Milo collapsed against the wall, his chest heaving with every shallow, ragged breath. His dress shirt had fallen open. His tie hung loose around his neck. The collar of his undershirt was soaked with sweat, plastered to his chest.

He had never looked so disheveled in his life—and certainly not in front of other people. He’d always been so concerned about his reputation, projecting an image of a well-manicured, clean, and self-confident man. Tonight, he just didn’t have the energy to give much of a damn.

The change wasn’t lost on Milo’s friends. They were some of the only people that had seen him vulnerable. They’d watched him have a meltdown over not looking perfect on more than one occasion.

That he was sweaty and flustered and quiet about it jolted all three of Milo’s friends out of the stupor that had gripped them the whole time. And just like it had with Milo earlier, it dawned on them that something wasn’t quite right about the place.

“Holy shit,” said Tag. “Holy shit, Bro! What happened to you?”

Lyle had his phone out. From where Milo was standing he could just about make out that Lyle had MediCheck pulled up on his phone. “That’s not normal, man.”

Drew sat up and looked at Lyle with a frown. “Well, no shit. I could have told you that,” he said. “Does he need to go to the hospital or not?”

Lyle was the resident hypochondriac of the group. “I-I don’t know, man! People don’t just bloat like that!” he said, a hint of panic in his voice as he scrolled through his phone. “Shit. Fuck it. Let’s take him to the ER and let them figure it out!”

“I’m fine,” said Milo.

“Like hell, you are,” said Tag as he got up from his seat.

Drew had already approached Milo. “You look like shit, bro,” he said.

Milo pushed him off. He was lightheaded and feeling flushed all over but he was fine. He just needed to take a moment to breathe. “You’re all being paranoid little bitches,” he growled.

“Even your voice is weird, bro,” said Tag. He sidled around the stage as he made his way over to the door. “We need to get you looked at.”

Before Tag could grab the door handle, however, Steve stepped in the way. “Dude, what the hell?” said Tag. “Can’t you see our friend’s not feeling well?”

“I told you I’m fine,” said Milo. He had both Drew and Lyle on him now but so far he was managing to keep them at arm’s length.

“He’s right,” said Steve. There was a glint in his eye. A knowing smirk on his lips.

Milo met Steve’s gaze and felt another rush of heat through his body. He doubled over his new thick gut and groaned. His body swelled all over. The bones in his limbs ached. The fabric of his suit creaked as it was stretched even further past the limits of what was reasonable.

“Look at that!” said Tag, pointing behind him at Milo. “Do you think that’s normal? People don’t just balloon like that!”

Steve laughed. “What’s happening to your friend is perfectly normal,” he said, that little smirk of his never leaving his face. “All that’s going on is that your friend is becoming the person he was always meant to be.”

A fresh wave of heat smashed into Milo. Drew and Lyle backed off as he grew even larger. The intensity subsided briefly, giving him a chance to stand back up.

The bottom hems of his pants legs stopped short of his ankles. The sleeves of his shirt jacket and dress shirt weren’t just stretched out, they were also too short on his arms. He’d grown taller.

“W-what do you mean the person he was meant to be?” said Drew, his frantic gaze turning from Milo to Steve.

Steve chuckled. “Of all people, you guys should know what I mean.” He laughed darkly. The smirk on his face twisted into something more menacing. “Didn’t you say that you guys knew each other better than anyone else in the world?”

Milo stared down at his body. He was only half-paying attention to the conversation between Steve and the others. He should have felt more alarmed by how much he’d changed in so little time but he was just amazed.

“You… You’ve got something to do with this, don’t you?” said Lyle.

“Maybe.” Steve shrugged. “That depends on your perspective. All I did was give you the opportunity. You were the ones that made all the choices.”

Purely out of instinct, Milo tugged on his sleeves. It was a part of his old self, trying to assert old patterns of behavior. The effort was naturally fruitless. He’d simply outgrown his suit. No amount of tugging would make his sleeves magically longer.

Tag grabbed Steve by the collar. “You better fucking stop this, bro,” he said.

Milo slammed the side of his fist against the wall. It was weird. Just minutes ago he had felt like shit but the haze in his head was starting to clear up. The heat inside him had mellowed out into a pleasant warmth. He was however, getting tired of the ruckus.

“Shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down!” he bellowed, an uncharacteristically commanding and dominant edge to his voice. He glared at his three friends, again challenging them to stand against him with a single look, and watched as each one meekly went back to where they’d been sitting earlier. “Good. All the bitching was giving me a fucking headache.”

