Mariposa Honeymoon - Chapter 10

By Cris Kane - criskanestories@gmail.com
published October 30, 2018
Summary

Each feeling abandoned by the other, Derek and Charles turn to Mariposa again on the final day of their honeymoon.

CHAPTER TEN

That morning, Charles had woken up alone, face down atop the bedspread. His body had returned to its normal proportions and chronological age. His borrowed Iowa shirt was now too baggy for his lumpy torso. The waistband of his cargo shorts dug painfully into his love handles. He rolled over onto his back and spread out his arms, pleased that at least he wasn’t afflicted with a massive hangover following yesterday’s heavy drinking. Aside from wearing strangers’ clothes, it was as if all evidence of the previous day’s events had been erased.

He discovered that wasn’t entirely true when he walked into the bathroom and saw that he was still sporting red hair. It wasn’t as long as it had become by the end of the day, but it was dense and spiky with no sign yet of his bald spot returning. Since his eyes had reverted to their usual brown, Charles theorized that it must take longer for some of the Mariposa-induced changes to fade away than others. If not, he had about 48 hours to concoct an explanation for why he returned from his honeymoon as a redhead, one that would be deemed plausible by an office full of lawyers highly skilled in detecting bullshit. Charles unbuttoned his tight shorts to relieve the pressure on his gut. After a day as athletic young Charlie, it was hard for Charles to view his real body as anything but a letdown and, even topped with a fresh shock of ginger hair, his hangdog face looked older than its actual 31 years.

“Derek?”, Charles called out with a yawn as he shuffled into the living room, surprised to find the place uninhabited. His eye was drawn to a freshly emptied bottle of Mariposa atop the bar, leaving only a single unopened bottle remaining in the package. Given Derek’s anger at being given Mariposa surreptitiously yesterday, and then being abandoned when “Charlie” wandered off without a warning, Charles figured this must be Derek’s idea of payback. Although Charles couldn’t blame Derek for being upset, he had assumed that their make-up makeout session at the club last night had smoothed things over.

Charles brought the empty bottle to his nose and took a whiff, detecting traces of pepper and baby powder. As Charles mused about what Derek might have been transformed into today, his testicles felt like they were solidifying. Charles had always viewed sexual arousal as a time-wasting nuisance but, since Mariposa had entered his life, he found himself getting hard at the slightest semi-erotic thought or the briefest glimpse of anything even remotely sexy. If this were to continue when he returned to the States, concentrating on the job could prove to be a major problem, one that might be even harder to explain than his red hair.

Charles patted his pockets, intending to give Derek a call, but he remembered that he had been without his phone all of the previous day. He did a quick search of the hotel suite, checking the obvious locations, but came up empty handed. He sat down on the couch, flipping on the TV to occupy him until Derek’s return. He thumbed the remote and, just as he had yesterday, found himself gravitating toward the skin flicks, once again impressed by the wide selection of gay-oriented porn available. Even during his long years as a single man, Charles hadn’t been much of a porn viewer. On business travels, he had never given into the temptation to watch hotel gay-per-view, aghast at the thought of being summoned to accounting to justify the expense. He felt no such shame today. He had enjoyed what he had seen of yesterday’s movie, the detective story with the African-American lead, so he searched for something else starring that actor. Pleased to find a number of Mike Cochran titles were available, he eventually settling on one called “You Don’t Know Dick”. He stripped out of his shirt and his cargo shorts, folding them neatly and placing them on a bar stool, then lay down on the sofa, cupping a hand over the bulge in his maroon undies.

Although he tried to keep his focus on the movie, Charles couldn’t stop glancing toward the bar, acutely aware that an unopened Mariposa bottle was waiting there, full of transformative potential, like a magic lamp one short rub away from releasing its powerful genie. He kept thinking about how amazing it had felt to be in command of the athletic prowess of Charlie and the masculine bulk of Chuck. He grew increasingly distracted, wondering what he might become if he drank from the final bottle. Just from the evidence of the past two days, the possibilities seemed infinite. Wouldn’t it be a fun surprise for Derek to find someone new and exciting waiting for him when he got back to the room? Heck, since the fifth bottle was already empty, Charles assumed that Derek must have expected that Charles would down the sixth one as soon as he woke up. When you viewed it that way, Charles would actually be a disappointment if he was still his boring old self when Derek returned.

