Well wished

by Tym Greene

One should always be wary of wishing wells. Just like genies, they are apt to twist even the simplest wish into something unexpected. Chris here, for example, wished for a more interesting sex life...you won’t believe what happens next.

“There’s no such thing as curses,” Chris mumbled as he pushed through the overgrown hedge maze. “And no such thing as wishing wells.”

And yet here he was, making his way past grabbing twigs and spider-webbed branches. It had seemed like everyone in town had heard the same scary story about the local eccentric millionaire who’d brought eldritch antiquities from all over the world, hid them in his mansion, and then promptly died, leaving no heirs; the only variation in those re-told tales was in the cause and manner of his death, and the variety of cursed objects his now-abandoned estate contained.

But he’d tried everything else and—despite his own protestations—he was searching for one object in particular. He passed leafy niches with statues of cavorting mythological creatures (all of whom seemed to be particularly male, though the anecdotes hadn’t mentioned any kinkiness on the part of the old Croesus) and stone benches spattered with bird droppings, but he wasn’t here for any of that.

Finally the path dead-ended at a gate, its rusted lock long ago shattered; beyond which was a picturesque little wishing well. Looks like he stole it from Disneyland, Chris thought as he approached, coin in hand. He took a breath, took his aim, and took a moment to think: wasn’t there something about how the wish was worded?

But he couldn’t wait any longer.

“I wish my sex life were more interesting,” he said in a rush, pitching the coin into the hollow cylinder of stones. A tiny splash seemed to resonate through the hedge maze like the gong of a massive bell. His ears were still ringing, and it seemed like the sound was doubled, like listening to the same recording played through two stereos but started at slightly different times. He put his hands to his head, trying to shake out the noise.

Suddenly all was silence, and neither the birds nor the breeze made a sound. His breath was loud in his ears and his pulse was racing. “Come on, get a hold of yourself,” he mumbled, his voice sounding small.

Chris was struck by a sudden impulse, standing there by the well: he had to get naked. Moving as though on autopilot, he took off his clothes, folding each article carefully and placing it on the well’s edge. Better be careful, he thought abstractedly, who knows what’d happen if a whole pocketful of change falls in. He chuckled at that thought, even as he noticed his arms buckling the wrong direction and thickening with muscle. They had never looked so good before. He looked at them, wondering why they seemed to be thicker overall, without the definition of biceps and triceps. Something odd was definitely happening.

Chris’ shoulders ached and he found his arms rising upward, as though trying to perform a handstand on the sky. He also noticed a soreness around his neck, reminiscent of when he’d had a sinus infection and swollen lymph nodes. While his arm still had enough dexterity, he bent it back down to give his throat a feel. The skin felt hot, the touch of his hand was somehow pleasant. But unlike swollen glands, squishing these lumps felt more like squishing his nuts, a “Why would you even do this?” sort of pain that made his clumsy fingers release their hold immediately.

To distract himself, he looked back at his hands, silhouetted against the bright and cloudless blue. His palms seemed to be growing, subsuming the length of his fingers and leaving them only free to wiggle helplessly. This is so weird, he thought, trying to make sense of why changing his hands would answer his wish. During this investigation, he brushed the thumb of one against the palm of the other, and the light touch sent him into a spasm of laughter. Since when are my hands ticklish? he wondered.

He glanced down to look at his feet, in case they were changing too, but he couldn’t see more than that his toes seemed to be growing longer and more flexible, because his chest was in the way. His pecs had grown round and strong in a way he’d only dreamed of before. The big round bowling balls of muscle were big and smooth, almost flawless; his nipples, he also saw, were gone.

An irresistible impulse made him arch his neck back, as though trying to see something extremely important behind him. His back arched too, but it felt more like bending forward than backwards. In a moment, exhibiting a flexibility he’d never had before, he was on all fours with his belly arched to the sky and his head bent back to stare at the overgrown grass beneath his feet and hands…or hands and feet.

The movement left him breathless, though not from exertion. It was more akin to how he felt when—pants around his ankles—he’d sit in front of his computer for a jerk session: expectation, and his body knowing what pleasure was about to come. Sweat broke out across his body, points of coolness beneath the breeze, as though he’d already jacked off and was panting in the afterglow.

And indeed there was a stirring in his groin, very much like he was getting aroused. Except I’m not horny…am I? He tried to get a look, but his neck had grown stiff and sensitive, making it hard to look anywhere but backward…or perhaps it was forward now. Chris was so confused, his pulse thumping in his head like he was on the verge of a migraine which, combined with the increasingly undeniable arousal, made it hard to think. Maybe he was hallucinating all of this, maybe he’d hit his head and dreamed that the well had made any changes to his body at all.

