The metal was cool against his palm, slick with something that felt more like condensation than dust. Mike hadn’t been searching for anything in particular in the old storage unit; he was just procrastinating on cleaning out his late uncle’s junk. But the glint of gold under a faded tarp caught his eye. He pulled, and a chain slithered free with a soft, metallic shiiink.
It was oddly beautiful. A heavy, solid gold pendant in the shape of a four-leaf clover hung from thick, masculine links. It felt… active in his hand, a faint, pleasant hum seeming to travel up his arm. Weird. He shrugged, the chain’s weight satisfying. Finders keepers. He looped it over his head, the cool metal resting against his sternum. It felt right.
He went about his evening as if everything was normal. Ordered a pizza, half-watched a game on TV. But a low, pleasant warmth had begun to bloom in his chest, spreading outwards in slow, languid pulses. It was a nice feeling, actually. Soothing. He scratched idly at his pectoral muscle through his t-shirt, feeling a strange, deep tightness there, like a muscle after a good workout, but… fuller.
In the bathroom later, brushing his teeth, he caught his reflection. He paused, toothpaste foam on his lip. Huh. He turned sideways. His chest did look… broader. More defined. His pecs seemed to have a new, rounded swell to them, pushing against the cotton of his shirt. He flexed experimentally. They were definitely bigger. Firmer. A confused frown creased his brow, but the warm hum from the pendant against his skin seemed to whisper, It’s fine. It’s good. He spat, rinsed, and ignored it.
Sleep was deep and dreamless, filled with images of emerald fields and distant, joyful fiddle music. He woke with a start, the sensation unmistakable. A strange, aching fullness in his newly enlarged chest. A damp, cool spot on his shirt. He sat up, looking down. Two small, perfect circles of wetness darkened the grey cotton over his nipples. He touched one tentatively. His finger came away slick with a thin, white fluid.
“What the fuck?” he whispered to the empty room.
He pressed a finger to his left pec, right over the nipple. A bead of milky white welled up, pearling on his skin before tracing a warm path down his ribcage. The action sent a jolt through him—not pain, but a shocking, deep pleasure that radiated from the nerve-rich nub straight to his groin. His cock, already half-hard from sleep, twitched and thickened against his thigh. A low groan escaped him. He pressed again, firmer this time. Squish. More of the warm fluid leaked out, the sensation a bizarre, intoxicating mix of relief and intense stimulation. His hips jerked involuntarily. He was rock hard now, a fierce, unfamiliar hunger coiling in his gut. This wasn’t just morning wood; this was a desperate, aching need.
He couldn’t stop. One hand kneaded his swollen pec, fingers working the firm, yielding flesh, milking more of the white fluid in little splurts and trickles that coated his fingers and stomach. The other hand shoved his pajama pants down, wrapping around his aching cock. It felt different too—thicker, hotter, the skin impossibly smooth. He didn’t need lube; his own strange milk slicked the way as he pumped his fist in a frantic, clumsy rhythm. The dual sensations overloaded him—the electric pleasure-pain from his chest and the building pressure in his balls.
“Ah—ah, fuck!” he grunted, head thrown back. His strokes became erratic, brutal. The coil snapped. With a choked cry, his body arched off the bed. Splurt. Splurt-splurt-SPLORTCH. Thick, pearlescent cum erupted from him, arcing through the air to land in hot, wet ropes across his stomach and chest, mingling with the leaked milk. The orgasm was seismic, wracking his frame with violent shudders, leaving him gasping and dazed in the afterglow. He lay there, sticky and spent, the chain a warm, comforting weight on his heaving chest.
The next day, the changes were more pronounced. His shoulders were broader, straining the seams of his work shirt. His forearms were corded with new muscle. And the milk… when he squeezed a curious drop onto his finger in the shower, it wasn’t pure white anymore. It had a faint, luminous green tint to it, like liquid peridot. He stared at it, the water beating down on his back. The warm hum from the pendant was a constant song now, a melody of luck and gold and rainbows that echoed in the back of his skull.
Slowly, he brought his finger to his lips. He tasted it.
