Chapter Text
The locker room was draped in post-P.E. frenzy, reeking with a mix of cheap body spray, pine-scented floor cleaner, and the musk of two dozen overheated teenagers.
Steam billowed from the communal showers in heavy clouds, slicking the tiled walls with a layer of condensation. The heavy air boomed with grunts, shouted insults, and the kind of lewd commentary that only erupts when a bunch of horny, ego-driven boys are packed into a confined space.
It wasn’t just a place to scrub off the day’s grime; it was a humid, testosterone-drenched arena, a proving ground where high schoolers jockeyed for social dominance and fleeting attention.
Sharp cracks of soggy towels snapping against bare flesh cut through the racket, each hit met with a harsh yelp and a burst of cruel laughter as angry red welts bloomed on thighs and exposed asses. Over by the fogged-up mirrors, boys preened and postured with a desperate intensity, flexing half-formed muscles for a crowd of equally insecure judges.
“Bro, check this pump!” one meathead shouted, slapping his own pec for emphasis. His buddies nodded in awe, as if beholding a marble statue instead of a pimply, unremarkable torso.
In the heart of this half-naked anarchy, Sanjay slipped out of the shower haze like a ghost, trying to minimize his presence. His frame was a sharp, delicate contrast to the meatheads around him — narrow shoulders and deep-olive skin that shimmered under the harsh fluorescent lights. Droplets of water clung to the thick, jet-black hair at the nape of his neck and the wet clumps sticking to his forehead. His crooked glasses were smeared with steam, sliding down a nose that was a little too prominent for a face caught in puberty’s awkward final throes, making him look perpetually startled.
He clutched a threadbare, faded blue towel around his narrow hips with both shaky hands, his dark eyes glued to the cracked floor tiles as if they were a map to safety. To Sanjay, those chipped squares were an escape route through this gladiator shitshow. If he could just keep his head down and trace the right path, he might make it to his locker without becoming the day’s punching bag; a pathetic pipe dream, but one he was desperate enough to cling to.
He moved like a skittish fawn stumbling into a lion’s den, bony shoulders hunched, steps light and hesitant, trying to melt into the background of shirtless assholes who slammed locker doors and barked dumbass opinions with way too much confidence.
A feeling of relief surged in his chest as he noticed he was halfway there, his locker just a few rows away, almost thinking he’d make it.
Almost.
“Yo, watch it, nerd!” a voice thundered, cutting through the nearest gaggle of towel-snappers and cackling idiots.
Sanjay flinched so violently he nearly wiped out on the slick floor, a panicked squeak escaping his throat. He squinted through his clouded lenses, but he didn't need clear vision to know who was blocking his path. The sheer heat radiating off the body in front of him told him everything.
Looming over him — easily a foot taller and three times his scrawny width — was Lance: the resident football star, self-anointed king of junior year, and the grinning, golden-haired bane of Sanjay’s existence.
Sixteen yet built like a slab of granite, Lance was engineered from excessive protein shakes, dumb genetic luck, and a truly toxic level of arrogance. He stood there in nothing but a pair of tight grey athletic briefs, the thin fabric clinging to every curve of his thighs and doing absolutely nothing to hide the heavy bulge straining at the front. Water glistened across his pale skin, droplets tracing the hard lines of his abs before pooling in the deep V of his pelvis. His shock of blond hair was slicked back, dripping rivulets down his neck, and he grinned down at Sanjay like a wolf eyeing a trembling, wounded rabbit.
“S-sorry, man,” Sanjay stammered, one hand fumbling to push his crooked glasses up while the other gripped his towel. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Oh, you didn’t see me?” Lance drawled, stepping closer, his voice thick with mock offense. “What, these pecs ain’t big enough for you, four-eyes?”
Lance flexed his chest hard, his pectorals bulging so tight a stray bead of water rolled down the deep groove between them. Sanjay swallowed hard, his eyes involuntarily tracking the drop as it disappeared into the waistband of Lance's briefs. He muttered another shaky, incoherent apology as he tried to slip past, his skinny legs twitching with the urge to flee. But Lance wasn’t about to let his favorite plaything scurry off that easy.
