristen felt her little nipples get hard, her cheeks flush, her heart start to pound. Nothing new in all of that. That urge to lick her lips, smile, get a little closer. It was like eating too much sugar—good, delicious, but costly in the end, the novelty gone. It was tiring to be so turned on, to want this much dick, to spend so much mental energy on sweaty hormone-induced fuck fantasies, all the time.

So it was hard for Kristen to get too upset at Anna. She felt it too. It was unfair, unsettling. This wasn’t courtship, or even dating. It was just chemicals that made her want to fuck, paired with visuals that made her want to fuck that guy. All of it a reminder that in the end she was wired in so many ways to just—reproduce. Whenever she was around boys, she was that much more of an animal.

Even with stupid Dean.

“DC?” Dean said, gently. He was used to girls staring at him with big, wet, desiring eyes. It was his new birthright.

“We’re coming,” Anna said, quietly.

“That’s what she said,” Dean said, immediately. He grinned, slammed his fist against the door. “BOOM!”

Anna and Kristen had, quietly, without ever mentioning it, devised a secret door signal for when one of them was inside, masturbating furiously.

It was terrible to think that she needed, deeply, to get jizzed in by a guy who said that sort of joke. Kristen resented it. She resented it every time she paused to get a sniff at some passing male, to check herself in the mirror, whenever she felt that increasingly familiar sense of getting wet between her legs—just because she was around boys. She especially resented that they didn’t give a single fuck about her existence. She was a selection of background noise. They all wanted to fuck Anna.

“Well, come on,” Dean said. He paused, just for a second. To look Anna up and down. A look that plainly expressed—you’re going out in THAT? Severe ponytail, t-shirt from High School that read “ROOSEVELT DEBATE,” jeans, sneakers? Dean clearly felt no shame about it, Dean, who, some time ago, had wandered around nearly naked in a towel for nearly an hour, a reedy and wet twig with a sunken chest, forlorn at getting locked out.

Anna flushed. She put her head up, defiant, and put her hands on her hips. Kristen couldn’t help but notice that her chest thrust out. And that Dean hadn’t bothered to harass HER at all.

Out in the main room they were all playing video games, as expected.

There was a weird disconnect in the scene. No doubt it would become normal, eventually. The little room with the faded furniture, full to the brim with muscle-thick hunks. They were still used to their previous frames, and stuffed too many to a sofa, overlapping each other. It was cold out, outside, but the boys were in shorts and tanktops and t-shirts—all of them in sandals. They all ran very warm, post-infection. Despite heading to dinner momentarily a lot of them were snacking—huge gobs of pretzels, mostly. It was incredible how much the boys could eat.

All of these sexy guys were watching a pikachu v. pikachu v. pikachu war on the small dorm TV. They growled and grunted around the controllers and mashed them with big thumbs—at least two got broken a week. Their mixed scents hung in the air. Anna tried to breathe through her mouth. Just going to dinner was playing havoc with her glands.

Someday it would be normal, but it just looked, now, like halftime on a porno shoot. Any moment now all the boys, with their big beards and muscled chests and well-defined musculature, would get back to fucking.

And there were some of the girls there, as well.

There was plenty of deactivated virus and its hormonal byproducts left over in boy—fluids. Lots of it. They had a comparatively minor effect on women. No major fevers or anything like that. Just a little girl puberty. Some breast growth. Sometimes a lot. Increased… sensitivity. Just a little bit more female all around, some more giggling, some more ass and hips and tits and lashes, nothing extreme like packing on over fifty pounds of heavy muscle and growing a horse cock.

But the fluids themselves were a little bit addictive.

Riya had not hesitated. She was a short Indian girl, and Kristen had put her tentatively in the ‘be friends’ group when the semester had started. But when surrounded by increasingly hot boys the girl had gotten onto her knees and sucked without hesitation. Someone had put a picture of a bicycle on her door—Kristen suspected Anna—and Riya had decorated it with rainbow streamers plus a bunch more printed out pictures of various vehicles. Every new conquest got a new bicycle with their name on it. The only holdout was Kristen’s ward, Grant, who was too sick to move.

Riya was obviously cumdrunk right then and there. She was nearly always cumdrunk, that silly and suggestible post-coitus post-guzzle state, when a big load of creamy fluid was making a girl’s pleasure centers sparkle and hiss. There was even a bit of white on her chin. Disgusting. Her big new tits rode very high in a croptop, and she lolled about on a boy’s lap. Almost certainly not the same one she had just blown. It was on to fresh loads for her. She made rounds like the doctor she had been studying to be, making sure her men were jizzing regularly. She never went to class.

Riya looked really happy.

“Alright, lets go,” Dean said. He was still filling out, hard as it was to believe, and was starving all the time.

“Is Grant better yet?” one of the guys asked. Michael, one of the asian guys. Say this for the virus, there was a real race-free solidarity among the men, lately. They could all bench press hundreds of pounds and had enormous penises, and had moved on from racial tension.

“Nah, he’s still sick. Probably barfing up a lung. Not that it matters,” Grant hadn’t gone with the pack even pre-virus. Dean shook his head, mock-concerned. “Kristen, how’s he doing?”

“Alive,” she said. “His fever broke last night.”

“That’s great. Stellar work.”

He gave Kristen an affectionate pat on the butt. It was the first time one of the boys had bothered with her all week.

Of course she went and checked on Grant. Again.

Grant wasn’t happy about anything.

He had harbored the smallest shred of hope that he would be immune. There were a few men out there who didn’t catch the virus. Even destined to be little-dicked shrimps in a sea of biceps, Grant marked it preferable to getting predictably hunky, getting swallowed up by a jock, walking around sticking a ridiculous dick into whatever wiggled. Becoming a 70s porn star.

But no, he had gotten sick like the rest, suffered in bed and coughed and barfed and moaned. He had narrowly avoided crapping the bed. Woke up to the most vivid and extreme of sex fantasies, almost mechanical reveries of fucking loads of pink, blowing white loads into thick asses. He barely remembered the past week, floated in a hot sea of strange dreams.

He had vague memories of—a girl. That wasn’t quite right—he had dreamt of hundreds of girls. But all of them had been busty angels with skillful tongues. This one had been slight and covered in a sweater. That alone made her seem strange. And she had swore at him—horrible, filthy language—when he threw up on the floor or refused to drink or eat.

There was a knock on the door. A girl, of course. Only girls had timid, weak knocks, only girls actually bothered to wait outside instead of just busting in. Grant considered huddling under the covers, but, instead, found the strength to drag himself over and open it up.

Kristen? Kristen—something. Her dorm room was four doors down. They hadn’t talked much at all. He had been ultra-preoccupied with grades, then ultra-preoccupied with keeping his insides in. “Uh… hi,” he said.

The girl tilted her head. “Feeling better?” he said. “You actually got up this time.”

“Almost. I haven’t barfed in hours,” Grant said. He furrowed his brow. “You look…”

She waited. He opened his mouth several times. “So here’s the thing,” he said. “I kinda remember... stuff… and you’re in it? You do wear sweaters all the time, right?”

“I checked in on you all last week, if that’s what you mean,” Kristen said. “Do you really not remember?” She stood in the doorframe.

“You did?” Grant wasn’t totally sure what was real, lately. Had the entire world actually contracted some sort of sex virus? That couldn’t be right. No doubt he was just coming out of fever.

“Yeah, well, Dean wasn’t going to. He said he’d say something if you died. And that he checked that you weren’t puking blood. So… yeah.”

“Oh,” Grant said. “That does sound like Dean.” He wasn’t sure how to feel. Had she really looked after him? His grandmother was hundreds of miles away, his brother was who-knows-where. He hadn’t expected anyone to check in on him. He’d congratulated himself on surviving the virus by himself. “Why did you do that?”

“Oh, you’re welcome!” Kristen said. She smacked him on his stomach, as high as she could easily reach. “Super welcome.”

“I mean.. Thanks. Really. I guess I was wondering where all the barf went.”

“I carried it to the bathroom,” Kristen said. “You really don’t remember?”

“No… wait, do you swear? A lot?”

“Yes. When you threw up projectile I sure did,” Kristen said.

“Oh yeah,” it was all vaguely coming back to him. Sweater-girl was… Kristen. The one who had mopped his brow, stuck water bottles in his mouth, pushed protein bars into his weakly resisting mouth. A filthy mouthed angel.

“Anyway, you need to come to the DC. You need a ton of calories now that the fever is broken. Five figure calories.”

“I wouldn’t make it,” he said. “I’d die halfway there. Oregon Trail style-death.” He gave Kristen a closer look. She had shoulder-length hair and deep-set eyes. She had no makeup on, which was increasingly unusual.

“Yeah, but you look like a skeleton man,” Kristen said. Had she really held his head while he puked? “Come on. I’ll watch you.

Grant shrugged.

“You really have to eat.”

Grant shrugged.

“Are you really not going to eat? You’ll die. That’s just this works.”

Grant started to close the door. The girl slipped inside. Grant heaved a sigh, made his way over to the bed, and fell into it. The girl stood in the center of the room, suddenly uncertain.

“Not feeling like eating,” Grant reported. That was a lie. He needed to eat. He was starving. But the idea of fleshing out, growing, transforming—it disgusted him. He hadn’t checked on his penis, yet. He was scared to. It felt bigger. His testicles hurt.

Kristen flushed, crossed her arms. “People die with this, Grant. Are you really going to starve yourself? Do you know what that does to your muscles? They will eat themselves, then your organs, then I’ll feel stupid for caring. I’ve BEEN feeding you.”

“Oh, no muscles? Oh, that sounds terrible,” Grant said. “Oh no, I don’t get to look like an extra on Top Gun. I don’t get to be Mr. Leg Day.”

“You’ll DIE. Have you even done any reading on this? I know there’s pamphlets and stuff. Grant, I didn’t spend last week mopping your dumb BROW so you’d just be melodramatic.”

“If I wanted to be more like Dean I’ll have to watch more Family Guy reruns.”

The girl scowled. “Fine.”

Grant paused. He turned to face the wall. “Sorry,” he said, eventually. “I appreciate you looking after me.” No one else did, he didn’t say. Dean’s parents had come for his illness, checked him over, waited by his bedside. Good for Dean.

“Well, now I have to feed you STILL or you’ll DIE,” she said. “I’ll get a bunch of the protein bars at the DC. They’re just handing them out. You’ll eat them, correct? Because you enjoy life? I’ll get the medical staff in here if you won’t. I’m through hand-feeding you.”

Grant sat up. He took a long look at the girl. Had she really taken care of him all week? It was nice to have someone show concern. Why? “I will,” he promised. He paused. “What do I smell like? Like all the others?”

The girl backed up. She scrunched her nose. It was kind of cute. “No. I mean, yes, you’ve got… it. But every boy is a little bit different. I don’t know how it works. It’s subtle. But you can pick it out.”

“What’s different about me?” Grant asked. He watched her sniff.

“Smoke. You’re a little smokey. Like a campfire.”

“What, like, in a bad way?”

“None of you fucking boys are in a bad way, that’s the entire problem,” Kristen said. She left.

Smokey. That, at least, was something to hold on to. A dark edge. Grant liked that.

But there was still no way in hell he was turning into a Dean.

