Truth to tell

by BRK

 There are way too many temptations involved when the things you say about people around you come true—especially when you fall in lust with the hot guy in the next dorm room.

Added: Feb 2012 Updated: 1 Jun 2018 9,610 words 32,621 views 4.7 stars (29 votes)


I’ve recently discovered that I have some weird power over truth.

People tend to tell me the truth. They don’t even fight it—whenever people are talking to me, especially when we’re alone, their inhibitions about telling me their innermost feelings and beliefs about any topic I ask about just melt away, and they tell me their secrets as if they were someone else’s.

And it gets better: when I’m speaking to someone, and it’s just us and I have their full attention, whatever I say is the truth.

Naturally I’ve been using it to get my rocks off.

Now, I’ve been pretty careful. So far. I’ve had this powerful instinct that anything too big, too epic, will backfire on me in ways I can’t imagine. So I keep it small. Well, obviously when it comes to certain kinds of things I’m not keeping it small, but you know what I mean.

But last week Stefan moved into the single dorm room next to mine, and I’ve kind of been losing perspective.

It’s just that he’s so beautiful. He was gorgeous before I even said a word to him: thick thatch of longish blond hair, a huge and easy smile, bright blue eyes. He wasn’t particularly tall or at all built—if anything he was skinny. It sounds corny to say, but I was drawn to his attitude more than anything else. I wanted to be with him, hang out with him. That’s my real test with a guy. I’d learned that I couldn’t change someone’s nature or character; believe me, I’d tried, with some of the assholes I know. But one look—one shared glance that lasted a second too long, with that huge heartstopping grin—and I was overwhelmed by how beautiful Stefan was in a way that kind of radiated out of him. Sure—when it came to his body I could give him an upgrade, no problem, but there was something pure about him that made me want to be in his life.

And he seemed to like me, too, from the start. That night after he moved his stuff in he poked his head into my room—we’d introduced ourselves to each other as I’d gone out to my afternoon class, that’s when we shared that glance that had my stuck on him all through physics lab—and asked, with a big effortless smile, if I wanted to hit the dining hall for dinner, and I just about melted. As it turned out we ended up ordering pizza and talking into the night, both of us swigging beer from my fridge, lounging barefoot on my bed (he had big, sexy feet), and I was so enamored with him that I was finding myself brutally torn between acting mute and “saying” everything that came into my head.

Especially as the topic drifted to physical appearance. Stefan was tossing the crust of his third slice back into the box and eying the last piece on his side. “I used to eat so much pizza,” he said, “but I’m worried my metabolism might be slowing down, just when I get used to eating it all the time.”

I was barely listening. I realized I was getting aroused just talking to him for an hour. My cock was chubbing in my jeans, and if that progressed he’d definitely notice—my boners were hard not to notice, these days.

I’d already scarfed down two slices but had stopped there, afraid of looking like a pig. “You’ve got a lot more will power than I do,” he said, and even his voice was rich and sweet and sexy.

“About some things,” I said.

“Well, you obviously work out a lot,” he said with a grin, eyeing my generously muscled, (truthspeaking-enhanced) torso and the thick soccer star’s legs filling out my jeans. “I think muscle is really sexy,” he added. I was willing to bet he’d never come right out and told anyone but me that, but of course he didn’t seem self-conscious about his honesty. “I never have time,” he went on, glancing ruefully at his own gangly body, his hand brushing his flat chest.

There was no chance I wouldn’t rise to that opening! Not after three beers anyway, not in the presence of this man who was filling my vision, sneaking into unwatched corners of my mind. Still I hesitated for a full heartbeat before swallowing my scruples.

“Well, you don’t have to, you’re, like, naturally muscular,” I said, unable to avoid such an obvious “in.” And between one heartbeat and the next his thick, loose heather gray tee shirt and jeans fleshed out so deliciously, so perfectly, that my dick would have gotten instantly completely hard if it hadn’t been wrapped tightly around my hip, held in place by the biker shorts I tended to wear as underwear in case my overenhanced cock might be a problem. I heard myself panting and willed myself to stop, and act naturally.

But Stefan noticed none of this, as he was still looking down at the humpy shape of his tight, naturally muscular, no body-fat, but still not gym-groomed bod, which his still-loose clothes only accentuated. “It’s true. But I’d still take your bod over mine.”

You can have both, I thought. I was staring at his bod. To me it looked now like an extra-beefy Michelangelo’s David, hard and bulging under that shirt and jeans. I went on talking on autopilot, not even listening to myself. “Really? Because your pecs are definitely the biggest I’ve ever—seen—up close—” Shit, I was so lucky I had suddenly realized what I was saying partway through and started talking myself down. I’ve seen pictures of pecs the size of beach balls, but no way this kid needed that. As it was another space between heartbeats and his pecs jumped to the size of big melons, just a shade larger than this huge, pec-obsessed gym rat senior I’d tutored in high school before I got my powers. (He let me touch them for ten bucks. What a bargain.)

God those pecs—those thick, round, hard, heavy pecs—stretching his shirt, leaving it to hang loosely over his tight eight pack and tiny waist—god they were so bonerific, my cock was going to want to pound itself free from its prison. Fuck, there was a tiny tear in the exact center of his tee shirt, just where those monster pecs were straining it. Forget breaking free, in a second I was going to rip out my monster with my bare hands, tearing apart my jeans and bike shorts to get at it.

