“Where the fuck is this faggot?” said Milo under his breath as he turned away from the dance floor to huddle with the rest of the boys.

Drew leaned in and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t know how much longer I can take this. They keep staring our way.”

Lyle snorted. “Duh. This is a bar, bro. Just happens to be for freaks. Except it isn’t the girls that are the prey.” He shook his head.

“Seriously, man. Did you expect the degenerates were going to bring out balloons and leave space for Jesus?” said Tag, sarcasm clear in his voice.

It had been the better part of twenty minutes since the party was supposed to start. The boys had let themselves in a good half an hour before then to make sure no one would recognize them and try to keep them out.

Milo wasn’t as bothered by the stares, though. He was confident enough in his own sexuality that he didn’t care. He was sure he looked the same way at women, so fair play. The faggots could all look and drool as much as they wanted but they were never going to get what they wanted from him.

“Well I’m done waiting. Might as well get wasted now,” said Milo. He tapped the counter and ordered a drink. “Give me something hard. The kind of thing these fruit—I mean—the kind that isn’t fruity at all.”

The bartender looked suspicious but he probably wasn’t paid enough to give much of a fuck. “Coming right up,” he said.

Milo turned to the others while waiting for his drink. “You better start getting drunk, too. I want this party to crash and burn and the more shitfaced you are, the better.”

Maybe if he and the gang applied themselves to their schoolwork with nearly as much verve as they did to their silly pranks and petty vendettas, they would be doing better for themselves. But that was the boring, uninteresting part of life. They didn’t give a shit.

Milo grabbed the glass that was set down in front of him and knocked it back without so much as a hint of hesitation. It burned on the way down; it took all of his willpower not to cough and sputter. Still, he managed.

As the buzz set in, a new track came over the speakers. It was a song none of the boys had ever heard before but it was pretty good. The bassline pumped through the floor like a pounding heartbeat while the faint static backing of the track filled the air.

Despite himself, Milo felt the urge to indulge in the staccato beat. “I’m going to dance,” he said, not bothering to wait for a reply from the gang as he stumbled his way toward the dance floor. He didn’t think he’d ever been so drunk, so quickly.

As Milo was dancing, he spotted someone approaching him from across the dance floor. The guy was a wisp of a man—if he could even be called a “man”—but the look in his eyes was intense. When their gazes met, a small smile tugged at the corner of the guy’s mouth.

Milo’s approaching admirer was a twink. Indeed, the guy almost seemed like the holotype of a twink. If he looked the word up online, he wouldn’t have been surprised at all if the first picture the search engine spat out was of this guy.

The twink was slight but he wasn’t skin and bones. he had the figure of a woman, soft in all the right places, narrow in the waist, and wider at the hips.

His outfit left very little to the imagination. For a shirt, he was wearing a pastel pink crop top with the word “Bubble” across the chest in pastel blue. He was also wearing a pair of incredibly short shorts that covered barely the top quarter of his thighs.

The twink was also wearing a pair of high-top sneakers. They were accented in bubblegum pink and baby blue. They also sported unique decals right by the ankle, showing off a pair of male Mars symbols, with one penetrating the other with its arrow.

Looking at the guy, Milo could almost lie to himself that he wasn’t looking at a man. The crop top could have passed for a chest binder—not that such a light frame could have supported a pair of massive honkers—but the prominent bulge between the guy’s legs sort of gave away the terrible truth.

Instead of walking away, though, Milo stood his ground. Instead of averting his eyes in the hope that the guy would realize he wasn’t interested, he met the guy’s gaze and kept eye contact.

“Hey,” said the guy once he was properly in front of Milo.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Milo growled under his breath.

The twink chuckled. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Dancing,” he said. “This is a dance floor.”

Milo grimaced. He didn’t know why he didn’t just walk away. “Go dance with someone else,” he said.

“They’re not as hot as you,” said the twink.

Milo wanted to hurl. Maybe some guys found being hit on by faggots to be flattering. He didn’t. He saw it as an insult. A questioning of his sexuality. It made his stomach turn.

