Andrew slowed to a stop in the crowded hallway, heedless of his fellow high school students suddenly having to navigate around him like a fast-flowing stream angrily having to divide around a stubborn boulder in its path, muttering and burbling around it. Only Andrew knew was no rock. In a school with its share of ordinary guys, Andrew was even more ordinary than most.
His attention had been caught by a big glossy poster tacked on the wall next to the lockers, celebrating an fast-approaching, inevitable rite of teen life that Andrew had successfully blocked from his head all year: Prom.
Andrew stared at the poster forlornly. He desperately wanted to go, wanted to be like all the other seniors. Dance with a hot guy. Make out on the dance floor. And afterwards—white-hot sex! It was that way in all the movies, even the ones with straight people. And here in Winstone, Illinois, where by some fluke of genetics three quarters of the teenage boys were gay, the tradition was, if anything, more enshrined.
“What’s wrong, Andy?” came a voice behind him, even as he felt a warm hand on his ass. “No one ask ya yet?” The remark was followed by a small chorus of chuckles.
Andy turned around, trying to radiate toughness, even though he looked three grades younger than he actually was. The hand that was on his ass stayed where it was, which meant it was now on Andy’s crotch. This was how he knew where he was in the pecking order at Winstone High. Only two kinds of guys got felt up regularly in the halls: the hottest guys, sensually, and the least hot guys, sarcastically.
This hand belonged to Zack Adams, one of the hottest guys in school—as witnessed by the hands of his three cocky jock buddies, which were all caressing some location on Zack’s skimpily attired anatomy. He was tall and lanky, with close-cropped blond hair. He was buff all over, but apparently he worked out nothing but his pecs and biceps—mostly the pecs. They loomed in front of Andrew’s face, big thick sacks of mountain rock straining at Zack’s worn-thin Army tee shirt, casting a shadow over a steel-hard eight-pack. Andrew was acutely aware that his tee shirt did not stick out like that at all.
Zack’s torso would have turned Andrew on, and often did in private—Zack had the biggest, roundest, hardest pecs in school—but the gorgeous face twisted in contempt and set on humiliation made it easy to stave off arousal. Andrew had started to get annoyed at Zack’s disdain, and that made him defiant. “You offering, Zack?” he said proudly. “When should I pick you up?”
Zack laughed and wandered off into the throng, leaving Andrew to contemplate his perfect ass. He sighed. “I need to get bigger,” he said to himself, as Zack and his jock buds vanished into the crowd.
“What’dja say, And?” said another voice behind him, accompanied by another hand on his ass. Andrew swiveled round, angry now, but it was just Benny, his best friend and neighbor practically since they were born. Benny was half a foot taller than Andrew, but otherwise not much less ordinary than his friend.
“Hey, cut it out with the ass-grab,” Andrew said, looking up at Benny’s grinning face. Benny’s free hand—his other arm held a pile of books and notebooks against his hip—was still wrapped around Andrew and cupping his ass.
“Hey, if Zack can do it!” Benny said innocently. Andrew shook his head and they headed off to class together, Benny’s arm now around Andrew’s shoulder.
Andrew went through the day preoccupied by the idea of Prom. He only perked up during his third class of the day, biology lab, because he was, as usual, pulled out of the class by dotty old Mr. Bowman into the auxiliary lab—what Andrew thought of as the “rat room”—to help track the data on Mr. Bowman’s cardiovascular experiments while Mr. Bowman taught the lab to Andrew’s less science-adept classmates.
Andrew went from cage to cage, marking observations on each rat to see whether the serum variations Mr. Bowman was giving them was improving their circulation. When he got to the last cage, cage #17, his eyes widened. Rat 17 was not only healthier than the day before—he was also half again as large as the others!
Andrew froze, his pencil poised over the slot for #17 in the data observation journal. He knew, with sudden revelation, that he stared at the solution to his problem. He couldn’t believe his luck. Not only did he have a way out of his social problems, but it could stay totally secret. Mr. Bowman pored over the data every night after Science Club, then prepared the animals for the next day’s trials—so he can’t have seen the results of the current serum variation 17. If Andrew was going to use it on himself, he needed to hide the evidence that his growth—if he grew—was anything other than natural. If people knew it came in a bottle, everyone would get bigger—and Andrew would be back where he started from!
