Side Trip


A hard-partying bro-dude winds up as the center of attention at a very strange get-together.

[More stories and art can be found on my Viking Zombie Boyfriend Tumblr blog!]

By the time Gino realized what was happening, it was too late to stop it. It was a trap, the whole set-up, and it wasn’t what he had wanted, no matter what the seductive growl in his brain kept insisting. His life, his normal life, was over. He deserved it, he guessed.

His cousin Paulie’s fat, hairy face stopped licking at Gino’s armpit long enough to gaze up at him with adoration. Breathily, Paulie cooed, “I’m sorry we had to trick you. But it’s not so bad, is it?”

That was exactly why things had turned out like this, Gino realized: because he had settled for an unbroken chain of things that weren’t even close to what he wanted, but “weren’t so bad.”

He hadn’t wanted to take Lenny along with him on the New Orleans trip but Lenny had pulled the self-pity act on him. Poor Lenny, who had never set foot outside Chicago his whole life, who had never even popped his cherry even though he was twenty years old, positively ancient. Suddenly the New Orleans trip was all about finding Poor Lenny some pussy. But he could help pay for gas and the hotel. So that wasn’t so bad.

Gino hadn’t wanted to make the side trip to Vulcanello, Louisiana. He hadn’t been to that tiny shithole town since he was twelve, and he’d hated it then. It was run-down and creepy, and for some reason every single adult male there was morbidly obese, including his Uncle Marcello. Marcello’s son Paulie had been only eleven then and was thin as a rail, but Marcello kept hinting that Paulie would be fat when he grew up, and Paulie seemed totally into that. Again, creepy. Paulie had somehow found about the New Orleans trip and called Gino’s mom to insist on Gino visiting him. Gino had tried to refuse. But his mom told him that family was everything, and she inferred that if he took the trouble to see Paulie, she might be more inclined to help him out of the next financial jam he got in. So that wasn’t so bad.

Gino gave Paulie a call to confirm his travel plans. His cousin sounded enormous. A lot of wheezing. He mentioned something about getting them into a function his men’s association was throwing. Gino was uneasy about that. It was sure to be a bunch of humorless, uptight Catholics who would spend more time bitching about politics than just relaxing and having fun. There’d be drinking, sure, but it would be angry drinking. Still, alcohol was alcohol. So that wasn’t so bad.

Paulie apparently sensed Gino’s wariness. “Listen,” he said, his tone soft and conspiratorial, “I know you haven’t been to church since you went out on your own, and I can’t blame you. So relax. My guys aren’t the Knights of Columbus, alright? There won’t be anything Catholic about this party. When we set out to get fucked up, we get fucked up with a capital ‘F.’ Anything goes, see? And we’ll make sure you and your friend get good and fucked up, too.”

Now, that didn’t sound bad at all.

It was a half-day’s drive, and they arrived in Paulie’s town late in the afternoon. The place had decayed much further in the years since Gino had last seen it. A lot of the retail shops that had been for sale fourteen years ago were simply abandoned now, with only an obscure discount chain near the highway to pick up the slack. The red, white and green lights hanging between the lamp posts did little to cheer the place up.

Gino cruised aimlessly around for a while, ostensibly to give Lenny a tour, but mainly to let him take a gander at all the fatties waddling down the sidewalks. When he thought Lenny had seen enough, Gino elbowed him and prompted, “Notice anything strange about the people here?”

Lenny chuckled. “You mean how they’re all Italian? That’s weird. A whole Italian town in Louisiana. What, did a hurricane blow it down here from New Jersey?”

“It’s not that weird, dumbass. What I meant was, look at all the men. See how fat they are?”

Lenny sagely rubbed the dirty-blonde fuzz on his pointy little jaw. “I see SOME fat guys. But they don’t look all that fat to me. They got maybe fifty pounds on you, tops.”

Gino grunted at that and let the subject drop. He worked out, but at twenty-six his metabolism was starting to slow down, and all the drinking he did was starting to hide some of his muscles beneath a layer of flab. He wasn’t fat, though, he told himself. Just “husky.” Lenny, meanwhile, was a short, wiry little fucker. Probably any dude weighing more than 120 pounds was “fat” to him.