The DC was struggling to keep up, and had instituted emergency measures. The fancy made-to-order stations were abandoned. Desserts were down to soft-serve and bags of cookies. The overworked kitchen staff served up big platters of industrial proteins every night, and huge tubs of basic carbs—spaghetti, mostly—rubbed in butter. They had just thrown protein bars and snacks at the boys like they were goats, and the boys had gone through all of them without stopping, and asked for more.

It should’ve been a time when the girls in the group got to actually speak up a bit, if only because the boys’ mouths were full. But instead they all typically just sat there, eyeing the men, breathing, tapping at the big vat of salad that was the only concession to what girls wanted, or eating hard themselves if they were still blossoming in extra tits. More and more the boys were using them as servers, sending them up for more platters, while they kept at the trough. No one was complaining.

Anna sniffed at it all. Michelle had just returned with a tray piled high with hardboiled eggs and bacon, just slabs of bacon, for her boyfriend. Michelle had been on Team Abstinence, but had hooked up with Jake just two weeks ago. Her body was filling in nicely, and she had lost her previous shyness about showing off assets. She wore a bright yellow tanktop with the straps straining. She huddled against her—no one was saying boyfriend. There was a chance boyfriends were over with. Her fuck.

“Jake, you can get your own stuff,” Anna said. “This is the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

“Yes, we know you’re talking about it, Anna,” Jake said. They all used the exact same half-amused tone with her. “That’s what you’re always talking about.”

“Are you sure? You never seem to listen,” Anna picked at her plate. She had made some sort of obscure gesture by getting hot dogs. Boy food.

“Anna, please, we are recovering from the plague,” Jake said. The boys laughed. “Hard times. We need food badly. My jaw is sore.” Jake said.

“So is Michelle’s,” Dean broke in, to the obvious setup. Laughs and cheers. God, his jaw wasn’t sore, they just wanted to make the joke. Michelle just smiled quietly and hugged Jake’s arm. She had that sleepy smile common to girls these days. Drunk on scent and jizz.

“Disgusting,” Anna said. She scowled, ate an entire hot dog.

Kristen sat quietly through all of it. She had picked up a huge quantity of protein bars and stuffed them in her backpack. She wasn’t sure why she had bothered. Grant was better and was now pushing her away. She supposed it was nice, a little, that he wasn’t embracing his transformation into a hunk, but a little bit more “thanks, Kristen, for everything,” would’ve been nice. Why had she bothered? Was it just her upbringing? She’d asked herself it so many times, ,watching him toss and turn in the sheets. Pity?

Something else?

“So what’s the long-term plan here, Anna?” Dean said. “Spinsterhood? You and Kristen living in the desert? Do they do spinsters still or is that like, the victorians?”

Anna’s look bounced off Dean’s frame.

But they were losing. At the outset it was just ordinary girls and a bunch of sexy, hungry guys. Jeans and ponytails and college sweatshirts next to hunks. The only difference on the girl end was the sidelong glances, the flushed cheeks, the tightly crossed legs.

But now things were changing. Adjusting—sexy girls and sexy guys. Porn stars all around. There was barely anyone left in comfy jeans, much less anyone in pajama pants. Yoga pants at a minimum. Tight jean shorts. Average tit size had ballooned. They were all in club clothing, slinky and shiny things that were too tight now. Wearing ruby red lipstick to dinner. Now girls in zip-up hoodies were islands in a sea, lost at an adult film star convention, trying hard to breathe through their mouths and getting elbowed by men who didn’t notice them at all. Kristen’s sweater was armor. It was scary to think of a guy actually pursuing her. What could she do?

“Uh,” Kristen tried. No one paid any attention to her.

“You aren’t cool just because you have a BIG PENIS, Dean,” Anna said. “I’m here to learn things, which is why we’re at COLLEGE. This isn’t some stupid free harem fantasy. Someday you’ll have to get a job, and getting your dick sucked is not a job.”

It was risque chatter from Anna. She was clearly starting to feel it. Just too much sex around, all the time. “Someday Kristen will be an engineer, and I’ll be a professor, and you’ll be holding a sign crudely labeled WILL FUCK GIRLS FOR FOOD on the side of the road.”

“Scientist,” Kristen said. No one noticed. Anna had all the boys attention, now.

“Good points, good points,” Dean said. “Lets see what Riya thinks. Riya?”

They all looked around. She was nowhere to be seen. Dean winked broadly, made an exxaggerated thrust, and up popped Riya a moment later from underneath the table. There was a round of loud and lusty cheers. Riya smiled. A single white thread dribbled down her chin.

When they got back Grant had passed out. Kristen called in the professionals.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” the nurse murmured. She checked his cheeks like he was four, took his temperature, watched him with half-lidded, lazy eyes as he munched steadily on protein bars. “Not a good thing to do, Grant. Dangerous. This is a real virus, sir. It’s not just some sort of easy ticket to abs. People die of it.”

“Death by stud,” Grant said. But he was feeling better, chastened. He was on protein bar number eleven. He had felt wrong, severely wrong, and passed out trying to call 911.

“Well, you should be alright, if you listen to your body,” said Nurse “Call Me Samantha.” She wore a bright white medical jacket, and, underneath, some sort of sheath dress just a half-inch longer. She had big thighs, and had sat herself down, very comfortably, on his bed. “Its going through some major changes. You have to listen to it. They’re still figuring out the brain changes. You have an entirely new brain, in many ways.”

“I think I still have my original this-is-puberty book somewhere back in Indiana,” Grant said, between bites. He took a last look at his spindly arms. So long, skinny jeans. He already had sprouted a mat of dark black hair on his chest.

“Very funny,” Samantha said, and giggled. She put her hand on his chest and rubbed at his new chest hairs. It didn’t seem like a very medical gesture. “You’re 6′1″? You might gain a little height. An inch. You can expect to gain somewhere between fifty and seventy pounds. What do you weigh now?”

“160.”

“Good heavens,” the nurse blinked. “You are a beanbole. Perhaps even more, then. Now, lets do the fun part of the examination, see what the virus left you with.” She smiled, showed her teeth. Grant could see her nipples tent her jacket.

She shucked the covers off and started to slide down his pants. Grant stopped chewing. “Pardon me? What’re you doing?”

“He’s in there, I hope!” the nurse put her hand on top of his underpants. Yes, Grant’s penis was in there. He had just glanced at it, too aware of Dean flexing in the mirror with his cock out. Embarrassing and juvenile. Of course it was bigger. He didn’t need to sit and stare at it. “Ahhhh yes he is. Hello to you! Oh, this is my favorite part by far! I’ve love seeing the expressions on you men! Like Christmas wrapped in Christmas!”

She put her hand inside his fly and gently pulled out a very big cock. Grant stared at it. The size and girth of it almost overshadowed the fact that he was clearly getting a handjob from a sexy, busty nurse. It was—primal. His previous cock had been an average thing that, yes, he had rubbed away on like every teenage boy. This one had huge, pounding veins along the entire length, an intimidating mushroom head, and was running with some white, thick fluid that was nothing like anything that had previously come out of his dick.

Samantha looked concerned. “Oof, you should be careful, the virus can really clog your tubing,” she said, jacking him with enthusiasm. He was oozing continuously, onto her hand, her nails with their pink polish. “Your cum is a very different thing, now. Did you read anything about this, at all?”

“N-no,” Grant said, all college cool erased. He wasn’t a virgin, but this wasn’t anything he’d experienced before. Was everything just casually going Penthouse?

“Well, it’s chunky, put it at that. You’re producing a lot of fluid and it has to go somewhere. See how much you’re spurting? It’s… mmm… oh my... “ She added a second hand without difficulty. There was room. They worked together. It was medical, in its own fucked-up way. Designed to make him jizz out. “You’ll be producing well over five or six cups of jism. Or more. You might be a very impressive producer.”

Grant clenched the sheets. The nurse quietly undid one of her buttons on her jacket. Her cleavage line was long and perfect. Her hands were spackled with his bright white goo. He wasn’t even cumming. “Oh, what a wonderful stallion you are now,” the nurse said.

It was “stallion” that did it. Grant erupted. Sperm shot high into the air, the first few shots staining the carpet far away. A single jet landed on and ruined his sheets. And then more and more and more—each shot make him grunt with a deep voice that was entirely new. “Make sure you drink plenty of fluids,” he mildly heard the nurse say, from somewhere far away.

She took just a dainty lick of her pinkie finger, licked at her lips. Grant paused, watching her, feeling like he was being scored. “How is it?” he said.

A broad smile crossed Nurse Samantha’s face. Her eyes rolled around just a little, before she could pull it together. She stretched, then casually wiped her hands on his bed. “Verrry nice, Grant. Very, very nice. Very nice to have met you. Keep eating. You’re gonna feel the need to exercise, don’t fight it. Listen to your body.” She gave him another affectionate rub on the chest.

Grant glanced at the huge pile of protein bars. “Did you bring these?”

“Oh, that wasn’t me,” the Nurse said. She tenderly patted at his cock. It wasn’t that much smaller, post-spurt. There was still a little oozing. “Now, I want you to cum at least four or five times a day. More if you feel the urge.”

“A day,” Grant said, flatly.

“Or more. If you feel the urges. So many urges lately!” she looked at him hard. Or tried to. It was difficult to tell if she was serious or just mock-serious, since a smile kept sneaking across her face. “I want you to promise me you’ll cum at least that much. Powerful, sustained orgasms, completely clearing out your testicles. I’m very serious. Your balls will swell up and fall off if you don’t. You have a medical condition.”

Nurse Samantha stood up, and hesitated. Finally she shrugged. “A little more for the road,” she whispered at him, and took a little scoop from the load on the bed. She licked each finger clean, one at a time.

He watched her swagger out, shaking her ass.

Dean walked in a bit later, while Grant was mopping, ineffectually, at the liter of spooge on his sheets.

“Everything alright?” he said, half-interested.

“The nurse gave me a handjob and ordered me to spend all my time orgasming,” Grant said. He threw another batch of soaking tissues into the trash. Kleenex Corporation had to be thrilled with all this.

He glanced over. Dean stood in the doorway, his face in his hands. He shook, then wiped at his wet eyes with a too-short sleeve.

“What?” Grant said.

“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbled. “It’s just all so wonderful.”

Anna had gone out. Kristen signed on to chat. All her friends had scattered out of High School, grimly focused on the best available university, and now united only by a few shared chatrooms and snaps and texts. Increasingly AFK, coy about their dating habits. Probably worried that some mild cum drinking would get back to the parents. Not a few parents had drawn the kids out to hunker in the family home. Kristen herself had three unlistened to voicemails from Mom and Dad.

4KRISTSAKE:

my roommate keeps lecturing at the boys to keep it in the pants.

JEANSKORTS:

boys… lectures… yes...

GLARF:

lol

JEANSKORTS:

this will work

JEANSKORTS:

your roommate has figured out the solution

JEANSKORTS:

sternly telling boys what to do

GLARF:

lolllllllll

4KRISTSAKE:

yeah it’s good.

4KRISTSAKE:

you can tell they’re just waiting for her to give in

4KRISTSAKE:

okay sure honey :waits expectantly: do you want to suck now

GLARF:

how long do you give her

4KRISTSAKE:

how long do any of us have….

JEANSKORTS:

checks watch

4KRISTSAKE:

i mean half of us are permanently AFK. hmm I wonder why. probably studying nope it’s guzzle duty.

