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A knock, polite and enquiring, echoed from the door. He let out a tired grunt, wondering who it was. Someone from the conference looking for him, maybe? Someone too drunk to go to the right room? Some confused hotel employee who got the wrong room for a room service order? His mind wasn't in the best place to sleuth this one out. Booze bubbled through his bloodstream. His hands left the slackened tie dangling around him like a self-imposed noose.

The knock happened again. He felt his heavy body hovered in front of the bed, his weight keeping him on legs strengthened from carrying his fat torso around all day. He knew he should answer it. He could: he was still mostly dressed and upright. The only part of his businessman's uniform that was missing was the jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

On the other hand, he thought that after a full day at the conference and a night of hopping from bar to bar with industry colleagues, he was done. His clothes were as wrinkled and droopy and stained as he was sure his face was. He could still smell the alleyway cigarettes and spilled alcohol and badly-directed urine. The dark suit fabric hid most stains, but the pale shirt clinging to his body seemed proud to announce the growing sweat windows on his shirt. Thick patches of black hair bristled into curls underneath. His body seemed to be making up for the lack of hair on his head. Shirt buttons strained against his plump belly. He decided he'd get some new clothes tomorrow.

The third knock came. He moved in slow motion, his body trying to escape the gravity of the bed. He reached out for the handle, his meaty arm turning it around. Too late, he thought of setting the chain. Not that it would have mattered; he almost knocked himself out, so any thief could have taken what they wanted from his room.

Red. The colour of her dress caught his eye, lingering in his mind as his eye roamed over the smoking-hot form underneath the silky fabric. Like his clothes, hers clung tightly to her frame, but in the good way that showed off her figure. Petite and plump in all the right places. Even a quick glance told him the face matched the body. Those eyes, in particular, seemed striking, and that straight, raven-black hair seemed picked straight out of his sex dreams.

The front of his pants pushed out. His tired, suggestible body reacted to the provided stimuli. Before he could speak - which would have been mostly a grunt anyway - she invited herself in. Her perfume gave his mind the final uppercut. The strong, wild fragrance took up residence in his nostrils as he stood there silent and stupid, plodding after her as they both made their way to the bed.

He thought it was a very vivid dream.

That's how he excused it later, when he tried to think of it. In dreams, hot strange women turning up to your door made sense. In dreams, it made sense when they thought you were the hottest thing on two legs. In dreams, it didn't matter if you couldn't remember if you had actually shut the door or if it had shut on its own. He closed one hand's worth of fat fingers around her slender hand, while her other one worked on the buttons on his shirt.

His weight sank him into the mattress. She was on him, adding to how deep he went. Heat radiated off of her. His loins and other things burned as her hands ran through the forest of hair on his chest. Her smell lingered in his head. It seemed to get more intense. He couldn't seem to grasp if it was because she had lifted up her dress or not. That didn't matter.

Her wetness enveloped him; he thrust upwards to meet it. Her smell, her softness, was all he seemed to care about. Not even the ring on his finger mattered, nor the woman it represented. His cock slipped out of her sopping wet, then plunged in again. She bounced up and down, his fat jiggling and burning as his heart turned into a massive furnace that raced and ate him up. Somehow he seemed to get more dazed and more energetic. Like a puppet, he felt himself being moved: to thrust, to grab, to caress. None of it mattered: months seemed to be rolling backwards, one for each plunge into her, and that chalked up to decades. He felt strong, like a man should, as he fucked his woman.

No. He knew that was wrong. His woman was someone else. He was strong, like a male should, as he fucked his mistress.

* * *

His reflection was someone else.

That was the only thing that made sense to him. His muscles were not anywhere near this defined, though he'd not really looked at himself in the mirror for a whole lot of years. He could see them moving underneath the thick flesh covering them, though. That thickness seemed less, but also more; an adjustment, rather than a loss, towards the good kind of bulk. He could see all of this, even though the forest of hair that covered his body had bloomed into a hirsute Amazon, the kind before humans touched American shores. In some parts, he could barely see the skin, yet the muscle was still evident. Not visible, but still evident somehow.