Quick as a striking viper, and with the practiced cruelty of a professional bully, Lance’s hand shot out, his fingers snagging the frayed edge of Sanjay’s towel. With one hard, brutal yank, he ripped the flimsy fabric clean off, leaving the smaller boy buck-ass naked in the middle of the tiled arena.
A long, collective “Oooooh!” ripped through the crowd, a wave of shock and nasty, voyeuristic glee that only a pack of horny, hyped-up teenagers could conjure. Sanjay let out a high-pitched, strangled squeal, his hands diving quickly to cup his junk, desperate to salvage whatever shred of dignity he had left.
“Damn, dude, what the fuck is that? You brought your nut rag to school?” Lance sneered, holding the ragged towel up like a war prize, waving it for his howling cronies to ogle. But his eyes weren’t on the cloth — they were locked on Sanjay’s trembling hands, shielding his crotch like his life depended on it. “Yo, what you hiding down there? Got a micro-dick or what? Let the class see the goods, dweeb.”
“G-give it back, asshole!” Sanjay squeaked, his voice cracking as a surge of humiliated adrenaline made him lunge for the towel.
The room’s laughter only got louder, turning more vicious as they watched the nerdy boy jump and thrash, one gangly arm reaching awkwardly while his bony frame flailed on the wet tiles. Lance, with his infuriating height advantage, held the towel just out of reach, grinning wider with every second of Sanjay’s humiliating, naked freakout.
“Come on, shrimp, jump higher! Earn your dick-curtain back!” Lance taunted, dangling the fabric like he was teasing a dog.
“Fuck off, Lance!” Sanjay snapped, a rare spark of defiance cutting through the panic, his voice shaking but sharp with raw, wounded anger.
The crowd ate it up, hooting and howling. A few assholes at the back started to chant “Show it! Show it! Show it!”, turning Sanjay’s humiliation into their fucked-up prime-time entertainment. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of public torture, Sanjay's trembling fingers managed to snag a damp, frayed corner of the towel. He yanked with everything he had, nearly toppling on the slick floor as he ripped it from Lance’s lazy grip.
He scrambled to wrap the damp cloth around his waist, his hands shaking so violently he could barely secure the knot. The crowd’s roaring laughter faded into snickers and muttered jabs, but Lance just stood there, smug as fuck, a look of bored triumph crossing his handsome, arrogant face. He gave a lazy, dismissive shrug, like he’d just squashed a bug instead of shredding someone’s entire sense of self.
“Whatever. Get lost, dweeb. I’ve seen enough of that sad lil’ twig for one day,” Lance declared, his tone casually brutal, before turning with a conqueror’s swagger toward his locker, his tight briefs flexing with every step.
Sanjay didn’t hesitate. As Lance’s most vicious lapdogs hurled their final insults — “Nice ass, nerd!” and “Don’t drop the soap next time, bitch!” — he bolted, half-running, half-stumbling away from their leering stares. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted a mile, when he finally slammed into his locker at the far end of the room.
He didn’t dare glance back as he yanked the metal door open, fumbling inside for his clothes. He found his boxers, the familiar cotton feeling like the frailest armor as he dragged them on under the towel, though they did nothing to calm the gnawing, acidic shame still churning in his gut.
“Get it together, dumbass, he’s just a prick,” Sanjay hissed to himself, leaning his forehead against the cool metal. “Just a stupid, fucking prick.”
The cracked sidewalk crunched under Sanjay’s sneakers as he dragged himself toward his house, a gritty soundtrack to the day’s fresh hell. His backpack sagged heavily on his hunched shoulders, like a coffin hauling the butchered remains of his dignity home for burial. The late afternoon sun was barely a tease, nowhere near enough to melt the ice-cold humiliation still gripping his chest.
Friday. Thank fuck for small mercies, or whatever sadistic deity was on shift that day. Two days to scrub the locker room disaster from his brain, though he knew it was futile. You don’t "scrub" a memory like that; it stays in the grout of your mind like black mold.
The entire walk was a loop of his own personal humiliation: Lance’s razor-sharp smirk, the violent tug at his towel, the sudden, icy draft on his tawny skin, and the cacophony of hyena-laughter that followed.
