Description Hamid is tired of not measuring up to the other guys. Then, seeking to escape a torrential downpour, he finds a strange bottle and pulls out the stopper.
|Updated||16 May 2020|
Hamid was, it must be said, not a bad boy at all. He was inclined to be kind, by nature, and he was polite by training. He was, however, not a wise boy, nor a particular clever one. He wasn’t bad looking, it must be said, but he lacked a certain air of confidence for reasons that will soon become clear.
This had the effect of making him a bit of an easy mark.
He was but 18 summers old, and he was lonely, the poor boy. And he had just earned his first proper pay, as a day laborer, loading and unloading for the merchants at the bazaar. Honest work, and a bit demanding, but the boy had unexpectedly enjoyed it. He liked things simple and straightforward, guileless would that he was. Afterwards, he had washed the sweat from his body, changed into a nicer outfit, and informed his aunt that he was going out with his friends.
“Friends” was perhaps too strong a word; he had agreed to go out on the town with the other lads from the bazaar, and they’d had a lot of strong drink. As is often the case with hot blooded youth, things became competitive. Hamid was talked into a drinking contest, then a push up contest, and in both, he made an unimpressive showing. At least he wasn’t the worst of the group in either, but in his inebriated state, he took it pretty hard.
The final straw was when everyone stumbled out to the alley, and Samir announced loudly that he needed a piss. Being, at that point, little more than a roving pack of dogs, in temperament, the gaggle of young men lined up, one and all, to empty their bladders against the wall.
It would be unfair to say that it was an accident that Hamid stood next to Samir. Far from it. Hamid had been shyly crushing on the burly, athletic older boy for the past week. Hamid had known he preferred boys since he had come of age, but of late he had become aware that he had a “type”, and while others drew his eye, that “type” was basically Samir.
The tall, muscular Samir was popular, and friendly, and seemed to like Hamid’s company well enough, though Hamid never let his hopes grow too much. In truth Samir got along with everyone, and why wouldn’t he? He was beautiful, his body a cascade of hard-won muscle and easy athleticism; he had been good at sport, he kept himself clean and dressed well enough, and he was charming. He had long black waves of hair, tied at the back, and an enticing amount of body hair, too—not the wild tangles and animalistic pelts of some of the other boys in the bazaar, but just, to Hamid’s eyes, the right amount, and neatly brushed.
And because of the labor they’d been doing, Hamid had been tormented by the sight of this beautiful older boy’s bare chest and tight stomach and broad back and strong arms all week. He had had to work hard not to stare, and only his long practice at hiding his interest in other boys kept him from gawking like a maid.
Had he but known it, Hamid was considered a nicely built boy himself. Certainly he kept in good shape, as much from genetics and hard work as anything else. He was lean, lithe, and trim. Taller than he seemed, with a youth’s lanky build, though he was a handspan shorter than Samir. His aunt cut his thick black hair, though it must be said she was not particularly good at it, nor was he particularly skilled at making it do his bidding. The result was a sort of wavy, shaggy, indistinct black blob, and he tamed it with a hat. Still, he was a reasonably good looking youth with a decent if unremarkable face. His nose was strong and straight, and his eyes were large and sparkling brown under thick brows. He had no idea that the girls thought him cute, and spoke of his long lashes with some envy, nor that some of the boys were envious of his trim form and lack of unruly body hair.
No, overall, Hamid was fine, but for one thing.
He was, to put it charitably, unfitted in his manhood. And like so many other boys, the perception of inadequacy there gnawed at his psyche, whispering derogatory comments in his ear. But in his case, he barely passed two fingers when soft, and only three when hard. His stones were similarly unimpressive and suited his cock well. He could have passed for a boy of twelve, if you only saw his bait and tackle. And that had been the source of his lack of confidence since he came of age.
But it had sparked in him a great curiosity about his crush’s cock. So as they stood side by side, as boys do, rather than pretending to stare at the walk or focus on his own aim, he found his gaze drawn to Samir’s hands, which held a prize he had barely guessed at.
Samir was apparently as gifted in his manhood as he was in all other things, Hamid thought. The older boy’s dick was soft but easily outspanned Samir’s overlarge hands half again as Samir pulled it out of his shorts and aimed. A healthy torrent of piss blasted out, and Hamid hurriedly refocused on his own aim, praying he wouldn’t stiffen up and make a mess.
Boys can be cruel, as anyone knows who’s observed them, much less been one. Teenage boys are the worst, because they haven’t yet learned self control and are very much ruled by their base instincts, and for most, that devolves into years of unconsciously jockeying for dominance in their pack, trying to impress any girls who might be watching, hoping to get laid. They usually weren’t even conscious of doing so, and usually their efforts failed to impress anyone, much less prospective mates. These boys were no different, aside from Hamid, but even he wasn’t immune to the unconscious preening and showing off that made up much of the interacting of any group of boys. But for him it was tempered by the inadequacy he felt downstairs.
