Month 1

One

Six months ago, my dick was the standard six inches but skinnier than the norm. Not much else about me physically made me shout with joy, either. At seventeen years old, I was 5'8" tall and thin as a rail. I have a good mind, but I didn't consider myself a nerd (What nerd does?), but I was as socially inept as any geek I knew.

The incident happened at a football game, a high school event even social misfits like me could attend. After our team made a touchdown, everyone was jumping and shouting, and suddenly the bleachers collapsed. I landed on my head, and then a portion of the bleachers struck me in the lower back in the area of a kidney. Severe pain made my world turn black.

When I regained consciousness moments later, rubble and other bodies pressed against me. I heard groans and sundry exclamations of pain. The bleachers were made of wood with metal bracing and weren't stacked so high that their failure caused death, but I suspected a few broken bones among those around me littered willy-nilly with the rubble. Were my bones intact?

Yes. Except for the blow to my head and kidney, I came out of the calamity unscathed - well almost.

The very next day I started to grow.

The growth didn't happen all at once, thank goodness. It took place faster at the beginning and slower as time went on. Over a six-month period, I added six inches to my height. My shoulders widened and my chest deepened. Pectorals actually bulged! My abs became a six-pack.

Most importantly, my dick grew to nine inches, when hard, and thickened considerably.

Curious, I did some research, primarily on the Internet. My research led me to believe the blow to my head affected my pituitary gland. I discovered that the growth hormone, also known as somatotropin, is a protein hormone of about 190 amino acids. It is synthesized and secreted by cells called somotrophs in the anterior pituitary, and controls several complex physiologic processes, including growth and metabolism.

When I read that somatotropin was mediated primarily by an insulin-like growth factor (IGF-1), a hormone that is secreted from the liver in response to growth hormone, I reasoned that the blow to my kidney must have had an affect, too, principally because a majority of the growth-promoting effects of growth hormone is actually due to IGF-1 acting on its target cells.

On the other hand, perhaps I merely went through an abnormal adolescent growth spurt. You decide.

Two

As I said, I started to grow the very next day. I woke up starved, too hungry to shower before breakfast. After throwing on my jeans and a t-shirt, I headed barefoot to the kitchen, where I found my mother dutifully preparing breakfast.

"How are you feeling after your mishap, Paul?" she asked with a worried look.

"Hungry!"

She huffed a laugh. "Situation normal. Sit. I'm making pancakes."

My previous capacity for pancakes was three. I ate a dozen. I also ate half the eggs she'd prepared, and she had to fry up more bacon for the rest of the family because I personally ate every slice on the plate. I also had to take crap from my little sister, Carrie, about being a pig. I didn't care. I ignored her and shoveled in the food as fast as Mom put it in front of me.

Finally sated, I leaned back in the chair and asked, "Where's Dad?"

"He had to go into the office early this morning, something about a new contract," Mom answered with a shrug and a grimace. She didn't like Dad working weekends, I knew.

The shrug caused her robe to open slightly and presented a partial view of her heavy, unfettered breasts, and I started to spring a woody.

"Perv," Carrie breathed quietly enough Mom didn't hear her.

I grinned. "Too true." I pushed my chair back, but before I rose to my feet, I leaned and whispered in Carrie's ear, "You're just jealous."

Carrie pouted. "Too true."

Like me, Carrie was a late developer. At fourteen, she couldn't be labeled buxom; flat chested would be more appropriate. With a sympathetic smile, I added, "You're lucky. Your time will come. My time passed me by."

"What are the two of you talking about?" Mom asked.

"Boobs," Carrie said, "or rather the lack of them."

"Secondary sex characteristics of the masculine kind," I added. "In other words, my skinny, boyish physique."

Mother chuckled. "If you keep eating like you did this morning, you won't be skinny very long." She turned to Carrie with a serious expression. "And, Carrie, I didn't get boobs until I was fifteen. Paul's correct. Your time will come."

I discovered my dick was a little longer and thicker while taking my morning shower. Not possible without a ruler, you say. Hah! I had a measuring device - my hand. My right hand was my dick's best friend, its only friend up to that point in my life. My hand had held my dick so often it could register even a slight change in size. I figured a half-inch. I might've been wrong.