Having sufficiently rationalized the decision he wanted to make in the first place, Charles left the movie running as he walked over to the bar and removed the final bottle from the pack. Its mysterious blue contents swirled inside the bottle, glowing invitingly. His mouth began to water as he picked up the bottle opener and snapped off the cap. The scent of blueberries floated through the air. Charles had an unnerving “Willy Wonka” flashback, worrying for a moment that drinking this beverage might inflate him into a giant blueberry. He dismissed that idea, convinced that the makers of Mariposa would consider the market segment of “people who want to fuck Violet Beauregarde” too narrow a fetish to merit its own flavor. Still, out of caution, Charles felt it wise to drink only part of the bottle at first, just in case the changes weren’t to his liking.

As Charles took a sip, the liquid percolated across his tongue with a delightful fizziness that he could swear was making tiny bubbles pop throughout his brain. After this initial taste, his body recognized the presence of Mariposa and desperately craved more, so he allowed himself another swallow. His eyes grew watery but, after a few blinks, he discovered that his vision had become acute, as if he had entered high-def virtual reality. The room around him brightened, every detail crisp, every color intense. He felt like he had emerged from a heavy fog into crystal-clear sunlight. Deciding he had consumed all he needed, Charles placed the bottle back on the bar. Only then did he realize that, without realizing it, the had chugged down the entire contents.

As he walked back to the couch, he discovered that his sense of touch had also grown increasingly sensitive. Even the slightest brush of one leg against the other sent an electric tingle through his nervous system. He snuggled comfortably into the sofa cushions and pulled his penis out of his underwear, his fingertips feeling just as stimulated as his cock head. His attention drifted back to the video screen, where the big black private dick was pumping a witness for information. Charles seldom lost himself in the moment, rarely surrendered so thoroughly to his more basic impulses. Ordinarily, he would be hyper-aware that the drapes were wide open, which would allow any stranger passing the patio to witness his enthusiastic masturbation session. He would normally be fretting that, caught up in his actions, he wouldn’t notice a knock on the door, and one of the hotel staff could walk in and discover him whacking off. But the way he was feeling now, he would probably invite any unexpected interloper to climb onto the couch and join in the fun.

As his churning cock launched warm gooey globs across his body, Charles had the distinct feeling that he was shrinking, his bones contracting, his skin tightening around firm flesh. He realized that his body could now stretch to its full length on the couch without him needing to bend his knees or curve his back to accommodate his height. His fingertips toying with the jizz slick across his newly flattened stomach. He dipped two fingers into his navel and scooped out a dollop of cum. When performing oral sex on Derek, Charles had always been a reluctant swallower, not wishing to be rude but gulping as quickly as he could to get it over with. Now, he brought his sticky fingers curiously to his mouth and licked the tips clean. The flavor reminded him of blueberry yogurt with a pinch too much salt. He heard the silliest little giggle and looked around for the source. When he realized that he himself had produced the giggling, it made him giggle some more, which in turn made him giggle even harder.

He lolled on the couch blissfully, enjoying a rare moment of pure serenity. When he finally felt the need to move, he rolled himself off the edge of the couch, dropping to the floor with a thud. It seemed like his body was relearning its basic functions, and he would need to crawl before he could walk. As he scooted across the room on his belly, he delighted in the friction of his weenie against the carpet. At the bedroom doorway, he clutched his hands along the frame and pulled himself upward, first to his knees and eventually to a full standing position. He took a few tentative steps on shaky legs and turned to face the mirror, brushing his suddenly abundant hair away from his eyes.

While the increased volume of hair on his head was noteworthy, what Charles noticed instantly was its color: a vibrant navy blue. His wobbly legs carried him to the mirror so he could get a better look. A thick nest of blue tresses was snarled atop his head, while the sides and back were shaved close to the skin in a fade. His eyebrows had the same tint, which precisely matched the intense blue of his eyes as well. Charles tittered, wondering if the “carpet” matched the “drapes”. He lowered his oversized underwear to his knees and saw his rigid little dinky encircled by a wreath of blue pubes. He let out a delighted squeal.

