Magic hands

by Anonymous

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Added: 1 Aug 2009 5,138 words 15,255 views 4.6 stars (9 votes)

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I had just replaced the last dead plant in the office with a newly bought bamboo bush from Ikea when the knock came on the door. I glanced down at my hands, cracked my knuckles experimentally. My hands still felt so weird. I hoped I'd be able to keep it together enough to do this. I'd been out of commission for two months; who knows if I still had it?

God dammit, why did my first customer after coming back have to be Brandon? Why couldn't it be just another 45-year old factory worker with a beer gut and no fashion sense on a one-time session as per recommendation from his doctor, comped by his health plan? Or some middle-aged housewife who had just turned 30, 40, or 50 and got two hours as a birthday from her kids? I get so many disposable clients—so many people I'm never going to see again. Why did it have to be Brandon?

Brandon, the adorable kinesiology student TAing at the university, who came in once a week, if his schedule permitted it, and got a rubdown to compliment his strict workout routine. His minor-in-economics roommate had found some way to claim it as an educational expense or something and make two thirds of it back every April. But I didn't care. If he'd have asked me, I'd have done them for free. For two hours every Monday afternoon I'd get to be the luckiest guy in the whole fucking world. It's one thing to see a gorgeous body sprawled out naked before you. It's another to run your hand over every beautiful inch of it. It's a whole new ball game to get paid to do it.

I'd considered asking him out, of course. I tended to spend the last half hour of every session fighting not to blurt it out. I made banter with all my regulars, and I listened to all of them, or at least pretended to. That all comes with the job. But Brandon and I actually engaged each other. We'd have actual conversations. Sometimes he'd tell me all about what was going on with him, sometimes he was content to ask me what was going on with me. Other times we talked about anything; music, books, the last episode of Battlestar Galactica, the latest Warcraft content patch… And in the end, that was why I kept my mouth shut. If he was straight, how would he react to finding out the guy who knows his body better than he does is gay? I didn't want to risk the one customer I looked forward to.

I took a deep breath before I opened the door.

“Hey Julian.”

“Hey Brandon, long time no see.”

He smiled and shook my hand. He had cut his dark hair since last I saw him. I had liked it better when it was a bit longer, but still, it framed his twinkling brown eyes and impish smile very well. He had lost some weight, too. But the veins in his arms were pumping from a fresh workout, and he carried with him a faint smell of sweat, mostly—but not quite completely—veiled by Ocean Surf deodorant.

“Not that long, considering” he replied, looking down at my hand. “Wow, not even any scars! That's absolutely phenomenal!”

I blushed under his scrutiny. “I guess you heard about the accident,” I mused, ushering him inside and closing the door.

“Yeah, actually,” he reached into his back pocket and withdrew a newspaper clipping, cut from one of the free dailies. “Amal found this and gave it to me because he knew I went to you.” He handed it to me.

The headline read: “Masseuse Breaks Both Hands in Car Wreck,” and had a black and white photo of my old Cavalier, mangled on the side of the road with a Honda Accord sticking out of its side. I scanned the article. They spelled my last name wrong and said I was 32.

“I didn't realize I made the papers,” I chuckled.

Brandon smiled. “Oh, you hadn't seen it? That paper's got this weird fetish with ironic tragedy.” He started pulling his T-shirt over his head as he walked behind the screen.

“Yeah, I kinda went into rehab right away,” I answered. “Didn't stick around long.”

“You can keep it if you want,” said Brandon over the sound of his belt clacking open.

“Thanks,” I said absently, setting it on my desk as I selected from my array of massage oils.

Brandon sighed. “Man, I can't get over it. The way that article paints it, your hands were, like, pulverized. And two months later you're giving massages?”

“Yeah, my physiotherapist is a miracle worker.” And a total nutcase, I didn't add. Whisks me off to this all-expense paid experimental research lab in Rhode Island. I sign three dozen waivers and non-disclosure agreements, and stick my hands in some kind of crazy jelly soup for three hours twice a day, complemented by a cocktail of pills every evening that made me crave guacamole and pretty much kept its finger firmly planted on my sex drive's snooze button. Still, I couldn't argue with the results. The more hopeful of the first doctors I went to suggested that a fully-functional hand wasn't necessarily required for my line of work. The less optimistic said I should contact my bank to let them know my signature would be becoming a lot more simplistic. But within four weeks I could type with ease. By the end of the two months I was knitting, weaving baskets, playing piano, making those radish roses… you get the picture.

