High School Development


By Aardvark2

The weight stack slammed down and Owen breathed deeply, then took a swig of water. He rubbed his big arms, added five more pounds to the weight stack and prepped for another set.

His workout was interrupted by his cell phone. “Aw, fuck!” He wasn’t going to answer until he saw the Caller ID – “Mom Cell.” Probably shouldn’t skip this one. He flipped it open and wiped his brow with a towel.

“Yeah?” “Owen, honey, I need you to do me a big favor.” Oh great. She probably needed her tires rotated or something. “Yeah, what is it? I’m, uh, kinda busy.” “I need you to babysit Scotty Mitchell tonight.” His heart dropped. He and Brit had big plans for tonight. “Aw, fu—uh, crap, Mom, I’m kinda busy.” “This isn’t optional, Owen. Mrs. Mitchell and I are going to a movie, and her husband’s out of town.” “Mom, I’m eighteen! Get some twelve-year-old girl to do it!” “No. I never ask you do anything for me, and you will do this. Do you understand?” He looked around the gym. Some of the guys were starting to look at him funny. “Uh, sure. I’ll be home soon.” He flipped the phone shut. “Stupid bitch!”


Brittany had freaked out about the cancellation, but after being reassured that he wasn’t cheating on her – at least that night – she forgave him and they rescheduled. Mom had better appreciate this, he thought.

Mrs. Mitchell had babysat Owen when he had been younger, and then got married and had given birth to a child who was best described, as Owen said, “a combination of Calvin and Hobbes and The Omen.” He had only been five years older than Scotty, but, after the change, there was an almost ten year difference. Mrs. Mitchell had been fun enough when Owen was four years old, but since she still treated him that way, he hated her guts, and her son wasn’t much better. Crazy fuckin’ brat.

Owen didn’t bother to make himself look sexy, even though his amazing body was hard to ignore. He pulled on a ratty t-shirt, ripped jeans and a trucker hat and still managed to look hot, not that he minded. Looking at himself in the mirror still made him smile. His pecs pushed against the shirt’s old fabric and the veins in his arms were still jacked from his workout.

Stepping into his room, a craving hit him. He couldn’t go a whole night without a fix, so he pulled out some of the crack from his football bag. Some guy named Pat, on his team, had sold it to him, and it was good shit. Owen quickly snorted a line, shut the bag, grabbed his keys and phone, and jogged to his Escalade. He’d be damned before he drove to the Mitchell’s with his Mom.


The past four days and nights had been hell for Jamie. He desperately tried to avoid any form of masturbation or self-pleasure for fear of triggering more growth – the two seemed to be connected – and was progressively being treated more and more like an adult by everyone, even his own family.

The football workouts he was being dragged to by Wes, the constant fawning by the cheerleaders, and the gifts from his parents were beginning to work their magic. The jock life was becoming more and more appealing.

“C’mon, Big J, let’s go!” Jamie could hear Wes bellowing from the bottom of the stairs. He hurried himself along and ran out the door, into his brother’s car.

The car roared through the city streets, pushing 60 inside city limits under Wes’ control. Jamie shut his eyes and ran his fingers over his stomach. It was harder than it had been the previous night, and that made him shudder. “Hey, Wes?” “Huh?” “Do you ever get tired of the drinking and the sex and the football? What about your grades? Is it all worth it?” Wes furrowed his eyebrows, his brown eyes clouding. It was an unusually hard hitting question for his brother to ask him. “Aw, fuck. Nah, I guess I don’t get tired of it. It’s fun, I’m not gonna lie to you.” “What about your grades, though?” Jamie asked again. “My teachers let me turn in work late if I don’t get it done, and I get the nerds to do a lot of it for me. It’s pretty fuckin’ awesome, dude. All I gotta do is promise I’ll put in a good word to one of cheerleaders about ‘em, and they’ll do my History shit for me.” Jamie grinned. “Sounds tight.” “Fuck, yeah.” They pulled into the school and got out of the car, and were immediately accosted by cheerleaders in their respective grades. It didn’t take much getting used to.


The day went better than previous days had. Jamie felt more confident and in charge. He even kind of looked forward to practice that day; maybe Wes wouldn’t have to drag him, kicking and screaming, onto the field.

He ate lunch and went to the bathroom, stepping into the stall and pulling down his jeans. He was so horny, the self-celibacy was taking its toll. He pulled down his briefs and fingered his short little dick, giggling to himself. It felt really good. “Mmmm…”

He dropped to his knees, his chuckles transitioning to moans. He slammed his left palm against the stall wall and went to work with his right, pumping up and down and panting all the way. His shirt felt tighter, and he began to experience a strange sensation, as if his bones were outgrowing his skin. “Unnnnnnngh…” He knew his cock was enlarging along with his hands, but their growth was at the same rate and didn’t interfere with his heavenly euphoria.

