The Wererock - Chapter 1

The Wererock

By Guest Writer:  Mike

Chapter 1

                Like most things in this story, I discovered the rock by accident. I had set out to spend the day fishing Marshal’s pond thanks to a rented rowboat. The pond wasn’t accurately named; it was a large lake with a small island in the center, but it had been called a pond since long before I moved to the area. The island held a small dock and three lonely, isolated trees. I had rowed to the island, content to fish from the pier while drinking frosty beer from the few icy bottles of Budweiser I’d brought with me.

                There’s an old saying that a bad day fishing is better than a good day of work and that Saturday morning was no exception. I kept a line in the water, watching the bobber sit there, moving slowly as the shiner I’d used as bait swam beneath the surface. I watched the bobber and kicked at the ground, like a bored kid, scraping my shoes over the sand and stone that marked the shore.

                I kicked one flat rock and saw a flash of blue light rising from my feet. In front of me, the bobber dipped below the surface, rose, and sank again. The tip of my fishing pole arched towards the water. I ignored the fish, my mind captured by that odd flash of light. I bent down and brushed the sand off a queerly phosphorescent stone. The rock was flat and smooth, about the size of one of the vanilla wafer cookies used in banana pudding. The surface wasn’t just smooth, it was pristine, without a nick or a mark of any kind. It had a faint blue tinge to it, like it was painted but scraping my finger along its smooth edge I thought it was probably that color all the way through. It wasn’t quite glowing, or putting out any light of its own, it just had a natural luminescence to it. I thought it was more reflective than anything else, looking bright because of the sun.

                I picked up the stone. It fascinated me in a way I didn’t understand. Now I think it was speaking to me but at the time it was just another rock. I felt the weight of it in my hand. It was heavy, weighing much more than the beer I had been drinking. I rubbed the rock, surprised by its smoothness and by how cold it felt. It was warmer than ice but not by much.

                My fishing pole slid towards the water. “Shit.” I put the rock in my pock, lunging for my fishing pole. I grabbed for the reel just as it slipped into the lake. I pulled it out, yanking the tip skyward. I felt the hook set. I fought with the bass for a good five minutes before pulling the fish from the water. It was the largest bass I’d ever caught. I took a picture of it with my iPhone and then let the fish go. I was there for fun, not food. Besides, a fish that big deserved to be set free.

                The rock called to me. I walked to the dock and sat down, my feet pulled up underneath me. I pulled the stone from my pocket and studied it some more.  I didn’t see anything new about it but still it seemed to draw me too it. It was like a good piece of art; the more you stared at it, the more you wanted to stare at it. That’s how that mysterious rock was to me.

                I didn’t catch another fish; I never even put bait back in the water. After that one fish I was satisfied, besides, I had the stone to take home. That was my souvenir.    

The rock kept my attention for hours. After I got home, I cleaned the cooler that had held my beers, put my fishing tackle away, and with a fresh beer, I sat in my favorite recliner, pulled the rock from my pocket and studied it some more. The blue tint was dimmer now that I was inside, reinforcing the idea that it reflected light and didn’t glow with its own internal luminescence. It was still cool to the touch, almost chilly. I rubbed it, enjoying the way it felt in my hand. It was the perfect skipping stone but I didn’t want to let it go.

                By accident I discovered part of what the stone could do. As I said, the three major things about it all seemed to            found unintentionally. If I were to be honest with myself, I would say that the stone wanted me to know the things I know and it had somehow given me the knowledge. However odd that sounds, that’s what I believe. And, as scary as it is to say, I think that I didn’t really find the rock at the lake. I think the rock found me.

                I sipped the beer, holding the rock like some sort of talisman used to ward off evil. I rubbed the stone while watching TV. I wasn’t really paying much attention to what was on, I was just studying the icy rock in my hand. I rubbed its smooth surface, wondering if I was the first person to ever find the rock and were my hands the first to every stroke its pristine face. On the television, there was some commercial advertising the newest movie starring The Rock. I’ve always liked his movies. While rubbing the stone I was thinking how cool it would be if I was built like Dwayne.

                The rock in my hand grew warm and then went cold again. Just for a second that change in temperature was shocking; it had almost felt like I was being burned. I gasped, dropped the rock into my lap, and looked at my fingers. There wasn’t a mark. I picked up the stone and set it down again. My arms were huge. My hands were mountains. I jumped from the recliner, hearing the springs squeak behind me as I rushed to the master bathroom. The stone fell to the carpet. Reaching the bathroom, I gasped, as open mouthed as the bass I had released earlier in the day. I was huge. I had thick, musculature arms that seemed as big as my thighs. My hands were these giant things that seemed to swallow anything they touched.

