Mama Knows Best (Patreon)

This is a rewrite of changingmen’s Once You Go Black...

“Black girls have the biggest tits, bro”

I rolled my eyes at yet another racist, sexist statement from my roommate Jamie. If someone else on campus said it I would have just put it down as some insensitive joke, but from Jamie I knew he really believed it. Jamie had been graced by the Gods in looks, and he had worked wonders with what he had been given. A lean athletic body, gorgeous medium blonde hair, and a face that had all the girls swoon over him, as if the rest of him wasn’t enough. Just as beautiful as he was on the outside, just as racist, misogynistic, and homophobic was he on the inside.  And he often let it leak out.  That comment wasn’t even the worst he had said that day, but somehow it’s the one that stuck with me.

I’m as white as Jamie, otherwise I think he would have flat out refused to share dorm, but I was adopted at eight by my African American parents. I don’t know or remember much of my biological parents, but the way I was dumped gives a hint. Whatever they lacked my real parents made up for in droves, supporting me in every way they could. I’ve never mentioned any of this to Jamie, of course. Who talks about their parents in college if you don’t have to? He certainly didn’t. I quickly realized to keep a lot from him.

This week misogyny, homophobia, and bigotry had taken a backseat to casual racism, and somehow it was hitting me harder than his usual ugliness. I know that reflects poorly on me, but I wasn’t here to pick a fight. Normally Jamie would give me a good reason to take a walk or phone home from the nearby stairwell by putting a sock on the door handle, but today I couldn’t wait and headed out on my own initiative to call mama. She’s a social worker and community mystic and was always a good listener when I had troubles. It would usually end up with me having some tea or herb, or putting a stick in my backpack, and usually things would work out in the next few days. I wasn’t prepared for what she had to say this time though.

I’ve rarely heard her so upset as when I described Jamie. She knew he wasn’t the purest of hearts, but I hadn’t really complained about him either. He was always reasonable with me, and being his roommate opened a lot of doors around the campus social life. But now she was fuming, demanded a lot of answers, and occasionally put the phone down to do some of her divination or whatever she does. Finally she calmed down and begun to speak in riddles using that other voice she used when strangers came asking for help. “If it is summer too long everything starts to rot,” she said. She then asked about the ash wood box she’d demanded I take with me to college, with some vials, bones, and dried flowers. She told me to take one poppy seed out of a small vial filled with them, and place it in Jamie's shampoo bottle. I asked what it would do. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. We can only pray for change.” I hung up and went back to our room. Jamie was gone, probably the gym, so I could easily do what mama had asked. I was curious to see if it did anything. Usually there would be some change, if ever so subtle. My friend Rick stopped smoking the day after I told mama he had started. He claimed they made him nauseous when I asked him about it.

I was startled from reading a book when Jamie came back, flush and panting. He’d run from the gym, and even sweaty and exhausted he was better looking than most guys on campus. He picked up his stuff and went to the showers. I had no hope for any quick change, or even a visible one, but I was still hoping for something. When Rayna fell and scraped her face it all healed up within the hour she spent drinking tea with mama, so I knew magic was possible. It felt like much longer than it was when the door opened again and a very similar Jamie walked in. I missed it at first, as his hair was still wet, but pretty quickly I saw that as it dried it didn’t lighten up. Instead of his silky medium blonde hair was a brownish tangle. Jamie went through quite a few expletives about the “prank” someone put him up to. He couldn’t figure out how though, as the shampoo came out as white as always. I did my best to pretend surprised and outraged, and offered an explanation that perhaps someone put something in the showerhead, which he bought.

Neither of us knew that the change in hair color was just the first shot, but the secondary effect was much slower and more insidious. His body slowly started to tone and bulk. The first few days it was almost imperceptible. I say almost, because Jamie was admiring himself shirtless more than usual in the full-length mirror on our dorm room wall. Slowly but surely it kept adding pounds after pounds of muscles on him, that it started to be suspicious. I overheard a fair bit of envy from the other football players. By the middle of the following week he had become irritable after going to the gym. The gym rats had started to take notice and accused him of juicing, and for good reason. There is no way you start putting on weight like that naturally. By the end of the second week he was beginning to rival some of the builders that had worked years on their bodies.

It wasn’t just former athletic acquaintances that turned against him, but his wardrobe too. None of the tailored shirts fit anymore, nor did his most tight-fitting jeans or trousers. He still had some looser shorts and jeans that he could wear, but he wasn’t the local fashion icon anymore. His face was still photo model material, but some of the shine had gone in his overall appearance, which was noticeably different when going out. He looked more like any of the other muscle bros, in their muscle fit Abercrombie & Fitch polos and Levi’s 505 straight jeans. That last part was thanks to me trying to be a good roommate and traded away his Levis 501 with a builder I knew. He had outgrown his own 505s and was happy to trade them for a pair of 501s as a gift for his sister. Jamie was still popular with the girls, as the best looking muscle dude, but the pool he drew from was subtly different and a bit smaller than he was used to. He still tried his best to project masculine confidence, which if anything should be easier with a more hulking body, but I could see the small changes in demeanor. He wasn’t confident anymore, perhaps even scared.

