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Pansexuality - An Abyssus Abbey Story Chapter 2

“There’s Meliton’s. You’d better stay out of sight,” Tychon advised. The potter’s small, white hut sat sheltered from the sea breeze in a little dell filled with scrub and small trees. Broken orange pots and shards lay littered around his house along with piles of scavenge and refuse.

Kleanthes tugged at his clothing. It all fit wrong, and was still soaked to his skin, practically transparent. There had been no way to keep his oversized dick from swinging out below the bottom hem, so they had eventually settled on lifting it up against his belly and using the cloth belt to tie it in place. “I still think we ought to have gone back,” he grumbled, pawing at his genitals. The rest of the walk to Meliton’s house had been awkward at best, and uncomfortable at worst, his flesh sliding back and forth before him with every step, keeping him hard nearly the entire time.

Tychon gave him a severe look. “If you want to avoid Pater tonight, and I’m guessing you do, then we need to head back with those nets. He’ll want an early sleep before we sail tomorrow. But if we can’t go, all he’ll have time to do is pester us about why we couldn’t finish such an easy task. And I don’t think you can hide those horns of yours for that long. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

“I’ve tried. But I can’t think of anything. There’s a–a place I went where I think I might have gotten this… curse. I can try to go back there tomorrow and see if whatever did this to me can undo it.” And now that he’d had time to sober up a little, he realized he truly did need to fix this somehow. This body was strange, and getting stranger. They lived in the modern world, and there was no place in it for mythical creatures or monsters. Those things might have been appropriate during the heyday of the gods, but the world belonged to humans now, and humans weren’t even friendly with other humans half the time. Not to mention he wasn’t sure what would happen if he could never drink water ever again. Would he die? And what if he couldn’t bathe ever again? If he didn’t find a solution, he’d forever be a horny goat-man, forever drunk and stinking of wine. Despite himself, his dick twitched at that thought. Traitor, he thought back at it, scowling.

“I don’t suppose you could just saw the horns off,” Tychon said thoughtfully.

Kleanthes shuddered. “Horns are alive–they’ve got blood and nerves in them. It’d be like cutting off two of my fingers.”

“Oh. I see. Well, all right. Just make sure Meliton doesn’t see you. I’ll be back as soon as I get the nets.”

Kleanthes found a little patch of sunlight to stand in, hoping that his clothes would finally dry out. He crouched to watch through the trees as his older brother picked his way through the refuse to Meliton’s dooryard. After a moment, Tychon reached down and held up a bundle of something brown–the nets. He waved toward Kleanthes in triumph. Kleanthes was about to wave back, when he saw Meliton come through the door of the house. He cursed and ducked back behind the tree so he wouldn’t be seen. His ears twitched as he picked up the rising tones of an argument, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He shifted in place, uncomfortable–his clothes, now that they were drying, felt even tighter, and he elected to loosen his belt a little to give himself more room. The fabric tugged and pulled, and in his attempt to readjust it, everything came open, his dick falling forward in the open air and swinging against his thigh with a wet slap. He froze, hoping he hadn’t been noticed, but the argument continued unabated. He fumbled with his clothes, trying to sort everything with the damp fabric. His brother had tried to help, but the fit was all wrong–if it hadn’t been pinned above his shoulder, the whole garment would have fallen off of him. And even the fibula that fastened it in place was wrong; the material was cinching at his arm and shoulder. When he adjusted that, the fabric rode far too high, barely reaching down his thigh. And to make matters worse, his sandals had gotten wet as well, pinching at his toes.

He was still fussing with it when Tychon finally returned, lugging the heavy nets, each rolled up under one arm. “Old malakas sure talks all self-righteous for a thief,” he muttered. “Carry one of these for… me…?” He trailed off, staring up at Kleanthes.

“I know, I know,” Kleanthes said, tugging at his garment. “I just can’t get it to fit right.” He blinked. “Why are you standing down there?”

“Standing down… you mean on the ground? What happened to you?”

“I..” Kleanthes took a couple steps backward. Something in his right sandal pulled free, releasing its unpleasant grip on his foot. “You got shorter!”