                What was happening?

                The rest of me, from the waist down, seemed unchanged, but my upper body had become as huge and ripped as The Rock from his newest movie. It wasn’t possible, but I was staring at the evidence, trying to both believe and disbelieve what I was seeing. Do you realize how odd it is to try to come to terms with what you saw while at the same time trying to cast that proof aside? It’s very disconcerting.

                I looked at myself, feeling a power in my arms that was foreign. I was built like The Rock and while it was scary, it was pretty cool, too. As cool as the rock I’d been holding when it happened. That thought stropped my preening in front of the mirror. Had the stone done this? That seemed both likely and unlikely at the same time.

I imagined myself back to normal but nothing happened. I was still me down below and Dwayne Johnson up above. I ran to the living room and snatched the rock up from where it had fallen. I imagined myself back to normal. I rubbed the rock, thinking that I needed to be me again. The rock flared, the heat stinging my fingers. A moment later I was me again. Wholly me.

Of course, that led to experimentation. Those experiments became somewhat overwhelming and more and more elaborate. I became something of a junkie, looking for a stronger fix. The rock, the Wererock as I coined it because it had the ability to make me change shapes, became an obsession. Every waking thought became saturated with things to do with my newfound ability.

The first thing I did was the first thing I think just about every man would do. I stripped off my shorts, threw my T-shirt into the hamper and stood in front of the mirror, naked and full of anticipation. I brushed my bushy brown hair out of my eyes; I didn’t want to miss this. I imagined my cock and made it bigger. What man hasn’t wondered what it would be like to have a bigger dick? I know I’m not the only one. How many advertisements are there in the back of men’s magazines that promised larger cocks? It was an obsession for countless men and I wasn’t any exception. I rubbed the stone, pictured a bigger dick, and just like that, my cock was a good four inches longer. It looked monstrous and out of place. It wasn’t the right size for my body, but at that moment it didn’t matter.

The Wererock was amazing. And I hadn’t even scratched the surface as to what it could do.

I set the smooth stone on the vanity and did what I had to do. With my new, larger dick, I had to play with it. I stroked it, rubbed it, damn near yanked the thing right off. It felt good but not as good as I recalled. I stood in front of the mirror, amazed at its size but disappointed by how it felt. Of course, I had an answer for that, too.

I yanked the stone and it seemed to jump in my hand like it wanted to be touched. I thought how great my new cock would be if it was just a bit more sensitive, a tad more responsive. The Wererock flashed briefly, though that could have been my imagination. I set the rock down and grabbed my dick again. Oh, and I played with it. It felt amazing. Every self-satisfying stroke that had come before that one seemed to pale to nothing but a mockery.

Here I was, a grown man going on forty years old, stroking himself with all the intensity of a young twelve-year-old boy discovering masturbation for the first time. I rubbed myself, feeling sensations I had never imagined or maybe just didn’t remember. I could never recall my cock bring me such pleasure. I felt each rapid stroke as some electrifying tingle that made the little hairs on my arm stand up straight. I stroked, gasping in pleasure until I came, shooting further than could every recall doing. It had felt amazing and it was all because of that magic stone. My Werestone.

Sated, I donned my shorts again. They felt different; the crotch was much tighter. I picked up the stone and reverted myself to normal. I carried the rock back into the living room. The baseball game I’d been watching had ended and now some old, black and white movie was playing. I didn’t care. I had something much more interesting to play with.

I sat in the recliner wondering about the power of the stone and what else I could do with it. I made my hair longer; I made myself bald. I made myself a giant, standing well over seven feet tall and I made myself a midget, barely reaching four feet high. I made myself younger and older. I reverted myself back to when I was four years old, taking in my house from this new, smaller perspective. Every time I made a change I wanted to make another one, and another and another, just to see what the Wererock could do.

The power of that rock overwhelmed me.

And I hadn’t scratched the surface.

I called in sick on Monday. I wasn’t done playing with my new toy. Oh, I played with myself a few more times on Sunday. Sometimes making my dick so big that I couldn’t even get it hard, but the stone took care of that, too. I made it so big I literally had to use two hands to stroke myself. It looked like a tree limb jutting from my crotch. Another time I made my balls so big that I couldn’t wear my loosest pair of pants.

It was all so overwhelming. I was a kid with a toy that I didn’t want to share. I didn’t even want others to know I had the toy. It was mine and I was all powerful.

