Bully!
Wrote something just to get it out. Story's definitely shorter than most, but I've been short of time lately. Will look to publishing much more soon.
Whoosh. Pif, pif. Adrian'd been on the ropes last round, backed into a corner and getting a terrible beat-down, but he was more than making up for it now. His opponent wasn't doing much, just trying to stay away from his furious flurry. Adrian was smart though. He let a few more punches fly at head height, sure, but he reared back for a wicked gut blow. He connected. Fucking hurt the shit out of his hand, too.
He hopped back from the training dummy shaking his wrist and scratching at his tape. He wasn't getting anywhere with this. His coach told him practice. Practice, practice, practice. And practice some more. But that wasn't getting him anywhere. He wasn't desperate per se, but picking through that adhesive on his hand, he wanted to pound the fuck out of something. The bones realigned with a little squeezing, no fuss, but the pain that radiated out of them stayed. He opened his fist and felt an awkward pang.
"Ok. Quick break," he said to no one in particular. He tried to twist his wrist left and right. Shake it off, shake it off. Nothing. His hand still ached something awful. This would have to be the end of the session. He had to take a seat for this. It hurt like hell. He threw his weight on the wrestling mat and the ring gave a buckle in response. There was a towel, half-stale with dust from the old building, but just enough to wipe him down. His toweling was awkward, he'd have to get used to using his non-dominant hand for a while.
For a while, he sat at the ring's edge and just hurt. He would blink, open his eyes, and look at the dirt-colored floor and see nothing and think nothing. The thoughts blew him by. If he'd hurt his hand like this, dislocating, maybe breaking something, he'd be out of practice for a week, maybe more. When was the fight? The twelfth? Thirteenth? Two days, three from now? He hit the floor in frustration. Thoughtful frustration. He used his left.
He ducked under the ropes to lie down. He closed his eyes. He was jiggling his leg, but he couldn't notice it. He was tired, in an all-over, existential way. He let the hard, angry feeling of the ring floor wash over him and let his sweat creep down, slowly, teasingly, and drip from his body. He cradled his wounded hand. When he opened his eyes to the warehouse floodlights, he could see his own veins.
He waited. That was his strength. He was a waiter. He had the stamina to outlast and hammer down his opponents when they expected it least. He would take and trade blows for the technical points round after round, hold back, and lean into them when they couldn't hold up.
But not now, though. He pushed himself up and held his legs over the floor. He shot a glance at the dummy before he threw himself up on his feet. His eyes drifted down to his hand again. He'd have to wrap it up.
He found himself letting the water run and rubbing at his stubble. Just a bit rough, not jagged, but not combed. Just a few ticks away from a close shave. The feeling between his fingers was smooth, almost silky, with the grain, but upsettingly prickly against it. He could feel two bumps of raised skin. He hadn't shaved in a while. Then, like a bolt out of the blue, he was back in himself. He caught himself mid-stroke; the sound of water against porcelain and the cold of the sink reminded him where he was. He splashed himself and finally turned the tap back.
His satchel. That was it. He was here for his satchel. The ties were already undone. All Adrian had to do was to reach in, between the notebook and its charger, and pluck out the all-black, paunchy pill bottle he came in for. It had a label, all white with an outline, "Ox Strength".
He wasn't exactly hopeful about it. It was from a San-Fran-centered startup named "Techlife_"_. Their mission statement included hopefuls and platitudes about "biohacking" and "radical individualism". A little lofty, enough to make the eyes roll, but they were selling dirt cheap and shipping quick, and a bored Google search for "muscle recovery strong" led him to it, a slick site he hadn't seen before. He'd brought them, but didn't expect much of it.
He resigned himself to lose the fight. Trying to clench his right hand into a fist still put him into a half-paroxysm. He shook, just a little. "Ox Strength" was supposedly both an analgesic and a way to speed up recovery. It would be a miracle if his hand was ready in time for the fight, but at least he'd be able to hit something in the meantime.
The pill was thick, at least twice the width of his thumb. Two caps, one red and one black, with "OX" printed so that one letter was on each. With design, techies really don't play. The pill had a strong scent, but it was one Adrian couldn't quite place. It seemed to shift and weave; every time he found something to compare it to, it seemed to double down and roll over on itself, getting more and more twisted and estranging himself from his memories. It seemed like cherry pie in his family's kitchen, but the overwhelmingly neutral smell of plastic bags fresh in from the rain. Cinnamon and the fleshy scent of...a man? Something alcoholic? Something alkaline? Something acrid enough to feel like it burned. It seemed more effective than he thought it'd be.
Adrian threw the tap back on so he could fill his hand with water. Water, then pill, dropped into his mouth. He could taste it. He swallowed, shocked. Pills don't normally have a taste in water. Pills don't normally have a taste that strong, either. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and closed his eyes.
The pill eased over him, his false sense of security disintegrating into a red, tweaky mist. After a few minutes of drifting around the bathroom doing nothing in particular - hand to face, hand across stubble, hand to mirror, hand to sink, repeat - his higher functions fell out, all at once. He strong-armed the bathroom door open, slamming it into the wall and punching through the brick.