“Fuckin’ pathetic,” Sanjay spat, kicking a pebble into the gutter. “Why can’t I just… be something else? Something that’s worth a damn?”
This wasn’t a wish for a few extra inches of height or some gym bulk. This was a craving for gravitational pull. He wanted to be the kind of man who silenced a room by entering it, whose mere glance could choke the smirk off a prick like Lance’s face.
He was still arguing with the ghosts in his head when he rounded the corner onto his street. Shuffling onto the patchy grass of his front yard, his eyes snagged on something that didn’t belong.
There, leaning against the front door, was a small, unassuming box. Just a plain, boring brown cardboard square, small enough to be palmed in one hand. No truck in sight, no delivery notice. It just was.
“The hell…?” Sanjay muttered, his rant screeching to a halt.
He slowed his steps to a cautious creep, squinting through his glasses as a flicker of intrigue cut through his self-loathing.
Packages didn’t just show up out of nowhere, not at his house. His mom was vehemently suspicious of all modern delivery systems, and he hadn’t clicked ‘buy now’ on anything since a disastrous late-night anime figurine purchase months ago.
He tilted his head, eyeing the box from a safe as if it might sprout legs and lunge for his throat. Crouching down, he narrowed his eyes at the label. The shipping address was crystal clear, printed in a bold font that didn't leave room for error:
SANJAY D. KOHLI
124 ELMWOOD LANE
His pulse did a weird little skip. The sender info, however, was a total void: just a random postal code and a single, stark logo featuring a winking cartoon horse. Not some majestic, knightly stallion, but a cheeky, almost pervy little equid, one eye shut in a knowing, taunting wink.
“This can’t be right,” Sanjay announced to the empty porch, straightening up too fast. “Probably some… shipping error or something.”
He scratched at the back of his neck, paranoia setting in. His gaze darted to the overgrown bushes flanking the porch, half-convinced he could see the glint of a phone lens, that Lance and his squad were crouched there, ready to film his next viral humiliation. Was this the encore to today’s debacle? A glitter bomb? A box of literal dog shit? A swarm of angry hornets?
“Nah, screw that,” he grumbled, taking a half-step back, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. “I’m not playing this game. Just leave it here, pretend I never saw it.”
But the curiosity wasn’t just nudging him now — it was digging its claws into his brain. It was a relentless, itchy pull. The sheer, maddening ambiguity of what lay inside turned into a physical need. Simply walking away felt like another defeat, like letting this box — and whatever twisted cosmic prankster sent it — claim one more victory over his shattered psyche.
With a sharp, pissed-off huff, Sanjay snatched the thing up. He shook it at arm's length, bracing for a bang or a hiss. As he mercifully heard nothing, he unlocked the door and barged inside.
His mom was at her second-shift job, leaving the entire house feeling like a silent tomb. He stomped upstairs to his bedroom — a shrine to escapism littered with comics, tangled computer cords, and half-built model kits - and tossed the box onto his cluttered desk.
“Alright, you sneaky little bastard,” he muttered, glaring at the winking horse. “Let’s see what kinda bullshit you’ve got for me.”
He grabbed a pair of scissors from his desk drawer, the cold metal biting into his sweaty palm. His hands were vibrating as he stabbed the tip into the seam of the packing tape, slicing through with a rough tear.
Nestled in a bed of crinkly black tissue paper was a sleek, matte-black cylinder, about the size and weight of a jumbo marker. Stamped across it in aggressive, embossed red letters was a name that made him do a double-take:
STALLION SURGE ENHANCEMENT COMPLEX
Besides the name, the same sleazy cartoon horse appeared, now sneering with an almost obscene level of confidence. And under that, in promise-heavy cursive: “Unlock Unstoppable Potency and Untamed Virility! One Dose, Permanent Awakening!”
“Okay... Now that's really weird,” Sanjay blinked hard, pushing his glasses up as his jaw dropped.