“I should warn you,” I admitted as Brandon came out from behind the screen wearing nothing but a white bathrobe, “you're the first since I've come back. I only reopened this morning.”

Brandon chuckled, climbing onto the table and unfastening the robe. “I'm not worried.”

I pulled the bathrobe off him, leaving him naked on the table for a few delectable moments before I put a towel across his ass.

It only took one squeeze of his shoulder to get a moan from him, and with that, I knew that I hadn't lost a thing. My hands still got pins and needles every now and then, but I didn't miss a beat.

“Anything in particular giving you trouble?” I asked.

“Yeah, if you could give my back and my feet some extra attention, that'd be great. It's been a while for 'em.”

“How long's it been?”

“Well,” he turned to look at me with a shrug. “Two months.”

I allowed myself a modest smile as he laid back down and closed his eyes. I got to work, rubbing my hands over every crevice of his back. I dug in my wrists, fluttered my fingers about. The corners of his mouth kept pinching his cheek with a smile, occasionally gasping. Watching his face, I imagined he probably looked the same when he orgasmed. I allowed myself a brief flight of fancy, our arms around each other, his hands running down my back as mine now ran down his.

Shit, I thought to myself. I'm getting hard.

I shifted to the side, so he wouldn't be able to see if he did happen to open his eyes. Which was good, too; the shorts I was wearing weren't very good at hiding an erection. But even as I was getting harder, so, strangely, was his back. It tensed up, the muscles bunching up along his deltoids. Was he flexing for me?

“Can you relax your back, Bran?” I asked. As flattered as I was, I still wanted to do my job right. A moment passed and his back looked the same. “Brandon?”

As if on cue, a light snore issued from his mouth.

Strange, I thought, as I continued. I'd never had anybody get less relaxed after falling asleep on the table. He must've been having a strange dream.

And of course the effect only made him look all the more beautiful, which did little to help me lose the hard-on. He stirred, waking up, and I quickly shifted again to the bottom so he wouldn't see, getting to work on his feet.

He jerked, with a laugh. “Sorry, that tickles.”

I smirked. “Hey man, some people can't even hear me talking about touching their feet without going into a giggle fit. I don't understand it.”

“Oh man,” Brandon gasped. “That feels awesome. It's been way too long.”

Fucking god, tell me about it.

When we were finished, he sat up, and clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, man.” He stood up and went back behind the curtain. “Maybe it's the two-month sabbatical talking, but I think you might've gotten even better.”

I laughed, pouring him a glass of water. “That which doesn't kill you, I guess.”

He came out from behind the screen, tugging on his collar absently. “Seriously, Julian, I feel like… I dunno, man, I feel awesome.” He sat down and pulled on his shoes. “Get any better and I'll start getting withdrawal symptoms after a few days.” With some consternation, he wrenched his shoe onto his foot. “Anyway, I gotta bounce,” he said, standing.

I shook his hand. “Same time next week.”

“Wild horses couldn't stop me, man.”

We laughed and I waved at him one last time before I closed the door after him. I looked down immediately, and sighed with relief. My erection had thankfully dissipated. I hadn't risked a look down there while he was still here.

I washed my hands, and went to the window as I dried them. Brandon was just leaving the building on the ground floor, walking towards his car. He stopped once, raised his foot briefly and examined it, then continued on.

I sighed wistfully, and I felt the familiar sensation of blood rushing to my crotch.

Well, I thought. That certainly didn't take much coaxing.

I glanced at the clock. My six o'clock had cancelled, so I was done for the day. And I wasn't going to walk past the doorman with a very obvious soldier at attention in my shorts, so… I revisited the massage oils.

I sat down on my desk chair, and took off my pants, revealing my erect member. I lubed up my hands and went to work. I imagined Brandon, of course, but my imagination tweaked him a little. He was thicker now, even more than he had been before. His hair was long, again, and he was taller than me in my dream, rather than the five inches shorter he was in real life.

I stroked my shaft eagerly as my own image entwined with his. My hands got to know this new body with great curiosity, not to mention my tongue and the back of my calf. My dick, too, was quite the diligent investigator.

My… dick…

I opened my eyes without realizing I had even closed them. I'm a masseuse. I work with my hands. They're my greatest asset. And I know how things feel, particularly after increased contact. And after nearly thirteen years of masturbation, my hands knew my cock. They were good friends. And now, it felt different. It felt… bigger.

I glanced down. It was bigger. Definitely bigger. No, what am I talking about? I'm twenty-six years old. My dick is as big as it's ever going to get, right? Still, just the thought of having a second shot at puberty got me even hornier, and I kept stroking.

