"Michael Holster, swim team?" Craig thought, confused. He wondered who would steal his uniform and why would they leave someone else's uniform in its place? He didn't recognize the name, Michael Holster, but Craig didn't exactly run in the same social circles as the swim team. In truth, he didn't run in any social circles at all.
He padded around, barefoot and dripping, shouting "Hello" in hopes of finding someone who might help him, but the locker room was otherwise empty. Realizing he couldn't go to his next class wrapped in a towel, he decided to put on the stranger's uniform and go in search of its rightful owner. As long as the clothes were roughly his size, he wouldn't look too odd. After all, isn't the whole point of uniforms that they all look alike?
Craig held up the white shirt and was relieved that it was roughly his size, only broader in the shoulders and looser. It made sense that someone on the swim team would have more developed muscles than Craig's anemic frame. He struggled to put on the black trousers, as the waistband was too small. Craig considered himself skinny, but this Michael had a waistline two inches slimmer. Craig stretched the leather belt as far as he could, eventually snagging the first notch in the buckle. The fabric pinched his skin, and he couldn't pull the zipper all the way to the top. He realized that Michael must also be a bit taller than him, as a few inches of fabric pooled around Craig's ankles. Craig put on socks and then slipped into Michael's black shoes, which swallowed Craig's bony feet easily. Michael must have quite the pair of flippers to be able to fit into these boats, Craig thought.
Craig pulled the school's red sweatshirt over his head and stretched his arms through the baggy sleeves. He checked himself in the mirror, brushing a hand through his damp hair and shrugging. It wasn't a terrible fit, but he definitely looked like a kid trying on his older brother's outfit. He walked out of the locker room and headed for lunch, anticipating that he would get guff from his schoolmates for the way he was dressed.
Craig shuffled through the cafeteria, pant cuffs dragging along the floor and gathering dust. He felt exceptionally hungry for some reason and loaded his tray with chicken and potatoes and fresh fruit for dessert. He took his usual seat at a table at the fringe of the room, where no one ever bothered him. As he dug into his meal, he scanned the room for anyone tall and athletic who might be wearing a uniform that was a smidge too tight, but everyone he saw seemed appropriately attired.
Craig wolfed down his food so that he would still have time to ask around about this Michael Holster before his next class began. He made his way to the headmaster's office, where he asked the lady at the front desk if she could tell him which class Michael Holster would have next. When the woman looked at him suspiciously and asked why he was asking, Craig said, "I found something of his and I have to return it."
The woman begrudgingly interrupted her lunch and did a search on her computer before announcing "Maths with Mr. Hastings." Craig was surprised; that was his next class too, but he could swear he had never heard of anyone called Michael Holster in that class. He thanked the woman and headed to Mr. Hastings' classroom, planning to wait at the door and observe the arriving classmates, hoping he would spot someone in an ill-fitting uniform and tell him of the mix-up.
Craig was too fixated on the waistlines and pant cuffs of his male classmates to notice the strange looks he was getting for his behavior and wardrobe. He was growing increasingly frustrated, amazed that not a single boy even had a slightly high-water hemline. He lingered outside the door until class was about to start, when he heard Mr. Hastings call out from inside the classroom, "Michael."
Craig spun around excitedly, his eyes scanning the room to see who the teacher was addressing -- only to discover that everyone in class was staring toward the door. Mr. Hastings spoke again. "Michael Holster, will you take your seat?" Craig turned and realized to his shock that the teacher was speaking directly to him.
Craig's knees buckled and he braced himself against the frame of the door to prevent himself from falling. Why was his teacher calling him Michael Holster? He realized that some of his classmates were snickering as they looked his way.
Hastings approached him with concern, placing a hand on Craig's shoulder. "Are you feeling okay, Michael? You look pale." Craig tried to speak, but the words dried up in his throat. He gazed at Mr. Hastings, open-mouthed and mystified. "Perhaps you should see the nurse," the teacher suggested. Glassy-eyed, Craig nodded weakly and turned away, staggering down the hallway, his head swimming. The moment he reached the nurse's office, he passed out in the doorway.
The next thing he was aware of was the pungent scent of smelling salts. Craig was sprawled out on the examining table in the school nurse's office with a cold cloth on his forehead. His eyelids fluttered open and he saw the prim nurse hovering over him with a furrowed brow. "You took quite a tumble," she informed him. "Did you skip lunch?"
Craig cleared his throat and said, "No, ma'am." Craig found it strange how low his voice sounded all of a sudden as it rumbled from his chest. He tried to raise himself up on his elbows but was still too weak, dropping back onto the table.