He turned the cylinder over in his hands, inspecting every angle, hunting for a lid, a latch, anything. Finally, he gripped both ends and twisted hard. With a sharp click that echoed in the quiet room, the top half popped free. Unscrewing it fully, his palms now slick with nervous sweat, he peered inside, half-expecting a spring-loaded middle finger to pop out.
There sat a single capsule. It was nearly two inches long and as thick as his thumb — a glossy, translucent crimson, looking like a polished ruby or some forbidden, bio-hazardous candy.
“This is so stupid,” he grumbled, though his hand was already reaching for it. “I should flush this crap down the toilet right now.”
But the bruised, enraged part of him — the part still stinging from Lance’s “sad lil’ twig” jab, the part that could still feel the phantom eyes of the locker room on his naked, shivering frame — snarled back. It was a devil on his shoulder with a very compelling, very unhinged argument.
What if it’s real? What if the universe finally tossed you a bone? What if this makes you into something they can’t fucking ignore?
“If this works… no, don’t be a goddamn moron,” Sanjay rasped, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna poison yourself with mail-order trash from a horny horse.”
The rational part of his brain was screaming. It knew this was dangerous and very likely illegal. But logic was a paper shield melting under the heat of his resentment. In its place was a vivid, intoxicating daydream: walking into school on Monday, transformed. Not just a little bigger, but different. A threat.
Temptation and spite wrestled with his last shreds of common sense, the fantasy too sweet for a kid stewing in his own helplessness. The need to shed the skin of “Sanjay, Perpetual Loser”, clawed its way to the surface. He was bone-tired of being a human punchline, the walking target, and just once, he wanted to be reckless and flip the bird at "playing it safe".
“Screw it, I gotta know. I’m tired of being nothing.” he barked to the empty room, voice cracking with a brittle edge. “I’m done with Lance. If there’s even a one-percent chance this does what it says… don’t I deserve a miracle?"
He snatched the folded instruction sheet from the bottom of the box. The text was dense with pseudo-medical jargon: “Androgenic Overdrive,” “Systemic Virility Amplification,” and “Gonadal Hypermaturation.” It sounded less like a supplement and more like a firmware update for his balls. He barely skimmed the warnings before balling the paper up and chucking it over his shoulder.
“Fuck it,” he snarled, grabbing the capsule again, its surface weirdly warm against his skin. “Let’s see what hell tastes like.”
Tilting his head back, eyes squeezed shut like he was bracing for a firing squad, he popped the monstrous thing onto his tongue. It was huge, bitter as burnt plastic and copper, and he gagged violently, forcing it down with a painful, dry swallow that felt like passing a jagged stone.
He stood there, rigid in the center of his messy room, waiting for instant disaster. He expected convulsions. He expected his veins to light up like neon strips. He expected his bones to crack and reform into something monstrous.
Ten seconds dragged by. Thirty. A full, anticlimactic minute. Then two.
Nothing.
“Well... Ain’t dead yet,” he muttered, letting out a shaky, deflated laugh. “Probably just a sugar pill. Or some knockoff Viagra. Great, now I’m gonna have a pointless, four-hour boner and a stomach ache.”
Shaking his head at his own monumental stupidity, he screwed the black cylinder shut and shoved it to the back of his desk drawer, buried behind a tangle of old chargers. He slumped onto his bed, feeling… exactly the same: scrawny and invisible. Still, he had a long night ahead, plenty of time for whatever side effects this thing might have in store.
“If this crap does anything at all…” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Lance is going to wish he’d never seen me.”
The silent sanctum of Sanjay’s room could hold the world at bay, but it alone couldn’t expel what was already inside. He lay sprawled for what felt like an hour, marinating in the sour residue of the day's weight, until the silence grew too loud.
Exhaling a shaky breath, he pushed himself up and shuffled toward the bathroom. He’d decided to make this evening extra special for himself, a ritual of purification to reclaim some small piece of his self-worth after that disaster of a school day.
As the tub hissed, filling with near-scalding water, Sanjay peeled off his clothes. The fabric felt almost sticky, as if the humiliation of the day had seeped into the very fibers of his shirt. Before stepping in, a habit of brutal self-assessment locked his eyes to the bathroom mirror.
