The world didn’t know they were witches, with the exception of their husbands and the people they assisted. Rob Spencer had been blessed with a perfect body, gorgeous face, riches, a wife and two children by Madge, but he still barely knew of her existence. That was the way Madge liked it, just watching people carve out new lives for themselves after they had previously hit dead ends. Anthony King, however, had gone from small town sadsack to hunky Hollywood playboy, and he knew it was all thanks to Marilyn. Every now and then he’d fly her to New York City or Paris or Milan, give her a session with one of his stylists and take her to one of the fashion shows he’d model for. The press would always assume the respectable-looking woman sitting in the front row at the Hugo Boss show was Anthony’s mother, even though his real mother had long since passed on. It gave Marilyn a special sense of pride, watching his success, but more importantly provided her with lots of stories with which she could regale her envious sisters.

Marge Price loved her sisters but had always been different; when they had both moved away, she stayed in her hometown of Rusch, Californa. She had many friends but was more introverted than Marilyn and Madge, just as happy tending her garden as she was when she was out to dinner. She, too, had changed many people in her time, but instead of giving them the looks of an international runway model, she’d simply help them were they needed it most. She justified her assistance by reasoning that usually helping out meant altering their unfortunate looks to make them incredibly gorgeous. Boys became men, girls became women, and vice versa, as long as they didn’t seem to mind. If they did, she’d change them back, simple as that. Marge knew she had a power that most people would kill for, so she kept all the transformations as secret as possible, sometimes even from her own sisters.

Marge’s husband, Dr. Price, had recently passed away at the age of eighty. He had known about her powers and had requested that he live his life normally and without any magical boosts. Marge had agreed, and on his deathbed, he thanked her for it. She still grieved but threw herself into activities so she wouldn’t be lonely. She volunteered at a local community theater, donated to bake sales, chaired various committees and worked part-time at a receptionist at her late husband’s practice, which had been taken over by his partner and friend, Dr. Rice.

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Rusch, California was a small town, with five thousand residents. It had five elementary schools, two junior highs, one high school, a quaint downtown with local shops and nary a Wal-Mart to its name. Rusch residents prided themselves on their town’s Americana vibe.

When Adam Rogers arrived in Rusch, he was disappointed. He had bounced from foster home to foster home, cared for but unhappy in all of them. The latest family had decided to move to Rusch from their previous Colorado residence, and he was now a registered foster child in the state of California.

Adam hadn’t been blessed with a good body; he had bright, frizzy red hair that exploded from his head in a crown of curls and a pale, freckled face. He stood five feet tall, but his most distinguishing characteristic was the near-two hundred pounds of flesh packed onto his frame. The trauma of foster care had caused him to eat and eat and eat, and his dependence on food had lead to obesity. He didn’t have bad social skills, and usually made friends, but his weight was always a hot topic at whatever school he attended.

Adam had the misfortune of moving to Rusch in June, right when school had been let out. His neighborhood was an older one, with few children and none his age. Since he had no school to attend until September, he had few ways to make friends and thus had a solitary summer to look forward to. All the members of his foster family were naturally thin and attractive and fit right in with the sunny California locale. Adam, with his double chin, distracting freckles and waddling step, did not.

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Adam’s foster mother, a slim, benign woman named Tiffany, was tired of Adam’s obesity and had begun to fear for his health. No matter how hard she tried to limit him, he always managed to eat more and more, a problem she hadn’t had with her biological children. It was enough that she decided to meet with a doctor to further discuss the problem.

She opened the phonebook, and did a double take. She was going to have to get used to this whole small town thing – the town had just two doctors. She dialed the first number. A soft voice answered, “Dr. Rice’s office, this is Marjorie.”

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Adam didn’t want to go the doctor. He hated doctors. They had boring waiting rooms with boring 1994 issues of Newsweek and boring music playing, capped off by being told he was overweight, as if he didn’t know that already.