While reliving the arousing sight of my mother's heavy breasts, I splashed semen on the shower tiles. When dressing, I ran into more clues about my growth spurt. The shirt I pulled on felt tight. Then and now, I demanded comfort from my clothing. Comfort before fashion was my motto. I changed shirts, selecting a loose, old standby, and then discovered my shoes pinched my toes. Even after all these pointers, the fact that I was growing didn't sink in until the next morning when I pulled my trousers up over my hips, and the cuffs didn't reach my shoes. I'd grown an inch in two days!

Three

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy malls, but for girl watching, not actually shopping, and I'd ventured to the mall to buy clothes that would fit my growing body. Bummer.

Phoenix, Arizona, isn't the sunny beaches of California, but I'd put Phoenix girls up against the beach bunnies of California any day. Snug hip huggers offered views of cute little bellybuttons dotting the sensuous, soft curves of adolescent tummies, and the snugness emphasized the tight, round shapes of teenaged backsides with their narrow hips and tiny waists — well, not all of them, I guess. There was an occasional chubby gal in the mix, or an anorexic dolly trying to achieve a zero-fat body state. Boobs also flourished at the mall, some barely covered, loose and enticing, others trussed up in industrial-strength bras. At seventeen, the varying shapes of barely-hidden nipples intrigued me, no make that excited me. I'd yet to place my hand on a bare one, let alone my lips, and the thought of running my hard-on through soft, voluptuous cleavage was almost enough to create a mess in my pants.

I hurried through the dreaded shopping necessary to make my pants reach my shoes while not completely ignoring the normal reason for visiting a mall: imagining my hands rubbing feminine curves encased in tight jeans, fingers squeezing rubbery nipples evident under halter tops, or brushing my cheek against a rosy cheek of a girl, or my lips...

You get the picture, situation normal for a teenaged boy.

Wearing new pleated, khaki Dockers that fell across my shoes just right, a new faux-silk shirt that didn't feel tight, and a new pair of oxblood loafers one full size larger than the shoes I wore in comfort last week, I strolled boldly onto the concourse of the mall and ran into Mrs. Jensen — literally.

The packages in her arms and mine went flying, spilling their contents like confetti on New Year's Eve, but I managed to grab Mrs. Jensen so she didn't join her packages. Unfortunately, the arm I threw around her waist to forestall her fall also grabbed a handy handle: a tit. A nice tit it was, too, voluptuous but firm. But grabbing a tit wasn't in the playbook for a social misfit such as myself. I jerked my hand away as if it were inside the gaping jaws of a alligator — my second mistake — and she slipped from the safety of my arm around her waist. Her hip hit the polished granite with a thud.

"Fuck!" she exclaimed as her skirt flipped up around her waist, giving me a view of not only her magnificent legs but also her sheer white panties.

The flight or fight syndrome washed over me. I wasn't a fighter, so I wanted to run - desperately. I was a gentleman, though, a state of mind my mother insisted I learn to project, so with blushing, stammering apologies I held my hand out to help Mrs. Jensen from the mall floor. Gentleman or not, try as I might I couldn't rip my eyes off Mrs. Jensen's panty-clad pussy, and no doubt she noticed where my attention focused.

Pulling her to her feet caused her legs to spread even wider, and the elastic right side of her panties slipped to the left, exposing a pussy lip as the elastic inserted itself smack dab in the middle of her slit.

Although decidedly inappropriate considering the situation, my dick sprang erect, testing the tensile capacity of my new Dockers, another condition that didn't go unnoticed by Mrs. Jensen.

To hide my rude hard-on, I scrambled to my knees and pushed clothes into bags, both Mrs. Jensen's and mine, while my dismal apologies continued. Rising to my feet, I apologized once more. Mrs. Jensen didn't look angry, which surprised me, but I couldn't take any more humiliation and rushed away.

My humiliation didn't end there. An hour later when I emptied my shopping bags on my bed, I found a frilly pair of pink panties among my purchases.

With my jaw agape and the silken garment dangling from my fingertip, I turned to a jangling telephone.

"Hello," I said.

"Paul, it's Mrs. Jensen. You have something of mine; I have something of yours."

I gulped. My fist closed around the panties. I couldn't speak.

"Drop by my house with mine, and I'll give you yours."

"When?" I asked after finding my voice.

"Now."

