Chapter 1: The First Twitch of Change
The can hissed when he opened it. Alex peered at the silver logo, something in Cyrillic he couldn’t read, bought from a dodgy corner store on a dare from Ben.
“Bottoms up, nerd,” Ben chuckled from the couch, not looking up from his phone. “Maybe it’ll finally put some hair on your chest.”
Alex took a swig. It tasted like burning metal and sour berries. “Tastes like ass,” he sputtered, but finished it, crushing the can in one hand with a show of force he didn’t feel. He was a scrawny guy, all elbows and knee joints, drowned in a vintage gaming t-shirt.
He belched. The air tasted electric.
Then the cramp hit. A violent, twisting spasm deep in his gut. He gasped, doubling over, hands flying to his abdomen.
“Whoa, you okay?” Ben’s phone was down now.
Alex couldn’t speak. A furnace ignited in his core, heat spreading through his veins like liquid fire. He stumbled back against the bookcase, making it rattle. His bones… they didn’t ache. They itched. A deep, insistent crawling sensation beneath his skin.
“Dude, you’re sweating.” Ben was on his feet, approaching cautiously.
Alex panted, eyes wide. He looked down at his own hands as the joints popped, the fingers seeming to slenderize, the coarse dark hair on his knuckles receding into nothing. “What the fuck…” he whispered.
The heat concentrated in his chest. A searing, pulling tightness. He arched his back with a strangled cry as his pecs… moved. They weren’t pecs anymore. They swelled, pushing against the thin cotton of his t-shirt, fabric straining over a strange, burgeoning softness. The sensation was overwhelming, a foreign weight, a sensitivity so acute he could feel every thread of the shirt abrading him. His nipples, tight and painful, pebbled into hard points, visibly tenting the graphic print.
Ben froze, two steps away. “Alex?”
His jeans were next. A sharp, tearing rrrip echoed in the quiet room as the denim at the seat split open. The fabric was yielding to a new, fuller curve, a swell of flesh that hadn’t been there a minute ago. Alex clutched at his ass, feeling it swell and round under his palms, soft and immense. His whole skeletal structure was singing, hips crackling as they widened, spine curving inwards to accommodate the new topography of his body.
The pain was receding, replaced by a tidal wave of alien sensation. Every shift of fabric was a symphony. He was shrinking, his height diminishing, his shoulders softening. His face prickled, his jawline seeming to melt and reform.
He looked at Ben, breathing in ragged, shallow gulps. His voice, when it came, was higher, lighter, threaded with panic. “Ben?”
Ben just stared, mouth agape. His eyes travelled from the long, tangled blonde hair that now fell past Alex’s shoulders, to the huge, round tits straining desperately against the now-snug t-shirt, to the outrageous curve of the hips bursting from the ruined jeans. The nerdy guy was gone. In his place was a woman—a fucking bombshell—with wide, scared blue eyes and lips that looked designed for obscene acts.
“Your… your eyes are blue,” Ben managed, dumbly.
Alex stumbled toward the hallway mirror, her gait unsteady on new legs, a new center of gravity. She—she—gripped the doorframe, her small hands with their trimmed nails whitening on the wood.
The reflection was a stranger. A beautiful, terrified stranger. High cheekbones, full, pouty lips, a slender neck leading down to obscenely large, perfect breasts. The t-shirt was stretched so thin across them she could see the dark circles of her areolas. She turned slightly, seeing the dramatic sweep of her waist into the generous, round swell of her ass, pale flesh peeking through the torn denim.
“I’m a girl,” she breathed, the voice melodic and foreign in her own ears.
“Yeah. No shit.” Ben ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “How… what the fuck was in that drink?”
A hysterical laugh bubbled out of her. It sounded like a silver bell. “I don’t know!” She turned from the mirror, facing him, her new tits jiggling with the movement. She crossed her arms over them self-consciously, which only pushed them up, creating deeper cleavage. “What do I do? Ben, what the fuck do I do?”
He was trying not to look. He was failing miserably. His eyes kept dipping, snapping back to her face, then dipping again like they were magnetized. He was a personal trainer; he appreciated physiques. But this was Alex. His roommate.
