The Fizz (Patreon)

Rhys sneered at the aluminum can in his thick red fingers and then turned his wrath on Cash. “Since when did I drink light beer…? I gave you one job, and you couldn’t even do that right!” He hoisted the beverage for a moment, like he was going to hurl it out of the clearing and into the dense, dark forest that huddled like an enormous beast not too far away. Beads of sweat had appeared on his shaved head, even though the temperature was mild. Hart watched, amused, as Rhys popped the top of the can and chugged the brew anyway.

Cash cringed, looking a bit silly in that attitude, with his 6’4” frame a full head taller than the furious fireplug berating him. “I didn’t know,” he protested, feebly. “It’s what I always drink. You… you asked for beer, man! I got you beer!”

The short man snorted, his burly arms swinging anxiously. His bushy black biker ‘stache bristled as he growled, “Since when have you ever seen me drink this gay ass piss water? It’s always stouts, you dumb donkey! Guinness, usually, but any brand will do in a pinch. Fuck…! I’m a stout man, you know that!”

Hart guffawed and slapped his volatile pal on his considerable beer gut. “Yeah, you’re a stout man, alright!”

A corner of Rhys’s mustache lifted in a hint of a smile. “Watch it, kid.”

Hart took a step forward, planting himself between his two friends. “We didn’t come here to argue. This is about getting an afternoon away from the ladies. Man Time! That was the plan! Least ways, that’s how I remember it.” He eased his trucker cap back on his skull, revealing more of his close-cropped ginger hair, and stroked his patchy orange beard sagely. “Let’s not go at each other, okay?”

“I won’t if he won’t,” Cash pouted. He pulled at his foot-long blonde goatee. He always did that when he was upset.

Rhys shot Hart a knowing look and thrust his hand at his huge, vague friend. “Truce,” he declared.

The clouds on Cash’s dopey mug parted. “Truce,” he echoed, and shook the hand with gusto. Just then, a butterfly landed atop his blonde mullet. It had cerulean wings edged in silver. Cash shooed the creature away in a panic, then laughed his honking laugh. “I was afraid it was a bat or something.”

“You would be,” Rhys grumbled. They took the lawn chairs from the back of Rhys’s pickup and arranged them in a circle around the huge beer cooler. Hart returned to the cab for the boxes of fried chicken they’d picked up on the way out here. The trio’s respective girlfriends were hitting the outlet malls while the men were supposedly fishing. That was Hart’s idea. Five days into a shared vacation at a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the mood had gotten tense. The ladies had decided the boys were having too much fun. “Bunch of goddamn buzzkills,” Rhys had groused.

Hart had pulled the other two aside and hit them with an alternate explanation. “They ain’t never seen us party this hard. There’s your problem. I think we’re freaking them out! Let’s be honest… we’ve been fucking sauced three nights in a row, and then we’ve been too hungover to do much of anything the next morning.”

The other two had to admit he was right. Hart formulated the plan on the spot. They’d find a place where they could drink away from the girls. They’d brought fishing rods and tackle on the trip in case they were ever in the mood to fish, so they had a readymade excuse. But instead of a lake — too many people — they’d hit up a scenic spot where Hart had camped as a kid.

“I never forgot this place,” Hart mused as he swung his lean legs upward from his seat and rested his boots on the cooler. “It’s special. I can’t rightly describe it, but it’s like the flowers and birds and everything here is better, somehow. Like the colors are brighter. The air is sweeter, too. Smell that? Like honey.” He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and smiled blissfully.

Rhys swiveled his head and peered at their surroundings. “Yeah, it’s nice. I guess I do feel a mite more relaxed.” He turned to Cash. “What do you think, buddy?”

Their outsized pal seemed to be distracted by the half-dozen or so butterflies fluttering around his mammoth skull, all with blue and silver wings like the first. “Huh? Sure, I’m cool with it.”

Hart watched the insects perch on Cash’s bare shoulders and arms, then said, quietly, “Don’t move.” Slowly, he raised his phone and took several pictures of the tableau. “Okay, I’m done,” he announced, abruptly, and started to tap and swipe on the screen.

An hour later, the trio’s boisterous conversation had settled into quiet contemplation. There was ore sipping and less talking. “I don’t know why,” Rhys belched, “but a beer always tastes better in the outdoors.” He scratched at his gut, which seemed slightly more bloated than usual. It had expanded just enough to raise the hem of his muscle shirt and show off a ribbon of hairy flesh. Flesh that seemed hairier than it had been the last time his friends had seen him with his shirt off.

“It’s this place, brother,” Hart said. He took another swig from his can and scratched at his sideburns. His patchy beard had filled in and was on the verge of becoming lush, while his mustache had retreated into his upper lip, giving him a well-defined chinstrap. “It’s funny… you know those butterflies I took pics of…? I did a reverse image search a little while ago, and it turns out, they ain’t from around here. They’re called ‘Silver-Studded Blues’ and they’re native to Europe.”

