Beefing Up Security (musc)
by Aardvark
Darwin made a hard right down the halls of his school, his feet plodding as quickly as his short steps allowed. His head hung low to avoid detection, bobbing in rhythm with his pace. Standing 5’4”, and with long blond hair falling over his eyes, it should have been easy for Darwin to blend into the crowd of the passing period, but somehow, Sawyer saw him. Sawyer always saw him.The worst part was, Darwin didn’t know what he’d done to deserve Sawyer’s torment. He had never really even spoken to Sawyer. They were in two classes together but didn’t have any interaction, but as soon as Darwin had started answering questions correctly when he was called on in history, he was branded a dweeb and immediately became the focus of Sawyer’s unwanted attention. Sawyer wasn’t really nice to anyone – he always had something to prove – but he was particularly nasty to Darwin. Darwin had compared anecdotes with other smaller kids in school, and while each one had a Sawyer story from some point, they usually just involved a mean remark, nothing physical or humiliating like Darwin so often endured.
Today he barely had time to think when he heard the loud, obnoxious “OOPS!” come at him from his right, before he found himself smacking into the wall. He heard Sawyer’s triumphant cackle and the completely insincere apology: “Sorry homo, I didn’t see ya there! I must’ve tripped.”
Darwin didn’t say anything. He just leaned against the wall and gripped his bruised shoulder as he stared down at the ground. It was a few moments before he dared to glance up, and was relieved to see that Sawyer was gone. And his shoulder still really hurt…
Darwin ducked into the nearby janitor’s closet so nobody would see him wipe some water from his eyes. “I wish this school was safe for me and everybody,” he blubbered, speaking his thoughts out loud. “I wish Sawyer wouldn’t pick on me anymore…I wish nobody could pick on me anymore. I hate being small.”
It wasn’t that Sawyer was exceptionally large, although he had a little bit of extra husk on him. And even if Darwin had been a foot taller, Sawyer probably could have still flattened him out. Sawyer had some natural strength, while Darwin had none. Darwin didn’t know that Sawyer had a single mom who drank and smacked him around, and Sawyer didn’t know that Darwin had two scientist parents who only paid him mind when he was talking about school. Both boys were hurting, but neither one knew it, and all the hurt just turned to anger when combined with a parent-free setting and teenaged hormones. Darwin would have beat Sawyer’s ass to a pulp if he could, but even the thought of that freaked the smaller kid out. Sawyer skipped school a lot, and those were the best days for Darwin.
Darwin gingerly poked his head out into the clearing halls, and realized he was dangerously close to being late for class. He hurtled down the hall, holding the straps of his backpack so that it wouldn’t bounce as much, and got through the door of his class right before the ball rang. It was Miss Montag’s history class, the first of his two with Sawyer. As he walked in, Darwin could feel Sawyer staring at him, but he avoided eye contact and eased nervously into his seat without turning around.
Miss Montag had an annoying habit of breaking the class into groups for the day to do a small project. It was always stressful for Darwin to avoid getting stuck with Sawyer. Today, mercifully, proved to be a straightforward day of lecturing, and there were no groupings ordered. There was only one moment during Miss Montag’s lecture that, as she began an overview of the American government, she turned to Darwin to finish her sentence: “The branches of executive, legislative and…”
Darwin could just imagine Sawyer daring him to answer. “Answer the fuckin’ question, homo,” rang through Darwin’s head. He feigned ignorance and shrugged.
“Judicial,” Miss Montag continued, ending with a small aside to Darwin: “You knew that.”
Darwin’s eyes were wide and sad, in total puppy-dog mode. He hoped his teacher would notice that he felt bad about lying, and prayed that she wouldn’t mention it to his parents. He just didn’t want to get pushed down again, that was all.
The bell rang and Darwin hung back so that Sawyer would leave first, which he did. Miss Montag noticed that Darwin was taking an extra long time to pull his stuff together and walked over. “Everything alright, Darwin?”
“I have a sore throat,” Darwin lied. “Hurts to talk.”
“Oh!” she chirped, understanding. “Well, feel better. Sorry I called on you, then.”
“It’s okay,” Darwin mouthed, overacting. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and braved the hall, heading for the drinking fountain.
He didn’t make it far before Sawyer blindsided him, although this time Darwin sensed the movement ahead of time and was able to move a few inches over. This lateral move resulted in him getting bumped in the shoulder instead of straight-on, which was enough to keep him standing.
A loud, angry bark rang through the hall: “HEY!”
Darwin stopped cold and looked around for the source of the noise. He spotted a giant Grizzly bear of a man – maybe the biggest man he’d ever seen – with a majestic beard. The goliath was in a light green polo shirt that looked glued onto his enormous muscles, with chest hair pouring out of the collar. The man’s face was weathered by time, but his body was completely mind-boggling. He had blocked Sawyer’s escape and was standing in front of him, arms crossed, reprimanding him in front of everyone passing by. “There will be NONE of that in this school, son, do you understand?”
Darwin stood, frozen. Who was this huge guy?
Sawyer just nodded sullenly. “Yes, Mr. Woodlong,” he said, putting on his best apology face. “I’m sorry.”
“This is a safe school. No pickin’ on anyone. I better not see that again. Run to class.” Buck stepped aside and let Sawyer pass. Once the bully was behind the giant, Sawyer turned around and stared at Darwin darkly. Darwin knew he would pay for Sawyer’s punishment, and he gulped.
Buck had lumbered over to Darwin and stared down, down, down at the boy. “Y’alright, son?”
“I’m fine. He just bumped into me.”
“You don’t have to be the hero-”
“I said I’m fine,” Darwin said, embarrassed.
Buck’s eyes sparkled, wise and knowing. “Alright, son, alright. If you ever need to talk to me, feel free. Name’s Buck Woodlong, I teach wood shop.”
“Thanks,” Darwin mumbled, his cheeks red as he walked to the class he now dreaded. This was the other one he with Sawyer – the last of the day, as long as he could make it through.
Then he sat down and he realized – the wish! Had he been in that Wishing Room closet thing? That had just been an urban legend spread at orientation, right…but how else could he explain a huge grizzled bodybuilder coming out of nowhere and protecting him? “It came true,” Darwin grinned to himself as he popped into his seat, feeling momentarily protected. He still didn’t steal a glance at Sawyer behind him, but maybe the worst days were already done now that Buck Woodlong owned the halls.
They were only a few minutes into the lesson when the loud feedback of a microphone could be heard over the school’s intercom. There was a pregnant pause before the voice of the school secretary could be heard crackling through the speaker in the classroom: “Will Sawyer Bickett please report to the school office? Sawyer Bickett to the office.”
Darwin’s eyes widened and he looked down nervously at his lap. He knew Sawyer was staring daggers at the back of his head, and the feeling of security he had felt just a few seconds before was already gone.
“Sawyer?” their teacher said, annoyed at the lesson’s interruption. “Go to the office, please.”
“Fine,” Sawyer huffed, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder angrily. He made a point to look back at Darwin as he passed by, then glowered at the entire class dramatically before he slammed the door.
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Sawyer slouched his way through the halls on his way to the office. As a weekly visitor to the school office, he knew the walk well, and he didn’t give a shit about it. His mom was barely aware he even went to school at all, and the only reason he attended most days was because he had nothing else to do, or because his mom was hitting him and he needed somewhere to go. The funny part was that she’d smack his face if he forgot to wash the dishes, but she didn’t give a shit if he was going to the school office every day for disciplinary action. So he didn’t worry about it, either. The office was more interesting than class anyway.
Sawyer fell into one of the chairs in the waiting area of the office, across from where the secretary sat. She eyed him as he plopped his two dirty sneakers up onto a small table and whipped out his phone. Sawyer knew the secretary didn’t like him. He didn’t care. She never had the balls to say anything anyway. He could feel her stare sizing up his baggy hoodie, low-slung oversized jeans and dirty hair - he had cut it himself and it looked it, hanging in choppy strings around his face.
He pulled out his phone and started swapping candies on the screen. The secretary glared at him as the audio rang out through the office: chipper music, sparkly noises, bleeps and bloops, crunching, “Divine!”, “Sugar Crush!” It was nonstop.