4KRISTSAKE:

this is the part of the movie where you’re down to the main characters at least.

GLARF:

ummmmm :|

4KRISTSAKE:

oh no.

GLARF:

there’s this guy…

JEANSKORTS:

candice no really

GLARF:

yeahhhhhhh

4KRISTSAKE:

candice it’s BOY CRACK

GLARF:

ladies i gotta be the zombie girl on this one and say

GLARF:

don’t knock it till you tried it

GLARF:

i mean yeah it’s clearly a little bit addictive and now i gotta get my cock fix

GLARF:

and my parents are not gonna be super happy i’m on my knees

GLARF:

BUT

GLARF:

it’s

GLARF:

the

GLARF:

best thing ever.

JEANSKORTS:

RIP candice ‘glarf’ song

JEANSKORTS:

could not keep penises out of her mouth

GLARF:

look. I’m up two cup sizes, i feel super great, and everything is just. So. much. Better.

JEANSKORTS:

YEAH BECAUSE YOU’RE DUMBER

GLARF:

not proven. You’re not dumber because you SMILE and things make you LAUGH and you’re HAPPY.

JEANSKORTS:

YOU’RE DUMBER BECAUSE YOU’RE SUCKING BIMBO VIRUS JIZZLE

GLARF:

:O

4KRISTSAKE:

Jackie chill out.

JEANSKORTS:

GO SUCK A DICK

JEANSKORTS:

LETS ALL GO SUCK DICKS!!!

JEANSKORTS:

DICKS DICKS DICKS!

“Ughhhhhh,” Kristen said. She tilted her head way back.

Dicks dicks dicks.

She had intended from the start to cut loose in college. Kristen had grown up in a very safe and very boring and very tight-knit community. She had gone on a few carefully arranged and chaperoned dates under the vague authority of the church. She had studied hard just in order to have her first pick of schools, so she could make a strong argument for a very good one very far away.

The plan had been: an extremely enjoyable period of kick-ass rebellion. Mild pot smoking. Making out with scruffy, disposable boys. Clubs, drinking, some light sex. She even had a few outfits ready, never worn, stuff like pink tights and rompers and sundresses that were just categorically off-limits back home. She had toyed with the idea of a tattoo or three, or better yet, some sort of piercing. It was all set to be A. liberating and B. really fun.

And then, almost immediately, everyone had gone Horny Hunk and it had all gone to shit.

Kristen twirled in her chair, aimless. All of that rebellion stuff seemed so, so pointless. Whatever the world was becoming, it had little space for witty, wise-cracking asian girls finding themselves in college. It certainly didn’t give two shits about invisible Kristen the interchangeable science major. Maybe, MAYBE she could get a guy to care if she literally kneeled in front of him and vigorously sucked on his dick until he shot cum all over her.

But frankly probably not even then. Girls on their knees were not scarce. Boy crack. They wafted their pheromones and waggled their dicks with their ambrosia cum and the ladies waddled over.

Why had she taken care of Grant? Grant, who she had not even really known pre-virus. The quiet, evidently studious boy four doors down, with his hair shaven short, studying electrical engineering. He had made some laconic jokes at Dean’s expense, which was a mark in his favor. He was, honestly, the first black guy, or at least somewhat black or whatever he was, that Kristen had ever met. And that was it.

There was a medical staff, they would’ve done it. But Dean had made some shitty comment about how no one was coming to help out Grant and it had just cut Kristen to the core. Everyone else had gotten parents and relatives and friends in to nurse through the fevers, and Grant hadn’t. Was it her upbringing? Was it just being upset with stupid Dean? Was Grant some sort of doll that wouldn’t run away?

He hadn’t even remembered her. It hurt.

It had been creepy, the way he had quietly become sexy. There was nothing at all sexy about Grant, 19 or so, beanpole lanky and murmuring feverish in bed, wet with sweat. Sickbed patients were rarely handsome. She had kept a cold compress on him and ignored Dean and stuck water bottles and protein-heavy foodstuffs in his mouth, and then, a few days in, she had become attracted to him.

He just smelled different, one day. Hot, attractive. She had had a lot of time to stare at him. Grant was the same guy, the same fever-wracked mess, who barfed around her and raved, but her hormone-influenced brain was just seeing it all in a different way. The way his eyelashes looked, the beads of sweat trickling down his face, his long arms and big hands. Kristen had sighed and gritted her teeth and tried to put it aside. She was doing this out of COMPASSION, god damn it.

How unfair that she was getting turned on by a half-dead guy who could barely make it to the bathroom.

And he hadn’t even remembered her. He remembered her cursing, her ugly-ass sweaters. Great. He had already fucked with her head, with her body. She had masturbated to him, guiltily, confused by it all. It was unfair.

She gave the chair a final twirl and stood up. It was time to at least see what the fuss was about with stupid salty semen. If it wasn’t rebellion, at least it wasn’t hiding in her room. Anna’s room.

And Grant owed her.

She’d at least finally get some god damn boobs out of it.

Grant set himself a mission. He was going to walk to the end of the hallway, and not pass out, or barf.

He wore his loosest pair of sweats, and was highly conscious of how tight they were. First of all, the monster dick cradled loosely between his legs. He was going to have to get new underwear. But more then that, the thickness in his thighs, the subtle expansion to his waist. As lean as he had forced himself to become, the virus raged on. It wanted him to be a MAN, like some action hero from 1987. Even his leg hairs were thicker, which was just a joke. Some of the guys had become sheepdogs, practically gorillas, covered in coarse, matted hair.

“God.. damn… bullshit…” he muttered, holding on to the wall. He clutched his twentieth protein bar in his other hand. He was still ravenous.

The door he was clutching for support opened up. Grant fell right in. He landed in a masculine heap, and looked up into the habitually stony face of… Kristen.

He had been doing a lot of thinking about Kristen. He had asked Dean about it. “Oh yeah she was here all the time,” he had been told. “You nearly barfed on her. It was like you were aiming for her. You called her Gramma or something like, all the time.”

“Oh,” Grant had said.

“Are you guys not even knocking anymore?” she said. “I can get a lock put on this, the University started a program.”

“I’m not a full-bore sexual assault machine just yet,” Grant said. He tried to stand up, and couldn’t. He managed a sitting position. “I’m trying to walk again.”

“Uh huh. That’s how it starts—with walking,” Kristen said. “I’d offer to help…”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“...but you’d yank my arm off. You guys are like gorillas now.”

“I know,”

Grant took a deep, calming breath. The world spun. He looked up. Kristen stared down at him, mildly inconvenienced. She was short, especially so in a land of new giants, and had dark black hair pulled back into a small, brief ponytail. She dressed small, too, in thick sweaters with too-long arms, in dark black jackets or denim. When she talked it seemed like she’d be scowling, or maybe kicking at his exposed shins, but she kept her face composed, her lips thin and neutral.

“I’d move if I could,” he offered.

“That’s fine. Actually… come in,” Kristen said. She glanced around, then prodded at Grant with her foot. “Inside.”

Getting kicked by a short Korean girl turned out to be the motivation he needed. Grant roused himself, made it four steps to her bed—black bedspread, severely made—and slumped into it. A “in a girl’s bed” joke made its way to his lips, and he stifled it. Was the virus making all of them run out corny bro jokes?

“I need… well. I don’t need something,” Kristen hovered around him. There were big stacks of posterboard everywhere, for some reason. “I want… okay. You owe me some... jizz.”

“Oh,” Grant said. He covered his eyes, uncovered them. “Why?”

“Does it matter? I basically saved your life. I called the nurse in when you passed out, all the boys were just milling around wondering if they should toss water on your face or maybe just write penises on it with markers.”

“That sounds like Dean,”

His cock started responding to the conversation with a girl. It wanted to hose her down, it was happy to help her. He refused to look down. “True,” he conceded. “But… what do you want it for? I’m not making any babies in college.”

She recoiled physically. “No!” she said. “No, no, no.”

“Well, that’s what sperm is for. I feel weird about this. It’s intimate. Do you want some pee while you’re at it?”

“Christ! The one fucking… “ Kristen walked around in a small circle. “Alright, fine. Like every other guy you’re doing the make-me-beg-for-it routine to a girl. That’s fine, that’s just how things are now.”

“You want my cum!” Grant protested. “Give it to her!” his balls said. It had a gallon ready.

“Grant, if you don’t cum four or five times a day, your balls will literally fall off. Literally, they will turn black and die. All of you boys are spurting spunk everywhere. It coats the walls.”

Grant put up a finger. “I’m trying very hard to not be some boy. I managed to knock myself unconscious, not being another boy.”

“And yet here a girl is asking very nicely for something you have a ton of and you are being a pain in the ass about it. Are you waiting for me to get on my knees? Is that it? I’m not. I’ll just wait until you have to jack off and I’ll just swoop in.”

“God,” Grant chewed on a protein bar. “Why is everything so fucked up.” Part of him was just annoyed at this small femal—this woman, chewing him out. His balls did ache.

She took a deep breath. It was a gesture she seemed to do a lot. “Look, I just… want to get it over with, okay? And I figured... “

Yeah. They fell silent. Get it over with. Because what other option was there? She looked so sad, so resigned. He remembered her face, wiping his brow.

“Fine. Fine, if you want it.”

“Just a bit. That’s all,” Kristen said. She took yet another breath. “Go ahead.”

Grant pulled at his pants. It was, undeniably, a relief. Kristen turned around. He could feel her blush from the bed.

“Kristen, I am going to give you some cum, I swear, but my god, I am so fucking confused right now. Also, I need a cup or something.”

“Just tell me when you’re done, I’ll hand one over.”

It was his first time yanking on his own, enhanced organ. The unreality of it, the lingering weakness and fever, made it that much more intense. Or maybe that’s just how it was, now. Maybe the new thickness in him was all pleasure receptors, that many more neurons floating around his head. Certainly all the guys were spending most of their time giving it a workout. Grant could understand why. He worked his hand up and down the shaft, and sighed. This was much, much more intense than the brief sensations of cranking it, pre-virus. He could feel shivers working their way down from the tip.

So much for the pep talks he had given himself. That he was going to be different, that a bigger dick was not a reason to lose laser-like focus on school, grades, degree, future. Here he was, casually jerking it, vaguely aimed at a girl. Inching up on an existence where he would skeet, skeet, skeet, onto whatever girl skin was around, into open mouths, fucking pink, in a deep love affair with his own thick balls and veiny dick. So much for years and years of singing in the church choir.

He hardly needed encouragement to cum. There was a girl not five feet away, standing there, her arms crossed tightly. Despite her best efforts to hide everything Kristen had a pretty good ass, and Grant stared at it. Girls got second puberty, too. It’d be his cum that would send hormones coursing through her, make her achingly wet, give her big tits, a big ass…

He came.

He shot Kristen all across her back.

“What the HELL?” she yelped, turning around. The second shot hit her in the face. A thick gob of cum, propelled at speed, right on to her nose, and then down her sweater. A skunk stripe.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He grabbed a coffee cup off her desk, tried in vain to get the third load inside. This was wild. He was a hose.

“That’s my… that’s my special cup… oh….”

Kristen had gotten sperm in her mouth.

His cum.

