A New Story by Me

So it's been a while.  About ten years.  And all I have to show for it is this teensy bit of prose I whipped up tonight in a fit of boredom.  Ah well.  Hope you enjoy. 

"Show-and-Tell"
By Solomon

Andrew lay in his bed, visibly anxious with anticipation.  Soon Alison would emerge from the bathroom and their Tuesday night show-and-tell would begin.  Andrew loved Tuesday nights.  Ever since meeting Alison, his life had become a wheel, revolving around her and braking fast and hard every Tuesday night.  What young heterosexual man could ask for a better girlfriend?  She was cute (in a button-nosed, brunette bob, pixieish sort of way) and she was smart (a graduate from Duke, no less) and she adored him. 

They had met in high school…as teachers, acquaintances, colleagues.  Harmless flirting evolved into something more and Andrew brazenly made a move and now they were lovers. 

It wasn’t until their tenth date – Italian food, Blockbuster Video, then back to her place – that she revealed to him her secret.  It had been a Tuesday. 
Andrew reached for a glass of water on the night table and downed an ounce.  His hands were actually trembling.  This was how surfeit with excitement their Tuesday night show-and-tells were to him.  Of course, he wouldn’t be appreciating them nearly as much if Alison too didn’t enjoy them just as much.  Andrew wasn’t a selfish guy.  Alison deserved a gentleman, and that was what he tried to give her, every day.  Did it equal what she gave him, especially on Tuesday nights? 

Nothing could. 

Until meeting Alison during orientation, Andrew had never really believed in fate.  Like most Catholic school graduates, he had become an agnostic. What private fantasies he had fancied from puberty on were just that – fantasies – never intended to be realized.  Because of this, he rarely shared these fantasies with his girlfriends; what good was sharing an impossibility?  He never thought to tell Alison – he was too smitten, too afraid of risk – and then came that tenth date and the Italian food and the video store and back to her apartment and the revelation of her secret and Andrew believed once again – oh, he believed – in fate.  There was no other explanation. 

He checked the alarm clock.  Alison had been in the bathroom for fifteen minutes.  How long would it take her to change into her outfit?  More importantly, what outfit had she chosen for tonight’s show-and-tell?  He wore his typical bedroom attire: white t-shirt, paisley boxer shorts.  Alison swooned for paisley.  What a unique woman she was. 

“Ready?” she called. 

He clicked off his cell phone, sat up in the bed, and smiled.  “Ready.”

The bathroom door opened and in she walked, dressed like an undersized carpenter.  Red plaid button-down, sleeves lolling past her dainty hands, bottom untucked and draping down well to her thighs.  Thick blue jeans, billowing off her tiny legs.  Bare feet buried under rolls of denim cuff. 

“Ta-da,” she said with a flourish. 

He smirked.  “Come to build me a house?” 

She smirked.  “What do you think?”

Show-and-tell had begun. 

Alison closed her eyes and concentrated.  Andrew kept his eyes wide open, focused on her lovely form hidden somewhere underneath that oafish mannish garb.  Some Tuesday nights he had his DV camera ready, but since the camera was at school, on loan to the newspaper club, the only recording device tonight would be his eyes and his mind.  He took a deep breath, steadied his anxious nerves, and watched with unabated wonder the magic of his girlfriend and her secret. 

Her pale brow furrowed.  She puffed a few strands of dark hair away from her lips.  Then her blue eyes opened.  Her lips parted in a grin.  She stared at him.  He stared at her.  Her head and torso seemed to rise, as if an elevated platform were slowly lifting her up, but Andrew knew with a quick glance to the floor that her feet remained firm on the carpet, thin toes curled, the flesh and bone behind them very slowly – almost imperceptivity – thickening, lengthening.  Her feet, which until now had been hidden by the rolled cuffs of her jeans, those rolled cuffs now even with her ankles…now above her ankles…

The cuffs of her sleeves too retreated, displaying his girlfriend’s delicate hands and wrists.  Fingers stretched out like phalli.  Alison’s forearms – long forearms, the muscles of a tennis pro – now appeared into view and the sleeves reached her elbows.  At torso level, the untucked shirt had risen past her waist.  A flat, taut stomach peeked at Andrew, her belly button trembling with delight as abdominals formed around it a steely four-pack. 

Andrew glanced back at her face.  She winked at him. 

“Carpenters always wear such tough material,” she said between breaths.  “That’s why I chose this outfit.  I thought it presented a challenge.  Do you think I’m up to the challenge?” 

Andrew nodded.

By now the dimensions of her breasts had become apparent, even under the dense cotton of her shirt.  Soft curves pushed out the front and sides of her top.  The buttons down the center became overstressed, and a gap began to open between the two center buttons, as if the shirt had begun to yawn.  Through the gap Adam could see the tender inside swells of Alison’s beautiful, growing breasts.  He yearned to touch them, caress them.  Soon enough, he told himself, soon enough.

As the shirt buttons struggled to contain her chest, another button proved first to yield.  The fastener on her jeans popped open and the zipper underneath it groaned in agony as Alison’s hips widened and widened.  She had to be six feet tall now, his once-pixieish girlfriend, and showed no signs of stopping. 
“Here goes!” she exclaimed, and flexed her arms.  Biceps that would have impressed a powerlifter sprang up like hills underneath those tight, aching sleeves.  Her  shoulders spread, and the underarm seams of her plaid shirt burst open, revealing sinewy lats.  Seconds later, the sleeves surrendered the fight, as bicep peaks emerged from of the plaid fabric like whale humps cresting the sea.  Her flexing motion put tremendous strain on those already-taxed front buttons and the middle two zinged away.  The inside halves of her breasts – and a peek of her dark, sensuous nipples – quivered into sight. 

Her jeans were not fairing much better; the bottom cuffs barely passed her knees and her thighs, plump with iron-hard muscle, were pushing the denim stitching to its limits. 

“My jeans are so tight!” she gasped.  “I don’t know if I can beat them!”
Andrew had faith.  He watched the inseams bulge out of proportion.  Below, bare to the world, horseshoe-shaped calves glistened with power.  Her feet had to be twice their normal size now – all the better to balance her increased height and weight.  The remains of the plaid shirt drifted to the carpet but still the jeans persisted. 

“I…” she whispered.  “I…”

Taking a deep breath – which made her now-substantial chest appear even more massive – Alison suddenly bent to a crouch.  Her ingenuity saved the day.  Her crouching pushed the denim beyond the pale, and the pants’ side-seams exploded all at once, layering her monstrous thighs with lines of lines of white stitching.  Then the ruined jeans tumbled to the carpet, atop the defeated shirt, and Alison stood naked before the bed, an inch shy of seven feet tall and perhaps ten pounds short of four hundred in weight, each pound obese with hot muscle.  Her cute, button-nose face and adorable brunette bob had not changed at all.  She was still his Alison only more.  Much more.  She slowly climbed into bed with him; the wooden frame creaked under her heft and she giggled.  Even as her head reached the top of the bed and her blue eyes gazed down in his, her long feet and ankles still danged off the end.  No matter.  She wouldn’t need her feet for the next half hour. 

“Who's your sexy naked seven foot tall amazon carpenter?” she whispered in his ear.

“You are,” he replied, and kissed her full lips.  “You are.”