Morty Smith woke up different.
Not different like "I had a weird dream" different. Different like his spine had been replaced with rebar, his shoulders had broadened thirty centimeters overnight, and every muscle on his frame looked like it had been carved by a sculptor who was angry at marble. His jawline could cut glass. His abs were so deep you could lose change in them. And between his legs—Jesus Christ—hung a cock that belonged on a classical statue of Zeus on a bender: thick as a Red Bull can, veined like lightning, already half-hard and heavy even at rest. The thing swung when he walked. It had its own weather system.
He stared in the bathroom mirror for ten full minutes.
"W-what the hell did Rick do to me this time?" he whispered.
Rick's voice crackled through the house intercom like he'd been waiting for the line.
"Relax, Morty. Temporary Greek-god serum. Forty-eight-hour half-life. You're basically Apollo with better cardio and a porn-star dick now. Enjoy it. School's gonna be fun today."
Morty opened his mouth to protest, then looked down at the monster between his thighs and the way his thighs didn't even touch anymore because the quads were too big.
"…Okay."
He walked into Harry Herpson High like a myth that had accidentally wandered into a public high school.
The hallway went quiet. Phones came out. Mouths stayed open.
Jessica was the first one to actually speak. She dropped her calculus textbook. It hit the floor with a slap.
"Morty…?"
He turned. Six-foot-four now. Golden skin that somehow glowed under fluorescent lights. Eyes that used to be anxious and watery were now clear, piercing, predatory in a way that made her knees actually buckle.
"Hey, Jessica."
His voice had dropped almost an octave. Smooth. Confident. The stutter was gone.
She walked straight up to him, grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands, and kissed him like she was trying to climb inside his mouth. No preamble. No "are you okay?" Just tongue and desperation.
Morty picked her up—one arm under her ass, the other around her back—like she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist instantly. He carried her into the nearest empty classroom, kicked the door shut, and set her on the teacher's desk.
Clothes came off in seconds. Hers first—skirt hiked, panties yanked to the side. His jeans hit the floor and his cock sprang free, slapping against his abs with an audible thwack.
Jessica stared. "Holy… that's not… that can't fit."
"It will," Morty said, and the certainty in his voice made her whimper.
He lined up, rubbed the fat head along her slit once—twice—then pushed.
She screamed into his shoulder as the first six inches sank in. Her nails raked down his back. He didn't stop. Another slow, relentless thrust and he bottomed out, balls pressed tight against her ass. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth made a perfect little O.
Then he started fucking her.
Not tentative. Not careful. Deep, powerful strokes that made the entire desk screech across the tile. Every time he bottomed out her whole body jolted. Her tits bounced under her half-torn blouse. Wet slap-slap-slap sounds echoed off the chalkboard.
She came in under ninety seconds—shaking, squirting, crying his name like a prayer.
Morty didn't slow down. Didn't even pause. He fucked her through the orgasm, through the aftershocks, through the second one that hit three minutes later. Cum leaked out around his shaft in thick white rings every time he pulled back.
When he finally pulled out, his cock was glistening, still rock-hard, veins pulsing. Jessica slid off the desk onto her knees, dazed, legs trembling.
"More," she whispered. "Please."
He gave her one more load—deep in her throat while she gagged and moaned around him—then left her slumped against the desk, cum dripping from her chin and between her thighs, smiling like she'd seen God.
Word spread like wildfire.
By second period the girls' bathroom looked like a triage center for horny cheerleaders.
Tricia Yamamoto was next. She dragged him into the handicap stall, dropped to her knees, and tried to deep-throat him. She got maybe halfway before her eyes watered and she pulled off coughing. Morty grabbed her ponytail, guided her back down, and fucked her face until tears streamed and mascara ran in black rivers. When he came she swallowed what she could; the rest painted her face and tits like abstract art.
Summer Smith's best friend, Emily, ambushed him in the stairwell. Bent over the railing, skirt flipped up, begging. Morty fucked her standing, one hand around her throat, the other rubbing her clit until she screamed so loud the janitor downstairs thought someone was being murdered.
Third period he didn't even make it to class.
A group of six seniors—cheerleaders, theater girls, debate-team overachievers—cornered him in the AV room. They locked the door. Clothes hit the floor in a collective heap.
Morty sat on the edge of the media cart like a king on a throne. They took turns.
One rode him reverse cowgirl while another sat on his face. A third jerked him when he wasn't inside someone. The rest kissed him, sucked his nipples, licked his balls, fingered each other while they waited.
He fucked them in every combination the small room allowed.
Missionary on the floor. Doggy over the editing desk. Standing against the wall. Two at once—one on his cock, one grinding on his thigh while he fingered her. He ate pussy like he'd been starving for it his whole life. Tongued clits, sucked labia, fingered G-spots until they squirted on his chin.
He came six times. Each load was massive—thick ropes that overflowed cunts, painted tits, filled mouths. Not one drop went to waste. They licked it off each other. Off him. Off the floor.
By lunch the entire female half of the senior class knew.
The cafeteria became an orgy planning zone.
Morty walked in shirtless—his shirt had been torn off in the gym storage room twenty minutes earlier—and every girl at every table looked at him like prey that had just become predator.
He didn't eat lunch.
He fucked his way through the girls' locker room instead.
Track team. Volleyball. Softball. The entire swim team still smelled like chlorine. Wet skin sliding against wet skin. He fucked them in the showers, water pounding down, steam rising, moans echoing off tile.
Coach Johnson walked in, saw what was happening, blinked twice, muttered "I'm too old for this shit," and walked back out.
By final bell Morty had lost count.
Thirty? Forty? More?
Every girl who wanted him got him. Some more than once. Some in groups. Some crying from overstimulation while begging for one more round.
His stamina never faltered.
His cock never softened.
He came again and again—inside, on faces, across asses, down throats—until the halls smelled like sex and sweat and expensive body spray.
When the last bell rang, he walked out the front doors still shirtless, jeans barely zipped, cock still semi-hard and glistening under the denim. A trail of girls followed him like ducklings—some limping, some glowing, all smiling like they'd been given a religious experience.
Jessica caught up to him on the sidewalk. She could barely walk straight.
"Morty… what happened to you?"
He turned. Smiled. That new, confident, golden smile.
"Rick."
She laughed, shaky. "Of course."
He leaned down, kissed her softly—gentle this time.
"Tomorrow I'll probably be normal again," he said. "But today… today was kinda nice."
She grabbed his hand. Squeezed.
"Tomorrow you're still buying me coffee, Greek god or not."
Morty laughed—clear, deep, no stutter.
"Deal."
Behind them, the school slowly emptied. Phones were already uploading videos. Rumors were spreading faster than light.
And somewhere in the garage, Rick watched the security feed, took a long pull from his flask, and muttered:
"Kid's finally growing some balls. Literally."
The multiverse kept spinning.
But for one perfect afternoon in one nothing-dimension high school, Morty Smith had become legend.