published December 4, 2016
Pretty boy Dean learns it doesn’t always pay to buy off-brand hair care products.
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Dean squeezed his way around another shopper in the cramped aisles of the tiny neighborhood market and hurried up to the counter. He cringed when he saw that Mr. Lallemand himself was working the register that day. It wasn’t that Mr. Lallemand was a bad guy; he was just awkward as hell to deal with. The bulky French-Canadian fucker was apparently a big rugby fan. It was the only subject he was comfortable talking about. He probably never considered that nobody in Dean’s little New Mexico college town knew the first thing about rugby. If Mr. Lallemand couldn’t talk about rugby, he reverted to a disinterested “Dragnet” style of conversation. Just one bland, joyless question after another. With his shaggy, balding dirty-blonde hair, perpetual three-day stubble, hairy hands, and the tan three-piece suits he insisted on wearing in all sorts of weather, he was less like a man and more like a smallish haystack, but even less interesting. He was a close talker, too, and his breath always smelled of cabbage for some reason. Still, Dean figured if anybody could explain the conditioner to him, it was the owner of Lallemand’s Superette.
Mr. Lallemand seized the gray plastic bottle in a furry paw as soon as Dean plunked it on the counter. He turned it over a couple of times, sagely stroked a much-too-large sideburn, and grunted. Finally, he slammed the bottle down and sighed, “Did you see a price on this?”
Dean shrugged. “Sorry, no. It was on your shelves with the other hair products. It was the only one like it there. It says it’s a ‘dual-action conditioner.’ Whatever that means. But there’s no brand name or price sticker or even a UPC code. Listen, I got no problem buying generics, but first I need to know how much it costs.”
“Perhaps it is in my book,” Mr. Lallemand said. "A moment, please.” He hauled a hefty three-ring binder out from beneath the register and started to thumb through it while making another typically painful attempt at conversation. “You, ah, you still have that roommate, no? The one who works at the gym? Bill, I think?”
“Close. His name is ‘Gil.’”
Mr. Lallemand nodded absently. He had stopped on a page and was running an ape-like finger down several lines of hand-written text. A quick glance at Dean, just then. “And you are still in that apartment on Chaparral Street? The one over the laundromat?”
Mr. Lallemand clicked his tongue. “A pity. I have seen it. So very small.” He abruptly closed the binder and turned to face Dean. “It is not in my book. A mistake from my supplier, perhaps. I can, however, still sell it to you, using an all-purpose stock number I keep for such situations. I input the price manually. Will two dollars be acceptable?”
It was. A few minutes later, Dean was back on his bicycle, weaving through traffic, rushing to get home. He felt damned lucky; Lallemand’s normally didn’t even carry conditioner among its limited array of personal care products, and he didn’t have time to shop at a real store. Research for his Master’s thesis had taken up most of the day, and he was due to meet his girlfriend at the Student Union in the next hour. He ran the water in the shower and waited a minute for it to warm up. Meanwhile, he appraised his slim, hairless body in the mirror. He had shaved that morning and there was still no sign of stubble on his face, so he could skip that part of his routine. His pale blonde hair looked pretty amazing now that he had grown it out, but he had to admit the added length made it a pain to care for. He studied the bottle of conditioner once more. It was shaped like a typical conditioner bottle, with a cap as wide as the rest of it, and a flat, hinged lid. Not much in the way of text, though. Not even an explanation of what made it “dual-action.” He popped the lid open and discovered the plastic underneath was split into two colors, silver and black, each side with its own small opening. So it was probably a shampoo and conditioner in one, with a gimmicky delivery system like that three-color toothpaste he used to buy. That was fine by him. If it would save him time, he would forego his regular shampoo that evening and just use the new stuff. He popped the lid back down. The ghost of a scent lingered in the air. Something like tanned leather.
Once in the shower, he quickly lathered up. Then he moved on to the conditioner. When he opened the lid again, the smell hit him in full force. He wondered if it was the hot, steamy air, making it so pungent. There was the definite leathery odor it had only hinted at before, along with a strong, earthy scent that suggested tobacco, and a peculiar tang like oiled metal. Flipping the bottle over and giving it a squeeze, he was disappointed to see the product coming only out of the black side. The conditioner itself was black, and quite creamy. It made his skin tingle where it touched it. Methodically, he worked it into his long, blonde locks, and left it there while he lathered up the rest of his body, so it would have time to work. The pleasant tingle was very strong at his scalp. Then it began to travel down the sides of his head and onto his shoulders. And from there, down the rest of his body.
Dean would have been alarmed, but it was a strangely energizing sensation. Almost erotic, he had to admit. He could feel his muscles warming up, the way they did when applied that balm to ease their cramping after a long bike ride. His nerves were awakened, electrified. He wondered, half-seriously, if the conditioner contained caffeine. He bounced on his heels and stretched his arms, feeling more confident and powerful than he ever had before. And horny. His prick awoke and stretched upward, looking somehow larger than ever. He chuckled at himself. The sound of it was oddly thick and muffled. There was a strange taste in his mouth, which he could feel filling up with phlegm. Clearing his throat, he hocked into the drain. The gob of phlegm was solid black, like the conditioner. A wad of something like corn silk smacked down on top of it. It took Dean a moment to realize it was his own hair. Panicked, his ran his hand through his hair and felt the rest of it come loose from his scalp. He crouched down and scrabbled at the heap of hair at his feet, clutching as much of it as he could. The hot water washed it back out of his trembling hands.