He detoured through a parking lot and headed back up the main drag. He hadn’t actually paid attention to the heavy-set figures that surrounded them, but now he could see what Lenny had meant. There were less fat men than he had remembered, and even those weren’t as fat as the ones he’d seen as a kid. He wondered if his memory had exaggerated that part. He did notice one weird thing about them, though. Every big man he saw was eating. Usually it was something fatty or sugary, like pastries or chips, or a po’ boy sandwich, slathered in gravy. They didn’t even seem to be enjoying their food. They were just desperately shoving it into their maws, looking miserable the whole time. A couple of men were guzzling soda straight from two-liter bottles. One of them was crying.

Soon, Gino noticed another odd detail: all of the fat men had some kind of facial hair. Usually a bushy goatee or beard, but there were thick muttonchop sideburns and some impressive biker ‘staches in evidence, too. The other men he saw, the fit men and the skinny men, were all clean-shaven. All of them. They regarded the heavier men with icy disdain. Gino considered his own beard, a well-groomed chinstrap he had grown to help define his jawline ever since his neck had started to plump up. Between the beard and his husky build, he knew which camp he fell into. The thought made him uneasy.

He took note of Lenny, skinny and scruffy, the worst of both worlds. Even at his young age, Lenny was a dissolute waste of space, and he had attached himself to Gino like a barnacle. Gino may have borrowed money from his increasingly reluctant family and friends, but Lenny didn’t have any family or friends, and he had made it his career to mooch off of Gino. How Lenny had scraped together the funds to pay for his half of the hotel accommodations, Gino never knew.

After checking in at their hotel, Gino and Lenny headed over to Paulie’s house, to get the visit over with. Paulie was indeed overweight, in the same middling, noncommittal way as the other fat men in town. He had a huge walrus mustache, from which jutted a pipe. That, combined with the weight and a prematurely receding hairline, made him look twenty years older than his true age of twenty-five. He welcomed Gino and Lenny into his house with generous hugs, and an approving look that lingered a little too long for Gino’s tastes. After shoving beers into their hands, he motioned for them to join him in the kitchen as he prepared dinner.

Periodically, Paulie hoisted up the hem of his club shirt and scratched at his sides. Gino could see that Paulie’s love handles were weirdly pendulous. In fact, all of the fat on him seemed to droop. And yet, there was a photo on the wall of him standing on a dock somewhere, holding a trout, and it showed him looking at least one hundred pounds heavier, with a stomach that bulged out like a balloon. He was wearing shorts, and Gino couldn’t help but notice that his leg hair was so thick, it could have passed for animal fur.

Gino gestured over to the photo. “I see you lost some weight,” he offered.

“No shit,” Paulie muttered, sounding almost disgusted by the idea.

After loading his guests up on manicotti and braciole with a whole platter of cannoli for dessert, Paulie drove them to the men’s club. It looked like any other small-town VFW or Shriner’s hall. A low, sprawling edifice of gray stone, probably from the twenties or thirties, judging by the sections of glass brick where windows should have been. A single word was carved in stone over the entrance. Gino didn’t recognize it. Something Latin, maybe. As they approached, Gino could hear music pulsing from the other side of the door. Cheesy pseudo-Italian crap from the 50’s. Rosemary Clooney, it sounded like.

They were greeted by his goggle-eyed, Santa-bearded Uncle Marcello, who was the exact same kind of half-assed fat as his son. They exchanged hugs and kisses. Uncle Marcello also insisted on hugging and kissing Lenny, which Gino found hilarious. Finally, Uncle Marcello and Paulie shifted their drooping bulk sideways, and Gino got his first good look at the place’s interior.

The men’s club was appointed like a vintage lounge, with soft lighting, a huge wet bar, a jukebox, plenty of beefy club chairs and plush sofas, and long banquet tables piled with food. The walls were covered in Art Deco murals of pastoral scenes. Glades and streams. Shepherds and goats.

“Great-grandpa Pietro painted all this when he built the place,” Paulie said, leaning in to be heard over the blaring jukebox. Somehow, he had already gotten a plate of food and was stuffing slices of panforte into his maw. The powdered sugar coated his mustache, making him look even older. “He started the Men’s Association here. A very influential citizen.”