Cash stretched his long legs and wriggled his toes beneath the leather of his boots. He’d been doing that a lot, lately. “Aw, bullshit,” he declared. “How’s that even possible?” He took a generous swig from his beer and made a curious face, but then took a second sip.

“It happens,” Hart shrugged. They can get carried over the ocean by strong winds, and then they rest on boats and floating patches of trash and such.” He doffed his hat to let some cool air touch his scalp. His hair had grown out a few inches, and the tips of his ears had acquired gentle points.

Rhys looked at Cash and said, “Hart’s a college boy! You’d best listen to him, dumbass.”

“I got smarts, old man,” Cash pouted. “Y’all keep treating me like a fucking mor-AWN—!” The last word spasmed into a ragged honk. And as his mouth yawned wider, his upper teeth seemed to shift forward and downward in his mouth, growing larger and thicker. Especially his buck teeth.

Rhys exploded with laughter, his gut ballooning and forcing the hem of his shirt up to his bulbous pecs. The pink flesh was instantly swarmed by a carpet of curly, salt-and-pepper fur. “Holy hell,” he boomed. “Do us all a favor and stop talking.”

Cash opened his toothy mouth and emitted a dry squawk, then closed it again. He sank back into his chair, looking confused. With a nervous gesture, he pulled at the tops of his ears, which responded to his touch by elongating and growing a coat of gray fuzz.

Rhys swished the beer in his cheek. “This light beer is fizzy as hell,” he marveled. “Has kind of a weird aftertaste, too. Like grapes.” Dense white stubble had appeared on his cheeks, and a few white hairs had invaded his raven biker ‘stache. “It’s a good kind of fizz, though. Makes me feel kinda loose. And giggly.” As he chuckled at his own remark, his gaze landed on Hart. His smile grew enigmatic, and he boldly clamped one hand on his crotch. His young friend was looking very handsome, he thought. Hart had been a star athlete in high school, but too much alcohol had cursed his body with a layer of flab and a stooped, weary posture. Not anymore, though. The excess fat seemed to be melting, and he sat with a straight-backed, almost aggressive attitude.

“Amen to that,” Hart nodded. He tipped his can to his lips once more, then checked the label in consternation. “The heck…? This is… grape seltzer. Have we been drinking goddamn seltzer the whole time?” Whatever annoyance he felt fluttered away like the strange blue butterflies that had been gathering about them in increasing numbers, and he grinned. His hair was about five inches long now, his bangs pushed into a “V” shape by two round bumps on his forehead. He tapped his leather-clad feet on the ground. “Getting warmer,” he remarked. “Don’t you think so?”

“I got some heat going on, yeah,” Rhys smirked. A short snow-white beard adorned his face, which boasted plump cheeks and a double chin. Bumps like Hart’s afflicted his skull, but at his temples. His ears had gone pointy as well, with the tops curling outward and threatening to flop sideways. He squeezed his bulge and licked his lips.

“Message received,” Hart grinned. He eased himself up from his lawn chair and hobbled over to where Rhys was sitting. His feet felt swollen and numb, but the fizz of the drinks was percolating in his brain, and he found it difficult to worry about anything. Still, something odd was happening, he thought. He looked over his shoulder at his chair and saw that it had disappeared. In its place was a mossy boulder with a broad depression on the top, perfect for sitting. Looking back at Rhys, he blinked. He was sitting on a large, smooth rock as well, this one twice as large as his own. Nearby, the silent Cash perched on one even larger. His eyes were huge and black and glossy, yet somehow dull. With clumsy, gray-nailed fingers, he was occupied with braiding his impossibly thick, three-foot-long goatee. An obscenely huge boner distended the crotch of his jean shorts, and he pawed at it irritably.

“Numb nuts there is catching the vibe,” Rhys remarked. He grabbed Hart’s tautly muscled arm as he drew near and pulled him down next to himself. Hart’s chinstrap beard had gotten longer at the chin and split into gently curling forks. His eyebrows had thickened like the rest of his hair, and become arched, giving his beautiful countenance a mischievous air. The older man fingered his junk, feeling his expanding gut brushing against the top of his hairy hand. His belly and his member seemed to be in competing growth spurts. The warm, humid air brought the songs of birds to his ears. Birds which sounded almost like piccolos and flutes, or some other kind of high-pitched, piping instruments. He brought Hart’s palm down onto his crotch and held it there. “Help me out, hot stuff,” he purred. “I’m busy drinking.”