I wondered what she had of mine as I walked toward her house. The Jensens lived three doors down and across the street. Would Mr. Jensen be home?

I didn't need to knock. She stood in the open front door of her home with her hip cocked like a model. A shirt I recognized dangled from her fingertip - the shirt I'd been wearing when I decided to wear the one I purchased at the mall.

She didn't look angry, which relieved a portion of my overblown anxiety. Frankly, her expression gave me no clues to her mood. Then she smiled and a sultry look softened her dark eyes, and I started to relax. Girl's scared the bejesus out of me. Women didn't, especially older women like Mrs. Jensen. She was approximately the same age as my mother.

"Come in, Paul. We'll trade," she said, her voice breathy and low.

I'd carried the panties in a shopping bag, which I set on the narrow table in the entry of her home.

When I turned to her and started to apologize again, she said, "Hush. No harm done. Would you like a soft drink or iced tea?"

I nodded. I noticed she'd changed clothes since I ran into her at the mall. She wore a pair of shorts and a man's shirt, which she'd tied in a knot under her breasts, breasts I'd touched not long ago, I remembered. I saw no evidence of a button snagged in a buttonhole. Was the shirt buttoned at all? Her legs were incredible, enhanced by the low, open-towed heels on her feet. The paint on her toenails matched her fingernails and the color of her lipstick. She'd let her dark, luxurious hair down, and it curled softly around her pretty face.

I took all this in, but my mind kept returning to the feel of her breast in my hand and the sight of her exposed labia. The soft, puffy fold displayed no pubic hair, I remembered. Did she shave her pussy, or at least the outer labia like many centerfolds depicted on glossy paper in men's magazines? My dick started to wander down my leg as it lengthened.

"Which will it be?" she asked and turned to walk away from me without waiting for my answer.

"Doesn't matter," I muttered, watching her taut hips undulate and the elegant flexing of her calves as I followed her. Were her panties still caught in her crack?

She glanced over her shoulder and caught me checking out her legs and booty. I blushed and I swear I heard a small giggle. We settled around the kitchen table with tall glasses of iced tea. I was hard. Normally sitting at a table camouflaged my erections. Not this time. The tabletop was clear glass.

I gulped iced tea. Mrs. Jensen grinned.

"Did you feel them?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

Feel them?

"The panties," she clarified, probably prompted by my confused expression.

I don't know why, but I nodded. My admission surprised her, I noted, which unaccountably pleased me.

She gathered her wits quickly, as quickly as mine disintegrated.

"Did you enjoy how they felt sliding through your fingers?" The twinkles in her eyes were gone, replaced by smoldering intent, which increased my sexual tension and the size of my cock.

I nodded again, my head hanging. I couldn't look her in the eye, but I could see the bulge in my Dockers through the glass tabletop, and if I could see the bulge caused by my hard-on, no doubt Mrs. Jensen could get an eyeful, too. I could also see her lovely legs and dainty feet, which did nothing to diminish my arousal.

"Did you enjoy how my breast felt in your hand?"

Was it possible to give yourself a whiplash with repeated nods?

"Then why did you let go and let me fall? I have a bruise, you know." She rubbed her hip gingerly.

"I'm sorry for touching you inappropriately, and I'm sorry I dropped you," I said, finally raising my eyes to hers, flickering momentarily on her breasts because red-painted fingernails sensually teased the soft swells between the lapels of the shirt and drew my eyes by their movement.

"Under the circumstances, the touch wasn't inappropriate; dropping me was, but I forgive you. Our conversation is exciting you, isn't it?"

Another nod. Jeez! I made a personal vow to stop nodding.

She sipped iced tea, lowered the glass, and her tongue slipped over her full, red-ripe lips.

"You saw my pussy, didn't you?"

"Yeah, part of it," I croaked.

She pushed her chair back, rose and walked around to stand next to me. The fingers of one hand twirled the shiny, dark curls of her hair, and she ran the fingers of her other hand through my hair, a move that thrilled me beyond comprehension. I sucked in air with an audible gasp and looked up at her. She wasn't looking at my face. Her dark eyes were fixed on the bulge in my pants, a bulge emphasized by a growing wet spot, the result of my natural lubricant, not semen, but I knew I wouldn't be able to defer a spontaneous ejaculation much longer.