Stefan was still looking down, but curiously now, not ruefully. “I’m not surprised. I haven’t met many guys as big as I am. To tell you the truth, it kind of turns me on, actually, having these big pecs.” And he started gently stroking them with his fingertips. Fuck. I was panting again.

“What else turns you on?” I said.

He grinned again. “Guys looking at me like you’re doing now,” he said slyly, still stroking his pecs through the tee shirt. “And stuff about muscle growth and transformation. That really makes me hot. Sometimes I pretend my pecs are so big because someone cast a spell that they’d grow whenever I ate pizza.”

I was no longer in control. “Actually I happen to know there is a condition like that,” I said immediately. “It’s called, um, Kason’s Syndrome. It’s like 0.1 percent of the male population. The ingredients in pizza interact with a very rare antibody and get converted into hard, thick muscle, and it goes almost totally to the pecs.”

“Really?” Stefan said, looking back up at me and cocking an eyebrow. “Do you think I –?”

“—And you’re obviously one of those guys.”

Stefan nodded. “That explains a lot, actually. Well, all I can say is,” he said, glancing down first at his luscious pecs and then at the three remaining slices of pizza, “you gonna finish those?”

I shook my head rapidly, and we both grinned. Fuck, it was so hot that he wanted to grow his already disproportionately thick pecs. It didn’t even occur to me until, like, a week later that I’d just created something like seven million guys in the world with pizza-enhanced pecs.

Now I see them everywhere. Especially on reality TV shows.

Stefan reached for a slice. I was about to tell him to stop and take off his shirt first, but instead, as he grabbed the nearest slice and pointed it eagerly at his mouth, making a delightful bulge in his naturally big bicep, I opted instead to say, “At least I know one thing—people understand why you never wear shirts,” trying to phrase it so that it was both absolute and unproblematic. “Now that you’re at college,” I added, just to soften the size of the change. No need to give him a weird time at high school.

And the tee shirt was gone.

Fuck, they were even hotter now that they were freed. They weren’t monstrous—they were just really big, ponderous spheres of hard, tan muscle sticking out a good six inches from his torso, casting a harsh shadow over his brick-hard abs. And what made these mounds of man-flesh even more sexy was the light dusting of short, ash-blond hair that subtly accentuated his mighty cleavage—and dusted the middle line of his overshadowed abs as well, disappearing into his loose, 30-inch-waist jeans. I really was gonna have to haul out my drooling monster cock any minute now.

Stefan was nodding as he chewed a big bite of pizza. “Actually I started in junior high,” he said around his pizza, then swallowed. My gaze snapped up from his mesmerizing balloon pecs to his mesmerizing gorgeous face. What? Fuck, did I wait a second too long to issue the modification? Or is this guy just that eager?

“I just woke up one day and none of my tee shirts fit because my pecs were getting big even then,” he said. “And I said, fuck it. And went to school shirtless. And people stared at me all day but I didn’t get in trouble, so I just kept doing it.” He took another bite.

I looked at him curiously—this guy was an unnervingly perfect subject for my powers, and then some. I had a very back-of-the-head sense of the danger I was in. Of course, that voice was hard to listen to in my lust-intoxicated state. Still, I shifted to questions. Questions were safe. “So,” I said curiously, “what do you do if you have to go to, like, a wedding?”

He shrugged his wide, bulging, bare shoulders. “My rule is no shirts,” he said after he swallowed. “But I wore this really cool dark blue blazer to my prom, and my brother’s church confirmation, and stuff. And of course I wear jackets and coats when it gets cold,” he added, taking a last big bite. He reached for another piece with a grin.

“Careful, buddy, you don’t want to grow those things too big!” I said laughing, as my straining cock flexed angrily against its confines like a python trapped in panty hose.

He looked at me with a mock-confused expression. “Why not?” he said, taking a bite of the new slice. Fuck, he really wants the transformation—and he can do it without me!

My mind was a blank. I shrugged helplessly, and he laughed. “You’ll, you know, get topheavy,” I said lamely, and he laughed more.

“Good thing I got big feet,” he said, taking another bite. We both looked at his size-12 bare feet, and he wiggled his long toes. Shit, stop stealing my lines, I thought.

So instead I said, my face burning suddenly for some reason, “Yeah, um, size 16 dogs like those should keep you balanced enough,” and watched those gorgeous feet pop up to exceptional size in the space between heartbeats. It was enthralling because they didn’t just blow up proportionately—they got longer. (I checked later—the diff was about an inch and a quarter, and seeing them stretch up that much was just as hot as seeing an eight inch dick pump up into a nine and a half inch dick. Which I had seen, more than once, but truthtelling instagrowth had never been this hot.)

“They sure do,” Stefan said happily, wiggling his feet.

Stefan looked up at me warmly, and I stared back at him with raw, unmistakable lust for a long moment—but then suddenly a cold tingling shot down my spine. This wasn’t just about my lust for Stefan. I was drunk with power. I wanted him—I so wanted Stefan, and I wanted him to want me—but what I really wanted was to change him, mold him, more than any boy I’d ever played with. I felt a twinge of horror: I could make him want me, and he wouldn’t care. Never before had the realities of my abilities hit me so hard.

I shrank back from him, and he frowned, not understanding.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he said, concerned. He reached toward me, but I leapt up and bolted from the room. I heard him call after me, but I needed to get out, get away, to figure myself out. I kept going, hurtling down the stairs and out into the quad. I was pretty upset, or I might not have run smack into Jake Peters—and found my night getting even more complicated.