“First things first,” Hart laughed. “Let’s get you out of that tiny t-shirt before your tits are strangled to death.” He took another chug of the fizzy drink before setting the can down. With that, he coaxed Rhys’ arms upward and pulled the tight garment from his obese midsection. His breath caught in his throat. Rhys pecs had bloated and softened into a set of silver-furred breasts with hot pink areolae some four inches in diameter and stiff red nipples the size of his thumbs. It made his mouth water. Shaking his head in a vain attempt at gaining a minimum of clarity, he attacked the problem of his friend’s jeans. Rhys’ erection had stretched the denim so much that he couldn’t get the zipper to work. But as he fretfully scrabbled his fingers at the device, the jeans seemed to unravel themselves, thrusting Rhys’ sweaty cock into his hands.

The turgid rod was unlike anything he’d seen; three inches thick with a mushroom head was as big as his fist, and the entire enterprise was probably eighteen inches in length, with a decided curve. And it was still growing. A strong, musky scent wafted from it, making him feel dizzy. Rhys’ balls were larger than grapefruits and covered in lush, silky silver fur. Hart moaned, the ululating sound of it remarkably like a bleat. “Goddamn… I want to suckle on that thing so fucking bad…!” He brushed a long lock of orange hair away from his eyes. His horns had budded from his skin now. They were a matte rusty red and bore fine ridges.

Rhys ogled the younger man’s powerful form. “I can’t be the only asshole here without a shirt on,” he laughed. “Too hot for clothes anyhow.”

“Sir, yes, SIR,” Hart giggled. He removed the shirt slowly for maximum effect, revealing a torso covered in short, dense, downy hair which grew thicker and curlier the closer it got to his waist. Likewise, the tint deepened from ginger to auburn. His areolae and nipples had enlarged like Rhys’, although not as much. Still, they were a sight to behold.

Rhys released a long, bleating grunt. “Screw this, he declared. “Just get all the way naked, boy.”

Something about his friend’s commanding voice sent a thrill through Hart’s body. Fixing his eyes on his friend, he sent his hands crawling downward onto his thighs and… there were no clothes to be found. Instead, he encountered fur. Fur of a deep brown color, nearly black, and interspersed with orange hairs in a brindle pattern. His digits caressed his fur, deeply, digging his long nails into it. The agitation released his particular musk into the air. A healthy, outdoorsy smell, like pine needles and fresh-cut grass. An inexplicable happiness exploded in his brain. Walking more confidently on his new hooves, he took a seat next to Rhys and hugged him, then took some time rubbing his gut and teasing his nipples. Age had settled onto Rhys’ face, and it suited him. Fine lines had etched themselves into Rhys’ forehead and around his eyes, and his mustache had gone stark white. The surrounding beard had grown even longer than the mustache, and it was nicely curly. White hairs covered his ears, which were now those of a mature goat, long and floppy and laying sideways from his skull. His horns were glossy black and as they grew, they curled about in great circles. Rams’ horns.

“I feel,” Rhys began, “I… I feel. It’s like I can feel all of this, all around us, and it’s so perfect, every last bit of it. Why couldn’t I appreciate things before? Why was I so angry all the time?” Reflexively, he lifted the seltzer can to his mouth. But it wasn’t a can, now. It was a wine bottle. “Even better,” he chuckled, and he drained the thing in one long sip.”

Hart leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. And then on the mouth, in a long, deep expression of his affection. Placing his hand on the side of Rhys’ head, he said, “I love you so much, man. I think I always did, but seeing you like this, seeing you so happy at last…! It just makes me want you more.” He kissed him again, and then moved downward, bestowing kisses and bites on his nipples, working him up before taking his two-foot-long cock in his mouth.

Rhys leaned back, savoring Hart’s attention. “I love you too, sweet thing. I feel like there were other people in our lives, maybe even women, but I can hardly remember them now.” As Hart edged him, he bleated, and then his eyes fell on Cash.

Cash was huge, a behemoth, with barely a scrap of intelligence in his bestial face. Stiff gray hair covered his naked body, with white patches on his beefy torso and the bottom half of his face. His legs were like a donkey’s but much more muscular, more akin to a draft horse’s. His arms had grown out of proportion with the rest of his body, giving him the look of a satyr crossed with a mountain gorilla. His braided beard hung down to his knees. His donkey ears had migrated to the top of his head, and his mullet had narrowed to a mohawk which was also braided and as long as the beard. His cock and balls were elephantine, but his shaft was soft and useless. His gleaming black eyes regarded Rhys with bland affection. He was a beast of burden, eager to serve, and that was it.

Rhys looked back at Hart, who had miraculously taken all of his gargantuan shaft in his mouth and was working away at it, sending him paroxysms of delight. The kid’s hair had grown past his shoulders now, and a fluffy goat tail wagged happily above his hairy bubble butt.