Looking around quickly, he opened the door to let the telltale rat out. It glanced at the door, glanced shrewdly at Andrew, and then bolted, onto the shelf, down to the floor, and gone! “Shit,” said Andrew in considerable awe. Quickly he scribbled “no change” in the observation book and dropped it onto the desk in the middle of the room. Then he pulled open the cabinet, taking down the stoppered flask marked 17. He slipped the flask carefully into his bookbag. As a decoy he poured some serum from all the other sixteen flasks into an empty spare one, marked it #17, and topped them all off with water.
His tracks covered, he looked back at his bookbag. Should he wait to take a dose? He knew from his own weight and the weight of the rats exactly how much he needed to take. He should do this at home, away from the lab, so there could be no connection. But in the meantime he’d have to carry it around with him all day. What if old Mr. Bowman noticed the deception—what if the flask got taken away from him before he had a chance to take a dose?
Andrew couldn’t risk that. Quickly he grabbed a graduated cylinder, and, unstoppering the flask—woof! it sure smelled bad, sweet, like rotten peaches—he measured out 4.5 ml of the syrupy concoction. Restoppering the flask, he raised the graduated cylinder, and, hesitating only a moment, tossed it down.
Instantly, his cock started to get hard in his jeans. Has to be all in my head, he thought. He positioned the flask in his bag and zipped it up. Adjusting himself—he was all the way hard now—he carefully lifted the bag over his shoulder and left the auxiliary lab.
He felt fine at first. But somewhere around sixth period he started feeling woozy. He’d been hard the whole time, and he was starting to feel like his whole body was throbbing with hard-cock potency. As he sat in American history class he felt sweaty and unfocused. His whole body seemed to be getting a hard-on. When the bell rang after a whole period in which Andrew had absorbed nothing and, as he saw when he looked down, scrawled random gibberish in his notebook, he stood up, feeling lightheaded.
“Hey look, Andrew’s wearing floods!” jeered a nearby student, Andrew couldn’t tell who. Phil? Phrank?
“Hey Andy, you finally hit puberty this week?” came a second voice from somewhere behind him.
Andrew looked down—sure enough he could tell, even in his bleary state, that at least two inches of white sock was showing below the cuffs of his jeans. His feet hurt.
Shit! Andrew thought to himself, panicking. Too fast. He stumbled out of the room, bookbag in hand, and ran, flatfooted and clumsy, down the hall, plowed into the boys’ room, and collapsed into a stall, locking himself in.
He sat on the john a long time, panting, his mind racing. His cock was pounding in his pants, straining at the thick fabric. It was starting to hurt. Finally he unbuttoned his jeans and, with some difficulty, pulled down the zipper. His incredibly boned cock sprang out of his jeans, exulting in its freedom.
Andrew gaped at it. It was enormous.
It had felt all the way hard, but now it seemed to somehow get harder, utterly hard, and it curled back and pressed hard against his torso. Except that where it used to grind its head into the crease just below his belly button, now his wide thick monster cock was pressing its throbbing steel-hard head hard into the bottom of his heavy left pec.
Whoa, wait. What?
Andrew’s mind seemed to clear a little, and he could now see—could now feel—that his formerly flat chest was now burdened with some big thick heavy pecs, pushing out his tee shirt in exactly the way they hadn’t this morning. He glanced at both arms—his had muscle there too. He had muscle all over.
His monster cock was drooling onto his tee shirt. Shit! He lifted it, with some difficulty, off his shirt, and after a couple seconds of staring at the precum welling out of his thick slit he realized there was one place he could put it where it wouldn’t leak onto his shirt. Cautiously he leaned forward and, positioning the monster with his hand, wrapped his mouth around it.
And came, hard. In his shock at the sudden ecstasy of having his, as it turned out, extra-sensitive cock in his mouth he barely had the presence of mind to keep his mouth wrapped firmly around his cock as he blasted the back of his throat with cum, over and over again, in quantities he almost couldn’t keep up with.
Ten minutes later he was slumped in the toilet, exhausted, his face sweaty, his half-hard cock now lolling off the side of his hip, the head twitching in the empty air. His pants felt tight—he was probably even bigger, even taller now.
I’m more of a freak than ever. Was he even done growing. His mind raced, agonizing. He thought about all the other guys in the teeming hallways, and how he would loom over them, laughed at for being such a mutant. Being the only guy who grew like this would mark him for life.
And then it clicked, and for the first time he saw the way out of his dilemma. The solution was simple: Make sure he wasn’t the only one who grew.