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Chase woke up Thursday morning feeling like someone had stuffed cotton in his skull. His throat scratched, his head throbbed, and every swallow felt like swallowing glass. He texted Coach that he was out for the day—fever, probably—and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. The house was quiet; Mom was already at work. He drifted back to sleep dreaming of red hair and that crooked, dangerous smirk that always made his dick twitch under his jockstrap.
He didn’t know anything about the truck.
Across town, just after third period, an unmarked semi carrying classified pharmaceutical cargo took the curve too fast near the edge of campus. The driver yanked the wheel to avoid a stalled delivery van in the intersection. Tires screamed. The trailer rocked hard. A reinforced crate inside shifted, cracked open, and three small glass vials tumbled out through a tear in the side panel. They hit the asphalt, shattered, and their pale violet contents—thick, shimmering liquid—splashed directly into the storm drain that fed the school’s aging water main.
Down in the locker room, the entire senior phys-ed class was already under the showers, laughing, snapping towels, soap suds sliding over hard stomachs and thick thighs. Steam curled thick. Nobody noticed the water pressure dip for three seconds, then surge back with the faintest violet tint that vanished almost instantly.
Friday morning Chase felt human again. He tugged on his favorite faded jeans—the ones that hugged his bubble butt just right—threw on a snug white tee that showed the clean cut of his pecs, and ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. Mirror check: blue eyes bright, lips full and pink, skin smooth and golden from summer practice. He looked good. Too good, maybe, for a guy who still hadn’t figured out how to say “I’m gay” out loud.
The halls smelled like Axe and teenage sweat when he walked in. Normal. Except… not.
First period English, normally quiet except for the rustle of pages, sounded different. Louder. Giggly, almost. Chase slid into his seat near the back and froze.
Wyatt was already there, sprawled in the desk beside his like he owned the whole row.
Only Wyatt looked… upgraded.
The redhead’s shoulders seemed broader overnight, delts round and thick under his stretched-out school hoodie. His pecs pushed the fabric out so far Chase could see the faint outline of his nipples. The veins on his forearms stood out like cords. And when Wyatt turned to grin at him, that smirk was slower, lazier, hungrier.
“Yo, pretty boy,” Wyatt drawled, voice deeper than Chase remembered. “Missed you yesterday. Felt weird without you watchin’ me run routes.”
Chase’s mouth went dry. “Uh… yeah. Felt like death. You good?”
Wyatt flexed one arm casually, the bicep peaking obscenely. “Never better, bro. Feel fuckin’ jacked.” He leaned closer. His thigh pressed against Chase’s under the desk. Heat poured off him. “You smell good today. What’s that? New cologne?”
Chase swallowed. “Just… soap.”
Wyatt’s eyes dropped to Chase’s lips, then lower, lingering on the way the white tee clung to his tight waist. “Damn. You should wear tight shit more often. That ass looks criminal in those jeans.”
Chase’s cock gave a helpless throb. He crossed his legs fast.
By third period the whole jock crew was acting strange.
In the hallway, Tanner—normally a quiet linebacker—grabbed Chase from behind in a bear hug, chest pressed to Chase’s back, big hands sliding down to squeeze both cheeks of his bubble butt like he was testing fruit.
“Fuck, Chase, this thing gets fatter every week,” Tanner rumbled against his ear. “You been squattin’ extra for me?”
Chase squeaked. Tanner laughed, gave one more shameless grope, and swaggered off, jeans bulging noticeably at the front.
In the cafeteria line, two basketball players flanked him. One—dark-haired Ethan—reached past Chase to grab a tray and “accidentally” dragged his palm across Chase’s nipple on the way back. The other, golden-skinned Mateo, leaned in and whispered, “You ever think about modeling those lips around somethin’ thick, baby?”
Chase’s face burned. His dick was half-hard and leaking into his briefs. He mumbled something incoherent and escaped to his usual table.
That was when he saw it.