Jake Peters was obsessed with me, and it was all my fault.

No, I didn’t “truthtell” him into desperately wanting to fuck me. I’m not like that. First of all, that would be Wrong, but even worse, it would be boring. Honestly, I hadn’t ever even been tempted to tell someone they wanted me… although I had to admit that on that particular night there were a few semi-conscious, fleeting temptations floating around the back of my head when it came to Stefan. I was that twisted around myself with how hot it was to change him and see the effects in his wicked body and glinting eyes. I’d be able to resist, but the thoughts—the thoughts were there, and just the very fact that they were there told me how much trouble I was in.

No, Jake Peters was obsessed with me for an entirely different reason.

See, most of the time, when I “truthtell” something, it changes reality that infinitesimal bit so that things just are the way I said. And don’t get all antsy about the fabric of reality or start quoting half-digested ideas of chaos theory or mammoths stepping on butterflies or whatever. Reality is big—really big. It has inertia and momentum, and if you think about how much is going on in the whole of creation that’s a shit-ton of enforced continuity for lifetimes moving forward to keep moving forward, and for solid reliable consistencies to stay solid and reliable. (Plus the universe has its own chaotic force, entropy, which is actually pretty systematic—and it’s also infinitely bigger than I am.)

So when I find Tanner Reid barfing in my floor bathroom the morning after tying one on with borrowed tequila because he failed his third pop quiz, and I kneel down next to him and I pat his back and I tell him that I know he’s smart enough to ace sophomore organic chemistry if he puts in the work, and it turns out Tanner does ace orgo after working hard the rest of the semester, what happens is a minor change to reality as we know it. Reality A: Tanner Reid, who’s not the smartest bulb in the deck, ain’t gonna pass organic chemistry even if he tattoos “methyl ethyl propyl butyl” on the inside of one wrist and the top ten most important reaction mechanisms on the other. Reality B: Turns out Tanner Reid possesses a knack for orgo he hadn’t really found in himself until he hit the wall and had a little talk with me, himself, and the porcelain cauldron of truth; so he starts applying himself, discovers he can figure out reaction mechanisms just fine and that the bewildering nomenclature comes naturally to him now that he’s put in some mental elbow grease, and next semester he discovers physics and bio aren’t so terrifying either. A minuscule shift from one universe to another identical down to the millionth decimal point, but different in a way interesting to me and, of course, to Tanner.

I can’t change a person’s character—there’s a limitation on my abilities in that direction, like the real essence of what a person is, his soul or whatever, is in some way immutable, or belongs to a different category, a different order of things from what I can change. More’s the pity—like I said, a lot of people are dicks. But I can change attributes and capabilities, things like that. And the world shifts so that they are that way. It’s a bit of a rush, to be honest.

Citing that example with Tanner makes me sound like some kind of altruistic do-gooder, and… well, if you’ve been following my encounters so far you know I’m no angel. I’ve had my fun. You’ve seen it with my own body. One of my first truthtells, before I really realized I had an ability, was taunting a bullying high school jock, Braden Haley, that my dick was ten times as big as his. And even as he turned back in the middle of the crowded hallway to glare at me, nostrils flaring, as I knelt to gather up my books from where he’d dumped them to the floor, reality shifted, and we lived in a universe where puberty had blessed me with a massive, twenty-inch erection, which everyone remembered, instead of the fat but otherwise very ordinary five-incher I vividly remembered being perfectly happy enough with for the last few years only seconds earlier.

And when a nondescript guy in a small-town high school has a twenty-inch dick, word tends to get around… especially when it’s, like, kielbasa-thick and thirteen inches soft, like mine happens to be. Trust me, it doesn’t matter if you show it off (and new-reality me hadn’t shown it off, or, at least, not that much)—people get the idea. So that day everyone in the B-wing corridor was looking between me and Braden, eagerly talking over whether Kielbasa Keith was telling the truth and whether that meant Braden really actually had a two-inch boner. The snickers started. Whispers and buzzing. Some people denying it, others attesting that no, they’d seen him in the showers and he was practically a Ken doll.

Braden froze, sensing the shift in the immediate environment like the predatory beast he was, and with a sneer aimed equally at me and the crowd he turned and stalked off, growling something over his shoulder about how he wasn’t finished with me yet. He was, but I wasn’t.

It’s been mostly about me. I totally own up to that. I’ve changed other guys in ways that were, I admit, kind of self-serving. Not that I was a douche—I tried to make it good for them, too. The couple or three guys I convinced that they could totally take every inch of my massive dick had some really amazing sex with me, and so did I. I’ve told plenty of guys with hot bodies and okay faces that they were in fact really handsome (or cute—there is a difference, but it’s damned subtle), and most of the time it wasn’t even because I wanted to sleep with them, I just think it’s cool having hot, good-looking guys around.

The most egregious case was probably my similarly nondescript and adorably geeky best friend in high school, Avnish, whom I solemnly assured that we both had the kinds of bodies that grew muscle really easily, that we’d be really hot once we put on some serious brawn, and that working out together would be fun. And fuck, we did grow muscle really easily, we did end up looking pretty hot, and, yeah, pumping serious iron together really was a blast. He’s a fitness model now, actually, though his real love is landscaping and he just does the photo shoots for extra cash. I’m preeetttty sure the landscaping thing would’ve happened anyway even with all the physical labor involved that he loves so much, and he probably-definitely would have found a good and loving husband the other way too even if he wasn’t quite as smolderingly hot as his devoted Luca is. Avish is a good egg regardless of any track-jump between universes, is what I’m saying.

