"Bet you twenty bucks I can hold my breath longer than you," Carlos said, shaking water from his hair as he hauled himself onto the pool deck. The chlorine smell hung thick in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of competition.
Deshawn smirked, peeling off his swim cap with a snap. "Man, you really woke up today choosing failure." He stretched his arms overhead, muscles flexing. "But sure, let’s take your money."
The locker room’s flickering lights didn’t do Deshawn any favors—his cock was unfairly impressive even in the shitty lighting, thick and heavy against his thigh. Carlos hated how his mouth went dry every time Deshawn pulled this stunt, which was approximately every other Tuesday.
They'd been doing this since freshman year—racing, diving, timing each other, always ending up dead even. It drove Carlos nuts. He could out-swim anyone else on the team, but Deshawn? Every damn time, it was a tie.
The locker room afterward was their usual battleground. Deshawn toweled off lazily, grinning like he’d already won. "Y’know, even when we tie, I still come out on top," he said, nodding toward his towel-clad hips with exaggerated pride.
Carlos rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stick that way permanently. "Oh, here we go—King Dickhead’s daily sermon," he muttered, wringing out his swim trunks with more force than necessary.
Deshawn’s grin only widened as he let his towel drop with theatrical slowness, the fabric pooling at his feet. "See, this right here?" He gestured lazily at himself, thick thighs shifting as he turned slightly to give Carlos the full view. "This is what they call a biological advantage. Ain’t no tie when it comes to this leaderboard, my guy."
Carlos snorted, pretending to inspect his own nails. "Wow, congrats. You hit the genetic lottery for being a walking, talking dildo. Meanwhile, I actually had to work for these abs." He flexed, just to be obnoxious, but his gaze flicked downward despite himself. Damn it.
Deshawn caught him looking and arched an eyebrow. "Admit it. You’re jealous." He took a step closer, the scent of chlorine and cheap body wash clinging to his skin. "Girls talk, Carlos. They say shit like—" He dropped his voice into a breathy falsetto. "Oh my God, Deshawn, it’s like you’re rearranging my insides—"
Carlos scoffed, but his pulse kicked up when Deshawn stepped into his space, all warm skin and smug confidence. "Yeah, yeah, we get it—you’re God’s gift to coochie," he said, forcing his eyes to stay locked on Deshawn’s face. A losing battle. "Congrats on being born with a third leg. You want a trophy? Or just another excuse to wave it around like a fucking parade float?"
Deshawn’s laugh was low, rolling through the locker room like he owned the air between them. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and tugged them down just enough to make Carlos’ throat go tight. "Nah, just giving the people what they want," he said, nodding toward the undeniable thickness pushing against the fabric. "You’re people, right?"
Carlos swallowed hard. The bastard wasn’t wrong—Deshawn’s cock was a fucking event, thick and dark against his hip, the head already flushed from the heat of their shower. The way it curved slightly down for how massive it is was stupidly distracting. Carlos hated to admit that.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "You’re a piece of shit. Why the fuck you have to show your cock every chance you get?"
Deshawn’s grin was all teeth. "And yet here you are," he said, leaning in until Carlos could smell the mint of his gum, "still looking."
Carlos’ fingers twitched at his sides, the damp locker room air suddenly too thick. "Please. You think just because you got lucky in the dick department, you know how to use it?" He forced a laugh, rough at the edges. "Bet I could handle that monster better than you if it was mine."
Deshawn’s grin turned predatory. He stepped closer, the heat of his body pressing into Carlos’ space. "Oh yeah?" His voice dropped, rough with amusement. "You volunteering for a field test, mexico boy?" Before Carlos could retort, Deshawn grabbed his hand and pressed it against the leaking head of his cock, smearing precum across his knuckles.
The sensation hit Carlos like a live wire—hot, slick, and so fucking real. His breath stuttered. Deshawn’s chuckle was dark against his ear. "See? Already got you hooked." He dragged Carlos’ hand down the thick length, the friction making his own cock twitch in his speedo. "Talk shit all you want, but you want a taste of this big black cock. Everyone wants some of mine, even dudes like you."
Oh dude, if you only knew what I would do to have a bit of you into me.
"Fuck you," Carlos muttered, but his grip tightened instinctively, thumb brushing the swollen ridge just beneath the head. The black cock throbbed, fattening even more, this time Carlos was taken aback at how he couldn't close his hand around it.
I deserve to have a superior dick like this, not this asshole.