But his luck had finally run out.
To his horror, he heard a mocking chuckle to his right, and there was Mahmoud, his own lengthy rod on full display, grinning like a cat who found its prey cornered.
“Well well, boys, it looks like Ham forgot to bring his dick with him!”
Mahmoud was not normally a cruel boy, but he was drunk, and he had caught the bar maid staring at his comrade, and paying no attention to Mahmoud, and it had left him annoyed with Hamid. And being cross, he had been unconsciously looking for a reason to take Hakim down a peg or two all night. He never noticed that Hamid was oblivious to he girl’s interest in him. Well, here was his chance to raise his status along the pack! Mahmoud’s own pecker was fat and long, giving the show of power that Mahmoud’s body—stocky, hairy, and muscular—suggested. It matched the boys thick neck and broad back, and Mahmoud had been making use of it for the past few years with moderate success, and had set his sites on Fatima, so he was not expecting to lose out to a small dicked skinny boy who didn’t even seem to know they were competing for her attention.
“Fuckmoff, Mahmoud,” Hamid whispered angrily. he desperately wanted to shove his dick back in his pants, but he was still pissing, with no end in sight.
Of course, the other boys sensed a new game afoot, scented prey, and their drunken curiosity meant that half a dozen pairs of eyes were now centered on the paltry prize he gripped in the fingers of his right hand.
“Hah! Where is the rest of it?”
“Did you forget to water it?”
“Perhaps he has another dick and this is just his spare one!”
It must be said that Samir did not participate in this boyish nonsense. He was neither cruel nor too drunk, and he rather liked Hamid. Normally he felt a little protective of the shy lad. So he hadn’t said anything mean, and didn’t even laugh. He just rolled his eyes in annoyance, but he couldn’t help but find his gaze drawn to Hamid’s crotch.
Angrily finishing his piss, the humiliated boy tucked himself away again, and spun around, only to find he last thing in he world he wanted to see. Samir had seen it.
Samir looked down at him with pity in his eyes, just for a moment. The older boy quickly changed his expression, but it was too late.
“Fuck you all,” Hakim said, and stormed off.
Of course, that’s when it started to rain.
Desperate to escape the downpour, the boys forgot their friend and ran for any shelter they could find, scattering to open doorways and awnings that did little to shield them from the storms sudden fury.
For his part, Hamid darted down an alleyway that offered a bit of protection, but not for long. The sudden storm quickly overwhelmed the gutters and drain pipes, and great gouts of water streamed off every surface. Still drunk himself, Hamid found himself disoriented and the rain was so fierce it stung his skin. Effectively blind, he stuck close to the wall, but stupidly he tried to keep moving. Soaked to the bone before he’d managed to reach the next street over, Hamid lost his footing and slid, carried down the sloping and winding back street that had suddenly become a river, and all went black.
He awoke some time later, in a dim reeking sewer, his feet submerged in what he really hoped was just runoff from the sudden deluge. Light streamed in from a small opening about twenty feet above, so he had been out for some time. He head stung, and he felt a nice bruise below his left ear, but he seemed remarkably in one piece. No blood that he could find, and nothing seemed broken, so he breathed a sigh of relief. He could have been killed. He was certainly bruised mad banged up, but he had survived. The adrenaline spike, however, didn’t last long, and he paused to take stock of his surroundings.
Flotsam of all sort had collected here, and that is probably what saved him. He lay atop a heavy, sodden rug, one of several that had provided a cushion for him, and the rugs lay haphazardly wedged atop a bunch of broken crates and furniture that was trapped above the steel bars of a grate, and below that, unknown depths. The light was dim, but enough to see by. Must be midday up above, he thought.
Around him, all sorts of garbage was strewn, along with smashed barrels and boxes. Water still dropped from the open hole up above, and Hamid realized he could, if he was careful, climb out. He could build a tower out of the crates and use that to scramble up. and so he set about doing so.
It was on the third crate that he found the bottle, a small and dented brass perfume bottle of some sort. It gleamed and caught the light, amongst the other rubble, so he paused for a moment and looked at it, holding it up to catch the light. There were markings all around it, and he couldn’t quite see them. An ornate stopper, bound with a silk cord, capped the item. It looked old and possibly valuable, but he couldn’t make out the words. Without thinking, he rubbed the brass against his sleeve, and in doing so, he loosened the stopper.
“What is thy bidding, my master?”
Hamid felt the words rather than heard them.
“What? Who’s there?”
“I was bound to this bottle by a vile sorcerer, but you have freed me. You may make three requests, no more. As the ancient terms dictate, I shall do what you wish, and then shall be freed of servitude.”
Hamid’s head swam with possibilities. Finally his luck would turn! But he had heard the tales and knew he must be careful and clever, or things would backfire, possibly tragically.
Hesitating, the boy asked: “Are there any limits? Things you cannot do?”
“None I am aware of.”
