Big Dragon

Morgan always dreamed of a big, strong, magnificently muscled stallion being her lover. Hard to the touch all over, brawny, able to protect her so she'd feel safe in his powerful arms. She longed to strum his cut abs like a banjo, abs that were armor-hard plates that could shrug off a sledgehammer to the gut without a wince.

Her boyfriend, Roger, was nothing like that at all. In fact, he was really into the Sony Playstation...the mortal archenemy of all girlfriends everywhere. Morgan fantasized about picking up a Louisville Slugger and bashing that damn thing like the caveman with a bone in 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY.

After dating since freshman year, their average date night conversation went like this:

"Hey baby, what do you wanna to do?"

"I dunno, baby, what do you wanna do?"

They would go back and forth like this for a while before finally going bowling like every other week, and then, that night, they would go to Roger's place for dry, old person sex Morgan had to endure, making sure not to make enough noise so that Roger's Dad wouldn't wake up. There were even some times where Roger nearly got her to orgasm! Morgan could fake it like a pro: she whispered in his ear that she craved his mighty pork sword.

Morgan loved Roger, however. They'd been dating so long she couldn't imagine what life would be like without him. Also, he wasn't a bad guy. He was very nice to Morgan's black cat, Pagan, and didn't bat an eye when she explained she spent her Tuesdays trying to contact the spirits of dead celebrities.

But man, Roger let himself GO. He was barely 5'6", yet he had a puffy, Michelin Man body and cone-shaped man-titties. He had a scruffy neckbeard and wore t-shirts with Japanese cartoons on them. During sex he had to shift his belly up out of the way to let his woefully undersized chee-toh dust covered pecker prick up. It was thin and thumb-short, unsatisfying, with orgasms made by his marble sized balls that were an almost negligible piddle that could fit in a thimble. It was as if his sexless body shaped without testosterone. Under his pasty blubber was bone alone.

Their sex could best be described as two hardboiled eggs dipped in salad oil imitating whale calls.

It was on a Thursday night that Morgan discovered how unsatisfied she was with the relationship. The pair of them went to a keg party they were invited to by an older friend in college.

Morgan wiggled up to the iron keg to pour a paper cup of brew, when she looked up and noticed the shadows of three or four men had fallen over her, all wearing identical red fraternity t-shirts. The smallest guy was two heads taller than Morgan was. They were blonde and had arrogant sneers, their eyes glazed over drunk. Morgan guessed one of their names was probably "Chad."

"Hey baby, check it, is it true what they say about you freak girls...that you're all easy?" The frat guy said, leaning way, way too close to Morgan to the point where she could make out the beer stink on his breath.

Morgan was in a bad place to be for a girl like her. She was a petite five-foot-three, slender as a mink, with a button nose. She wore white makeup that made her intentionally pale, and she wore bright purple lipstick on her thick, bulbous lips. She had piercings in the eye and ear, and her raven black hair was done in thin dreds, some black and others "Bride of Frankenstein" electric white. Her eyes were a shocking grayish blue, and on her graceful and pale arms were tattoos, as was on her thigh and the small of her back. She wore a black collar on her neck, and her slim legs were covered in jet black fishnets.

Morgan was cornered by the four against the keg. In between the frat guys' bodies she could see her boyfriend watching with a face like a skittish ferret. Morgan looked at her lover for support and aid, as men were supposed to provide to women in danger...but Roger only looked back, paralyzed like a doe in truck headlights.

Morgan gritted her teeth. If she was going to get out of this, she was going to have to do it herself. "Move aside, asswipes."

One Frat guy laughed a sloppy drunk laugh. "Jesus, chick, you got spiderwebs all over your cooter or --"

The frat guy didn't get to finish his sentence because Morgan pounced her five-foot-three body on his like a bobcat, her tiny fists pounding his skin like hammers. Another frat guy peeled Morgan from atop his body, with Morgan kicking and flailing like a mad dog. The scared target crawled away, his shirt torn in places as if by teeth.

"Help! Jesus, that chick is CRAZY! S-stay away from me!" The six-foot-one fraternity guy said, his eyes filled with primal terror as he kicked away from Morgan as quickly as if a lit grenade had been placed between them. "She's like a wolverine or some shit!"

The other fraternity guys were too startled to move. Morgan brushed past Roger angrily. "Roger, I wanna go home now." She said glacially, taking a ripped piece of red t-shirt from out from her mouth.