Deshawn’s hand slid down Carlos’ back with a possessiveness that shouldn’t have felt as natural as it did, fingers digging into the firm swell of his glutes. Carlos barely had time to grit out a "the hell—" before those fingers twisted, rough and sudden, and a single digit pressed insistently past resistance. The gasp that tore from Carlos’ throat was half shock, half something far messier, his body arching before he could stop himself. Deshawn’s chuckle was a dark rumble against his ear, his middle finger working deeper with obscene ease, the stretch burning in a way that made Carlos’ toes curl against the damp tile. "Fuck—fuck—get off—" Carlos snarled, but his hips jerked back instinctively, driving Deshawn’s finger to the knuckle.
The hand on his ass tightened, Deshawn’s other hand still smearing precum down the length of Carlos’ trapped erection through the thin fabric of his speedo. "Nah, nah, you asked for this," Deshawn murmured, lips grazing the shell of Carlos’ ear. "Talkin’ all that shit ‘bout handling my dick better’n me—mira, now you got it." His teeth scraped Carlos’ neck, the sting sharp and bright, and then—Carlos felt it. A pull, deep and impossible, like his ribs were collapsing inward, Deshawn’s chest melting against his own.
Carlos’ breath hitched as Deshawn’s body lurched forward with a grunt, his pecs sinking into Carlos’ skin as if sucked into quicksand. Deshawn’s eyes widened, his cock twitching against Carlos’ thigh as he tried to wrench backward—but Carlos’ hands were already moving, one tangling in Deshawn’s neck to yank his face flush against his collarbone, the other clamping around his bicep to hold him still. "The fuck—?!" Deshawn’s voice was muffled against Carlos’ skin, his legs kicking uselessly as his hips dissolved next, thick thighs merging into Carlos’ own with a wet, hungry sound.
Pleasure crackled up Carlos’ spine like lightning, his muscles bulging unnaturally as Deshawn’s mass redistributed beneath his skin. His veins rose, thick and dark, spiderwebbing across his biceps as his shoulders broadened, his spine popping with the force of his body accommodating the sheer bulk of the man disappearing into him. Carlos groaned, head falling back as his hips jerked forward, his cock pulsing in his speedos—then tearing through the fabric as it thickened, lengthened, the weight of it dragging low and heavy between his legs.
Deshawn’s scream was guttural when his cock entered Carlos—not in the way either of them expected, but assimilating, the thick shaft fusing into Carlos’ own as it darkened to a deep, glistening ebony. The stretch was maddening, his balls swelling to cradle the new weight, and Carlos laughed, breathless and wild, as Deshawn’s final shuddering gasp vibrated through his ribs. The last of him—his smirk, his swagger, his heat—dissolved into Carlos’ marrow with a final, wet pop.
The locker room air was thick with the scent of sweat and something darker, muskier, as Carlos flexed his hands—their hands—feeling the power coiled in every tendon. His reflection in the foggy mirror was wrong: taller, broader, his skin a rich bronze where Deshawn’s darkness had seeped into his own, his cock obscene against his thigh, soft and still fat, the head glistening. Carlos grinned, running a thumb over the swollen ridge just beneath it, and shuddered. "Mierda," he breathed, voice rougher, deeper, laced with Deshawn’s cadence. "Shoulda devoured you sooner."
Carlos' fingers traced the obscene new weight between his thighs—hot, heavy, throbbing with every pulse of his heartbeat. The transformation wasn’t just absorption; it was upgrade. Deshawn’s cock had fused with his own, reshaping it into something monstrously thick, the shaft now a deep, veined ebony that stood in stark contrast to his bronze skin. The head had swollen into a ruddy, glistening crown, the ridge beneath it pronounced enough to make his breath hitch when he brushed it. "Holy shit," Carlos muttered, but the words came out wrong—deeper, richer, laced with Deshawn’s smug cadence.
The locker room mirror confirmed it: his reflection was a better version of them, his shoulders broader, his waist thicker, his skin tinged with Deshawn’s darkness where their bodies had merged. But the real masterpiece was his cock—their cock—curving proudly against his stomach, the sheer girth of it making his thighs tremble.
His hips jerked forward instinctively, the new weight dragging deliciously against his abs. The sensation was insane—every movement sent ripples of pleasure through him, the thick veins along the shaft pulsing as if Deshawn’s essence was still alive in there, fighting to be felt. Carlos bit his lip, thumbing the slick head, and a strangled groan escaped him when his own cock—no, theirs—twitched violently in response. "Fuck," he breathed, the word thick with two voices. "You’re still in there, huh?" He tightened his grip, stroking slowly, and the answering throb was unmistakable.
Carlos grinned, palming the heavy length, and a shiver ran through him as precum beaded at the tip. "Told you," he murmured, voice layered with Deshawn’s phantom chuckle. "Looks way better on me."
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