It was just as thick as before, like makeup. Her face was criss-crossed twice, roughly intersecting right on her mouth. Kristen’s tongue explored, very slowly, the bits of jism within licking distance. Grant watched, entranced, breathing hard and still leaking onto her bed. He had filled the coffee cup to overflowing.

“It’s…” Kristen said. Her eyes were extremely far away, nearly rolling, and her voice was badly slurred. “Good. So good. It’s… good.”

She sat down heavily, onto the floor. Her legs splayed open.

Grant snapped up. Guilt followed the post-cum trip. What the hell was he playing at? Did he really have this little control, that he’d junkie up a dormmate just because she gave him a stern look? Cheerfully cum all over her? “Ah, hell,” he muttered. He gingerly picked up Kristen by the armpits. She weighed next to nothing. He was still aching and dribbling and dizzy, but managed to deposit her into her desk chair. “Okay. You’re okay.”

Kristen simply sat there, blinking wildly. Her hair was matted with his juice. He awkwardly dabbed up the bits of himself on the carpet, on the bedspread, eventually decided to forgo cleaning her off. She eventually regarded him with half-lidded eyes. Her mouth was still wide-open.

“You taste realllllly good,” she said, and smiled, goofy. “Smoke. You’re my smoke. You came on me.”

“Great, I’m just gonna… leave,” Grant said. He paused. “You’re okay, right?”

“SOOOO okay,” Kristen agreed. She gave him a sloppy thumbs up, then noticed the brimming coffee cup by her side. She picked it up, inhaled like it was a fresh cup of morning coffee, and started to drink. “Mmmmm thanks smoke. Smoke smoke smoke. You came on my face.”

“This is all so wrong,” Grant said, and shut the door.

She had done it.

Part of her was scared, embarrassed. As much as she had talked big, all she had really intended was to smoke some pot and maybe dabble in some mild hallucinogens. Drink mixed drinks. She had had no plans to introduce powerful transformative drugs into her system, to jumpstart some heady, unknown leap into second puberty, to chrysalis her comfortable, perfectly fine body into something more girly, sexual, feminine. And to do so by coating her body in cum.

Cum was, her entire life had taught her, a shameful squirt. A dangerous substance that carried either disease or children.

And she had soaked in it, luxuriated in it. Practically begged Grant to cover her in it, and then drank it like tea and giggled stupidly. Sat there in a blanket of jism and drank some more.

Kristen could feel it in her, all the millions of little sperms. She felt different, was different. Not just the response to all those boy pheromones in the air. She felt warm and weird, hungry in some indefinable way, and definitely she was gonna get some bigger boobs. Her mild, inoffensive boobs already had sprouted thicker nipples, just overnight. If Riya was any judge, as well as the internet, she could expect two-three cups of growth. Her ass felt covered in a new layer of padding. She was even hornier, which didn’t seem possible.

Her acne was gone, too. Just, gone.

“Guys, guyyysssssss,” her TA cooed. Kristen sat in her chair and looked up at her probable future. Her TA had started the year in black jeans and matching black fleece, teaching section with no flair. Now she swirled around in a rich blue dress, playing to the crowd of grinning guys. Bending over for no reason, sitting up on the desk and casually crossing and uncrossing her legs. Giggling and tittering. She always, always, looked guys in the crotch.

“Ummm Brian can you help me up here with this one?” she said, licking her lips. The guys slapped Brian on the back. Last section a group of them had stayed behind post-class, in a little circle, and Kristen had hurried out before the flies went down.

“Brian, can you help me explain just what is going on with this molecule over here?” the TA said. She patted Brian’s broad chest.

“Well, Carolyn, it goes into this hole over here,” Brian said, mugging for the crowd. The boys applauded. The dwindling number of girls tapped at their notepads and kept their heads down.

The worst part of it was, Kristen wanted more. Wanted more Grant, all of him. That morning she had checked her coffee cup, and licked at the crackling dried stuff at the bottom. Pathetic. It had tasted good.

The first moment, when his chemically-enriched stuff had hit her face, had been sick and wrong and transcendent. She could still taste it in her mouth—sweet, but just a hint of smoke, salty and wet, and making all the parts of her brain crackle and fizzle. She had been high and stupid for an hour, lost in a wet bliss of neurotransmitters. Kristen had barely managed to come out of it before Anna had gotten back, and had cleaned in a red-cheeked hurry, her panties absolutely soaked.

They were soaked right then, too. That tickle of hornies had surged. She was tingling, distracted. She’d have to see about getting a vibrator. Grant ran through her head, over and over.

How had she let this happen? Why? Just because boys smelled good and she felt left out? Did she really need the bigger tits? Was it worth this dull ache, this compass-like sense that she really wanted to see Grant again, let him cum all over her? To see his embarrassed, shocked expression, as he came all over her face?

But it had undeniably been the single greatest moment of her life.

All prior moments seemed faintly sad. What, really, had been the point of everything up the moment before getting jizz in her mouth? Schooling for a degree she didn’t care for, church attendance she didn’t believe in, friendships that fell apart as soon as college started. A few tentative, doomed relationships. Hell, she had explicitly planned to start herself over in college, tacit admission that it had all been a waste of time.

And then she had gotten a taste, and every concern, every worry, had fallen away. Her body was capable of feeling so fucking good, so amazing, so incredible… why do anything else.

Kristen sighed, out loud. No one took notice.

God, did she want to see Grant again.

Brian had the instructor up against the chalkboard, pinned, and was gently humping her while he did math. She was a chorus of pleased giggles. Kristen looked to her right. There was a brunette there, staring at the scene, simply rubbing between her thighs. She had big tits. There was the sound of a zipper going down.

Her instructor started to moan, from deep within her throat.

Kristen walked out.

“I’m going back to classes again tomorrow, Grandma,” Grant said. They were on skype.

“You’re SURE?” Grandma said, trying to examine his physique from a bad internet connection. Grandma figuring out skype had been a three month process. “Didn’t you faint yesterday?”

“I was just… weak,” Grant said, weakly.

“This is an epidemic, dear,’ Grandma said. She wore heavy, heavy glasses. “A plague, some people are saying. The plague. The men over here have been terrible. A bunch of high school boys, again. Roaming packs of men. And the women! Awful. They’re just—in the restaurants! In the gas stations! The Pastor has done his best but everyone keeps giving in to their most base of urges. I’m glad you’re at an institution of higher learning.”

“Yeah…” Grant said, just as Dean walked past, totally naked. His dick swung between his legs.

“Goodness,” said Grandma.

“Dean! Jesus christ! Put on some pants!” Grant said. He put a hand over the camera.

“Grant, take your hand away. Is that Dean? Dean? Dean? Deannnnnn?”

Dean held a pillow over his privates and walked over to the camera. “Sorry, Ms. Carmichael!” he said, not at all abashed.

“Dean, are you boys just wandering around in the nude up there?” Grandma asked. She didn’t seem upset. Grant put his head in his hands.

“We’re still wearing clothes! Sorry about that! I’ve got your boy handled, don’t worry about him! He’s finally eating again!”

“Does he have a girlfriend? Are you boys still doing girlfriends?”

“Grandma, please,” Grant broke in.

“Oh yes, we are all doing girlfriends!” Dean said. “Except Grant. But he’s been sick. But he’s got a girl taking care of him!”

“Thanks, Dean. I’m glad you’re helping out,” Grandma said. Dean wandered off, his naked ass to the camera. “Grant, who is this girl?”

“A friend, grandma.”

“A friend that’s a girl.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s it.”

Not… really. “I’m sorry about Dean,” Grant said.

“Oh, he seems healthy and happy, and that’s what I want for you too, Grant,” Grandma said. “Very healthy. Oh. Oh... I have to go, alright? Please eat. I wish you had told me about your hunger strike, it’s not healthy. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I wish I knew where your brother was.”

A naked man, quite old, with bright white pubic hair surrounding his thick prong, wandered in behind Grandma. Grant had never seen him before in his life. They looked at each other on camera, confused.

“I have to go!” Grandma said, and the call ended.

When he turned around Dean was getting a blowjob from Riya.

He hadn’t even heard her come in. She was dressed in what seemed to be casual for her—dark black yoga pants that showed off her newly grown ass, and a mesh halter top that wiped clean. Blowjob clothes. Judging by the streaks of white in her neatly pulled-back hair, she was about halfway through her nightly rounds.

She was getting better and better at blowing boys, with all the practice. Despite how huge Dean was she had his dick well down her throat. Dean had his head back against the wall, his arms up, and was flexing his toes in a way Grant found unspeakably disgusting.

“Here it comes,” Dean warned. Grant averted his eyes. But there was nothing to see. Riya simply closed her lips around his cock, stopped moving, and neatly swallowed every shiver. Grant had to marvel at it. How was that physically possible? And after swallowing so much already that night. He had finally done some reading; men jizzed calories, now. Nutritious cum. When she wiped her lips, and sat back, there was barely any sign she had been giving incredible head, except for the wet dick now flopping around.

“Riya you are like… uh… a queen,” Dean said.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Riya said. “You can say it. The floor bicycle.”

“Motorcycle. No. Two motorcycles.”

“Aw,” Riya said. She seemed actually pleased.

“Okay, you’re up, big boy!” she announced, and turned around to him. Riya waddled towards him, her tits bouncing underneath her shirt, a cheerful smile somehow cum-free. “Cocks out! I’ve been looking forward to you. You’re the only one not on my door!”

Grant shifted, uncomfortable. A vision of Kristen sternly wagging her finger at him flashed in his head. It was ridiculous. She hadn’t even wagged a finger. And yet…

He didn’t want… this. There had to be something better. Someone better. This was like going to the bathroom, which was, frankly, named Riya.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he demurred.

Dean laughed. “Oh, man, come on. Seriously. Come. On Riya. She’s literally paid for this now.”

“I’m a health assistant!” she said, smiling, and reached out for his pants. Grant’s dick nearly reached his knees. It was aching to be touched.

“Is it a bounty system? Because that would be really funny,” Dean said. “Like, $20 per sploosh?”

“$100 a week! I can’t believe it!” Riya said. “And free birth control! I was like, are you sure it’s YOU paying ME? But I guess no one wants balls falling off everywhere!” She finally managed to fish him loose. Grant bit his lip. His dick definitely wanted this. It spasmed in her little hand. He had let the nurse jack him off.

“Can it.. Can it just be a handjob?” he said.

“Hey, I’m tested,” Riya said, put out. But still mildly stroking his dick. Goop spurted from it, betraying him.

“It’s..”

“Whoa, is there someone else?” Dean said. He jumped up and down on his bed. He looked like an excitable pro wrestler. “You have a girlfriend? You’re still doing girlfriends? Kristen? Is it Kristen?”

“Yeah, this is a mistake,” Grant mumbled. He tried to stand up, failed. There was a hand on his dick, after all.

“Ooof, I really want some of this,” Riya said, squeezing gently. “You’re the only one who smells.. You know. Not sweet. You’re the smoky one. It’s been bothering me for days, figuring out who the smoky one was. And it’s you. It is something else.”

“We have signature scents?” Dean said.

“Uhh, yeah.”

“That’s wild! What’s mine?”

“Banana,” Riya said. “Kind of a.. Banana.”

Dean sat down, abruptly. “Hmm. Banana.”