He was sick of being caught in a body that didn’t reflect his ebullient personality. He wanted to go home, to live with his biological family, to be thin and attractive and have lots of friends. More so, he wanted to grow up and stop living in poverty, to be in control of his life and not be told what to do.

Tiffany held Adam’s hand as they walked in the office door, trying her best to be supportive. As the thoughts tumbled around in Adam’s head, a tear rolled down his cheek, then another. He bit his quivering lip and sucked in air, trying to calm down, but he couldn’t. He just silently sobbed.

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Marge sat behind the reception desk and checked off names of patients one by one. She reached Adam Rogers’ name and looked up to see the trembling boy, with big crocodile tears rolling down his chubby cheeks. The woman with him – obviously not his mother – was doing her best to comfort him, but he was inconsolable.

Marge smiled sweetly. “There, there, dear,” she purred, patting his hand. “Dr. Rice will be very gentle. He’s a good man.”

Adam sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. This woman seemed to have an almost ethereal presence to her. She comforted him, made him feel safe.

“Now why don’t you just take a seat, and relax. Don’t think about bad things.”

He went and sat down, picking up a magazine on the way. Tiffany stood at the desk. “Thanks for calming Adam down. How long is the wait?”

Marge glanced at her spreadsheet. “About forty-five minutes,” she lied.

Tiffany explained to Marge, then to Adam, that she had some shopping to do and would be back before Adam was called in. And then she left.

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Marge could feel Adam’s pain. She could sense his attempts to appear normal to the world, and could see the whimpering child inside. He was afraid of life, scared of moving again, of being bounced to another family and having to make other friends. He was scared to eat, now, after being told countless times he was obese. He knew he was, but he felt helpless.

Adam shifted his weight back and forth in his chair and read his magazine. The waiting room was very silent; only three other patients waited. He unleashed all his nervous habits while he waited: running his fingers through his thick red curls, tapping the table, bouncing his leg, licking his lips. Marge studied him. She marveled at how much weight could be packed on to such a little body, and such an unattractive one at that. Even if he was thin he probably would never have been considered cute, the poor thing. Marge cocked her head and looked at what he was doing. He seemed insecure, on edge. He was reading Field and Stream, so obviously he had some interest in “guy things.” His interest in sports was further confirmed by the old football jersey he wore. Still, she got conflicting signals – the khaki cargos seemed more grown up, as if he desired to be an adult.

Marge had developed a near-science of reading people by their clothes, their habits, their surroundings. What they chose to wear and look at was an obvious reflection of their personality. Then she saw her tip-off. He crossed his leg by placing his left ankle on top of his right knee, and rubbed his chin with his hand, as if rubbing stubble.

Marge grabbed a pen and a piece of notebook paper, writing the numbers 10-36 on the lines of paper in her unique cursive handwriting.

10: join baseball team. 11: first girlfriend. 12: grow five inches, first voice crack…

It took no small amount of effort.

17: starting pitcher for high school, first time with girlfriend. 18: graduate from high school, join Marines…

Marge had to concentrate and be sure that Adam wouldn’t get called back before she was finished. She pulled up the spreadsheet on the computer, erased Adam’s name and printed it out. Then she tore up the old one and threw it away.

25: finish time with Marines…

Marge was beginning to get nervous, and she never got nervous. She laughed at herself. Calm down, old girl…no one’s going to see you.

27: get married. 28: stock market success, buy 30% of a small food company…

She kept the instructions vague so that Adam’s subconscious could actually determine who he married and what food he invested in. She was writing faster, in a hurry to finish in case Tiffany arrived.

30: first child, a boy. 31: food company hits it big, financial success follows…

Her idea, a sort of “life plan” for Adam, made her laugh at herself. It was if she’d stuck Adam inside The Game of Life, and he was landing on all the good spaces.

34: twin girls born. 35: build California dream house with wife, join the company baseball team. 36: get part time fitness model work.

She giggled to herself at the last one. How very “Marilyn” of her to throw the model ball into the court, she thought. She’d put him in the Marines so he could get a good body, and now she’d made him a fitness model.