“SAWYER.”
He didn’t look up, but she knew he heard her.
“Sawyer, just go wait in the principal’s office.”
Saywer never took his eyes off his phone, but he got up and walked into the principal’s office. Then he turned around, walked back out, picked up the backpack he’d accidentally left in the waiting area, smacked his hand into the secretary’s desk and laughed when she jumped, and finally shut the door to the principal’s office, still chuckling to himself.
“Sociopath,” the secretary mumbled, before going back to her crossword.
Sawyer, meanwhile, slumped into his usual place in the office: the two-seater couch that might as well of had his name etched into it, since he sat in it so much. He kept playing his cell phone game until he ran out of lives. “Fuckin’ rigged,” he growled as the tornado destroyed his color bomb right before he was about to beat the level. He angrily chucked his phone against the couch cushion and watched it bounce onto the floor a few feet away.
With an annoyed sigh, Sawyer stood up to retrieve the device, then began poking around the room. With how often he visited, he could practically list the principal’s office as his second address, but he had never really taken note of his surroundings before. There was a full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door, but the main focal point of the room was two shelves stocked full of trophies. Sawyer walked over to them and inspected.
Bowling trophies. “Fuckin’ lame,” he laughed. Most of them weren’t even for first place. Above the trophy shelves were panoramic pictures of the graduating classes of the last three years – the seniors all gathered in the gym every year to take them. Next to the trophies were two large filing cabinets, which, to Sawyer’s disappointment, were locked. There was some kind of fancy plant in the windowsill, basking in the sun’s rays.
Sawyer walked over to the desk for more snooping. The first thing he noticed was the bigass Mac computer on it. He moved the mouse to wake the desktop up but it was password protected, so no dice. The mousepad had the school mascot on it, of course. Also on the desk were a stack of leatherbound books, some neatly arranged papers, an office phone, and a fountain pen in a fancy wooden display box. And next to the fountain pen was…
“What the hell…”
…a picture of Sawyer. In a frame. The principal had a framed picture of Sawyer Bickett on his desk.
And that wasn’t the weirdest thing about it, either. The weirdest thing was that, in the picture, Sawyer was flanked by two little boys, one on each side of him. He was standing there sullen in his usual shapeless hooded sweatshirt and ratty jeans, but the littler boys looked dressed up for church or something. Sawyer just stared at the picture, completely stupefied and creeped out. The picture had to be a fake, but it sure didn’t look doctored in any way. He had never posed for it, he was sure. Had no idea who the kids were, or why they were dressed nicely while he looked like shit.
Sawyer actually felt a very subtle pang of regret – not a common emotion for him – at not dressing up for the picture. He shut his eyes for a moment and tried to remember when it had been taken, but all he heard and felt was the gentle whirr of the ceiling fan blowing down on him, making his long hair flutter in the manufactured breeze. Sawyer looked down at the picture and his eyes went wide – this had to be one of those digital picture frames, because his dirty clothes in the picture were moving, as if the office fan was blowing them around. The animation continued as Sawyer’s clothes in the picture changed: his jeans were sliding up his motionless form, his hoodie was dividing down the center. Slowly, piece by piece, the clothes in the picture changed to match the two other boys. The jeans turned black, as did his former hoodie. It was a seamless animation, so smooth that Sawyer couldn’t see the differences between the frames. Even when it ended, he had to wait a moment to be sure it wasn’t going to loop back, like a gif.
Sawyer was wearing formal attire in the picture now: a classy black suit and a white collared shirt with the neck open, no tie. If the picture had been of some other zit-faced, straggly-haired teen in a black wool suit, it would have been funny. But since it was Sawyer, it freaked him out. He dropped the frame onto the table like it was leaping out of his hands, not even bothering to prop it back up in its place as he nervously backed away from it.
“What the fuck,” he breathed nervously, wondering if he should leave, but also now so curious that he had to stay. Chills ran up and down his spine, and he intensely paced back and forth. Hoping to distract himself, he walked over to the first thing he spotted: a large framed piece of paper on the wall. It was a diploma, clearly, but it had no name on it.
Sawyer was squinting at the degree, trying to remember if they usually put names on diplomas. He hadn’t seen many in his life, and certainly no one in his family had one. Lost in thought, Sawyer didn’t notice his ankles pop loudly, then his knees and eventually every joint in his body as his bones began to stretch. He grew to be eye-level with the diploma, and then past it, leaving him clasping his hands behind his back as he leaned down to inspect the frame. He ran a longer finger over the top of the frame to clean it off, now that he could see the dust that had settled on it. The added height reproportioned the boy nicely, giving him a lean, leggy look. The only hint that he had just been six inches shorter was that his jeans looked like capri pants. Sawyer leaned down and pulled on the pant legs in an attempt to cover his ankles, but that didn’t work. He thought he would push the pants down a little, but he realized that the waist was already barely above his dick, and if he moved the waist down any further he risked exposing himself.
A worry crept in – he was going to get caught snooping, and they’d get mad at him. Sawyer was tired of people getting mad at him. He decided to sit back down, plopping into the comfortable swivel chair behind the principal’s desk, leaning back further than he ever had before. He sat for a few moments, content to spin back and forth, when he looked at the mysterious picture and noticed how thick his neck was in it. No wonder he’d left his dress shirt’s collar open that day, he probably couldn’t button it.
He observed, too, that he seemed taller in the picture than he remembered. The boys barely made it past his waist, and Picture Sawyer was now standing up straight with his arms around the boys’ shoulders and a hint of a smile on his-
The door flew open and the secretary stuck her head in. “Sawyer!”
“AAHH!” Sawyer, already nervous and jittery, flew so high in his seat that he almost toppled over.
“Goodness,” she said, “it was so quiet in here, I was checking to make sure you hadn’t crawled out the window.”
Sawyer felt offended. His brow furrowed. “And just why would I do that?”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” the secretary snipped. “Just be good.”
Then she shut the door.
“Sheesh, bitch,” Sawyer muttered to himself, rubbing his throat. Voice was sounding deeper all of a sudden, and his fingers were rubbing a sensitive area on the underside of his chin. His skin felt smooth but slightly raised, and as the pleasing aroma of aftershave floated up into his nostrils, he remembered giving himself a close shave that morning. Sawyer’s skin improved with his added grooming: his zits started flaking off into dust, the acne scars on his cheeks smoothing over, leaving him clear-faced with just a hint of five o’clock shadow.
He went back to casually spinning in his chair, slowly taking in the room around him. This grew boring quickly, and he decided to take a second view at the trophy…case? Had it been a case? There were like seven shelves of trophies here. Sawyer stood up but almost fell down, wobbling around on his long legs. He kept his arm outstretched to his side as he walked, so he could catch the wall in case he fell.
“Seven shelves of bowling trophies,” he counted, his voice dropping in pitch the more he spoke. He crouched down to his haunches to look at the bottom row, spotting the oldest trophy in the case, a dusty old relic several shades darker than its mates. It was of a man in a bowling position, but Sawyer squinted his eyes as he looked at it – the trophy man didn’t have a ball in his hand.
And then the trophy started moving.
With a surprised cry, Sawyer fell back onto his butt, as he watched the little golden bowling man curl his arms up, cock his hips, and turn into an old bodybuilding trophy. The trophy man’s bowling shirt melted off to reveal big pecs and shredded abs, leaving “him” clad in nothing but a tiny posing suit. Even the little man’s head was manlier.
The next trophy started to change, too. Sawyer scrambled backward and bumped into the office chair, watching helplessly as the entire trophy case came to life like some kind of twisted “Toy Story” movie. The little bowling men hulked up into Adonises, and two shelves disappeared completely as the trophies expanded in size and needed extra room – there were a couple that were two or three feet tall, medals draping over every available space. “They’re alive, they’re alive,” Sawyer squealed with panic, unable to look away as the trophies flexed and posed for him. Intermittently, they started freezing again in their new forms, dozens of little muscle men in their matching man-panties.
Sawyer crawled back to the case on his hands and knees, surveying the new prizes. He looked at the first trophy again, the little golden statue posing above an engraved plaque that said “4th place, Teen’s Novice Lightweight.”