“Lets compromise,” Riya suggested. She pulled her shirt up and off. Two thick nipples wiggled on two enormous tits. They were even bigger than advertised, round and globular and perfect. “I’ve been wanting to do this.”

She stood up, and then bent her knees just slightly, over him, and fit Grant’s cock in between two incredible breasts. They were soft, yielding. Grant eased back to give her room to work. How could he say no? Especially when she scooped some precum off the tip and used it to grease the channel of her cleavage.

“You gotta thrust a little, big guy,” she encouraged him. “I can’t do all the work here.”

He pushed, then pushed again. Grant could feel the increasingly familiar ripple almost immediately. “It’s…” he managed.

And then Riya had her mouth clamped over his cock. He blew his load. He could feel gush after gush, and that it just somehow disappeared, didn’t well up and flow around her teeth, made it somehow hotter.

Riya let go and sat back, thoughtfully. She didn’t say anything for some time.

Grant felt… better. And worse. He was just a door trophy, now. Kristen was going to see it. Fuck.

“Well you taste verrryyy, verrrrrry special, uh, you. What’s your name. Grant? Grant,” she finally said, slurring her “r”s. “I gotta… I gotta go lie down. Bye bye.”

She wiggled and wobbled out the door, tits still out.

The two roommates, both half-naked, looked at each other.

“Smoky is fine, but it’s no BANANA,” Dean said, eventually.

Kristen examined her torso in the mirror.

They were coming in fast. All day she had been wondering about her boobs. They felt bigger even underneath her habitual sweater. They had FELT like they were growing—an unsettling but not uncomfortable sensation, a weird stretching sense that felt like scratching an itch. It felt good, really. Kristen had gone braless, and every time her nipples brushed against the cotton of her undershirt a small, happy shock had hit her in the brain. It was hard to say no to it. Her body wanted her touch and stroke, have fun with them.

After just a day they were pleasant handfuls, and if she crossed her arms, they squeezed together into nicely sized mounds with brown, heavy nipples.

They felt great.

Anna burst in. Kristen snatched her shirt down. Her roommate gave her a look.

“You’re thinking about it, huh? What they’d look like?” Anna said. She gave a heavy sigh and flopped onto the bed. “I wonder too. I can’t blame you.”

Anna had arrived at school with naturally large and well-formed tits. Kristen set her face in her standard “Anna talks at me” expression.

“It’s gonna be just you and me, pretty soon,” Anna lamented. “It’s just… it’s just a mountain of blowjobs out there, Kristen. Just thrusting thrusting thrusting. I was in my feminist studies class and I swear to god it was like pod people in there. Short skirts and so-called feminists riding spunk highs. Minimizing and temporizing. I told them to come to the rally and they just looked down and mumbled. Looked down at their BIG STUPID TITS.”

“Yeah,” Kristen said. How big was she going to get? This was twenty-four hours of growth, and she had tripled in size. They were clearly still growing. They felt amazing. Just a squeeze was… better than sex. Or, previous sex. Her clit was swelling, too. She could really see it, now. A pink gumball. And still swelling.

Her tits felt sooooo good, even hands-off. If she could just sit and knead them, a second hand busy between her legs….

“Maybe we’ll join a convent. The Sisters of Perpetual Chastity,” Anna said. She rolled back and forth. “That’s it. We’ll retreat to a mountain fastness, with no boys around, and take turns reading Didion to each other. Okay? Kristen, you’re on board? Nuns? We’ll be nuns?”

“Hey, have you seen Grant around?” Kristen said. She looked down. There were boobs there, now. “I’m… still keeping an eye on him. While he improves.”

“Well, he was doing pull-ups outside, so I think he’s improved, alright. Look, try and get him to come to the rally. I don’t think he’s like the other guys.”

“I think that too,” Kristen said, quietly. He wasn’t. She knew it, she just knew it. There had to be something more to Grant. She needed to be fucked and suck—no, she had to TALK to him. She had to.

“I mean, have you smelled him? Smoke!”

“Yeah, I’ve smelled him.”

Anna sat up. She looked down. “Not that it’s bad or anything.”

“Nope.”

“Actually it’s… nice.”

“It really is,” Kristen said.

They finally shared a look that said: I’m so fucking horny, and if YOU weren’t here, I’d have my hands between my legs, unabashed.

“I’m going out,” Kristen said.

Anna’s hands were sneaking between her legs before the door was shut.

He was doing pull-ups. Kristen waited. She told herself she was waiting. And part of that was standing in the breeze behind him, watching his muscles strain in an increasingly taut a-shirt, and basking in the smoke.

“Hey,” she said, finally. “You don’t need to stop. Sorry. Just… seeing how you’re doing. Which is pull-ups.”

Kristen considered murdering herself.

“I did fifty in a row. That’s crazy,” Grant said. He stopped, rubbed at his arms. They glistened under a light sheen of sweat. Kristen blew out a breath. Geez. “I could do two. You know. Before.”

“I used to be able to do one.” Kristen said, eyeing the bar. Someone from the University had put it up near the residence halls. It was unusual not to have a bunch of guys out burning off some of their excess steam. “Kiss those days goodbye.”

“Oh… right,” Grant said. He gave her a steady look. “How’s it going?”

“They’re at least two cups bigger, thanks for asking,” Kristen said. “Puberty two. That was going to be the nice part of college, having puberty done with. And here we are again, huh?”

“Here we are,” Grant said. He stood up. “Want to... “ he seemed at a loss for words.

Yes, Kristen wanted very much to simply sink to her knees, and guzzle.

She ached for it. He was so good, this growing god. Smoke-steam billowed from him. She swallowed, hard, and fought herself. She was better than that. She WAS.

Grant interpreted it as offense. “Not THAT,” he said. “Are you hungry, is what I meant. I’m sure you are. Hell, I’m hungry as anything.”

“I’m starving,” Kristen whispered. She walked next to him for the first time.

They ended up at a restaurant. Hungry as she was, Kristen couldn’t take another trip to the DC. It was half-orgy at the best of times. They sat across from each other. It was a Korean restaurant, but had a Virus Special, which was just big mounds of protein-heavy tofu, barely cooked, and a gigantic bowl of noodles.

“So what’re your parents going to say?” Grant asked.

“Ughhhhhhhhh,” Kristen said. “They’ll probably kidnap me. Dead of night. Hustle me out. Try and detox me or something. I don’t know. I’m avoiding them. Straight to voicemail. I have enough problems.”

“You can tell them it was an accident,” Grant offered. “It sort of was. I bet they think it’s just like The Shining, elevator doors open, huge piles of spooge spill out. Out here.”

“That’s not super wrong,” Kristen said. She put away another bowl of noodles. She was really aware that she was stuffing big bowls of dripping noodles into her face, very aware that she had dripped soy sauce on her sweater, in front of Grant. Ultimately too hungry to care. “Oh my god, you boys. Can you not stop spraying it everywhere? You’re like.. No, there’s no comparison. Animals don’t do this.”

“Hey, you basically held me down,” Grant said. Their legs kept touching, underneath the table. “I was coerced. I really am trying hard.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Kristen said. She flushed. Here went. “I mean, that’s why I picked you.”

Grant looked down. He smelled so good. “Picked huh?”

“Well, like you pick the easy hamster to catch in the cage,” Kristen said. “You couldn’t run.”

“Who runs? Dean would’ve happily helped you out.”

“Dean,” Kristen said. She rolled her eyes. Grant laughed. “Did you know he smells like BANANAS? It’s ridiculous. I mean, not that bananas are bad, it’s just… it’s bananas. He smells like bananas. Sexy bananas, yes, but bananas. Bananas!”

“Riya doesn’t mind,” Grant said. He examined his bowl of noodles.

“I think you’re the only notch left for her,” Kristen said.

“Yeah,” Grant said. “Anyway. What’s Anna’s deal?”

“Well, she treats me like a bulletin board she can write stuff on, but I think she’s sincere.”

“I wrote on you,” Grant said.

Kristen closed her eyes, heard her heart beat, and reopened them. “Yeah,” she said. It came out a lot more breathy then she had intended. “Excuse me a second.”

In the bathroom she stared hard at the mirror. She had to get a grip. It was childish, this growing infatuation, this breathlessness, this warm and tingling sense of safety. Childish and chemical, artificially created by pheromones. He had jizzed all over her back, for crying out loud. She didn’t even know his last name. She doubted he knew hers.

It was just the jizz talking.

Kristen wilted. It was ridiculous to order her body around, a body still changing, revved up and desperate to be touched, held, fondled, stroked. She was so achingly wet. Could he smell her? Seemed like the whole room should, she was so drippy. Her nipples begged to be stroked. She wanted to kneel under the table and suck at her man—no, he wasn’t ‘her man’—until he exploded in her mouth.

Kristen knew she’d swallow every drop.

“Sorry,” she said, returning to her chair. “Where were we?”

“Anna,” Grant said. “Her march is tomorrow, right? I was going to go. She made me promise before I got the virus. Made me sign a contract, actually.”

“Is that binding?” Kristen said. She poked at his bicep. “So… what does it all feel like? How, you know, different? Do you feel?”

Grant put one hand on his face and looked down. “I feel like a passenger,” he said, eventually. “Like I’m just in this—machine. And it needs regular servicing and wants me to hit the accelerator and just go. Just see what it can do. It’s scary. And the only reason I don’t slam on the gas…”

“Gas is girls, right?” Kristen said. “Sorry, the metaphor was getting complex. Go on.”

“I... “ they looked at each other, and broke into giggles. Just two college students, rebuilt to fuck, sharing a laugh. “No… uh… girls are like, incredibly sweet ramps.”

“That’s so romantic,” Kristen said.

“Lately? Yeah,” Grant said. He stirred. “That’s about as romantic as it goes, right?” He held up an empty cup. “Want me to go fill this up?”

“No,” Kristen said, “I’ve already got a cup—oh… OH.. ohhhhhh. Oh. Oh, right.”

She wanted it more than anything. To feel that sweet smoke sliding into her, setting her entire life on fire. Just one cup had given her bigger boobs, was still remaking her. Kristen could practically feel her ass padding out, her hips resculpting. She was so horny her legs were shaking, underneath the table.

“I’m…” she choked out the words. “I’m… good. Thanks. It’s a sweet offer. Your cum. Very sweet.”

“Smoky,” Grant said. Putting down the cup. Beneath the table, his cock leaked and surged. He wanted so very badly to abandon this repartee, to just fuck the shit out of her. Of course she wanted it, wanted to be reduced to a shrieking, spasming slut, made into a rutting animal. “I’ve been told I’m smoky.”

“God, you really are,” Kristen said. She let out a very long sigh. “Lets go,” she said.

They held hands on the way back. Kristen had to sort of hold her hand up, since they were at least a foot and a half apart in height, with Grant maybe still growing. Grant’s hands were sweaty, slick and wet, and Kristen knew—he was fighting it, too. He was godawful horny, just like her. What were they playing at, pretending to be chaste college sweeties, with bodies made to fuck and pheromones spraying everywhere? She should be ravaged underneath him, weakly thrusting back as he slid inch after inch into her. She should have his cockhead deep down her throat, sucking hard, waiting for that wonderful white surge.

“Whoa, my fingers aren’t THAT strong,” Grant said. Kristen realized she had been doing her best to break them. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

“Tomorrow, we’re going to the protest march, right?” Kristen said.