It was sweet. Like clover honey and fresh cream, with an herbal, minty aftertaste. An intense, primal satisfaction flooded him. Good. Right. He squeezed his pec again, harder, and a thicker stream of the green-tinged milk splashed against the shower tile. He moaned, his cock hardening instantly under the spray. He was so hungry for it, for the release, for the gold…
He came again, right there, gripping his shaft as the water washed over him. His cum wasn’t just white now. It shimmered, flecks of undeniable gold swirling in the viscous fluid before being carried down the drain.
The day after that, he woke and knew. He knew things. The name of the wind. The path of a falling leaf. He looked in the mirror and saw a stranger with a strong jaw, ruddy complexion, and eyes that sparkled with a mischievous, emerald light. A lilting brogue colored his thoughts. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye,” he murmured to his reflection, a wide, unfamiliar grin spreading across his face. His body was a powerhouse of dense, defined muscle, a verdant green hue now tinting his skin like a permanent, healthy glow. The black work pants he pulled on felt tight around powerful thighs and a prodigious bulge.
The thoughts came in a merry, unstoppable torrent: Rainbows arching over pots of gold. The jig of a fiddle. The soft give of lucky clover underfoot. The heft of gold coins. The need to… to spill. To share this luck. This gold.
He was hornier than he’d ever been in his life, a constant, low-grade thrum of desire centered in his now-massive, milk-heavy chest and his aching, heavy balls. He didn’t fight it. He sat on the edge of his bed, one huge hand wrapping around his thick, green-tinged cock. The other cupped his right pec, his thumb circling the puffy, sensitive nipple. He leaned his head back and let the new instincts take over.
“Aye, there’s the gold,” he rumbled in a voice that was deep and rich and not his own. He tugged his cock, his fist gliding easily as a bead of shimmering, gold-flecked pre-cum welled at the tip. Plip. At the same time, he squeezed his chest. A stream of sweet, mint-green milk squirted out in a short, graceful arc, pattering onto his thigh, mixing with the pre-cum. The sensation was unbelievable—a deep, pulling pleasure from his core, a radiant euphoria from his chest. They fed each other, building a feedback loop of mounting ecstasy.
His hips began to piston, his fist a blur. Slap-slap-slap of flesh on flesh, wet and rhythmic. Squirt-squelch from his milk-heavy chest with every compression. The room filled with the sounds of his transformation: the wet, sexual noises and his own ragged, brogue-laced grunts.
“Feckin’… rainbows…!” he gasped. The pressure was immense, a geyser of golden fortune begging for release. His balls tightened, drawing up. His pec muscles clenched in a steady, milking rhythm. It was all too much. With a roar that shook the windows, he peaked.
SPLOOOORCH!
It wasn’t a normal orgasm. It was an event. A torrent of viscous, liquid gold—actual, shimmering, metallic gold—erupted from his cock in a continuous, heavy stream. It gushed, it poured, spattering in a glorious, clattering cascade across the floorboards, pooling in a glowing, hot puddle. Simultaneously, his chest released, not a squirt but a fountain of the sweet green milk, splashing down to mix with the golden flood on the floor. The smell was overpowering—ozone, honey, fresh earth, and molten metal.
He rode the wave until he was spent, slumped forward, panting, watching the last few golden drips and milky trickles fall from his body. The puddle on the floor shimmered, a small, miraculous treasure. He felt… magnificent. Powerful. Complete.
He stood up, his new body moving with a predator’s grace. He found his old clothes didn’t fit, so he fashioned a pair of tattered jeans into shorts that strained over his powerful thighs. He didn’t need a shirt. His green, muscular torso was a testament to his new nature. The gold chain with the clover pendant rested perfectly in the cleft of his colossal pecs. He found a discarded black top hat, dusty and bent. He placed it on his head at a jaunty angle. It felt right.
Shamrock Freddy—for that’s who he was now—looked around his mundane apartment, a palace of potential fortune. He chuckled, a sound like rolling coins. “Right then,” he boomed, his Irish lilt filling the space. “Time to go about me day. Sure, and won’t it be a lucky one for all?”
He winked at his reflection, his emerald eyes gleaming with magic and mischief, and stepped over the puddle of his own making.