There he stood, skin flushing a deeper brown with the heat, his hair plastered to his forehead in messy clumps once more, and a smooth chest that was more ribcage than muscle. He looked fragile, a sketch of a boy that hadn't been filled in yet. His gaze, inevitably, traveled downward, seeking the source of today’s deepest wound in his morale.
His dick was… fine. A soft, average tan length resting against his thigh, crowned by a thicket of black curls. It was completely, textbook normal for a teenager his age, a fact he could recite from medical websites. Yet in the hyper-competitive, toxic atmosphere of the locker room, "normal" felt like a failure.
That was the cruelest part of Lance’s “micro-dick” comment — it hadn’t targeted reality, it had weaponized a fiction, turning Sanjay’s standard, functional anatomy into a badge of shame. The lie made the truth feel even more exhausting, a quiet, lingering insult he now leveled at his own reflection.
With a grimace, Sanjay sank into the water, sliding down until his ears submerged. He stared at the water-stained ceiling, counting the rhythmic drip of the faucet until his fingers pruned and the water began to cool. When he finally rose, he didn't just dry off; he buffed his skin with brisk, almost abrasive strokes of the towel, trying to buff away the phantom impressions of those mocking eyes from earlier.
Then he pulled on his prized camo-print gamer onesie — a cherished, oversized relic he’d worn since middle school. The fleece swallowed his lithe frame whole, and as he pulled the full-length zipper from his crotch to his throat, he felt sealed away. The weight of the fabric was a plush, synthetic hug — the first he’d felt all day.
Fortified, he snagged a cold soda from the kitchen and retreated to his room to boot up his rig. The digital spires of Starforge, his go-to online MMO, flickering to life — the one world where he commanded some respect, or at least a fearsome avatar with stats that actually meant something. He slapped on his headset, and the familiar crackle of static and guild chatter flooded in, drowning out the intrusive thoughts of the afternoon.
“Yo, dude! Thought you’d rage-quit after that wipe!” a nasally voice crackled through the comms.
“Just a hell of a day, man,” Sanjay muttered, settling into his chair. “Now let’s grind, I really need it.”
The fizzy drink, the click-clack of the keyboard and the glow of the monitor were a potent balm for Sanjay's bruised ego. He dove into the high-stakes raid, letting the pixelated explosions, the promise of loot, and the tinny banter in his headset build a fortress against the afternoon’s trauma, finally feeling like he was the one holding the power.
Yet, every few minutes his eyes betrayed him, flickering toward the top drawer of his desk as if pulled by a magnet. He shook his head and wrenched his gaze back to the screen, but even then, he could feel the rush of the game fading, as if it was being drowned out by a creeping heat starting to snake through his veins.
He grabbed his soda can for a distraction, the cold aluminum biting into his palm, but the second it touched his lips, the reaction hit its stride.
It began low, a deep, resonant ache blooming behind his pelvic bone. Sanjay squirmed in his gaming chair, the soft fleece of his usually comfortable onesie suddenly feeling coarse, scraping against his skin like sandpaper. He tugged at the collar, panting, his chest tight as the heat coiled tighter.
“Dude, you there? Get the rez!” a voice screamed in his headset, sounding miles away.
Sound seemed to faded into a muffled hum, the raid becoming white noise. Sanjay's awareness collapsed inward, focusing entirely on the transformation orchestrating itself within his body. The ache began to grow, turning into a rhythmic pulse, and the fabric over his lap began to tighten with a sudden, insistent pressure.
Beneath the pixelated camo pattern, a burgeoning, unfamiliar swell was rising with terrifying speed; it wasn't the familiar rush of blood of a common erection, but a tectonic expansion. It felt as if his very cells were being rewritten in real-time, multiplying at an impossible rate as the tissue beneath the fleece densified and thickened.
He was still soft, yet he was growing — expanding into a dimensions he hadn’t known his body could occupy.
“Dude?! You’re just standing in the fire! Move! What the hell is wrong with you?” his guildmate called, but the voice distorted into a shrill buzz.