“Allow me, my master. You may not ask my name. You may not have more wishes. The power I have to serve you is limited to one wish per day, and after the third day, I shall be free.”
Hakim, I was in a quandary. Here he was, stuck in a swear with world altering power. What should he ask of the genie?”
He needed to be careful, that he knew, and he needed to get out of this hole. Another summer storm could drown him here. But he feared wasting a wish on something mundane like escaping.
If Samir were here, the athletic hunk could climb the walls or at least shift these waterlogged crates around to get out. If only he had Samir’s muscles and grace….but he had to use what cleverness he possessed.
“If I wished to be as strong and graceful as my friend Samir, is that something you could grant?”
“It is within my power to alter reality in your service,” the voice said. “But be warned, you must be precise and maintain a firm image in your mind, or I cannot guarantee the results are what you would really want. This is not malice on my part, but lack of focus on yours.”
“I see,” Hakim said. It was a momentous decision. Other ideas drifted rough his kind, but his long obsession with his hunky friend pretty much sealed the deal the moment he considered his options. He would want to look similar to Samir: strong, graceful, attractive. Yet still himself! He didn’t want to be Samir, he wanted to be like him.
“I sense you are ready,” the voice said.
“I wish to be as strong, graceful, and attractive as my friend Samir, that I might use my strength and agility to escape this place.”
“So it shall be.”
Instantly, Hamid feel the urge to yawn and stretch, standing precariously as he did so. He almost lost his balance as something shifted under his feet.
But as he stretched, his muscles grew, and he felt the power in the. His spine popped and a dull but not unpleasant ache tugged at his arms and legs as his body lengthened. His teeth shifted oddly in his jaw as that became more shapely. He felt the coiled power in his legs, his firm buttocks his broad chest and his strong arms. In wonder, he flexed his hand, making a first that seemed larger than before. Would his hands be as large as Samir’s? His feet?
“It is done. You may call upon me tomorrow.”
“How?” (His voice even sounded a little deeper!)
“Grasp the bottle, touch it to your chest, and open the stopper,” the voice said. And then all was silence.
with grave came easily to him as he shifted a few more heavy boxes and scrambled up the wall. Even so, the last bit was quite a leap, and he only barely caught his target with two fingers before quickly swinging his other meaty arm up to secure himself. It felt glorious to move like that, so assured and confident.
in the late morning light, up in the alley, he quickly checked himself over for any wounds, but whatever the genie had done to him seemed to have taken care of that. His clothes were, however, a loss—they were still soaked and torn and filthy, but worse, they simply did not fit. He looked ridiculous. And he was miles from home, not even sure really where he was.
First, he needed to get clean, and into clothing that looked like it belonged to him. He needed directions.
“You look a bit worse for wear,” a voice said. Confused, he looked up above and saw an old woman staring down at him as she folded laundry on her small balcony. “Out drinking were you?”
“I got caught in the flood last night and wound up in the sewer,” he answered.
“I was out last night when the storm hit. Yes, drinking, but that’s not why….”
She stopped folding and cast a critical eye over him. Something must have satisfied her, because he harrumphed and frowned at him, but then shook her head.
“Please, can you help? I need a change of clothes, I can’t go anywhere like this. I will pay you once my money dries out….”
“Promise you won’t molest an old woman?”
“I’ll probably regret this, but come on up.”
He felt incredibly awkward as the old woman—led him to the bathroom of her cramped flat, and told him to strip as she ran a bath.
“Wait, first, I will measure. Maybe one of the children has something you can borrow.”
After what seemed a rather professional measuring, the tub was full enough, and she stepped away for privacy. He dumped the contents of his pockets into a bowl she handed him, and was told to place his clothes in a bucket.
After being soaked and dirty for hours, he needed a thorough scrubbing, and, he quickly discovered that he had a lot more to scrub. Everything was firm and solid, yet pliant, and he could reach everywhere with ease. He delighted in his muscular and lithe form, happy to feel strong.
But when he stood up, he realized that he hadn’t been specific enough. He may have had the overall look he wanted, but between his legs, he was very much the same disappointing fellow.
Sighing, but finding it hard to be too disappointed in his luck, he toweled off and, realizing his too-small clothing was gone, tied the towel around his waist.
“I’m in the kitchen. There are clothes just outside the door, on that chair. See if anything fits,” she bellowed.
He looked over the offerings. A loose-fitting shirt seemed his best bet, and it was mostly good but tight around the shoulders. The blue and beige pattern suited him. A pair of comfortable, gauzy lounge pants only barely fit, thanks to his recent acquisition of a bubble butt, but the waist was quite loose. There was no underwear, though.
“Thank you so much,” Hakim said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“My grandson’s clothes suit you,” she said. “Keep them. You are better built than he was, and he has no use for them anyway. They’re a bit snug but I imagine that’s a pretty common problem for you. Your wet things are already scrubbed. Don’t know how you got into them in the first place, they looked painted on!”
“It’s a long story…”