A lot of guys have the same problem—when you wake up in the morning, you've got this huge erection, impossibly hard and oddly stubborn. You've either got to whack it off or just try to ignore it and start your day. So you head into the shower with it bobbing in front of you, wondering if hot water will make it go away, or you stuff it in your jeans and run out, standing at the bus stop with your books in front of your crotch, trying nervously not to think about it. From hints here and stories there—plus a few hunks that for some reason I don't get tend to brag about every boner they get—I get the feeling that most of the guys in my high school have that obstinate morning hard-on.

My situation is a little different.

You have to understand, I have a very vivid imagination. Very vivid. When I picture a sexy guy, for example, I don't just get this vague image of a tallish, kind of muscular guy with a big dick. I create a living creature in my mind that's detailed on multiple levels. At a place just below consciousness I'm aware of every corpuscle of my fantasy man, every curve and sweep of muscle, every tiny hair and freckle. I can sense him in my mind as warm, firm, complex, lithe, the movements of his body graceful, controlled, tense like a cat that can spring at any time. When we kiss I can feel every surface of his lips, the moist strength of his hot tongue as his broad hands stroke my back, sending shivers up my spine, one of his great beautiful feet caressing my ankle. I can feel every ripple, sense every dimension. It's all unbearably real in my mind, and for all the pleasure it brought me—and let me tell you, I used that imagination, milked it for everything it could give me—it started to become a source of deep frustration to me that I could have all of this, this endlessly detailed and powerful and stimulating experience, yet it was always only in my mind, and I knew that.

My senior year started to feel like a nightmare. My imagination was if anything getting more and more vivid, to the point where sometimes I would have to consciously shove myself back into reality. That worried me, and ironically made me want to escape—into fantasy. Then one Tuesday morning in February I realized that things had changed.

Either I was stuck in my fantasy world, or my fantasy world was pushing into reality.

For the last several months I had been waking up in the middle of more or less the same fantasy, a manifestation of powerful erotic dreams I'd been having just before waking up. And because it was sexual, and really intensely sexual, I couldn't get shed of it until I'd brought myself to a shuddering orgasm. The dreams—and the ensuing half-awake fantasies—involved me, but a tall, stretched, overmuscled version of me, having heart-pounding, sultry sex with myself, another of the same body, similarly proportioned, every heavy thew and lanky limb, every cell and stray hair the same, except he, the other body, had golden eyes instead of my green. We made love passionately in my fantasy, my incredible, overpowered imagination allowing me to feel every curve, every caress, every breath, every musky smell, every thrust, until we came with tremendous force and he collapsed on me. Slowly, as I woke up, he faded away, until I was back in reality, my lone body back to normal, sweaty and sated.

Then one Tuesday he didn't fade away.

I lay for a long time with him half-dozing on top of me, in a stupor myself, until I became gradually aware of his weight. That was odd. I was suddenly fully awake, staring down at this other body, this fantasy, this replicant asleep on my chest. I could still feel his heavy, half-hard cock curled against my long abs. I got instantly scared and shoved him roughly onto his back, jarring him awake. I clambered hurriedly out of the bed and stood there, staring down at him. He stared up at me with those golden eyes, as upset as I was.

"Something's wrong," he whispered.

But when he talked that only made me panic. "Shut up, you're scaring me! Go away! Go away!!" I shouted.

He faded before my eyes as I stood there, my heart pounding, stone cold awake with no breath of fantasy in my mind. Unlike any fantasy I've ever had he seemed aware he was fading, and locked eyes with me, petrified, until his golden eyes were completely gone.

The sheet that had been draped across his leg dropped soundlessly to the bed. I gasped. That sheet was real. I reached over and touched it, and though I could have imagined all the nuances of that sheet I was certain I hadn't. That sheet was real, but it had been wrapped around my golden-eyed fantasy.