This time, there was no mistaking. I was watching intently, with my own eyes, and my dick was getting bigger. Not substantially so, but enough to know it was happening. It gained nearly an inch after seven minutes of stroking it, and it felt amazing.

When I came… I don't even know how to describe it. It was the most intense orgasm I had ever given to myself. I saw stars for, like, five minutes, staring at the ceiling, breathing like I'd just run a marathon.

Finally, I regained myself, and ran my hand through my hair, perplexed. What had just happened? Did I just will my dick bigger? Or did I… I pulled my hand away from my head and looked at it.

Could it be? It would certainly explain why Brandon's back had looked like it was getting bigger despite his being asleep. Brandon wasn't flexing, I was making his muscles bigger!

My physiotherapist had called the treatment revolutionary, had claimed he would make history. I had even overheard him complaining to one of his lab assistants that his contemporaries were “too archaic” to understand his techniques.

Perhaps some part of the treatment had given me the ability to… No, it was all just so preposterous! I was imagining things, I was just high on endorphins, I was…

I looked down at my penis. Though now flaccid, there was no question it was bigger than it had been that morning.

It made no sense. It defied all reason, but I couldn't deny the evidence right before my eyes!

I found myself swooning. It was just all so ridiculous. Obviously my imagination was just getting the better of me. But even as I pulled up my pants and adjusted my bulge, it felt different—excitingly unfamiliar. Something was definitely happening, that was for sure. But was that something simply my sanity slipping away? Or had I actually gained… it felt so juvenile even thinking it: superpowers?

A flurry of emotions were swimming through me. I was fatally anxious, scintillating with excitement, and absolutely horrified that I was just losing my mind. I felt myself teetering on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Not trusting myself to drive home, I poured myself a glass of water, downed it in one gulp, then drew the blinds and lay down on the massage table. Things would be clearer in the morning. Or at the very least, I'd be calmed down a bit. As I draped my arms beside the table, I felt a wave of physical and emotional exhaustion wash over me. I probably fell asleep in under thirty seconds.

I awoke to the sounds of my office phone ringing. I'd never gone to sleep there before, so waking up was a bit disorienting, but it took me only a few seconds to remember the circumstance. My hand shot down to my package, to find it still upgraded.

I sat up, still groggy, and reached for the phone on the desk.

“Hello?” I rubbed my eyes.

“Hey, Julian. Were… were you asleep?” It was Brandon's voice and it hit me like a four-pack of Red Bulls.

“Uhh…” I floundered. “Just a little nap.”

“At your office?”

I glanced at the clock. It was 8:20 AM, I had slept for something like 16 hours. “Yeah… what can I do for ya?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

He sighed. “Well, no complaints, really, about yesterday. It's just… my shoes don't fit me right. Or they don't seem to. I dunno…”

Oh Jesus Christ, his feet!

“I mean, like, I know you were going pretty hard on them last night so I wasn't sure if that's something you'd heard of; feet swelling up after a massage.”


“It was actually bothering me right away, but I thought maybe it would go down after a good night's sleep. I just… y'know, if something's wrong I want to catch it early.”

I thought up a bunch of what could probably pass for masseuse jargon to explain it away, but I couldn't be sure how familiar with any of that he would be. He was a kinesiology major, after all, so what do I do if he sees through my lie? Plus, it's not really fair to him, considering. I potentially just rendered all his shoes obsolete.

“Brandon…” I said tentatively after a moment's silence. “Y'know, Brandon, you should probably come see me in person.”

“Is… is everything ok?” he asked, a little worried.

“Yeah… or, well, I think so,” I assured him. “Just try to get here soon.”

“No prob. I'll be twenty minutes or so.”

I set the phone back down on the receiver, and went to the washroom in the hopes that I would make myself look like I hadn't slept in my office for sixteen hours. I looked down at my penis as I pissed in the urinal. It felt so strange. I wondered, cautiously, if I could to it again. I clasped my hand around my flaccid member once again, and tried to, I dunno, will it bigger. But it felt and looked the same.

Had I lost it? Do superpowers come and go like that? I mean, nothing had changed. It obviously worked on me as well as others, I was standing when I changed Brandon and sitting when I changed myself. The only common factor was…

You gotta be kidding me.

I could only do it while I had an erection? That seemed like a cheap deal. Though, on second thought, it really wasn't much a price to pay for a bona fide superpower.