He let his underwear drop to his ankles and stepped free of it, so he could assess the rest of his changes. His nude body was compact but well-balanced, as if a reasonably fit six-foot-two man had been condensed to five-foot-five without altering any of his proportions. For this reason, he didn’t instantly perceive himself as smaller; it just looked like he was standing further away. His facial features had been honed into sleek curves and sharp points which had rendered him more pretty than handsome, and his lightly-browned skin was smooth, hairless (except around the crotch), and uniform in its coloring, uninterrupted by tan lines. While most men would be unnerved to discover that their penis had been reduced to a fraction of its usual dimensions, Charles thought it looked darling. He’d gone from packing a full-sized Snickers to one that was more “fun-size”. The main reason that he wasn’t too concerned about the girth of his dick was the powerful ache he felt to have his own hole filled. He laced his fingers atop his head and turned sideways, studying the one area that had notably grown out of proportion with the rest of his body. His buttocks had ballooned out to an almost comical degree, firm mounds of flesh that jutted invitingly and appeared to defy the law of gravity. He rubbed his hands across his melon-sized cheeks and squeezed to evaluate their firmness. Noticing a dark blotch in the small of his back, he twisted his booty toward the mirror and craned his neck. He now sported a tramp-stamp tattoo of a blue heart surrounded by elaborately curlicues, the bottom point of the heart drawing the eye down to the deep crack of his ass like an arrow indicating “Insert Cock Here.” Out of a sense of fairness and equality, he and Derek had always traded off roles in the bedroom, but Charles’ bare skin erupted in goosebumps as he realized he had been transformed into an undeniable bottom.

Charles pirouetted toward the bathroom and stepped into the shower to scrub away the residual cum from his chest and stomach. He tried to disentangle his gnarly locks with shampoo, but quickly abandoned hope, deciding he would need professional help. After toweling himself dry, he returned to the bedroom to select the day’s wardrobe. He slipped into Derek’s white booty shorts from their first night at the club, delighted to discover that, although he was far skinnier than Derek’s Asian athlete overall, his ample ass filled the skin-tight shorts to capacity. He paired it with a sleeveless blue crop-top which not only matched the color of his hair but offered an unobstructed view of his smooth tummy and his lower-back tattoo. He slipped his petite feet into a pair of flip-flops and accessorized his left arm with a dozen assorted bracelets that he found loose throughout the suitcase. He studied himself in the mirror as he struck several provocative poses, giddy about what a sexy little twink he had become. His nose crinkled as he realized the waif in the mirror didn’t look like a Charles or a Chuck or even a Charlie… and he definitely wasn’t a Red! Nope, he was a real blue boi now. His eyes brightened at the thought. Yes! Blue! It was obvious, yet perfect. Still, he wondered if it’d be even better without the “e”! He closed his eyes and envisioned it, spelled out in big blue neon letters, and deemed the E-less version far more fabulous. A shiver shot up his backbone as he mentally christened himself “Blu”.

Dissatisfied with his unruly hair and eager to look perfect for Derek when he returned, Blu decided to make a quick visit to the hotel’s salon. He grabbed his wallet, but realized his wardrobe contained no pockets, so he removed a credit card, picked up his room key, and tucked them both into his elastic waistband against his hip bone. He stepped into the hall, leaving the TV on as Mike the Spike strenuously nailed another perp. Blu felt so full of vitality that he practically skipped down the hallway, rounding the corner to the lobby just as Derek and Pierce emerged from the room next door.

Blu was relieved that the salon wasn’t busy at this hour of the morning, as he would have been too antsy to wait his turn. He gravitated toward a well-groomed young male stylist, clutching at his untamed blue locks and pleading for help with this “emergency”. The stylist took a long look at this exotic little creature and led Blu to his station, where Blu hopped up into the padded chair and wriggled his butt into a comfortable position. The stylist snapped an apron around Blu’s neck and asked, “What exactly do you want me to do?”

The newly twinkified customer couldn’t express his desires specifically. “It just needs to look…phenomenal.” He stared at the stylist’s upswept coif and said, “What you’ve got looks fantastic. Maybe something like that? I don’t know. You’re the expert. Just go with your instincts. I trust you, sweetie.” He winked into the mirror and let the stylist get to work.