He flexed for the stranger in the reflection. The stranger liked what he saw. That was how he knew it wasn't him, despite the fact he could see the cock rising up was mirrored by his own. It just didn't make sense. He was a full grown man. He'd lied to himself, thinking he was big when he knew he was probably on the smaller side. It didn't matter. He was big now.

He suddenly realised it was so that he could please her.

He moaned, his cock surging up farther. His hands wrapped around it, touching his swollen erection as it throbbed and drooled. It seemed to writhe like a cornered cobra, spitting its venom onto the hotel bathroom floor. Cold metal seemed to bite into the sensitive flesh, threatening the heady rush. He looked down, seeing the ring around his finger.

Seeing his wife.

He grunted. He couldn't let her - the her that fucking mattered - see this again. She must have been too busy. It was biting into his finger anyway, as though it didn't belong there.

His eyes went to the bathroom. Even the face seemed stranger. It had always been broad, but now it seemed even more so. And there were hairs there - bristles, really, but still growing - and he knew that the man who belonged to this ring was bald. He knew that. Too bad it was reminding him of the woman whose name he seemed to struggle to remember, and whose face had been forgotten.

Her face was all that mattered.

Wide nostrils flared out. He brought his enslaved finger to his mouth, biting down on the metal. He grunted and groaned, feeling it slide against his flesh. Even his fingers seemed bristly. It slipped a little as he grunted. He sat on the edge of the tub. Balls heavier than they should have been - but that were right for him - thwacked up against them. He ignored the cold shudder that caused the skin to wrinkle slightly. The ring, he felt, was moving.

His finger was still in his mouth when he turned his head. She had come back. He felt her scent, her power, enter his head. Eyes glazed over, and the ring that had been stuck flew off the finger, which almost seemed to throb and thicken along with the others now that he had been freed of his shackle. He put the ring gently into her hand; she closed it, and it opened. The ring was bigger. It was her ring, now. Not his or the other woman, whose face and name he had forgotten. It was hers, but he was going to wear it, since in some ways he belonged to her.

She opened the wide, gold band and pushed it up against his nose. Pain burned as the metal threaded his flesh, but her hand was on his cock, which seemed to be growing even bigger and longer whenever she touched it. He leaned back, his long, wide frame spanning the bathtub with ease if not comfort, his arms crawling with new veins. Interlocking his fingers behind his head, he watched as she mounted him. Her body slid down his cock, inch after inch entering her warm folds. She slid up and down on it with the ease of a practised lover.

Her hands came to rest upon his pectorals, her fingers finding the thick, swollen nubs that protruded. She grinned wickedly as she squeezed them. A moan caught in his throat, seeming to gather there for later. His nose still stung, but he wouldn't complain. The ripples shimmering through his body from his cock more than made up for that discomfort, or the discomfort of her weight bouncing up and down on his length as his back dug into tiles and his ass onto the thin rim of the tub.

Another moan rushed up to the top of his throat and lingered there, the pressure in them matching the pressure in his swelling, growing balls as she continued to play with her new toy. Her new slave. He shuddered. He was far stronger than her physically, he could tell that. If he wanted, he could seize her. Have his way with her. But why would he, when she gave herself so eagerly, so hungrily?

She rose once more, his cock still stuck inside her. By now it was the longest he'd ever seen; the pink rod only slipped out of her moist mound once she was on her feet, trying to straddle his wide frame as she inched it closer to his face. His hands relaxed; he grasped her, her firm buttocks catching in his hand as he lifted her high enough to grab on to the shower rail and use it to steady herself. The shower didn't seem to buckle under her weight. He thought that was good, then plunged his face between her legs.

His moans surged out in one deep bellow that seemed to shake his skull with its ferocity. He could smell nothing but her, taste nothing but her - even his own fluids seemed to have become hers as they dripped from his body - as his lips met her lower ones. His tongue slipped out, his skull aching pleasurably as her fluids soaked into it. Just like his cock, it seemed to swell and grow when he put it inside her.