Milo looked at his hands. He turned them back and forth, closing and opening his fingers. His hands were rough and not nearly as well-manicured as they were supposed to be. But he kind of liked them. They were masculine. The hands of someone that wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

A fresh wave of heat rippled through his body. Instead of resisting, he welcomed the sensation this time. It felt fucking amazing to embrace the heat and he didn’t even remember why he was resisting to start with.

Having the body of a Greek God had never been at the top of Milo’s priority list. He much preferred to look good in the way that he dressed, the way he styled himself, and the way that he acted.

It didn’t mean that Milo had no interest in being cut and muscular. Like probably most guys on the planet, he wanted to look like a male model. It was just so much effort on top of everything he already did to look good he was willing to let it slide.

Milo grinned as he felt his body swell again. He was getting the sort of body he’d always wanted without even having to put in half the effort. It was a fucking steal and he was stupid to not have embraced it before.

“Nnnh!” he grunted as his growing body finally pushed his suit past the point of no return. The feeling of the fabric growing taut and tight around his new muscles became more and more intense until with a loud ripping sound, his clothes blew apart around him.

Milo’s arms just tore through his sleeves, seams bursting and fabric tearing around his thick new muscular arms. He flexed his thighs and his pants shredded around the hard muscles. He was just lucky he was wearing boxer shorts because otherwise, his fat cock would have fallen out one of his tattered pants legs, but even that was deliciously tight against his body.

“Fuck, yeah, that’s much better,” Milo groaned. His voice had dropped another octave. It had also gained a rich, confident timbre that sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine to hear. Fucking hell. I sound hot, he thought to himself.

He grabbed what remained of his suit jacket and dress shirt and ripped them off his body. Standing there with just his wifebeater undershirt and shredded pants, he looked like he’d hulked out. His cock twitched at the idea.

Milo’s undershirt was soaked through with sweat. It was practically translucent, suctioned onto his skin.

The top left little to the imagination. The cotton was stretched taut over a pair of firm, meaty pecs and a round, firm muscle gut that protruded a good bit over the waistband of his tattered pants.

“Take a look, boys,” said Milo in that deep new voice of his. He flashed his teeth in a broad grin as he flexed his muscles, showing off his swollen biceps and rock-hard thighs. “Daddy’s gonna pick up so many fucking bitches looking like this.”

Milo looked at Steve, the grin never leaving his face. He was brimming with confidence. He felt like he could conquer the world. The things he would usually keep to himself came out of his mouth as he showed off his body for Steve and said, “Bet you want a piece of this body, don’t you, faggot?”

A wry little smile touched Steve’s lips. “I wouldn’t mind a taste,” he said.

Milo scoffed. “Well, too bad, fucking freak,” he said. “Dicks are for chicks and these muscles are all for pounding big titty bitches into tomorrow!”

Steve chuckled under his breath. “We’ll see about that.”

Before Milo could ask what Steve meant with his comment, another wave of heat washed over his body. It wasn’t followed this time by a wave of muscle growth. Instead, moments after the warmth subsided, he itched all over his body.

“Fucking hell,” Milo muttered under his breath. He felt like bugs were crawling all over him. There was no escaping it. The worst-affected areas were his chest, stomach, armpits, and crotch.

The sensation only got worse with every passing moment. He scratched compulsively at the itch, groaning as it took over his thoughts but even the scratching offered only transient relief.

Milo was on the brink of losing his mind when the sensation finally began to subside. He opened his eyes, not having realized that he’d closed them to start with. When he looked down, he saw the reason that he’d been so itchy.

His chest was covered in a thin pelt of wiry hair. It came as a bit of a shock as he’d been smooth all his life. But as he ran his fingers through the strands plastered against his skin with sweat, he decided he kind of liked the texture.

Milo could also feel that he’d grown hair in other parts of his body. His forearms, for instance, had a light dusting. The hair in his armpits was dense, coarse, and slick with sweat.

Lifting the bottom hem of his wifebeater, he saw that he had a treasure trail, too. It was a fuzzy strip that went from his chest, down the middle of his abs, past the waistband of his shorts.

His legs had grown hair as well. It was a thin dusting, like on his forearms, but it was difficult to miss. Only one place was left to check and he didn’t even have to stick a hand down the front of his pants to know that his cock and balls were now nestled in a dense bush of sweaty pubes.

Milo did it, anyway. He stuck a hand down the front of his pants and wrapped his fingers around the base of his shaft. He’d never found the idea of body hair appealing and yet, now that he had a hand in his bush, he could see why so many people found it hot.

After squeezing his cock a few times, Milo pulled his hand out of his boxer briefs. He felt an urge to do something he’d seen his friends do as soon as he’d pulled his hand out. He’d always resisted because he was too refined for that sort of thing, but he was feeling open to new experiences.