He pounded the floor violently and let out a soft roar. “MMMM!”

Then he let go. The cum released and he lay, gasping for breath, on the floor. He tugged on his polo, now painfully small on his frame, and rubbed his hands against his face. He’d never felt so alive.

He stood up and tore off his shirt, his eyes fixing on his chest. His physique didn’t yet rival Owen’s, or Logan’s, or even his brother’s, but he was still hot as hell. Pecs and six-pack abs, and he was just fourteen. Probably the hottest, and most developed, freshman in the whole school. After a struggle, he yanked his shirt back on and pulled up his jeans, now too tight as well. He needed clothes and sleep.

The bathroom was connected to the football locker room, and he had a key to get in. He pulled out some clothes from another locker and put them on, then curled up on the floor and dozed off. He was gonna miss fourth period, but so what. Nobody gave a shit about humanities anyway. As he slept, his hands slowly wandered down to his crotch, and went to work…


Jamie woke up feeling refreshed, then looked at the clock. Not only had he missed fourth period, but fifth was almost over. “Shit!”

He stood up and stretched his long limbs. His body was caked in sweat. Why not take a shower before he went to sixth period? No sense in walking into fifth hour and getting a lecture.

Jamie undressed and stepped in the shower, the hot water washing away the dirt and grime on his body. His deep brown eyes popped against tan skin, just like his brother’s. He was above the level of the high showerhead, placing him at about six-two. His face was unshaven, and his hair was closely cropped, military-style. But it was his body that was the main attraction. While Wes looked like a GQ cover model, Jamie was more suited for Muscle and Fitness. His body was beefy, with broad shoulders and big veins criss-crossing down his developed arms. And his cock! He slapped it in between his hands and smiled. It deserved its own zip code.

He stepped out of the shower and pulled on the white tank and cargos sitting outside it. Then he panicked.

The clothes had tipped him off. He had no idea where the came from. He looked at the mirror and began to cry, big tears rolling down his adult face. He looked like he belonged at some Marine Academy, with a square face and stubbly cheeks. How had he given in so easily? He cursed his human weakness, pulled himself together – “football players don’t cry” – and rushed to sixth period without a moment to spare.


Owen sat on one side of the table, with Scotty on the other. The nine-year-old folded his arms across his chest and stuck out his lip, pretending to be annoyed at Owen’s presence.

“Okay, kid, I don’t want to be here and you don’t either. But…we have to make the best of it.” It pained him to not sprinkle a few f-words into his pep talk. He was bad with little kids. They just pissed him off. He laughed to himself – he could just see his mother using his bad child skills as motivation to never impregnate a girlfriend. Scotty just sat there, scowling, listening to Owen talk. Owen stopped talking and Scotty spoke up. “Are you done talking yet?” Owen rolled his eyes, taking off his baseball cap and running his fingers through his hair before massaging his temples. “Yeah, kid, I’m done.” This was gonna be a long night. Scotty grinned evilly. “Good. I’m hungry.” Owen wanted to say “So?”, but Scotty would tell his Mom he hadn’t eaten, and hell would break loose. Instead of being smart, he pretended to care. “What do you want, then?” “Peanut butter and jelly!” This was first spoken softly, and then raised to a deafening crescendo. “Okay, okay, I’ll make you one. Holy shit, you don’t have to yell.” Scotty cocked his head. “What’s ‘shit’ mean?” Owen groaned. It was gonna be a really long night. “Nothing. Don’t ever say it, you’ll look stupid.”

He got up and walked to the fridge, brushing by Scotty on the way. He pulled out the peanut butter and the jelly. “Scotty, where’s the bread?” “On top of the fridge. Duh.” Oh, of course that’s where it would be. Stupid kid. Owen set to work making the sandwich, cursing under his breath. “Hey, Owen. What’s in your nose?” Instinctively, Owen brushed his hand against his nostrils and felt the coke. He was in the shitter for sure. “Uhhh, nothin’. Nothin’. I just, uh, have a cold.” He brushed his nose furiously and checked against the side of the metallic toaster. Damn it, why hadn’t he checked to see he was clean before?