Marge reviewed Adam’s life, written on paper. Three kids (so far), financial success beyond his wildest dreams, a great body. She placed her hands on top of the paper and whispered in a low voice.

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Adam flipped through Field and Stream and continued to shift his weight impatiently. His hand slowly, methodically wandered down to his crotch, and he subconsciously began to rub it.

If anybody in the waiting room, besides Marge, had been watching Adam, they would’ve seen the immediate changes in his body begin right then. His posture got better until he sat ramrod straight, and he stretched his legs out in front of him. The other patients, however, were practically oblivious to his presence, and he, too, wasn’t noticing what was happening to him.

It was to Marge’s credit that Adam wasn’t even noticing the transformation. While Rob and Anthony had been reduced to rolling on the floor, screaming in pain, Adam just sat there.

The writing on the sheet of paper began to disappear, one by one.

Join the baseball team…

His legs and arms began to stretch, becoming longer. The fingers developed a stronger grip on the pages of the magazine as they thickened, his arm strength increasing to that of a pitcher’s.

Grow five inches…

The 200 pounds on his body never actually disappeared, they just redistributed themselves. The fat began to melt away and be replaced by muscle, delicious muscle. The jowls and double chin under his neck receded, revealing the square, military jaw underneath.

Adam smiled to himself and continued to rub his nether regions, still blissfully ignorant of the fact that he was no longer the fat ten-year-old he had once been. He didn’t even notice that the area he was rubbing with his newly strong hands was growing, too, pumping testosterone throughout his body. He had latent chubbiness all over until he hit age eighteen.

Join Marines...

The fat seemed to melt off his body all at once, and appetizing muscle exploded into view. His forearms plumped up and biceps ballooned, delectable pecs sprouting on his chest right above a ripped eight-pack. His frame had since grown into a massive six-four beast, and the 200 pounds of fat was now all muscle, ripped and hard as a rock.

Get married…

Adam’s childish features had hardened, his red curly hair had long since been replaced by a brown military cut, accentuating the chiseled features. His jaw was square and powerful, set off by brown stubble and heavy brows that showcased the grey eyes. He turned the a Field and Stream page, not noticing the solid-gold band that was now on his finger.

First child…

The stubble grew into a full beard, allowed to grow after many late nights. His hair grew out, too, into a wavy, longer cut, parted down the side but neatly trimmed and very sharp-looking.

Financial success…

The beard vanished, replaced by clean-shaven cheeks and that jaw that Marge hoped his son would also have. The years ticked by, and Adam seemed to grow more handsome and powerful with each one. Women lament that men let themselves go to port as they age, their bodies breaking down and gaining weight, their hair thinning along with their sexual drive.

Part-time fitness model…

Adam’s body seemed to improve until it couldn’t be any more perfect, his tanned muscles rippling and thick, brown hair combed neatly. His jersey began to change, the fabric changing to cotton, the V-neck pulling in, until he wore a casual polo that was stretched tight against his glorious thirty-six-year-old physique. His pecs pushed out on the front, straining the buttons, and the seams on the shoulders struggled to stay together. His V-shaped back and chiseled torso were enviable, and his big guns strained at the sleeves. The cargo pockets on his pants also vanished, replaced by a businessman’s khaki pants that showcased his still-pert butt and long legs.

Marge was certainly satisfied. The piece of paper was now empty again, with the numbers seeming to have left the paper to attach themselves to Adam. She wadded it up even though she could reuse it, then she threw it in the trash. Covering her tracks, she re-entered Adam’s name back into the computer where it had been before. Lastly, she let him go. He wouldn’t be unaware of his change anymore, even though others in the waiting room.

It always pained Marge to erase the memories of anybody, but it had to be done. She made a mental connection with Tiffany and warped thoughts of Adam from that of her own foster child to a family friend, father of her children’s playmates.

Marge exhaled, nibbled on an apple and stared at Adam, still deep in his magazine. She could get used to this whole helping thing.