"Would you like to see all of it?"

I broke my vow. I nodded. Why I didn't come in my Dockers, I'll never know, but I thanked all the gods that might exist for saving me the embarrassment.

She turned and returned to her chair. Her face dropped into her hands. "No," she muttered, shaking her head. "You'll tell your buddies. You'll brag about it. That's what boys do."

Fuck! The only saving grace created by the turn of events was the realization that I no longer needed to fear shooting off in my pants.

I considered assuring her that I could keep my lips zipped, but she was correct. If she showed me her pussy, I'd tell someone, probably my best friend, Chuck. He'd promise to keep the secret, but eventually, he'd mention the event to someone, embellished, no doubt, and that someone would spread the word, exaggerating everything all out of proportion. That's what boys do, and that was the moment I decided to stop being a boy. If Mrs. Jensen showed me her pussy, I wouldn't tell anyone, not even Chuck, and I'd try to put other boyish behaviors behind me, too.

Frankly, I was aghast when I figured that Mrs. Jensen's needs might be as deep and unfulfilled as mine. Then I was delighted. She'd exposed her vulnerability, which allowed me to do the same, and I had a question, a question I desperately needed answered.

"Why me?" I asked.

Her head snapped up, and her eyes drilled into mine. She grimaced. "You wouldn't understand."

Her non-answer disappointed me, so I pressed the issue. "Mrs. Jensen, I'm inexperienced, which is a polite way of saying I'm a virgin. Girls terrify me. My tongue gets heavy around girls. I stutter and stammer, and my brain stops functioning. You... you're not a girl. You're a woman, so I can talk with you. I'm not a hunk. I'm a scrawny, shorter-than-average teenager, certainly not any female's dreamboat, whether the female is a girl or a woman. Still, after my bumbling gave you an excuse, you set it up so we'd be alone, and you came on to me. I might not understand, but I'd like to know why."

My sudden burst of coherent words befuddled her momentarily, I could see, and I guessed she was mentally wrestling with the answer to my question. I figured she'd show me the door without answering my question, leaving me in the dark, but she surprised me, too.

She pursed her lips and said, "Because I excited you; because I gave you a hard-on; because I'm lonely and horny and..."

Tears welled in her eyes. She sniffed and brushed them away with her fingertips, careful not to disturb her makeup too much.

"... and then I remembered you are just a boy, that you probably get a hard-on from the slightest provocation, that the excitement you felt for me wasn't... well, special. Even knowing all this, I still came on to you — your words for what I did, and they were accurate. Then suddenly I dredged up unpleasant experiences from my past and knew you'd boast. I knew if something happened between us that somehow, some way, what happened would find its way back to my husband, and my marriage, what's left of it, would end."

Sad, I thought. A married woman shouldn't ever feel lonely. Did my Mom? I decided to ask her later. Anyway, a married woman should never take a boy's hard-on seriously, and certainly shouldn't be so horny that she'd try to seduce a scrawny, inexperienced boy like me. Didn't her husband ever make love to her?

"You're wrong," I said, "not about me springing a woody with little or no provocation, although I believe seeing half a pussy is very provocative." She smiled, which encouraged me to continue. "You're wrong, Mrs. Jensen, because I consider you special, very special indeed. You're the first female to come on to me. You're the first female to talk with me about sex in a serious vein. I'll remember you all the days of my life."

Her expression softened. "Ah, that's sweet, Paul."

I took a deep breath. Nothing ventured; nothing gained. I wouldn't try to con her, but I figured being honest wouldn't hurt. "Mrs. Jensen, you were wrong to believe I don't consider you special, but you were correct to distrust me. If you had proceeded without hesitating, I would have boasted. I would've told a buddy I finally saw an honest-to-goodness live pussy, but when you backed away, you taught me a lesson, a lesson I won't forget — ever. By backing off, you made me realize boasting is stupid and potentially destructive. It serves no purpose except self-aggrandizement. It's immature. Thank you, Mrs. Jensen. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."

Was I laying it on too thick? Apparently not. Her tense expression softened further until she looked almost serene. Then her expression changed again. She looked mischievous for a moment, then her eyes became dark, lustful orbs again when she looked down through the glass table and noted my hard-on still tented my Dockers. Looking back up at me, the twinkles returned to her eyes.