“It’s a, uh, date,” Grant said. “It’ll be fun. What are we protesting?”

“I have no idea,” Kristen said. “Everything. How fucked up everything is.”

They shared a look.

He practically had to kneel to kiss her, but managed it. Kristen could see the obvious tentpole in his pants. She could just pull it out, tug away, she’d be doing him a favor. Doing them both a favor. They were going to breed eventually, why not right then and there, in the corridor? Everyone was doing it.

“See you tomorrow,” Kristen said.

She woke up the next morning with the most incredible dick-sucking lips.

It was late. Grant couldn’t sleep.

He had always been a light sleeper, and blamed it on growing up sleeping in an attic of a spindly ancient house, with brittle beams that creaked in the frequent windstorms. The house shifted like a weathervane, and, up in the attic, he had sometimes fallen off the mattress with a violent gust. An attic he had shared with his brother. Down below, Grandma liked to play the smoothest of jazz at the loudest of volumes. But even in college, when the lights were out, the floor quiet, no wind, he had struggled to sleep.

Now he had to worry about even more things, not least of which was, his testicles possibly falling off.

It was hard to think of Kristen just four doors down. He had endured fantasy after fantasy of her knocking, softly, on his door, slithering under the covers, pulling out his cock, and putting that small, perfect mouth on top of it. That hadn’t happened.

He had finally just jacked off. And kept some of it in a cup. In case Kristen came by. But it wasn’t enough. His balls hung between his legs, thick and full, his cock bobbed around. He needed to fuck or be sucked. He needed it so badly. What were they mutually trying to prove? Couldn’t they just have a mutually satisfying fuck session and still have a relationship, if that was the whole point? Was he just putting on a show of being a sensitive guy, better than a Dean or a whoever? Wasn’t that a lie? If Kristen had knelt in front of him he would’ve, without hesitation, spooged into her mouth until she was cumdrunk and dumb.

Life as a cum junkie was hard. Grant had done a lot of things just to prove people wrong. But this, this was torture. This time no one cared. He was just trying to prove himself right.

He watched TV. The late night shows were strange—the men hulking and ripped, still in well-tailored suits, cracking jokes about cum. An interview with an actress who had gone up far too many cup sizes, a funny story about her epic, frantic journey from a shoot to get back to her husband’s aching balls. Grant watched a story about Scandinavia’s innovative free public exercise equipment for the men, new bras for the girls. A news story on the birthrate, which was about to skyrocket. In three months all these sexy girls would be walking around with thick tummies. Hospitals were getting built. Pampers was ramping up production, with government assistance.

Grant heard a noise. He wondered, belatedly, where the hell Dean was. It was past 1. He ventured outside in pajama pants and no shirt. Riya’s door was open.

There was an orgy going on inside.

It was hard to know what to look at. All of the three beds were occupied by relatively boring sex—just some girl with massive tits getting plowed by a stud, front or behind. The men were all naked, entirely naked, their chiseled frames intent on pushing a dick into some part of a girl or another. Grant had already put on a little weight, but this was apparently what he had to look forward to—effortless abs, biceps, triceps, thighs, sweat dripping down a broad, iron chest. Hair all over the place.

Looking again, and he couldn’t seem to back away, there was Riya in the middle of it all, like the fulcrum of fucking. She had Dean’s dick in her mouth. Behind her was another male dormmate, shoving a cock well up into her. There was even a girl underneath her, squished beneath everything, gamely trying to stroke Riya’s tits. Gobs of drool and cum splashed on the under-girls’ face, out of Riya’s mouth. She didn’t seem upset, whoever the doormat was.

And from there the boys and girls daisy-chained out, a big machine, all slotted in to some slit or another. There was the occasional grunt as a boy nutted out, and a flood of white on the floor, but it didn’t seem to stop any of them. They just kept going, thrusting into a mouth or a pussy. The floor was sticky. Some of the girls still had clothes on, albeit not any clothes that would keep an available hole covered. But there were still some shirts around waists, panties around their ankles.

Grant sagged against the wall. He could smell the girls. There were holes that he could fuck, and wanted to. What kind of idiot was he, playing at relationship with some flat asian girl who had yet to give him more than one chaste kiss. He could fuck some slut’s ass, right there. He could fuck asses for hours, consequence-free, slap them affectionately on the rear and invite them over the following night. His penis swore at him.

“It’s Smoke!” Riya said, cheerfully. “Smoke is here!”

Grant realized that that was his nickname now.

“Smoke, lets go! I’ve been telling all the girls about you!” She started to crawl towards him, letting the boy behind her pop out. She was painted white all over. It dripped off her nipples. “They’re all super excited!”

Grant put up a hand. He just—couldn’t. He was the kind of guy who kissed girls. He was not the kind of guy who got sloppy eight hundredths from a girl doused in sperm. And he really liked Kristen. That had to still mean something, liking a girl.

Riya misinterpreted. “Spray us!” she said, squeezing two other girls next to her. They all knelt in front of him, six expectant half-lidded eyes. They opened their mouths. Grant pulled out his rod. As fucked up as it was, this was the best option. He only had to jack it a few times. Sticky white stuff bathed the three in spurts and jets. They didn’t seem to mind getting it all over their eyes. The two non-Riyas moaned, stuffed it into their mouths, despite already being sticky with the stuff.

“I told you girls! I told you! Smoke is the best!” Riya gave his cock an affectionate pat, and then waddled back into the party.

Grant stumbled out, fell into bed, and, the next morning, wondered if he had dreamt the whole thing.

They were tremendous dick-sucking lips.

Pillowy, soft, heavy and wide. All the more so on Kristen’s petite frame. She had plumped up overnight. They even felt mildly good to the touch. Kristen had stuck a finger between her new lips, gently sucked on it, and had been shocked and scared at the wonderful tingles it sent through her.

It was hard to see them as anything other than punishment for refusing to do the right thing and guzzle a gallon of Grant cum last night. Now her second puberty self was making dick-sucking practically mandatory.

“Oh, man,” Kristen said, into the mirror. She looked mildly dumber. Hell, she felt mildly dumber, randy and distracted and with her pussy trying to do a lot of the thinking. Were her lashes even longer? Definitely her hair was silky and thick. And her tits! She had really big tits. Huge!

Overall Kristen felt like she had been photoshopped by a horny guy who wasn’t that good at photoshop.

Anna walked by. She had been distracted most of the morning, sending off texts and making terse phone calls. Kristen’s roomie was dressed in a blue denim jacket, tightly buttoned, and a long black skirt. She finally noticed Kristen.

“Really?” she said, and prodded at Kristen’s new lips, like they would pop like a balloon. “You?”

“Yes, me, geez,” Kristen glared at her.

“Was it an accident? Did you round a corner and a guy was—“

“If you have to know, and I guess you do, I drank Grant’s jizz, and it was great,” Kristen said.

“Grant?” Anna said. “Smoke?”

“Yeah. I asked for it. I haven’t fucked him, if that’s what you want to know. We’re…” hell, what were they? “We’re dating,” she finally said, defiantly.

She had been consumed by guilt and also extremely horny for much of the first half of the night. What was she trying to do? Trying to prove something with some boy, after already drinking his cum and embarking on second puberty? Was she ginning up a relationship after the fact to paper over the gross, sticky beginning? Maybe she should’ve just kept it professional, admitted that she had been a mercenary for cum, instead of dragging Grant into some nebulous no-fuck relationship, that was founded on her dumb religious upbringing. And how long was she going to hold out?

She had fantasized about fucking him a hundred times. Kristen wasn’t even worried in the slightest about fitting his coke bottle cock inside. She was greased and transformed, her pussy lips bright pink and puffy. She had been redesigned to fit big dicks comfortably. They would fuck beautifully together.

Kristen had to be honest—if she didn’t get fucked that day she was probably going to die. And Grant definitely would. That was just medical science.

But she really, really wanted it to be Grant. She had finger-fucked herself to sleep thinking Grant Grant Grant. Smoky wet dreams. Her sheets were soggy.

Feelings might be just hormones but she was super fucking full of hormones.

“Dating, Grant.” Anna said. “You’re dating Smoke.”

“Why are you calling him Smoke?” Kristen said. Suspicion flared in her. That was HER Smoke.

Anna looked away, and alarms flared. “Uhhh… if I tell you something, will you still come to the rally?”

“WHAT?” Kristen said.

“You have to promise to still come to the rally,” Anna insisted.

“FINE!”

“Riya has Grant up on her door of conquests. Kristen remember you promised!”

Grant felt… not bad.

First off, classes were cancelled for the rest of the semester. The Administration had sent an e-mail around. It was terse. There was no mention of the lectures devolving into diddle sessions, the incident in Biology 1A where a female lecturer was rawdogged by most of the class, how many grades were getting turned into referendums on blowjob quality. How the janitors were annoyed at the amount of fluids in every single classroom.

But there WAS mention that all scholarships would be honored, in full, and that housing would remain in effect. The campus was throwing up its hands and saying, fine, go fuck each other. Free condoms, far too small, would be available in the DC.

And he looked good. Grant had woken up at 5 in the morning and, burning with energy, gone on a five mile run in the darkness. And then did pullups on a handy playground bar for nearly a half-hour. He had packed on slabs of muscle overnight, and his boxer shorts were tight. He had gained twenty pounds in two days, and clearly had a long way to go.

He had lingered by Kristen and Anna’s room, but they were already gone, probably setting up for the protest.

He arrived for the march promptly at ten.

It was well-attended, if aimless, amorphous. There any number of signs, and any number of slogans. “WE ARE NOT ANIMALS” was the most prominent, and common. “GIRLS ARE NOT VESSELS” was surprisingly well-represented. Many had written what looked like whole paragraphs on their placards, heartfelt messages about there being more to life then fucking and mindless reproduction.

The attendees themselves were even more mixed. All the guys, of course, were steely-cord ripped men like himself, albeit often holding on to some other identity—with some sort of scraggly goatee or too-tight BAND NAME t-shirt. A few were grimly hanging on to a goth outlook, with pale white skin and black jackets that had too-short sleeves. Quite a few wore symbolic—it had to be symbolic, he hoped—underpants over their pants, presumably as metaphoric chastity belts of some kind. There were older men who looked like post-divorce dad gym rats, bald with big beards. A few couples, and Grant looked hard at them, sticking close together in their ill-fitting old clothes.

There were all sorts of girls. So many of them clearly post-cum, clearly infected, hoisting signs with big breasts and clear skin and nice thick hips. A lot of Annas with angry, red eyes and faux-hippie apparel. And a big contingent of the hardcore, in 3M masks, rubber gloves, determined to never catch the virus, ever.

Anna was at the front. And Kristen. Kristen looked incredible.

She had dolled up. Hair in two pigtails, a white blouse, shiny, that strained over her new boobs. Kristen wore a tartan skirt that was thick and knee-length but ultimately schoolgirl wank material. And then she turned, and he saw two perfect lips that immediately needed to be wrapped around his cock. He wanted to fuck those lips and never stop.

“Hey,” he said.

“Here,” she said, handing him a sign that read “CONSENT MATTERS”. Her lips were glossy and pink. Very pink. Grant sniffed, pleased as anything, and then realized that she was mad at him.

He could SMELL that she was mad at him.