“No I didn’t, you sheep-brained idiot. You grew! Look at you!”

Kleanthes looked down again at his own frame, and realized his brother was right. His exomis wasn’t badly arranged; it was too small for him. The fabric barely held in his upper body anymore. He was looking down at Tychon by more than a head. He stretched the toes of his left foot and felt another damp pop from that sandal. The thongs had snapped. Almost absently, he pulled his foot free of the leather bindings. It covered the leather sole of his sandal like it was a child’s shoe. “What…?” he managed, stumbling back another step. Now that he was paying attention, his body felt off; his limbs were heavier, the ground not as close as it should have been.

“Well, come on!” Tychon whispered urgently. “Get away from Meliton’s before he sees you!” Pushing at Kleanthes’s back, he ushered back to the path.

“Wait.” Kleanthes stumbled back and grabbed for his broken sandals, though how he was going to salvage them, he had no idea. He stared at them in his hand, realizing he could fit a full leather sole in his palm.

“What are you going to do with those?” Tychon stopped in his path and poked him in the chest. “And why are you growing, anyway? Since when are satyrs tall?”

Kleanthes shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t know! The guy was really large, so maybe…” he trailed off. “I don’t know. Maybe real satyrs were tall, you–”

“Kleon.”

He could feel his face heating. “We should get those nets back in a hurry, before someone sees me.”

“Kleon, what guy?”

Kleanthes bit his lip. “It was… all right, it was so strange I thought I dreamed it. But there was this man–well, not a man. It was a monster, maybe? Up on the top of Falakros Hill. And it was so–he was just… well, it couldn’t have been real, Tychon. It was like nothing you’ve ever seen before, and then afterward I felt tired and sort of dreamy, and I thought I fell asleep and imagined it.”

“Uh huh.” Tychon began walking ahead of Kleanthes. It was strange to look down and see the top of his head. “And what did you and this… monster… do?”

Kleanthes followed his older brother, the hot dirt of the path stinging his bare feet. “Mostly we talked. He seemed lonely. I think he’d been there a long time. And he asked me what I desired.”

“And you said you wanted to be a satyr?”

“No! But I told him of how Dionysios used to bless those who pleased him with the form of satyrs. I… I said that I wished the gods still recognized people who loved their works. That I loved the isle and I wished I would always feel I belonged here.”

Tychon walked in silence for a while, and Kleanthes followed, opting for the grass wherever he could to spare his tender soles from the heat of the path. His exomis was clinging to him now like bindings. He reached up to finally surrender and unfasten the fibula. His chest and arm pulled at the fabric, there was a tearing sound, and then the pin ripped free, the fabric flapping down about his waist. He sighed and tied it off with the belt as best he could, upper body bare to the sun.

“You truly do love this little island, don’t you?” Tychon said at last. “You really don’t want to leave. Everyone else wants to. Miter wants to be able to sell her carpentry to more customers. Pater wants not to live so far away from the fish markets. And I have my… fiancée.” He sounded a little uneasy, remembering that. “But you just always wanted to stay here.” He let out a long sigh. “And now, unless you can get this fixed, you’ll have to.”

Kleanthes shuffled along in the grass. “I didn’t know everyone wanted to move to the city.”

“Miter said we should let you be. I think she’s set on staying here unless you agree to go. It’s why Pater and I have been working on you. He really could use the help on the boat, you know.”

Kleanthes groaned. “I don’t even like boats. They make my stomach turn.”

“You get used to it. And you can swim like a sea serpent, so I know you don’t hate the water.”

“So everyone is stuck here because of me? Because I don’t want to leave?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But what would we do about the sheep?”

“I heard Euthymios gave Pater an offer for the whole flock. Very generous.”

“I’ve met his son, Artemon. Every once in a while we end up in the same pasture. But I can’t believe Pater would sell the whole flock. He can’t make enough fishing for all of us.”

“The offer was enough to buy a second boat. That was his dream–that he would hire an assistant and we would all work together. And Miter would sell her carpentry. It would be enough. Enough for a life in the city.”

Kleanthes let out a long, slow breath. “And all I would have to do is leave.”