The boy felt a pang in his chest and clutched his heart, feeling a slight shift in the muscle underneath the layers of fabric. He heard a stretching sound, and swore that his jeans felt a little tighter, but he ignored that in favor of the pulling in his chest. It felt like his heartbeat was making his entire upper body shake, and Sawyer shut his eyes and breathed in and out as deeply as he could to see if he could make it stop. It did the trick, for the moment, and his hoodie momentarily concealed the pecs that had just sprouted on his chest.
The trophy titles improved as Sawyer’s eyes scanned across the shelves – from fourth place lightweight to, eventually, first, then moving up in the divisions from there. Sawyer struggled to his feet, leaning against the trophy case and leaving sweaty palm prints on the glass. His ass filled out his jeans tightly now, and his calves flexed and bulged against the straining hems of his highwater jeans. He was finding it more difficult to hunch like he normally did, as the muscles in his back were starting to grow and hug his spine, slowly drawing his posture upward one notch at a time, until he locked into his new upright stance with his chest puffed out. Even when Sawyer tried to slouch, he couldn’t. His neck shifted back while his chin tilted upward, his head now held permanently high and imperious. He even cleared his throat loudly like he was trying to silence a room.
“2nd place, Men’s Open Middleweight,” read the latest trophy, and that was when Sawyer realized that reading the plaques was doing something to his body. His arms were starting to angle out as his back spread and his chest got beefier, and he could feel his stomach knotting itself into abs under his t-shirt. “I should stop reading,” he announced, his voice now altered into a silky baritone, like a late-night radio host. Hearing it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Something is wrong with me,” he said, just to hear the depth of his words, but even though he was panicking, his voice wasn’t showing fear. He walked away from the trophies but his stride was changing with each step as his shuffle became a confident swagger, his chest bulging out in front of him and starting to shove at the front of his hoodie.
He opened the door to the office, his shoulders now filling the doorframe with his head now much closer to the top. He felt big. He stood there and looked around the office, locking bugged eyes on the secretary, who looked up at him. “Something wrong?” she said, and Sawyer wanted to say something, but he realized there was nothing he could say that didn’t sound like complete lunacy. He just stood imposingly in the doorway, breathing, realizing that even though he had looked away from the trophies, he was still growing. The curves of his biceps were showing in the sweatshirt sleeves, and his butt had split the back of his pants.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally said, deep and firm. Then he retreated back into the office and shut the door firmly, brow furrowed. There was another shift in his carriage as his hips tilted from their normal thrust, shifting to sit in alignment with his new bodyline. He led with his chest when he walked now, his legs beginning to swing slightly around each other thanks to the increasing size of his thighs and ass. His powerful haunches rippled as they grew, his Simpsons boxers squeezed up between two meaty ass cheeks. Grimacing, Sawyer reached around to pick his wedgie, feeling his boxers starting to change as he touched them, the hem rolling up over his boulder butt to become a pair of tight briefs. He was standing in front of the mirror, his face the picture of discomfort, picking his wedgie and watching his shoulders increase in size as the front of his hoodie began to fray. “I’m changing,” he said calmly, trying and failing to make his voice waver, or crack, or do anything aside from sounding like a he was doing a narration for a documentary.
Up out of his tennis shoes grew a pair of thin black socks, whipping over his large calves and spreading up under the legs of his jeans, which began growing to fit his new height. Sawyer’s toes popped through the front of his shoes, and he hobbled back over to the trophy case so he could lean against it to take off his footwear. But by the time he got there, his large feet were encased in black leather dress shoes, and even though he wanted to take them off, his hands were shaking too badly to do so.
The trophies’ division hadn’t changed, but now he was Middleweight nationally instead of regionally, and his body was bulging with hard-earned, rock-solid muscle. Sawyer’s ribs and lats were gently shoving themselves outward, his chest high and broad under a powerful yoke of shoulders that housed an elegant, muscular neck. Every boyish curve was solidifying into a manly angle, and soon the growth spread up to Sawyer’s fleshy jawline, which began to slowly harden as time went on. The boy’s jaw clenched as it grew, his chin pushing out from his face and then clefting handsomely. The first memory Sawyer lost was the mocking of a boy in his grade for having a “butt chin,” which now made no sense since Sawyer had one too. His hand slid up and felt the sharp precision of his jawbone, angles jutting like a fashion model’s.
Then he felt the pride.
Sawyer had never felt pride before, just a facsimile of it whenever he beat someone down to hide his unhappiness. But when he felt his incredibly chiseled jaw, box-shaped cleft chin, or his muscles swelling under his skin, his pride began to grow even more dramatically than his body was currently. He was beginning to connect with the power of his physique, his mind expanding with the knowledge needed for that level of weight expertise. He felt mighty, and strong. He felt manly.
His hoodie continued to burst apart from the expansion of his chest, his jacket size bumping up as he grew to barrel-chested manhood. “1st Place, National Men’s Heavyweight.” As his t-shirt ripped down the center, it grew buttons, then a collar, then long sleeves and cuffs, Sawyer’s manly might now hugged by a tight white dress shirt, the collar sitting open around his regal neck. The feeling of wearing a bespoke shirt brought a smile to Sawyer’s face, and his teeth began to pop into perfect placement to further beautify his happy expression. The shifting of his skull awakened his cheekbones, which rose up like cliffs to frame his eyes exquisitely. Sawyer’s smile wavered when he felt the skin of his face being yanked and re-draped over his strengthening bone structure. “Unk-hrrngh-“
He jumped again, startled by something rubbing up over his chest. Sawyer pulled open his hoodie, ripping it further, like Superman exposing his ‘S’. Straining over his chest was a pair of black suspenders fastened to his pants, which were pulling up higher to sit around his bellybutton. Sawyer didn’t remember ever wearing suspenders before, but as he watched them warp out to the sides, pushed out by his expanding chest, he remembered why he loved them. On most men, suspenders were straight lines, but on Sawyer, they were parentheses, punctuation marks to his outstanding breadth. The elastic strips stretched further to the sides as the next mother-of-pearl button on Sawyer’s shirt opened, exposing the top and middle of the marble boulders he called pecs – like a mantelpiece jutting out of his shirt.
In the mysterious picture behind him, the same button opened over Picture Sawyer’s chest, a rakishly open collar framing his pecs and neck like art. The little alterations to the picture were mirrored in Sawyer’s own body – a wider waist, a firmer stomach lightly pressing into the buttons of his shirt, more powerful hands, and blue-black hairs poking out of the top of his scalp. The button at the base of his pecs puckered but held firm, as did the cuffs of his shirt, which were pulled tight over robust forearms. Soon, the dress shirt was joined by an Italian-made black suit jacket, the notched lapels hanging down over his chest. Sawyer calmly slid his hands into the lined pockets of his suit pants as he began to circle the office, his stride smooth and powerful as his mind churned.
He stopped when he noticed himself in the office mirror. The last time he had stood in front of it, he easily fit into the reflection. Now he had to stand at the opposite end of the room just to see most of himself, and his shoulders still weren’t all visible. Sawyer slid off his suit jacket, exposing the densely muscled build rippling through the snug white shirt, suspenders straining over his chest. He smiled at his mirror image and flexed his right bicep, enjoying the feeling of the muscle threatening to split his sleeve. He wasn’t noticing anymore that his reflection was a strapping hunk and not a small, hunched boy. It seemed normal to him. What didn’t seem normal was the messy, dirty mop of hair hanging around his stunning face. Sawyer went to his desk and pulled out a small dopp kit, grabbing a puck of pomade and a comb. In just the few seconds he walked away from the mirror and walked back to it, he packed another 35 pounds of muscle onto his 6’4” frame, his dress shirt now strained to translucency over mountainous lats and sky-high pecs, two powerful ass cheeks rolling about in his tight suit pants.