But Milo didn’t want to cause a scene. Not yet, anyway. He didn’t want to get kicked out until they’d finally gotten back at his cocksucker roommate.

“Turn around, then,” said Milo. He just didn’t want to look at the fucker’s face. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist slamming his fist into it.

There was no other reason he had the twink turn around. He wasn’t a fag. He didn’t want to see the fat, round ass that was stretching those short shorts to the brink of just popping at the seams.

Milo wasn’t interested in the twink’s ass at all. He didn’t care whatsoever that it was a more shapely ass than he’d ever seen on a woman—in real life or in porn.

He certainly had no trouble looking away from the exposed skin of the guy’s midriff. And there was absolutely no chance in hell that he felt the urge to grab the guy by the waist and dry-hump that fat, barely-covered ass.

Shit. He was getting hard. The guy’s backside looked too much like the ass of a porn star. A female one. There was absolutely no chance that he was getting turned on by a man’s body.

Milo’s heart skipped a beat. His pulse thundered in his ears. His cock twitched and thickened, swelling with blood as his breathing grew hotter and heavier.

It took all of his willpower not to moan when the twink accidentally backed onto him. But if he hadn’t been hard before then, he was certainly hard after.

His cock felt as if it were trying to bust out of his pants.

But Milo wasn’t just getting hard. He was getting harder than he had ever been in his life. He was getting harder than he had even thought possible.

This time he couldn’t hold back the noise that threatened to spill out of him. He groaned under his breath, thankful that the music drowned the noise out.

Part of him was freaked out. Part of him was excited. He felt as if his cock was swelling. It felt heavier between his legs. His balls felt more and more crammed in his pants.

The more he fought the urge to grab the twink by the waist, the harder his cock became. He could feel it against his thigh, throbbing harder and more insistently with every moment.

In a rare moment of clarity that pierced through the haze of lust that had gripped him, Milo looked down. His eyes widened. His jaw dropped. His cock had gotten huge.

Milo grabbed the obscene outline that his cock made in his dress pants and groaned as he rubbed his fingers up and down his new length. It was hard as a steel rod and so long that it hung halfway down his thigh. And it was still growing.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He’d always been a bit disappointed in his endowment. It was nothing embarrassing but he’d always wanted bigger. Thicker. Heftier. Suffice it to say, his new cock could stand in for a cudgel if he needed to defend himself.

Hell, the cock that had suddenly sprouted out of Milo was a proper battering ram. It was a monstercock. A gut-puncher. A cunt buster. And every fiber of his being wanted nothing more than for him to yank the short shorts down and fuck him right there in the middle of the floor.

Out of nowhere, Milo felt the return of some lucidity. Something was wrong. Something wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t supposed to find men’s asses attractive, much less men themselves.

He felt lightheaded. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the sheer amount of blood that had flooded into his cock. His stomach was also in knots. He didn’t know exactly why but there was a lump of bitter regret inside him.

Whatever the specifics were, he didn’t care. He had to get himself and his friends out of the bar. Without so much as an acknowledgment for the effort the twink had gone through, Milo walked away and made for the bar, hoping his friends would still be there.

None of the three had left, but neither were they looking any better than Milo. Drew was staring at the ceiling with a stupid grin and a stoned look on his face, nursing a piña colada while leaning back against the bar.

Tag was trying to look discreet as he made eyes at a rugged, lumberjack-looking guy standing in the corner. Lyle, meanwhile, seemed to be having an actually civilized conversation with a gym-rat-looking fellow wearing just a low-cut tank top and compression shorts.

Drew was an idiot. Milo wasn’t too surprised the guy was just staring at the ceiling with a dopey grin on his face. The other two, however, only further convinced him that something fucked up was happening.

There was no way Tag would be practically eye-fucking a guy unless he was drugged up to his tits. And Lyle would never share so much as a word with some gym-obsessed fag, much less be talking animatedly with one. Hell would sooner freeze over.