One thing, though—that was the last time I fucked with my own emotions. I got a serious case of the heebie-jeebies thinking about how I’d been screwing around in my own brain. I’d stick to fucking around with other people after that.

I’ve made my mistakes, too. Like once, after Avnish and I joined the soccer team together junior year (because exercise and athletics are fun the way working out is, you understand), I saw the team captain, a boyishly cute, tight-bodied blond named (no kidding) Leif, making out with some tall, dark-haired dude behind the bleachers. I teased him about it later, but he totally denied it even though it was just the two of us in the locker room at the time. So without thinking I made this snide remark about how it must have been his twin brother I saw, and he said, yeah probably, and suddenly we we’d jumped tracks to the next universe over where Leif had an equally cute identical twin brother named Olaf, and Olaf was the gay one that I’d seen making out with Roberto that day and I got the kind of big lesson in watching my sarcasm that most people would require an intervention or a beating to truly bring things home for them.

The bottom line here is there were a few more built and beautiful dudes in the world, and really I was the only one that even knew. What’s the big deal? Jake Peters, that’s what. Jake Peters was the universe’s only “truthtell” hunter. Jake, you see, saw a reality change—and knew it for what it was.

It happened like this. When I got to university last year I decided to go out for our Division II soccer team, because why not. Sure, I used to hate sports, but I’m a jock now and I love the game and I’m good at it, so I might as well play, right? It’s not weird if I don’t think too hard about it. So I made the team, without any reality-changing shenanigans thank you very much. My first year on the team was pretty uneventful. I was pretty decent so I played a little more than a freshman might expect to, and we ended the season higher ranked than we’d been in years.

When we came back this year, my sophomore year, we were all psyched. Tryouts for new members were really promising, and we were all pumped up knowing we had a real shot at winning the conference this year. As soon as the roster was finalized we all went out for wings and pitchers at Ollie’s to celebrate. I’d skipped this gala when I first tried out—I don’t drink, for reasons that should be fairly obvious—but this year I was a veteran and the guys weren’t taking no for an answer. Bodie, the team captain, had taken a shine to me over the course of my first year on the team and was particularly insistent about me being there and partying with him and the rest of the guys that night. So I got dragged along with everyone else. I went along thinking, okay, I could just go and not drunk. But there’s nothing like the mob mentality of a really tight-knit, winning sports team. On an occasion like that you really can’t include yourself out and not seem like a killjoy dickwad. So I made a snap decision and informed Bodie, who was sitting next to me in the booth, and the rest of my teammates that alcohol doesn’t work on me—I just don’t get drunk.

The reaction was as you might imagine. I might as well have announced my intention to drain every keg in the state. Pitcher after pitcher was emptied into my glass—fuck, by the end I was downing the pitchers directly. And yeah, all that lager wasn’t sozzling my noggin exactly, but there’s also a high that comes from being out with your team and sharing in the kind of fun you really don’t expect to have with the guys when you grow up not being a jock, and that much revelry and camaraderie ends up kind of lowering your defenses in a way that’s not unlike the actual effect of having a few beers.

I was on my, I don’t know, eighth trip to the bathroom and was pretty close to winding up yet another gusher at the urinals when I realized Jake, one of this year’s newbies on the team—nice enough, ash-blond and hardbodied though not as buff as I was, and very cute in an I-was-born-to-drive-expensive-sports-cars kind of way—was standing at the urinal next to mine, completely ignoring his own piss-torrent because he was too busy staring open-mouthed at mine. Or, rather, what it was issuing from. “Fuck, Keith!” he whispered. “You’re fucking huge!”

Ah, the eloquence of intoxicated youth. Honestly I was pretty used to this reaction, though generally I tried to avoid pissing at open urinals, because whipping out a 13-inch flaccid cock actually provokes a lot of unpredictable reactions. But, like I said, I was pumped full of bro-happy endorphins and my guard was down. “Aw, man, you’re still way bigger than average,” I told him placatingly, which turned out to be the truth a half-second later. No, that wasn’t my mistake—that was just my usual line for when a dude at the urinal next to me is jealous of my junk. It usually does the trick, too—guys are less jealous of me if at any point in their sexual experience someone has told them that they’re huge.

I’ve followed up later, by the way, out of sheer curiosity. It turns out that “way bigger than average” usually comes out to around ten inches hard and maybe four to six inches soft, depending on where they already were on the grower/shower scale, and always with a big uptick in girth as well. My freshman year roommate, Jay, ended up with a really fat twelve-inch tool, which was a major head-scratcher for me until I finally sat him down at lunch and sussed out that Jay came from this huge family of bluff, broad-shouldered, big-dicked Canadian studs and had actually grown up thinking his eight-inch erection his brothers and cousins all sported was what constituted “average”. When I told him the real average was just over five inches he literally fell out of his desk chair in shock at how huge his monster footlong was compared to—well, not me, but everyone else.

Jake’s response was the dopey, well-lubricated grin I expected, so I finished up, squeezed out the last drops of piss, and tucked myself away. Jake followed suit as soon as he could (he’d contributed handsomely to the draining of the joint’s store of lager himself, and so had plenty of ex-lager to eliminate) and a moment later he joined me at the sinks. “Are you nervous?” he asked me tentatively as he washed up. When I looked over at him curiously he added, “About the first practice tomorrow.”