The stylist examined Blu’s hair closely, amazed that the color remained consistent all the way down to the roots. His stubble, his eyebrows, even his eyelashes had the same tint, suggesting, improbably if not impossibly, that the customer’s hair grew in that color naturally. The stylist attempted to comb through the snarls of hair, then picked up his scissors to make some initial trims, but the strands were remarkably resistant to the blades. The stylist needed to squeeze the scissors with both hands to make even a small snip, yet it seemed to make no difference. It was as if the hair instantly grew back to its initial length, and the stray clippings seemed to blow away before they hit the floor.

Deciding that the best he could hope was to shape the blue hair into something presentable, the stylist leaned the chair back to give Blu a shampoo. Blu smiled as the young man soaked his hair with comfortingly warm water and churned up a headful of suds, kneading the hair to work out the kinks, then washing away the bubbles with a gently pulsating spray. All these tactile stimuli had caused the little bulge in Blu’s shorts to grow hard as a diamond. He opened his eyes and looked around the salon dreamily. Noticing a customer in the next chair over getting her nails painted, Blu asked, “I don’t s’pose you’ve got any polish that’d go well with my hair.” When the stylist said he was sure they did, Blu grinned and wiggled his toes, requesting a mani/pedi to go with his new ’do. He shut his eyes again and settled back, leaving the stylist to work his wonders.


When Derek and Pierce had gone next door to confront Charles, they had no idea they had just missed running into his altered self in the hallway. Pierce had caught a glimpse of a spectacular ass disappearing around the corner at the lobby end of the hall, but it hadn’t entered his mind that it might belong to Charles.

Now, after finding Derek and Charles’ room unoccupied, they were back in Pierce’s suite, reviewing Derek’s options for the day. Bottles of Mariposa were stashed in Pierce’s luggage, carefully cushioned among his clothing to prevent them from breaking in transit. As Pierce pointed to the bottles and explained the cryptic identifying notes attached to each, he described the effects of each concoction with the precision of a wine connoisseur. Indicating a bottle with a Post-It labeled “Stout” in Pierce’s recognizable handwriting, Pierce described it as “a full-bodied Japanese variety. By which I mean it’s a sumo wrestler.”

“I think I’ll skip the sumo wrestler. How ’bout that one?”, Derek asked curiously, pointing to a bright pink bottle tagged “JB”. “What’s ‘JB’ stand for? Justin Bieber?” Derek got a kick out of the notion of becoming the Biebs for a day.

Pierce hook his head, looked a bit embarrassed, and said, “‘JB’ is shorthand for ‘Jail Bait’. It basically reverts you to whatever you were like as a sixteen-year-old.”

Derek flinched. “Egad. I was a total mess when I was sixteen. Hard pass.”

Pierce agreed. “Yeah, you really gotta be in the right country for that one.” Anxious to move along, Pierce buried the JB bottle under a pair of silver lame shorts and drew Derek’s attention to an amber bottle marked “Howl”. “This is a fun one, from their Halloween line. Turns you into a werewolf!”

Derek seriously pondered that option, always having found werewolf stories extremely erotic, but decided it was impractical in Cancun. “Feels like today’s gonna be too hot for all that hair.”

Pierce had to concur. “True. Plus, if you go to the beach, you’re gonna get sand everywhere. We’d probably need to vacuum you clean.”

Derek spotted a bottle tucked far to the side, its contents impenetrably dark, like Guinness mixed with tar. Pierce had labeled it with a large red “X”. Derek grabbed it by the neck and examined it. “What’s the story on this one?”

Pierce chewed on his lip, having hoped that Derek wouldn’t notice it. “I’d kinda been saving that one for a special occasion.”

“You’ve pretty much ruined my honeymoon,” Derek reminded him. “Maybe this counts as a special occasion. What is it?”

“It’s part of their celebrity line. Very rare. I did one once before.” Pierce pulled out his phone and flipped through his photos, pulling up an image that he showed to Derek.

Derek squinted at the blurry selfie. “Is that Harry Styles?”

“Nope,” Pierce said with a grin. “It’s me.”

“That’s you?”, Derek said, taking a closer look. “It looks just like the real guy!”