I shoved this line of thought aside and looked around for the clock. I was running late for the bus. That was the problem with these morning fantasies—they always made me late. I forced myself to think about the ordinary. I turned to the dresser and grabbed a pair of boxers and pulled them on, picked up the jeans off the floor at the foot of the bed and started to pull them on—

—only they didn't fit.

The narrow legs of the leans barely fit over my feet, which I now realized were huge. In fact my whole body was huge—stretched and overmuscled. I was a foot too tall. My arms and legs were still long and lanky, my abs were drawn-out and sexy but capped with two big rockhard lumps of muscle sticking straight out from my chest. A brush of black hair emerged between them, giving way to a light trail that trickled down those extended abs toward the thick, pendulous cock that even totally soft was making a laughingstock of my boxers, tenting them out and emerging to show a good two inches of thick, wide meat below the cuff.

This threatened to unhinge me. I was only 17, mind you, kind of naïve, and totally unprepared to make sense of something bizarre like this. Never before had I come out of a fantasy and not had everything real and normal. I was suddenly terrified that I might have gone mad.

I chewed on a knuckle and drew comfort from the ordinary sensation. From somewhere I marshaled the strength to calm myself down.

Finally I worked out the only possible course of action. Whether I was crazy or not, the only way to make things right was to return things to normal. And if they didn't happen on their own, they way they always had, I would have to try to do it myself.

I tried concentrating on my body as I had a million times before in fantasy. I was aware of everything about it—the pumping of blood, the tingling of goose pimples, fingernails and toenails, loose hair falling on my shoulders, lips and tongue, every muscle and bone, twitching cock and balls. Oddly I realized that I knew more about this body than my real one. I'd seldom fantasized about my real body. It was O.K.—wiry, moderately tall, big feet, straight hair, well-proportioned, ordinary. I suddenly realized I wasn't very excited about deliberately making my body like that, like what it was normally.

Dimly I heard my mother's voice calling up from downstairs, no doubt warning me I was liable to miss my bus. I bent myself toward concentrating on my task. Slowly my body shifted, rippled, returning to something closer to what I remembered my body being like. Even so, I reluctantly admit that I don't think I returned it all the way. When I stopped concentrating, took some deep breaths, and started pulling on clothes again, I noticed that they were tighter than they should have been, but at least I was at the right height, I told myself, that was the main thing. I had to avoid attracting attention for now, the rest I'd sort out later. It was classic avoidance, and procrastination—and something else, a desire to keep the excitement of my fantasy alive. I hadn't touched my cock at all, and I felt oddly guilty about that, but I told myself I didn't have time. I picked up my books and, feeling my jeans snug across a firmer than usual ass, hurried down stairs.

I spent homeroom and first period trying not to think about what had happened. Everything around me seemed stultifyingly real, and during announcements I formed the provisional hypothesis that this morning had been one big unusually elaborate fantasy up until I'd run out to catch the bus. This made me feel better. Of course this theory neglected the present state of my not quite normal body; but one of the benefits of a powerful imagination is the ability to pretend not to remember things like that. Nonetheless some part of my mind was aware of this body and what was different about it, and when I wasn't paying attention would take my hand straying absently across it, lightly touching the pecs, resting against the flat hard stomach, brushing across the twitching lump behind my zipper.

In fourth period history class, though, I ran into trouble.

This class was held in a large room and was only two-thirds full—it was an elective on Roman history. I was sitting at the back, feeling vaguely self-conscious. Sitting two seats to my left, with an empty chair between us, was Matthew Archer, an all-around jock. I didn't really know him—we'd said "hey" in the halls a few times after being lab partners in chem junior year. I was content not to get too close; I liked just looking at him. His perfectly proportioned body had singled him out to be my favorite subject of fantasy when I was bored at school.

I had taken this class expecting to find it interesting but Mr. Walton was a horrible speaker and I always found my mind wandering. Today was little different, and I found myself gazing idly at Matthew, who seemed to be lightly dozing, his mouth just open.