Paulie dragged the two of them around the room, making introductions. Every single man there was fat and hairy. Gino shook hands with the local sheriff, with a judge, with two bankers. A lot of important men, it seemed. “We don’t have the mayor yet,” Paulie said, “but we’ll get him.”

Everybody there was eating and drinking. Gino recognized some of the same fatties he’d seen on the sidewalks earlier. Here, their expressions were less miserable and more akin to a grim resignation. Gino suspected his uncle’s club threw a lot of these get-togethers. Some of the men managed to smoke while they ate, and always it was a huge cigar or a pipe.

Without fail, the men were over the moon to meet Gino. Less so to meet Lenny. It was awkward.

More fat men heaved their way into the club. It was getting hot in there. Members sloughed off their blazers and sport coats, undid their ties, unbuttoned their shirts. The chatter became deafening as the general mood improved. There was a lot of excited talking, a lot of excited looks. A lot of expectant glances over at Gino.

The burgeoning mass of fat bodies, the airless room, the pungent smoke, the heat and the loud music were all getting to be too much for him. He was feeling tipsy from all the beers he’d downed at Paulie’s. He decided beer wouldn’t be enough if he was going to make it through this party. He hurried over to the bar, Lenny trailing nervously behind like a puppy. He ordered a shot of whiskey. He was given a tall glass of it. He took it.

When they returned to where Paulie was standing, his cousin had something resembling a ratty white fur coat bundled up in his hands. He shoved it at Gino. “I forgot to tell you,” he wheezed, “we need you to put this on. It’s part of your initiation. See, the only way I could get you in here was by telling everybody you were joining.”

“I don’t even live here,” Gino began, but Uncle Marcello was already plucking the whiskey from his hand.

“It’s a private club,” Uncle Marcello explained. “We all have our little rules. Besides, you’ve seen the rest of the town. Do you think you’ll find free drinks and all this food anyplace else? Just put it on. Humor them.”

Wearily, Gino nodded, and accepted the bundle.

The garment turned out to be part of a mascot costume: baggy “footy pajama” pants, made of some kind of real animal skin, held up by wide leather suspenders. The trousers terminated in gray leather “hooves”, flat on the bottom. There was a short, stuffed tail protruding from the back. A goat’s tail.

“You can put it on over your clothes,” Marcello continued. “Although it’s tradition to be naked underneath. You know how we repressed Catholic men are.”

“Over the clothes is fine,” Gino sighed. He didn’t want that animal skin touching his body if he could at all help it. The fur was matted and greasy. And it reeked.

He donned the outfit, feeling like a complete ass the whole time. His only comfort was that it would make for a funny story someday.

Lenny had his phone out and was about to snap a picture of Gino in all his humiliation, when Paulie snatched the device from his hands. Lenny looked imploringly at Gino, but Gino only shrugged.

“Private club,” Paulie said.

Gino was even more popular with the costume on. His back was slapped multiple times, and he kept getting pulled in for long, sweaty hugs. Men insisted on doing shots with him. His hands were loaded with plates of food. Nothing was offered to Lenny. Gino was starting to get annoyed, but he knew he was a guest and he didn’t want to make a scene. He gave a plate to Lenny. In short order, he was handed another plate.

He wound up on one of the couches with Poor Lenny smashed against his left arm, the two of them squeezed together by fat men on either side. More of the men had gathered around, talking Gino up, asking him all about himself. There was more booze, more food. Despite his annoyance at how they were ignoring Lenny, he found himself flattered at the attention. He could feel his body start to relax, sinking deeper into the couch.

Lenny looked like he was about to be sick, or pass out, or both. “I don’t think I can eat no more,” he said, weakly.

A big bull of a man slapped him upside the head. “Eat,” he thundered. A thick hunk of lasagne was plopped onto Lenny’s plate.

“You don’t turn down food from an Italian,” Gino explained. “We take it as an insult.” All the drinking had turned his words into mush, and as far as he could tell, he was barely comprehensible. The club members ate his remark up, though, laughing uproariously.

Still more food. More whiskey. Gino had to keep hitting the men’s room to piss it out. He refused to stop drinking, though. He was proud of his ability to hold his liquor and his food, and he sure as hell didn’t want to lose face in front of his relatives.