Lying in bed, the stone in my hand, I wondered what else it could do. An idea flashed in front of me. I shut my eyes and imagined a pair of tits sitting on my chest. The stone didn’t care what it did as long as it got to play. Opening my eyes I was sporting a pair of breasts. They weren’t huge but they were there. A rising swell that settled into a smooth teardrop, my nipples sitting perfectly in place. I sat up, feeling the weight of them moving beneath me.

Of course, they needed to be bigger. That thought was there before I even knew I had it. I rubbed the stone and watched them grow. They became full C’s and then double D’s. I stopped there, thinking that they were now the perfect size for my frame. Then I laughed and made them bigger. They became enormous, huge volleyball size mounds hanging from my chest. My back felt the pull of them and that feeling made me hard.   

I stood in my bedroom, stroking my cock with one hand while rubbing my tits with the other. I picked the stone off the bed and made my nipples more sensitive. This time when I came my knees buckled. I sat on the floor, bent slightly forward from the weight of my tits, and panted in complete sated, relief.

It took me a few minutes to recover. I picked up the stone and made me me again. I cleaned up my mess, dressed in a pair of jeans and a clean light blue t-shirt, before settling onto the couch, wondering what else the stone could do. I was already enraptured by it. Or maybe ensnared would be a better word. I was hooked, just like a junkie, and I wanted more.

I wondered what else the stone could do. I knew I had to touch it to make a change and every time I made a change I quickly reverted to my normal self. I wondered what would happen if I lost the stone? What if I made a change and couldn’t reach the stone for some reason? What if I mailed it away and was trapped in whatever form I left myself in until the mail came a few days later. Just thinking about these things made me hard again.

And what other shapes could I take. I had given myself breasts. Could I give myself a vagina too? I was sure of it. Could I turn myself into a woman? Could I turn myself into another person? These were the things that kept my mind racing all through that Monday morning and afternoon. By Monday night I knew I had to find out. I had to play.

I called the office and arranged to take the whole week off. When you’re the boss you can do that with little fuss. Still, I had to make the proper arrangements and make sure the work would get done. I’m an engineer by trade. I write software. If you’ve ever seen a computer program, then you know what an if-then-else statement was. Thoughts of using the stone to program myself occupied my thoughts as well. My mind was racing but I couldn’t slow it down any more than I could put the Wererock out of my head.

What all could it do?

I had a week to figure that out.

Tuesday morning came and I woke up with the rock sitting on the nightstand next to my bed. I had spent hours the night before imagining all the things I could do and things I wanted to try. All of them concerned that magical stone and what it could do to me. I had some elaborate things I wanted to try, but first I had to learn all the basics. I looked at it like a mathematical problem. I had to be able to add before I could do algebra. The stone was like that. I knew it could change me but to what extent?

I started with the obvious. I had already made my dick into some mythical colossus and given myself breasts. That morning of experimentation I gave myself a pussy and like every man out there the first thing I did was play with it. I was by no means a virgin, even if at thirty-eight years old I was still unmarried, so I have touched and fondled my fair share of pussies. This was totally different. I knew what I was doing and I was deftly able to bring myself to a toe-curling orgasm. And it did curl my toes. I’m not sure I can get across how intense that orgasm was as I lay on my bed toying with my new clit. As a man, stroking or pounding my cock into a woman, the feelings are concentrated on my cock. Mostly on the sensitive underside. With a pussy, with my pussy, the orgasm was much deeper and more whole-body. My clit was this whole universe of pleasure nerves and when they lit, they seemed to spread pleasure outward until my toes curled, my back arched, and my eyes rolled into my head.

Even after I came I kept playing and experienced my first, true, multiple orgasm. That second one was every bit as intense as the first, but it arrived much quicker. It was like I had started closer, the first orgasm barely waning before the second one crested. It was amazing. The third made me dizzy.

Sated, and on wobbly knees, I made my way to the mirror, the stone in my hand. I didn’t want to stop playing. The Werestone was calling to me; I could almost hear it. I gave myself tits again, satisfied this time with smaller, natural looking breasts. I tweaked my body, imaging a thinner waist and longer legs. I turned my hair a warm auburn and made my lips a tad fuller. Looking in the mirror I looked almost human. I couldn’t quite place what was wrong. I didn’t look symmetrical. I looked a bit like Frankenstein’s monster… the parts put together to make something almost right but not quite whole. That was my first foray into changing myself into a woman. I didn’t want to be a woman, I just wanted to test the Werestone.

