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Confession of a Love Potion that Worked Too Well

My name is Caleb Vediere. I'm a teenager at Furrian High School, in Pawsville, South Anthrolina. I'm four feet and two inches tall; though my feelers give me an extra six inches. My body is black, except for my green compound eyes, red dotted back, and translucent, light brown wings under it. I love science, especially psychology and sociology, and spend my spare time reading sci-fi novels and watching anime. I'm writing this to flush out my thoughts and feelings on a situation into which I have gotten myself and someone else.

It started as an experiment and nothing more. Well, revenge was part of it, but it was largely an experiment. I wanted to investigate if sexual orientation, or at least sexual attraction, could be changed. The subject I chose (and this is where the revenge comes in) was a jock on the football team who has been bullying me since we were in middle school. Marxon Jubons always picked on me for being a feminine looking ladybug. The odd thing is that we got along well together in middle school; we even played on the baseball team together. However, when I became more interested in science around the time of eighth grade and our interest differed, he began bullying me.

It began with the typical name calling: "nerd," "wimp," "dork". Then during our first year of high school, it escalated: pushing me when my back was turned, stealing my homework, threatening to beat me up if I told anyone. (Not that the last thing would do any good. Teachers apparently, cannot act on your word alone. They have to see it. At least, that is what I was told.) Even the names he called me became more specific and crass: "gaywad," "bitch boy," "faggot". Really, everything revolved around how my supposed sexuality, which he happened by chance to be right about, made me less of a man. He constantly compared our bodies. He claimed that he--being almost eight feet in height, able to bench press 500 pounds, and supposedly wanted by every girl on the cheerleading team--was the epitome of masculinity; whereas, I--short, weak, and never even kissed a girl--was the prime example of a beta male. A real man would not have to brag about his physicality, skills and sexual conquest; but let's move on.

I elicited the help of a friend. I helped her pass psychology, so she owed me one. She told me about a recent article in a scientific journal. Its main discussion topic was attraction. The piece was well written and greatly detailed. In particular, the sense of smell's role in attraction intrigued me. The article asserted that we, as beings searching for a mate, tend to select a partner unconsciously because he or she smells similar to us. Of course, olfactory congruence is not necessarily a deciding factor in choosing a mate; however, it is does signal that person's viability as a possible partner.

My hypothesis was a simple one. By appealing to the sense of smell, one's attraction for either sex can be influenced. According to the article, a person chooses someone who smells similar to him or her. So, I snuck into the locker room while Marxon was at his football practice and found his gym bag, which I recognized from all the times he slung it at me while walking by in the hallway, and stole one of his jock straps. He had like five of them, so I took the smelliest one. As a precaution against germs and fingerprints, I used latex gloves and a plastic bag. Without going into too much more detail, she managed to isolate his musk and save it in a glass beaker. I then quickly returned the undergarment to his bag. The whole affair took less than an hour.

From then on, every morning I sprayed on the slightest amount of his stink, or the "love potion" as my friend and I jokingly referred to it, on my axillary regions. It took about three days, but there did start to be results. He began to ease up gradually in his treatment of me. He'd still lightly shove me or call me the less harsh names he used in middle school; however, I could tell it was only bravado for the sake of appearances.

One day, about a week after the promising decline in his bullying ways towards me, he pinned me up against the wall, looked down at me in a dominant manner, and told me that if I didn't meet him at the movies that night that I would be sorry the next morning. It took everything within me not to laugh at his pathetic attempt to cover up what was obviously a date. I acquiesced and met him.

It was surprisingly and enjoyable experience. We saw an action flick, which was clearly to justify the fact of him attending with another male instead of someone from his usual pool of cheerleaders and preppy girls. We even shared popcorn and a large drink; of course, he gave me another idle threat for me not having my share of it. When I got up to use the bathroom, he followed me. There was no one else at the urinals, so we relieved our bladders side by side. As we did, he grabbed my behind with his massive hand, easily holding both of its cheeks in a single palm. I remember his exact words: "Since I'm paying for everything, I can do whatever I want with your faggy little ass. I swear to God, if you tell anyone, I'll beat you so hard that I'll knock the gayness right out of you. You'll dive into the first piece of pussy you see." As he spoke, his words had a more than noticeable undertone of uncertainty, and he lightly fondled my rear in-between his palm and digits.