All of which was to say that he was surer than ever that they needed to leave. “Hey guys,” he said as he walked up to them. “Something isn’t right here. I think we should quit while we’re ahead.”

A moment passed with no response. Worse, Tag had looked at him and raised an eyebrow before going back to making eyes at the lumberjack in the corner.

Milo bristled at the blatant disrespect. Their little troupe had no official leader but he was the closest they had to a de facto one since he was always the one paying for their little stunts. Even though he didn’t expect them to jump when he told them to jump, he expected that they’d at least listen to him when he had something to say.

“HEY!” He bellowed at the top of his lungs, just so there was no doubt he was audible over the pounding bassline of the music. The DJ—or whoever the fuck was in charge of the music—didn’t stop. But Milo certainly got the attention of everyone in earshot.

Milo jabbed a finger at his three friends. “YOU THREE. LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!” No one would have described Milo’s voice as shrill, but his register tended to be a bit on the higher side. Not this time, however. His voice boomed out of him, having dropped a register somehow.

His three friends looked at him with wide-eyed surprise. He was a bit taken aback, himself, but he wasn’t about to let that on.

“What happened to—” Drew started.

Milo cut him off. “Not important,” he said. “The three of you are getting off your asses and we’re getting out of here.”

“What?” said Tag, his gaze flitting surreptitiously toward the lumberjack in the corner. “Why?”

Lyle too glanced at his new gym bunny friend and said, “What about… You know—” He mimed giving a blowjob, “—Clyde?”

“There’s something off about this place so just shut the fuck up and do what I tell you,” said Milo. Assertive and confident were words that he would have freely used to describe himself. He’d never felt so authoritative before, though.

He felt like he was large and in charge. He didn’t want his friends to do as he told them to. He knew they had to do as he told them to. Because he was in control.

And when all three showed some level of reluctance instead of obeying him outright, Milo scowled. He looked each one in the eye, practically daring them to say no out loud.

One by one, and with nothing more than a look, he cowed his friends. They had such a fire in their eyes to start with. But one glare from him and they’d broken like sheep.

A single glare and the determination in each of Milo’s friends had withered away. He’d seen the shift. The change from rebellion to sudden subservience before they averted their eyes in shame.

He shook his head. He didn’t even know why they were so adamant about staying. Just minutes ago they’d wanted nothing more than to get the party crashing over with.

Maybe the drinks were just too good. Milo didn’t know. And quite frankly, he didn’t care. He motioned for the three to hurry up and said, rather aggressively, “UP.”

Just as Drew, Tag, and Lyle were about to slink off of their barstools, a familiar face approached their little group.

“Hey guys,” said Steve. His bright green eyes had a twinkle of mischief as he came up to the four of them. “Fancy seeing you. Couldn’t help but overhear. Are you all alright?”

Milo frowned. His instincts were telling him that he had better just ignore Steve and leave with his friends. But his mother hadn’t raised a coward—and besides, it was rude to not at least return the greeting.

“Hey, man. Wasn’t expecting to run into you here,” he said, his voice still in that lower register from before.

“You sound different,” said Steve with an impish little grin.

Milo rubbed his throat and shrugged. “I guess… Might just be allergies, though. Anyway, we’re fine. We were just leaving.”

“Oh come on,” said Steve. “There’s going to be a huge bash here later. You should stay. Oh, but you do look a bit pale.”

The rush of power Milo had felt while asserting his authority over his friends faded at the reminder. He swayed where he stood as the lightheadedness came back twofold.

His friends weren’t in much better shape. It was as if Steve had just reminded them that they were feeling ill. Drew, in particular, had turned a light shade of green.

“Yeah… That’s why we were leaving,” said Milo. He was ready to turn around and walk out the way they’d come but, for some reason, his feet remained stubbornly nailed to the floor.

Steve clicked his tongue. “It must be the music,” he said. “Sorry about that. It’s an experimental thing. We’ve been trying it out but it has a weird effect on certain guys…”

Milo supposed it made sense. The symptoms had coincided with the new music playing.

