By the impaler001
published January 13, 2007

Brandon always tried to be the bigger man; little did he know…

Brandon stood in the bike shop, lost. Why the hell was he here? What was he thinking? He stood out like a sore thumb in his pressed slacks and loafers. He was absently caressing the tank of some monstrous motorcycle. A hefty, gray-bearded salesman in a ratty leather vest was talking to him. He couldn’t follow. What was going on?

“Hey, guy,” the salesman said, “you okay?” He thought the dude looked a bit too straight laced for his establishment, but he seemed to know what he was talking about, at least until that faraway look developed on his face. “Yer not tweakin’, are ya?”

Brandon stumbled backward. “I…I gotta go…” he whispered, and made tracks.

What the hell was wrong with him? What had he been doing all day? He could remember getting ready for work, getting in the car…but that was it. Had he even gone to work? Was it still even the same day?

The cat was on top of the kitchen cabinets. She wouldn’t come near him.

Brandon ran his fingers through his tousled hair and looked at the various bags he’d found in his car. Jeans, tees, boots, a leather jacket, all bought and paid for on his credit card. He couldn’t wear this stuff. He was a legal assistant for god’s sake. Besides, it was all too big! What had possessed him? He scratched at his heavy five o’clock shadow…but that wasn’t right. His beard was sparse and slow to grow in…

Leaping up, he knocked over his chair and made a beeline for his bathroom. Sure enough, a dark swath of black hair covered his lower face. Impossible. But there it was. What the hell was happening? He stared into the mirror as if it would somehow produce an answer. His eyes looked…different. The blue more intense. The lids narrower. He forced them wide. There he was, that was it. His eyes were big, boyish. He was, in fact, more boyish. He’d always been. At thirty-two, he still got carded at every bar he went to. He loved it. Or so he always told himself. He traded on it. The grizzled old pig he’d let take him home that past weekend had liked it, too, evidently. Maybe too much. Brandon rubbed his shoulder where the guy had bit him. It had hurt like hell, and Brandon could swear he’d broken the skin, but there was barely a mark there at all the next morning.

The next morning, when the rough trade had grinned wolfishly at him and said, “Be seein’ more of ya.”


Oh, god.

His chest itched. His pants felt tight. Was it possible? No.

The freak had some kind of virus or something. Maybe it was in his spit. That’s what was making Brandon lose it. It had to be. He didn’t need a psychiatrist, he needed a doctor. He should go straight to an emergency room. The bite must have broken the skin, it must have. Maybe just not deep enough to really notice. Brandon ripped off his shirt to examine his shoulder, but stopped dead cold when he glanced once more at the mirror.

A treasure trail?

He sucked in his breath. His throat was closing up. He looked in horror at the dark trail leading up his flat stomach and spreading out, ever so slightly, across his thin chest. He’d never had that before. Hand shaking, he traced it up his torso with his index finger. His heart was pounding in his ears. His chest hurt. He felt like throwing up. Was he having a heart attack? His little cock was rock hard, and…

He looked down at the bulge in his pants. Hard and…not so little?

He doubled over in agony, collapsing to the floor. The room was closing in. He was fading out…dying? No…please…anything but that…

Fucking hell.

What the fuck was he doing on the bathroom floor? Not that it mattered, but it was damned uncomfortable, and he was stiff as shit. Sore as fuck, too.

Slowly, he straightened out his body and sat up. Time to take stock. Thick, black hair covered his forearms, thinning slightly as it flowed up onto his biceps. His slab-like pecs were covered, too, but that hair was a bit shorter and clung to his musculature, accenting the deep cleft between his pecs and the solid six pack that lay below. He noted with satisfaction that his pretty boy pants had split at the seams around his waist and muscular thighs. S’ok, he thought. He didn’t need ‘em. He stripped off the tatters and stood up, looked in the mirror.

Taller, bigger, more butch. My, my, Brandon. How we have grown.



That was crap. Who the fuck would let people call him “Brandon” anyway? He’d put a fist in the throat of any fucker who did.

His name was Brand. That was more like it.

The hair had to go. Nice Catholic boy side part. He shoved it straight back with his fingers. Too long, too messy. A nice trim would do, nothin’ that would make him look like a soldier on leave. Just short enough to nix the need for any special effort on his part. He liked the beard, though it needed a trim, too. It would accent his big, square jaw better short.

He liked the dick. He really liked the dick. Long and fat with a pair of big, low-hangin’ balls behind. Gettin’ hard as a rock, too, now that he’d taken notice of it. In fact, he was horny as all hell, and them some.

It didn’t take long to work that off. Or, at least, to take the edge off. He felt like he could go again right away. That never used to happen.

It wouldn’t be too fuckin’ hard to get used to, though.

He padded out to the kitchen in his bare feet. The cat hissed at him. Piece of shit.

Nice of little Brandon to sort out all his clothes…he stopped short.

“But,” he said aloud, wincing at the foreign baritone of his voice, “but…I am Brandon…”

His head spun as he rubbed the denim of his new jeans between his fingers. He was Brandon, but he wasn’t. He liked his new, big dick. He was afraid of himself. This wasn’t him, but he was a part of whoever he was now. It didn’t make sense. But Brand…

“I’ll take care of us,” he growled. And Brandon believed him.

Brand would keep them safe.

He pulled on the jeans. He’d have to meet his maker sometime. The heavy, steel-toed boots. Tonight was as good as any night. The tight, black cotton tee. Just make it clear to the tubby bear bitch that he didn’t have any claim on Brand, regardless of having created him. Old-fashioned leather jacket. Once they had an understanding, maybe he’d throw the old man a quick fuck. He’d have to get rid of that fucking compact car. And be looking for new employment. And please don’t hurt the cat.

Yeah, yeah.

It felt right.

Brand flexed his right arm and reveled in how his biceps strained the new, creaking leather.

Fuck yeah.

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