“I… I don’t know. Hospital?”
“And say what?” her voice rose, panicked. “I drank a weird soda and turned into a pin-up? They’d lock me in a psych ward!” She took a step forward, wobbling on unfamiliar legs. Ben instinctively shot out a hand to steady her.
His big, calloused hand wrapped around her bare forearm. The contact was a bolt of lightning. Her skin was impossibly soft. He could feel the delicate bone beneath. A current, hot and immediate, shot straight to his groin. He dropped her arm like it was burning.
They stood there, in the lamplight, breathing heavily. The air was thick with lavender from a plug-in and something else, something new and ripe and feminine. Alex’s scent had changed. It was dizzying.
Her fear was slowly being submerged under a rising tide of other sensations. The ache in her swollen tits, the brush of the torn jeans against her inner thighs, a strange, empty throbbing between her legs. She felt… sensitive. Everywhere.
Her eyes met Ben’s. She saw the confusion, the fear, and beneath it, a stark, raw hunger he wasn’t fast enough to hide. It should have disgusted her. It didn’t. It ignited something. A need to be touched, to be anchored in this terrifying new body, to feel something other than sheer panic.
“Do I…” she started, her new voice a husky whisper. “Do I look… real?”
Ben’s throat worked. He couldn’t formulate words. He just gave a short, tight nod.
“Prove it,” she heard herself say. The words hung in the charged air.
“Alex…”
“Touch me.” It wasn’t a question. It was a desperate plea. “Just… just so I know I’m here. That this is real.”
He took a step closer. The heat from his body reached her. He was so much bigger now, towering over her slight frame. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and cupped the side of her face. His thumb stroked her cheekbone.
A shuddering sigh escaped her. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. His hand slid down, over the slope of her neck, his fingers tracing her collarbone. He stopped at the neckline of her t-shirt.
His breath was ragged. “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” The word was a gasp.
His hand slid under the fabric. The warmth of his palm against the impossibly soft, heavy curve of her breast made her cry out. It wasn’t pain. It was a shock of pure, electric feeling. Her back arched, shoving her tit more fully into his grip.
“Fuck, Alex,” Ben groaned, his other hand coming up to cage her against the bookcase. He was hard, she could feel the rigid line of his cock straining against his gym shorts, pressing into her hip.
“They’re so sensitive,” she panted, her head falling back. His thumb swiped over her nipple, and a jagged bolt of pleasure-pain shot straight to her core, making her clamp her thighs together. A wet heat was blooming there, a slick, foreign urgency.
“I can’t… we shouldn’t…” Ben muttered, but he was leaning in, his mouth hovering over hers. His breath was hot.
“Shut up,” she breathed, and closed the distance.
The kiss was nothing like before. Before, with other girls, it had been a transaction, a step in a process. This was a fucking revelation. Her new lips were so full, so responsive. She could taste the beer on his tongue, feel the scrape of his stubble. A low moan vibrated from his chest into hers.
His hands were everywhere, frantic, mapping the territory of her new body. He yanked the stretched t-shirt up, baring her tits to the lamplight. They spilled into his hands, huge and pale with pink, tight nipples. He bent his head, taking one into his mouth.
“Oh, god!” The sensation was unbelievable. The wet heat, the suckling pressure, the flick of his tongue. It was like he was pulling a thread of molten pleasure straight from her nipple to her cunt. Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his short hair, holding him there.
He switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same rough attention, biting gently at the peak. She was dripping now, a slick mess soaking through what was left of her panties inside the torn jeans. The empty throbbing between her legs was now a demanding, rhythmic pulse.
“Ben, please,” she begged, not even knowing what she was asking for.
He understood. With a grunt, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her ruined jeans and her panties and shoved them down her hips.
With a grunt, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her ruined jeans and her panties and shoved them down her hips.
They pooled at her feet, a denim and cotton puddle. The cool air of the room hit her soaked cunt and she jerked, a shaky breath escaping her. Ben didn’t give her time to feel exposed. He grabbed her by her new, wide hips and lifted her like she weighed nothing, planting her ass on the edge of the cluttered coffee table. Chinese takeout menus fluttered to the floor.