A small glass shard glinting under the fluorescent lights, half-hidden beside a chair leg. He bent—feeling eyes on his ass the whole time—and picked it up.
A cracked vial. Tiny printed label still legible.
NEW BATCH: HIMBO-MAKER
Property of xAI Neuroceuticals – Experimental Only
Chase’s heart slammed against his ribs.
He looked up.
Across the lunchroom, Wyatt was watching him.
The redhead had ditched his hoodie. Underneath was a skin-tight Under Armour compression shirt that might as well have been painted on. Every ridge of his abs showed. His nipples poked through the fabric like little bullets. Sweat—or something else—glistened on his thick neck. He flexed both arms over his head, making the shirt ride up to expose a deep, carved Adonis belt that arrowed straight down into jeans that were clearly struggling to contain what was underneath. The bulge was obscene. Thick. Heavy. Moving.
Wyatt caught Chase staring and licked his lips slow.
Then he mouthed, clear as day across the crowded tables:
“Come sit on it, blondie.”
Chase’s knees almost buckled.
He shoved the vial into his pocket, pulse roaring in his ears.
The water. The shower. The truck he’d vaguely heard about on the morning news.
They were all changing.
Bigger. Dumber. Hornier.
And every single one of them was looking at Chase like he was the only thing on the menu.
He didn’t know whether to run or beg them to bend him over the nearest table.
Chase's heart hadn't stopped racing since lunch. He sat through the afternoon classes in a haze, the vial burning a hole in his pocket like a dirty secret. The label had more than just the name—down at the bottom, in tiny print, was a contact number and an email for "xAI Neuroceuticals, Emergency Containment Division." He didn't know what the hell to do with it yet, but he wasn't about to toss it. What if this was fixable? Or... what if it wasn't? The thought sent a forbidden thrill through him. All those straight bros, the kings of the school, suddenly acting like they couldn't keep their eyes—or hands—off him. It was like he'd stepped into one of his late-night fantasies, where he was the star cheerleader at an all-boys game, every jock lining up to whisper sweet, filthy nothings and cop a feel.
By the time phys ed rolled around, Chase was buzzing. The gym echoed with the usual thuds of basketballs and sneakers squeaking on polished wood, but today the air felt thicker, heavier with something primal. Sweat and musk hung like fog, mixing with the sharp tang of rubber and faint chlorine from the nearby pool. The senior jocks—his classmates, the ones who'd always bragged about weekend hookups with girls from the sister school—were different now. Dumber, yeah. Their conversations used to be all stats and scores and "yo, did you see that chick's tits?" But today? It was grunts and giggles, flexing for no reason, and zero mention of pussy. Like girls had evaporated from their himbo brains overnight.
"Bro, check this pump," Mateo grunted during warm-ups, yanking up his tank top to reveal abs that looked carved from marble, veins popping like rivers. He flexed, and the whole group hooted, but their eyes kept drifting to Chase. "Damn, Chase, you seein' this? Bet you'd feel it better up close."
Chase's cheeks flushed hot, but he couldn't deny the rush. "Uh, yeah, looks... solid, man." His voice came out breathy, and Mateo just grinned wider, oblivious to how he'd bulked up like a comic book hero since yesterday. None of them seemed to notice the changes. No questions about why their biceps were suddenly cannonballs or why their jeans strained like they were smuggling pythons. They just... were. Hornier. Flirtier. And all laser-focused on him.
During drills, it got worse—or better, depending on how you sliced it. Ethan, the dark-haired point guard with a girlfriend named Sarah (Chase had seen her pics on his phone last week), kept "accidentally" bumping into him. Each time, Ethan's hands lingered—a palm sliding over Chase's tight waist, fingers dipping just under the hem of his shorts to graze the smooth skin above his bubble butt. "Oops, sorry, cutie," Ethan murmured once, his breath hot against Chase's ear, smelling faintly of mint gum and fresh sweat. "But damn, that ass is bouncin' today. Makes a guy wanna grab hold and never let go."