My mind got back to reality with a knock at the door. I quickly clawed the cowlick out of my hair and went to answer it.

“Hey man,” said Brandon as he entered. “Is everything cool with you? You sounded really anxious on the phone. If it's, like… like if it's something you did to me, you know I wouldn't file for malpractice or anything, right? I just wanna know.”

“Well, it's a little…” I rubbed the back of my neck, closing the door behind him. I threw my hands up. The explanation wasn't going to become any more reasonable any time soon. I looked down at his feet, noticing he was wearing only flip flops that did, admittedly, look maybe half a size too small for him.

He noticed my gaze, and unslung his backpack, pulling out a pair of shoes. “Like, I've always been on the bigger side of ten and a half, and these shoes have I guess always been tight on me, but seriously, I could barely walk in them coming home yesterday.”

He set the shoe down beside his foot, and clearly, it was too small for him. “You sound like you have some idea what this is.”

“Well… some,” I said. He gestured for him to sit. He sat down on the massage table and I sat on my desk chair.

“Ok, so far as I can tell, my physiotherapist used some kind of weird system for treating my hands after I broke them, and since then, they've gotten the… they can make things grow.”

He looked at my like I was a lunatic for a few seconds, then like I was pulling a prank on him.

“I'm serious, Brandon,” I said, no stray smile on my face. “I think I accidentally made your feet bigger.”

Now he looked annoyed. “Man, you seriously dragged me over just to try and pull a fast one on me? Not even a fast one, a slow one. Kudos on keeping a straight face, though.”

“Brandon, look, I don't know what this means or how it works and I think it's just as insane as you do, but I know what I've seen.”

He crossed his arms across his chest. “All right, prove it. Grow something.”

“I can't just up and do it,” I protested.

“Well, why not? What makes it go?”

I grit my teeth. “If you must know, it only seems to work when I have an erection.”

He chuckled. “Oh yeah? How'd you figure that one out.”

I was still too tired to stop myself from blushing and averting my eyes, for only a moment, to my crotch. He caught it, though, and glanced down at it, too. “Oh, no way…”

“Here!” I got up and walked over to my mini-fridge, pulling out an apple. “I'll try and grow this apple. I just need to… y'know…”

“Fluff?” Brandon smiled.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want me to… to go behind the screen or something?”

Well, this was certainly an in if ever I heard one. About eighty different dirty one-liners occurred to me, but I systematically chickened out of all of them. “Yeah, ok.”

Maybe I imagined it, but he looked just a little bit crestfallen as he went behind the screen. The thought that he wanted to see me rile myself up, so to speak, got me halfway there. I squeezed the apple in my hand, and then… I felt it push back.

“Brandon, come check this out!” I said quickly, and he emerged from behind the screen. The dark red apple in my hand was slowly filling out, becoming bloated with flesh.

“Fuck…” he whispered as we watched it grow to almost the size of a grapefruit. “Is it…?”

I took a bite out of it. It tasted perfectly normal. Not particularly tasty, but I was never a big red delicious fan anyway. I set the mutant fruit, with one meager bite out of it, on the desk. Brandon picked it up, looked it over, then took a bite himself.

“Jesus Christ!” he laughed with his mouth full. “I can't fucking believe this!” He turned to me. “Come on, man, you gotta show me your junk.”

I was a little taken aback. But whether his interest was out of professional interest or personal, I was only too willing to oblige. I dropped my pants, revealing my erect member. “Shit, man, that's like six inches or something!” He looked back at my face, and I smiled under his eyes. “You should make it even bigger!”


“No, seriously, I mean, you've still got the juices flowing, let me see you do it!”

Though a little nervous, I put my hand around my dick and squeezed it. After a few seconds, I felt it getting bigger again.

Brandon was watching it slowly engorge, his hand over his mouth in disbelief. He leaned in closer. I released my cock and looked down at it. If it wasn't at seven inches, it wasn't far from it.

“Man,” he shook his head, “that's gotta be the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen in my entire life.”

Before I even knew what was happening, he put his hand on my hips, got on his knees, and shoved his mouth over my cock, dousing it in spit and running his lips back and forth, his tongue up and down my shaft. I'd been sucked off before, but between Brandon's talented tonsils and the new size of my own dick, the sensations were overwhelming. I put my hand on the back of his head, guiding his motions as I reached climax. I looked down at him, and convinced myself again that I was dreaming. I closed my eyes, reared my head back, and came in his mouth.

It was all I could do to keep my footing. Even so, I fell back, leaning on the massage table. I looked at Brandon.