Sawyer dipped his hands into the pomade and began running it through his hair, the styling product cleaning his dirty locks until they shone with health, darkening to a glossy blue-black with a handsome widow’s peak dipping into his forehead. Sawyer’s comb made a sharp divide on the right side of his head, and as he separated the hairs on his temple, strands of white began appearing, as crow’s feet webbed out from his eyes and his bones furthered the masculinization of his features. By the time Sawyer had finished styling his hair into a neat, slicked-back businessman’s cut, a 45-year-old complete stud was staring back at him, with the chiseled jaw and clefted chin of a real-life superhero. The black hair shone in the lights, with just a hint of white at each temple. His expression was commanding and stern, as his older features settled into a resting countenance of superiority. He was a palpable Superman in face and body.
“Much better,” Sawyer purred to himself, tilting his chin up to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots shaving. He picked a piece of lint off his collar and adjusted his cuffs, a common occurrence since his sleeves would catch around his biceps. He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled at himself again, his mind fogging over with manly pride at his size and beauty. It had taken a lot of work to get this big at this height.
The desk phone burst loudly to life, a shrill ring blasting through the office. Sawyer debated answering it, but figured why not at this point, his mind beginning to lock into new reactions as his boyhood behaviors cracked apart. As he walked to the wooden desk, the testicles between his legs enlarged with each step, his shaft growing long and firm until a prominent bulge stuck out from his suit pants, the perfect capper to an amazing body. With his new huge hands, the office phone felt inconsequential in his palm.
“Principal’s office,” Sawyer said.
The soft voice of a girl was on the other line. “Hello?”
“Hello, to whom am I speaking?”
“This is Sawyer,” the tiny voice said.
Sawyer stiffened at the sound of his own name. Another cog activated in his mind, pushing new thoughts and actions into him. “That’s a great name.”
“What do you meeeean?” The voice was sweet and inquisitive.
Sawyer plucked at his suspenders as his mind kept shifting around, the straps snapping into his pecs over and over – thwack, thwack - as a new and very different life took hold. “Why, that’s my…that’s my…my…”
“That’s your whaaat?”
“That’s my…son’s…name…” Shawyer said, furthering his immersion into his new life.
“I’m your son!” It wasn’t a girl he was talking to, it was a boy – a little boy, his high voice untouched by manhood. Only seven years old, but already sporting the cleft chin and solid build that would carry him into a good life like his daddy before him.
“I know you are, bud, I’m just messin’ with ya,” Shayer smiled, rubbing his chin. “You know how your ol’ dad is.”
Shayer’s thoughts were shattering apart and realigning, years of life building themselves into the architecture of his brain. His perspective on school, on a classroom, on who his peers were was all changing, as the mind and pedigree of a well-bred 45-year-old bodybuilding man took him over. He seesawed between the thoughts of a common school bully and an upstanding community figure, like a switch toggling up and down wildly. The elements were snapping into place – the SUV he drove, the two-story colonial he and his family lived in, the gym he went to – and shoving out the stuff he didn’t need anymore, the old Sawyer stuff. Any thought of a boy named ‘Sawyer’ was developing into that of the boy he was raising – taking Sawyer to the paint store to pick out the color of his room, driving to Sawyer’s school to bring him lunch, helping Sawyer with his arithmetic homework, catching Sawyer trying on one of Daddy’s dress shirts in the laundry room. It had been so big on the little guy, but it would fit one day. “It’ll fit one day,” Shayer said out loud.
“Huh, Dad?”
“Nothing, pal,” Shaye said. “Why’d you call?”
“Just wanted to say hi and I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Are you busy?”
“Yes, Daddy’s very busy today. I can’t wait to hear about your day, I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”
“Okay.”
Principal Shane Bullock hung up the phone and smiled. “What a sweet kid,” he said, looking at his favorite picture on his desk, him in his best suit with his arms around his two boys, Shane Junior – SJ, the 10-year-old – and little Sawyer.
Shane reached down and took his suit jacket off the back of his chair, slipping it back onto his muscled brawn, the lapels nudged high by his round, hard traps. The big handsome bodybuilder certainly looked the part of the school leader as he strode out into the waiting area. “I’m ready for him,” he said to his secretary.
“For who, Dr. Bullock?”
“I thought you said Darwin was here?”
She went white. “Oh no…I forgot to page him. I’ll do it now.”
“No problem. Thanks.” Shane swaggered back into his office and eased his muscles into his office chair, already sore from his early morning workout. While he waited, he typed in his password and pulled up the files of this Darwin kid he was supposed to meet with. “Never met a Darwin before,” he said to himself, scribbling a few notes on a post-it.
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Darwin hadn’t been paying his usual excellent attention to class. He was too worried about Sawyer. He knew Sawyer was going to administer a beatdown for having been sent to the principal’s office and embarrassed in front of the big bearded guy. Darwin was toast, and he knew it. He was debating planning his last will and testament when the secretary’s voice crackled back over the speaker: “Will Darwin Potts please report to the principal’s office? Darwin Potts to the principal’s office.”
Darwin felt all his senses go numb. Everything seemed to freeze. His classmates let out a long, teasing “ooooooooo,” as they always did when anyone got called to see Dr. Bullock – even though everyone assumed that dweeby Darwin wasn’t being disciplined. But Darwin made no such assumption, and he felt his heart sink so low that he thought it was going to pop out of the front of his shoe.
Why would Dr. Bullock want to speak to him? Was Sawyer in there and there was going to be a mediation or something? Oh no, he was totally going to have to talk to Sawyer…was he going to have to snitch? Every nightmare Darwin had ever had was coming true at the same time. He would have rather jumped out of the classroom’s second-story window than gone down to Dr. Bullock’s office.
“Darwin, are you going?” The teacher was way over the interruptions.
Darwin had no voice. He just nodded in pure terror. He heaved his backpack up over his shoulder and darted out of the classroom, avoiding eye contact with anyone as he left.
He had to hold his hands together as he walked. It was the only way he could get them to stop shaking. He tried to think of ways he could ask Dr. Bullock for help while at the same time not exactly snitching on Sawyer enough to get his ass whooped. But what was odd was every time he thought back to Sawyer threatening him, all he saw in his mind was Dr. Bullock. Always in his fitted black or navy suit and a solid-colored dress shirt with an open collar – it was a running joke that Dr. Bullock didn’t own any ties - with the sea of students parting to make way for him anywhere he went. He moved smoothly, with more grace than would be expected of a man of his size. Darwin had never had any interaction with Dr. Bullock before, although he thought of him as a classic principal in demeanor: stern but kind, trying to be as fair as he could be without being overly lenient toward his students. He seemed like a nice man, certainly, and he looked like he’d fallen out of a catalog or off a movie screen. His clothes were well-made but still strained over his muscles, and there was always a slight pucker to the fabric around the buttons of his shirt.
Darwin had to unclasp his hands so that he could pull on the door to the school office. He sat down in the first chair he saw, bowing his head and almost hoping he wouldn’t be noticed, even though he was expected.
“Are you Darwin?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You can go on in, Dr. Bullock is ready for you.”
Darwin nodded and stood up, walking to Dr. Bullock’s door and pulling it on with a ‘thunk.’
“Push,” the secretary said. Darwin, beet-red now, did so.
The only way that Shane Bullock knew that someone was coming into his office was because the door made a slight creaking noise. Otherwise, Darwin’s steps made no sound and he didn’t say a word. The boy just stood in the doorway and looked nervously at the principal, as Shane finished typing something on his computer, then turned his head to look at his student.
“Are you Darwin?” Shane politely stood up, towering over the young kid. Darwin gulped at the sight of Shane’s huge chest peeking through the front of the white dress shirt, and hoped he hadn’t done anything to piss the principal off. If this man was angry, no one was going to stand in his way.
“Y-yes sir,” Darwin said, avoiding eye contact.
“Have a seat, please,” Shane said, gesturing his hand toward the two seats on the other side of his desk.
“Does it matter which one?” Darwin said nervously.
Shane chuckled. “No, it doesn’t matter. I just have two for when I meet with parents.” Shane watched Darwin set his backpack down and sit. The boy stuck his hands between his thighs and crossed his ankles, but kept his head tilted down.
“So,” Shane said, breaking the silence. He couldn’t help but use a more childish tone when he spoke to runty Darwin. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you in here?”
Darwin nodded vigorously. He still said nothing.
Shane leaned back in his chair, patting his palm against his abs. “Why do you think?” he said, testing the boy.
“I’m in trouble?”