Chase shivered, his cock stirring in his jockstrap. He was used to hiding his crushes, but this? This was overload. Tanner, the linebacker with his own steady girl (blonde, cheerleader type, from what Chase remembered), high-fived him after a layup, but turned it into a full-body press, chest to chest, his free hand cupping Chase's pec through his damp tee. "Feels good, don't it? All firm and perky. Bet the rest of you's just as sweet."
And Wyatt? God, Wyatt was the worst. The redhead ran drills like a beast, his newly massive quads flexing with every pivot, sweat soaking his shirt until it clung transparent to his bloated pecs. That smirk never left his face, but now it was dopey, vacant, like his brain was on permanent low-power mode. He didn't talk strategy anymore—just flexed and posed, eyes locked on Chase's plump lips or the curve of his ass in those gym shorts. "You thirsty, blondie?" Wyatt called once, tossing a water bottle that Chase caught mid-air. "Or you want somethin' thicker to suck on?"
Chase nearly choked. The coach blew the whistle for cool-down, oblivious as ever, and herded them toward the lockers. Chase's skin tingled, nipples hard under his shirt from all the stares. It felt intoxicating, being the center of their world. Like he was the hottest piece in the room, and these dumb, sexy himbos couldn't resist orbiting him.
The locker room was a steam-filled sauna by the time they piled in, the air thick with the earthy scent of male sweat, soap, and something muskier—arousal, raw and unfiltered. Lockers clanged open, clothes hit the floor with wet slaps. Chase stripped slow, hyper-aware of the eyes on him. His smooth, toned body gleamed under the fluorescent lights, wavy blond hair tousled and damp, blue eyes wide as he glanced around.
That's when he really saw it. The changes below the belt.
Holy fuck.
Every jock in the room was packing now. Huge. Obscene. Tanner peeled off his shorts, and out flopped a cock that had to be ten inches soft—thick as a wrist, veined and heavy, balls like ripe plums swinging low. He scratched them absently, grinning vacantly. Ethan was right behind, his own monster unfurling to eleven inches, the head plump and pink, already half-hard as he stretched. And the others? Mateo, the wrestlers, the track guys—all of them upgraded, cocks slapping against thighs like pendulums, at least ten inches each, girthy enough to stretch anyone wide.
But Wyatt... Wyatt stepped out of his jockstrap last, and Chase's mouth watered. Twelve solid inches of redheaded perfection, straight and thick, the shaft ridged with veins that pulsed faintly. It bobbed as he moved, foreskin pulled back just enough to show the glistening slit. Wyatt caught Chase staring and chuckled low, dumb and deep. "Like what you see, pretty? It's all for you."
They crowded the showers, water hissing from the heads, steam billowing like a fog machine. Chase hung back a second, but Tanner and Ethan were on him like magnets.
"Hey, bubble butt, need help soaping up?" Tanner rumbled, his voice a gravelly purr. He was already lathered, suds sliding down his massive chest, over abs that flexed with each breath. His girlfriend? Forgotten, apparently. He stepped close, towering over Chase, and pressed a soapy hand to Chase's lower back, fingers trailing down to cup one cheek of his juicy ass. The touch was electric—warm, slick, possessive. Tanner squeezed, kneading the firm globe like dough, his thumb dipping into the cleft just enough to make Chase gasp.
"Yeah, let us get you nice and clean," Ethan added, flanking Chase on the other side. His dark hair plastered wet to his forehead, water beading on his broad shoulders. He smelled like body wash and pure sex, his eleven-incher twitching upward as he grabbed a bar of soap and rubbed it slow over Chase's pecs. Bubbles formed, trickling down Chase's tight waist, and Ethan's fingers followed, pinching a nipple until it pebbled hard. "Fuck, these tits are perfect. So sensitive. Bet they taste like candy."