I pulled a couple of paper towels and dried my hands, giving him an easy smile. “Nah,” I said, leaning against the wall next to the paper towel dispenser. And I wasn’t. Like I said, I’d gotten pretty good at soccer, partly because I truly enjoyed the hell out of playing a good game, and getting a solid workout doing it. Yeah, I know. Like I said, fucking with my own head was seriously a burned-hand-teaches-best scenario.

Jake came over to pull his own paper towels. He was definitely intoxicated, but not as much as I’d thoughts, and it looked like he was one of those guys who got a bit moody after a few drinks. “I dunno man,” he said, drying his hands slowly and not looking up. “It’s like… I’m worried about my passing. I’m good at a lot of stuff, but they didn’t really test us on passing in the tryouts and… I don’t want to go through all this and then go out there and suck, you know?”

I placed my hand on his shoulder, which was nicely firm and rounded in the right places. That distracted me a little, and him too. And that’s when I said, “You’ll be fine.”

He looked up at me with big brown puppy dog eyes, craving reassurance. “You think?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Come tomorrow, you’re going to go out on that pitch and pass like a pro.”

And the next day, we went out onto the pitch for our first session of practice drills, and, true to my words, Jake Peters passed like a pro.

What I didn’t know, and failed to think through enough to guess, was this: until that day Jake had sucked at passing, and he knew it. It was his achilles heel. He was great at defense, was a solid scorer at the net, and even dribbled well, but in his two years playing high school soccer he’d only been able to execute a solid pass to his teammates about half the time; the rest of the time he delivered so they couldn’t snag it properly and gain immediate control, opening up an unnecessary vulnerability to interception, and sometimes he missed altogether. Because of his value in other areas his team had learned to work around this deficiency, and Jake had gotten used to this slightly skewed form of the game.

So when we did drills in that first week of practice that called on him to pass, and he did so flawlessly and with expert precision, Jake was flat-out astonished. And he knew—knew, without any doubt—that this change in his personal reality was down to me.

We had an section of the required English comp class together, and just before the very next class meeting after practice began he confronted me, right there in the hallway. “What did you do to me?” he asked, not angrily but with a wide-eyed insistence.

I didn’t have to feign confusion. “What are you talking about?” I asked. The first thing that occurred to me, honestly, was that I’d jumped up his dick a couple sizes. How could he even know or remember that? He should have had that huge, fat dick since puberty, just like I had had my kielbasa cock; only he wouldn’t know the difference. I was actually a little panicked that someone was calling me out on a reality change that no one should know about but me. Was he… was he somehow immune? That was a scary thought.

Fortunately, Jake spelled it out for me. “You told me I would be able to pass,” he said, tapping my chest with his finger. “Like a pro, you said. And sure enough, I went out there and passed like I hadn’t sucked at passing my whole life.”

And as soon as he said it, I saw what my mistake had been. Most of my truthtells are independent of time. If I say to Mr. X “you have a twelve-inch dick,” that becomes one of the things that’s true about Mr. X regardless of when the fact is tested, yesterday, today, or tomorrow. It’s a generally descriptive attribute, in the same way that “you have blue eyes” or “your mother is a goat” would be true regardless of the position in the temporal spectrum relative to the moment I said it. (I haven’t tested that last one.) You can think of it as retroactively applied, but what it really means is reality shifts from the one where Mr. X didn’t have a twelve-inch dick, or a goat for a mom, to one in which he does.

But with Jake I’d screwed up and put us in a universe where Jake has had killer passing skills as of midnight last Monday, and sucky ones before that. Jake knew that the acquisition of those skills was sudden, dramatic, and completely inexplicable; and he also knew that that only thing that even remotely correlated was my solemn bathroom reassurances. My possession of an inhumanly large cock probably only made me that much more likely to be unnaturally gifted in other ways, which, come to think of it, was a valid point.

Jake stared up at me expectantly, his eyes so wide I could see whites all the way around his pupils. I opened my mouth to tell him he was crazy, but stopped, frozen in horror. I couldn’t say that! See, the way my gift works is, it’s partly dependent on how engrossed somebody is in whatever truth I have to tell. Right in that moment I had all of Jake’s attention. Whatever I told him right now would become truth. If I said he was crazy, he would be crazy.

Normally, I’m a natural at this. Normally, I’m aces at working with my gift to say the right things to make fun, casual changes in the everyday world around me, usually involving dick size, without ripping open great gaping holes in the universe. But I was completely thrown. I started to tell him he was mistaken, but I couldn’t say that, either, because he wasn’t mistaken. If I said he was mistaken—shit, I didn’t even know what that would do. Something would change. Would it undo the reality change for Jake, making him a shitty passer again? Or would it deny I’d changed reality, and so completely unravel my gift? Even a lie as innocent as “I have no idea what you’re talking about” had disturbing implications, were it to actually come true.

I stared at him, genuinely dumbfounded and frankly terrified.

Jake, not unreasonably, took my evident alarm as an admission. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he said.

I managed to unfreeze myself only by finding a thing to say that was incontrovertibly true. The corridor around us had emptied, and the comp professor had just breezed past us and would be starting class any minute. “We’re going to be late if we don’t go in,” I said.

Jake took a step back, but before going into the room he said, “You’re going to explain what you did to me.” And then I was alone. I stood there a moment in the empty hallway, completely shaken.