“Exactly. That was the whole idea. They had to stop making the stuff, ’cause some of the stars sued for copyright infringement.” Pierce looked at the photo fondly. “That was an awesome day. I was in L.A. on Grammy weekend. People were givin’ me free shit wherever I went. I could get into any club I wanted. Here, check this out.” He thumbed through his phone and showed Derek another image.

Derek’s mouth fell open. The photo showed Harry Styles being hugged by… “Is that you with Beyoncé?” As Pierce nodded smugly, Derek punched him in the arm. “Get out! You live the coolest life. Why didn’t you bring me along?”

Pierce was surprised. “I didn’t think it’d be your kind of scene.”

“You thought I wouldn’t want to hang with Beyoncé? I may not be as gay as you, but I’m still gay enough to wanna meet Beyoncé, motherfucker!” Then an idea occurred to Derek. “What makes you so sure that was Bey? I mean, what if it was just somebody who drank a Beyoncé bottle of Mariposa who was excited that THEY were meeting Harry Styles?”

Pierce looked at the photo with concern. “Hmmm. Never considered that. It would explain why she was so willing to blow me in the men’s room.”

Derek laughed, although he genuinely couldn’t tell if Pierce was kidding. He returned to his focus to the bottle in his hand. “So who would this one turn me into? Like, Justin Bieber?”

“Fuck, man, since when did you turn into such a fuckin’ Belieber? No, it’s somebody way cooler than the Biebs, belieb me.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know who it is? It’s not like there’s a picture or anything on here. All it says is a red X!”

Pierce hesitated. He had really hoped to keep this one for his own use, but he saw no point in lying to Derek. He leaned close and murmured, “It’s Mike the Spike.”

Derek gazed at the bottle with awe. “Mike the Spike? The porn guy?”

Pierce nodded. “Complete with a fully operational spike. Life-size.”

Derek reeled, taking a seat to ponder the concept, which grew increasingly irresistible the longer he thought it over. He smiled up at Pierce and demanded, “Gimme an opener.”

Pierce grumbled as he walked to the bar for a church key, which he then handed to Derek. Derek removed the bottle cap and was nearly knocked out by the potency of the drink’s aroma. “Whoa!”, Derek said, rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t describe the scent exactly, but it smelled a bit of sweat and dirt and leather and jism. In a word, it smelled of masculinity.

Pierce made a move to take the bottle from Derek. “Ya know, this might be too strong for a greenhorn like you. Your body might not be ready for it. Maybe you should reconsider the werewolf.”

Derek wasn’t about to fall for Pierce’s reverse psychology. He turned away from Pierce and forced the bottle to his lips, choking down a few gulps. The drink was viscous, coating his mouth and throat with a slimy substance that immediately began to seep into his soft tissues. He knew right away that this was was far more potent than the Mariposa he had sampled on the previous days. The liquid had barely reached his tonsils, yet he was already feeling its impact. Every muscle in his body flexed. His grip on the bottle grew so strong, he feared it might shatter in his hand. Now that he’d had a sample, his body demanded more. He raised the bottle back to his mouth and forced himself to drain its remaining contents in a single prolonged chug.

Pierce realized he was trembling as he watched Derek, anticipation mingled with profound jealousy. “You might wanna take off your clothes. I don’t think they’re gonna fit you much longer.”

Derek stood up, but could already sense the changes kicking in. “Too late,” he said with an excited grin, hurling the empty bottle against the far wall, where it burst into tiny fragments on impact. He stepped into the middle of the room, legs splayed, shaking his arms loose in anticipation of the tsunami that was building inside of him. As his chest puffed out, he could feel his ribcage expanding and his shoulders broadening. He could hear the threads of his fishnet tank top squeaking as they strained to contain his increasing bulk, and the fabric of his sweatpants bunched up around his burgeoning crotch. He curled his fists, flexing his growing forearms, and felt dizzy as the floor appeared to drop away and the ceiling grew closer.