I started to fantasize about Matthew. In my mind I drank him in as he slumped in his chair, sensing every inch of his taut body, from his light blond hair, Celtic features, and long neck down to his trimly muscled legs and size 13 feet. My cock started to try to stiffen, so I imagined it unwound, lying straight across my hip, pumping and throbbing under my jeans, hot and heavy against my skin. (Since I was in fantasy mode it was normal that it was bigger than usual. Very normal—my cock always grew by itself during my sexual fantasies. Are you kidding? That was one of the first things I figured out how to imagine!)

I started thinking about his proportions. Were they exactly perfect? I thought about several areas of his body in turn, imagining them so that they were that much closer to perfection. I blush to admit that, given my 17-year-old hormones, my imagination mostly made adjustments that made things a touch larger. So for example I'd always thought his ass was a tad flat for such a great body, so in my fantasy his ass became a little rounder and firmer, pushing him up slightly off the seat. His shoulders, too, could do with a slight widening. His cock was definitely a bit out of proportion; I imagined it a touch longer and rather thicker, ignoring my own throbbing monster as I watched it, in my mind, slowly swell up and stiffen under his jeans. And of course his pecs. They were close to perfect but in this one area I was willing to indulge myself a little and skip over the classical proportions. I imagined his pecs swelling to fill his white button-down shirt; but he was wearing a cream sweater on top of that which kind of diminished the impact. So I imagined the shirt and sweater gone, tossed aside onto the chair between us. His pecs were exposed, as firm and rounded as his ass; I sculpted them a little more, idly, shifting a little of the new mass further up near the collarbone, squaring them slightly. As he reclined, still half dozing, the chill air in the room hardened his nipples, an exciting touch of realism. Matt drew up a long-fingered hand and scratched at his stomach, and I thought, oo, yeah, I can do something there, but suddenly I was jolted back to reality.

"Mister Archer! What do you think you're doing!" Mr. Walton bellowed.

I started violently, blinking to adjust to reality and turning eyes front in time to see the entire class swivel around to see what the teacher was yelling at Matt about. Everyone reacted in amazement—some gasped, some giggled. Heads drew together and people started whispering, all without taking their eyes off the seat two over from me.

In a daze I turned quickly to my left. Matt had been startled awake and was sitting bolt upright. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't get much sleep last night," he said, fumbling for his pen and notebook, not noticing that he was totally shirtless—and wearing the new and improved body I'd been idly crafting for him, a body I'd thought was only in my powerful imagination.

"So you undressed and got ready for bed in my classroom?" came Mr. Walton's voice (for like the rest of the class, but for a different reason, my eyes were riveted on Matt). "Put your shirt on—and report to the vice principal!"

I watched as Matt helplessly realized he was shirtless. He looked around wildly for his clothes—they were where I'd imagined them, on the seat between us, and without thinking I picked them up and handed them to him, and without thinking he took them, half rising, still the object of every amazed eye because of his chutzpah and impudence in doffing his shirt right in the middle of lecture.

I felt sorry and guilty—he was going to be punished for what I did. As he struggled with his shirt (what a shame to cover that up, I couldn't help thinking) I turned to Mr. Walton. "It wasn't his fault," I blurted. Some (but by no means all) eyes turned to me, including those of the skeptical septuagenarian up front. I tried to think clearly. "He didn't do it on purpose," I said.

"What?" Mr. Walton said, perplexed. Some of the kids on class tittered at my bizarre attempt to defend this jock, which since we weren't friends could only be occasioned by our being secret boyfriends. Or at least, that would be the rumor.

"He did it in his sleep, I saw him," I said finally, inwardly castigating myself for not coming up with something better (but how many explanations could there be? That I had done it all in my mind?). "It's like sleepwalking. I've see it before," I added lamely.