“Come on. We’ve got some rooms in the back where you can get away from the music,” said Steve. “You won’t want to miss the bash tonight. We’ve got a couple of special guests. How does that sound?”

Milo supposed it was the better option. If they could get away from the infernal music without leaving, they could carry out the plan when they were feeling better. Yeah. Yeah. This was the better option.

“Sure. Sounds good,” he said to Steve. He looked at the other three and said, “Go on. Git.”

---

Milo didn’t know what he’d expected of the joint’s backrooms. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. It was a gay bar, after all.

The room Steve took them to wasn’t huge. But it wasn’t cramped either, despite having five full-grown men inside. The door was glass so anyone walking by could see inside—unless the privacy screen was turned on, which made the glass smoky and mostly opaque.

The floor, walls, and ceiling of the room were all painted black. There was a raised, circular platform in the middle. The room was well-lit with just the normal fixtures on, but there was a pair of spotlights that shone from the two back corners of the ceiling onto the stage in the middle.

A U-shaped couch surrounded the stage on three sides. The seats were upholstered with leather. The uncanny resemblance to a porn casting couch, Milo suspected, was more intentional rather than an oversight.

The place just gave off an intrinsically sleazy feeling but he found he didn’t much mind if it meant getting away from the music so he could process the confusing tangle of feelings that had formed a knot in the pit of his stomach.

Closing the door had shut out most of the music. It was still there, thrumming softly in the background, but it was much easier to ignore. Away from the influence of the incredible bassline, Milo could actually think again.

Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was another matter entirely. His mind kept going back to that twink that had approached him on the dance floor. He didn’t know what had come over him but he felt it even now, that urge to grab the petite figure by the slim hips and rut.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar urge, granted. Just not one that Milo had ever felt for someone that he knew very well wasn’t a woman. His cock twitched against his thigh, swelling to half-hardness as he realized he had to redirect his thoughts before he went further down that rabbit hole.

Milo looked up and saw Steve standing by the door with a small smirk on his face. “What are you still doing here?” he said.

Steve shrugged. The twinkle in his eye suggested he knew something he wasn’t letting on but Milo didn’t have the wherewithal to press the matter. “Figured someone should watch you guys until you were better,” he said.

Drew fell back onto the stage, staring up at the ceiling spread-eagled with his legs dangling off the edge. “Fuck, bro. Why’d you have to bring it up? I was having such a good time, now my head is pounding.”

Lyle dropped onto the couch with a grunt and said, “Yeah, man. It’s like I didn’t even notice the headache until you said something about it.”

Steve chuckled and had the grace to at least look a little bit sheepish. “My bad, guys,” he said.

“It’s fine, man,” said Tag. His voice was softer than usual, a departure from his usual brusque self. He made his way around the couch so he could look through the door.

The look Tag had as he sat down seemed almost hopeful. The optimism didn’t last particularly long. There was nothing to see past the door besides the hallway outside—even if it was in the rough direction of the main floor of the bar.

That was it. Milo had had enough. Something was up and it wasn’t fucking right. His friends were acting like total fucking fairies and he was having weird feelings of his own.

Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the thin, smoky haze that covered the dance floor. Maybe it was the drinks. Whatever the means were, someone was fucking with them, and he wasn’t going to stand for it.

But before Milo could say anything more about the predicament they’d found themselves in, the words were robbed from his lips by the sudden upwelling of heat in his stomach. It wasn’t unpleasant in and of itself, but it was so intense that it bordered on painful.

He leaned against the wall, tilting his head back as he tugged on his shirt collar. Even though he’d come with the express intention of making a mess, he’d worn a suit, anyway. It was what he was comfortable in—usually.

Milo’s suits were tailored. He went in to be measured regularly and spent more money than most of his peers had in their bank accounts just on making sure his suits fit him perfectly. So it was a cause for concern when the one he was wearing started feeling tight.

“Fuck,” Milo groaned. His shirt collar felt like a noose around his neck. Even with two fingers hooked into it to make space, it still felt intensely constrictive. “Is the AC broken in this place?”