On his seventh trip to the men’s room, he realized that he had taken off his pants, although he couldn’t remember doing that. All he knew was that he wasn’t wearing anything beneath the costume. Not even his shoes. He could feel the soft leather caressing his skin. It felt pretty good, actually. He was going to slip the suspenders over his shoulders like he had done the other times, but then he noticed something odd. There apparently was a slit on the crotch he’d never noticed before, because his dick had slipped through it. He wondered how long his junk had been hanging out, and if any of the club members had noticed. His shaft was semi-hard. Mostly with pee. He hoped. He slumped against the wall, pissing for what felt like ages. When he was done, his cock seemed to be even harder than before. It looked bigger and longer, too, which of course was impossible. He told himself he wasn’t sprouting wood for all these fat, hairy fucks. But every time he thought about them now, his shaft would perk up something fierce. Feeling very self-conscious, he tried to stuff it back into the costume. But the slit was too small, and his cock was too thick and too stiff. Maybe it had only been a tear, Gino thought. Maybe his dick wasn’t supposed to go through there after all.

He decided to pull the suspenders down and just get the whole goofy costume off. It occurred to him then that his shirt was gone, too. Absently, he wondered when he had removed his shirt. He thought he could remember having it on just a minute earlier. He pulled at the suspender straps, but they had grown snug, and his hands fumbled with them. Where he pulled, the straps seemed to split and multiply until they criss-crossed one another in a web-like harness. There were a lot of buckles. And sharp metal spikes. He couldn’t recall there being spikes when he’d put it on. They pricked at his palms, breaking the skin. He stood there, palms bleeding, staring with great confusion at his dick. It curved upward into a full-on erection, looking at least twice as long as it was supposed to.

A flabby hand grabbed onto his arm. Uncle Marcello. “Come join the men, my boy. They’re waiting for you.”

“My doodle’s hangin’ out,” he confided, softly. His voice was a deep, gassy belch.

“I can see that,” his uncle replied, with a sly grin. He ran his finger along the underside of Gino’s mammoth boner, then gave the tip a playful squeeze.

Bewildered and terribly self-conscious, Gino started to walk away. He stumbled, almost tumbling over onto his backside. His legs didn’t want to work properly. It felt like he was walking on his toes, and he couldn’t get his heels to touch the floor. His calves ached.

Staggering awkwardly, he allowed his uncle to lead him back to his couch. The other men cheered when they spotted him. Lenny was nowhere to be found. When Gino asked after him, Uncle Marcello answered, “Don’t worry about your friend. Paulie is taking care of him.”

Gino wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, not after how his uncle had just touched him. But he was mostly relieved that someone had taken Lenny off his hands for a little while. He tried to say “Thanks” but the word emerged from his throat as a shapeless, reverberating grunt. Wondering at this, he collapsed onto the couch.

Immediately, the fat men were all over him. Gino tried to wriggle out of their collective grasp, but a euphoric sleepiness had overtaken him, and he could barely move. His objections came out as chuffing, snorting noises, all useless.

Numerous hands stroked his muscular arms, and slipped beneath the spiked harness to caress his chest hair and to flick at his hardening nipples. An ottoman was brought over to prop up his legs. With that, more fat men kneeled down before him, rubbing their hands and faces on the furry mascot pants. There were kisses and teasing bites. His cock rapidly stretched outward and upward, becoming thirty inches long, easily, and as big around as a Mason jar. He could feel his testicles swelling up, pushing their way through the animal skin and somehow merging with it, plopping down onto the leather couch. His nut sack was as large and as heavy as a bowling ball, and was coated in a thick fur that the fat men ran their greedy hands through.

He told himself that he was tripping. It was the only way it made sense. This gang of closet-case motherfuckers had spiked his drink, and now they were having their way with him. He was furious. And yet… there was another voice in his mind, a grunting, snorting voice, telling him that it was alright. That this was how he was meant to be. He forced himself to ignore it.

The fat men worshipped his massive pole, which by now was leaking precum on all sides. Several of the fat men worked vigorously to jack him off. His cock refused to orgasm, though, defiantly growing even longer.