Derek stumbled unsteadily across the room, landing heavily on the sofa and thwacking his head into the wall with a thundering whomp. He raised a hand to feel his skull for bumps and discovered that his hair had evaporated or receded or otherwise disappeared, leaving his scalp clean-shaven without a trace of stubble. He looked down as his muscles inflated to monumental size, less defined than the gymnast’s body he had previously inhabited, but possessing even greater strength. His thickening pecs popped the knots of his tank top, one, two, three at a time, until the exhausted shirt burst from the stress. The seams of his sweats gave way as his thighs doubled in circumference. The few gray scraps which still clung to his waistband were pushed aside as Derek’s tattooed dick arose like a surfacing submarine, gaining length, heft and solidity, already nearing a foot long with room to grow. Derek took hold of his cock with an unrecognizably huge and puffy hand that resembled a baseball mitt made of flesh. For such a monstrous dick, it proved to be incredibly sensitive, responding to even the slightest touch with further growth. As he brought himself toward ejaculation, his moans grew louder and the back of the couch banged rhythmically against the wall, the thumping increasing the faster he stroked. Although his skin tone had been darkening gradually throughout the process, it rapidly deepened into a dense brown just as a cascade of white erupted from the baseball-sized mushroom at the end of his Louisville-Slugger-sized cock. A torrent of cum oozed down the sides of his pulsating organ, coating his hand all the way to the wrist. Derek slumped into the cushions as the sofa complained beneath him. He blacked out, one tree-trunk leg draped over the armrest, the other stretched across the floor.

When Derek finally reopened his eyes, he had no idea how long he had been out. He raised himself up on one elbow and looked across the room, where Pierce was sprawled in a chair, clutching his own deflated jizz-slickened dick, spent from witnessing Derek’s metamorphosis. “Oh my fuckin’ god,” he heard Pierce mutter weakly, “that was worth every goddamn peso.”

Derek rolled off the couch and spread out on his back, his new body taking up a remarkable amount of floor space. He stared up at the lazily rotating ceiling fan and grinned.

It took about ten minutes for Derek’s body to recuperate enough to move, although his cock had rebooted more quickly, ready to go again after a minute or two. Only now did Derek fully appreciate the enormity of the body he now inhabited. It had seemed more limber and agile while he was building to an orgasm, but without that hormonal rush, even the simple act of sitting up required substantial effort. Once he had managed to get onto his hands and knees, he felt Pierce beside him, attempting to help him get to his feet. Given their size difference, it looked like ant trying to lift a refrigerator. Derek chuckled with a rumble that began deep inside his chest. Derek brushed a beefy hand appreciatively through Pierce’s long black hair. “Thanks, little buddy,” he said, startled to hear the basso-profundo tones of Mike Cochran escape his throat. The low-frequency sound waves reverberated through Derek’s skeletal system. He was pretty sure that Mike’s sultry voice alone could trigger an orgasm.

In the bathroom, Derek checked out his new reflection, crouching in order to see his full head in the mirror. He was unable to detect any visible differences between himself and the man he had seen onscreen. The dark probing eyes, the heavy jaw, the immense neck between mountainous traps. The only minor variation was the earrings from yesterday, which were now solidly embedded in Derek’s lobes, adding a slight personal touch to a body which had otherwise eradicated every physical trace of Derek. “I can’t believe it,” Derek boomed. “I look exactly like him.”

“Trust me, whoever designs this stuff is a stickler for detail,” Pierce said. “When I was Harry, it came fully loaded with every single ugly-ass tattoo on that scrawny boy’s body.”

Derek let out a low chuckle. “Maybe I could be Mike the Spike’s stunt double. You know, step in whenever he couldn’t get it up.” He elbowed Pierce, nearly knocking the smaller man off his feet.

“Actually,” Pierce said conspiratorially, “I have a theory that there really IS no Mike the Spike. He’s just a Mariposa creation.”

“What?”

“Why not? How do we know Mike the Spike is a real person? The only place anybody ever sees him is in gay porno movies. I mean, look at that body of yours. It’s not natural. It’s like somebody in a lab cooked up the ultimate gay wet dream of what a big black stud should look like.”

Derek studied himself in the mirror and had to admit that, if you were designing a porn star from scratch, it would be hard to suggest any improvements.

“The way I figure it,” Pierce continued, “every time they want to make another movie, they just have somebody drink a bottle of Mariposa, until they turn into this.” He gestured toward Derek’s body. “That would explain why his acting is so erratic. It’s a different fuckin’ guy every time! One day it’s Idris Elba. Next day he’s not available, so they have Steve Buscemi do it. Buscemi gets a gig, so they hand some Mariposa to the guy who brings donuts to the set. He chugs it down, bada-bing, bada-boom, they roll the cameras and he starts fuckin’.”

