Danny Wilcox spent the first twenty years of his life yearning for the body he possessed whenever he closed his eyes. His waking hours were saturated with endless heart-pounding fantasies about his dream body. And at night—at night that body took over, enthralling him in hormones, sweat, and heat. Even now, supposedly grown up and long past the constant hot flush of puberty, he awoke every morning flushed and panting, his flat abs sticky with gouts of semen he'd emitted during the night, with a rigid, iron-hard erection that wouldn't go away.
Gradually his fantasy had taken root, suffusing the recesses of Danny's conscious and unconscious mind. It started in middle school, when hormones pumped him so full of sexual obsession that his thoughts were occluded, and his eyes glazed, and he was able to sense little of what was going on around him but the motion of bodies. Particularly men's bodies. He undressed them all in his mind, regularly and constantly, until it became a matter of reflex; he walked down the halls aware only of naked men milling, standing, walking, glancing, smiling. He started at first with the bodies he guessed they had under their clothes, but it wasn't long before he saw his schoolmates better than they actually were. Sitting in class he was usually able to force himself to concentrate on the subject at hand, so he didn't do too poorly; but he got D's in all the English classes taught by young Mr. Scanlon, and failed outright two classes that happened to be attended by the three stars of the physically precocious soccer team. Meanwhile his enthusiasm in phys. ed., born of an effort to try to bring fantasy closer in line with reality, led to an enduring habit of weight training that survived into his adult life.
This state of constant distraction persisted through the agonizing years of high school, his painfully hard boner always hidden by books or binders. Aware in his rational mind that the bodies he saw as his fellow students weren't the ones they really had, he never tried dating. His fantasies were a constant companion, and as the years passed, as he felt more and more isolated from his peers, he focused less on those around him and more on himself. His fantasies began to include enhancements to his own body that he imafined he saw, or seemed to see, when he looked down.
His fever-dream life and nocturnal possession had gradually nudged him into a solitary existence that persisted beyond high school. He lived alone in a spare but functional apartment in Chicago, where he'd moved during his senior year in high school with some initial help from his parents, and through connections he'd made during a newspaper summer internship he'd found a way to work from home. He was earning a basic living writing and web-designing from his notebook computer, which was usually resting on his firm, hairless thighs. There was little else in the apartment: mainly his bed and a home gym he'd saved up for, where he spent most of his time when he wasn't writing, eating, or sleeping.
He pretty much never went out except to buy necessities and had very few friends; his mind drifted too easily into his dreamscape. If he hadn't needed a modem for work, he probably would not have even needed a phone line. When he thought about it, which was seldom, he liked the idea of a single life. He'd developed a dislike of clothes and wore them as little as possible, wearing only loose, cream-colored Joe Boxers around the apartment. This naturally dovetailed with his life at home and with, whenever the mood took him, being able to allow his hands to roam his well-proportioned body, imagining it—and feeling it—different, better, huge, amazing. His long fingers would stroke his naturally broad shoulders and feel expanses of thick, firm muscle; run down arms made impossibly thick by his own imagination; brush across already pleasantly sculpted pecs that now seemed spherical and ponderous; caress abs that were even flatter, carved from rock. But these abs would be obscured by a gigantic version of his own penis, protruding arrogantly from the fly of his boxers, swollen to the size of his forearm and pumped full of hot blood.
Recently, though, Danny had grown restive, and had taken to staring out the tall windows of his warm sixth-floor flat, into the deep blue-gray of the icy lake. He felt lonely, and the chill Chicago winter only made it worse. The thought of inviting someone into this life scared him. He hadn't lost sight of the fact that his daydreams were not real. What would they think—of him, of his overgrown imagination, of his (as he thought) inferior real-life body? What would they think of the sheets stained from huge nightly infusions of spunk? And how would he reconcile his fantasies about them to reality?
Lakeside Fast & Healthy was a family-owned restaurant not far from Danny's apartment, specializing in delivering healthy alternatives to cheeseburgers and pizza in the same amount of time. It was right in line with Danny's eating habits, but typically he'd discovered it months after it opened, thanks to a newspaper ad tucked away in the Sun-Times, which he tried to read cover to cover.