He had a huge goofy smile on his face, wiping my semen from his chin, and the whole thing was framed by his hair, now as long as it was when I saw him before the accident.

“I've been wanting to do that for, like… a year and a half,” he said, brushing his suddenly-longer bangs from his eyes. He ran his hand through his thick hair and giggled. He shook his head. “Man, this is fucking comic book shit, right here.”

I laughed. “What the hell kind of comic books do you read?” I stood up.

Brandon stepped up to me. “Do me,” he said.

“Just give me a minute…”

“No, I mean, like… grow me. Make me bigger.”

I stared at him, almost agape. This was beyond comic book shit, this was wildest fantasy shit. The man of my dreams, after having just given me the blow job of a lifetime, was now asking me if he could fulfill my most hopeless of hopes.

I kneeled down on the floor, and pulled him with me. We kissed, undressing each other as we went.

“You got condoms?” he asked.

“Well, sort of… I don't think they'll fit anymore.”

He laughed, kissing me on the cheek. “I'll risk it if you'll risk it.”

He ran his hand through my hair, I ran mine down his taut back. He tickled my spine, and my stomach, finally finding his way to my crotch. He fluttered his fingertips over my penis, and I felt it begin to stir. He grabbed my balls and tickled them, sending more blood to my cock. It wasn't long before I was good to go.

Quickly, I turned him about, and guided my dick down his ass. He gasped, and threw his arms behind us, leaning back into me and cupping my own ass in his hands. I found his asshole and began undulating into him. The sensation was so amazing I nearly lost all concentration. I had a job to do.

I reached forward, and hugged him close to me, feeling his toned back against me. I ran my hands along his chest, giving him the best massage I could muster. It wasn't long before I felt his chest begin to puff up under my palms.

“Oh god!” he cried out. “Oh my fucking Christ this is so… fucking…”

He leaned his head back, and I kissed the back of it, moving my hands now down his arms, paying particular attention to his biceps. They began to get tense, more toned, as well, and I moved my hands back to his chest—I've always been a sucker for good pecs.

I felt my head bulge within him, and knew that I was going to cum soon. Quickly, I moved my hands to his already formidable dick, stiff as a phone pole, and gave it a few swift strokes before I exploded inside him.

We both cried out and I hugged him close, convulsing as one pump after another shot load after load into his ass. When finally I was empty, I collapsed backward onto the floor, letting the tingles of both orgasmic aftershock and sultry anticipation play on every square inch of my skin. I heard him stand up.

“Holy fucking shit…”

I opened my eyes. He had his back to me. And as pleased as I was with yesterday's handiwork, I couldn't wait any longer. “Turn around,” I whispered.

He glanced back, smiled, and then turned about.

If I hadn't just emptied a cement truck of cum into his ass, I think I would've showered him in the stuff right then and there. His chest was amazing. His pecs bulged out of his chest like balloons. He ran his finger down the deep rivet between them and giggled. Then, with a grin, he raised both arms and struck a fierce double-bicep flex, showing off his newly acquired softball-sized guns. And though I hadn't gotten a good look at it before, I knew merely from checking out his bulge that his cock, still dripping jizz from his own orgasm, had gone up a size, too. The whole thing was so magnificent and unbelievable I thought I was going to have a stroke or something. And I might as well have, since I just stared agape at his face, glistening with sweat and grinning with the same disbelief I had. I tried to talk, but all I managed was a few consonants.

He flexed his right arm hard and ran his left hand over his bulging bicep. “I'm such a fucking pussy, Julian,” he said, staring at his muscles. “I've wanted you ever since I started coming here. I even started working out more often just to have an excuse to come here more often.”

I laughed aloud. “Well then I guess that's just one more thing we have in common. I've been developing new and original ways to hide my raging hardon from you for over a year, now.”

He got on his knees again, grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. He moaned happily. “It was nice to finally be able to touch you back.”

“Not to mention…” I ran my hand over his rock hard left pec with a smirk.

He grinned. “Yeah, that was pretty nice too.” He blushed. “When I found out you had closed down, I stopped working out, almost completely. Dropped, like, twenty pounds in two months. Now, thanks to you, I probably just made it all back. And I did it by having the best fucking sex of my entire life.”

We kissed again. I made to cup his head but put my hands on the floor.

We separated, and then he shifted over to my side, and we lay together naked on the floor of my office.

“So…” I began slowly, “what are we gonna do about…well, all of this?”

Brandon sighed. “Buy some new shirts, I guess.”

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