The minute the door opened, Adrian put the dummy dead center in his sight. He strode towards it, decisively, and never broke contact, like it was the only thing in the world.
When he arrived, without thought, he found himself fighting the best he ever had. His defensive style, playing footsies and parrying off, fell to the wayside. He was unleashing punch after punch, throwing all 100 pounds of the boxing bag this way and that, without a care. He didn't feel tired, even. No opponent in the real ring could ever keep up with it. He didn't even notice his hand's recovery. He didn't even care.
His style got sloppy. He started pounding the bag, leaning back and putting all his dumb animal strength into his forearm. He threw a mean elbow and an illegal knee. He was more Hogan and Hart than he was Balboa. He didn't notice. He didn't care.
He could feel his muscles popping and singing with lactic acid, but he thought it was because he was giving it his all. He couldn't tell they were growing and bulging out his refined frame into something inhuman. His center of balance shifted as his pecs barreled out, two slabs of pure, refined man-meat ripping through his shirt. He paid it no mind. His body was screaming with strength like never before, and all he could feel was a sense of satisfaction that his workout was going decently.
His felt his hands, both of them now, cramp up, but not enough to stop him. His fingers fused and through pleasurable pain throughout his whole frame. Five forced themselves into three. His fingers felt like they were peeled back as hoof-stuff broke from under the nailbed and gave him keratin-black nails, which he promptly dug into his palms.
His feet bunched up similarly - morphing and hardening into a hoof. He stepped back on unsure footing as his thighs began to surge out with bull muscle. The pain almost threw him to the ground, his thighs beginning to surge through his pants and covered with patches of fur. The pinpricks of hair spread from his thighs up, covering him in a subtle and pervasive layer of masc bull musk. He could taste himself, his own perverse animal pheromones coating his nose such that the dust of the warehouse completely disappeared from his mind. He could taste it, too. He tasted horny. He tasted hornier than he had ever been; ever imagined anyone could even begin to be. For the first time, his mind was off the practice.
All Adrian could tell was that he was pent-up beyond all belief. His thighs, now two, maybe three sizes larger than they once were, couldn't catch his eye. All he could do was drag a hand to what tatters of pants he had left to try and release the urge. He pushed past his bush, skipping his cock entirely, to brush his quivering hole. His fingers, now bullskin-tough and thick as a cock, gave him a feeling like nothing he'd experienced before. It didn't feel like he was pleasing himself. It felt like something alien, like some strange hunk had approached him somewhere, maybe a hot bathhouse, and was now warming him up for some real play.
The thoughts transitioned into fantasy - he was in a warm, steamy spa room, and some tough, classical alpha male was sliding a hand down his thighs. The imagined hand brushed past his balls, inflating more and more with corruptive bull cum moment by moment, and started teasing him open. He was of two minds about it - this hunk, he didn't want to give it up to him just like that. And, wait, huh, wasn't he straight? He was straight! Wasn't he? His sexuality was tottering out of him, but he didn't think anything of it. The fantasy continued, his thick ass spread open to the cool air by two heavy hands.
The fingering continued, his hungry ass taking his freakishly large hand with effort and growing and expanding. The touch continued to excite him, the way his alien hands seemed to feel like someone elses', someone strong, someone in control. He was hard now, and the pill's effect surged through his blood with renewed strength. Even though he was already hard, he kept growing. His dick stretched and pulled, padding on more and more girth, becoming something a cock absolutely shouldn't be. It was rounded now, thick as a soda can all the way through, and getting blacker and blacker. Musk and pheromones stained the cock wet and it glistened in the warehouse light. His balls heaved now, bouncing up and down with each thrust of his finger.
His cock - it felt like all the pleasure in sex was concentrated there, in that moment. Any touch, any feeling, could make him blow. It bobbed now, flapping in the air with animal heft. He began to leak transformative pre, just a little, on the cold tile. It was now that he began to realize that something was happening to him. His cock, just a little too large. His muscle, too bulbous. He made out a scent he'd only ever smelled before on a farm.
The realization came over him all at once. A bull. A bull! A bull. But he couldn't stop. His gloriously overinflated dick, his bulbous testes, everything in him was too large. Everything in him was round. He almost stopped finger himself. His head started to...hurt? Almost. It was pure pressure. Like a headache, but pleasure. He couldn't stop now. This was his. He was a bull.
His face distorted and pulled out, that same pleasure from his skull now all over his head. So much potential. His face like pure putty. He looked down and saw something taking up almost all of his vision. His snout. He had a snout now. He could smell himself for all he was, an animal. A breeding machine. There was a need in him, a need that was him, and that need was to fuck.
He pulled his finger out of his ass with a heavy plop. He looked down at himself now. All muscle, brown fur, six pack. A cock that hung to his knees and flopped in the breeze. Filled with cum. He needed to cum
He took his balls in his massive hand, rubbing them around and feeling his heat. He was a monster. A bull. A breeder. There was no going back. Cock and musk, balls and muscle, him. He was going to cum.
He reared his head back and almost screamed. Painted the ground white. Something in him snapped - he was a breeder bull, and the job of a breeder bull was to breed. Outside, in the real world, there were people. Cows in need of persuasion. And he was the one to persuade.
But first, the fight.