Shane smiled. “You? No, Darwin, you’re not in trouble.”
“Then, uhhh, I don’t know, Principal Bullock. Dr. Bullock.” Darwin’s voice was high and reedy. It had the husk common with teenaged boys, but about an octave higher than it should’ve been.
Shane’s deep baritone washed over Darwin. “I’ve heard some reports that you’ve encountered some…adversity, shall we say, in the halls. Have people said mean things to you? Done mean things to you?” There was a long pause. “You don’t have to name names if you don’t want to.”
Darwin’s eyes darted upward briefly, actually making contact with Shane’s, for a very short moment. The boy was reddening again, embarrassed. Darwin’s reaction already said enough already for Shane to know, but the student didn’t realize how easy his body language was to read, and he lied. “N-no, sir. Dr. Principal Bullock. I’m fine.”
Shane’s eyes narrowed, and he flexed his jaw from side to side. “I see. Have you witnessed any bullying, then?”
“Well, uh…” Darwin looked over at the door, like he was considering leaping for it. “Y’know, it’s high school,” he shrugged. “There’s teasing and stuff.”
“Right, right.” Shane cleared his throat, and his thumb rubbed the button holding his shirt closed over the lower half of his chest. “I have heard about some situations that have worried me.”
There was an agonizingly long pause and Darwin eventually realized that the principal was waiting for him to make eye contact. Slowly, painfully, Darwin tilted his chin up just enough to be able to see Dr. Bullock’s eyes. The kid looked like a puppy being scolded.
“Darwin,” Shane said, beginning to get slightly frustrated with the boy’s timidity. “You do realize you have done nothing wrong, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All I am saying is that I don’t think having a few teachers patrol the halls during passing periods is doing enough to really cut down on bullying in my school. Not bullying – cruelty. Bullying is too nice of a word for it. It’s cruelty, and I hate cruelty. There is no place for it here. I want it gone. Everyone is coming here to learn, and everyone should feel safe here, even, even…” Shane cut himself off, about to say ‘the smallest of kids’ before deciding against it.
“Even who?” Darwin asked.
“Even the foreign exchange students, the kids who don’t speak English…anyone,” Shane said, covering. “I would like to have someone who monitors the halls closely and reports directly to me or the teachers if they see any activity that is against the rules.”
“A hall monitor?”
Shane smiled and put his palms up toward the ceiling. “Exactly. Would that be something you were interested in?”
“I…” Darwin trailed off, wondering if this was all a joke.
“I think you’d do a wonderful job. I’ve heard you have a keen sense of what is wrong and right.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could-“
“I heard great things about you. Are you not interested anymore? The pay is very good for the area.”
“No, no, I couldn’t do it,” Darwin said, standing up without thinking as he prepared to excuse himself. Shane looked up in surprise and then stood up too, and suddenly Darwin felt so small. A thought came to him. “…pay?” Darwin asked. “I’d get paid for this?”
Shane crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging against his knuckles. “I thought that might get your attention. Yes, there would be pay, and we are very flexible with it too, along with the benefits package.”
Darwin sat back down, visibly excited. He’d been needing some extra cash – his parents never gave him anything. Eyes wide, he pushed up the sleeves of his long-sleeved t-shirt, warmed by his enthusiasm. “I’d…I’d be interested if there’s pay, then.”
Shane clapped his large hands together, grinning. “Great! Could you start today?”
“Do I need any training?” Darwin bounced his feet nervously on the floor.
Shane shook his head. “You shouldn’t. Anything you don’t know already, you’ll pick up quickly.”
“Well then,” Darwin gulped, “I guess I could start today…”
Shane stood back up, movie-star smile on full display. He extended the biggest hand that Darwin had ever seen and said “Great. Let’s shake on it.”
Darwin looked at the big hand and hesitated slightly, wondering how he was going to grip it. When he finally did slide his hand into Shane’s, the principal’s fingers closed completely around it, the big fish swallowing the minnow. Darwin’s entire body quavered from the force of Shane’s powerful handshake, and he stumbled a little when the principal released his grip.
“You alright?” Shane asked, noticing Darwin’s daze.
“Just fine, Shane.” Darwin shook his head a little and cleared his throat repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I mean Dr. Bullock. I’m going to go get some water, I got a frog in my throat.”
“Oh, here,” Shane said, bending down to open up a mini-fridge hidden under his desk. “I have some little bottles.” He tossed one to Darwin, who grabbed it out of the air, ripped off the lid and chugged the whole thing. Then he crushed the small plastic bottle in his hand with a loud crunch, and dropped the wadded-up ball into the trash.
“We recycle in this school,” Shane scolded.
“Sorry.” Darwin bent down to grab the bottle’s remains out of the trash. A loud rip sounded through the office and Darwin stood back up with a jolt.
“Did you just split your pants?” Shane asked.
“I – I’m not sure, I…” Darwin patted behind him but felt nothing. He turned around to show his backside to Shane. “Is it bad?”
“Actually, no,” Shane said, clearly puzzled. “They’re fine.” The only odd thing was how large Darwin’s butt looked, but Shane didn’t dare comment on that. The kid’s ass was the most protrusive thing on his back; it stuck out further than his upper back.
“Good,” Darwin mumbled, his voice still froggy even after the water. “Can’t afford to split another pair.”
“That happen to you a lot?”
“More than I’d like to admit!” Darwin chuckled loudly, then pulled awkwardly at the waist of his pants when he noticed Shane wasn’t laughing with him. “Er, sorry,” he continued. “Anyway, I’ll just…go…yeah. Nice talkin’ with you, Shane. I mean, Dr. Bullock. Thank you for the water.”
“Anytime. School district buys ‘em for us. Feel free to grab one.”
Darwin waved behind him as he shut the door. He walked into the hallway feeling extreme admiration for the principal. Shane Bullock was so impressively huge. Big muscles on a small frame was hard enough, but to get that big at 6’4” really took effort. And Shane had kids and a mortgage and a demanding job and still found time to get jacked. It was just inspiring.
Darwin was just pacing the halls, his thighs beginning to rub together as he walked. It was irritating, and the inside of his legs burned from the friction. He experimented by swinging his legs slightly out while he walked, and that felt much better, except soon his thighs were rubbing again, so he had to further exaggerate the waddle, bringing his hips and butt into the action for further support.
He happened to glance into a classroom as he walked by it and locked eyes with Miss Montag, his teacher from the previous hour. She gave him a strange look and he suddenly realized he needed to go back to his class. He darted out of view and broke into an odd run, his legs not bending as they swung around each other like a pair of stilts. As he passed each classroom, he’d look at the placard on the door and hope that the listed class triggered some kind of memory. But nothing was clicking.
His run was stopped short when he ran past a glass display case and noticed his butt behind him. “Jeez louise,” he croaked, straightening his legs and flexing his glutes, watching the pants strain and ripple. His back pockets curved so dramatically over his big ass that he would never be able to actually use them for carrying anything. He put his hand back over his right ass cheek and was astounded that he could almost flatten his palm over the top of his butt. It stuck out that far. “I should do rap videos,” he chuckled to himself.
Darwin never faced the glass head-on, so he didn’t see the way his thighs curved out far past the width of his waist. His leg-swinging swagger was starting to feel very normal, even as his quads started to tear out the front of his pants as two plump teardrops bulged out all the way down to his knees. Darwin had just reached the main hall of lockers when the bell rang and students poured out into the corridor, jostling him around as they all squeezed through.
He heard someone yell “don’t be a fuckin’ asshole!” and then someone else yelp “dipshit!” Darwin spun and saw two boys shoving each other against a row of lockers, their hands mostly smacking the air but occasionally connecting with skin.
“HEY!” Darwin was yelling it before he was thinking. His heart raced as he leapt across the hallway, and when he reached into the fray, his knuckles were white with terror. He didn’t know why he was trying to break up the fight, and he didn’t want to get involved, but he was literally unable to stop himself. “Knock it off!” He put himself between the two boys and gave each of them a stiff-arm, pushing them far enough apart to where they couldn’t reach each other. Darwin sensed one of the boys reaching back to strike again and he snapped his hand right into the path of the punch, blocking it easily with his palm. “Don’t do that.”