He thought of his cock as it bobbed and throbbed in the air. Not only was it huge, it seemed extra sturdy. His face was buried in her, pleasuring her as her hands squeezed through the new hair she had given him. Even his hands were occupied, so he could only tell it through his shifting sense of self. He could see it now: long, pink and pointed, growing out of the black pouch that dangled from his abdomen, its home when he wasn't primed for fucking. He could see the bristly flesh flow into the huge, snug sack of tight, thick, pale pink skin that nestled what felt like two footballs hanging over the bathtub rim as his feet stretched to try to get to the floor. He tried to push out, stretching his feet longer to try, but only with the small bits of his mind that he wasn't giving over to working his pink, wide tongue into her pussy, tasting her potent juices.

However long time passed it didn't seem enough. He wanted to keep plunging his tongue into her for all eternity. He tried, even as her body shuddered and she moaned in pleasure, her thighs squeezing against his head with a strength that seemed impossible for someone who felt so light in his strong arms.

She slipped through his grasp; there one minute, staring lovingly at his eyes the next. He didn't question it, just followed her out, his face tingling and stretching with his juices. He also didn't question how she was suddenly naked. He didn't question how he understood when she got him to get on all fours like an animal, riding his wide body as her slender arms somehow became long enough to stroke the huge pink pointed shaft jutting from his crotch.

He felt a shudder, a pleasing darkness seizing his mind. He would be whatever she wanted. Her slave. Her beast of burden. His legs lifted of the carpet, stretching out his feet. Then her warmth was all around him, flowing down into his cock. It twitched and shuddered; a bestial bellow belched out of his body. She grabbed his head, lifting it back. The shock sent him into overdrive. His whole body shuddered as the first hot blast of seed fired out of his shaft. Each judder brought another shudder, and another heavy squirt of milky fluid that soaked into the hotel room's carpet.

He didn't care: it was what she had wanted.

* * *

He woke up sprawled on the carpet. His head felt heavy; his arms heavier and his body heavier still. His hands were massive - the size of dinner plates when he stretched them out - and the furniture he used to help himself to his feet almost snapped from the weight.

The bedroom vanity mirror told him all he needed to know. His face was bovine, black-furred and black-eyed. The dull stare hid the sharp, fierce mind of a warrior. A great one. He remembered now. The roar of blood and battle rang in his ears. He looked at his bone-white horns, thinking back to the times that they had been coated in blood. He flicked the wide ears that stuck out of both sides of his head. He snorted, his wide nostrils sporting the golden ring of her. His goddess.

He admired his chest. His muscles had come back to him: the thick muscles of a warrior rippling under his bovine skin. They were heavy - he could tell - but his body wore them easily. His whole torso couldn't fit into the window: his shoulders were too wide. He turned around. Muscles under black fur did not show up that well, but the room's lights managed to capture his magnificence. His hefty chest, the thick barrel of an abdomen, the broad, battle-scarred back that rippled and gleamed. Everything was perfect. Even the thighs, as wide as a man, held up by his massive cattle hooves that left permanent dents in the hotel room's carpet. Moving too much might be way too risky, so he spun in place.

With his back to the mirror, he raised his tail, sliding his feet apart. He rubbed a finger at the thick fleshy ring in between his buttocks. His fingers migrated through. He leaned over on the bed, grasping the top of his sack and giving his hefty balls a shake. It started to stir the long bovine pole hidden by his sheath. His pride and joy; which he put to good use after every battle.

She arrived behind him as he started to rub his itchy sphincter. He got to his hooves, doing his best to remember how he was to bow to her. This time she was nude, and not alone. The mighty stallion's brown coat shone with vitality. Recognition passed between them.

"My goddess," he answered, "my lord."

"You progressed quickly," the stallion nodded with a smile.

"When I found him, he was very lost. But he remembered me up here." She tapped him in between his heavy horns. "I came to him in his dreams many times, until he came here."

The stallion and minotaur nodded to one another. Each understood what it was to be like to be found by their goddess.

"We should go," he suggested. "My blood calls me back to battle, and my loins drive me to victory."

The three of them laughed, and in a puff of smoke had transported from the realm of the mundane to a place better suited for such fantastic creatures.