Stefan had just started working for Lakeside, doing odd jobs and making occasional deliveries, because he needed the money. He had moved to Chicago only a few months before from Naples with the dream of becoming a Hollywood actor, but he'd only made it as far as his brother's broomcloset apartment on the north side before he'd run out of money. He didn't mind the honest labor, but he wanted more for himself.
Washing his hands after scrubbing the restaurant's dingy bathroom, Stefan looked himself over in the mirror. He knew he was handsome—his emerald green eyes had been the first topic of discussion with every stranger his whole life, complementing his olive-tan complexion and Caesar-black hair; he'd come to accept his beauty without vanity, as a fact of reality, like his name or his accent. As he glanced down, though, he saw something he lived with less well. He was sure he was too skinny to make it in Hollywood, especially as a scrawny 19-year-old johnny-come-lately. He needed to be beefy, or at least buff, before he left Chicago.
Stefan sighed and pulled out a paper towel to dry his hands. Where would he get money for a gym? And even if he did, puffing his chest up still wouldn't make him any taller than 5—7”. He shook his head and smiled. No more negative thoughts for today, he warned himself. He pushed open the bathroom door and headed into the kitchen.
Lakeside's owner/chef, Mrs. Li, smiled as he entered. “Stefan!” she called across the kitchen. “Delivery for you!” Of course Stefan knew that Mrs. Li meant he had a delivery to perform, not to receive. He smiled back and headed for the big bag on the counter. He glanced at the slip. It was barely legible, but he'd become and expert in Mrs. Li's handwriting. Wilcox, 53 Johnson St., #6B.
Bobby Li, the owner's gangly teenage son, spoke up from where he was chopping bell peppers on the counter next to where his mother was tossing onions into a stock pot. “Mom, I told you I could make that delivery,” he said, almost sounding like he was pleading. Stefan looked up in surprise, and Bobby met his eyes briefly before returning his gaze to his mother. Bobby had hated doing deliveries, especially in winter, and had welcomed Stefan's arrival wholeheartedly; but he seemed eager to make this one. Jealous, even, of Stefan.
Mrs. Li looked up at her son—way up, for Bobby was a good seven feet tall. “I need you here,” she said with finality, nodding at the peppers. “Stefan can go.” Bobby sullenly returned to chopping vegetables, but not without aiming a longing look at the delivery bag and a dark look at Stefan. Stefan frowned, idly watching the 17-year-old's perfect biceps bounce against his tee-shirt as he chopped for a few moments, then he snatched up the bag and headed toward the back door to pull on his gray wool overcoat and slog out into the swirls of moisture-saturated lake-effect snow.
He found 53 Johnson Street with some difficulty, tucked away on a side street he didn't know well. The building itself was a regular-looking brickface apartment building, but it seemed nicer than the others on the block, better kept up. He rang the buzzer, shivering a little as a chill gust whipped through the neighborhood.
A voice crackled over the speaker. “Yes?”
“Delivery from Lakeside,” Stefan called back into the intercom. There was a brief pause, and then a buzzer released the door. Stefan sighed as he glanced around the lobby: no elevator. He started jogging up the narrow stairwell.
On the sixth floor he was warm but not winded. Sweating a little in his heavy coat, he decided to pull it off and leave it hanging over the railing. Once that was done he picked up the delivery bag, found 6B, and rang the bell.
The door opened to reveal a smiling young demigod. Stefan involuntarily drew a breath. He stood in the doorway, tall—at least a foot taller than Stefan, lanky, hairless, beautifully built with massive, rangy muscles popping out all over his nearly naked body: broad, powerful shoulders; long, thickly muscle arms; pectoral muscles as big as his head, yet beautifully sculpted and standing off a taut, rippling stomach; endless tennis-pro's legs capped by huge bare feet with long straight toes. Hanging from his waist were a pair of loose boxers, but his cock was so oversized that two or three inches of wrist-thick meat protruded casually from the leg of the shorts, swinging lightly as he moved, though the owner seemed unconscious of his indiscretion.