Jake knew that I had secret, one that had affected him in a physical, concrete way. I wasn’t even sure why he wanted confirmation. His motive for confronting me baffled me. Did he want to expose me? Thank me? Blackmail more upgrades out of me? Get the gift for himself? Fuck, I had no idea.

For the next couple of weeks, Jake kept his distance, but I felt aware of him, on the periphery of my own movements. We played hard in practice drills and matches, prepping for the first game against one of our traditional rivals. We hung out with other guys from the team, piling around one of the big round tables in the dining hall, working out between practices, all that stuff. Jake and I saw each other in English comp twice a week on top of that, and he’d grab my arm like a buddy and say “Hey, Keith” with this big grin as he passed me going into the room, except I saw the questions were still there in his eyes. He totally had me off balance, and I think he actually felt a little bad about that because he kept things normal and always smiled and laughed around me when we hung out. He didn’t press the issue. I was grateful for that, but no less unsettled, because the problem was less his insistent curiosity that it was my being completely at a mental block about how to deal with it.

And then Declan, the guy in the room next to mine on the jock floor of the Maddox Dorms, moved off campus suddenly. His room opened up, and a day later, Stefan moved in.

The moment I saw him, it was like a man experiencing true masculine beauty for the first time in his life, a dawning sun after a lifetime of nothing but clouds and twilight. It was in the dorms. Jay and I got along really well as roommates freshman year—he was smart and funny, and with his lean, brawny frame hardened from a year on the swim team, his dimpled smile, and that hard-to-ignore footlong tool he was pleasant to have around even apart from his great personality. Plus I frankly didn’t want to start sophomore year with a whole new roommate doing the gaping-at-my-junk thing for the first few weeks. So I asked Jay if he wanted to room with me again, he said fuck yeah, I fixed it with the residence lady, and that was the end of it.

So that’s why it was Jay hanging out with me in our room that Thursday, both of us shirtless as was typical and just finishing up a round of NHL Slapshot on Jay’s console before I had to head out to physics lab, when I looked up in time to catch a glimpse of what had to be one of the hottest guys I’d even seen brush past the open door of my room, his bare, strong-looking arms laden with a couple of medium-sized boxes. A big black gym bag, looking stuffed to capacity, hung behind him from a strap around his shoulders, bouncing as he walked against the most perfect male ass in creation crammed into tight, butt-hugging jeans.

Before I realized it I was across the room, controller cast aside and forgotten as I wandered out into the hall, looking for the man I had seen for only a second and needed to see more of, heedless of my own half-clothed state (at least my dick was packed away in the compression shorts I tended to wear under my jeans when I didn’t want to draw attention to my junk). The vision had already disappeared, and I experienced a second of distress before he reemerged, boxless and bagless, from what had been Declan’s room, the corner single that was right next to the room Jay and I shared. He was clad in frayed jeans, a snug black tank-top, and big, battered sneakers without socks. Because he was checking something on his phone he almost walked straight into me, but he caught himself just in time, looking up into my eyes and giving me that huge, easy smile that pretty much melted my heart in an instant.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Stefan. I guess I’m your new neighbor.”

I was lost in his smile, in those deep blue eyes. Even his long, thick blond hair—fuck, I wanted to touch it. At some level I realized that this was ridiculous behavior, but I was bewitched, beguiled, and thoroughly smitten. And, at least for the moment, thoroughly incapable of speech.

“I’m Jay,” said my roommate, who’d followed me out to stand just behind me, and I could hear the amusement dripping from his voice. “And this chatty fellow is Keith.”

“You have beautiful eyes,” I blurted, truthfully.

The eyes in question danced with amusement as Stefan said, “Thanks.”

“And a great ass,” I added helplessly, suddenly unable to stop gushing after having been all but mute a moment before. With dismay I realized I was experiencing the very thing that happened to people around me all the time—this weird, eager willingness to say truthful things, without filter or second thoughts. I was appalled, and at the same time, fascinated. How beautiful was Stefan, that he could turn the tables and make me the one to give up control.

And I did feel my control weakening. I wanted to say more things about him, some of which weren’t true yet, but would be once I said them. Fuck, if I started saying things without thinking about them—!

“That’s Keith’s way of saying ‘Welcome to Maddox’,” Jay put in dryly from behind me.

Stefan glanced over at him, highly amused. He flicked his eyes down my bare, sculpted torso and then back up to meet mine again. “Thanks,” he said. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

And I fucking blushed. I don’t think I’d ever blushed in my life, but I could actually feel my skin heating up all the way down to my chest. I ducked my head down, then turned and bolted back into my room.

I thought about him all through lab, of course. That afternoon Jay went home for a long weekend, and Bodie invited me to go into town and go dancing with some of the guys, but I was kind of weirded out. First Jake had caught me changing reality, and now Stefan had me so captivated it was like being drunk with—not lust. Passion. As soon as I saw Stefan I was intoxicated with passion. I was wanted to get my head down, hole up in my room, and not say “boo” to anyone.

Stefan, had other ideas. Late that afternoon he knocked on my door and suggested we get some chow, and there followed the night of pizza, beer, and unfiltered conversation, of easy simpatico and unmoored inhibitions. Most guys, they lose track of their inhibitions, they end up fucking someone, maybe accidentally fathering a child or something. Me, I just succumbed to the overpowering temptation to change Stefan. Already rattled by what had happened with Jake, completely thrown by my infatuation with my unbearably attractive new neighbor, I felt restraint start to slip through my fingers.

