Morning Wood (musc AP)
by Aardvark
Brooks ran in a dead sprint through the halls of his high school, with his backpack pounding side-to-side against his spine. Stupid locker being located on the direct opposite end of the school from his class. Stupid him, forgetting to plan ahead and put his work journal in his backpack ahead of time. This was the problem with a zero-hour class: having to plan ahead as well as get up at the asscrack of dawn. It was barely even light out. The only nice thing was having the pick of parking spaces – Brooks had gotten what was referred to as “the pimp spot,” the one parking space closest to the side entrance that wasn’t marked handicapped.“Josh, Josh,” Brooks whispered as he spotted his friend waiting outside the classroom for him.
“G’morning, man, what’s up?” Josh slung his backpack off his shoulder and they leaned against the hallway wall. Josh and Brooks always had to get their conversation in before class because they sat across the room from each other. It had been clear that the two shrimpy theater kids would’ve relied on each other if they could. Neither boy had a crafty bone in his body, so woodshop class was an odd choice for them, but their theater teacher had told them they had to take woodshop if they wanted to build sets.
But from the get-go, it had been bad. They’d failed the glossary quiz, weren’t great with tools – no strength – and sucked at measuring correctly. Both Brooks and Josh were relying on their journal grades and attendance points to keep them afloat in the class, and Brooks especially was in a tight spot. Today they were supposed to finish up their birdhouses, which was a small project in that some of the wood was pre-cut, so it was more about learning assembly. The big final project of the year – a choice between a clock, a table, a shelf unit, a chest or a chessboard – was also staring them in the face, and Brooks was feeling anxious about failing and having to potentially re-take the class. His parents would be so mad.
“I don’t wanna go in there. I asked my mom to write me an excuse and she wouldn’t,” Brooks whined, but Josh nodded his head. “Probably a good thing, if you missed you’d lose points.”
“I know, yeah,” Brooks acquiesced. “But I just look so stupid. This isn’t my thing.”
“Not mine either.”
“Yeah.” There was a pause. “Maybe the Wishing Room will help me out.”
Josh laughed, but quickly realized Brooks was mildly serious – the kind of serious that a friend tries to pass off as a joke, while it’s actually true. “Wait, wait, did you wish in the Wishing Room?”
“Nah, I’m just kidding,” Brooks said, looking away.
“What would you wish for? Being really good at woodshop?”
“I can’t tell you!”
“Ho-lee shit, you DID wish in there! You’re so corny!” Josh started laughing loudly, and Brooks went red. “Don’t make fun of me! You’re supposed to be on my side!”
“I’ve just never met anyone who actually took that bullshit seriously,” Josh said. “A haunted janitor’s closet in our high school that grants wishes? It’s not even a good urban legend, like, it’s not even clever. And no one knows the real story behind it, which means it didn’t happen.”
“It might have,” Brooks needled, trying to be a part of the joke.
“So what did you do? Go in there with the lights off, stand in a puddle of Windex and wish to not fail woodshop?”
“No,” Brooks said, and in his mind it was true. He had wished to be the best at woodshop in the school, “or in the entire town,” so that wasn’t quite the same thing. “I was just kidding.”
“Uh-huh,” Josh said, dropping the subject but knowing Brooks wasn’t actually joking. The bell rang – it seemed so much louder in the morning – and the boys hurtled themselves through the door of the classroom before the chime finished, so that they wouldn’t be counted tardy. They both put their work journals on the desk for grading and headed to their seats, with Josh whispering a quick “see ya after class” as they separated.
--------
Unbeknownst to Brooks and Josh, or anyone else at the school for that matter, as the sun rose over the east side of the school, its rays hit the grass around the parking lot and created a strange effect much like photosynthesis. But instead of a flower growing out of the ground on the small patch of grass in front of Brooks’ car, it was a metal sign that was magically sprouting out of the ground, rising up seven feet in the air. From the “stem” of the gleaming metal post bloomed a sign with tall red letters: RESERVED PARKING.