“Look at you,” he growled, his gaze eating her up. Her long blonde hair was a mess against her shoulders, her huge tits heaved with each panicked, excited breath, and between her spread thighs, she was completely bare, glistening. “Fucking unreal.”
He dropped to his knees. She thought he was going to kiss her there, and her whole body tensed in anticipation. But he just stared, his hot breath washing over her. The intimacy of it, the sheer obscene visuals, made her head spin. This was her body. This wet, open, wanting slit was hers now.
“Ben, please, don’t just look,” she whimpered, the words slutty and desperate in her new voice.
He answered by surging forward, not with his mouth, but with his hand. Two thick fingers slid into her without any resistance, a smooth, shocking invasion. She cried out, her back arching, her tits bouncing. It didn’t hurt. It felt… full. The stretch was immediate and perfect.
“So fucking tight,” he muttered, his fingers curling, pumping into her. The sound was filthy, wet and rhythmic. His thumb found her clit, a rough, insistent circle.
Pleasure, white-hot and utterly foreign, detonated in her core. It wasn’t a slow build. It was a crashing wave, breaking over her in seconds. She came with a shattered scream, her cunt clamping down on his fingers, her legs shaking violently. Stars exploded behind her eyes.
Before the last tremor even left her, Ben was fumbling with his gym shorts, shoving them down. His cock sprang free, thick and veined and ruddy in the lamplight. It looked intimidating. Necessary.
He was beyond words now. He lined up the broad head, pressing it against her soaked, twitching opening. He met her eyes. There was a question there, mangled by pure lust.
She nodded, frantic, digging her heels into his lower back. “Do it. Fuck me. I need to feel something real.”
He drove into her with one brutal, bottoming thrust.
The fullness was breathtaking. She was stuffed, impaled, split open on him. A second, sharper orgasm ripped through her almost immediately, wrung from her by the sheer overwhelming sensation of being fucked for the first time in this body. She clawed at his shoulders, her nails biting into the fabric of his shirt.
“Jesus Christ, Alex,” he choked out, holding himself deep, his body trembling. “You feel… God…”
He started to move. It was a frantic, punishing rhythm, the coffee table legs screeching against the hardwood floor with every thrust. Each snap of his hips hammered a choked sound from her throat. His hands gripped her ass, fingers sinking into the soft, ample flesh, pulling her onto him harder, deeper.
The room filled with the sounds of their bodies: skin slapping skin, his grunts, her high, keening whines, the wet, rhythmic squelch of him pistoning into her dripping cunt. Her tits bounced wildly with every drive. He leaned down, capturing one nipple in his teeth again, biting and sucking as he fucked her.
It was raw, it was base, it was a circuit completed in a storm of confusion and horror and need. Alex’s mind was a blur of sensation—the stretch inside, the abrasive burn of his shirt on her nipples, the smell of sex and sweat replacing the lavender. She was coming again, a third time, the pleasure so intense it tipped into pain.
Ben’s rhythm fractured. “Gonna… I’m gonna…”
“Do it,” she hissed, wrapping her legs tighter around him. “Fill me up.”
With a final, deep roar, he slammed into her and held, his cock pulsing hot jets inside her. The feeling of him coming, the intimate flood, triggered a fourth, weaker climax that left her sobbbing, utterly spent.
He collapsed against her, his face buried in the sweat-damp hollow of her neck, his weight pressing her into the table. They stayed like that, joined, breathing in ragged synch. The reality of what they’d just done began to seep in around the edges of the physical aftermath.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of her. A trickle of his come followed, a warm leak down her inner thigh. The sensation was vulgar. She didn’t move.
Ben stood up on shaky legs, pulling his shorts up. He couldn’t look at her. He turned away, running both hands over his head. “Fuck. Fuck, man. What did we just do?”
Alex just lay back on the table, staring at the ceiling, feeling utterly hollowed out. The empty drink can gleamed on the floor near his feet.
“I need a drink,” Ben muttered, his voice ragged. He stumbled toward the kitchen, bypassing the beers on the counter. He saw the silver can, the last few drops still inside. Without thinking, in a daze, he picked it up and tipped it back, swallowing the metallic dregs.