Where the cooler had been was a small, bubbling spring the size of a wading pool. More wine bottles sat in the cool water. “Two birds,” Rhys said to himself. He called to Cash, “Make yourself useful and get over here! And fetch me another wine!”

Cash lurched upward from his boulder and knuckle-walked over to where they sat. One long, furry arm reached backwards and seized a wine bottle. Rhys pulled the cork from the thing with his teeth and motioned to Hart. “Get in there, fool! Tongue his ass good.” He suckled at the bottle, letting the fizz wash over him. Watching Cash gently lift Hart’s waist so he could get his tongue into his hole made Rhys laugh, but he was glad that Cash took direction so well. The guy barely seemed to have a brain in his head. But he was good at sex, that was for sure.

As his shaggy balls emptied their seed into Hart’s willing mouth, Rhys observed his young lover’s ears become fully goat like. They protruded from the shining mane of hair that now fell to Hart’s rigid, hairy abs. His goat legs kicked inside Cash’s powerful grasp and his goat tail wagged merrily. The ginger satyr’s horns stretched outward to a full foot in length as he swallowed gallons of hot spunk, and he grunted and groaned with a ravenous animal lust.

Hart squirmed out of Cash’s grip and tumbled onto the grass, laughing and bleating. Clapping his hands, he cried, “Again, again!”

Rhys stroked his titanic beard, which draped over his apron gut and hung between his goatish knees. In a creaking, aged voice, he cautioned, “I don’t know if this old goat has it in him!”

“One way to find out,” Hart grinned. Crouching, he slipped one hand beneath Rhys’ gray-furred fat pad and felt for his testes. “They’re filling up with cum already… but you’re right. They could be fuller.”

“I need another bottle of wine, boy,” Rhys declared. The curling gray hair of his beard had seized territory on his scalp, growing about two inches long in a horseshoe pattern around the lower half of his skull. The classic receding hairline of an elderly man. His ram’s horns had grown to their full length, spiraling around in complete circles. His drooping goat ears flicked as butterflies perched on them.

With a deep bray, Cash appeared and thrust an object into Rhys’ arms. Rhys looked down at the bulging wine skin and said, “I asked for a bottle… still, any port in a storm, they say.”

“Ain’t no bottles anymore,” Hart laughed. He motioned to the clear, cool spring. Additional wine skins sat in the water. “I don’t know why we’re fucking with a spring, no how. Red wine tastes better when it’s warm.”

Squeezing the ruby liquid into his mouth, Rhys said, “I don’t care either way, I guess. I just want to have a good time. Speaking of which… get your ass over here, kid.”

“Anything for you, daddy,” Hart said with a wink. “Pull up that gut and take my hole!”

As Rhys eased his throbbing, dripping pole into Hart’s hairy ass, Hart coaxed the stupid but pliable Cash into sucking him off. The trio quickly found a steady, rocking rhythm, swaying in harmony, their freakishly altered bodies one, and that joined body one with nature. Cash’s donkey teeth scraped and teased Hart’s turgid shaft, and his muffled braying only made Hart stiffer. As the donkey-man slurped on the satyr cock, his mouth and nose pushed outward into a full donkey muzzle. Hart pressed against the Silenus cock he was receiving, eager to draw even more of it into his body. The forest sounds intensified. Rustling leaves, cracking twigs, the barks and yips of small animals, and the melodious bird sounds that could pass for flute music. The blue skies flushed a deep pink. As he toyed with his own nipples, Hart felt as though the place was strange to him, and at the same time, as though he’d always been here.

In the distance, the rugged azure mountains had vanished, with rolling green hills in their place. Atop one was a colorfully painted stone temple. From far away, he could hear the roar of the ocean. He could hear everything now. There were men playing music in the velvet shadows of the trees. Men with the hooves of goats and donkeys and horses. They were randy and drunk — endlessly — just like himself. Just like Rhys and Cash. His human memories were slipping away, but he had time to wonder… had the enchanted place in the Blue Ridge Mountains cast its spell on him the first time he’d come here? Was it the reason he’d grown up to worship pleasure above all things?

Cash’s teeth, Rhys’ shaft, and his own expert nipple play combined to send a fixzing shock of ecstasy through his nerves. Hot jizz filled him up, and his own spunk blasted down the donkey-man’s throat. They were one. And not too far away, their primal brothers waited to receive them. In the forest. Their home, their sanctuary. Their temple to Pleasure.

The friends, exhausted, emptied more wine skins and silently watched the sky deepen to a rich purple. Then Cash dropped down to a simian stance, and Hart helped Rhys maneuver his bulky, unsteady form atop the donkey-man’s back. Rhys held tight to Cash’s hair braid while Hart led Cash by his beard braid while slinging the remaining wine skins over his strong shoulder. As they wound through the ancient trees, small fires sparked to life in the darkness ahead. Hart bleated in satisfaction. The party was only beginning.