But it was a certainty: he could taste salt in his mouth as drool began to flow across his lips, viscous and clear as it dropped to the grass beneath him. A groan of pleasure burbled up along with the saliva: because it wasn’t saliva at all. He’d licked the taste off his hands before, knew what it was, and what it presaged. He lifted a clumsy foot-hand to wipe off some of the substance that could only be precum, but the touch of it against the skin of his face only flustered him further, like touching the drum-tight skin of his cock just before orgasm.

He could no longer deny that his body was changing, morphing in a way that should have been impossible, and the confusion of front and back, up and down, arm and hand and leg and foot were making his arousal all the more acute.

He heard a sound, like the moaning of a small, muffled voice—echoing his own grunts of pleasure—coming from somewhere on the other side of his body. He felt something, like when he’d flex his half-hard dick to make it jump in his hand, but different, more complex, as though instead of the one muscle there were a whole web, controlling the tilt and angle of his cock. The movement repeated, confirming his suspicion and threatening to overwhelm him with pleasure.

A subtle crack shot through his body, and he knew it was his hips breaking; at the same moment, his shoulders stiffened further, and he could feel the bones of his clavicle and sternum fusing into a new—and inverted—pelvis. That explains why my pecs look like a butt, he thought with amusement through the haze of arousal. Butt, he repeated mentally, finding the word immensely funny, and rather hot.

One of his former legs reached back, running its long and fingery toes along his side, until it came to his butt. He could feel every sensation, both from the foot itself (which was more of a hand now anyways) and from the parts of his body it touched, slick with sweat. It groped his rump, making him sigh in pleasure. Then he realized: he hadn’t moved the…arm…leg…well, it was an arm now, no doubt about it. Its movement had come as a surprise, as though someone else were piloting his body.

Chris heard a grunt from somewhere up his torso, from where his groin had been, and felt a roiling in his guts. At first he assumed it was just from how topsy-turvy he’d felt in the past few minutes, but then the feelings solidified into something more concrete: his innards had flipped, and somehow he knew that his old self-image had been irrevocably inverted.

He had flipped upside down—because of the wish, he supposed—and now the unknown force was making him stand. The naked body walked toward the pile of clothes he’d neatly folded on the edge of the well. He heard the rustle of former toes trying to exert their new dexterity and pluck a coin from the pocket without spilling the whole bundle down into the water.

There was a breathless, triumphant pause, then a plunk of a tossed coin, and then that other voice said, quite clearly: “I wish that statue—” The body pointed across the well’s little clearing. “—was holding a mirror.”

For a moment Chris wondered if it mattered whether the wish or the coin came first, but then there was a soft sound of grinding stone, and the body turned toward the statue in question. The puckish figure of a satyr had shifted position, now holding his panpipes half-forgotten in one hand, while with the other he held on to the top of a long oval mirror, resting on the statue’s carved base. The glass was cracked, and dirty, as though it were as old as the sculpture itself—which, he supposed, it now was—but was still reflective enough to show what the voice wanted to see.

Chris stared at himself, but his view was at crotch level. The rest of his body seemed normal, dripping with sweat, perhaps a little more muscular about the shins and forearms, and his pecs swelled out from his torso like they were trying to be a pair of boobs. His altered chest heaved in the reflection, blood visibly pumping through his body. He could picture his former butt having tightened, lowering and spreading, stretching out as his hips broadened to shoulders, with his buttcrack now the hairless cleft between his new pecs. A movement in the mirror drew his attention back down: it had looked like his dick was looking up, and when he looked down, it looked down.

“Well,” he said in a small voice, “this is new.” He turned his head from side to side, and the reflected dick matched his movements. It really did look like his dick had, perhaps a little bigger, a little longer, and certainly more flexible. More flexible, too, was the little urethral slit, which now opened and closed as he willed it, like a goldfish gulping water. The only other difference was that there was a pair of eyes on the head, right where they should be if the slit was his mouth; in other words, there was no mistaking that this cock had once been a head.

“Hello there, Little C. How do you like our new look?”

It was the same voice as before, only louder, more confident, more articulate. He curved his shaft-neck upwards, but couldn’t see much past the swell of muscular belly and over-round pecs. Then he remembered the mirror and turned his gaze that way. Sure enough, there was a new head between the new shoulders. At first glance it looked for all the world like a giant penis; like his own little head, this one had eyes and a flexible slit for a mouth. The bald crown was shiny and beaded with sweat in the sunlight, and the wrinkles around the neck suggested that he might be able to stretch it longer, especially if he were more aroused.

He noticed the pecs drooping slightly, just as the balls below his own “neck” were descending. If it were cold, I bet they’d draw up tighter, he thought, realizing why the mirrored view had looked so odd: his body’s new pecs were also a second—massive—pair of nuts. Even as he thought this, a hand hefted one, the sensation a cross between muscle and ball, like holding a buttcheek blended with tugging on his sac. It was an extremely sexual feeling, and he could feel himself getting worked up all over again.