Milo sniffed his fingers. Fuck. I smell amazing, he couldn’t help but think to himself. The scent of his own musk filled his lungs, drawing a low groan out of him.

As if his muscular body wasn’t enough already, the pure liquid sex that was his musk was sure to bring all the cute twinks to their knees. He grabbed his crotch through the tattered remains of his pants and gave his cock and balls a little shake. He could imagine the little bitches already, wagging their tails at him, begging to be stuffed in their cute pink assholes.

Milo massaged the outline of his fat daddy dick through his pants and lifted one of his arms into the air. He stuck his nose into his own armpit and drank deep of the powerful musk that was coming off of his body.

“Holy shit! What the fuck!”

Milo was only dimly aware of Drew’s voice.

“You gotta snap out of it, man!” Lyle was calling out to Milo but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be snapping out of. He smelled so good. He felt so good.

“This is so fucking sick,” Tag muttered under his breath.

Milo groaned as heat bloomed inside him again. The itch returned. This time, it hit his head and chin. His face tingled, too. And so did every inch of skin that he had on his body.

It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was intense. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the sensations. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with musk, and making his cock jump.

Wilfully ignorant, Milo was unaware of the changes happening to him as his pale skin took on a more Mediterranean, olive complexion. His hair grew in, thicker and wavier than before. Stubble sprouted along his jaw, giving him a bit of a rugged look.

A subtle change overcame his features. Not only did they weather and age to give him the appearance of a man in his early 50s, elements of Italian heritage surfaced in his looks. He still managed to look like himself—if he’d come from an alternate reality where he had Italian blood in him.

“Holy motherfuck. That’s fucked. That’s fucked,” said Drew, the horror plain in his voice.

Milo heard a bit of a commotion and opened his eyes just in time to see Tag climb over the stage to rush Steve. “Hey!” he said, only to be ignored.

Steve held his hands as Tag grabbed him by the shirt. “Change him back!” Tag yelled. “That’s not Milo!”

Lyle just slowly turned his gaze from Milo to Steve. “I-is that going to happen to all of us?” he said.

Milo frowned. “What are you—” he grabbed his phone and turned on his camera. He saw his new face for the first time, and whatever enchantment had been keeping him complacent shattered into a million pieces when he realized he barely recognized himself.

He trembled all over as he looked down at his body. He looked at his hands. He touched his arm and flinched when he felt the callouses on his skin. “What the fuck?! Holy fuck! What the shit happened?!”

Steve laughed despite Tag’s grip on his shirt. “Nothing to worry about,” he taunted. “You’re just becoming the man your friends think you are.”

Boiling fury rose inside Milo. “Fuck that bullshit!” he said. “I look like a fucking freak!”

The floor seemed to shake with every step that he took toward Steve. He shoved Tag off the man and grabbed Steve by the collar himself. “Change me back. Change me back or I’m going to use this fucking body to rip your fucking face off!”

Steve laughed and tapped Milo’s chest with his index finger. “I’d like to see you try,” he said.

Milo had meant every word of the threat. He drew back with his free hand, mustering all his strength to slam his fist into Steve’s smug face. And then, a piercing pain lanced through his head.

He dropped Steve as he clutched his temples. He felt like someone had taken an axe to his skull. Agony throbbed behind his eyes. Intense heat filled his chest and was climbing up his neck into his head. His brain felt like it was about to explode.

Memories of a milquetoast upbringing in a white, suburban neighborhood were juxtaposed with growing up middle-class with a large Italian family in New York. Memories of private school were shunted against memories of public school.

The night he first asked out a girl went up against finding gay porn on the internet and discovering his sexuality for the first time. College clashed with the police academy.

Milo’s brain was being boiled alive in his skull. He could barely even tell the two sets of memories apart. Sheer stubbornness was the only thing that kept him clinging to his identity.

“I’m not a faggot,” he muttered to himself. Memories of every girl he’d ever been with surfaced in his mind. Alongside came memories of lonely nights spent masturbating in front of the computer to pictures of hot men.

More and more the line between truth and falsehood blurred. One set of memories was true. The other set was false. He knew who he was. He knew his story. He fought tooth and nail to hold on to his identity but the way that his cock throbbed every time his mind wandered back to the fake memories made it difficult to keep fighting.

“Not a faggot. Not a faggot. Not a fucking faggot,” he mumbled to himself. Memories of senior prom night with one of his high school’s hottest babes were replaced with giving the closeted quarterback a hand job behind the bleachers.

“Boobs. Girls. Pussy.” It was as much a reminder of what he knew he liked as it was a reminder of which set of memories was real as his college hookups came to mind. Juxtaposed with those memories were recollections of discovering BDSM at the police academy, learning how to submit, and coming to love the act of domination.