Mr. Walton stared at me, then turned his attention to Matt. "Keep your seat," he said, for Matt had stood up in preparation to go to the vice principal. His shirt hung open unbuttoned, and I realized it was because it didn't fit anymore—I'd bulked up his chest and lats just enough that his shirt wouldn't button! He had a flummoxed look on his face, too. Shit! Me and my selfish fantasies. "But you will stay awake in my class," Mr. Walton went on, "or you'll find yourself sleeping through detention!" The class seemed to think this was very funny, and as Mr. Walton turned back to the blackboard, most (but not all) of the eyes drifted back to the front. Matt hurriedly sat down, pulling the light cream sweater on over the unbuttoned shirt. The sweater looked tight across the chest and shoulders and upper arms, but it would pass.

Through the rest of the class I tortured myself. I kept telling myself I had to put him back to normal, but I was afraid to now that he was awake and aware that something had happened to him. There was no denying that somehow my fantasies had become so real and powerful that I was imposing them on reality—at least that scared me less than the alternative, which was that I was stuck in a fantasy world, unaware of reality.

I was pretty sure that hadn't happened, that I was in reality but my mind was overpowering it somehow. For one thing I was very aware of my cock, which was still huge and hard. In fact it had swollen during my fantasy, as was usual, but unlike before it had not faded back to normal size and was still throbbing enormously against my abs under my shirt. I realized with a sudden access of practicality that I had to concentrate on getting it back to a reasonable size. I just managed to get it back to the size it had been this morning before the bell rang.

As I stood up to gather my books, classmates filing out around me to go to lunch, I felt Matt standing next to me. I looked up. He was troubled, but he said, "Thanks."

"No problem." I wanted to turn to go, but I couldn't. I tried not to look at his body, but it was difficult. Instead I looked into his eyes, which were gorgeous ice blue. I felt my cock stir.

"So what really happened?" he said in a low voice.

"What do you mean?" I said, startled. Did he know? Did he sense where it was coming from?

Matt glanced around. The room was nearly empty. Nonetheless he leaned closer. "Did I really take my shirt off in my sleep?"

"Sure." I gulped. I didn't like lying, but there was no question of trying to explain what really happened. I was mortified enough. Plus his proximity was turning me on. I could feel the warmth of his body, sense its soft smell, I was are of its firmness and perfect proportions.

"'Cause I've never done that before. I don't think," he added doubtfully.

"Listen, don't worry about it," clapping him on the shoulder in what I hoped was a buddy-like way.

He lowered his voice still more. "Did you see anything ... happen to me?"

Unwillingly I glanced at his torso, and he saw the direction of my gaze nodded. "You—you noticed, right?" he said softly, awkwardly.

I nodded. He said nothing. He had no idea what to think of that.

I took a deep breath. "Um, yeah. I've read about this, actually," I said, my mind racing. He was watching my face, expectant, waiting to hear what I said before he decided whether to freak out. Fuck. "Certain people...It's like a growth spurt," I said finally. At the word spurt my monster cock was completely awake, hard and throbbing against my hip. I fumbled to make this blather sound legit. "Certain—rare—people get a kind of muscle growth spurt under the right conditions, like the—height—growth spurt. Um, it's called myo—myo—myomorph—ism."

Matt considered this. "And it happens that quickly?"

"Um, sure," I said, my stomach sinking. "In rare cases. Certain body types, certain exercise routines—genetic factors..." I wound down and just looked at him, hoping he would buy this ridiculous story.

All he said was, "Huh. Well, anyway, thanks for sticking up for me." That phrase must have made him think of his cock, because he stuck his left hand in his pocket where I knew his enlarged cock was. He frowned slightly, as if not recognizing what he found there, but his eyebrows rose and his hand shifted in his pocket as he checked out his new meat.

"That's a kind of muscle too," I whispered, and I couldn't refrain from grinning. He grinned too, and looked down at my crotch. His eyes actually bugged out—I'd never seen that in real life before.

"My god, dude, you're huge!" he whispered. I winced—I realized the outline of my hugely hard monster cock must be unmistakable in my jeans.