---

It was a long climb back to the top of Falakros Hill, and Kleanthes was having more trouble keeping the sheep following than usual. Summer had only just begun, so the rams should have been better behaved, but they frisked and snorted and kept trying to clamber up on the ewes, and only a good thwack with Kleanthes’s crook kept them distracted. “Theoi mou,” he swore at them. “It’s four months to breeding season! Behave yourselves!”

He still had no shoes that fit, and instead of an exomis, he was wearing one of his father’s old chitons. It still hung awkwardly on his new, overlarge frame, but at least it kept him mostly covered. Tychon had gone to deliver the nets and keep their parents distracted while Kleanthes snuck around back, raided the laundry, and collected the flock for pasturing. Despite his changes, the sheep seemed to recognize him and gladly bounded out of their paddock and along the familiar path to the inner island. Over his shoulder, he heard his father call goodbye, and he turned and waved–not too concerned that his father would notice his changes. Age had robbed his eyesight of its clarity, and he was already a good distance away. Still, it wasn’t an encounter he could delay forever, unless he found a way to undo what had been done to him.

He was panting and soaked with sweat by the time he reached the top of the hill and herded his flock through the labyrinth of gorse-bushes near the crown. He thought it unlikely he’d see anyone else there, and if he did, he’d certainly have more to explain than nudity, so he shucked his chiton and tied it in a bundle around his crook, letting the breeze from the sea cool him and carry the sweat from his hirsute body. It really was the thick hair that had overheated him, he thought, and he noticed that down his legs it was so dense it was almost fur, with a layer of softer, finer hairs growing beneath the longer, coarse brown pelt that clad him from waist to heel. He was hardly unclad at all, he thought, though of course his cock still swung halfway to his knees, brushing delightfully against the hair there and swaying against his fist-sized furry balls. Still, that was less provocative than having it jut out and rub up and down against the linen of his father’s chiton.

He guided the sheep up into the clearing where he’d met–or dreamed he’d met–the strange, monstrous creature the day before. He saw no creature there now, though there were still signs of its presence: deep, clawed footprints in the soil, and a musky, male scent that made his balls churn when he inhaled too deeply. The cave it had inhabited was still there, as were the carved stone chair and table, and the pile of bones that must have been a remnant of its prior meals. Not a dream, then.

“Creature?” Kleanthes called out, straining his ears for any sound. “It’s me, Kleanthes! The one you… I think you might have… altered me.”

No answer. He spent some time calling and looking around, and noted that things were missing from the cave. The creature had kept wool, scrolls, and bundles of other things. These could not be found, now. No sign of them remained.

With a sigh, Kleanthes went and slumped down in the huge stone chair–which was, he noted with a shiver, much more appropriately sized for him than yesterday. The creature was gone, then, truly gone, and with it, any hope he had of halting the spell that had taken hold of him, much less reversing it. He supposed he ought to feel depressed, or at least resigned, but to his surprise, he realized that what he felt instead was: relief. He didn’t want to change back. He didn’t want to stop this. What was happening to him felt wild and exciting and right.

The sheep seemed content to browse on the gorse–though he worried about picking the briars out of their wool later. But for now, he was happy to sit back in the stone chair and just not think for a while. Everything had been so strange and confusing. And he’d had to have more “water” on his way up the path, so he was already feeling pretty tipsy again. He reached for his belt, glad he’d had the presence of mind to snatch his pipes from the house before leaving, and leaned back to play. The pipes had always calmed him and soothed his thoughts. It took him a bit to adjust to them, as they now felt small in his large hands, making him feel as though he were trying to play on a toy, but after some practice, he found familiarity in them again, and sent the dulcet tones out into the breeze, half-drifting into sleep as he played a lilting tune, a lamentation for lost gods. He must have been half-dreaming, for it sounded to him as if the notes persisted beyond his breath, or as though more than one note were somehow playing from his pipes at once, weaving together in haunting harmonies.

