Morph

(with deference to Wilson Barber and his wonderful Fast Majicke stories)

The CD case was quite ordinary. The only distinction, a small iridescent strip on the spine that caught Ben’s eye as he pawed lazily through the bargain software bin. It said simply “Morph”, and had a picture of a man in various stages of metamorphosis. There was something about the realistic quality of each rendering that made Ben hold onto the software.

It had been a tense morning at work, and he’d slipped out for a longer than usual lunch. Since his break up with Devin, he wasn’t able to concentrate as fully. Ben, the chief designer in his company’s marketing department, had allowed his ennui to cause two very costly mistakes that did not sit well with his boss. Called into his supervisor’s office, the phrases “pink slip” and “severance package” punctuated the conversation. Ben thought it best to allow time for his boss to cool down. He loved to come into Chucky’s Computer Cove when he was restless.

Chucky’s was a little Mom and Pop operation a few blocks from his office. The most beautiful brother he had ever seen—well besides Devin—owned it. Actually, Charles Brown, or “Chucky”, reminded Ben a lot of Devin: tall, cocoa brown skin, grey eyes and shiny bald head. They could easily have been brothers…with one major difference: Chucky weighed around a hundred and thirty pounds more than Devin did. Chucky had played for the Rams in the 90’s and busted his kneecaps sufficiently enough to make him walk with a pronounced limp. He had drowned his sorrows in food. Still solid and handsome, Chucky was definitely fat—a fact that Devin would rudely point out whenever he and Ben used to visit the shop together. “That’s the problem with brothers today…” Devin used to mutter under his breath—audible enough for Chucky to hear—“…we don’t take care of ourselves. THEN we wanna blame the white man for the fact that we can’t get ahead!”

Ben had never told Devin that he actually found Chucky’s size a turn on. He often fantasized about Devin putting on a few sexy pounds. A heftier Devin might also mean a kinder, gentler lover with less of an attitude. Devin’s attitude had been a major factor in the break up of the relationship. Both men had come from similar middle-class backgrounds. In fact, their mutual love of mainstream Americana had brought them together. Ben had heard Devin whistling the Brady Kids “Sunshine Day” in a record store, and the rest was history. Two black guys who, between them, knew every sitcom theme song since “Gilligan’s Island”.

But during the course of the relationship, Devin had begun to doubt his cultural identity. He would disappear for hours and, when questioned by Ben on returning, simply say he had been “hanging with the ‘brothas’”. Ben accepted his lover’s need to find himself; but it was how he chose to do so that had become an issue. Devin had taken up African drumming with a musician who played for an ethnic dance troupe—a tall muscular Kenyan who was the epitome of Black Maleness to Devin.

Then one day Ben had come home to find the two men pounding on a different type of skin in the bedroom. Even then, Devin chose to hide behind his search for identity. “Only a weak brother would have a problem with this”, Devin calmly stated rolled up in the sheets, as he watched the Kenyan drummer stumble around looking for his clothes and the tears rolling down his lover’s cheeks. “I can experiment with other forms of black love, and still want to be with you! And if you can’t understand that, then you have been brainwashed by the White Man.”

If the line had been any less clichéd and stupid, Ben probably would have kicked the shit out of Devin and the asshole drummer and landed in jail for assault. As it was, he just turned around, walked out of the apartment leaving his keys on the table by the front door, and cried himself to sleep in a hotel room at the Marriott around the corner.

That had been six months ago. And despite the callous and thoughtless things his former lover had done while in the relationship, he still missed him terribly. Sometimes he would come to the shop just to see the large physical reflection of Devin, which he found in Chucky.

“Ben!” Chucky shouted from across the store. No matter how busy Chucky was, he always found time to greet Ben personally. He finished helping the customers at the counter and lumbered over. It seemed to Ben that Chucky got larger every week. His big round belly seemed to hang lower over his straining khakis, and his arms almost burst out of his too tight shirts. “How ya’ doin’?” He asked, chewing on an enormous cruller. “Haven’t seen you and your friend here in a while.” Ben wondered, “Does Chucky know I’m gay?” He never felt awkward around Chucky…but ex-football player? Too many chances for homophobia so Ben always played it cool.