More dramatic was the fact that when the sunlight touched Brooks’ Corolla, the tires began growing as the trunk started elongating with its lid melting away. Inside, old fast-food wrappers and untouched class notes vanished into nothingness, as the busted seats covered themselves with beautiful leather and every dashboard imperfection fixed itself. The car rose higher and higher above the parking lot as the scratched gray color of the body blossomed into a gorgeous cherry-red. A shiny grill spread across the front, as Brooks’ dingy old hand-me-down Corolla – almost as old as he was – was transformed into a massive, handsome, brand new and top-of-the-line Ford F150 pickup. It was as sexy as a truck could be, and so big that it barely fit in its parking space.
Inside the school, nothing seemed different except for a much newer pair of keys, now attached to a keyless remote, appearing in Brooks’ backpack. But the sun was still rising, with its beams just about to touch the roof of the classroom that Brooks and Josh were working in.
--------
Brooks sat down at his desk with a sigh. He looked at the pile of wood in front of him. All he had done at this point was drill a hole with a Forstner bit, and he had had to re-do that three times. He held up two pieces together experimentally but they weren’t the same length. Already frustrated, he let them fall onto his desk and noticed that one of the boards was labeled in pencil in the side: “Glue #1.” He looked at the other pieces of wood and found another with “#1” written on it.
“Those two must go together,” he mumbled to himself, proud that he had quite possibly done something right. This was supposed to be super easy, but he was in his own head and freaking himself out. Brooks never had been good under pressure.
He reached for his wood glue and made his first attempt at putting a bead of glue on the side of the plank.
It didn’t go well. The glue splurted out in a big glob at the top and rolled messily down the wood, over Brooks’ fingers and then onto the desk when he let the plank fall onto its side. “Goddammit,” he breathed, quickly picking the wood up before it became glued to his desk. He leapt up and grabbed some paper towels from the dispenser nearby, wiping the wood first before he cleaned off his hands.
As Brooks rolled the towel over his fingers, he felt an odd pop and a pull in one of his knuckles, like he had cracked it. Curious, he tossed the towel away and looked at his hands, eyes widening.
The middle finger in his right hand was a full inch longer than the rest of his digits. Alien-looking. Brooks immediately thought he’d somehow broken it, but he felt no pain, and when he wriggled his fingers, the middle one moved just as nimbly as its mates. With the sun shining through the window, though, Brooks couldn’t see his hands through his squinted eyes, so he sat back down at his desk to get a better look. But as he did so, he heard another soft pop and felt the same tug, and glanced to see his left ring finger sticking out longer than the rest of its friends on that hand.
“I think-“ Pop, pop. His left index and right pinkie stretched, then each his thumbs. Brooks shook his hands with surprise, like he was trying to dry them out, thinking maybe some vigorous movement would shock his fingers back into their place. But when he looked back at them, now they were all super-long, and the tugging sensation was now happening in his palms. He could feel shifting underneath the skin as his hands got bigger, and what was really weird was how rough they looked. His palms were supposed to be smooth as silk, but the pads of his hands were covered with multiple layers of ripped-up calluses. He plucked at the dead skin before noticing the backs of his hands – rougher than sandpaper, and strangely hairy. He had never known hands could look so…muscular. But these hands definitely were muscled-up and thick, like he could press his palm against a stovetop and not feel anything.
He was staring at his hands for so long that the kid next to him noticed. “Cut yourself?” the kid asked innocently, but Brooks was so deep in his own world that words made him jump with surprise. “I’m fine,” he yelped, hiding his hands in his jean pockets. Or more truthfully, attempting to hide them, because he slid three fingers into each pocket before realizing that his hands no longer fit – the palms were too wide. Nervously, Brooks made a second attempt with his back pockets, but again his hands couldn’t fit, so he just sat on top of them, pretending to be deeply inspecting his project while praying that the other kid would look away.
With his stare fixed intently on his desk, Brooks couldn’t see the long brown hairs that were cropping up on his forearms, nor did he hear his wrists pop and thicken as muscle began to fit itself between his elbows and hands. It was only when he moved to start up his project again that he saw that his forearms were now bigger than bowling pins, the ropey sinews tied up with bulging veins and crowned with a thick carpet of hair. Brooks ran his rough fingers over the peaks of his forearms and wondered what the muscles were called. He needed to stay calm until he could figure out what was going on. With impressive focus, he gave gluing a second try, and this time deftly flipped up the wood onto its side and gave it one perfect strip of glue. This made him smile for just a moment before he heard his biceps gurgle, and he gave a nervous glance downward just time to see the peaks of his arms inflate like a water balloon filling up under a faucet. He had never had any muscle to speak of, but suddenly the eleven-inch arms he’d once sported were swelling so big that he worried about his baggy t-shirt sleeves ripping. Quickly, Brooks shoved his sleeves up as his upper arms caught up to his forearms and then outgrew them, giant cannonballs stretching out his skin. He pulled his sleeves back down to hide his enormous biceps, but then his triceps starting growing and ripping at the underarms of his t-shirt.