He clamped a hand on each boy’s shoulder and pushed, intending to separate them further, not realizing he was pushing himself higher in the air. His spine extended, elbows popping and limbs stretching as he rose up above both boys, his stature solidifying at 5’10”, no longer able to be teased for being short.
“He started it,” one kid spat to the other.
“I don’t care. Get to class,” Darwin barked, the frog in his throat growing. “I catch you two brawling again and I’m sending you both to Dr. Bullock.”
One of the boys looked down at Darwin’s pants, the bottoms of which were hugging the top of his calves. The boy pointed down. “What happened to your jeans-“
“Get to class.” Darwin took a single step and every sinew in his leg muscles bulged and flexed.
One of the boys darted away but the other one stayed and eyed Darwin analytically. “What class are you going to?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“I, uh…” Sweat broke out on Darwin’s forehead. He couldn’t remember. “That’s none of your business, Grady.”
“How’d you know my name?”
“You cause too much trouble for me to not know it,” Darwin said, adding a tentative “…or something” to the end of the statement when he realized it was a strange thing to say. “J-just go to class, I guess,” he finally said, backing away from Grady and making his way briskly down the hall, pulling feverishly at his t-shirt and jeans, which were now far too small for his taller build. He could hear people snickering when he toddled by, and his cheeks reddened with embarrassment. It felt like he was having a bad dream where he got sent to school half-naked. Making matters worse was his big butt spilling over the top of his jeans, plumber’s crack on full display. Clothing was so restrictive. Like his t-shirt sleeves hugging his arms and his jeans ripping apart and his-
“UH!” Darwin grabbed his crotch lewdly and fell into a set of lockers when he felt his nuts spasm. It hurt so bad that he saw stars. The pouch of his underwear distended outward so quickly that his fly zipper started to rip. Darwin doubled over, face blue, his hands shoved between his thighs as the air left his body. The seam running underneath his crotch started to rip open and he desperately tried to pull it back together, while simultaneously stumbling across the hall and into the closest bathroom. It was meant to be used only by male faculty but Darwin definitely counted this as an emergency. He wanted to groan, or scream, but he couldn’t breathe. And his hands were shaking so badly that pulling his jeans off was damn near impossible, although he eventually managed. The front of his boxer briefs had literally split open from the extreme appendage that had grown in behind it. His cock swung between his legs like a pendulum, his balls bouncing off his thighs like a pair of dice on a rearview mirror. Darwin was staring incredulously at the porn-star penis when he noticed the bulging wedges that composed his thighs, and his attention drifted there. “Wh-what are those-“ It looked like he had a second pair of thighs hanging off of his original set. Thick veins ran up into his destroyed underwear. He ran a clammy hand over one gigantic quad and his cock immediately bobbed up at full mast.
Darwin ripped off his underwear and immediately felt relief as he tossed the shreds of cotton into the trash. He lumbered around the bathroom and enjoyed his nuts bounding up and down freely with each step. That guy who’d bullied him had probably never had a dick like this. Big and thick and ready for action. Darwin had never been so set to fuck in his life. It made his palms sweat and his heart race. He fondled his balls and moaned, and a new musky scent began to waft off him as his pores churned out sweat. He licked his tongue over his lips and tasted the brine rolling down over them.
“I gotta pull myself together,” he grumbled, snapping out of his delirium. “My mom’s gonna be so mad at me for skippin’ class.” He wondered if saying that he’d completely forgotten his entire class schedule would be acceptable as an excuse. It was true, after all. Maybe Shane knew his class schedule. He’d have to go ask.
Darwin was embarrassed about his jeans as he pulled them back up. They didn’t fit at all – he’d blown out the sides with his thighs, and even though he was commando now, his dick still nearly ripped through the front. He’d have to find a new pair before the day was over, he thought as his calves grew themselves larger on the backs of his legs, a couple of footballs under the skin. It was a strange sight to see the boy’s spindly torso attached to two of the biggest, strongest legs in the school, but Darwin was increasingly unbothered by it. He had easily adjusted to his new height and way of walking, although having a bigger body meant needing more fuel, and he suddenly realized that he was starving for food.
He trudged toward the cafeteria, knowing it was closed but hoping against hope that it was somehow open. His walk was slower than it had once been, even though he was taller, which just made him all the more antsy. He only had to get within view of the cafeteria doors to see it was closed, and he sighed with frustration as his stomach growled loudly. “I gotta get some food, man,” he rumbled, scratching his ass. He noticed a small glass office nearby and curiously headed in that direction, noticing his reflection as he moved closer. “Check out these wheels,” he grinned proudly, flexing his thighs and calves quickly. “Damn. Damn!”
Darwin poked his head into the office, his mouth watering. He was just hoping for a candy bar or something to tide him over, but soon he spotted a small black fridge under the office’s desk, and he had to crouch down – big ass pressing into his heels – to inspect its contents. Precum gushed into his jeans when his eyes were greeted by stacks of pre-prepared meals. He grabbed one of the top ones greedily, a Tupperware container filled with seasoned grilled chicken, broccoli and brown rice, with some sort of light teriyaki glaze on top. “Fuck yeah,” he groaned, an expression he’d never used before but felt suited the situation. There was a box of plastic forks on the ground next to the fridge and he grabbed one, tearing voraciously into the chicken and rice with it. “Mmmm,” he smacked through mouthfuls of food. “So good.”
So set was Darwin on sating his hunger that he didn’t feel his t-shirt starting to push into his armpits, or tightening over his chest as it began to bulge out. Small muscles popped out all over the boyish frame and began to change its shape dramatically. The protein in the chicken fueled his new desire to grow, and as Darwin ate, grow is what he did. His biceps swelled handsomely and his back began to spread, the figure of an athlete becoming apparent within the skintight confines of his small shirt. Matching rips appeared in his shirt – one in the front over his chest, and one in the back right over his spine. He was shoveling food into his mouth so quickly that he didn’t pay attention to his bicep pressing into his forearm as he lifted his fork to his mouth, or the fact that he had to raise his arm higher because his chest was starting to get in the way. There was no hiding the fact that the Darwin who set down the empty dish was a much thicker and more powerful Darwin than the one who had picked it up. His muscles were firm and rippling up top, while his legs were beginning to look rather outrageous in their size. Even the boy’s neck had thickened up. When he pulled on his t-shirt collar – it felt so tight – he was surprised at the cords of muscle greeting his fingers. And when he took a few steps, he was surprised at how much heavier he felt. What had been a step at his old weight was now more of a clomp. He bounced up and down on his heels a few time and felt his pecs move with him. Darwin glanced down at his chest, which was now big enough to peek through the tears in his shirt. “Where’d you come from?” he croaked, slipping a few fingers into the rips and feeling his pecs. “Aw, jeez, this is weird. I don’t think this is normal.”
Darwin smacked his tongue around his mouth and cleared his throat. His voice was deep and dry, and he was thirsty. He opened the fridge back up and spotted a chocolate milkshake on the door. “Ooh!” It was a struggle to get the flip-top open – some of the chocolate powder stuff had crusted around it – but he finally succeeded and began to chug.
The milkshake sure wasn’t very sweet. Probably because it wasn’t actually a milkshake at all, but a gainer shake, packed with more protein and carbs than Darwin normally consumed in a week. Except now, they were barely satisfying him, although they were certainly doing their job. Darwin’s muscles groaned and stretched far beyond their confines, bulking him into another body type entirely. His delts popped and his triceps hung heavily out of his sleeves, while his chest and back flared and grew outward. Trap muscles reached up toward his jawline out of his shoulders, and thick abs spread over his stomach. Even the hands gripping the shake canister got thick and strong, knots of muscle bulging out around his palms.