Roger followed closely behind Morgan, his head held in shame. Morgan had a distinct feeling there was no way Roger was going to touch her naked tonight.

Even the next day, Morgan fumed angrily while she was at her part-time job, cleaning out samples for scientists at a geology lab in a large metal sink with rubber gloves. No water was used; she scrubbed with fine brushes and solutions to prevent damage to the rocks. After cleaning them, she marked their position on a clipboard. Behind her was an enormous geode split in half, sparkling purple, along with a sabertoothed tiger skull.

Morgan wasn't angry at her boyfriend. She was frustrated with his lack of assertiveness, with his manliness itself. She wasn't dating the kind of man her loins secretly longed for, and she was taking it out on those poor African rocks.

According to the signs, they were earmarked for potassium-argon dating, and were flakes of basalt and quartz from the Great Rift Valley. They were estimated at 2.5 million years old.

Morgan lusted in her wettest dreams for a hardbodied, hot muscle god. Morgan dreamed of a strong man that would protect her, a confident guy that she could be proud of and show off, make her catty girlfriends green-eyed and jealous. She always pictured her dream guy as being somewhere that's a cross between a young Harrison Ford, with the "latin lover" animal magnetism of Fabio, with the studly, beefcake heat of Paul Telfer with the raw mass of a young Lou Ferrigno.

Morgan sighed, and did not notice that the cleaning solution made the rock slippery. One stone slipped from her hand and crash on the ground, broken in half on the lab floor.

"The department's going to have my ass for this." Morgan said. But she forgot her panic because something else caught her eye.

It was a gleam of silver that had fallen out of the 2.6 million year old broken stone. It was a ring made of platinum. In the center was a stone like glass that shimmered like a diamond.

"Holy frijoles." Morgan said.

Morgan pushed aside one of the pewter Celtic jewelry she wore on her fingers, and donned the ring to see how it looks.

In that instant, Morgan felt something like an electrical jolt and her entire body snapped. The ring was talking to her, streams of pure information thousands of times faster than thought.

In an instant, Morgan knew what it was. The ring was just platinum, but the gem inside was an extraterrestrial supercomputer using lasers reflected inside of the gemstone. The ring used advanced mathematical calculations to alter reality. It could change history retroactively and only the person with the ring would know.

In fact, the ring had changed history once before. The ring's extraterrestrial owners had used rings like this one to evolve Homo habilis, the earliest ancestors of the human race, from Proto-Humans in Africa's Great Rift Valley.

"Wow." The freak girl's gray eyes glinted evily. She knew exactly what she was going to do with this ring. She was going to give herself diamonds and furs and a European castle and a flatscreen TV and her very own pet cheetah, and a bigger, thicker ass, and...

BZZZZZZZZT!

The ring vibrated on her finger with a noise like a game show buzzer. Morgan wanted to cry. Nothing had changed. The ring seemed to thought-wave beam to her that the ring computer could affect all of reality...EXCEPT the ring wielder themselves or anything they own. This made sense as a limitation, to make sure that every use of the reality altering supercomputer was somehow unselfish.

Morgan's horny brain turned to her boyfriend, Roger. Holding the ring up, she commanded the ring to hypnotize him into coming to her place. She was going to have some fun with him. Morgan watched the geology department offices spin around her like water down a drain, before the world reformed itself. She saw she was in her own house.

Morgan was startled to hear there was a ring at her doorbell, electronically blaring the notes to "Chopin's Funeral March." Morgan bolted downstairs and opened the door to see her boyfriend Roger.

"Hey baby." Roger said. "I was at home with the PlayStation when I had this strangest urge to come over to see you."

"Hey, baby. Wassup?" She kissed him on the lips. "Nice of you to come visit me. You have something for me, don't you? You always have a present for me every time you see me." She said. The ring buzzed on her finger.

"You got it, honey." He said, and he pulled from behind his back a small stuffed toy that looked like a Chihuahua in a Mexican hat holding a box of chocolates. "Nothing says 'I love you' like a Mexican dog that sings 'La Cucaracha' holding chocolate."

Morgan squeezed the paw and watched the head bob back and forth. "Aww, you're so sweet, baby...well, now you are, anyway." She said, taking the dog and pecking Roger lightly on his cheek.

"Won't you sit down? I insist." Morgan said. The ring glowed and made it so. "And let me take your clothes off." With that, his shirt peeled itself off of his torso, his jeans unbuttoned by themselves and his zipper lowered as if by gravity, his pants wriggling off him like skin off a snake before flying aside, leaving Roger's painfully pale, blubbery, sexless, hormone-deficient body in the buff.