“Here’s your sandwich.” He set the plate in front of Scotty, who pushed it away. “I don’t want this! It has crust!” Stupid little shitter, Owen thought. He crouched down to Scotty’s eye level. “Eat the sandwich.” “Why should I? Huh?” “If you do, I’ll show you my tattoo.” Scotty’s eyes lit up. “You have a tattoo!” “Two, actually. If you eat the whole thing I’ll show you ‘em both.” He thought for a moment. “If you don’t eat it, no TV.” Scotty ravenously devoured the PB and J, to Owen’s surprise. It was just a fuckin’ tattoo. But, a deal was a deal. He lifted up his shirt and exposed his navel, with his first initial wrapped around the belly button. “Pretty cool, huh?” Scotty seemed unimpressed. “That’s it?” Owen pulled off his shirt and turned around, revealing the flaming football on the middle of his back. Scotty’s eyes widened. “Now that’s cool!” Owen put his shirt back on. “You gonna watch TV?” Scotty nodded. “Okay, go do that.”


Owen called Brittany to check in, even going so far as to put Scotty on the phone to prove where he was. Then he went into Mrs. Mitchell’s room and watched TV as well, checking on Scotty every now and then. Finally, nine o’clock rolled around and it was time to put Scotty to bed. He walked into the kid’s Spider-Man covered room and flipped on the fan, then headed to the dresser drawer. “What the hell?”

Instead of pajamas, he saw an array of muscle shirts, tank tops, and boxer briefs, all neatly folded. It was as if he’d opened his own wardrobe, not a nine-year-old’s. He pulled out one shirt, a tight tee with a rooster printed on it, the word “Cock” emblazoned across.

He quickly stuffed it back in the drawer and opened the next, which was full of various different kinds of pants. The next drawer was socks and more underwear, then it was more shirts, and the last drawer was clearly a “special” one – full of Speedos and thongs, with a pair of handcuffs and box of condoms to top it off. This was fucked up.

He heard a door slam on the floor below, and heavy footsteps, followed by another door. “Scotty?” He shut the bedroom’s door and slowly walked downstairs. The TV cast weird shadows on the wall, and a light shone through the crack under the bathroom door. It was like something out of a Wes Craven movie. “Scotty?” He called again, this time louder. “Somethin’ wrong?”

He could hear someone walking around the bathroom, so he knew the toilet wasn’t being used. “Let me in, Scotty.” He tried the door. Locked. “Scotty, let me in!”

Owen pounded on the door. “Damn it, Scotty!” He looked at his hands and body, rippling with power and agility. He could take down the door, if needed.

“One more chance, little man. Let me in.” No answer.

Owen backed up and cracked his knuckles, then charged. The lock easily gave way and the door blasted open. Owen eased up and breathed heavily. The bathroom was empty. “Scotty?”

He heard running and saw two feet disappear out the door. Shit! Scotty was fast but Owen, with his long, powerful, football-trained legs, was faster. A figure ran up the stairs, cloaked in shadow. It really was like a horror movie; they always go for the stairs. Owen saw his chance and grabbed a pair of ankles, and Scotty went down.

It was just like playing football. Owen pulled Scotty, who was kicking and flailing, towards him, wrapping powerful forearms around his waist and spinning him around. Owen’s eyes widened. “Scotty?”

Owen was holding onto a man of seventeen, possessor of a chiseled physique and beautiful face, with blue eyes that burned into your soul and silky brown hair. His hands were on top of Owen’s and were almost as large, connected to muscular arms that ran up into broad shoulders, delving into a set of magnificent pectorals that had torn through Scotty’s t-shirt.

There was a shock silence, where all you could hear was the heavy breathing of both men. Scotty had gone white with terror, and Owen finally weakened the death grip on his waist.

“You…you are Scotty, right?” The other jock nodded. “Shit, Scotty, what did you do?” Scotty looked like he was gonna throw up. “I…didn’t do anything…I was just…” His voice trailed off. It was a man’s voice, not the high-pitched boy’s falsetto of the earlier evening. “I was just watching TV, and I itched…right there…” He gestured to the clear bulge in his pants. “And it felt good so I just kept itching it.”

Owen didn’t move. Neither did Scotty. The two were sprawled on the carpeted stairs, their faces caked in sweat, eyes wide and mouths open. Owen grabbed Scotty’s hand and pulled him up, and they walked to his bedroom. “You need to change.”

The bedroom no longer had Spider-Man everywhere, but was a typical jock pad – trophies, clothes, a girl’s bra, a cell phone. Scotty was stoic. “Can I go to bed instead?”

Owen looked him up and down. Scotty was nearly as big as he was, and it was obvious he spent a lot of time in the gym. “Why are you asking me? You’re a big guy.”

Scotty didn’t respond. He stripped down until he was buck naked, not even caring that Owen was in the room. He crawled under the covers. “Go away, Owen, please.”

Owen nodded and shut the door, light moans reaching his ears as he went down the stairs. •

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