Chase's breath hitched, his own cock—respectable but nothing like theirs—standing at full attention now, throbbing against his thigh. The water pounded hot on his skin, cascading over his wavy blond hair, dripping from his plump lips. He should stop this. But god, the attention... it was everything. "Guys... what about your girls?" he tried, voice weak.
Tanner blinked, dopey confusion flickering in his eyes. "Girls? Nah, bro. All I see is this fat ass beggin' to be filled." He ground his hips forward, his ten-incher sliding slick between Chase's thighs, the heat of it branding his skin. Then he pulled Chase in, mouth crashing down in a sloppy, hungry kiss. Tanner's lips were rough, tasting of salt and mint, his tongue plunging deep, exploring like he owned Chase's mouth. Hands roamed—stroking Chase's sides, gripping his waist, then back to that bubble butt, spreading the cheeks just enough to let water rush in.
Chase moaned into the kiss, melting against Tanner's bulk. Ethan's hands joined in, one wrapping around Chase's cock to stroke slow and teasing, the other playing with his ass, a finger circling the tight pucker. "Mmm, that's it, baby. Open up for us," Ethan whispered, nipping Chase's ear. Then it was his turn—pulling Chase away from Tanner for a make-out session that was all heat and tongue, Ethan's lips softer but insistent, sucking on Chase's plump lower lip until it swelled.
Wyatt watched from a few showerheads away, that hot smirk fixed on his face, his twelve-incher in hand now, stroking lazy and long. Water sluiced over his red hair, making it darker, steam curling around his massive frame. His pecs heaved with each breath, nipples hard points in the mist. "Look at you, takin' turns like a good little slut," he growled, voice echoing off the tiles. "That ass is mine next."
Tanner and Ethan didn't stop. They traded Chase between them, mouths devouring his, hands everywhere—stroking his cock in unison now, fingers teasing his hole, pinching his nipples until he whimpered. The sensory overload was insane: the slap of wet skin, the gurgle of drains, the heavy pants filling the air. Soap suds mixed with pre-cum, slick and sticky between their bodies. "Gonna breed this juicy hole someday," Tanner muttered against Chase's neck, biting down gently, his cock rutting against Chase's thigh. "Fill you up till you're leakin' himbo cum."
Ethan chuckled, dumb and horny. "Yeah, make you ours. Look how hard you are for us, cutie. Those lips were made for suckin' dick."
Chase was lost, grinding back against their hands, his bubble butt clenching under their grips. Then Wyatt moved, stepping up behind him like a predator. His chest pressed to Chase's back, that monster cock nestling right in the cleft of his ass, hot and heavy, sliding up and down with the water's help. "Hold him steady, bros," Wyatt ordered, his free hand wrapping around to tweak Chase's nipple while the other pumped his twelve inches faster.
Tanner and Ethan obliged, their own cocks in hand now, stroking in time as they kissed Chase senseless—one on his mouth, the other on his neck. The dirty talk flowed like the water: "Gonna paint that ass white." "Feel how thick we are? All for you." "Cum for us, blondie."
Wyatt's breaths came ragged, his cock throbbing against Chase's cheeks. "Fuck... here it comes..." He groaned deep, and hot ropes of cum erupted, splattering across Chase's bubble butt—thick, sticky, breeding-load worthy, mixing with the water and running down his thighs in creamy rivers.
That set off the chain. Tanner growled, pulling back to aim, his ten-incher erupting in heavy spurts that coated Chase's chest and abs, the scent musky and potent. Ethan followed, cum blasting onto Chase's cock and balls, warm and viscous, marking him like territory.
Chase shattered then, his own orgasm ripping through him untouched, cum mixing with theirs as he cried out, body shuddering in their arms.
They held him up, grinning like idiots, oblivious to the mess or the implications. "Good boy," Wyatt murmured, slapping Chase's cum-slick ass lightly. "Round two tomorrow?"
Chase could only nod, dazed, the vial in his locker forgotten for now. But deep down, he wondered... did he even want to call that number?
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