The mere thought of getting off was enough to get their shared heart pumping harder, and the hands caressed both of their necks, one above, one below. “Oh fuck,” the voice grunted, but there was no resisting their overwhelming pleasure. The feeling was so intense that it blurred his vision, making it hard to watch the reflection jerking itself off. He could see the neck thickening, lengthening, engorging just as he was, now that he was nothing more than a dick himself. The cockhead above flushed red, skin growing plump and glossy, and a burp of precum dribbled down the underside, slicking up the ball-pecs and threatening to drip down onto his own, smaller, head.

But his own arousal was having the same effect, and slick fluid poured out onto the hand that engulfed him, easing its glide and making his shaft stiffen further. Both heads moaned, like two lovers in the midst of coupling, wordless sounds that filled the hedge maze.

After long minutes that felt like hours—or perhaps hours that felt like minutes—their horniness reached a crescendo. Chris…or, as he now knew himself, Little C…experienced the full force of an orgasm from the front lines for the first time. The wonderfully immobile stiffness, the feeling of being so utterly engorged that he couldn’t even wriggle, seemed to make his soul ache with expectation. He held his mouth shut tight until absolutely the last second; he knew there would be many more such experiences in the future, but he couldn’t resist the urge to draw this out as long as he could.

The feeling of what seemed like gallons of cum flowing through him, when he could hold it back no longer, was the best feeling he’d ever experienced, better than mere orgasm, better than beating a video game or getting a promotion. Even as he felt the blood begin to return to the rest of their body, even as the last dribbles of delicious seed passed his lips, he knew he would be doing that again, as often and as soon as possible.

Up above, the new Chris had spurted cum too, a fountain flowing onto the grass, after the firehose-spray onto the mirror and the satyr holding it. Little C saw what he thought was a smile on the carved lips, or perhaps it was just a trick of the light on the pearly glaze it had received. Through the cum splatter, he could see the cockneck softening, dropping the head down from its up-thrust position.

Their eyes met. “I’ll grant you the first one, Little C, but we’ve gotta be more careful,” Chris said with a little burp of fluid once he’d finally caught his breath. “We’re both dicks now, and we can’t spend the rest of our life just jerking ourself off.”

“We can’t?”

The head-sized dick laughed. “Fair enough; we could, but we shouldn’t. After all, hadn’t you wished for a more interesting sex life? I heard you, and I know how often you’d jack me off, all those years. It’s time for me to take the driver’s seat and get us a boyfriend or two.”

“You’re right, Chris. I like the way it feels, having you in charge.” He meant it, too. The confusion from his change, the uncertainty and surreal sensations of being turned upside down by a single wish, those had faded, leaving only the knowledge that this was a much better arrangement, for all concerned.

A hand descended to pet Little C’s head, caressing his underside. “Attaboy. Now, I’m going to get dressed, so you can take a nap for a bit. I know firsthand how comfortable your underwear is, after all. And maybe I’ll give that cute barista our number.”

“Oh, he’s cute!” Little C yawned, just the thought of a nice soft cottony hammock making him too sleepy to get aroused by the memory of the lean twink who had always smiled a bit longer, a bit more eagerly, when Chris got his coffee. Chris—the old Chris—had been too certain of being rebuffed to even try, but now that there was a new Chris in charge, Little C suspected things were about to turn around.

A few months later, a familiar figure was making its way through the hedge maze, a scarf wrapped around his wrinkly neck against the autumnal chill, and an arm wrapped around the slender figure that walked beside him.

“It’s real, I swear,” Chris said,

“I know, I know,” replied his femmy boyfriend. “I just…I mean, it flipped you upside down?”

“Exactly as I told you, Humbert. When you asked why my dick could talk.”

“Well, yeah, but…I dunno, Little C is so cute, and a good ‘kisser,’” he blushed at the euphemism they’d come up with for wrapping his lips around the wriggling cockhead and giving him a long and languid blowjob. “I just figured, you know, you were born that way. So…what, are we coming here to wish you back the other way around?”

“Nope.” There was a devious smile in the cock-head’s voice, as though he’d had this planned from the beginning. “I’ve heard the way you talk to Little C, and how much time you spend with him…I think we all know what the wish is going to be. Ah, here it is. Better strip.”

There was a kiss, and the sound of the skinny man undoing his clothes, then the plunk of a coin echoing off the well’s walls. “I wish,” Chris said, “that Humbert could go through the same transformation I did.”

He turned to watch the show, his own pants unzipped and his dick sticking out the fly. “Do I get to meet Little H now?” asked the penile voice.

“We both do,” Chris replied, stroking his neck with one hand and his dick’s with the other.

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