I tried to be nonchalant. "Yeah, I already had my growth spurt."

"No kidding! Can I see it?"

I blinked once. "Um, sure," I said automatically.

Matt looked around. "C'mon," he said. There was a little store closet at the back of the room and he led me into it, turning on the light and closing the door. There was just enough room for the two of us in the dingy closet among he shelves of books and cleaning supplies.

His eyes were fixed on my crotch. "Go ahead," he said, grinning, his left hand still in his pocket. All of the normal high school rules and inhibitions seemed to have dropped away from him. He was eager, hungry, to see what was in my jeans.

Self-consciously I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them down. Immediately my monster cock popped out of my boxers even before I pulled them down.

His mouth dropped open in amazement. I was pretty amazed myself—I hadn't seen it hard since this morning's session, when I was in the middle of a recurring fantasy and hadn't really been paying attention. I was paying attention now, though. It was a giant, firm slab of meat, long and thick and wide, musty from being in my shorts, just a patch of solid black hair at the base, the cut head looking small compared to the long broad shaft. It was beautiful, colossal, throbbing with blood and power.

Matt's open mouth was making me yearn for him to wrap it around that cock, which I knew was profoundly sensitive, and even as I thought this he fell to his knees and took my pony cock into his warm, moist mouth, massaging the tip with his strong tongue. A shudder ran through me that was part wondering whether I had imagined him taking my cock in his mouth, thereby making it happen—but mostly it was a wave of ineffable pleasure, and very soon my little worries vanished under the tide.

He pushed down on my cock, taking inch after inch of it in his hot mouth, and this gave me incredible pleasure. Not only was my cock super-sensitive, but I knew this was real. My most amazing fantasy up to this point had been just masturbation, but this was real. This was real, plus. He manipulated my cock in his mouth like an expert, even as he freed his own boner from the fly of his jeans.

I had to concentrate on making sure my cock didn't grow—it was big enough to handle now—so I thought about his body. Without even realizing it I must have imagined his shirt and sweater off again—his glistening torso was bare. So were his feet, and as he drove me close to the edge I found myself admiring his large, beautiful feet, tanned from a lifelong preference for going barefoot, with longish muscular toes... My eyes drifted up his bod, past the cock he was stroking, up his taut abs and delicious chest, to the angelic face giving head to my monster cock—I felt a sudden surge and couldn't hold back even as I tried to warn him I came POW! into his throat and again POW! and I couldn't keep myself from thinking about that seed and imagining it would stay inside Matt and allow him to make his own dreams come true if he wanted, but even as that thought left my mind he came and I felt his body shudder and suddenly I came again, shooting another pint of cum into his warm throat. He sucked it up eagerly and kept the still-hard cock in his mouth, looking up at me as he came again, shooting high onto some old sociology texts.

We stayed like that, sated and happy, for several minutes, then suddenly we were jarred by the bell ringing—lunch was over, we had to get to class. He grinned around my cock and slowly pulled off of it; it emerged from his mouth with a pop. He stood up and kissed me passionately. I could still taste my own powerful cum.

I suddenly realized that my head was tilted up slightly. He was just a little taller. I glanced down his bod and noted that I had firmed up his pecs a little more, bulked up his shoulders and lats and cock without even realizing it. Damn, all I could think was that it was fucking hot. I wanted to be upset with myself but at the moment I didn't care. I had just had my first blow job, literally from the man of my dreams, and it had surpassed every fantasy.

He was certainly happy, though slightly perplexed. "When did I take off my socks and shoes?" he muttered, but mainly to himself. He pulled on the socks, then started with the shoes, but neither would go on. Shit! I hadn't realized... those feet...

He glanced up at me. "More growth spurt, huh?" he said. I shrugged, but he grinned. "Fuck," he said, standing up in his stocking feet, his beautiful torso glistening in the dim light. "I can't wait to see what happens next."

Continued in Morning Body 2