He dropped the can, wiping his mouth. “Tastes like shit,” he coughed.
Then he froze.
A familiar, burning itch began deep in his muscles. It started in his core, a tightening, then spread like wildfire through his limbs. His shoulders, already broad, seemed to knot and swell. His pectorals, defined from years of training, thickened, pushing against his tight cotton shirt. The seams strained. A low groan escaped him as his biceps ballooned, the sleeves of his shirt stretching to a tearing point. Veins he’d never seen before rose to the surface of his skin, corded and thick. He felt heavier, denser, a crushing pressure of pure, raw mass packing onto his frame.
He looked down at his hands, now massive, knotty fists.
The shirt gave first. A sharp rrrip as the sleeves tore at the biceps, followed by the shoulder seams splitting open. The fabric across his chest went next, buttons pinging off to hit the wall. What was left of the shirt hung from his now-monstrous torso, a testament to a form that had moved beyond athletic into something grotesquely powerful.
He turned slowly back to Alex, his breathing a low rumble.
She had pushed herself up on her elbows, her brilliant blue eyes wide with a fresh, dawning horror. The sight of him—this gargantuan, hyper-muscular version of her best friend—sent a new kind of terror spearing through her post-coital haze.
“Ben?” her voice was small.
He just stared at his own hands, a dangerous, unknown energy crackling in the space between them. The night was far from over.
The night was far from over.
Ben stood there, a monument of shifting muscle and tendon. The low hum of the floor lamp seemed to pulse in time with the visible throbbing in his newly engorged veins. He looked at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger—these massive, knotty tools capable of crushing stone. The remaining tatters of his shirt clung to a torso that was now a topographic map of power.
He took a single step toward the living room. The floorboard, which had never so much as squeaked under his weight, let out a sharp, pained groan.
“Ben?” Alex’s voice was a feather against the dense, crackling silence.
He didn’t—couldn’t—answer. A wave of heat rolled through him, a pure, violent surge of energy that demanded release. He clenched his fists, and the corded muscles in his forearms stood out like braided steel cable. He felt invincible. He felt terrified.
Alex slowly swung her legs off the coffee table, the sticky wetness between her thighs a shocking reminder of what had just happened. She stood, her body aching in profound new ways, and took a hesitant step toward him. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was tangled now with a dark, pulling curiosity. This was still Ben. Her Ben. Even as he seemed to be bursting from his own skin.
“Your eyes,” she whispered.
They were darker, the pupils wide and black, swallowing the familiar warm brown. They fixed on her, and the hunger in them wasn’t just sexual anymore. It was primal, possessive.
“I feel… like I’m going to explode,” he ground out, his voice a distorted baritone, thick and rough. It resonated in her chest.
“It’s the drink. It did this. To both of us.” She wrapped her arms around herself, a futile gesture of modesty. Her large breasts heaved with each quick breath. The sight of them seemed to focus him.
The tension in the room was a living thing, a third presence fueled by chemical mystery and the raw, sweating aftermath of sex. The air smelled of sweat, sex, and that faint, sharp ozone.
He moved suddenly, not with his old athletic grace, but with a startling, predatory speed. He was before her in two strides, his new, immense body blocking out the lamplight. He didn’t touch her. He just loomed, his heat washing over her.
“It’s too much,” he breathed, the words ragged. “Everything is… louder. Brighter.” His gaze dipped, trailing from her eyes to her lips, down her throat, over the swell of her tits. “You. You’re all I can smell.”
She should have been scared. She was. But under the fear, in the deep, slick heart of her new body, a treacherous pulse beat in agreement. The visual of him—this overpowering, hyper-masculine form—should have repulsed her. It did the opposite. It called to the raw, changed nerves he had just minutes ago been the first to ignite.
She bit her lip. “Ben… you look good.”
It was a stupid thing to say. An insane thing. But it was the truth, vomited up from a place of pure, instinctive reaction.
A low growl escaped him. Her words, her bitten lip, the submissive tilt of her head—it snapped the last thin thread of his control.