"Today's my lucky day, baby. Today I'm getting the biggest boyfriend upgrade of all time." She said. Roger was paralyzed by the beam of light that sprang from the ring. "Think of it like an extreme makeover."

"First, we take care of your personality and motivation." With a concentrated thought, Morgan gave him an outgoing, friendly personality: she edited the life experiences that made him shy and withdrawn and put in ones that encouraged him to open up. She made him a popular guy, and the life of the party. She thought beamed spontaneity to him.

"Now for that gut of yours." Morgan's ring blasted acidic foam, one that ate away the excessive flab around his stomach and turned it to a syrupy liquid. When the fat dripped off on the couch it left behind a flat, hard waist remaining around his midsection. Morgan placed one of her black-nailed fingers in between the groove and marveled she could place it inside of him up to the finger's first joint. His body was wiry and stringy, his chest shaped like a pair of pancakes.

"I've always wanted two things from a guy: he has to be a winner, and he's got to be strong and protect me. Now, let's do the second one first...yeah baby, I'm gonna make you a stud." She said with a laugh.

She concentrated and rewrote reality and his genes at birth...he was born mesomorphic, with muscle-building genes and additional hormones that encouraged growth. He became an easygainer that barely put on weight with a minimum of effort, born with extra muscle mass.

She increased his height...six-foot-eight seemed about right. She concentrated and made his face handsome and flawless and his pale skin a flawless and deep golden sepia bronze, his jaw lantern huge and strong. She laced osmium and titanium in the calcium of his bones, giving him an extra 20 pounds of weight but dense and indestructible bones. She made him bigger and stronger than the strongest bodybuilder, bigger than most men, a World's Record Holder for size and strength. He could lift a car up by the bumper single-handedly if he had leverage.

The tiny, fragile body of Roger started to thicken as if he was a balloon that was filling with air. He felt his motionless body become thicker and heavier. There was a slight wince as Roger felt his bones lengthen and stretch to give him greater height. It was as if he was on an elevator that was going up, the floor becoming further and further away.

Roger's neck became barrel thick, the kind that could pop collars with a flex, flanked on either side by a pair of trapezius muscles that looked as if footballs had been stuffed below his neck, sloping like a pyramid at 45 degree angles to either side. He felt his center of gravity shift, as he had to balance on a now narrow waist a heavier torso above it. The mass of his torso was given by a v-shaped pair of lats like the hood of a cobra.

Roger's shoulders widened, becoming bowling ball sized, giving his entire body the shape of a T, their deltoid shape wide enough to cause the sleeves of any short-sleeved shirt to roll up powerfully. Roger's arms were as thick as telephone poles each, most of the mass given by grapefruit-sized biceps that even when his arm was held straight, bulged at the same size as a heavyweight bodybuilder's when flexed. The bicep's top was lined by a pulsing, powerful vein over the surface. Most of the mass of the arm was given by the horseshoe-shaped tricep. Holding his arm straight, the tricep alone could pop a measuring tape wrapped around it. Roger's forearms were several inches in diameter wider at the elbow than at the wrist.

Roger's pecs looked as if it was built granite block by granite block, jutting out six inches from his sternum. Even when sitting normally his pecs clenched with a force like two stones crashing, sending a ripple through them. Morgan slid her finger in the line of separation between his pecs. She pulled it out with a giggle -- the flex of his pecs had "bit" her!

Roger's narrow, tapered waist was lined with abs that looked as if a bowling ball thrown against it would shatter like glass. His six-pack had transformed into an eight pack surrounding his cute belly button. Roger was so cut that even the tiny chicklet muscles that surrounded his abs were clearly delineated, the size of grapes.

As her eyes bounced from his flawless face to bulging pecs, Morgan felt herself get weak in the knees, and her jaw started to lose its strength. She had no idea any man could look so perfect: his chin strong, his cheekbones high, more perfect than Greek statues, better than male models and yet he had character in his face, and a rugged masculinity.

"Stand up so I can see all of you." Morgan said. The glow of the ring made it so. "And turn around."

Roger vaulted up with surprising grace to his now incredible height: a forehead taller than most doorways, his body wider than most at the arms and shoulders. He just kept on rising and rising up. Morgan was sure he would stop "standing up" a couple times. Roger's thighs had teardrop-shaped muscles that caused his knee to appear sunken, each thigh as thick as a tree trunk.