Sanjay’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His head spun as a searing wave of sensation exploded outward from his groin. The fleece over his lap was straining now, stuffed with a heavy, unfamiliar mass that demanded space. Even his balls seemed to tighten and swell, a new weight settling between his trembling thighs like twin anchors.
"J-Just… bathroom break!" he croaked, his voice barely audible as he ripped off the headset and let it clatter onto the desk.
Sanjay stumbled to his feet, nearly toppling over as his legs wobbled like wet noodles, his center of gravity completely thrown off. Looking down, the sight stole the very air from his lungs: the crotch of his onesie was distended, stretched over a blunt bulge that looked like a weapon sheathed in fleece.
“What in the…” he breathed, eyes wide and pupils blown, unable to process the sheer scale of what the fuck he was seeing.
His hand, trembling violently, rose and hovered over the protrusion. He finally pressed his palm against the heated swell through the fabric, and the contact immediately sent a shockwave of pure pleasure through his nervous system, nearly buckling his knees and forcing another groan from his throat.
It was firm, radiating a feverish heat, and, to his utter shock, he could tell it wasn't even fully erect yet.
His gaze snapped back to the drawer, that damn cylinder burning a hole in his thoughts. Whatever this weird-ass capsule was, it wasn’t a prank or a placebo. It was finally doing something.
With a jerky, paranoid movement, Sanjay shuffled to his bedroom door, his new weight swinging heavily against his inner thighs. He twisted the lock with a sharp click, sealing himself in, then turned to the full-length mirror beside his closet, his heart slamming against his ribs.
“Alright,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave. “Let’s see what the fuck you’ve done to me.”
His fingers, clammy and trembling, gripped the zipper at his collar. He dragged it down slowly at first, revealing his sweaty sternum, then the flat plane of his stomach. When the zipper reached the point of no return, where the tension of the bulge was highest, he stopped, sucking in a shaky breath. Then, with a reckless jerk, he yanked it the rest of the way down.
The onesie peeled open, the tension finally giving way, and Sanjay’s world stopped.
A massive, weighty slab of cockmeat sprang free from the confines of the fleece, bouncing once before smacking against his skinny thigh with a meaty thwack. Even at half-mast, the beast was a jaw-dropping sight — at least nine inches of raw, deep tan flesh. Ropey veins threaded the impressive length like power cables, leading to a flared, ruddy crown, already unfurling free from the heavy mantle of his dark, velvety foreskin.
Below, his once-average balls had morphed into something equally obscene: a heavy, pendulous sac, the skin stretched tight over a pair of throbbing orbs the size of ripe tangerines. They churned with a low hum, like overworked engines already pressurizing a surplus of thick, creamy spunk.
Sanjay gawked, his mouth hanging open in a silent ‘O’. Above the waist, he was still the same narrow-shouldered, nerdy boy from junior year. But below it, he was a now freak of nature, as if someone had grafted the cock of a mythic satyr or a professional porn star onto his awkward, teenage body. A sharp, disbelieving laugh escaped him, tinged with a wild edge of hysteria.
“N-no way… it worked,” he stammered, his gaze darting frantically between his shocked, boyish face and the daunting, hyper-masculine endowment jutting from his hips. “Holy shit, it actually worked!”
He needed proof. Something tangible to convince himself this wasn’t just some twisted fever dream. His gaze darted back to his desk, zeroing on the half-empty soda can sitting beside his keyboard. Stumbling forward, his thighs now chafing against the massive girth now occupying the space between them, he snatched the 12oz can and shuffled back to the mirror.
Holding the can up beside his cock, his heart stuttered. The shaft wasn’t just long; it was thick. It matched the can’s circumference and even surpassed it in places, a column of engorged meat that made the aluminum seem almost flimsy.
Dropping the can to the floor with a hollow clatter, he didn’t hesitate this time. His hand shot down, wrapping around the base of his new, impossible cock. The heat under his palm was searing, and before he could bite it back, a ragged, broken moan clawed its way out of his throat.
He tightened his grip, testing the waters, and saw his fingers couldn’t even fully close around the still-swelling girth; his thumb and forefinger failed to meet around the thick, pulsing trunk.
