These were not the only changes to the room. Phil's bed was pressed up against one wall, but mine was moved out into the center of the room, as if it were on display. He had left several pornographic magazines sitting upon our table. I had seen some pretty messed up stuff, but the things he was looking at made me want to retch.

There was no time for that. The door burst open, hitting the wall with a gunshot's bang. Two forms were standing in the doorway. Phil's was recognizable. No one else could make a green t-shirt and grey sweats bulge so exquisitely. They were my clothes. They fit him well. The material of the shirt clung to Phil's swollen deltoids. It probably would have showcased the individual bricks of his 8-pack had it not been untucked and tented out by his protruding pectorals. The bulge in Phil's pants was stunning in length and girth, stretching halfway down to his knee.

The person next to him was more simply dressed. He was clad in a vivid blue polo shirt and khaki pants. As was common fashion, the thick band of a gold watch encircled his wrist, and a cheap silver chain stretched around his slender neck. The guy was definitely handsome, with a few Nordic features watered down by a deluge of something more European. French, probably, given his prominent nose and dark brows. He was slim, like a junior varsity tennis player. Not a very big guy. Then it struck me: he was about three or four inches taller than I was, now. He probably had some muscle on me, too. It made my tool go hard. I flinched.

"See, he's all ready, Trevor," Phil said. His voice was deeper again, and as he stepped into the surer light of the room, I could see he was sporting a thick reddish-golden beard shadow. Surely this could not be my roommate. It had to be his hunky older brother. But no, that deep pettiness lurking beneath his ice-blue eyes told me otherwise.

And Trevor. I couldn't believe how my perceptions had been skewed. This was Trevor Golding, from the tennis team? I had taught him a lot about lifting weights before I had finally gotten frustrated with his attitude. He thought money could buy him anything, and had tried coaxing me into getting him steroids and whatever other new miracle drugs he could think of. Someone had finally slipped word of Trevor's indiscretions to his wealthy father, whose name was on the college's Golding Hall, and Trevor had nearly been disowned.

"This isn't Dane Jackson," Trevor told Phil straight off. "You're trying to bullshit me." Trevor's voice was unusually high-pitched for a guy of about 5'11. I had never paid much attention to his height, but he was an inch or two taller than Phil.

I could practically see Phil debating whether or not to use his voice's powers on Trevor. He stayed strong against it. "You'll see, Trevor. Besides, if you're not satisfied, I'll give you your money back."

"It's disgusting. Letting some guy cum on me." His lip curled. "You'll probably take pictures of it and send them to my parents."

"I told you you could trust me, Trevor. Don't you believe me?" Phil looked at Trevor, spearing him with his eyes.

Natural doubt and confusion—probably the lingering remnants of earlier mind control—warred over Trevor's face. Phil's will won out.

"I want a sample."

Phil smirked. Gleefully, he said, "Dane, ditch the clothes. Trevor, you want to take a look?"

I didn't immediately obey. The compulsion was still there, but it was no longer irresistible thanks to Professor McTague's command. Phil's eyes narrowed only a fraction before I was up and stripping. I stripped off my sandals, dropped my pants and boxers in one fell swoop, and yanked my t-shirt over my head. It felt good to obey Phil, but that was no longer my lifeblood and breath.

Unfortunately, Liam had not thought to shield me from embarassment. My skin was flushing again with the heat of my shame at being naked. It was not just that I was weaker, smaller, and nude in front of two people who were appraising me like a prize horse. As Trevor ran a hand over the light muscling of my chest and abdominals, my member hardened even more. It rose, diminished but proud, between my legs.

"Pretty hung for a short shit," Trevor said. "I'm a little smaller than that," he said to Phil.

"I care," Phil muttered. Definitely not Phil's evil older brother. My roommate had a unique brand of caustic sarcasm that I had never heard anyone duplicate.

Trevor backed away from me. "I want a free sample," he told Phil.

My roommate took an instant to acknowledge the request before granting it. "Sure," he said. "But only a little bit. Then you pay by play. You should probably ditch your clothes."

Trevor's shirt came off first. His skin was a deep golden brown, with faint flaxen down but little other hair. He had a faint six-pack and flat if defined pectorals. He had no biceps of which to speak; he was too lanky for that. As he shucked his pants and boxers, I noted that he had been exaggerating about the size of his equipment. He was hard with excitement at the possibilities, and he probably would have had trouble meeting five and a half inches on the ruler. His balls and groin were covered in more golden down.

"I want you to have an orgasm," came the order from Phil. "But don't cum too much. Into your hand."

The moment my hand touched my seven incher, I felt pleasure rocket through my senses. My eyes rolled back involuntarily, my toes began to clench and unclench, and darkness crept into my uncertain vision. I felt fire roar through me, and then... it was over. I could feel blue balls starting to set in, but dared not cringe in pain. Part of my palm was covered in sticky white goo. A streamer of it was still connected to my pounding, unsatisfied member.

Trevor reached out, but Phil's vein-tangled forearm shot out to stop him. "A little test first," he told Trevor. In his other hand, he was easily hefting one of my 30 pound dumbbells. I wondered if I could still curl that much.

Glancing reluctantly at the semen in my hand, Trevor turned toward Phil. His five inch dick bobbed its agreement.

With a grunt, Trevor attempted to curl the 30 pound dumbbell in his right arm. He struggled and strained, veins burrowing out of his forehead and forearms, his slim musculature shaking with the effort. Finally, he curled it to about half way before letting it drop to the ground with a clunk.

"Now, how about some juice?" Phil gestured to my hand. "Rub it on Trevor, Dane."

I reached out with trepidation, placing a hand on the faint musculature of Trevor's abdominals. The instant the cum on my hand touched Trevor's skin, his cock leapt. Out of habit, I jerked my hand away. I felt the warm wetness vanish, saw Trevor's eyes widen.

A tremor passed through him. There had not been very much to change him, I thought. But almost imperceptibly, I saw the transformation begin. He groaned in pleasure as his abs tightened, hardening while some of the thin layer of fat concealing them dissipated. Growing shoulders and lats and a shrinking waist turned his lanky build into a slender but noticeable V-shape. I absently wondered if his deltoids were just expanding, or if his bone structure was widening to accommodate future growth.

His chest pushed outward, giving him the look of someone who had actually worked at the bench press, albeit perhaps with poor genetics. His biceps might have expanded a bit, but I couldn't tell. I did notice that a single vein welled up beneath the surface of each unflexed arm where the skin had been flat before. I originally thought his cock had merely hardened more, but as I watched, he put on a bit of size there as well. He was a good way toward six inches when the limited catalyst to his growth wore completely out. And no one would again fairly call him a pencil dick.

Trevor looked at himself with disappointment. He had not changed much, although his body had definitely metamorphosed from slender to lithely muscled. He glanced at me coolly, then bent to retrieve the weight. I didn't realize until he began to curl it with relative ease that I had been holding my breath. Trevor was smiling down at me. He looked slightly taller than I remembered. I hoped that was mostly in my imagination, the height difference between the two of us was ominous enough.

He pumped the 30 pound weight, and I watched the vein-split biceps of his right arm leap and swell, leap and swell, every time he curled. He was getting something of a pump, and his right biceps had formed itself into a solid goose egg of muscle.

Phil broke my rapt concentration on the muscle.

"So, how can he help you?" he asked. •