Drowsily, Gino gazed down at the harness, which had somehow detached from the rest of the costume. Then he saw that the pants had tightly attached themselves to his chunky, muscular legs, making his skin look like it was truly sprouting curly white fur. As the fat men continued to massage his legs, his legs grew larger and even more powerful, shifting from their human form into something animalistic. The fat men pressed and kneaded them, helping them along, forcing them into their new shapes. They were becoming goat legs, clearly, but ones that rivaled a Clydesdale’s for size. A twitching sensation on his backside told him that the stuffed costume tail had connected itself to his body and become real. The animal voice in his head grew louder, speaking words of comfort. Gino tried to hold onto his fear and his anger, but it was getting hard to even hear his own thoughts.

He could feel a thick mustache rubbing against his armpit. Cousin Paulie, although he hadn’t noticed him at first among the dozens of other fat, hairy fuckers. “I’m sorry we had to trick you,” Paulie said. “But it’s not so bad, is it?”

Reflecting ruefully on how he’d wound up in this place, Gino wasn’t sure he could agree.

He searched for Lenny in the crowd of fatties. Supposedly Paulie had taken charge of him. Sure enough, there was the kid, his eyes glazed, propped up in a corner. So he wasn’t really “taken care of.” More like “moved out of the way.”

His head lolled, his chin bumping against his chest. The white fur, once matted and oily and smelling of death, now looked fluffy and clean. The warm air wafted their odor to him, through the haze of smoke and food smells. The scent was one of a healthy beast, carrying notes of fresh grasses and wildflowers.

The animal skin had joined his flesh at his waistline, but now it was spreading upward like an infection, transforming the dense black hairs of his treasure trail and the broad mat of raven curls on his chest into a dense white pelt, shot through with silver in the center. A lighter coat of shorter, finer hairs filled out the bare spaces on his skin. As the fur spread out over his torso, his small gut inflated into a firm kettle of bouncing, hairy flab. Then his chest plumped up. Not into man-boobs, but the fat-covered muscles of a power lifter. His areolae tripled in size and sported nipples as large as his thumbs. Two of the fat men pounced on these and started to suck and bite at them with all their might.

His shoulders broadened, acquiring the same silver-white shaggy fur as his chest, and then the changes spread down his arms. Already muscular, they beefed up even further until he could rival any contestant in a “World’s Strongest Man” competition. The short white hairs on his biceps joined a denser silver growth on his forearms and the backs of his hands. His fingers grew fat, making them look stubby, while his nails thickened and darkened into a dull gray.

It was nightmarish, and yet the mob of fat men were giving him more pleasure than he’d ever felt in his life. The voice in his brain told him he could feel like this all the time. All he had to do was give up everything else. His friends, his family, his old life. All he had to do was surrender.

He grit his teeth, trying to push the voice out of his mind with sheer force of will. But he’d never had much willpower. He could sense the changes creeping up his neck. The itching as his bare skin became coated with the shorter hairs, as his trendy haircut erupted into long, shaggy fur that hung down past his shoulders. Fat men were standing behind him, stroking his ears, smoothing them down, pulling at them, helping them transform into the large, floppy ears of a goat. He could see his beard explode into a great silver-white mass, a foot long at least. Oddly, he still didn’t seem to have a mustache. A fat man who rubbed at Gino’s upper lip showed him that it bore only the short hairs, and a cleft had appeared in the middle of it.

His uncle had watched all of this, puffing contentedly on a huge calabash pipe while systematically taking off every bit of clothing he had on. Now, pipe dangling from his mouth, he pushed through the crowd of worshippers. Standing for a moment and appraising Gino silently, he handed his pipe to another member. And then he kneeled.

Gino could hear Marcello speaking to him, although it was hard to concentrate through the waves of pleasure that rolled through his titanic, freakish new body.

“I wish I could say I was sorry for this, my boy,” he said. “But I can’t be. We needed this. You don’t understand yet, but you’re saving us. Like my grandfather Pietro, you are becoming the living embodiment of Inuus, the shepherd god. The god of sexual pleasure.”

Inuus. The word on the front of the building.

“Inuus,” the other fat men murmured. “Silvanus. Faunus.”

“Pietro brought Inuus to this place from the old country,” Pietro continued. “He gave Inuus a home, and worshippers, and finally his own body. And in return, Inuus turned fortune in our favor, making the town prosper. When Pietro passed on, years ago, we did as he instructed. We partook of his flesh, flayed his skin, and created the vestments, the ones you put on tonight. We have worn the vestments, each of us in our turn, but Inuus refused to find purchase in any of us. And our luck started to run out, as we grew thinner. Although we tried our best to cling to the old ways. To our old shapes.” He patted his tummy.