“Goddamn, I’m a fucking monster,” he rasped, a crooked grin twitching on his lips as he stared into the mirror. “Alright, big guy… let’s see just how huge you can really get.”
Every nerve in his body ignited as he gave his cock another tentative squeeze. He used his thumb to draw his foreskin fully back with a wet, oily friction, revealing the slick, plum-dark head completely, and immediately a fat, glistening bead of precum welled up at his slit. It stretched, trembling, into a glossy thread that painted a slick, shiny trail down the side of his shaft.
A surge of triumph surged through him, incinerating the last remnants of shame or doubt. He caught his reflection again, seeing the wild glint sparking behind the lenses of his glasses. Sure, the humiliated, scrawny kid was still there in his face. But now, he had the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to every insult, every mocking laugh from those musclehead assholes. And it was dangling heavy and proud between his legs, a weapon they could only dream of boasting.
Sanjay dragged his hand up the length in a slow, exploratory stroke, his breath hitching as the shaft hardened into something as unyielding as a steel rod. As he pulled his hand back, his foreskin bunched into a thick tire at the corona before the head popped free with a soft, wet snap. More precum oozed out, coating his palm in a warm, salty sheen. His other hand dropped lower, cupping the weight of his low-hanging balls, feeling the intense internal pressure as they churned with a load so massive he could probably drown someone in it.
“Those pricks in the locker room…” he growled, his voice low and husky. “Bet they’d shut up real quick if they saw this beast.”
The thought of their faces — the shock, the envy, the sudden fear — sliced through the haze of pleasure, sharp and satisfying. His strokes picked up speed, turning rough and needy, his toes curling hard against the worn carpet underfoot. Enough with the exploration, time to get his hands dirty for real.
SCHLICK. SCHLICK. SCHLICK.
The wet, filthy sound of skin on skin filled the cramped room as he worked himself over. He twisted his grip on the upstroke, then slammed his fist from root to tip in a quick, greedy pump that made the massive head bob and sway. Soon, even though he’d just bathed, the air in his cramped room grew thick with the sharp tang of sweat and something muskier, a heavy, masculine pheromone scent as his body adapted to its new reality.
His online game was now forgotten, the guild chat pinging uselessly on his monitor as his healer avatar sat idle. Right now, behind the locked door of his bedroom, Sanjay was deep in a different kind of grind — a solo raid where the only enemy was his own self-control, and he was losing fast.
Under his relentless, almost reverent strokes, his meat-pole reached its peak size — an absurd fifteen inches of throbbing teenage flesh, that looked like it could split someone in half. He let out a loud, shameless moan, head tipping back as his piss-slit gaped open and fired off a thick, hot rope of prenut. It rocketed toward the mirror with a wet splat, plastering the glass in a messy, translucent streak.
“Fuck—ngh—FUCK!” he snarled through gritted teeth, back arching as his whole body tensed, trembling against the overwhelming rush.
He was way past playing it cool now. His other hand joined the action, both fists working in perfect, desperate sync, pumping the slick, towering length in a wet, filthy glide. Another heavy glob of precum erupted, splattering onto the already-streaked mirror, but Sanjay didn’t let up for a second.
He couldn’t let up, not with the unbearable pressure building deep in his core, screaming for release. It was a feeling a thousand times more intense than anything he’d ever coaxed from his old, average dick.
His hips started bucking on their own, thrusting into the tight, sloppy tunnel of his own gripping hands. The pressure in his oversized balls felt like a nuke ready to detonate, a near-painful crescendo that had his skinny legs quaking beneath him. As he felt the first undeniable surge, the deep clench that told him the floodgates were about to burst, a flicker of panic pierced the lust-drunk haze.
Sanjay’s eyes darted around his cluttered room, scrambling for somewhere — anywhere — to aim what he knew would be the fattest, messiest load of his sixteen-year existence. The tiny trash can by his desk? A joke; he’d never make it with his knees buckling like this. The crumpled towel on his bed? Miles away in this moment of crisis.
Finally, he looked back at the mirror, locking eyes with the stunned, horny kid staring back at him, then down at the streaky mess already smeared across the glass. A grim, reckless smirk twisted his lips. It was already ruined, what was a little more?