“We don’t hang out together anymore.” was Ben’s short reply. “Well probably for the better”, Chucky winked. There was something in the wink that gave Ben pause, but he decided not to pursue it. He changed the subject. “Chucky…do you know anything about the manufacturer of this software?” Ben showed him the CD-ROM he had picked up in the bargain bin. Chucky turned it over a couple of times. “Fast Magic”, Chucky mused. “Never heard of them. This must be one of the CD’s I bought from this homeless dude a couple of days ago. He looked like he could use a few bucks, and the stuff was in good condition. I was a little worried that he might have swiped it from somewhere, but he said he had invented it. Whatever. If you have any problems with it, just bring it back and get something else you like.”

“Thanks,” Ben said. Ben looked around a while longer, paid for the software and gave Chucky a final smile and wave. He couldn’t get Chuck’s comment: “Well probably for the better”, out of his mind.

The rest of the day was uneventful. The boss had calmed down enough to assign Ben to one of the agency’s bigger clients: Joe Dante’s BodyWonder line of bodybuilding supplements. Ben took the copy and the artwork home to play with it in his spare time. He seemed to have plenty of that these days. After dinner, he spread out the BodyWonder materials on the drafting table next to his computer and began looking over each item in earnest. It was all the same old crap: personal testimonials on how these pills and powders had changed lives.

Among the literature, were the standard “before” and “after” pictures that would show flabby men and women transformed into Venus and Adonis in a matter of weeks. Most of them looked better in the “before” pics, Ben thought. There were also the stills of Joe Dante himself—five-time World Body Building Champion and all around humanitarian—shaking hands with his success stories and showing off his impossible pecs. One of Ben’s jobs was to make sure that all the muscles and curves were in place on the “after” pictures. He wouldn’t really “change” any of the pictures—just clean up any unwanted bulges and enhance the image as best he could. He was always searching for new programs to help him with this task. He decided to try out his new software.

He slid the disc into his CD-ROM and hit “run”. The familiar blips and bleeps gave way to a high-pitched whine and the lights in his apartment began to flicker. Suddenly, the entire place went black. “Great!” Ben thought, “I’ve probably introduced this mega-virus to my computer, and I’m going to spend the next month cleaning up my hard drive!” As he was about to begin feeling through the darkness for the breaker switch, the apartment was again illuminated and the computer had its familiar glow. The new program had apparently installed itself and a little gnome-like wizard was waiting patiently on the screen prompting Ben to complete the process. “Please input registration code” the gnome instructed. Ben turned the jewel case over and over. No numbers anywhere. He was about to give up when he noticed the holographic strip that had caught his eye in the computer store. “8,3,1,9,9,0”

The numbers seemed to float in front of him. “That’s odd…” he thought, “…that’s my birthdate.” He keyed the numbers into the proper box and pressed enter. The little man walked to the center of the screen and slowly began to change. His body began to take on different forms—going from small and elf-like to muscular, to giant sized and overweight—each metamorphosis more believable than the last. The figure then winked and disappeared. Replacing it was the title of the software and a warning notice. “The creators of this program are not responsible for the misuse of this product. Please use with caution as results can be permanent.” “What an odd warning.” Ben thought.

He scanned a couple of the “before” and “after” images into his computer, along with one or two pics of Joe Dante posing at some contest or another, then brought them into the new program. The interface looked pretty simple. He rarely looked at the “readme” files that came with graphics software—most of the writing was for novices. The tools were familiar and he quickly got the hang of using the program’s palate and toolbars to create the effects he wanted. There was a smoothness, and an intuitive feel, that caught Ben’s imagination immediately.

He finished making his changes on the first image in record time. A mister Carl Hurley of Grand Rapids Michigan had gone from 330lbs of man fat, to 220lbs of muscle. He still, however showed a good deal of love handle, and his pecs were softer than the rest of his frame. Within a matter of minutes, Ben had managed to erase all indication of flab in his mid-section and tone his chest to perfection. The program had a tool that allowed the artist to effortlessly balance changes on one side of the body to reflect those on the other.