By the third week he was still growing, but less and less so the further down you got. Neck, traps, shoulders, biceps, pecs all added more and more muscle by the day. His mood went downhill, sometimes punching the concrete walls or throwing stuff, sometimes just crying into a pillow on his bed. He had completely stopped going to the gym, and by mid-week he wasn’t even eating. That didn’t put a dent in his ballooning upper body. He quickly resumed eating, and with a vengeance. By the end of the week there wasn’t a single shirt he owned he could button. None of the polos fit anymore, and so did barely any of the T-shirts. He only left the room wearing a sweatshirt or a hoodie with nothing under. While the fit was loose, it did nothing to hide the fact that his upper body was getting massive. His body movement signaled that far and wide. He didn’t walk like before, his arms didn’t swing like before, and he kept touching his pecs. When I asked he complained that they were sore all the time.

While inside our room he was always topless or just wearing a stringer, and I noticed that he was spending more and more time touching not only his pecs but his nipples as well. At times it looked and even sounded erotic. When I asked about it he first appeared bashful and embarrassed about it, but admitted his chest was getting more sensitive, and in particular his nipples.

By the fourth week I was starting to feel guilty about the whole thing. His hair had gone completely black, but no one had mentioned or perhaps even noticed that with the dramatic changes still happening in the rest of his body. The growth was now almost solely in his chest, making larger and larger pecs. The rate was still crazy high, though the effect was less and less noticeable day to day. If you add an inch a day, it matters less when you have a lot of them. They were all muscle, but unless he flexed them they jiggled like any other breasts, every step he took. So much so he never left the apartment without his under armour compression top to try to keep them in place. He only left the dorm for essentials. He still went to lectures, but even girls that had adored him before, slept with him even, now openly called him a freak. Some of the guys from the gym had started calling him “Mr. Legday” or “skippy”, alluding to his apparent obscene focus on chest muscles. Others openly mocked him by asking him if he needed milking, or just shouting “moo” when they saw him.

When I returned from class on Thursday he was sobbing uncontrollably on his back on the bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. He only lied on his back the past week and a half I’d noticed. It took some time to get him to open up, but apparently someone had put a sports bra in his backpack during class. He didn’t carry it on his back anymore, as the straps pushed his pecs together, so he was certain it was someone in his class. I tried to comfort him, telling him to ignore the bullies using platitudes like “They are probably just envious”. That was the wrong thing to say, as he looked my deep in my eyes, the most vulnerable I’ve ever seen him, and answered “It’s too small for me.”

Enough is enough. I walked into the stairwell and called mama. She was quick to answer. I went straight to the point, telling her that Jamie was breaking down, and that something had to be done. Her otherwise charming riddles of “The winter must come before the spring” felt tired. Jamie was a piece of shit, hopefully a recovering one, but it was my bedroom he was moping in. “I shall pray for an early winter. Perhaps he should cleanse himself.” A bath? Got it.

“Hey, Jamie! Go take a bath, will you? It’ll do you good.” He looked surprised, but didn’t argue, pulled on a hoodie that still fit, took a towel and went to the bathroom with the tub. Once he was out of view I carefully followed and sat outside, waiting. After 20 minutes I was bored with mobile games and was just about to leave when a roar unlike anything I’ve heard erupted from inside the bathroom. I leaped to my feet and tried the locked door to no use. I rapped on the door, asking if he was alright, but got no answer. I found a dime in my pocket, unlocked the door from the outside, and barged in.

There, on the side of the bathtub sat a man that only vaguely resembled Jamie. He was half a foot taller, even more muscled than before, and coffee bean black. Not just tanned, but of obvious African ethnicity, black, curly hair, wide nose, thick lips, and two massive, muscled, juicy man boobs weighing him down. When he saw me, he quickly grabbed the towel and hid what I glimpsed to be massive dick and balls. He didn’t say anything, but looked at me with a look of desperation. This was close to his worst nightmare.

I locked the door again and slowly sat down next to him. I reached to put my hand on his shoulder, but accidentally brushed his massive chest, and he let out a deep moan. He shifted ever so slightly away from me, embarrassed with himself, with his body that didn't obey him. I started running my thumb over his left nipple. His breathing got heavy and I could see the towel stir a bit. I started massaging his other nipple with my other hand. He didn’t make any new attempt to move away, and a new moan slipped his plump lips. “Is now a bad time to tell you I’m actually bisexual?” I asked him. I felt a massive arm starting to rub my back. “I was wrong,” he said with a deep voice. “About what?” I changed my hands positions, stroking the sides of his pecs. He tried to answer, but the new sensation turned it into another drawn out moan, before he made another attempt. “Black dudes have the biggest tits, bro” and his face turned into a big grin for the first time in weeks.

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