Darwin pounded the empty container down on the desk and belched loudly. Standing in the office was a thickly muscled kid, the remains of his t-shirt hanging around a very jacked-up body. Every movement Darwin made, down to breathing and blinking, felt so different. The rise and fall of his heavy chest as he breathed, the quiver of his thighs as he walked, the spread of his back and shoulders when he reached for something. It was all new to him. His sleeves had ripped apart over formidable arms, and he flexed his bicep up by his face, grinning at it as if it were his child. It looked like a grapefruit stuffed under his skin. He loved it. “I feel GOOD,” he thundered, the shake having finally shoved down the “frog” in his throat, leaving it as a confident bass instead of the reedy whisper of before. Darwin didn’t recognize his own voice, but it made sense to him in a way. He could feel the thickness of his neck, and to him, a thick neck meant a deep voice. He tensed his jaw and felt his neck bulge, ripping his collar further. “Fuuuuck yeah!”
Darwin ran his big hands over his muscles, giving special attention to the newfound beefiness of his forearms and biceps. “I look like an American Gladiator,” he said, his tone a mix of pride and confusion. The more he felt his body’s power, the less acquainted he felt with it. “M-maybe I shouldn’t have made that wish,” he wondered, his deep bass rising a little in pitch. “I think I’m gettin’ sick or something. I should go ask Dr. B if I can leave.”
Darwin jolted forward, out of the office and into the hallway, his clothes falling apart as his muscles bulged and grew with each step. The legs of his pants were ruined, while his shirt had ripped into pieces down the middle. Darwin was clutching his stomach and shuddering. He was chilled by his increasing nakedness and was struggling to fathom why he felt so strange.
“Holy shit, look how big he is!”
Darwin heard the exclamation come from a corridor next to him, and he turned around to see two jocks in letter jackets staring at him. “Dude,” one said, “you’re huge!”
Darwin’s pecs swelled more. His delts rounded. His biceps plumped. “Thanks,” he said, standing tall.
“What do you eat?”
Darwin blinked. He scratched his bare nipple, brushing the tatters of fabric hanging over it. “Huh?”
“Your diet! I wanna get as big as you!”
Darwin grew visibly larger. His skin looked thinner, stretched over such mass. The boy was a bodybuilder now and getting bigger by the breath. He held his pecs high and stood confidently, but his nervous eyes told a different story. He didn’t know why the scary jocks were talking to him, and he didn’t know why he sounded so confident, even though he wasn’t. “Eat? Uhhh…” Darwin rubbed his chin. It felt scratchy, and large. “I eat a lot. Let’s see, uh, I start my day, every day, with at least six eggs, sometimes a dozen. Oftentimes I just drink one of those egg white cartons, the whole thing. Lots of bacon too, I love bacon. Black coffee.”
Darwin’s mind was struggling with all this info. He wanted to say he just ate yogurt for breakfast, not all this other food. But his body was continuing to adapt to the new dietary regimen that he was speaking into history. He was progressing into enormity, a thick beast of a man, the hugeness of his muscles matched only by their hardness and vascularity. Every muscle looked as big as a dodgeball, mapped out by veins that looked like fireworks under the skin. He was panting and sweating, casually running his hands over any muscle he could conceivably reach. The air was charged with testosterone and he was taking in huge gulps of it.
“You’re sweatin’, dude, you okay?”
“I generate so much body heat,” Darwin rasped. “I gotta drink a lot of water.” He whipped out a handkerchief from the remains of his pocket and began wiping his brow with it, soaking the fabric with sweat. His neck was so thick that it was difficult to tilt his head down, but when he raised his arm up, it ripped his shirt further. Darwin ran the handkerchief over his forehead and crown, and a curious thing happened: it was mopping up a lot of his hair, too. The long strands that hung down around his face got sponged away like they were made of moisture. Darwin squeezed out the handkerchief like it was a dishrag, unaware that he was also disposing of the hair he’d spent so long growing. But the new hairstyle he sported certainly looked better than before, so it was worth the change. Replacing Darwin’s shaggy mop was a perfectly level, military-grade flattop that mirrored the strength and masculinity of his jacked body. The harsh lines and rigid angles that composed the flattop suggested an intense devotion to physical fitness, a tremendous work ethic, and palpable virility.
With far less hair on it, Darwin’s head felt cold, and he reached up to inspect why, bicep and deltoid pressing into his face and neck. The precise bristles that greeted his palm were strange to him. The two jocks stared at him strangely as he ran his hand back and forth over the flattop, examining the 90-degree angles that made the top of his head look like a cube. “I’m not s’posed to have this,” he said to the jocks, followed by a wince as he expected them to make fun of his confusion, not realizing that both boys now respected him immensely.
The starry-eyed jocks didn’t seem to care that Darwin was clearly distressed about something. “What’re your workouts like?” one asked. “Yeah, when did you start lifting?” chimed in the other.
“’bout your age, maybe a little younger,” Darwin rumbled distractedly as he continued to rub his head and muscles. “You guys should be in class. We can talk bodybuilding later.”
“But-”
“Go to class, boys,” Darwin heard himself say, basso profondo, drawing his body up to his full height as his muscles rippled and his clothes disintegrated.
The jocks scampered off without another word. They weren’t so scary after all, Darwin thought to himself as he began to lumber forward. Actually, the jocks were really nice. They respected him a lot because he was so big and-
“Holy shit!” Darwin gasped as he walked past a trophy case and saw his reflection. “Holy shit, I’m naked!”
He was like Adam realizing his sin in the Garden. Darwin’s entire massive body turned as red as a fire-truck as he realized he was wearing the tattered remains of a much smaller person’s clothing. His underwear was filled to bursting, cock and balls straining lewdly against tiny white briefs that he had no business wearing. His t-shirt was just a few strips of cotton hanging lamely over his shoulders like a shrug. If he had looked closely, he would have seen his traps continuing to grow, his delts blossoming, his yoke pushing out to the sides. The remains of his jeans made Daisy Duke look like a nun.
“I gotta…I gotta—oh shit!” Darwin took off running down the hall, his enormous muscles crashing into each other as his feet stomped loudly. The lockers shook as the beast ran by, his stride hindered by the fact that he was still getting larger with each step. Sweat poured down his colossal frame and soaked everything from his underwear to his socks. When he stopped to catch his breath outside the same office he’d just left, a small puddle formed from all the sweat dripping off his face. “There’s gotta be somethin’ to wear in here,” Darwin said to himself, glancing around the small office. “Why’d this have to be all windows?!”
He was digging through the desk drawers for clothes, hoping he didn’t get in trouble. It didn’t dawn on him that, at his new size, 99% of clothes wouldn’t fit him. Darwin’s new chest would never fit into store-bought shirts. If he happened to find a pair of sweatpants, the only limbs they’d fit on would be his arms, and just barely.
He heard a small clink behind him and looked up to see a dry-cleaning bag hanging on the office’s door handle. “How’d that get there?” He walked over to it and ripped off the plastic, grinning at the large button-down shirt and pair of pants that greeted his eyes. As soon as he saw them, his underwear slid up to support his dick and balls in a heavy pouch, changing into a sweat-stained white jock strap that pushed up his big, manly butt.
Darwin unfolded the black pants and quickly stepped into them. He yanked them up and they seemed to mold to his body, the pant legs widening to accommodate such huge thighs, while the waist hugged his stomach firmly. It was magically a perfect fit. The pants rippled from the power contained within their folds. Darwin patted his waistline satisfactorily, his abs thickening at his touch. He grabbed the black shirt next and felt his body stiffen as soon as he slipped it over his shoulders. Something about the shirt made him stand like there was a board holding his spine straight. He could help but grin as he began to button the shirt up. His biceps pushed up the short sleeves and wedged them under his armpits, and he loved that. The buttons over his stomach were puckering from the projection of his abs, and when he got to the top three buttons, he realized it was impractical to button them at all. The top two were impossible to fasten, and while he could get the third, it would have been straining so badly that his chest might have ripped it open if he breathed too deep. Darwin tugged at the points of the shirt collar to make sure they sat right around his neck. He flexed his chest and groaned excitedly as he felt his pecs press into the inside of the shirt, the middle of his chest peeking through the open buttons. But not even that felt as good as his giant back straining the shirt, with the thick muscles that ran down parallel to his spine nearly ripping through the fabric. “It’s like this was made for me!”