Gino’s mind swam. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But the sensations were so sharp, not like the way he’d felt before when he was drunk. His vision was crystalline, not clouded. And the voice in his mind told him it was all happening. And worse, that he wanted it to happen. He tried to speak. Once more, it came out as a ragged bark.

“You have the voice of Inuus now, my boy,” Marcello told him. “Give in to it. Use it.”

He took a deep breath and tried again. The voice was strange. A vibrating bass-baritone, his words slow and heavily accented in a way he’d never heard before.

“You can’t… do this,” he growled. “My family up north, they… they…!”

“They’re done with you, Gino,” his uncle said, sadly. “You’re twenty-six and you’ve done nothing with your life. You can’t even take care of yourself. You can’t keep mooching off of them. You’re hurting them, don’t you see? Especially your mother. Don’t worry about them. They know about all of this.”

One of the fat men raised Gino’s left arm and rested his palm on something hard and ridged. He ran his hand along it. It was a horn, sprouting from his left temple. Another man did the same with his right arm. Another horn, growing from his right temple. He could feel them pushing through his flesh. No pain, just pressure. They curled, rubbing against his hands, until finally he could see the tips move into his peripheral vision. They were ram’s horns, huge and spiraling.

Strength was slowly returning to Gino’s body. He shook the fat men’s hands away and pointed to his monstrous form. “This? You’re… telling me… they know about this?”

“All they know is that I promised to take you off their hands, and that they probably wouldn’t see you again. Trust me, they have no problem with that.”

A frigid sensation of anger and self-hatred penetrated through the pleasurable haze. His uncle was staring at him, unblinking. He had joked with his family about the creepy intensity of his uncle’s gaze, but now he could see it for what it was: the hard, unrelenting glare of a religious fanatic.

“We’re your family now, Gino,” Marcello intoned. “You were meant for this. You lived your whole life for pleasure. That’s why Inuus chose you. Give in. Surrender. You can be a king here. You’ll live here, in this hall. Your hall. There will always be a man to attend to you, to pleasure you. And you’ll live a good, long time. Give in. Surrender.”

Reluctantly, Gino had to admit his uncle was right. Pleasure had ruled his life. He could remember the time his mom caught him rubbing himself on the carpet in his room at age thirteen, back when he didn’t even knew how to masturbate properly. He’d started drinking at fourteen and smoking pot at sixteen. He’d always been a party animal. It had gotten him kicked out of the house his senior year, after one of his sprees, when he’d crashed his mom’s car and they’d had that big fight. He worked now to get money for beer and pot, but he never had any future plans and he was never good at managing money. He lived from party to party. He had no delusions. Pleasuring himself was all he was good at.

“Give in, surrender,” the fat men grunted, swarming over him in an adoring mass. “Inuus. Silvanus. Faunus.”

His cock had topped out at a curving three feet in length, and quivered with imminent release. It would gush like a geyser when he finally came. The voice in his head, his own voice now, joined with the voices of his worshippers. And then it emerged from his throat. “I give in,” he said, sounding not defeated, but triumphant. “I surrender. I am Inuus. I am Silvanus. I am Faunus.”

The cum exploded from his giant shaft, splashing onto everything, everyone. The fat men scrambled to gobble it up. They rubbed it into their skin, their beards. They threw themselves at his cock, lapping at it. The lone still figure in this chaos was his uncle, who continued to stare at him as he stretched out his cupped hands, letting the hot liquid fill them. And then, still staring, he drank.

Gino watched in awe as his uncle’s body fattened up. No longer drooping, the flabby gut and pendulously fleshy arms grew plump. The hair on his body thickened, with his legs especially looking like they were covered in fur. Even his beard grew, stretching downward until it rested against his massively round belly.

Around him, the other men were changing in similar ways, their jiggling flab bulging outward, growing firm. Beards exploded in size. Mustaches and sideburns doubled in length, while those with clean-shaven cheeks or chins found bushy beard growth there.