After the movie was done, he told me to follow him home. His parents were gone for the week, so we had the house to ourselves. Not that I got to see much of it because we went directly to his room, which was huge compared to most dwellings in order to accommodate his bigger size. He told me to drop my pants, and I complied. His predictable patterns of self-rationalization allowed me not to fear what he was doing. I exposed my penis and testicles. When he saw my three inch flaccid length, he laughed and made some crass comment that I don't remember.

Then, he had me get on my knees and run my hand over his crotch. Soon, his pants were on the floor, and I was attending to his grey sheath. I'll have to admit to some excitement...I was still a virgin, after all. My heart did quicken while I was working his thick, heavy penile housing. His resulting erection was...impressive: twenty inches long and as wide as my forearm, and the most perfect shade of fleshy pink. He knew I was hard and demanded I show him. I put my hands behind me and leaned backward, pushing my pelvis forward. His eyes widened when he saw my cock's ten-inch erect measurement. He was speechless, a sure sign of his unexpected surprise at my endowment. He let out a soft, nervous, obviously fake laugh and told me to get in the nude. As I stripped, he did too.

He looked me over. After about three minutes of silence, he commented on how I looked more like a girl than a guy, so he would have no problem ignoring my genitals and having sex with me, and that I had better ignore it too if I wanted to keep my teeth. (Another in an already long line of rationalizations.) He pushed me, firm yet gently, onto his huge bed and took my foot in his gigantic hands. His trunk traced the sole from my toes to my heel as I heard him taking a long, almost inaudible sniff. (I should mention that before meeting him, I sprayed some of his musk on my feet and made sure to wear open toed sandals.) His spare hand was ever so softly fondling my other foot and hitting certain...erogenous points, which caused my penis to start secreting pre-ejaculate. I must admit that he was a lot gentler that I had anticipated.

After about ten minutes, during which time he switched between my feet quite often and I remained silent, he said in a deep, bravado fueled tone of voice, "I'm tired of seeing your dick stain my sheets with pre. Jack off and get soft again, so you can be fully focused on a real man's cock." I obliged immediately. I fell onto my back and orgasmed less than a minute after I began earnestly stroking my attention hungry member. My resolve was wearing down, and I was close to calling his bluff and pleasuring myself anyway.

As I lay there panting, he crawled into the bed and straddled my body. From my vantage point, our obvious size difference became even more pronounced. He told me to help him get off. His thick manhood was too big to fit in my mouth or my anus. I knew that just by looking at it. He said, "My cock is too ready to wait for me to loosen you up. So, you're going to use your hand to help me get off. You're going to work your arm in my asshole until I cum. Tell anyone about this, and I will fucking bury you, faggot." At this point, I must admit, I had let lust take me over and...detach me from my scientist's objectivity. I wanted to see his second trunk spray his seed everywhere.

As instructed, I retrieved a huge can of industrial strength lubricant from under his bed, liberally coated my arm, and sat on my knees behind him. It took surprisingly little force to get my hand into his anus. He had obviously before this used his anal sphincter for pleasure. While more and more of my arm was being swallowed by his entrance, he steadied himself by resting his forehead on his forearm and began slowly stroking himself with his spare hand. When I hit his prostate, I felt his entire rectum clench all the way up to midway up my arm as he grunted and took a tighter hold of his penis.