The ground crunched under Roger's powerful feet as he shifted his great weight around in a circle to show Morgan his naked back. Morgan fell down to her feet at the sight of it as if the ground below her was ice.

Roger's back was cut and ridged like an anatomy chart, each knot and valley delineated, exploding out like a pair of wings from his narrow waist. His ass was bulbous, bubble-shaped, perfectly smooth and when he shifted his leg, Roger's ass dimpled. Under Roger's sepia-bronze, rhino-hide thick skin, the ridges that composed his gluteous muscles moved with a shape like aluminum siding.

Roger's calves were as wide as most men's waists, popping behind his leg -- huge, mooing cows. Morgan was filled with the urge to lick them, on her knees to cling to his wide thighs.

Morgan shook off the intoxicating effect of his presence. "Alright, turn and face me now. Kay..." She said, breathing hot and hard, her pulse thumping in her little body until she could hear it in her ears. She could not wait to coat the body of the god she had in front of her with her purple or black lipstick.

As a final touch, Morgan blasted his throat, and she bulked up his larynx to a point where he had a deep, Barry White esque voice that growled sexx with every bass word.

"Hmmm..." Morgan said. "I wonder what you'd look like as a black guy." She said, as if she was telling her lover to take some outfits to the dressing room to see how he'd look. With a blast, the ring darkened him to an ebony shade, mocha dark. His Adonis features were straight, his lips thicker, his hair short and cut close to the scalp. His coal-dark eyes were smouldering with hot sex.

"Ohhh. Damn." Morgan said. Suddenly, a light came in her gray eyes. "You know, I just had the craziest idea. What if you were Asian? I don't see many Chinese guys with lots of muscles." She amended her statement. "Well, there was that one Japanese guy, Ken something, from the seventies, but that was like, a billion years ago." She blasted him with the ring again.

With that, Roger's skin turned a dusky, golden bronze and his features assumed an angular, straight exotic cast, with almond-shaped eyes, his hair straight and black and reaching his shoulders like a lion's mane. His face had the cutest dimples on either side of his small, perfectly formed lips.

"Whoa. Hey, I just thought of a nickname for you. Big Dragon." Morgan smiled to herself. She was inspired tonight! With that, she blasted on him a huge tattoo along his back, of a spiraling Chinese dragon, going from his shoulder over the cut crevasse canyon of his back, the tail ending halfway at the curved bounce of his distinctly un-Asian bubble-butt.

"Man, I am on a roll! Now...hee hee, to make you first the ultimate athlete and fighter...THEN the ultimate lover." Morgan said with a gleeful giggle.

Morgan covered her lover's brawny body with a red spotlight blast from the ring. Her first step was to change his stamina and density; his lungs grew as large as a gallon jug of milk each, and his heart beat like a metronome. The ring gave him the endurance of a marathon runner crossed with a Tibetan Cherpa.

At the will of the ring, Big Dragon was born with the talent beyond Michael Jordan level in every sport, a natural athletic gift to compliment his muscles. He could hit a bullseye with darts after a few moments of practice. His reflexes were so quick, Big Dragon could catch a paintball in mid-flight. She gave him beyond professional sprinter level speed; he could run as fast as an Olympic speed skater only on foot. This was possible with his powerful legs, which punched the ground like pistons, almost jet propelled. She made him flexible and elastic despite his muscles. Big Dragon could do a split or enter into pretzel positions only possible for contortionists.

Morgan popped him again with another thought. She had made him the strongest, brawniest man that ever lived, able to crush any other man Big Dragon touched like paper. She made him the greatest all-round athlete that ever lived. Finally, she settled for making him a fighter. With a burst from the ring, Big Dragon knew 250 varieties of Martial Arts at black belt level or greater, from Leopard Fist Kung Fu, Viet Vo Dao (the Martial Way of the Vietnamese), Pao Chichuan (Leopard Fist Kung Fu), Savaté, Tai Chichuan, and Jeet Kune Do...whatever the hell that is. Morgan heard it mentioned in a movie somewhere.

"Uhhh...the Martial Arts thing is not because you're Chinese or anything. I mean, of course not! I mean, I'd do that even if you weren't Asian. I'm not giving in to stereotypes here. This is because I've always wanted my man to be a fighter and a lover too." The slim, petite Goth girl was telling the truth, but her Guilty White Liberal instincts popped up.