Stefan found his mouth was so dry he couldn't speak, so he just proffered the bag mutely. The demigod nodded shyly and gestured him into the apartment.
His home was warm and comforting, spacious and spare. The walls were painted a subtle coral rose that Stefan felt he'd never seen before. The short foyer gave off onto a sunlit living room, but all he could see of it from where he stood near the door was a massive, beautiful leather couch that looked like it had just been unwrapped.
His customer padded nonchalantly toward it, the last few inches of his cock visible between his legs from behind, swaying with his easy movements. His back was as nice to look at as the front. His ass was not huge but was tight and perfectly rounded, and his lats flared dramatically toward his delicious shoulders. Stefan was entranced, barely noticing his own state of tumescence. He watched him bend to pick up a small black wallet which had been left on the small mahogany end-table next to the couch, watched him turn and pad back to where Stefan was standing, frozen, his mouth slightly agape.
Stefan realized his customer was standing in front of him, holding out some bills for him to take. Money. Right.
He shook his head to clear it and lifted the bag to look at the slip. “E-eleven eighty,” he stammered.
“I know,” the man said softly. “Here.” He was holding out a ten and a battered five. Stefan took it with his free hand, trying to keep it from shaking, and handed him the food. He reached into his pockets to make change, but the man said, “Keep it.”
Stefan looked up into his eyes. They were crystal ice blue, piercing, yet unsure, questioning. They wanted to lock onto his, Stefan knew—he could feel the man's appreciation for his emerald eyes, he could always sense that whenever he met strangers—but they were, amazingly, afraid, awkward. They danced around his face, then took in his body as if he could see through his sweatshirt and jeans. Stefan felt flush and a little woozy. His clothes felt like they wanted to jump off by themselves into a heap on the floor.
He felt the need to say something, anything. “Um, nice apartment,” he said. “Great couch.”
The man frowned. “The couch? It's a wreck. It must look awful to you.”
Stefan knitted his brows in confusion but found nothing to say.
The man cocked his head slightly. “So—you're new. Usually I get the son.”
He nodded. The son! No wonder he'd wanted this delivery. If he's the slightest bit gay he must whack off in the bathroom thinking about this guy five times a day. Suddenly he caught himself, blushing hotly at his thoughts and at the erection pounding away in his own Calvins. Awkwardly, like a boy at his first dance, he stuck out his hand. “Stefan.”
The man raised his eyebrows, as if surprised at the extension of cordiality, and broke into a smile. “Danny,” he said, gripping his hand happily.
Stefan smiled back, feeling just a bit dizzy—the woozy feeling was going back. As he let his hand fall he started to feel very strange. He was feeling more and more kind of disconnected from his body, that his mind was moving slowly out of his skull. The sensation ran a shiver up his spine, yet Danny's eyes held him now, and that seemed comforting or reassuring somehow. He sensed or realized now that his mind was now enveloped by some kind of ghost body that he could feel rather than see: he could feel the blood coursing through his ears, could feel this body's warmth and presence. He drew a breath with it, needing it, and he sensed his real body, the one his mind was skipping out on, follow suit as well. Danny was looking right at him, whwere he felt like his mind was, only now Stefan felt like he was looking at Danny's succulent mouth rather than his firm, ponderous chest.
Stefan could still feel his real body, frozen and aroused, but he was becoming acutely conscious of the ephemeral body being fleshed in around his new center of consciousness. It was his body, sort of—he could feel the sweat prickling the fine mat of black hair on his chest, only his chest was now a chest. In fact this body was bugling everwhere he'd been flat before, and it was still in flux, still growing here, stretching there, as Danny's eyes roved his body. He was naked, nude, and he felt like a work of art being crafted from living marble.