He was afraid, but the fear was nebulous and rapidly diminishing, pushed down by a stronger emotion: anger. His heart beat faster and faster, and he could hear himself start to hyperventilate, loudly, like a bull. He swore (something he hardly ever did) and heard the words come out not in his familiar SoCal tenor voice, but in something more akin to a gurgling redneck baritone. His throat ached, and his muscles did, too. He watched in amazement as his body inflated, gaining a good hundred pounds or more in muscle, his pale skin disappearing beneath a dense carpeting of curly black hair. His cock continued to stretch and grow, bulking up to over a foot in length and thickening up until it was as fat as a soda can. His balls, likewise, were now bigger than oranges and they hung down to the middle of his thighs. The floor of the shower was getting further away, and he realized he was getting taller, his heavily muscled arms and legs stretching outward until he was easily six-foot-eight. In disbelief, he rubbed his temples. He found new hair growing there, coarser than before but not nearly as long, stopping at a mere quarter-inch. His hairline now started several inches higher than it did before, and it dipped back severely at the temples. His fingers, now as big around as sausages, explored his face, finding a beetling brow with bushy eyebrows, and sandpapery stubble on his cheeks, not to mention a massive goatee. The clogged drain caused the water to pool up around his feet, which now looked more like a gorilla’s than a man’s. His breathing was ragged. It was oddly visible, too, puffing from his mouth is little clouds, as though he was standing inside a freezer. He could smell it. It was smoke. All on its own. Cigar smoke.
He tried to think of a solution to all this, of a way to get back to normal. But it was getting harder to think. All of his knowledge, all of his memories were being crowded out of his mind, leaving just rage, and lust, and an overarching desire to dominate. He wanted, no, needed to force himself on another person, to be on top of them, to force his monstrous phallus into their body. The image of a girl flitted at the edge of his imagination. He dismissed the notion right away. It had to be a man. It was the only way he could prove he was the best. And it had to be a powerful man. There was a good candidate, he realized. The bulky, blonde man in the suit. He would find the man, and tear that ugly suit from his thick, hairy body, and have his way with him.
The apartment door creaked open and slammed shut again. Someone else was there. He shut off the water and waited. Without thinking, his great hands balled up into fists. Footsteps outside, coming closer. And then a voice. A man’s voice.
“Dean, that you?” The man was calling to someone. “Dean.” He had no idea who that was.
The strange man rapped at the door and called out again. “Listen, bro, I gotta shit real bad, so brace yourself, I’m coming in.”
Through the opaque shower curtain, he could barely make out a figure coming near. When the man was close enough, he lunged from the shower and wrestled him to the floor. It was a young man. Fit. Strong. But not as strong as he was. He got his opponent in a headlock and punched him in the face, repeatedly. By now, the young man was mewling in distress, so he stoppered his bleeding mouth with a washcloth. He could see fear in the young man’s eyes. Good.
He was so fucking horny, and he knew somehow he had to satisfy himself with the young man. He tried to explain what he was going to do, but the words emerged as an inarticulate roar and a burst of spicy white smoke. More smoke pumped from his flared nostrils in powerful jets as he ripped the young man’s flimsy clothes from his powerful body. The young man struggled wildly, but a karate chop to the neck put an end to it.
In his fog of desire, the larger man somehow knew exactly what he had to do. Roughly, he hauled the young man over to the tub and squeezed the bottle of conditioner over his head.
This time, nothing came from the hole on the black side. Instead, a viscous, glittery gray liquid oozed out from the silver side, soaking into the young man’s spiky thatch of golden-brown hair.
He rubbed the conditioner over the young man’s head with a massive, furry hand. He even pulled the washcloth out of his mouth so he could feed a dab of it to him with his thumb. The young man shivered and cried out, his moan changing from fearful to ecstatic in a single breath. Then, the young man began to suck on his finger, grunting pleasurably. He had stopped struggling by now and allowed his better to cradle him and rub more of the metallic conditioner into his skin.
The larger man marveled as the young man’s body simultaneously shrank down in height, and piled up with layers of fat. His flat stomach bulged out in a generous belly. With immense satisfaction, the larger man observed the fine white hairs wriggling up from the young man’s skin, developing rapidly into an alabaster pelt. The golden-brown hairs at his scalp dropped away, as the hair on the sides turned as white as the rest. The smaller man’s immaculately trimmed eyebrows exploded into thatches of shaggy gray fur that grew together over the bridge of his nose. His taut, tanned skin turned pale and wrinkled, adding creases to the corners of his eyes and a dangling wattle at his throat. Fine, pale hairs materialized on his upper lip, rapidly growing into a massive, drooping cowboy ‘stache with yellowish streaks at the sides. With a tinny, clanking sound, a metal stud popped into place in his right eyebrow. Another appeared in his left eyebrow. These were followed by sizable gauges in his earlobes, a thuggish pig ring in his septum, smaller rings in his fat, meaty tits, and a Prince Albert at the tip of his now-stumpy cock. The smaller man’s abbreviated prick was at full attention, evidently aching as hard as his master’s.