Steve quirked an eyebrow. “No. You feeling alright?”

“Y-yeah.” Milo couldn’t take it anymore. Even though it went against his usual sensibilities, he felt like he was being choked. He tugged on his tie to loosen it around his neck and when that wasn’t enough, he undid the button on his collar.

The relief was instant. His flushed skin cooled. He felt as if he could breathe again. But he could only enjoy the succor for a few moments. Soon, the rest of his suit began to feel uncomfortable on his body.

It was as if Milo’s suit had shrunk a size or two. It hugged his body in ways it never had before, pinched him in places that it wasn’t supposed to.

Of course, the suit hadn’t shrunk at all, but it took Milo a moment to realize that the opposite was happening. He was growing.

It seemed an equally impossible thing but Milo knew his clothes. His suit was the same size it had ever been. He was the one that had put on a couple of extra pounds of body mass.

“W-what the fuck?” he muttered under his breath. The consternation in his voice drew the attention of the others.

Drew sat up and squinted at Milo. “Dude. Did you stuff your face with cake while we weren’t looking?”

Lyle snickered. “More like a whole fucking bakery, bro,” he said, reaching across the stage to give Drew a high five.

“Shut the fuck up!” said Milo. His voice took on a hard edge as he barked the command. It seemed enough to shut his friends up as Tag, who’d opened his mouth to say something, promptly closed it again before making a sound.

Milo could feel it, now that he was paying attention. His body was swelling. With every pulse of the heat spreading through his body, he grew a little bit more. Whether it was fat or muscle, he couldn’t tell.

The seams of the suit creaked as they were gradually stretched to their limits. Their resilience spoke to the quality of their make but not even the most skilled of tailors could account for the sudden growth of the wearer.

More heat. The waves washed over him with gradually-increasing intensity. The sensation was strongest in his torso, but his biceps and thighs were getting there, too.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned under his breath as some of the heat went straight between his legs. He couldn’t believe he was getting turned on. If this went on, he was going to ruin his suit. It was bad enough that he was stretching it so much to start with.

Milo looked down and saw how much his suit jacket had stretched over his swelling belly. The single button holding the two halves together was barely holding on.

He unbuttoned the jacket—or tried to, at least. It should have been easy. He’d done it hundreds of times to sit down at a table.

The problem was that his hands had grown. They didn’t feel like his hands anymore. His fingers were thicker. They were rougher than they should have been considering he moisturized regularly.

Somehow, Milo managed to work the button free. It dangled loosely off the fabric. The threads that held it in place had stretched.

He should have been more upset. The suit had easily cost more than the tuition he needed to pay for a single course in his program. That, and he took very good care of his possessions—especially his clothes. But strangely enough, he wasn’t so bothered.

Milo groaned as a fresh wave of heat spread through his body. Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down the side of his face. His muscles swelled again, especially around his gut.

His stomach became firm. The shirt, stretched taut around his middle, showed the faint hint of abs underneath. Since there were two layers of fabric covering them, the abs could have only been rock hard.

Milo ran his fingers down the front of his stomach. His fingertips dipped into the ridges and valleys of his abs through his shirt.

It felt amazing to have abs again. He’d missed looking like an Adonis. He’d loved the way the girls looked at him. And maybe he’d even appreciated the longing looks some of the fags shot after him whenever he had a game. He’d have been happy if things stopped there, but they didn’t.

Another wave of heat and his stomach swelled. His abs lost their definition, pressing up against the fabric of his shirt.

The buttons were the only thing holding it together. Between the buttons, his undershirt was showing. His growing gut had also pulled the bottom hem out of his pants.

Milo groaned. His face flushed. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Another wave of heat and he heard a creaking noise, followed by the faint plink of a metal button hitting the far wall.

After that, it was as if a dam had burst. One by one, the buttons on his shirt rocketed off, hitting the far wall one after the other until the two halves of the shirt had fallen away to reveal Milo’s swollen gut underneath.