When he finished, he leaned back to examine his work. He was astonished. The picture in front of him was flawless. Every line, shadow and curve was perfect—if he hadn’t known the image had been retouched, he would have sworn this hunk in front of him had been born that way. That gave Ben a thought. He had always loved big men. In college, he worked for the school paper, taking photographs and drawing images for the sports column. Sometimes he’d get hard just sketching a big boy’s arms, legs and buttocks. Lineman made him cream, and he loved to draw huge beefy men and jack off to his heart’s content. Could the program help him do that to this guy?

He started with Hurley’s face, using the “before” image to recapture Carl’s strong double chin—he even added a goatee to give him a slight bearish quality. Then he worked on the upper body—smoothing out some of the pectoral and upper arm definitions so that Mr. Hurley looked more like a powerlifter than a bodybuilder. He lovingly sculpted the stomach, so that a strong gut emerged from the burgeoning six-pack abs, and placed it on powerfully built legs that would never fit into a standard pair of pants. He lengthened Hurley’s entire frame so that he took on the larger than life proportions of a comic book superhero. By the time Ben had finished, Mr. Carl Hurley had gone from a 220lb-muscle boy, to a 400lb behemoth that could play for any professional football team in the league.

Again, he surveyed his work, astonished by the results. There before him was a perfect slab of male beef. His penis confirmed the aesthetic appeal. Suddenly, the little brain in his underwear took over. He wondered aloud, “If the software could turn Carl Hurley into a hunk…could it turn Joe Dante into a chunk?” His imagination and dick began to respond. He grabbed one of the shots of the owner of BodyWonder and went to work. The program was incredible. He had seen morphs online in many of the big men sites he frequented—many were poor in quality—impossibly stretched midsections on underwear models. Every now and then, he’d run into some real masterpieces, but for the most part, he’d lost interest quickly. And forget about men of color. No one seemed to have any interest in making Lee Haney fat.

With this program, he would change all of that. It was as if the Morph software could read Ben’s mind. He watched as the tight, overly muscled body of BodyWonder’s founder melted into the smooth corpulent flesh of the men in Ben’s dreams. Under his mouse, Joe Dante’s pecs became voluminous man tits, puffed out and resting heavily on a stomach that fell past his mammoth thighs to his knees. His face, which most morphers failed to touch, became large and round with a huge double chin that enveloped any trace of a neck—his arms and shoulders joining it in a wide and fleshy mass. He gave him huge suckable nipples that sat in the exact center of perfectly round areolas the size of small saucers; and huge legs the size of Redwoods, with a rump to match. He finished him off with an organ long enough to peek past Dante’s stomach, and rest below the massive gut.

When he had finished, Joe Dante looked like he weighed over a quarter of a ton—a perfect transformation. Ben had the raging hard-on of his life. This program was the stuff of all his fantasies. Of course, he would have to do normal sized renderings for campaigns, but he would have his own private gallery of manufactured big men all for himself. He clicked “file”, and then “save” and the familiar “are you sure you want to save this file?” prompt appeared. Ben clicked “okay” and oddly, the program asked again “are you really, really sure?” Ben did a double take—must be the programmer’s idea of a joke. He clicked “okay” again. “File saved”, was the software’s smug response.

Ben yawned mightily and looked at his watch. Two A.M. He had been at this since eight in the evening. He knew he had to get up for work in a couple of hours, but there was one more rendering he had to do. He searched through the picture files on his computer and came up with the perfect image of Devin. It was one of their vacation photos. On the beach in Hawaii, Devin could have been an ancient island god. “Let’s see how the program does on a ‘brotha’”, Ben thought. He worked feverishly—barely containing his lust. When he had finished, he had the perfect Devin—a Devin that made Chucky from the Computer Cove look as if he was on Slim Fast. Ben shot the biggest load of his life, and fell fast asleep at the desk.

He woke up late for work.

As he arrived breathless to the door of his office, he heard a great commotion coming from his supervisor’s suite. “Might as well start packing he thought.” Sure that firing was in store, he decided to get it over with, and headed towards the door to his boss’ office. He was not prepared for what he saw. Standing, well, stooping in the door of his superior’s suite was none other than Mr. Carl Hurley himself. Ben’s late evening jack off project was standing before him in the flesh. However, not the 220 pound muscle boy from neither the “after” picture, nor the fleshy 330-pound “before” fat man. In front of Ben was the spitting image of the morph that he had created: 400 pounds of Carl Hurley. He was so big; he could barely fit in the doorframe. Every part of him was exactly as Ben had sculpted: arms the size of an average man’s waist, chest so wide it struggled to stay inside the overly stretched super-sized sweatshirt he wore. His legs were so big; they had begun to rub the material between his thighs thin. He was phenomenal.