I just started saying things. I changed him, more and more, until all at once I got so spooked by what I was willing to do, what I was finding myself capable of, and at the prospect of spiraling out of control that I jumped straight up and fled my own room. I heard Stefan calling after me in concern, but it didn’t matter. I ran out of the building, heedless of the fact that I was barefoot, and pelted across the concrete quad Maddox faced onto. I made a sharp right, heading for the athletic center, hoping a rigorous workout would prove cathartic enough to help me get my head on straight—and that’s when, about two hundred yards from the quad, I ran right into Jake.

I had some momentum going and bowled us both over into the grass by the walkway. I rolled over once and quickly scrambled to my hands and knees, scrabbling over to Jake. “Shit, Jake, are you okay?” I said. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine,” Jake said, sitting up. He rubbed the back of his head a little—he must have hit the turf a bit hard. “I’m fine,” he repeated, glancing up at me.

I leaned forward and cupped his cheek anyway, trying to look into his eyes. “Are you sure?” I demanded.

I must have looked a little harried because Jake said firmly, “I’m sure.” He grasped my upper arm and looked at me intently. “Keith, you need to calm down.”

“I’m trying,” I said. My stomach felt like it was twisting and I felt like I was on the verge of having trouble breathing. “I’m freaking out a little.”

“I know. It’s my fault,” Jake said. He was still trying to fix my attention. “Just be calm, okay? It’s all right. I realize now how much I upset you.” He was speaking in a calm, steady voice, and I realized Jake had either a knack or some experience talking people down. “I like you, Keith,” he said, and there was a kind of vulnerability in him as he said it. “I don’t want things to be like this.”

I finally focused on him. My heart was pounding hard in my chest, but this moment being forced on us made me put the question I’d been afraid of knowing the answer to. It was a cool night, and the grass was damp under my bare feet and was starting to soak through the knees of my jeans. I dropped my hand and fell back on my haunches, but kept my gaze fixed on his. “Why exactly do you want to know?” I asked quietly.

Jake shifted to a sitting position, legs crossed in front of him. “Because I freaked out,” he admitted. “I know what my body can do, and when it started doing things I knew it couldn’t do, it really weirded me out. It was like… it was like I suddenly didn’t have complete control over what I could do on the field. You’re an athlete, you know what I’m talking about,” he added, gesturing at my well-muscled jock body. And I did. As much as I hadn’t started out as a jock, years of playing soccer had taught me to master every aspect of what my muscles could do, and what their potential was with training and practice. And as for being unnerved by having a body that wasn’t what it was supposed to be—well, ex-nerd me knew all about that, too. I nodded to show I understood, and Jake went on, “I just wanted to know the truth, for certain. I think what creeped me out was it being all mysterious. Like the invisible hand of the universe reaching out and poking me in the ass,” he added with a grin.

“Naw, it was just me,” I said, grinning back at him. “And it wasn’t in the ass. More like the instep, I guess.”

“You sure it wasn’t in the ass?” Jake said, and, honest to god, he winked at me.

I gaped at him. “Are you coming on to me?” I said, laughing.

Jake was still grinning, though it was more rueful now. “I was working up the nerve to ask you out that night at Ollie’s,” he said. “Even before I saw what you were packing, I was like, fuck, this guy Keith is exactly my type.” His smile faltered. “Is that something that you…?” He trailed off, leaving the question hanging.

“What? No, god no!” I said, honestly appalled. “No, I don’t do that.”

“Yeah?” he said, raising his dark blond eyebrows hopefully.

“Jake, man, I swear all I did to you was fix your passing game.” I winced, punching my thigh. “And… maybe made it so your dick is…” I forced myself to finish. “…way bigger than average.”

Jake blinked at me. “But I don’t remember… I mean, I’ve always been…” It was hard to tell in the dim light off the well-lighted walkways, but it sounded like he might be blushing a little. Which was very cute in a boyish blond jock with a nice, long ten-inch dick.

I hung my head, embarrassed. Talking openly about upgrading guys’ cocks wasn’t something I was used to, and it seemed kind of silly. “Yeah. See, the soccer thing you remember because I accidentally phrased it so it would start the next day,” I admitted. “The dick thing I said at the urinals, about you being way bigger than average, that just changed something that’s true about you as a person. You’re…” I gestured toward him. “…a guy with a big dick.”

He was staring at me. I was having trouble reading him, and I still wasn’t sure how he was reacting to all of this. I said slowly, “Do you want me to change it back?”

“No!” he said immediately. Then he added with a grin, “God, no!”

More playfully I said, “Do you want it to be bigger? Longer? Thicker, maybe?”

He was laughing now. “No! It’s plenty big enough.” he said. “No more changes!”

I sighed, but I was already feeling relieved. We were on the right track. “How do we make things right between us?” I asked. I wasn’t quite as nervous about what he might ask of me as I had been the last few weeks, but my misgivings weren’t completely gone. He looked at me appraisingly.

“You weren’t just freaking out about me,” he said shrewdly. “You’re worried about your… whatever. Powers? Abilities?” I nodded. “Does anyone else know about it? Or recognize it when it happens, besides you?” he asked. I shook my head. He bit his lip. “Then how about this. What if… Is it possible for you to set things up so that whenever you… ‘change things’… I know about it too, and know about the before and after like you do? That way, you won’t be all alone with this. I think that might help, right?”

