Extremes
From Metabods
Contents |
Part 1
Magic is not an exact science – especially when you work it on yourself. That should go without saying, especially if you’re one of those people who thinks of “magic” and “science” as direct opposites. Mutually exclusive. But think about all those spellbooks and potion recipes that saturate our legends about magic. They’re always very precise, right? Three hairs of a virginal male, two eyes of newt, that sort of thing?
That’s the way the instructions read in the magic book Benedict found one day in an old trunk of his father’s. He’d grown up knowing about magic – there were book about magic in the bookshelves, and old totems and talismans with fascinating stories on every shelf. His parents even claimed their ancestors had practiced it, even though they insisted they didn’t.
But what Benny didn’t understand was that talismans and potions are just the medium, not the magic. And in the hands of the inexperienced and naive, magic doesn’t want to be controlled. It may be an elemental force of the Earth, a metaphysical energy that’s all around us like wind and sunlight, but it’s the product of billions of life-forces, and has its own laws and ends. Sometimes just an impressionable young boy reading about magic, becoming engrossed (say) in the story of the sort of spell involving image and beauty, involving inconspicuously fostering your fantasies about yourself, can have unforeseen consequences.
His parents had warned him throughout his childhood that magic was too powerful a force to be played with by “nonprofessionals,” and Benny had let his family’s background lie dormant in his mind, a collection of colorful stories about his “hippie” parents that he could amuse his buddies with.
It wasn’t until he’d left for college that it suddenly, and very unexpectedly, occurred to him that his forgotten, foresworn ancestral legacy might be his best hope for a normal life.
Benny’s renewed interest in magic came from his body, and how he realized he wanted to change it. He really had no urgent need to alter himself – he was a 25-year-old who looked 18, constantly asked if he was an Abercrombie model: dark hair, smoldering green eyes, zealously – compulsively – gym-groomed gymnast’s bod. And yet ever since he was 9 or 10 he’d had this low-grade fever of desire, a constant thrumming in the back of his head, sometimes barely perceptible, sometimes flooding every register of his vivid imagination.
It was a desire for more. More of his succulent body, more of his lithe but thick arms, more of his strong Olympic swimmer’s legs, more of his ten-inch torpedo cock, more of his seductive face. When he beat off (which he did at every opportunity from his earliest awareness of boners and ejaculation), and even, later, when he was having sex with other hot guys from his middle school, he dreamed, imagined, tried to feel, thought he felt his body growing, expanding, adding, transforming, and every time he blew his copious, hot wad, more cum than he ever saw anyone else blow, he increasingly experienced his electric, soul-wrenching orgasm exploding from two, three, twenty cocks at once.
As he grew into his hormone-soaked teens his fantasy became obsession. He walked down the corridors in his bustling, athletically obsessed high school imagining, and half feeling, extra muscle arms hanging heavily from his shoulders. He’d be sitting at the dinner table at home, more or less oblivious to his oblivious family, self-consciously thrilling to the sensation of new cockflesh gently shoving out of his groin, pushing his existing ponderous cock aside, making room for itself in his already tightly packed boxer briefs. He’d walk alone through the mall, or even with a pack of his loud jock friends, smiling in his head to himself, glad the four-legged jeans he was wearing didn’t need replacing just yet. He worked out like a fiend, pretending to work first one set of arms, then another, then another.
This fever, this desire and obsession, only grew more intense year after year. He’d assumed – and, sneakily betraying his delicious nonstop fantasy, sort of looked forward to – the intensity of his fantasy subsiding as he left the carnal intensity of high school and entered the supposedly more mature life of college. But at college it was worse than ever. He was hard all the time. And he actually felt like he had two, three, or ten oversized boners, bigger and thicker and harder than his real ten-incher, all the time. He knew he didn’t – he held firm onto reality with the conscious, rational part of his mind. But the part of his brain that fed him sensations from his body finally gave itself over completely to indulging his fantasy.
At college he had to concentrate on getting dressed, at first, reminding himself he had only two arms to put through the two arm-holes of his shirt. Two legs to slide into his jeans. But after a few months he stopped thinking about it, at some level choosing to assume that his shirts and pants had as many arms and legs as he did.