The larger man leaned over his charge and lovingly breathed his cigar smoke breath into his face. The smaller man gasped, sucking in as much as he was able, and then licked at his mustache with a tongue that was pierced like the rest of him. He coughed, then, as a wisp of smoke curled upward from his own nose. The larger man was proud to see his submissive partner breathing smoke, just like his daddy did. Only the sub’s smoke wasn’t boldly-scented cigar smoke. It was sweeter, more nuanced. Pipe smoke.
The two men commenced to play with each other’s bodies, stroking and slapping and sucking, the larger one even roughly mounting the other, over and over, but their erections refused to diminish. Neither one could ejaculate, though, or even produce precum. Finally exhausted, they sat in a spooning position on the bathroom floor, the daddy with his mammoth arms wrapped around his aging boy. The smoky haze of their own breath filled the little room. Occasionally one would try to say something, anything, to comfort his partner. But the larger one found himself only able to communicate in angry, lustful growls; the smaller one in soft moans of pleasure.
From where he sat, the daddy could see through the open bathroom door into the living room. As he watched, the knob of the front door vibrated, grew blurry and evaporated into a fine mist. The door swung open.
A husky figure in a tan three-piece suit entered. The man carried an enormous black leather case in one hand and a plain canvas shopping bag in the other. With the washed-out hair that blended with his middling skin tone, he gave the impression that his whole body was a bland, noncommittal beige.
The beige man deposited the case and the canvas bag in the living room. Striding nonchalantly into the bathroom, he lifted the sub as though he weighed nothing at all, and carried him into the living room, where he propped him up on a couch. He did the same with the daddy. His broad, scruffy face smiling benignly, he doffed his tan suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
For the first time, the larger man could see the tattoos that covered the beige man’s plump, hairy forearms. On one arm, there was a five-pointed star in a circle, and a figure sitting cross-legged. It had the head of a goat, and great, feathered wings. A torch hovered over its head, and it was surrounded by crescent moons. On the other arm, there was a horned skeleton brandishing a scythe and an hourglass. The remaining skin on both arms was inscribed with smaller creatures, scrolls covered in peculiar letters emanating from their gaping mouths.
From the case, the beige man withdrew a set of gallon-sized glass jugs with finger handles, and two glass vials whose bottoms terminated in long rubber tubes. Slipping the vials over the larger and smaller men’s cocks, he snaked the tubes into two of the glass jugs. Strange golden symbols blazed into existence on the surface of the vials. Immediately, ecstasy grabbed the daddy by the balls, and he felt his titanic member at last shoot its load. The cum was black. Rapidly, it filled the glass jug. The beige man pinched off the rubber tube and inserted it into a fresh jug. Through half-closed eyes, the larger man saw his much older sub spurting silver cum into his own jug.
The larger man’s orgasm was all-encompassing, ultimately overwhelming nearly all his other senses. His neck arched backwards, and although he could not hear his own scream, he was aware his mouth had stretched open wide and was vomiting hot cigar smoke into the cool apartment air. One last surge of cum, and his powerful body collapsed into the upholstery. He was suddenly very tired.
Through bleary, watery eyes, he saw that the beige man had corked the bottles and was melting black sealing wax over them with a gold-plated lighter. As he loaded the jars back into his case, he caught the larger man’s quizzical gaze. The daddy tried to speak. Now that he wasn’t consumed with lust, he found he could form words again, although he sounded like an uneducated bumpkin. “What you do this to me for…?” he gulped, gesturing broadly to himself. “What in tarnation is all this, anyhow?” Smoke continued to drift from his furry mouth, but he forced himself to ignore it.
His voice affectless in its calm, the beige man replied, “You chose the potion, and it chose you. As for what I do with these liquids, it is none of your concern. However, I will say the two of you have done quite well. By way of payment, I leave you with these items.” From the canvas shopping bag, he withdrew an expensive-looking humidor, flipping the lid open to reveal a multitude of fat cigars. He placed it on the coffee table in front of them, and then he did the same thing with a large jar of tobacco and a circular wooden rack that held several briar pipes. “You will need these to avoid drawing attention to your smoke, which will forevermore come from your lungs. And you must always remember you will never again be able to ejaculate unless I say so. You know how to contact me. Farewell, gentlemen.” His gaze darted about the living room for a few moments. Shaking his head, he made a little clucking sound. “Such a small apartment.”
With that, the beige man took his case and bag, and slipped out the door, leaving the naked young daddy bear and his aged cub sitting in the wreckage of their former lives.