The brown carpets on his forearms rolled up higher over his elbows and biceps, and thick patches of hair shot out underneath his arms. Squirming, he stuck a beefy hand under his armpit and scratched the merciless itch, a barb-wire tattoo spreading over his giant left bicep. Brooks didn’t get what was going on. He could barely grow pubes, but his arms were covering themselves in a fur coat, and growing so big that their weight was pulling him out of his chair. He had arms and hands like a goddamn gorilla.
He really needed to work on his project. He could worry about his muscles later, he thought, even as he heard his sleeves blow apart when his deltoids popped up. He felt so top-heavy that he was swaying in his seat, so he had to work quickly, quickly piecing each wood component together with nails and glue. But it was distracting to feel one’s shoulders broadening as you worked. The birdhouse was looking positively tiny in Brooks’ massive mitts, and his biceps alone were bigger than his project. It was difficult to put something so small and delicate together with fingers that were like iron sausages.
If anyone had been looking, they would’ve seen Brooks’ deltoids looking like a pair of pumpkins on each side of his head. Something dramatic was happening to the boy, and his shirt was paying the price, as its crewneck rose up and ripped from the pressure of his trap muscles bulking up and pulling his neck into a thick, massive column of muscle. The young head was like an afterthought on top of shoulders that resembled a mountain range, with two tiny valleys between the peaks of his traps and delts. Muscular tendons hugged his jaw and all but consumed it.
Brooks felt immensely proud of his project, though. It was suddenly a fairly simple task – he’d just been overthinking it before. Now that he could hold his hands steady for gluing and nailing, it was just a matter of putting the right pieces together, which he did effortlessly. Soon, the entire structure was assembled except for the roof, but Brooks had to back his chair up before he did that – his chest was pushing against the side of his desk. He readjusted, now almost unaware that his pecs were ballooning out, shoving against the front of his shirt with such force that his head briefly snapped back. Brooks had to crane his neck over his own chest to see his work, but with all the new muscle, his neck didn’t have enough mobility. So, he had to stand and bend over.
The boy’s knees popped as he stood up, his height increasing by three inches as he leaned over the little birdhouse. His chest was expanding with each breath, pushing out more and more until the front of his shirt ripped open to reveal hair swirling over the two brawny hemispheres. Brooks scratched between his pecs, his rough fingers rubbing against the silky brown pelt – but it all felt familiar now, like a visiting a couple of old, big friends. It felt like the hairs on his head were dancing along with the hairs on his chest, and he reached up to scratch his dome, his bicep bulging and mashing violently against his forearm. But instead of feeling the same silky hair of his chest, Brooks just felt smooth skin, his hair reduced to fringe around the back and sides of his head.
Stunned, Brooks fell back into his seat with a loud groan. His pecs audibly crashed into the top of his desk like a couple of bowling balls being dropped, missing crushing his project by an inch. He rubbed his giant hand against the top of his head, expecting to feel the hair coming back, but it wasn’t. He needed to go to the nurse – he’d gone bald! His body was getting all hairy except for the one place where it was supposed to be!
Brooks tried to stand up to make a move for the door, but his stomach cramped so badly that he doubled over in his seat. He flexed his stomach to see where the pain was, and immediately felt abs bulge out, hard and defined, like cinder blocks stacked on top of each other. His stomach swelled with power over the top of his jeans, an action that nearly pulled him to the floor. He tried to stand up again, but his legs felt like toothpicks under his upper bulk and he was so top-heavy that he was briefly rendered immobile. He wriggled with fright, trying to adjust his body to its newfound immensity, but all he did was make his back develop, his lats pushing out toward each side of the room like they wanted to touch the walls. The seams of his t-shirt split apart as he grew ponderously wide, revealing a plaid pattern underneath, like there was another shirt there. Brooks gripped the sides of his desk but felt his hands being pulled away – he was now far wider than the desk, and had to work to hold onto it.