It was so disconcerting that Grant stepped back, trying to process it. What had happened to him? How kinked and fucked up was his brain chemistry, his organs, his everything, to sniff at a female, and sense her mood? Kristen was horny, and angry, and horny, and upset.

“You look great,” he ventured, in hopes that she was maybe angry at her own fattened, thick lips. But no, she shot him a look, and tried, without any success whatsoever, to set her mouth in a thin-lipped line. She looked pouty and sexy.

“Okay!” Anna shouted, at the milling mass. “Lets go!”

They all started to walk.

Kristen and Grant walked side by side, silently. What did he smell like, to her? Sorry? Baffled? And increasingly angry, to be honest.

“We need a chant,” Kristen hissed, to Anna.

“What?” Anna looked slightly panicked. They were moving, but it was listless, dull. Just a bunch of soggy, horny girls and boys walking in the same direction.

“A chant. That’s what you need when you march.”

“I didn’t think of any chants!” Anna said. She faced the crowd, and swallowed. “Like, 2-4-6 something?”

“Just... “ Kristen shook her head. “Just forget it.”

Grant ventured to hold her hand, and she let him, her grip loose.

It was a tired, pointless group. The boys and girls already making post-march fuck plans, shooting each other covert glances and stroking at each other quietly. That incessant boy-smell clung to them, coming along with, impossible to escape from no matter where they walked. The girls were horny as ever. Many of them were braless, their tits too tight to shuck into old clothes. Before the end of the day, probably before the end of the morning, they’d be on their knees, or back, or up against a wall, absorbing some of that lovely but endless, ever-flowing jizz onto their hair, face, tits, butts, thighs. There were penises all around them that would have to be serviced, soon. And yeah, it’d be nice to service them, to get that endorphin reward.

But it was so increasingly hard to think about anything else.

“What is it?” Grant hissed.

“Nothing,” Kristen said. “Lets just march. Go women. Boo virus.”

“Come on.”

“What, Grant? I, said, I’m, fine.”

“Kristen, seriously. You’re pissed. I can smell it.”

“You can smell when I’m angry,” Kristen deadpanned.

“Yes. It’s fucked up.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, I know. My brain must’ve… anyway. What’s wrong?”

She turned to look at him. “You know what’s really messed up?”

“Everything.”

“Well, yeah. I’m pissed off because—okay, first, I’m not upset, even though I should be, that I woke up this morning with a lisp and lips like caterpillar and a mouth that no one will ever take seriously because it’s a fuck mouth. I have a fuck mouth now. I didn’t get upset about that. My hips, my hips are literally bigger. My bones must’ve gotten bigger. And my ass. I can’t fit into any of my clothes, my ass ba-dunked while I was sleeping. Not upset about that. I’m not wearing a bra, you can probably tell. That’s because my boobs are huge. Nipples, also huge. No, I am not upset about that. I was, you know what, I was excited because I knew you would see me and get so happy, and that made me happy, as fucked up as it all is, and then you know what?”

It had been an arousing, confusing speech. “What?” Grant said.

“It turns out you’re spraying jizz all over fucking cum dumpster Riya!”

Boom.

“She hasn’t blown me,” Grant said. It was 100% the wrong thing to say. But he was getting mad. All of these emotional twists and turns from a girl he had, once, skeeted on the back of. His dick was pissed. This was all bullshit, getting put through an emotional wringer because he had a legitimate medical problem. “She’s like a nurse, now.”

“A nurse,” Kristen said. She tried again to say something flatly with bimbo dick-sucking lips.

“Yes, a nurse! Because they will turn black! And fall off! If I don’t spray my jizz all over the LAND at least four or five times a day!” Grant spread his arms wide, knocking them into other signs. Everyone was starting to stare at them. The entire protest was slowing down.

“Hey, uh, guys,” Anna tried to interrupt.

“What the hell do you want from me, Kristen? I have done everything, everything, that you wanted. I gave you those lips, yes, because you wanted them. I gave you a chaste little kiss because that’s what you wanted and because we were both so proud of ourselves for keeping it high-minded and clean. I told Riya as much no as I could without dying. I’m even here at this pointless little rally where half the girls have virus tits! I’m just so god damn CONFUSED, okay?”

“Hey, guys… there’s a problem,” Anna said. She bonked Grant gently with the top of her sign. Grant felt a deep, consuming, desire to grab it, break it, break everything, slam his fist into the ground, grab a female, spray his seed...

Kristen had sad little tear trails lacing down her cheeks. “I’m just as confused as you are,” she said.

“GUYS!” Anna said, truly bonking Grant hard over the head.

“WHAT?” Grant snarled. His glands were doing the thinking.

Everyone, in the entire march, was staring at him, and past him. To the other group of guys.

They had put effort into their own signs. Mostly they were decorated with dongs, not just crudely scrawled penises but real art projects with spurting cum in cotton ball puffs glued on with elmer’s glue. The slogans were cheery, with middle-grade humor. “UP WITH COCKS!” was popular, so was “HANDS OFF MY PENIS!” with off scratched out and “ON” written underneath.

There were maybe a hundred boys, and quite a few girls. The girls were topless, by and large. They had glassy, silly eyes, and had their arms around the boys. The boys wore what looked like sheets, and it took Grant, in his fury, a long time to realize that they were makeshift togas. Some sort of Animal House tribute.

The two sides stared at each other.

“MEN!” shouted one of the counter-demonstrators. “PRESENT! PENISES!”

The first row of boys solemnly yanked on the knots of their robes. A bunch of prongs whipped out into the air. They sent up a ragged cheer. Anna’s crowd flinched.

Excepting Grant.

Grant, frustrated beyond measure, horny, upset, ran pellmell at the group, and kicked the very first naked boy he could reach in the balls, which happened, by chance, to be Dean.

Much later, a historian interviewed Dinah, a march participant, about the rally. It had become well-known as an inflection point in society. It was a clear symbol that writers could and did point to.

“I had showed up in these ragged jeans and a 3M mask and three pairs of shirts. I think the shirts were making some sort of point about chastity? Hell if I remember,” she said. Dinah was well over forty but still breeding successfully and repeatedly. Kid pictures littered her house. She had strong, proud tits, and had given the historian a very warm and very welcoming suck. “We didn’t even know where to walk. We were just following each other, and I was getting really distracted by this guy who smelled like blueberries. I’m still a blueberry girl.”

The historian smiled. He was a licorice guy, quite the acquired taste.

“We came up on a bunch of frat boys. I assume they were frat boys. We all glared at each other. I think we would’ve just stood apart and jeered, and then this guy just comes running out of our side and literally dives onto the boys. Just laying waste to balls.”

Dinah took a moment to sip a drink and look at the ceiling. A lifetime of brainshattering orgasms had left her memory more than a little shaky.

“This guy is just trashing the other side. He wasn’t that big but he was damn furious. And all the guys over there—yeah, they were well over 200 pounds, and strong as anything, but they still had little boy brains. So they just gape and cover up their privates. And this guy just starts kicking them all in the nads, to boot.”

“Finally they get it together enough to try and rush him, but like I said—big bodies, minds not up to snuff. So they all basically fall on top of each other and start flailing, penises everywhere, one big clown show. Just a bunch of penises in a pile.”

“What happened to the guy who started it?” the historian asked.

“Damned if I know,” Dinah licked her lips. “I lasted another week and then ended up blowing my coworker at the bookstore in the spirituality section. The next three or four years are pretty hazy. I basically ended up in Seattle with these tits.“ Licorice did have its its appeal. “You want to take a quick break?” she said, and grinned.

Anna was getting absolutely pounded by two guys.

She was entirely naked and had the biggest tits Grant had ever seen. A few discarded protest signs had made their way back to her dorm room. Also two guys, both with big beards, big chests, and hair almost covering their bodies. It was hard to tell them apart, except that one was a bit more blonde, and one had his dick in her mouth while the other was reaming her out from behind.

Either Anna had been concealing truly great tits this entire time, or she had been quietly fucking virus boys on the sly. They wobbled—no, slammed—back and forth as she rocked on the rhythm. It looked like the guy balls-deep was setting the pace. No, she had to be long through second puberty—girls couldn’t go that deep on a big dick without hormonal encouragement.

“Grrrf?” she said, around a mouthful of cock. Grant closed the door behind him. He was bruised all over. He had absorbed some hesitant punches from guys who didn’t know their own strength. His shirt had gotten torn apart. But it wasn’t that bad—no one in that crowd knew how to commit to a fight, and were all far too worried about getting their precious cocks kicked. He had kicked an enormous number of cocks. It had been very cathartic.

“I’m trying to find Kristen,” Grant said. The anger was drained. He had no idea what to do. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be arrested. His only idea was—find Kristen. “I just want to talk to her. Do you have her cell number?”

“Hmm… errrr...” Anna said. She didn’t seem abashed about getting caught fucking the enemy. Grant had to admire her ass. Brunette boy was definitely enjoying himself. You could practically see her pussy grip and pull. Her clothes were nowhere to be found, same with theirs, which suggested they all had been naked for some time.

Anna redoubled her efforts, and blonde started to grunt and spray. Anna proved herself a good little sucker—not a drop wasted—and she waited patiently for the boy to finish up. When he slowly pulled out she kept a firm grip on his penis, so that it pulled out entirely clean.

“Okay... there,” Anna said. She was still getting fucked vigorously from behind. She gave the boy a glance, and he settled into a more leisurely pace. “Uhhhh. Phone number. No. I guess I don’t. Huh.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Grant said.

They looked at each other. The brunette boy decided to look at the ground, to give them some privacy. “Grant, I’m still not sure how I feel about you.”

“Same,” Grant said. “Have you seen Kristen?”

“No. It’s been chaotic. There was a riot down there… or an orgy… or both, I don’t know. You both ruined and saved my march. I haven’t seen Kristen anywhere.”

“Fuck,” Grant said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What are you TRYING to do?” Anna said.

“I’m TRYING to... “ Grant rubbed at his eyes. “Anna, I have no idea.”

“Well it looked like you were trying to have a relationship, and that’s great, so go for it,” Anna said. “It’s adorable. Your little argument was super cute. Not great timing, but cute.”

“Oh. I thought you were… you know. Anti-men.”

“Well, I’m against those jerk boys, that’s all,” Anna said. “Not ALL men. Obviously. Like uhhh.. These two. What’re your names?”

“Darren.” “Michael.” Michael was the one still shoving ten inches of cock into her. Anna did an impressive job of staying cool and collected despite being completely filled up. That settled it. She had been getting fucked regular since the get-go. It figured.

“Yeah they’re fine. Look, Kristen is clearly crazy for you, she’s just all confused. Try her computer, she left it on, I know she’s in some chat room like all the day.”

She pointedly turned away, looked at Darren, and opened her mouth while giving him a quizzical look. Darren was semi-hard at best, but put his floppy dick inside her mouth, and let Anna suck him back to full mast.

4KRISTSAKE:

hello

4KRISTSAKE:

anyone here?

JEANSKORTS:

it’s just me. Or us.

JEANSKORTS:

we’re it.