The most amazing thing was that, in answer sat some level to a deep and long-felt yearning, he started to see his extras, his augmented body, when he looked down at himself, even in the mirror, even as he continued to know as an irrefutable fact that these things weren’t there, that his friends saw him just as a hot, superbuff guy – that his supercute, inspired-by-his-bod-into-gymratdom roommate Bobby only had one ten-inch torpedo to eagerly suck down every night, and two of Benny’s arms to hold him as they drifted off to sleep.
He started to become fascinated by what was happening to him. His body, and even his eyes, told him now that he never had fewer than six arms and four legs, that erupting from his crotches were always at least three permanent oversized boners, and sometimes a lot more. His mind knew better. But he also knew he couldn’t extinguish the fantasy – it was a part of him, coded into the surface of his brain. Most of his life he’d felt like his obsession was the perfect solution to wanting a fantasy body: he felt it, saw it, fucked with it, but no one else knew it was there. No one knew he was a freak, or even that he wanted to be one. The sensation, and the knowledge, of having this strange, enhanced, volatile body filled him with constant joy and unending erotic stimulation.
But as he entered his final year at school, and contemplated life beyond it, he started to wonder occasionally about his future mental health – especially as his transformations were becoming more extreme. Since the start of his junior year he had been waking up sometimes with two heads – infrequently at first, then it started to happen as often as once a week; by his senior year it was permanent. He stared into the mirror, mesmerized by the erotic effect of two of his cuter-than-ever faces.
Quantities of other things started increasing. He realized at some point in his junior year that he had seven fingers on all his hands – he didn’t even know for how long he’d had them. His cocks were getting bigger – massively thick and long – and more numerous. He started finding extra boners lying around. He would open his bookbag only to find it full of hard 15-inch boners, ready to be stroked and sucked. He liked to pull tube socks over them and stuff them back in his pack, enjoying the feeling of a cargo of huge boners over his shoulder, feeling them rubbing against each other, all his cocks permanently hard and eagerly awaiting release.
He was starting to go beyond even what he could “pretend” to walk around in. He woke up once with a pile of thirty legs, and as wonderful a sensation as it was – he got really hard in what felt like a hundred huge cocks – for the first time he had to consciously reimagine himself with a manageable number. He got it down to nine long thick soccer-boy legs before he felt like he could get up out of the bed he shared with an increasingly very built Bobby and go take a whizz in the hall bathroom. (Everyone on the floor was used to seeing him naked, even if they didn’t see what he saw.)
Another time he was sitting in class and he suddenly was overcome with a reality-blurring, erotically intense moment of disorientation, and then as he regained his senses he realized he had eight beautifully huge and heavy pec muscles, each of them leaking what he somehow knew with certainty was precum from the nipples, making little stains on the tee shirt that – to his eyes, if not in reality – had risen up to cover his bumper crop of pecs, thereby exposing his entire twelve-pack of abs. Always after that, even when he got his pecs down to three (across) or four (stacked) – never just two! – they were always bigger than before. And they were always leaking.
What concerned him, when he allowed himself to think about it – when he wasn’t in the gym pumping his eighth pair of arms or pretending the hot guy in the pec deck was staring at him because he lusted after his long slick cobblestone road of abs or wanted to make out with both his gorgeous mouths at once – was that the disconnect between mind and body would someday erode his so-far solid grip on what was real. The increasing magnitude of the changes he’d been experiencing made him aware that the status quo might not erode.
Daringly, perhaps in slight desperation, he tried incorporating his fantasy/reality into his sex life with Bobby, slipping in sex-talk about his extras in a way he knew Bobby would find exciting. But that only went so far. In a way it seemed unfair to hide all this from him. Benny sensed that Bobby was falling in love with him, and he realized that what prevented them from having a real relationship, rather than nonstop hot sex, was this all-consuming secret, his secret vision of himself so different from the world’s.
And suddenly, as he sat on the train from campus into the city one afternoon to visit the large city library for a term project, his legs comfortable piled up in front of him, his senses enjoying the feel of warm, heavy muscle legs lying on each other, from the back of his thoughts he brought forward a thread of reasoning that had been developing for some time unconsciously: maybe the way to reunite mind and body was to make his body like his fantasy imagined it, only for real.
And with this new clarity he knew there was a way to do it.