Once transformed, the men began to pleasure one another, flopping playfully in the pools of sticky cum that coated the floor. They fondled one another, mounted one another, stuffed food into their mouths and their partners’. Cigar smoke was shotgunned down throats. Hot pipes were pressed against nipples and slipped into eager holes. Gino chuckled to himself. “I did this,” he thought, proudly. His cock, having shot its load, rested between his goat legs, although it did not decrease in length.

He saw his uncle close his eyes at last. Silently, the old man stroked himself off, chanting and muttering in a religious ecstasy.

As the fat men fucked and sucked and thumped their massive bodies against one another, Gino’s spilled cum became effervescent, floating upward, off of the floor, off of the naked bodies, changing into steaming clouds that quickly disappeared into nothingness. But Gino could feel a churning in his balls, and his monstrous shaft was already starting to rise.

New Orleans was nothing more than a daydream, now. He knew he would never leave this town. Maybe he’d never leave the hall. But he didn’t need to. But Lenny, Poor Lenny, what to do with him? It was a silly question to ask himself, of course. He knew exactly what to do with him.

Majestically, he swung a mighty, shaggy arm in Lenny’s direction. “Bring him to me,” he thundered.

Lenny awoke from his stupor when two of Gino’s followers grabbed him and roughly dragged him forward. When he saw the rampant man-beast that used to be his friend, he started to scream. Gino wondered if his friend knew what he was in for when a third worshipper tore his clothes off his spindly little body. Probably.

Ignoring Lenny’s terrified pleas, just as they had ignored everything else that had come from Lenny’s mouth that night, the fat men hoisted the kid up and positioned his ass over the tip of Gino’s grotesque member. Lenny’s flesh began to change as soon as Gino’s dripping cock touched it, his hole slackening up and growing flexible enough to accept him, his ass cheeks inflating and growing a thick coat of hair, his entire body expanding. Getting taller, fatter, and as hairy as the rest of them.

Gino could feel his shaft pushing everything inside of Lenny out of the way as he violated him. He could feel the slimy ropes of his intestines, the soft, billowing lung tissue, the tough muscle of his heart. Lenny’s peach fuzz grew denser, longer, changing into a thick beard, with a mustache that hung over his lower lip. His screams had turned into cries of pleasure. The kid was getting his cherry popped after all.

With his back still resting comfortably against the sofa, Gino pressed his hooves into the floor and thrust slowly, rhythmically, with his shaggy hips and thighs. He could feel his tail waggling happily every time his ass lifted off the cushions. He took his time. Lenny, the useless little pest, deserved a thorough fucking. And he was just the beast to give it to him.

A worshipper proffered a glass of wine as Gino worked away at his friend. Gino took the whole bottle, emptying it in one swallow. There was another bottle of wine, and then a bottle of top-notch whiskey, smooth as a player’s pick-up line. Gino continued to thrust as his followers fed him sausage manicotti and slices of timpano.

Then his uncle presented him with a black, rough-hewn pipe, larger than any he’d seen before. He accepted it reluctantly, but as soon as he found the rhythm of it, puffing in time with the fucking, he was hooked. There was something immensely satisfying about it. Something about the rich flavor, the warmth, the sight of the creamy smoke as it spiraled from his mouth and his nostrils. The way it gathered in sweet-smelling clouds about his large, horned head and settled into his silver-white beard. It made the fucking so much better. Better than he could have dreamed.

Gino roared as he shot his load through Lenny’s body. The cum exited through the kid’s throat in a fountain, washing over him, making him even bigger, turning the new hairs on his legs into shaggy fur, causing his feet to darken and curl up into themselves, transforming into hooves. His short beard burst outward into a mass of untamed curls. His hairline receded as short, blunt-tipped horns emerged from his forehead. His ears followed suit, growing into long goat’s ears, covered in velvety dirty-blonde fur. Lenny would have to stay in the hall with him, now. He’d have no choice. Gino decided that the kid could be his servant. Or better yet, his slave. He was already picturing the harness he’d make him wear.

Gino looked approvingly around the hall, at his worshippers giving themselves over to pure pleasure, honoring him. This was where he was always going to wind up. This was his home. His temple. He knew that now.

Gino’s mind wandered to the other men of the town. They all needed to receive his blessing, like Lenny had. And once he had converted them, he and his worshippers would move outward, to other towns, to the coast.

Some day, he would make it to New Orleans.

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