His hand, that colossal hand, came up and palmed the side of her face. His thumb, rough and broad, stroked her lower lip, pulling it free from her teeth. “You started this,” he rumbled, the accusation hot and dark.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t like before. Before had been discovery, frantic need. This was conquest. His lips were demanding, his tongue plunging into her mouth with a claiming arrogance that left her dizzy. He tasted different. Metallic, wild. One arm banded around her waist, lifting her clean off her feet as if she were weightless. Her tits crushed against the impossible wall of his chest.
He broke the kiss, his breathing a storm. “You feel that?” he growled, grinding the hard ridge of his cock, now impossibly larger, against her bare stomach. “That’s what you did. That’s what this is now.”
He carried her to the worn couch, not laying her down, but falling back onto it himself, pulling her on top of him so she straddled his lap. The position made her feel tiny, a doll perched on a mountain of muscle. He was still mostly dressed in his torn shorts, the fabric straining over his thighs. His cock was a blatant, intimidating bulge.
“You wanted to feel real,” he said, his hands gripping her wide hips, fingers digging in. “So feel it. Take it.”
His hands guided her, and she fumbled with the waistband of his shorts, freeing him. Her breath hitched. He was even thicker than before, the head flushed and bulbous, veins prominent. A bead of clear pre-cum welled at the tip.
She lifted herself on her knees, positioning him at her entrance, still loose and wet from his last invasion. She looked into his dark, wild eyes, saw the animal expectancy there, and sank down.
It was a slower, more brutal fullness this time. There was no frantic rush, just the inexorable, stretching descent as he filled her to the absolute limit. A sharp, burning pinch made her cry out.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his head lolling back against the couch, the cords in his neck standing out. “Jesus, Alex, you’re so fucking tight around me. Like a fist.”
She began to move, a shallow, tentative rocking of her hips. The sensation was overwhelming, a filthy, gorgeous friction that rubbed directly against something deep inside that made her see stars. Her tits bounced heavily with each rise and fall.
His hands left her hips and grabbed her breasts, his huge palms mauling them, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching her nipples hard. The pain was bright, sharp, melting instantly into a spreading pool of heat in her belly. Her movements became more desperate, her thighs burning as she rode him, taking him deeper with each drop of her weight.
“That’s it,” he urged, his voice guttural. “Use that fat new ass. Ride my dick like you mean it.”
His words, so crude, so degrading, sent another shock of warmth through her. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his mountainous shoulders, and changed her angle. The head of his cock ground against a spot that made her whole body convulse.
“There! Oh, god, Ben, right there!”
He took over then, his hips pistoning up off the couch to meet her downward thrusts, driving into her with a force that shook the old frame. The wet, slapping sounds of their joining filled the room, a lewd rhythm under their grunts and moans.
“You like this?” he snarled, his hands sliding down to clutch her ass, spreading her cheeks, opening her up to take even more of him. “You like being this? My fucking wet dream made flesh?”
She couldn’t answer. She could only sob as the pressure coiled, unbearably tight, in her core. His thrusts became jagged, erratic. He was close.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice breaking. “Squeeze my fucking cock and come.”
It was an order she couldn’t disobey. The climax tore through her, a riot of sensation that blurred her vision and ripped a raw, screaming gasp from her throat. Her cunt clamped and fluttered around his shaft in relentless, pulsing waves.
The feeling of her milking him sent Ben over the edge. With a roar that was almost a shout of pain, he slammed her down onto him, burying himself to the hilt, and erupted. She felt the hot, violent spurts deep inside her, a flooding claiming that seemed to go on and on.
He held her there, locked together, as the tremors subsided. His massive body shuddered beneath her. The only sound was their ragged breathing, struggling to sync.
Slowly, the world filtered back in. The ache in her thighs. The chill of the air on her sweaty skin. The sheer, absurd reality of their situation, sitting in their own filthy living room, utterly transformed.
Ben’s hands, which had been gripping her ass so fiercely, gently loosened. They travelled up her spine, a strangely tender gesture in the aftermath of such brutality. He cupped the back of her head, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. He still smelled like Ben, but deeper, tinged with something wild.
“What…” he started, his voice returning to something closer to normal, though deeper, richer. “What the hell are we?”