"Show me yours and I'll show you mine," she quipped, teasingly.

Exposing myself wasn't at the top of my to-do list, but what the hey! I unfastened my belt, flipped the button loose on my khakis, and pushed the pants, along with my boxers, down my thighs. I didn't look at myself; I watched Mrs. Jensen's expression. Would she be disappointed?

She smiled. "Nice," she said without taking her eyes off my cock.

"It's not very big," I said shyly.

"Hush! Never apologize for your equipment. It makes the woman believe you aren't confident, which is a mistake."

"But I'm not confident."

She grinned wickedly. "You will be when I get through with you."

She wanted confidence, huh? "Your turn," I announced.

Mrs. Jensen didn't remain seated like me. She rose to her feet, untied the knot at the front of the shirt and tucked the flaps behind her. Her voluptuous breasts spilled out. Live tits! Real ones! Bare! I wanted to nuzzle them with my face. About the size of small grapefruit, they were capped with large areolas and stiff, little nipples.

With a girlish giggle, she said, "Your jaw is gaping."

I slammed my mouth shut as she walked around the table toward me, the shirttails flapping, her breasts swaying. Would she let me play with and suck on her tits? With a practiced move, she unfastened her shorts, wriggled and pushed, and the garment fell to her feet. She kicked them away.

"Would you like to remove my panties?"

I nodded. Fuck my vow. My mouth was so dry I knew if I tried to speak, the sounds would be incomprehensible. I turned in the chair, reached and grabbed the elastic waistband.

"Slowly, sensuously," she whispered. She took my hands in hers and placed them over the wonderful globes of her panty-covered ass. "Feel. Enjoy," she added. "Good, just like that. Now pull them down, but slowly. Savor what comes into view. Excellent. Do you like what you see?"

"Yes," I croaked.

"Can you smell me, smell my excitement?"

I nodded.

When she stepped out of the panties, the lips of her pussy separated, and I could see all the parts I'd studied on labeled pictures: the outer and inner labia, the entrance to her vagina, and especially her clitoris, which poked out a bit from its hood. The odor was intoxicating.

"I love the way you smell," I gushed.

She sat on the table in front of me and placed her feet on my thighs, which spread her legs a little. Leaning back on her hands, she said, "Go ahead, investigate. Check it out."

Was she a mind reader? I lowered my head to get a close-up view, and her fragrance intensified. Pheromones, I remembered. An urge became a compulsion, and I leaned forward and kissed her steamy vulva, a closed-mouth kiss, but still the move generated a small gasp.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Taste me!"

I'm not stupid. I'd read about cunnilingus, read about various techniques, as well as a woman's response to the intimate sex act. I'd like to say I didn't hesitate, but I did, not because I didn't want to lick her pussy, but because I feared I'd do it wrong.

Just do it! I shouted in my mind. I opened my mouth wide, stuck out my tongue and licked her from her perineum up through her swampy slit to the top of her pussy. When my tongue rolled over her clitoris, she squealed, grabbed the back of my head and pulled my mouth tightly to her. Her hips took off, undulating up and down and from side to side, and she issued moan after moan to express her joy. I gave up trying to lick her and merely flattened my tongue. I let her fuck my mouth, which was the right thing to do, I guess, because a few minutes later, she cried out unrestrained when what I assumed was an orgasm overwhelmed her.

Pride washed over me. I'd given a woman a climax!

She didn't let me bask in pride very long. She pulled at me; I guessed she wanted me to stand. Back on my feet with my Dockers and boxers down around my ankles, I wiped my hand across my drenched mouth and smiled down at her.

"Your turn," she whispered. "Put it in, Paul. Fuck me."

I shuffled up to her, and she scooted forward on the table while wrapping her arms around my neck. I missed the right place the first attempt, but she squirmed around, and on the second try, my cock slipped into her pussy, not all at once, only about halfway. She hunched forward, and my entire length moved into her buttery, hot, heavenly glove. Her legs came up and wrapped my hips, and she used her heels to jumpstart me, forcing me to thrust into her.

Then she pulled my mouth to hers. She'll taste herself, I thought, but she didn't seem to mind. If she didn't, I didn't.