His voice boomed in the small confines of the office. Ben caught the last part of his sentence: “…incredible! I took a glass full of supplement last night before bed, and I woke up like this! I must’ve grown half a foot and look at my body!” He flexed impossibly huge biceps and nearly hit his head on the frame of the door.

“And look at mine!” came a muffled croak from inside the office.

Hurley moved slightly, and Ben caught a glimpse of his second shock of the morning. Sitting in his boss’s office, taking up a couch that usually held three people, was one enormous Joe Dante. He too was exactly as Ben had morphed him—a human Jabba the Hut, scarfing down doughnut after doughnut: his jowls quivering as he struggled to keep up with his new hunger. There was so much fat on his body, he could barely raise his arms to stuff his sausage fingers in his mouth. His mountain of a belly stretched out three feet in front of him and cascaded down between his mammoth legs. And through his too tight sweatpants, Ben could make out the organ of organs hanging like an elephant’s trunk between them. Ben took a step backward, almost fainting in disbelief.

What the hell was going on? Had he done this? Dante was burping, eating and talking all at the same time. “Must be a glitch in the new formulas. I knew I should never sample this crap!” he said, spewing out chocolate sprinkles. “How am I going to sell this shit looking like Moby Dick?” “Speaking of which…” chuckled Hurley “…I’ve noticed a change in THAT area as well!” “Only damn good think about all this!” the mountain that was Dante replied—trying to reach for his mammoth penis that jumped every time he took another bite of doughnut. “Well we’ll just have to cancel any appearances until we figure out what went wrong. Until then,…” Dante eyed the remaining food with a lust usually intended for a night of raw sex “…I get to eat anything I want! Wheel me to the nearest all you can eat buffet!”

Ben staggered to his desk—his eyes swimming from what he had just seen. Somehow, his lust-filled fantasy handiwork on the computer had become a reality. How was this possible? What kind of program was this that had the power to transform people with a few strokes of a mouse? He had to find answers. Chucky told him to come back to the Computer Cove if there were any problems with the software. Well, this was a big problem.

He decided to go back to Chucky and find out if he knew anything else about the program or the homeless man who sold it to him. First, he needed to get to the restroom. His crotch was so hard from witnessing the two men’s transformation that he had trouble walking to the john. Once in a stall, he stripped down to his skivvies, propped one leg on the toilet seat, and let his mind play back the pictures of Joe Dante and Carl Hurley. Their sheer mass was unimaginable and hotter than he could have ever dreamed.

He stroked himself and watched his cock grow hard and throbbing in a transformation of its own—veins bursting as the image of the burping Dante grew stronger. The force of his ejaculation threw him against the wall of the stall. Whatever was happening was certainly good for his libido.

There was only one customer in the shop when Ben entered. A man at the counter was in a hushed conversation with Chucky. And what a man he was. It was a very obese man who, from the looks of his clothing had been growing quite rapidly. From behind, his fleshy rump crack was peeking boldly from pants that barely contained his big butt. His puny shirt could no longer hold his mass, and incredibly ample love handles played hide and seek on each side, exposing most of the mid-section. And what a mid-section it was. From where Ben stood, the man’s brown belly pressed on the counter and hung halfway down his thighs. He ungainly shifted, supporting his bulk by leaning his chubby arms on its surface. Chucky was so enrapt in conversation with this fat boy that he hadn’t looked up for his usual greeting.

As Ben approached the two big men, he could hear bits of the conversation. The guy with his back turned must have been quizzing Ben about area eateries. “There’s a Pizza Hut around the corner that has a pretty good lunch buffet…” Chucky offered “…but with the way I bet you like to eat, try the Bloated Belly around the corner—they know how to treat guys like us!” It was then that Chucky noticed Ben. “Ben!” Chucky cried. “Look who stopped by to say ‘hello’!” The big boy turned around.

It was Devin.

(2003)