I stared into the mirror trying to fix the little things that were out of place. I softened the curves between my replaced parts; I shortened my legs to be more in line with what they should be and less what I thought would look good. Slowly, after about forty-five minutes, I was satisfied with how I looked. Standing in the mirror was a short woman with long, wavy hair that was more brown than red. I had full breasts that were perhaps a bit too big but still not those huge orbs I had tried the day before. My ass looked good; I could almost see them in a pair of Daisy Dukes. It wasn’t a bad first attempt.

After that, I turned myself back to normal. I was an average looking guy with slightly thinning hair and small, green eyes. My belly was that of a normal middle-aged man. That is, a bit larger than it should be and truthfully a bit larger still. But it was me and I was happy with me.

But the Werestone was calling.

I dashed into the living room to grab my laptop. I raced back to the large mirror in the bathroom. The laptop booted and I swear I never knew it to be so slow. Finally, after far too long, I was on the web. I called up a picture of The Rock and using the stone I became Dwayne Johnson. I had the same bald head, the same huge arms with the same tattoos; everything was a perfect match. I tried other celebrities, both men and women. I started with the men. It was just easier for me; I never thought of myself as a woman or a crossdresser. That was all Cynthia.

Or maybe it was the stone.

I was The Rock; then I became Tom Cruise, Chris Pratt, then Denzel Washington. It seems the stone didn’t care what race I was any more than what gender. I turned myself into Jennifer Aniston, Alison Brie and finally Jessica Alba. The laptop on my vanity provided me with the pictures. My imagination filled in the covered, naughty bits. Jessica Alba, the form I took, had a full brown bush. Jennifer was shaved bare. Denzel, my Denzel had a tiny little cock while Chris was hung like a stallion. It didn’t matter, my body was clay to be formed in any shape I desired. By the end of the day, when the sun had long set and my stomach was growling from skipping every meal, I could turn myself into any man or woman I wanted. Even the ones I made up became easy. Too easy. Thanks to the stone.

And I wanted more. I wanted to play. I was a kid with the hottest toy on the planet that nobody else had. I felt invincible.

The thought returned: what would happen if I was stuck without the stone in a shape that wasn’t my own. Oh, that thought took hold. I started simply enough. I turned myself into a little boy. I was six years old, no muscles to be found and a tiny little pecker that hadn’t sprouted its first hair. I dug through my closet and found a pair of shorts that swallowed me whole and a t-shirt that was more like a dress. I didn’t have the clothes for a kid. Oh, well. I tweaked my body and became a teenager. I darkened my skin, flattened my nose. I looked a bit like that guy who played War Machine in those Marvel movies. Google gave me the answer… Don Cheadle.

Dressed in shorts and a plain green t-shirt, I donned my shoes and slipped out of the house. I left the stone home, safely tucked away in the nightstand by my bed next to my slick .40 caliber pistol. I got in my car and drove about five miles to the closest McDonalds. I was starving and wasn’t about to cook. I wanted to play, so fast food was the answer.

I went through the drive through, a handsome black man, miles from my house. I imagined myself back to being, well, me, and nothing happened. The magic of my Wererock was still at home, safely tucked away. I paid for my meal feeling a rising mass in my shorts. Something about being stuck like I was seemed alluring. It was almost intoxicating. What if I was pulled over by a cop; what if I was arrested? Would my fingerprints match my old self or was I a new person with no history? The thought of it made my cock an iron bar.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look like that actor from Crash?” The woman ringing up my order was older than I was, I would guess about sixty.

I nodded and gave her a genuine chuckle, “Yeah. I’m Adam, not Don Cheadle. I’ve heard that a bunch. Sadly, no relation.”

We both laughed.

I ate on my drive home, driving the speed limit and not one bit more. The thought of being pulled over excited me but in a way that I couldn’t quite explain. The idea that I was miles from the only thing that could change me back electrified me. I was bouncing with nervous energy by the time I got home, my Big Mac already gone.

I rushed back to the stone, trying to restore myself. Nothing happened until I touched that smooth, cool surface. Then I was me. I came without touching my dick. That had been a rush and oh, did I want to feel it again. My heart was beating out a symphony and my hands were shaking. It took a good twenty minutes before I felt like trying something new and during that time I was thinking of all the things to try.

I put the stone away for the night, thinking of scenarios. Some I discarded but some took root like a weed and just wouldn’t let go. I had so many things I wanted to do and I never even scratched the surface of outrageous things until I met Cynthia. Oh, Cynthia. Wait until you meet her.