“Uh… uh…” A voice stirred him from his reverie, and he looked up to see a young shepherd standing across the clearing, his eyes wide. Long, curly black hair held back by a headscarf, narrow frame, piercing green eyes–it was Artemon, the shepherd boy Kleanthes sometimes encountered. He was just a year younger than Kleanthes, and typically shy and quiet, even when it was just the two of them and their shared flocks. He didn’t think he’d gotten more than a hundred words out of the boy in his whole life.

Unsure how to react, or whether Artemon even recognized him, Kleanthes opted not to say anything but to remain seated as he was in the chair, slouched back a little with one knee up, keeping steady with the tune. Behind him came the bleats of two flocks encountering each other. Both of them should have been paying attention to that; separating two flocks was no easy task, and frisky as the rams had been today, it seemed risky to let them near another shepherd’s ewes, but right now, he was naked and clearly inhuman, and that drove every other concern from his mind.

“I–I followed the sound of your music. It called to me.”

Kleanthes watched him through lowered eyelids, but said nothing.

“You’re really one of them, aren’t you? A satyr?”

Did the boy not know him? Then it was best he not speak, he decided. If Artemon didn’t recognize his face, he surely would his voice.

“I didn’t think you were real. May I… may I come closer?”

Kleanthes tilted his head a little, still playing. Artemon must have taken this as encouragement, for he shuffled a few steps closer to the stone chair. He gazed up at Kleanthes’s horns, then down at his chest, and then down to what lay nestled between his thighs. “Oh,” he breathed. His exomis jutted out a moment later, notably draped over the tip of an erection, and Kleanthes smiled at that. Artemon came closer again, eyes roving over Kleanthes’s body, moving forward one footstep at a time until he was right at the foot of the chair.

His eyes were wide with wonder. “Am I in a legend? Is this a story?”

Kleanthes lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“Am I… Am I in danger? If I do the wrong thing, will I be cursed by the gods?”

Another little shrug. It was a legitimate question. After all, Kleanthes himself had been altered in this very spot.

Artemon looked conflicted for a moment, as though seized by the understanding that he should leave, but unwilling to do so. He extended his arm a little. “Is it all right for me to see how it feels?”

Kleanthes wasn’t sure what he meant, but smiled again between notes on his pipes. He found out when Artemon’s slender but callused hand settled on the top of his thigh, fingers running through the hair there. “It is fur,” he breathed. “Not some clever costume.” He tugged firmly, as though he could pull it from Kleanthes’s legs. “It’s goat fur. You’re real.” Eyes shining, he traced his fingers higher, feeling the roll and play of Kleanthes’s thigh muscle beneath.

The touch was thrilling, despite the oddness of hearing his leg hair referred to as “fur,” and Kleanthes felt his cock thickening. Artemon was not unattractive, but he’d always been shy, and Kleanthes had never thought about him that way. But now, alone on the hilltop, it was hard to think of anything else. Still playing, he shifted in his seat, and his heavy balls rolled between his thighs as his forearm-sized cock lifted off of it.

Artemon watched it, transfixed, as with each of Kleanthes’s heartbeats it rose a little higher. “And that’s real too.”

He shook his head. “I… need some water.” He fumbled for his waterskin and opened it, then hesitantly held it toward Kleanthes. “Did you want some?” he asked, and the sheepskin flask bumped briefly against Kleanthes’s knee. Kleanthes shook his head slowly. When Artemon drank from his flask, he coughed and spluttered, dark red drops rolling down his chin. He stared at it in amazement. “Wine!” he exclaimed. “But… but that means…”

Kleanthes held his breath, but the melody remained, curling through the air from the end of his pipes, richer and purer. He blinked in astonishment but dared not break whatever spell this was.

Artemon dropped to his knees, and whispered, “Pan!”

As if in answer, Kleanthes’s tip rose to hover right in front of Artemon’s nose, slick and glistening. The other shepherd stared, lifting the waterskin–now wineskin–to his lips and drinking deeply from it. Then, unbidden, he leaned forward and and dragged his tongue across the apple-sized surface of Kleanthes’s cock head.

Kleanthes groaned in unexpected pleasure, and at that, the music stopped.

The younger shepherd paused, uncertain. “Did I do wrong?” Worry flooded his emerald eyes.