Derek looked down at Pierce dubiously. “You’re saying Idris Elba does Mike the Spike movies in his spare time?”

Pierce shrugged. “A boy can dream, can’t he? But wouldn’t that be awesome if it was true?”

Derek propped his hands on his hips and smiled at his reflection. “Well, step aside, Idris and Steve. Looks like it’s donut boy’s turn today.” Derek crossed the bathroom and wedged himself into the shower. “I’d say you’re welcome to join me, but I don’t think there’s room.”

“Nah, that’s okay,” Pierce said before asking, “Is it okay if I watch?”

“Eat your heart out.” Derek turned on the water and lathered himself up thoroughly, while Pierce eagerly took a front-row seat on the closed lid of the toilet. Derek realized that he didn’t mind being stared at, his usual shyness nowhere in evidence. After all, it wasn’t Derek’s body that Pierce couldn’t stop ogling; it was Mike the Spike’s. Derek realized that a guy wouldn’t get very far in porn if he was skittish about people seeing him naked.

“So,” Pierce asked, shouting over the gushing water, “who do you want to hang out with today, Spike? I still got the sumo guy, the werewolf…let’s see…” He tried to remember the other bottles that were left in his suitcase.

Derek stopped scrubbing for a moment. “You got any bottles that say ‘Pierce’?”

Pierce looked confused. “Whattaya mean?”

“That’s who I wanna spend the day with. My old college roommate, Pierce. Since I’ve been with Charles, he and I never get to hang out the way we used to. I kinda miss him.”

Pierce found this sweet, if inexplicable. “Seriously? Isn’t he the conceited asshole who ruined your honeymoon?”

“What I need today is a friend. You’re the oldest friend I got.” The eyes may have been Mike the Spike’s, but the emotion they conveyed was pure Derek.

Pierce was genuinely touched, but masked it with his standard sarcasm. “Sounds kinda kinky, but it’s your funeral…I mean, honeymoon.” He thought for a few moments, then stood up and walked with purpose out of the bathroom.

“Where you goin’?”, Derek asked his departing audience. “Show’s just startin’!”

“Just thought of something I need to do,” Pierce said cryptically as he exited into the main room.

Derek shrugged his enormous shoulders and resumed his shower, devoting a solid three minutes just to washing the Spike itself. When he finished, it required three separate bath towels to dry him thoroughly. He strolled toward the living room, completely comfortable being utterly naked, amused as his dangling cock bounced back and forth between his quads. “Hey, you sure you got anything that’ll fit me? Your skinny jeans ain’t gonna cut it today. I’m gonna need one pant leg just for the spike!”

As Derek rounded the corner, he saw Pierce on the couch, in the final stages of masturbating. “Aw, jeez, man,” Derek said, shaking his head and lifting a big hand to shield his eyes. “Give your cock a rest, will ya? You’re gonna wear it out. Whattaya think you are, fifteen?”

“Not quite,” Pierce said between breaths, “but gettin’ close.”

Derek wondered what he meant by that. He noticed an open Mariposa bottle on the floor next to the couch, missing about a quarter of its neon pink contents. He struggled to remember what changes this particular variety would cause, then spotted the “JB” sticker. “‘Jail bait’? You’re turnin’ yourself into a kid?”

Pierce shook his head as his cock-stroking built to a crescendo. “Only drank…a little,” he panted. “Enough to…make me…nineteen or…twenty!” Cum launched from his dick in a rapid series of bursts, making white splotches on his cinnamon-colored skin.

Derek loomed over Pierce. He had always thought Pierce never seemed to age, but the man on the sofa milking the last of his orgasm looked much younger than 31. His skin was uncreased, his eyes seemed brighter, his body less muscular – except for his impressive souvenir Mariposa abs, which had survived the transformation intact. Derek bent down to grab the bottle and mused aloud, “I wonder what a young Mike the Spike would look like.”

Before Derek could take a sip, Pierce was on his feet and snatched the bottle from the big man’s hand. “Are you crazy? Don’t you remember, I told you not to drink from two bottles in the same day?”

Derek could barely recall those initial warnings in the note Pierce left with the six pack. “Well, yeah, I guess, but you never explained why.”