Darwin didn’t want people to think he was being too informal wearing his shirt a little open, so he tucked it into his pants, something he didn’t normally do. But this shirt felt better tucked in. It made him stand taller and wider. The fabric had a handsome sheen that looked fantastic, reflecting the rays of light around the curves of his chest and butt. Darwin pressed his hands down over the front of his shirt and pants, making sure there were no wrinkles except for where his muscles showed through. He raised one arm and sniffed the musk rolling out, pleased he hadn’t sweat through the fabric yet. That gave him a chance to admire his arm: on most guys, the shirt’s sleeves would have been baggy, but on Darwin, they were too small, like a bowling ball stuffed into a tube sock.
He took a step forward and heard an annoying jingle, looking down to see a heavy black braided belt still buckling itself around his waist, with about forty keys hanging off a keyring attached to it. “Well, guess that’s good to have,” Darwin reasoned. He noticed a flashlight hanging off his belt too. “I guess that’s…useful, too…”
On his left side, the belt had two sideways pouches that were snapped shut. Curious, Darwin opened one up and something fell out of it and clattered onto the floor. He crouched down, big ass nearly brushing the floor, and picked up the item in question: a bullet.
“Wh-whoa!” Darwin flicked the bullet away in a panic and fell back onto his beefy butt. He heard a dull thunk against the floor and looked down to see a handgun, snapped into its black leather holster, stuck to his left hip. Darwin’s mouth went dry and he reached for the gun to throw it away, before stopping his hand and realizing he didn’t know what he was doing – what if he accidentally discharged his firearm? “I gotta tell somebody!” In a frenzy, he pulled himself back up, barely noticing the forty pounds of gear that now hung off his belt, the handsome black leather gleaming in the light as it encircled his powerful waist.
He grabbed the office phone and looked at the quick guide attached to the desk nearby: “Principal, AD, Assistant…no…security! Security office!” He punched in the extension – “Two, five, zero, one,” he mouthed as he read the numbers – and then leapt back when the phone he was holding immediately rang. He quickly swapped lines to answer the phone.
“Security office,” he said into the receiver, curtly. His own bass voice swept into his ear through the speaker. “Oh! Oh, weird,” he muttered, pulling the receiver away when he realized he was calling himself. He looked down at his gun again while he hung up the phone. It was hard to see his waist over his shoulders and chest, but he could feel the gun there. “Is this what Shane hired me to do?” Darwin wondered, clenching his fists. He looked at his reflection in the office glass and saw a giant man with a flattop, wearing a starched uniform. Not even Shane had shoulders this broad, and Darwin was pretty sure the reflection wasn’t enhancing the breadth at all.
He looked down at his immense chest, the two pockets over his pecs standing nearly a foot away. On his left pec, nearly parallel with the ceiling, was a police officer’s badge insignia. On his right was a name plate that read POTTS. He patted his big hands over the front of his shirt and grasped his belt buckle. “This is a cop uniform!” he suddenly realized. “Aw, this is a big mistake.” He immediately resolved to go tell Shane – uh, Dr. Bullock – that he couldn’t do the job like he’d been asked, ‘cause he wasn’t a cop.
Darwin reached to pick up the phone again to call Shane, but he noticed his hand. It was huge, and the forearm attached to it was bigger than most men’s upper arms. Darwin Potts was one big-ass beast of a bodybuilder. Had he always been like that? Well no, obviously, he’d been a kid once, like all the rest of the students at the school.
Wait, once? Darwin’s jaw started widening while he mulled over the wording of his thoughts. He was thinking of these kids as his peers, but that also seemed funny – if they were his peers, why was he calling them kids in the first place? They were young kids who needed a stern hand to protect them, usually from each other. Even when Darwin had been a kid himself, he’d had an almost preternatural ability to prevent bullying. It helped that he’d always been big, even when he was younger. Darwin’s entire life history began to rewrite itself as he began remembering himself not as a shrimpy dork in high school, but a powerfully built linebacker who dreamt of becoming a bodybuilder. This version of Darwin had fallen in love early with the feeling of power surging through his body, and became obsessed with getting his muscles as big as possible. This version of Darwin never got pushed around because he didn’t allow it. Every uneasy thought turned to extreme self-assurance, as his virility took him over. He slapped his boner as his testosterone levels shot through the roof, gifting him with a sexual prowess so extreme that he was never satisfied. :
Darwin’s jaw slowly creaked as he thought these memories through, the years ticking onto his face. The angles of his flattop were now matched by the blunt enormity of his jaw, which angled dramatically over his neckline, capped by a heavy, square chin. His features shifted downward as his brow got bigger, testosterone filling in the soft bones until they looked carved by dynamite. His expression shifted from nervous to stern, then severe, eyes darkening to an intense steel-grey. The wispy eyebrows exploded into two blond brushes over his eyes, knotting into an intimidating glare.
“I feel different,” he said again, less whiny this time, his thoughts spiraling further and further away from the scared kid making a wish in the janitor closet. Darwin flexed his arms in a crab pose. Giant, sweaty muscles bulged to melon size under his skin. “Fuck, that’s so fuckin’ different! Fuck! I’m like changin’ or something…” The buttons on his shirt strained tight over his off-season weight of nearly 300 pounds. No wonder Shane had hired the local police force’s only competitive bodybuilder to be the school resource officer. Big men liked having other big men around, and Darwin was a big man now, and thinking of himself as one more and more. It was easy to, now that he was remembering the thousands of hours spent in hot gyms, pounding out workouts that hulked him from a bean to a beast. Comparing muscles with his buddies in the locker room and being the biggest by far. And all that damn dieting to keep him growing, and the posing practices in the mirror with his mentor. Becoming gigantic just made him want to enforce. He loved throwing his muscle around. “Unnnnngh fuck!”
His lips thinned as one side curled into a subtle sneer, Darwin’s entire presence and countenance transforming into that of an ultimate alpha male. Although he could still be considered a young man, he was no longer the nervy 17-year-old of a few minutes prior. The driver’s license in his pocket said 35, although he looked slightly older than that thanks to his hyper-masculine features. His superheavyweight body filled in with muscle maturity, the giant peaks achieving a fullness that only came with time.
Darwin’s bicep balled up and smashed into the side of his chest as he scratched between his pecs, the divide between the twin monsters on his chest swallowing up his thick knuckles. He vaguely thought back to the wish he’d made in the closet, now barely able to recall it. Darwin hated being small, so now Darren was so big he was nearly inhuman. Darwin didn’t want anyone to be able to pick on him anymore, so Darren had become the toughest and brawniest motherfucker on the force. Darwin had wished the school would be safe for him and everyone, so now Darren protected it, providing both the weak with a defender and the bullies with someone to idolize. Darwin’s three years as a student at the school changed in the annals of time to Darren’s experience as the school resource officer, his uniforms getting larger with each year as he grew himself into the ultimate button-bursting alpha.
Darren accidentally knocked the name badge that was struggling to hold onto his pec as he pulled his hand away, so he straightened it again. “POWELL,” it read. Darren’s manly chuckle bounced around his office. “Wishing Room? That’s fairy tale kid stuff,” he said, hiking up his uniform pants and nearly bursting the next button on his shirt. He eased into his office chair, big glutes sinking into their well-worn spot, with his pecs pushing lightly into his desk when he typed on his computer. Officer Darren Powell was a famous presence around the school, preaching fitness to everyone from the jocks that wanted to get bigger to the smallest kids who didn’t feel good about themselves. His uniform was always skintight and rippling, a flimsy concession to polite society. His muscles weren’t meant to be restrained by starched fabrics, although they sure looked great in them. Kids would linger outside his office, distracted by the round pecs always holding the front of his shirt open.
Fully transformed, Darren stood back up and strutted out into the entrance area, crossing his arms over his chest, the pecs sitting atop the beefy hocks of his forearms. He scowled at the clock – it was nearly lunchtime, and he would have to stop some kids from sneaking out, same as every day. You had to earn the right to leave during lunch, and Darren knew who had and who hadn’t. The insignia pins on his shirt collar gleamed in the sunlight as he stood and waited, tapping his booted foot lightly against the tiled floor and thinking back to Grady. Kid was always getting himself into trouble. “I wish he’d get his act together,” Darren mumbled, as the bell rang and the first wave of kids headed down to the cafeteria to eat and ogle the huge, uniformed bodybuilder who watched over them.
END