Something curious happened to me. I was fucking for the first time, but I was also kissing a woman for the first time, and I went with the kiss, not the fuck. Go figure. I was not more than a couple of thrusts away from coming when I entered her, but the kiss retarded my orgasm. I did what she suggested earlier. I felt. I enjoyed. Kissing is good, I decided. Kissing could be as intimate as fucking, maybe more so.

When she pulled back from the kiss and gazed up at me with lust and love in her eyes, I climaxed.

I roared a groan and slammed into her as far as I could go.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Come in me, you sweet boy. Come in mama."

I discovered another truth that day. Coming inside a woman with her legs around your hips, with her arms around your neck, while she entreats you to come inside her beats the hell out of jerking off.

I didn't want to, but I had no choice. It was either sit or fall. I sat.

Mrs. Jensen's vulva looked swollen and red, and I could see my semen puddled at the entrance to her vagina. Some of my white stuff rolled out and down onto the glass tabletop. It was the sexiest sight I'd ever seen.

Nonetheless, I'd done what I didn't want to do. I'd climaxed too quickly.

"I'm sorry..."

"Hush! Never apologize. No, I didn't come, not while we were fucking, but you gave me a wonderful orgasm when you ate me. We're even, Paul, which is a vast improvement over the sex I don't enjoy with my husband."

She hopped off the table and straddled me, sitting on my lap. Her wonderful breasts pushed against my fake-silk shirt, and I wanted to feel them against my bare chest. I started to unbutton the shirt.

"No, Paul, not now, another day, another time, if you wish. Now we need to clean up a little, and you need to leave before Jack comes home."

Four

A week later, I measured my dick with a ruler. Seven inches. I'd grown an inch! It was thicker, too.

I hadn't heard from Mrs. Jensen and reverted to old habits. I have to admit, jerking off still gave me pleasure, but I noticed something about the habit I'd never noticed before. It was a lonely act.

I thought about Mrs. Jensen often, usually during fantasy times, but also as a woman, another human being with all the baggage being a person entails. Obviously, she wasn't happy with her marriage — with Jack. I guessed she didn't feel loved. Did she love him? It made me sad that the sex she'd had with me, the five-second boy wonder, was an improvement over the sex she didn't have with her husband. Would she call me? Would she want to be with me again?

Memories inserted themselves; then I called some forth, and I quickly climaxed, spewing semen onto my belly and chest when I recalled the spastic heat of Mrs. Jensen's cunt wrapped around my throbbing cock.

I cleaned up the mess, pulled on some sweats and started my nightly run. Growing as fast as I was, I worried about the makeup of the extra mass I was gaining. I wanted the pounds to be muscle, not fat, so I'd started running. Yesterday, I'd completed a mile with a slow lope. Could I go farther today?

While I ran, I decided sex with someone was dangerous, not the physical act, but the emotion involved. Emotion makes sex mysterious and perilous. Thrusting, moving inside a woman until you climax — her too, hopefully — requires no special talent, only reasonable health, maturity and good manners. No, the emotional aspect of sex is what made it interesting.

My time with Mrs. Jensen had certainly been interesting. We shared intense emotions. Still, the sex wasn't cleansing, wasn't tender or empowering. There was a part of it that was a little dirty, which was titillating, for sure. She was a married woman, and she'd seduced a boy. Not that I was complaining, mind you, but I suspected sex with love involved could be so much more. I didn't love Mrs. Jensen; she didn't love me, but I was still happy for the dirty, little sex we'd shared, and I'd do it again if she called and asked me to drop by, whatever the reason she concocted.

As I loped into my house, the phone was ringing. Was Mrs. Jensen calling?

"Hey," Chuck said after I answered the call.

"What's happening, dude?" I replied, out of breath.

Five

At school the next day, I decided I needed more than a jogging regimen to enhance my growth spurt. I needed some training in the martial arts if only to stay alive to enjoy my new body.

"You're hurting me, Gary," Betty Tidwell cried. She and her erstwhile boyfriend, Gary Wilson, were standing by her locker. He was gripping her arm tightly and wore a furious expression. Betty looked frightened but, at the same time, defiant.

She was a pretty girl, petite and curvy, with blonde locks and brilliant blue eyes. Gary was a brutish boy, a star football player who would most likely muscle his way through life. With the muscle mass covering his large bones, I figured he lacked brain cells.