His bony ass ached from the all the weight it had to support, not helped by the fact that it was now too wide for the scooped seat of the chair. But the pain was slowly assuaged by his butt starting to thicken up, two beefy slabs coming in under him, a cushioned seat that he always carried. The seat of his jeans burst open under his big ass, and Brooks remembered that he’d always liked having a bubble butt. The feeling of its rippling power underneath him actually brought a smile to his face, and he even chuckled to himself before covering his mouth with embarrassment.
There was something tickling his fingers. He rubbed his hand around his lips and felt bristles – how had those gotten there? He’d never had to shave a day in his life. Face was smooth as a baby’s. And furthermore, as he stifled another laugh, he wondered why his chuckle was coming out so…low. Almost like a rumble. He could feel his pecs quake with it. Man, he really needed to see that nurse. Needed to ask to be excused so he could figure out what was happening. All he knew was that somehow he had finished his birdhouse, and it looked amazing. The construction was top-notch and looked professional – he’d even put some carvings into the wood. After he got his A+, he could probably sell this bad boy.
Brooks pushed himself out of his chair, his quads knocking together. This whole time, his legs had been growing and he hadn’t realized it, and now his legs were so thickly muscled he could barely control them. He was another three inches taller, a very large young man, and the added height and weight made him stumble around like a drunkard in the back of the class. He had to lean against the back wall to center himself mentally, before carefully swinging his thighs around each other as he learned his new walk. There had to be a mirror in here somewhere. He had to figure out what was going on.
“Brooks! Pssst, hey! Brooks!”
Brooks hadn’t realized he was standing right by Josh’s desk. He took a large step back so he could actually look at his buddy – if he stood too close, he couldn’t see Josh under his pecs.
“What is it?”
“I need help. I can’t do this.”
“I’m sure you’re doing fine,” Brooks said, but as he looked at Joshua’s project he was amazed by how pathetically bad it was. He picked up the only two pieces of wood that Joshua had managed to assemble and rolled them back and forth in his hands. And then, the weirdest thing happened – he heard himself explaining how to do the project. Well, not fully explaining it, because Joshua needed to learn on his own, but giving enough pointers that his buddy would be able to figure it out. When had he learned all this? It was as easy to him as reading step-by-step instructions – easier than that, even. It sounded like he really knew his shit, but with his new voice, everything sounded factual. He had a foghorn bass. When had that developed? Brooks had absolutely no idea why his voice was so crushingly deep. He was talking about the birdhouse but thinking about something else; namely, why whiskers were tickling his lips as he talked. When he got home, he’d ask his dad to get him some razor blades, and not just the disposables either. Needed some serious steel to tame this brush. And maybe he’d ask for a new shirt, too. Who even wore plaid polos anymore? He couldn’t remember where he’d gotten such an old-fashioned shirt, and it was so tight that he could see his nipples poking into the fabric. Brooks had to reach up and unbutton all the buttons just so he could breathe and speak comfortably, and his abundant chest hair rolled out of the opening. He’d shave that off too, he’d look weird walking down the halls with chest hair poking out of his collar.
“Hey, I need help.”
Brooks heard another bossy voice next to him and he looked down but just saw a smeary blur. He blinked a few times but everything still looked out of focus, like peering through a Vaseline-covered lens, until he remembered his glasses perched on top of his head. He just nodded his head forward and let the glasses slide down his bald dome to fall perfectly onto the bridge of his nose. Everything immediately became clear. He looked down sternly at his peer.
“I need help,” the kid repeated again.
“Wait your turn, son,” Brooks said quickly, and firmly. He almost apologized before realizing how right it felt to command that kind of authority. He was so massive, why shouldn’t he be authoritative? “You set now, Joshua?”
“It’s Josh. I think so, yeah.”