In retrospect Stefan was most surprised he felt no fear, no panic during these moments. But through the whole thing he felt only exhiliration, his hearts pounding with abandon as he sensed himself being somehow reimangined. He felt both bodies at once. Deep in his conscious mind he knew that all he had to do was return to his old body to end the moment as if it had never been. Or he could accept the ghost body forming and firming around him, own it as he had owned his body all his life, and walk away changed, transformed.
He barely gave it a second thought. At a level below conscious processing he accepted the reimagination, embraced it, willed it.
His old body melted away, but before he could feel concerned about that or have second thoughts his imagined body, no longer surperimposed on his old body, blossomed into flesh and blood, and he was standing in front of Danny, hot, nude, tall and lithe, thickly muscled, with an uncut erection the size of a quart of milk thrusting heavily up from his groin. He was sweating lightly and panting. The whole thing had taken seconds. Danny was looking at him intently, but from within, his mouth slightly open, as if he were indulging in a private fantasy.
Suddenly Danny smiled. “Thanks for the food,” he said, exhibiting the bag as if they'd forgotten it, which Stefan at least certainly had.
Stefan looked down at his body, staring at it. He was built like a bull, but a bull who'd been stretched. He could see the twin mounds of thick pectoral muscle with their fine coating of hair, and he could feel them too—not only could he feel their very weight on his chest, but he could feel the strength and power in them, in his square, bulging shoulders, in his long thick arms and big long-fingered hands, in this entire physique. He made a fist with his right hand that he felt could squeeze an iron pipe. He was awash with vitality.
He looked up at his host. Even now he paled by comparison. Suddenly he longed to touch it, caress the huge, sculpted muscles—but Danny was already moving around behind him and had opened the door. Stefan turned, watching him. Danny seemed unaware that his half-hard monster cock had half escaped his boxers and was twitching, even thicker than before, near his knees. Stefan's new cock was way too hard to twitch, but it pushed out some precum in response. It trickled warmly, slowly, down the long shaft. Stefan drew in a breath.
Danny had opened the door and was standing by it, still smiling, still gazing at him. “So long,” he said.
Stefan, who had just been thinking those very words but with reference to his host's apparatus, blushed again. “Uh, yeah,” he said, mechanically walking out the door. “So long.”
“Bye now,” Danny said, closing the door.
Stefan stood out of the sixth floor landing, nude, musclebound and impossibly aroused, his head awhirl. He half expected the effect to wear off once he'd left the apartment, but it was no effect. He felt sure that he stood there in what was irrevocably his new body. He pinched his left pec to make sure, poking it, amazed at the how the huge muscle felt firm yet resilient.
A bitter draft wafted across his slightly sweat-damp skin, and suddenly he was acutely self-conscious and aware that there was a world outside. Quickly he snatched up the overcoat he'd left behind, thanking God and the super for the overactive radiatiors in the stairwells, and got it on. It was ridiculously tight and too short in the arms and legs now, but it would do. He turned to go down the stairs—
And stopped dead, staring at his bare feet on the faux marble stair steps. He had no shoes, and there was a foot of snow outside. And his wallet! He had no wallet! It was in his pants, wherever they were. He fumbled awkwardly in the pockets of his too-small coat. His keys were in his right pocket. But he needed his wallet. The only money he had was the fifteen dollars he still clutched unconsciously in his left fist.
Without thinking he turned back to 6B, but he hesitated a moment before ringing the bell. After a minute Stefan heard the sound of bare feet coming toward him and the cover on the peephole being opened and then closed. The door opened partway, with Danny and his massive shoulders appearing around the edge, one powerful hand gripping the door's edge, his pale skin flushed and damp with sweat. He greeted Stefan with a welcoming smile.
Stefan realized he didn't know what to say. “Um—did I leave my wallet here?”
Danny thought a moment. “N-no, I don't think so. No, you didn't take it out of your pants.”
Right. …Cause I left my pants here too, Stefan thought. All this was too strange, too gossamer-fragile in his mind, to ask him what had really happened, or confront him. It occurred to him that somehow, Danny didn't know had happened. Maybe didn't know that anything had happened. Maybe, Stefan thought, maybe Danny just thought he was imagining things.