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Adam began to unconsciously twirl his wedding band and set the Field and Stream back on the table. Man, doctor’s offices were so boring.

“Adam Rogers!”

Finally, his name was called. He stood up and cracked his knuckles. Then he almost fell over. Obviously, his center of gravity had shifted greatly. He had trouble standing up on his long legs, and the floor was, all of a sudden, a long way away. For the first time since Marge had set to work on him, he looked down at his body and was suddenly speechless.

He ran his large hands over his developed chest and beautiful arms, tanned and ripped from years of working out and military drills.

Adam looked up at Dr. Rice, who had been standing there this whole time. He had a quick intake of breath and tried to force a laugh. “Heh, I, uh…have to use the bathroom…” The voice he heard speaking was not familiar to him.

He hurried into the bathroom and locked the door, then ran to the mirror. He continued to run his hands over his body, lifting up his polo and seeing the eight-pack that so few thirtysomething men possessed. He loved his chiseled jaw and square, military features, with his clean-shaven face and luscious lips.

He was beginning to get hot for himself, this new man standing in place of the fat little boy. He flexed his beautiful muscles and smiled a Colgate smile, looking like a Men’s Health cover model in his prime. He pulled off the polo and dropped to his knees, shoving his hands down his pants and starting a massive jack-off to his own reflection. The thing that turned Adam on most was that he had changed into his own dream man; a masculine stud with a hot wife and beautiful children, with riches beyond his wildest dreams, a dream house, and a body shaped by the Marines.

He tore off his pants and fondled his long, hard cock. He had an impressive manhood, but he was a big man anyway. Two-hundred pounds of muscle were packed onto his six-four frame, and his ten-inch dick capped off his magnificent physique.

Adam’s hands were firmly gripping his shaft, pumping up and down, causing him to moan in ecstacy. He began to cum, first slowly and then quick, exploding out of his dick onto the floor. He gyrated and flailed until he was finished, lying on the floor, panting.

“Mr. Rogers?” He heard Dr. Rice’s voice and a soft knocking on the door. “Everything all right in there?”

Adam jumped up and wiped up the cum with paper towels, then grabbed his pants. “Oh, oh…yeah, everything’s fine…” He buckled his belt and pulled the polo over his tight torso. “I’ll be out in a second!” Finally, he rinsed off his face and took one last look at himself in the mirror.

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Rain softly pattered down on the roof of the Rogers’ house, and lightning illuminated the sky. Adam looked at the clock. 3:46 AM, it read. His wife had fallen asleep on his strong chest after they had made love for hours, and he sat upright in bed, his head lying against the headboard, contemplating his life. He had a good one. A California self-made millionaire, whose only work was posing for pictures in a Speedo for five hours a week and earning thousands for it. Not bad at all.

Adam felt a rubbing on his nipple and looked down. His wife was still asleep but had begun circling her finger around his pec, and she had a smile on her face, which made him smile too. The rain lightly tapped the window and the California sky was beautiful, even at night.

“Daddy?”

The door opened and his son stood in it, with a tear running down the side of his face. “I don’t like lightning, Daddy.”

Adam motioned his son to come over, and Peyton did so. Adam rubbed the tear away from his son’s cheek – his hand was large enough to cover Peyton’s whole face – and smiled a comforting smile. “Do you want to sleep with Mommy and Daddy for the rest of the night?” Peyton nodded. Adam slid out of the sheets and his wife sleepily moved over to one side of the bed. Peyton crawled in and wiggled under the covers, and Adam held his tiny hand. “Be brave for Daddy, okay, sport?” The child nodded groggily and then slumped against the pillow, fast asleep.

Adam stretched his large frame and ran his fingers over his face. Time for a shave, he thought. He’d do it tomorrow. For now, it was time to sleep. He crawled onto the sofa in their room and took one last look at Peyton, who had since slung his mother’s arm over himself. Adam yawned and shut his eyes, then fell asleep, too. •