“This shit is volatile enough on its own. That much you know by now. But if you mix two different kinds, it’s like one of those volcanoes you made in school with vinegar and baking soda.” Pierce made the sound of an explosion. “The results become completely unpredictable…and totally irreversible. You wanna be stuck as Mike the Spike forever?” Unnerved by Derek’s silence, Pierce asked, “Well, do ya?”

Derek raised a hand to his cheek and replied, “I’m thinking it over!”


Blu strolled down the hallway, carefree, his hair swept back and high, gelled into place in what he and the stylist had dubbed a “blue-ffant”. He extracted the room key daintily from his waistband, careful not to disturb the ice-blue polish on his still-drying nails.

The whole time he was being pampered at the salon, Blu had grown increasingly turned on by all the tactile attention. He had somehow managed to keep himself from cumming in the barber’s chair, but now that he was safely in the privacy of his room, he barely let the door close behind him before he was stretched out on the sofa and tugging down his shorts. Feeling something hard jab him in the back, he stuck an arm beneath him and discovered his misplaced cell phone. Surprised he hadn’t discovered it earlier, he tossed it onto the coffee table, vowing to call Derek once he had taken care of the more urgent matter at hand. Never, not even in the depths of puberty, had he been in such a constant state of arousal. While Charles would have viewed this heightened eroticism as an unwelcome distraction from more important matters, Blu couldn’t imagine anything more important than tending to his insatiable cravings.

With one hand wrapped around his small but growing shaft, Blu took the TV remote in his free hand and clicked through to resume the porn flick he had been watching earlier. Although he scarcely needed extra stimuli, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the movie’s charismatic star and his most prominent attribute. The story appeared to be heading toward its climax, and so was Blu. As his thumb slid along the smooth tapered end of the remote control, Blu gazed at the device and grinned naughtily, seized by an idea. Even if this thought had ever occurred to Charles, he never would have acted upon it for hygienic reasons alone, but Blu felt joyously liberated from Charles’ numerous hang-ups. He slipped the remote beneath him and slowly propped it up between the sofa cushions, positioning it between his ass cheeks. He lowered his pelvis gently onto the plastic device, guiding the probe into his asshole. He gasped abruptly, causing a bubble of precum to spurt from his cock. He adjusted himself again to push the remote deeper inside of him, inadvertently depressing the “volume” button in the process. On TV, the big porn stud began moaning in ecstasy, louder and louder, and Blue could hear similar groans seeping through the wall from next door, giving him a stereo effect. Blu assumed the neighbor must be spanking it to the same movie, as he heard the back of a couch thudding rhythmically against their shared wall. Blu flexed at the waist and made one final push downward, burying the remote in his ass all the way to the mute button, cutting off Mike the Spike in mid-sentence as he declared, “You’re fuc…”

As Blu’s little dick shot its wad, a wave of sheer delight effervesced in his brain and he drifted contentedly into a short nap, the remote still wedged deep inside of him. When he awoke, he maneuvered the remote out of his butt and carried it to the bathroom where he meticulously cleaned it off. He then indulged in a luxurious shower, keeping his carefully sculpted hair safely out of the spray of the water. His mind had never felt so clear, his emotions so tranquil. He wished this idyllic moment could last forever, but eventually the hot water petered out and his skin began to prune. He dried off and returned to the living room, where he attempted to call Derek, but hung up when he got no answer after four rings. He wondered where the hell Derek could be, having no idea that Derek’s phone was just on the other side of the wall, vibrating unheard inside the pocket of Derek’s shredded sweat pants that lay discarded on the floor.

Blu noticed the Iowa shirt neatly folded on the bar stool and suddenly remembered that he had promised to return it to that gorgeous kid named Kev. As Blu considered the possibility that he might meet up with Todd and the rest of those sexy midwestern boys, his little rod turned hard at the thought. Growing tired of waiting for Derek, Blu grabbed the NPR tote bag he had noticed in the suitcase and stuffed it with Kev’s shirt, a big fluffy towel, his wallet, his phone, a couple of bottled waters and a fistful of Speedos – all the essentials for a fun day on the beach. Just for kicks, he tossed in the TV remote too, never knowing if he might need its services again.

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