“Yeah, that's what I thought,” Stefan said. He grasped at some waty to approach his subject, which was that he needed clothes of some sort, even if his wallet was gone. “Listen, do you know what the weather is going to be like tonight? It's supposed to get cold, I think, and I was wondering about what I should wear if I go hit the clubs.”
Danny blinked at him, then seemed to consider the question. “I think it is supposed to get cold,” he said.
Stefan had had barely a hope that this could possibly work, but amazingly Stefan actually felt the ghosts of clothes forming around him—a warm charcoal sweater, heavy jeans, thick work boots, and an overcoat that fit. Eagerly he remembered how he had felt it happen before and accepted the transformation, but he tried concentrating on the sweater as he stared back into Danny's ice-blue eyes and, to his own amazement, successfully converted it from wool to cashmere as the clothes formed around him. The clothes were loose but perfectly tailored to accent his new body. His cock, which had softened during his panic on the landing, was now once again hugely stiff and standing proud, its middle pressed hard against the button of his soft, thick jeans, and was leaking precum down his hairy eight-pack abs underneath the luxurious sweater.
Again the whole incident took barely a moment. Stefan's heart was pounding madly. He felt like he might come then and there. He needed to get away before Danny pictured him naked again. “O.K., great, thanks.” He turned away hastily and headed down the stairs, his boots clomping noisily in the stairwell.
At the bottom of the stairs he checked his pockets. There was a wad of cash in the front pocket of his jeans. Maybe planting the idea about going to the clubs had made him think about money, Stefan thought. Or maybe he always stuffs money in his pockets when he goes out. He must not go out much if this is what he would wear to a club, he thought with a grin. His other pockets were empty. No wallet. He'd have to replace his driver's license and his one credit card.
Such mundane details seemed so insignificant right now. His big hands roaned his new body eagerly. He desperately needed to jerk off before he came in his pants (or, rather, his shirt).
Suddenly he realized he was being watched. Standing across the lobby near the doors a tall, beefy teenager was watching him, framed and backlit by the glass-paneled doors. He took a step out of the shadows, but Stefan already knew who it was. It was Bobby.
“Ww-what are you doing here?” Stefan whispered, embarrassed.
Bobby was walking toward him. He was still taller than Stefan, but not nearly as much. He was grinning, laughing with excitement and relief.
“Proving to myself I'm not crazy,” Bobby said, now standing close in front of him. “But he did it to you, too.” He reached out impulsively and pressed his hand against Stefan's pecs.
Stefan drew a shuddering breath. “Yes.”
Bobby looked at Stefan, his brown eyes glittering, taking in his height, his size. “Six weeks ago,” he said softly. “You didn't know me then, but that's when he started ordering. He orders at least once a week. Six weeks ago, I was shorter than you were this morning.” Stefan stared at him, and Bobby grinned. He still handn't taken back his hand, which was moving slowly across Stefan's chest.
Bobby suddenly stopped his hand and pressed it against Stefan's left pec. He leaned closer, so that Stefan could feel his warm breath. “How hard are you right now?”
Stefan could barely manage a whisper. “So fucking hard,” he breathed.
Bobby nodded, taking away his hand. “The first time, I came twice before I even got down the stairs,” he said. He glanced down Stefan's body. “I ended up naked each time. You're lucky. I had to run home with a box around my ass the first time. Once I realized what was going on,” he went on with a hint of pride, “I brought a change of clothes and left it in the hall. Though sometimes they were too small,” he added with a wicked grin.
Stefan nodded, smiling, unsure of his feelings. At first he hadn't wanted to share this incredible experience. But now he felt a bond with Bobby, as two people who'd returned from the same unreality and had been changed by it. He knew Bobby was feeling the same thing. They shared a sudden grin.
“So how'd you end up with clothes? They look totally hot on you.”
“Um, I kind of nudged him into it.”
Bobby's face lit up. “No way! How?”
“I just sort of made the suggestion. I got him to think about what clothes I should wear later when it gets cold.”
“Awesome,” Bobby said, clearly impressed.