That wouldn’t do. Such beautiful eyes should be filled only with joy. Kleanthes shook his shaggy head, lifted his pipes to his lips, and played again. And Artemon, relaxing, put both of his hands around Kleanthes’s shaft, pulling it toward him and bathing the tip with slow, adoring sweeps of his tongue. Pleasure swept through Kleanthes, and his melody became happier, more passionate. He reached down to slide his fingers through Artemon’s soft hair, feeling the cool dew of his sweat, the heat of his scalp, the easy rolling of sinew in his neck as he licked up and down Kleanthes’s cock with increasing vigor.

Almost, Kleanthes lamented his new size, his shaft straining hot and tight, too large for both Artemon’s hands, too thick for his mouth, but watching the shepherd boy service a cock half the length of his arm was so erotic it made his hips twitch. Something deep inside him clenched, and a veritable fountain of clear fluid arced from the top, splashing across the ground and into Artemon’s hair, matting it. The boy inhaled several times, huffing with an entranced look in his eyes, and then stuffed Kleanthes’ tip all the way into his mouth. Kleanthes half-winced, expecting the scrape of teeth, but Artemon engulfed him with surprising skill, sliding the thick head all the way into his mouth and the back of his throat, breath huffing through his nostrils.

The sound of the pipes seemed to relax him; his eyes went half-lidded and he lowered his head, pushing that cock deep into the slick tightness of his throat, swallowing around it, his tongue slathering against the side. Kleanthes’s shaft flexed again with a crescendo of pipe music, and Artemon choked briefly before swallowing again, eyes going wide as precome drooled from his nostrils. Following the tempo of the music, he bobbed on Kleanthes’s cock with seemingly no need for air, and Kleanthes found to his pleasure-fogged amazement that he could guide Artemon with his tunes, making the shepherd swallow faster or slower, deeper or taking a break to lick, kiss, and worship the tip and plant kisses down the underchannel. With both hands, Artemon cupped Kleanthes’s furry balls, each too much for a single palm, hefting and tugging as if encouraging Kleanthes to come sooner.

But Kleanthes was unwilling to let the pleasure pass too swiftly, and let his pipes keep the shepherd at the edge of pleasure for what felt like near to an hour. At some point, Artemon surely came, for he felt the shepherd’s throat clench, his hands gripping at Kleanthes’s shaft, and then shortly after, Kleanthes scented the unmistakable odor of his climax in the air, but still, the shepherd kept at his dutiful worship, his vigor and his enthusiasm undiminished. Finally, Kleanthes felt his own climax rising past his ability to stem its tide, and he gripped Artemon’s hair with both hands, pulling the boy down around him, feeling as though he planted himself deep in Artemon’s throat and past it, down into his chest. His heavy balls lifted, the sensation of furred sac sliding against hairy thighs almost unusual enough to break through his concentration, but the music did not fade, instead rising to a crescendo, a third impossible note joining the other two, and then he arched his back, letting out a bleat of pleasure as he felt his come begin to travel the prodigious length of his shaft. The young man huffed through his nostrils.

The eruption took an age to arrive, climbing up that interminable length of shaft, fattening his channel inch by inch. Artemon whimpered as his jaws were pushed apart beyond what he’d already managed, and Kleanthes’s voice joined the music in grunts of pleasure, half-bleating as the shepherd’s throat grew tighter and he then gushed into it with overwhelming ecstasy. His shaft felt as though his seed poured through it, as though a waterfall gushed out of him, and again Artemon spluttered, white seed running from his nostrils and drooling onto the exposed inches of Kleanthes’s cock. His eyes were wide with awe, with fear, with intense pleasure as he bucked and came again, swallowing helplessly around the pillar wedged in him.

The music dissipated into the sounds of wind in the grass and the ocean far away and the cries of gulls spying on them from overhead. In the brambles beyond, the sheep were baaing their rut-cries, carried with them in ardor.

Kleanthes thought his climax subsiding; the pleasure eased, but the seed kept coming, and once again the pleasure overwhelmed him and he bucked a second time, emptying his overfilled balls into Artemon. Had he climaxed again before the first had finished? He stared wide-eyed at the sky, his fingers gripping Artemon’s hair, as he wondered how many times that could even happen, but then the young shepherd was struggling, pulling away before he suffocated.