“Jiggling tits,” he moaned to himself. The image of the RA he’d hooked up with, Amanda, was juxtaposed against the memory of tying a man up to a St. Andrew’s cross and torturing his tits with nipple clamps and a flogger.

“Dripping cunts!” The memory of his nympho girlfriend of three months barely registered in his mind before it was swept along by the memory of edging a cute twink with a massive hog and watching it fling pre-cum all over the place after hitting the rock-hard rod with a leather riding crop.

“Bouncing asses…” The last thing was barely a whisper. The last of Milo’s resistance. He barely even remembered the girl that flashed briefly across his mind. She’d had a great ass, but not as great as the one that he’d spanked cherry red while a set of hefty balls dangled underneath.

Milo couldn’t take it anymore. He was so fucking horny. And every guy in his fake memories just made him even hornier.

However hard he tried to imagine women, it just wouldn’t work. His mind would keep wandering back to men. And they were so goddamn hot. He didn’t know how he’d never realized men could turn him on so much. He didn’t think he’d ever been harder.

His will to fight was all but spent. The fake memories of his new life had begun to bury the real memories of his old one. With every moment that passed, it became harder and harder to resist, to hold on to the pieces of who he used to be.

He couldn’t help but wonder why he was even struggling so hard to begin with. There wasn’t a point in fighting a losing battle. He could just give in. It would be easier. And the way he looked now, he was sure he’d be able to pull just as many guys as girls he used to.

Milo’s cock throbbed. Guys would be easier. They were always horny and willing. He wouldn’t have to worry about getting them pregnant. And if his new memories were anything to go by, they were going to throw themselves at him, sparing him the effort of dating.

All he had to do was let go of his old self. He didn’t even know why he was still holding on. Presenting well and being rich was the only thing he used to have. And looking back, all the obsession with clothes and outside appearance had only served to restrict him.

Milo’s resistance crumbled. Freedom was within his grasp. All he had to do was surrender. His new memories promised pleasure unlike anything he’d ever experienced and deep down he knew that it could be so good.

It was over. He was done for. He let go and gave himself up. He wanted his new life. His new name.

Andrea opened his eyes and grinned at the shocked expressions of his old friends. He reached into his pants and fished out his cock. It was big. His fingers barely fit around the considerable girth. He rocked his hips and slowly fucked his hand while maintaining eye contact with the others.

He groaned as he felt a faint sting on his right breast. He looked down and saw a tattoo forming on his skin. It was the same as the sticker he’d gotten on his membership card. A police badge with a leather cap and a baton.

The tattoo was sharp and crisp for only a moment before it began to fade. Not much of a surprise there. He’d had it for decades, after all.

Andrea’s wifebeater, the only piece of clothing besides his boxer briefs that had survived his body’s explosive growth, split down the middle. The cotton became stiff and glossy, turning from white to black as it transformed into a leather vest and exposed his hairy muscle gut.

His shoes reformed around his feet, turning into military boots laced all the way up and polished to a gleam. The dregs of his pants became a pair of leather chaps—it didn’t have a front or a back, naturally.

Andrea’s boxer shorts shrank, turning into a leather jockstrap that perfectly framed his firm, furry ass. Since he had his cock out, the front formed a detachable leather flap. It could be fastened with two button clasps but it didn’t need to be while he was playing with himself.

“Damn,” he groaned to himself as he moved the hand down from his chest to rub his gut. “That’s so much better.”

The rest of his clothes came together on the floor beside him. They transformed into a leather cap and baton identical to the one he had on his tattoo. HE grabbed both off the floor, placing the baton at his hip before pulling the cap on.

“What are you bitches gawping at?” Andrea boomed in that authoritative voice of his.

“A-Andrea!” said Lyle. “W-wait. Huh? I-I meant Andrea! What the fuck?”

“Who the fuck’s Andrea? That’s Andre—!” Drew’s eyes widened.

“Guys, that’s not funny,” said Tag. “Stop calling Andrea, An—What the fuck?!”

Andrea sighed and shook his head. “Sit down!” he said, leaving no space in his tone for objections. “I see I’m going to have to teach you rascals a little bit of something about discipline,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the hilt of his baton while he stroked his cock.

“What to do with you…” he mused out loud. It didn’t take long for it to come to him. He remembered his own transformation. The kind of person he’d been before he became the man he was always meant to be. He’d been awful. But now, he was better.

Andrea cracked a grin and relished the way the three rowdy boys blanched at the look he gave them. Without looking at Steve, he snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor next to his feet. “Come over here and help Daddy out, won’t ya? We’re gonna make sure these boys become the best versions of themselves.”