Helping Joshua understand the subject was so rewarding for Brooks, although he didn’t quite understand why. Not only did Brooks reap the mental prize of pride within himself, but his pecs got a little bigger as soon as he heard Joshua say that he understood. Brooks worked his way around the room, checking on each of his peers, hoping to draw out their inner potential. No one seemed to be noticing that each time he had a breakthrough with one of the kids, he expanded a little bigger. Shoulders, butt, chest, arms, legs, back, neck – each part of him got a dose, until he was politely asking kids to move their desks further apart so that he could fit between them as he walked. By the time he got back to Josh, Brooks was a full-on six-foot-three-inch colossus, his XXXL polo shirt straining to contain him. “How ya doin’, son,” he rumbled with a small smile.
“Pretty good. I think I’ve got it.”
“Well, look at that,” Brooks said proudly. “You most certainly do. Just used a little too much glue is all.”
It was a good thing Brooks was standing behind his friend, because the final part to grow was his cock and balls, which would’ve been right at Josh’s eye level if they’d been next to each other. Brooks’ manhood ballooned massively in front of him, his balls swelling with solid weight until his underwear could barely contain them. His shaft was a whole other story, taking a walk down his leg and out of the bottom of his briefs, where he felt something wrap around his huge thigh to hold his equally huge dick still. Brooks suddenly remembered he had to strap his cock down so it didn’t flop around obscenely in his pants. Damn, he was hung so good. Can’t have the ol’ foot-long causing a commotion in school. He’d save that for the gym.
The huge kid didn’t quite understand this thought. Save what for the gym…his cock? His huge, full-throttle glorious fucktoy? It wasn’t like he would lift in a small tank top that exposed every inch of his hairy, hulking body and then go and get blown in the locker room. That had only happened a couple of times. Well…more than that. Those young sprouts sure loved his dick. They begged him for it, and since he and his wife weren’t having much sex anymore – even though he asked every night - what was a virile stud like him supposed to do? He didn’t want to have an affair, so he just got blowjobs.
“What am I…what is…” Brooks mumbled with shock to himself, not understanding why he was wearing a gold band on his ring finger. Josh looked up questioningly and Brooks went pale with confusion and embarrassment. “Keep up the good work,” Brooks muttered emptily, as he staggered to the front of the class. He felt shame that he’d been thinking about getting blown by some young musclehead. Some of those guys who sucked him off were younger than his own sons.
“Ha!” Brooks said out loud, proud of himself for catching that this thought was all wrong. A couple kids looked up at him and he boomed a quick apology.
But anyway, Brooks was only 16, he couldn’t have four grown sons of his own yet. That much was for sure.
Except his youngest boy was 26 now, a huge bodybuilder, close to being bigger than his old man.
This didn’t make any sense. Nothing did. What was happening? Brooks felt nervous and sweaty. He plucked at the buttons of the polo shirt that he had just tucked into his jeans, and his head was throbbing. Goddammit, another migraine already? Maybe he should go to the nurse.
No, no, he didn’t need a nurse. He went to his desk where he kept his Excedrin and nearly ripped the bottle in half with his strength as he took the lid off, popping one with a dry swallow. “Ahhh,” he said, sinking into his chair. He leaned back and rubbed his temples as the crow’s feet came in, his face growing weathered as he aged into jagged handsomeness. Brooks turned his chair around to look out at the sun rising, but instead caught his reflection in the glass. Where he expected to see a smooth-faced young boy he instead saw a rugged middle-aged man. Curious, he leaned forward to watch as the brown hairs left around his temples turned silver intermittently, leaving his hair salt-and-pepper.
His jaw was growing strong and manly, the angles beginning to jut straight out to the sides, but all he could see was his stubble fluffing out into a full beard. He stroked it as it grew long and lush, his mustache curling out over an expansive curtain of hair. Brooks’ attitude toward body hair began to change as he watched heavier and heavier whiskers bloom out of his face, his new adulthood gifting him with a symbol of ultimate virility. He felt the hair on his chest thickening more, his underwear spilling over with pubes that spread up his burgeoning belly. But that beard! It was long and thick - but neatly trimmed and maintained, didn’t want to look too grizzly. All the brushing and conditioning had been worth it; his beard was magnificent, and looked even better than the square jaw that lurked underneath. He’d forgotten just how square his own jaw was until he saw his sons develop it, their soft faces hardening into GI Joe caricatures over time. Those were some good-lookin’ boys. Well – men. They’d always be boys to him, but they were definitely men now.