I gawped at him. I had been expecting one of two outcomes: either a reality change for something else he wanted, or for me to give up my ability altogether, just make it go away. This was completely unexpected, and it took me a second to even wrap my head around it. “You’d do that?” I asked wonderingly.

He shrugged. “If it would keep you grounded,” he said. “And, I don’t know, aware? You know what I mean?”

I smiled genuinely at him, and he drew in a breath. I guess, like me, he’s a sucker for a nice smile—okay, on a good looking guy with a smoking hot jock bod. “God, you are hot,” he said wistfully.

“And you, Jake Peters,” I said, feeling suddenly like my bearings were coming back to me for the first time in weeks, “from now on will be able to sense and recognize any reality changes I make just as I do.” I held out my hand, and he shook it manfully. “Welcome aboard the starship Phallic Obsessive,” I said with an embarrassed grin.

Jake laughed out loud. “Is that what it’s called?” he asked. He glanced down at my carefully packed but still prominent bulge along the line of my hip. “Explains a lot.”

I glanced down too. “That was an accident,” I protested. “Sort of.”

“I’ll bet,” Jake said. “You’ll have to tell me the story sometime. So,” he added, “on this starship, are we sure there isn’t any… fraternization among the crew?”

I was about to answer, but it turned out I didn’t have to, because in that moment Stefan ran up to us, his massive pecs shifting impressively as he moved, long hair shifting along wide, bulging traps. “Here you are,” he said, dropping to his knees beside me and putting a hand on my shoulder, barely winded at all from his exertion. “I put on shoes and ran after you, but I couldn’t see which way you’d gone. Are you okay, Keith?”

I stared into his eyes and smiled wide, touched that he’d come after me. “Yeah,” I said, glad I could say this and know that it was, in fact, the truth and not a reality change. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He smiled brilliantly at that, and it was my turn to suck in a deep breath. More than that, his beauty was so intense when he smiled that my dick twitched against my hip. I was seriously contemplating kissing him when I remembered we weren’t alone.

Jake, meanwhile, was staring goggle-eyed at Stefan’s impossibly huge pecs. “Are you sure that spaceship is called the Phallic Obsessive?” he asked, aiming a pointed look at me.

I started to ask how he knew, since his awareness of my changes should only just have started, but then I realized that someone who I was obviously interested in having abnormally huge pecs was not exactly a three-pipe problem. Stefan looked from Jake to me and said, “What are we talking about?”

I glanced at Jake, who shrugged. I shifted to face Stefan directly. I needed to come clean, but I decided for now to focus only on what had affected Stefan directly. The rest of it could come later. “So,” I said haltingly. “Um…” God, this was weird to say. I decided to just blurt it out. “Stefan, I have the ability to change your body,” I said. “However I want. I just say the words, and it’s true.”

Stefan seemed to drink this in. His eyes flitted to Jake, then back to me. “This has something to do with my chest,” he guessed.

I had to smile. This was really embarrassing. “Earlier tonight, I said some stuff that… might have involved your muscles, and… yes, damn it, your chest in particular. Including a thing about pizza, which… well, let’s just say that somewhere in the infinite multiverse there exists a reality where people don’t grow huge pecs from eating pizza.”

Jake gasped. “I’ve heard of that! Is that what he has?”

I ignored him, keeping my focus on the man I might be falling in love with. “Stefan,” I said, “how do you feel about having massive, incredibly huge pecs?”

Stefan licked his lips. “I like having huge pecs,” he said. “I love it.”

“But—?” I nudged him.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you really saying you can just—change my body?”

I nodded. I had a feeling that he might not have believed me, except for the fact that he knew he had pecs that were simply off the charts… and he’d probably glimpsed or guessed the similar abnormality of what I was packing in my jeans. “So if I were to want to still have really big pecs,” he said, a little tentatively, “but maybe if they were, like… half this size?” I nodded again. He frowned. “Do I have to, like, state it as a wish or something?”

“Nope,” I said. “No formalities here.” I considered. This whole thing would be pointless if I just made a wholesale reality change, because he wouldn’t remember. But I didn’t want to give him Jake’s gift, either, because that was a special deal between me and Jake. The solution was obvious: I had to repeat the mistake I’d made with Jake, this time on purpose. “As soon as I say the word ‘go’,” I extemporized, “your pecs will reduce in size to half their present massiveness, but will still be nice and big and beautiful.” Stefan grinned at that, then looked down expectantly. “Go,” I said. And as soon as the word was out of my mouth, Stefan’s pecs went from comedy-enormous to just really big. Big, and very beautiful.

“Whoa,” Stefan said. “Holy shit!” Jake shouted at the same time.

Stefan felt himself up. “They feel amazing! They’ve been so big for so long, and now—they really feel fantastic,” he said, running his hands over his thick, wonderful chest.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said, and he grinned brilliantly.

Jake suddenly stood up and said, “I think my job here is done. Enjoy your journey, Captain,” he said to me. “Nice meeting you, Stefan.” We both said goodbye without taking our eyes off each other, and Jake laughed as he walked away.

When we were alone, Stefan’s smile softened, becoming more intimate. “Thank you for these,” he said, nodding down to his chest.

“Anytime,” I said, unable to stop smiling, or to stop looking at him.

His gaze seemed to intensify, drawing me in to his beautiful eyes. He asked, “So… what else do you want to do to me?”

“Just this,” I said, as I wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him in for a long, deep kiss.


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