"F-Fuck it," he panted, his voice strained under the incoming release. "Brace yourself, mirror-me."
He angled his monster cock forward, the world narrowing to the slick heat of his hands and the burning tightness in his sack. His urethra stretched, primed to unleash the first surge of pent-up seed. His grip tightened, one fist choking the base while the other worked the swollen tip. His balls drew up tight, the churn inside reaching a fever pitch, and then—
SPLAT. SPURT. SPLOOOOOSH.
A raw, ragged shout tore from his throat as he came harder than seemed biologically possible. Thick, gooey ropes of supercharged teenage spunk, white as fresh paint and dense as cake batter, erupted from his cock like a busted fire hydrant, spraying in powerful, arcing jets that slammed into the mirror with enough force to make the frame rattle.
“FUCK! Oh, SHIT—ngh! AAAAH!” he bellowed, his moans bordering on screams as they echoed through the empty house.
His towering slab of fuckmeat bucked and pulsed violently in his grip, unloading volley after volley of thick, white jizz in arcing jets. Each convulsive pulse of his massive cock slammed another load against the mirror with a wet, rhythmic thump-thump-thump, the glass rapidly disappearing behind a curtain of cock cream. One particularly fat, ropey volley veered off-course, smacking the wall beside the mirror and sticking there in a lewd, glistening arc.
His prostate convulsed again and again, milking up every last drop of the thick, creamy sludge from his transformed depths. A low, broken whine slipped out as his knees finally gave out, forcing him to stagger forward. His slick palm slapped against the closet door for support just as his cock gave a final, angry jerk, depositing a last, sluggish dollop of warm ball-batter onto the beige carpet.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of his ragged, wrecked breathing and the slow, wet drip of spent seed from the glass. The room reeked now — thick with the musk of sex, sweat, and the chlorine-like tang of his own insane release, the air humid and heavy with the undeniable evidence of his transformation.
“Holy… fuckin’… shit,” Sanjay wheezed, every muscle trembling with exhaustion.
He could barely see himself in the mirror now — it was an opalescent, dripping mess, coated top to bottom in his own spunk. Only a few tiny clear patches remained, reflecting slivers of his trembling, sweat-soaked body.
As the crashing waves of the afterglow receded, the cold reality of his situation seeped in. His mom’s shift ended in twenty minutes. She’d be pulling into the driveway any second, and he was certain this potent, animal stench could be smelled from downstairs. How the hell do you even clean a cum-cannon blast zone of this magnitude?
“Fuck me,” he grumbled, wiping a shaky hand across his sweaty forehead. “This is gonna take forever.”
Still, even as the mundane concerns arose, a deeper, wilder part of him couldn’t shake the awe. That dumb, reckless gamble he’d taken — popping that mystery capsule from a shady package had paid off in ways he couldn’t have dreamed. Who the hell had even left it there? Some beneficent perv? Some underground lab nutjob running a field test? How did they even knew his name and address? Did it matter?
Right now, swimming in the aftermath, it didn’t even matter.
He looked down, seeing as his new equipment, spent and softening, still hung at a ludicrous, heavy nine inches — a dormant king even in repose, thicker than it had ever been at full mast before today. His balls, still pendulous and heavy despite the massive spill, already hummed with a lazy, regenerative churn, brewing another batch of potent seed deep within.
A low, confident chuckle rumbled in his chest. The memory of the locker room returned, not as a sting, but as a prop. What would Lance even say if he saw him now? If he and all his goons got a load of this?
“Heh, guess Monday’s gonna be a show,” he muttered to himself, a slow smile spreading as he grabbed the towel to start the tedious wipe-down.
As he began to smear the glass, the image materialized in his mind with crystal clarity: rolling into that tiled locker room with a newfound, undeniable swagger. The impossible, straining bulge beneath his towel — if he even dared to cover it at all. The way the crowd would part, the jeers dying in their throats, replaced by wide-eyed, jaw-dropped stares and whispered disbelief.
The old Sanjay — the quiet loser, the punchline — was gone. Washed away, buried under a metric ton of his own cum.
This was Day One of something else. And he was just getting started.