I worked my fist over and over on his prostate, causing him to begin moaning from the stimulation. Further proof of his lustful enjoyment was the fact that he wrapped his tail around my shoulder and upper arm and pulled me deeper into his anus. Soon, he was heavily panting and profusely sweating. He told me to go harder, faster. I did. I found my own youthful manhood re-hardening as something drove me to pull all the way out and punch as hard as I could back into his loosened rectum. I remember him declaring, "I'm about to blow!" before a thick, almost continuous, uninterrupted steam of hot, musky semen sprayed out of his second trunk. I wanted to pump my own arousal to completion, but my spare hand was otherwise occupied, steadying myself by his firm, gigantic gluteal muscles.

After his penis ceased spasming and his rectum relaxed, I pulled out my fist. To my surprise, his tail slid down to my wrist and was still clenching onto me. He moved forward slightly and pulled me down into his pool of fresh, hot sperm. Before I could recover, he flipped me on to my back and rubbed his semen all over my body. When I opened my mouth to protest, some of his seed fell in, and I reflexively swallowed. I murred audibly from the combination of the taste and his gentle, massive, sperm-slickened hands gliding over my tiny, heated sensitive frame.

One of his hands, which were about as big as my chest, held me down as digits from the other traced up and down my sensitive manhood. He masterfully traced his thumb around the head of my penis. Just before I hit my climax, his trunk choked the base of my shaft, and he increased the speed of his thumb's circling. I attempted to thrust as I began panting from lustful desperation. However, his superior strength, as gentle as he was being, proved too much for me to fight against. I was so overtaken by the need to ejaculate that my thin, brown wings popped out of their spotted covering and became coated in his creamy juices. His trunk released its grip before quickly taking in my entire length as I grabbed the sperm covered sheets while my adolescent arousal contracted, firing rope after rope of sperm into his strong proboscis. After my orgasm subsided, he moved his trunk to my face and slowly let its contents free into my own mouth. Still in my lustful state of mind, I eagerly took every drop until it was empty. I found myself planting a kiss on the organ before he pulled it away.

He picked me up and carried me to his bathroom. After putting me down, he said, "Don't say a fucking word. I need to think about what just happened." It was fine with me, for I had my own thinking to do. He drew a bath in a huge bathtub and carried me in. I sat on his lap to stay above the water as he washed my body. I had no doubt that he was thinking about what he and I just did and trying to rationalize what happened. I also thought a bit about how much I let lust take me away from my concentration on my experiment and revenge. I felt shame as a scientist, but pulled my thoughts back to my objectivity. So far, my hypothesis proved to be correct, and my plan turned out to be a success. The elation of that far outweighed any shame from a normal, hormonally-driven, adolescent response to sexual arousal.

After the bath, he gingerly dried me off and had me follow him to his room. As he changed out his sheets for a clean set, I sat in a comically huge beanbag chair for someone of my height and build. "Get over here," he said in a less than half-hearted voice of aggression. I lay beside him, and he embraced me, pulling me tightly to his body. The next thing he said...I had not anticipated. "I love you. If you tell anyone, I'll...I'll deny it and never speak to you again." We snuggled until he fell asleep a few minutes later.

Soon after, I was wide-awake and pacing just outside his bedroom door. My emotions were erratically spanning the entire spectrum. At first, I was happy my experiment turned out the way I planned. I'd have my final revenge by pulling him along until he fully acknowledged his full sexual attraction for me. However then, I remembered how good it felt while we were having relations just moments before, how lost I was in the pleasure. Especially when he was being both dominant and gentle with me. I tried to rationalize it as a virgin's romanticism, but I couldn't get the feelings out. It was then I realized that somehow, within the course of the night, I had fallen for him. I acknowledged my full attraction, romantic and sexual to him. This, of course left me with a problem. I realized that the love he confessed was not brought by natural attraction, but because of the "love potion." After agonizing for what seemed like eons, I tiptoed into his room and fished my notepad, which I always keep on my person, out from my clothing.

Now here I am, stuck on a decision: do I confess to him, or try to put it out of my mind and move on in hopes of keeping this love. As I write, guilt and shame shift around inside my soul, like a torrent. What do I do? What do I do?