“I was just freaked out about about losing my pants.”
“No shit,” Bobby said. He glanced down Stefan's body again, stopping at the midsection where the top half of Stefan's cock was writhing urgently. “God, look how fucking huge you are,” he said reverently. “I didn't get that big the first time. He must really like you. C’mon,” he added, tossing his head. “Our place is near here.”
“It'll be fine. Mom's still at work, and she probably hasn't noticed I'm gone yet. If you're anything like me you need to blow that load before you hurt yourself.” Bobby grabbed Stefan's hand and pulled him toward the door.
Once outside, Bobby didn't let go, and though the snow and picked up and a biting wind was swirling it around them, Bobby's hand felt warm and strong, enveloping.
They rounded a few corners and before he knew it they were in Bobby's bedroom, which looked like a typical high school senior's bedroom: rumpled twin bed, thick textbooks, a Spiderman poster. Half hidden under a hand-towel on his nightstand was a large, open jar of Vaseline, which made Stefan grin to himself.
The apartment was quiet, empty. Bobby went over to the boom box and put on some techno music, but quietly. Then he flopped onto the bed, propped himself up on his elbows, and stared up expectantly at Stefan with a shit-eating grin.
“C’mon,” he said. “Lemme see.”
Stefan grinned crookedly. He pulled off his overcoat but seemed reluctant to strip further.
“C’mon,” Bobby repeated. “Don't be bashful. Want me to go first?” Immediately he jumped up and eagerly shucked his thick navy tee shirt, revealing a gymnast's body, but a gymnast's body lengthened to seven feet tall and laded with extra shoulders, extra pecs, extra biceps and triceps, extra lats—extra everything. Literally extra everything, because surging out of his jeans there were TWO huge wrist-thick erections, their leaking heads smearing precum against the firm bottom surfaces of his heavy pecs, between them completely obscuring his tight washboard abs.
“Holy shit!!” Stefan shouted, as Bobby beamed. “Where did you get those?”
Bobby shrugged. “That was the new thing last time I went,” he said. “I love it.”
“Shit,” Stefan said, rapidly trying to pull off his sweater, “I'm gonna come!”
Bobby closed the space between them and helped get the sweater off him, exposing his newly powerful frame and his single gigantic cock. Bobby bent down far enough to take the head and the first few inches of shaft into his hot mouth, and immediately this pushed Stefan into undendurable ecstasy. Stefan grabbed Bobby's thick shoulders and cried out as Booby took volley after volley of thick cum. The moment seemed to last for an hour as Stefan floated, Bobby's chiseled shoulders his only support in the universe.
As he came back down he fell to his knees, and Bobby said, “Shit, you are so fucking hot. We gotta do me right now.” He fell to his knees in front of Stefan and their lips met, and they kissed for what seemed like another hour. Then Bobby pulled away. “Shit, c’mon. I'm gonna blow any second.” He nodded toward the cock Stefan was already stroking lightly with his right hand. “You take this one.” He bent his head down and started sucking the other cock.
Though it seemed surreal in retrospect, it seemed utterly real and natural at that moment to bend over and take Bobby's second cock into his mouth. The worked in rhythm, cheek to cheek, their hands roaming each other's amazing, unreal bodies, and Stefan enjoyed the warmth of Bobby's face against his almost as much as the huge cock he was bringing to orgasm; but it wasn't long before Bobby couldn't take it any more. They held each other as Bobby came in both their mouths, a massive amount of seed, so much Stefan had to swallow twice, and more leaked out from around their mouths and flowed down the two unbelievable shafts, and just as Stefan was about to pull up Bobby held him tighter and he came again with both cocks, a powerful explosion that originated deep in his fist-sized balls and shot again and again through his cocks like shotgun shots. At last they sat back, Bobby looking pale, sated, euphoric, his cocks not the least bit softer.
“Next time,” Bobby panted, “we go see him together.”
Stefan nodded, and they tried to kiss while grinning uncontrollably. Then they crawled up onto the too-small bed and slept for a long time.
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