Kleanthes cried out, his flesh sensitive, as he popped free of Artemon’s mouth, and his cock gushed once and again, painting the gasping man’s face and arms with white. Artemon stumbled backward, falling onto the heels of his hands, his cock clearly jerking against the inside of his exomis. Kleanthes sat up a little, watching him, his own shaft sending a small rivulet of seed to join the puddle already forming at the base of the stone chair. His arousal had not faded, and he wondered idly if the shepherd would like to try fitting that cock into his other end, but Artemon only looked awed and a little bewildered.

Shakily, he reached for his waterskin and took another deep swig, only to half-choke on it when he remembered that it now contained wine. After that initial surprise, however, he readily drained the skin. He wiped his face and hair clean as best he could, though he was still visibly soaked with seed, and then bowed low. His voice was unsteady when he spoke. “Thank you, Lord Pan, for your blessing. My family will be so grateful.”

Kleanthes almost spoke at that, alarmed, to urge him not to speak of what they had done there, but Artemon continued. “Thanks to your blessing, I know our flock will be productive this year, our vines heavy, and our fortunes increased.”

Kleanthes wasn’t sure about the last two, but if the sounds the sheep were making beyond their clearing were any indication, Artemon’s flock would be blessed with a number of unexpected lambs. Lambs whose sires, he noted a bit ruefully, were not only in his flock. And Kleanthes, too, would be taking home ewes preparing for new lambs.

And then, coughing a little, leaning on his crook, Artemon left the clearing, and Kleanthes overheard his calls as he separated the two flocks. He really ought to have gone to help the younger shepherd, but he dared not break the mystique of what had happened–surely, if Artemon saw him working with the sheep, he would finally recognize Kleanthes–taller, hairier, and be-horned, but him, nonetheless. And Kleanthes muttered a silent prayer to the gods, asking their forgiveness for allowing Artemon to name him as Pan, as one of the divine. He could not say what had compelled him to remain so still and silent; it had simply seemed what he should do.

He remained seated, his shaft finally softening, enjoying the heat of the sun’s rays on his bare skin, as the sounds of Artemon and his flock receded into the distance. Only then did he stand up from his chair, and only then did his body tighten, clenching as though it were a hand making a fist. He stumbled, catching himself with one hand on the edge of the chair, and then stared as his forearm thickened right before his eyes, the sinew bulging beneath his skin. It must just be from the way his body was tensing, he thought, but then it happened again, his forearm increasing noticeably in thickness.

He’d always had some strength, but it had been wiry, functional muscle, the build of someone who needed to carry a lamb or push a recalcitrant ewe into the paddock, but otherwise spent most of his day idle. Now his forearm flared wide toward the elbow, a muscle larger than an apple rolling under the skin. As he stared, dark brown hairs sprouted from the back of his arm, thickening rapidly.

His forearm wasn’t all that had grown; his gently rounded chest had swelled out into two prominent slabs of brawn, the delineations of strength clear even through the thick carpet of hair. Below, his flat stomach had developed rows of abdominal muscles rising like buns in an oven, stretching the skin tight, pulling his navel flat. His legs had thickened too, quadriceps rounding out to meet each other, propping up his taut sac between them.

“By all the gods,” he groaned. “What is happening now?” He tried to walk toward the center of the clearing, but as he did, another wave of tension passed through him; his thighs ballooned even larger, and the surge of strength made him accidentally leap forward. He fell, catching himself on his hands, though it did not hurt, and watched in amazement as his arms thickened in his vision, muscle rising and wrapping around his frame, stretching his skin tighter. The hair was thickening too, growing into tufts near his elbows. He groaned, watching his biceps rise more and more, the muscles now so large they nestled into the crooks of his forearms. Fat, meaty triceps swelled on the backs of his arms, bulging thicker and thicker. His arms looked larger than any arms he had ever seen–by Hades, they looked thicker than most legs he had seen, and they were still swelling with impossible strength.