Brooks stood up and towered over the class, teetering on his feet. It was nervewracking, being up here. He didn’t know what he was doing. He needed to sit down, but there was no place to sit except the teacher’s desk. Maybe he belonged there. Was that weird, to sit at the teacher’s desk? He’d been sitting there a second ago, why was that? He should be up and walking around, not resting on his considerable laurels. Brooks was settling into his new swagger, his chest held high and his thighs swinging as he lumbered around the room.
But, he realized, this was an unusual chance for something…
Brooks stomped back over to the teacher’s desk where he’d seen the grade book sitting. This was a mint chance to see how he was doing in the class. He was pretty sure he was doing well, but he wanted to ensure it, so he opened up the notebook and flipped to the current semester, adjusting his glasses to read properly. Thanks to his chest and muscled neck, he had to hold the book in front of himself like a choirboy holding a music folder.
“Brooks…Brooks, Brooks, Brooks…” he murmured, running his hand down the list of names. “What is Brooks’ last name?” he said to himself, switching to third person in his thoughts. He snapped his rough fingers to try to jog a memory, but nothing was coming up. “Brooks Brooks? Was his last name Brooks? No…”
As he looked through the grading book filled with his own well-practiced handwriting, Brooks was unknowingly converting himself from student to teacher, and from boy to man. He began recognizing each student’s name as he became what he’d wished to be: the best carpenter in the town. But he couldn’t find the name “Brooks.” The only ‘B’ name on the page at all was written in the ‘Instructor’ spot: Buck Woodlong.
Buck had a nagging feeling that his name had been different a second before. He stroked the plush beard that now hung past his collarbone, his strong fingers barely penetrating the cloak of voluminous curls. The underside of his chest itched and he wedged his big hand under the muscular sphere to scratch it while he looked over the class before him. The sun was shining brightly, and Buck squinted, looking out the window and noticing a cherry-red truck right outside the woodshop, the most macho ride he’d ever seen. His furry face broke into a great big smile as he felt the keys inside the pocket of his tight jeans. He had expected to see an old dirty Corolla out there, and chuckled at the thought. His memories began shifting to conform to his new size, as he realized he’d never be able to fit comfortably in a four-door – no, he needed a big-ass truck to squeeze into. With his reflection in the windowpane superimposed over the view of the truck, his shoulders looked as wide as the F150. He was a huge man with a huge cock and a huge ride. And as he realized this, all the memories of a 16-year-old, uncoordinated, hairless theater kid were improved into the happy mind of a 61-year-old burly bear of a man named Buck Woodlong, the town’s master carpenter. The transformation finalized as Buck planted his feet, his spine straightening with a loud crack as he felt his quivering self-doubt shift into unshakeable confidence.
“Alright guys,” Buck’s deep bass boomed. His 24-inch arms rippled as he popped his knuckles. “That’s it for today. Next time I’ll answer questions about the final and we can discuss ways to improve your grades. Any quick questions before the bell rings?”
“Yeah,” one student hollered from the back, “any beard-growing tips?”
Buck roared with laughter. No one saw his beard fluff even fuller and thicker as he did so. “Be an old guy like me and stop shavin’. Alright, get outta here guys, good work today.”
Josh stopped on his way out the door, turning around to see his teacher trying to squeeze his bulk into the biggest sport coat Josh had ever seen. “Mr. Woodlong?”
Buck turned around. “Yes, Joshua?”
“Josh. Uh, do you know about the Wishing Room?”
Buck smiled. The sunlight gleamed off his bald head as he brushed some sawdust off a desk. “I think that’s the only legend that’s been ‘round here longer than me.”
“Do you believe in it?”
Buck thought for a moment. “I suppose so, son. I’ve seen too much good happen at this school to not believe in a little magic. Why d’ya ask?”
“I really dunno. Just thinking about it today, I guess,” Josh shrugged.
“Well, wishes are powerful things. You wouldn’t want to make one that could be misinterpreted. I say do things the old-fashioned way like I did. Just work hard and do what you love and you’ll be rewarded.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Mr. Woodlong.”
“Anytime, son. Run along, don’t be late to your class.”
Josh disappeared down the hallway and Buck headed out the door, stopping at the light switch. “Kids still believing in the Wishing Room, heh,” he said to himself, twirling his keys on his thick finger. “Ah, some things never change.”
END