JEANSKORTS:

the only survivors kristen

JEANSKORTS:

tumbleweed blows, sprouts titties

JEANSKORTS:

everyone else is lavishing attention on some big mushroomy veiny cock

JEANSKORTS:

making cum spurt out, sploosh. Look at what i did i’m so special

JEANSKORTS:

i made a cock spurt

JEANSKORTS:

whoopty-do

JEANSKORTS:

now i get to drink it and be a spacey stoned moron

4KRISTSAKE:

yeah this actually isn’t kristen

4KRISTSAKE:

i’m her

Grant took a breath. Strange how this was still sort of hard. He had just fought an army of naked men.

4KRISTSAKE:

boyfriend

JEANSKORTS:

SSSSIIIIIGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

JEANSKORTS:

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

4KRISTSAKE:

i can’t find her, i need to talk to her

JEANSKORTS:

ABOUT WHAT?

4KRISTSAKE:

relationship stuff.

4KRISTSAKE:

having one.

JEANSKORTS:

call her cell.

4KRISTSAKE:

I don’t have her number.

JEANSKORTS:

what a good boyfriend.

4KRISTSAKE:

can you reach her. Tell her I just want to talk.

JEANSKORTS:

oh sure you do.

4KRISTSAKE:

really

JEANSKORTS:

“lets talk” ZIPPPPPPPP THRUST THRUST POUND POUND

4KRISTSAKE:

just

4KRISTSAKE:

please

JEANSKORTS:

ughhhhh fine. I’ll text her. What’s your name.

4KRISTSAKE:

grant

JEANSKORTS:

okay GRANT she says she’s waiting near the library for her parents to pick her up.

4KRISTSAKE:

is it okay for me to come over.

JEANSKORTS:

hmmm

JEANSKORTS:

it’s got that little imessage ‘i’m typing’ thing but no response.

JEANSKORTS:

could go either way?

JEANSKORTS:

grant?

JEANSKORTS:

hello?

JEANSKORTS:

hellllooooooooooooo

JEANSKORTS:

god i’m so horny :/

It was a nice day, so people were fucking on the campus grass.

There was no sign that a riot had taken place, not far away, excepting a single fallen “NO EXCUSE FOR PATRIARCHY” poster that had landed, face up, on the sidewalk. And Kristen had seen a few half-naked men limping by, wincing, covering up their privates with their hands. Her sorta-kinda-not-really-boyfriend’s handiwork, kicking the hell out of balls as a tribute to her and how baffling she was.

“I sent so many mixed signals it started a riot,” she thought.

But mostly it was calm, and green, and people were just having sex in the nice, well-kept grass. They had even thought ahead—put down picnic blankets and put on some sunscreen—ready for a lazy afternoon of suck and fuck. Closest to her was a long-legged blonde on her stomach, tits squashed out to both sides, giving slow and comfy head to her man. He occasionally patted her head affectionately. Another asian girl was waggling her legs and giving her boy long licks up and down the shaft. The couple that was outright fucking over by the library seemed out of place—it was a good day for extremely languid blowjobs, some handjobs, maybe some very peaceful doggy style. The impassioned “FUCK ME!” screams from the duo, both redheads, didn’t fit the scene.

It looked like an orgy meet-up was going to get together by the math building.

And Kristen sat by herself, legs crossed, arms around them, considering how much she had fucked up everything. It was a good thing she didn’t apply mascara, or even need it anymore with her virus-thick lashes. It would’ve been running down her face, into her mouth. Disgusting.

It was hard to close her big bimbo lips. Kristen checked herself in her phone camera—yep, she looked like a sad, stupidm sexy doll, pouting to the world. Maybe that’s what she was.

It had just felt like too much, putting her out too far, to accept Riya’s cum-spattered self nuzzling Grant’s rod. She had tried so hard to make her peace with the inevitable—with the tits, the lips, the frazzled endless hornies, the burning need, the way her knees would get calluses from spending so much time sucking. To let her scared self just jump into this big Grant-shaped unknown.

And then on top of it all there were other, gross girls. It was just—too much. It was all very much too much. It had been too much and then it was insanely too much.

So now she was fleeing home. Her parents, both of them, were on their way. From the big fat red lips Mom was now sporting, apparently certain effects of the virus ran in the family.

Grant sat down next to her and put his arm around her.

She let out a very long, deep breath.

“I’m sorry about…” Grant stopped. “Everything.”

“It’s not your fault,” Kristen said. It smelled smoky. So good and so smoky. “I’m just a big dumb bag of hormones. I have no idea what I’m doing. No. Fucking. Idea.”

“I’m a big bag of hormones too,” Grant said. She put her head on his knee. “Careful, it’s tender there. I kneed a ton of dudes in the balls just recently.”

“I saw,” Kristen said. “I appreciated that. Anna ran after you to help and then I lost sight of you and I just—quit.”

“I, uh, ran into Anna.”

“Is she upset?”

“No, she made her peace with everything, I guess? Or at least, with Darren and Michael.”

“I fucking knew it,” Kristen muttered.

“Look,” Grant said, and Kristen knew what was coming next. He was going to say that he wanted to be with her. He would promise that she was his only one. With the understated proviso that she would be mandated to fuck and suck him 4-5 times a day, so his balls wouldn’t fall off. And she was going to accept it because, chemicals or not, hormones or not, what she wanted so fiercely and so desperately was to just drink so deeply of Grant that she’d be practically an accessory. His Kristen, the one who pumped him dry four, five times a day, so used to his so-good scent that to lose it was to lose a part of herself, to feel needy and desperate. To be so deeply familiar with every inch of his cock, his muscles, his body, that she could identify him blindfolded, just by tugging. She’d be filled up with him, possessed, taking a desperate gamble that the small little signs of a decent, good guy she had seen were real, because she wanted them to be real so badly. She had fought what her body and her hormone-drunk mind wanted and she had lost.

“Whoa, start over,” Kristen said. “I got distracted. What?”

“I said, I’m sorry. I’m not used to having people care about me. I fucking hate this virus thing. I hate it. But you caring for me—really caring—I want that. I want you. I’ll do what it takes,” Grant said, quietly.

“You had me at Look,” she said, just a little sadly.

She felt a sudden ease. So, that was it. She had made the decision. Maybe she had already made it that first time, staring at the disheveled, sweating sick Grant, when that scent of a man crept into her. Maybe it had remolded her brain on a deep level, so that, struggle as she might, she was basically his right from there, struggling from then on in a chemical web imprinted on her cerebellum. Maybe it was when she had drunk a cup of him, and, like classical myth, been transformed. Maybe it was that single chaste kiss. Who knew.

She bonked her head against his knee.

“So, what do you want to do now?” Grant said. “There’s a chance I’m gonna be arrested soon, I’m not going to lie to you. I kicked a bunch of guys in the balls.”

“Yeah, I was there,” Kristen said. “It was great.”

“Sorry. I know. I’m just a little surprised I did that. Testosterone. Hell of a thing.”

“Estrogen too,” Kristen said. “Watch this,”

She tried to close her lips entirely and couldn’t. A little gap remained. Then she licked them. Grant’s eyes went wild. Kristen put her hand into his lap, and felt around for it. It wasn’t very hard to find. She was going to get to know that penis very well.

Kristen pointed to a small shady spot underneath the stairs up to the campus library. It wasn’t getting very much foot traffic, and it was basically secluded. “Lets go underneath there and then I’m gonna blow your brains out.” And her own, she thought. Oh well.

They were both so relieved. All this fighting, fighting, fighting their bodies, holding on to archaic standards and worthless hangups, when they had both been remade to perfectly fit one another. Grant put his hand on her ass while they walked over, digging into her butt, and Kristen nestled into him. She was wet enough for it to trickle down her thighs, sparkling in the sun. Grant teased with her panty strap.

Kristen nearly fell onto her knees as soon as they reached the shade. For a short and disturbing second she was reminded of a lifetime of church-going. But then her mind cleared of worries, and of thinking more generally. Grant pulled down his pants—no underpants, they no longer fit—and his dick sprang at her. Kristen finally got to touch it. It was long, thicker then she had imagined in her many fantasies, wrapped with dark veins. She put her mouth over it.

Yes, there it was. That first drop of cum. Thick and creamy cum. It took her body a second to remember to suck, but once she did, it was rewarding. More and more cum, filling up her mouth, sending sparkles through her.

She wasn’t much for thinking just then, but Kristen did have a little space in her boiling, electric brain to wonder—how many blowjobs would she dole out? How many times would she be on her knees in the years to come—thousands, tens of thousands? How many loads would she accept, how much could her mind take of this animal, pulsing heat? She’d burn out on it, no question, but how long would it take? Would she be more than a girl addicted to that semi-salty load in her mouth? How could she care about anything else when, 4-5 times a day, there was THIS?

But at the same time it seemed so very wonderful. Her lips were perfect for blowing a cock. It slid in greased. She could tell from Grant’s expression how hot she looked, mouth pursed, big red mouth with a dick in it. She was so hot and wet Kristen was afraid to squeeze her thighs—it might send her over the edge.

“I’m coming,” Grant said, and the wonderful trickle became a heavy, hot, flood. It was an overwhelming drug. Parts of her were shutting down, unable to process it. Kristen’s body was all endorphins and shaking pleasure. She was distantly mortified when some of it spilled out, just too much to contain, drooling down her shirt and onto her skirt.

She didn’t pass out, at least. Kristen felt multiple ways about that. First, a naked regret at the end of a pleasure so intense and blinding she had torpedo’d every dream she’d had in her life just to chase it. Second, a mild relief that she could get some cum on her without entering a coma. But being awake for it all was disturbing too—she could feel the pop pop fizz inside her head, the disturbing and languid heat, that meant that chemicals were doing extreme and concerning things to her personality, memory, whatever. Oh well.

She’d be knocked up in—how long? A week? Swelling up with Grant. Well, she had wanted an identity, there were a bunch of them about to hit her hard and forever. Kristen tried to plot her immediate future while lying on the grass, unable to sit up, watching Grant zip. She’d have to go shopping. Nothing fit these boobs. And her butt was getting bigger. Was there any hope of avoiding maternity clothes? Maybe if she could—but he was so very big and so very full of jizz and she was such a good and eager target. A ring seemed presumptuous but she could get some sort of bracelet or—a choker. Oh god, a choker. Kristen leaked at the thought. With a little heart dog tag.

“Hey, you alright?” Grant said, bending over her. Her mouth worked, and, eventually, higher thinking grudgingly kicked back in. Kristen put herself back together.

“Oof,” she said, sitting up. Her face was a mess. Cum had spattered her shirt. At least it was the hot new look.

“You feel okay?” Grant said.

“Just a little eroded,” Kristen said. She took his hand. He pulled her up easily. She gloried in it—he was so strong, so big, and he was HERS, and it made everything else so much less scary. Kristen attached herself to his hip. “Do you have a handkerchief or something? Like a napkin?”

“Uhhhhh, no,” Grant said.

They emerged from the cool of the shade and stood in the sunlight. It highlighted how much bigger Grant was, already, his shirt pinched and tight at the shoulders, his chest a wide plain. He had a thick growth of beard. Kristen nearly dragged him back under the arch. How many times would she fuck him, that day? She was wild to find out. She ached for him. She pushed the fear deep down.

“So, what do you want to go do?” Grant said.

A minivan pulled up to the side of the street. Inside were two familiar-looking Korean people, one with oversized lips, the other an aging but now heavily built man.

“First, you get to meet my parents,” Kristen said. She hugged his arm tight, and wiped her mouth.