His growing chest was shoving its way more and more into his vision as he crouched there, the twin muscles squaring ever further, pushing his nipples out of sight, a deep valley forming between them–and then another surge of tension and that valley turned into a crease, the pair of muscles pressing together, pinching hair between them. He was panting now, and, confusingly, erect again, as though the power that was swelling him could not stop there, the tip of his dick appearing between the twin mountains of his chest. His arms bulged larger again, looking thicker than oaks, biceps pressing into his pectorals, and he could feel his back thickening as well, spreading wider and pushing his shoulders forward, mounds of meaty brawn rising up between those shoulders.

His cock flexed, spattering precome across the ground. He groaned aloud again, just as his neck thickened, and his voice dropped mid-moan, suddenly unrecognizable to him, filling with a rich, bass timbre, a voice too deep and resonant and powerful to be truly human. His back arched, pushing his chest up nearly to his chin, as he felt his glutes swell and press together, his legs shoving each other apart again, so thick he wondered if he could even stand.

He crouched on all fours, panting and moaning with pleasure, the only other sound the patter of his precome into the ground. His ears twitched strangely. Little pulses of tension still ran through his body every now and then, but there was no further movement. After waiting a few moments longer, he carefully got to his feet.

His body’s weight was strange, both top and bottom-heavy, but he had little difficulty in standing. He felt both far heavier and far lighter at the same time; his weight pulled on him more, but it was easier to move and control. Rising, he found that he could not stand with his usual stance any longer. He had to position his legs apart, or one a bit in front of the other, as they barely left room for each other. Even his calves threatened to meet, each looking as wide to him as his chest had once been. Settling into position, he found he could not see the ground beneath him over the impossible breadth of his chest. Shoulders as big around as barrels jutted into his vision, cloven into multiple, powerful lobes of muscle that twitched and bulged with every tiny movement. His arms refused to lower to his sides, propped up by the impossible width of his back, each so thick that he could only just make his hands meet around his massive, furry chest. Reaching up, he found that his arms were now so thick around that they could not bend more than half-way. He couldn’t touch his shoulders or rub at his face without dipping his head forward, which pressed his chin into the swell of his chest. His neck, too, was overwhelmingly thick; twin arches of muscle rose from his shoulders to the back of his skull–not that he could touch them, but he could feel every flex and movement acutely.

Power was barely contained within his body. He felt as though he were about to burst out of himself, or, the gods forfend, grow yet again. He looked around and guessed that at least he had not grown any taller than before, but noted with some surprise that the light was already fading. He must have been crouched on the ground longer than he expected. He took a few steps, finding it difficult to know how to move his enormous thighs around each other, but his steps felt light and springy, and he felt at no risk whatsoever of losing his balance.

Grimly he considered his next move. He ought to head home, if for no other reason than to pen the flock, but encountering his family like this seemed unthinkable. Uneasily he wondered what changes might still be in store for him. They seemed to advance every time he climaxed, he realized. He’d have to take care not to allow it to happen again. But now, even entertaining the idea made lust race like lightning through his blood. How thrilling it would be to find another young man and pin him to the ground–no! No!

He pushed the intrusive thought away even as his erection rose. He needed to get the sheep home and talk to Tychon. Everything else could wait.

He walked back to the stone chair to retrieve his crook and untied his father’s chiton, holding it up before him. He couldn’t have fitted it around one arm, much less his torso. With some chagrin, he tied it back around the crook and turned to fetch his sheep. Leaving the clearing, he took one long look back at it. What had that creature who had changed him been? What had it done to him? When would these changes cease, if ever?

As he was about to go, a loud crack suddenly echoed across the clearing, sounding almost like a thunderclap. Curiously, he turned back and saw that the stone chair now stood broken, split asunder. From the cleaved stone now sprouted the winding form of a sapling–a fig tree, already budding with green fruit. Around it and down onto the ground and across the clearing, vines twined and twisted, reeds grew, long stalks stretched high and flowers blossomed at the end amid thick patches of verdant grass. It was everywhere his seed had fallen. He truly was becoming something else entirely.

And if his seed did that to the ground, he wondered uneasily, what might it do to another person?

He had to get home, now.