"Well, I know how you boys can get when you have a meet coming up," the nurse chided him. "You get so focused on your training that you don't take proper care of yourself." She placed a bendy straw in a bottle of Gatorade and brought it to his lips, instructing him to take a sip. "We need to get your electrolytes up."
Before Craig could object, the straw had been wedged between his parched lips. As he sucked down the liquid, he realized that he did feel a bit dehydrated. No wonder he had been feeling so out of sorts. After a few glugs, he felt refreshed enough to take the bottle in his hand and sit up on the exam table. He rubbed his forehead wearily, then slid his palm over his scalp, its skin cool to his touch.
Craig's eyes widened and the Gatorade bottle fell from his grasp, bouncing on the floor and splashing its contents onto the nurse's shoes. Craig leapt off the table and rushed toward a full-length mirror on the wall. His pale head was now shaved completely bald. He spun around and manically demanded that the nurse tell him, "What did you do to my hair?"
The nurse was taken aback by the boy's urgency. "I didn't do anything. Isn't that what you boys do to get better speed in the pool?"
Craig felt certain he was losing his mind. Why did this woman think he was on the swim team? Had she seen the "Michael Holster, swim team" label on this stranger's uniform he was wearing and just assumed that's who he was? He clutched at the red sweater and realized it now hugged his body tightly. He grasped at his belt and discovered that his pants now seemed a perfect fit. He looked back at the mirror for reassurance, and found some comfort that he still recognized his blue eyes and average facial features, even if they looked strange without his usual thatch of brown hair above them.
"I think...I need...to go home," he said weakly to the nurse.
She nodded that it was probably a good idea that he get some rest. "You'll probably feel like a new person in the morning!"
As Craig shuffled out of the office, he muttered to himself, "Or even sooner."
He walked the streets home in a daze, glancing at his reflection in every store window he passed, not used to seeing himself bald as a billiard ball. His limbs flailed as he walked, gangly and awkward, although he realized as he climbed the final hill that he didn't feel as winded as he usually did when he reached home.
He let himself in to the quiet house. His parents were at work and, as usual, would probably not be home until late. He considered calling his mother and asking for her help, but he honestly didn't know what he could say to her. He knew his folks would give him grief about his shaved head. They'd probably think he had joined a skinhead gang or something. And what could he say? "I just woke up like this?" What parent would believe that?
Craig made it to his room, where he collapsed heavily on his bed, to the loud complaint of the box spring. He attempted to kick off his black shoes, but they were tightly laced around his long feet. He thought about sitting up and untying them, but it felt like too much effort. His head sunk back onto the cool of his pillow and, in a matter of seconds, he had dropped off to sleep.
The late afternoon sun shone through the window and warmed his face as he slowly woke up, feeling refreshed. He knew exactly what would revive him: a nice hot shower. He sat up on his sagging mattress and extracted himself from his school sweater, then unbuttoned his crisp white shirt which contrasted nicely with his evenly tanned skin. At first, he had felt strange about going to a tanning spa, but his teammates convinced him that, if you're going to be nearly naked in front of the whole school, you ought to look as good as possible. He grimaced at the dark hairs he noticed springing up from his broad chest and the treasure trail snaking toward his belt buckle and knew he would have to deal with them in the shower. He unbuckled the belt around his admirably trim waistline and wriggled free of his black pants, his perfectly toned legs feeling liberated in the open air. Looked like his arms and legs had an overdue appointment with the razor as well.
He loved when his parents weren't home, so he could luxuriate in a long steamy shower without them giving him shit about wasting water. He grabbed a fresh blade for his razor and a full package of shaving cream, stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain behind him. He lathered up his powerful pecs first and delicately shaved away the hair, being extra careful as he circumnavigated his nipples. He slid his palm over his smooth chest approvingly before sudsing up his taut abs. He made quick work of his treasure trail, then set about shaving his pubes. When he first joined the swim team, he had left his pubic hair untouched, since it was tucked inside his swimsuit and would have no effect on his friction in the water. But once he got used to shaving the rest of his body, it only seemed natural to go the full monty. Besides, his monster cock looked even more impressive without being surrounded by a distracting nest of curls.
As usual at this point in his shaving routine, he set down the razor and hoisted his dick in his palm. It flopped about, seven turgid inches, and he closed his eyes, smiling as he thought about the girls at the swim meets cheering him on. He knew they couldn't resist checking out the hefty bulge in his Speedo. He prided himself on having the most impressive package on the squad. If he weren't so focused on the meet, the knowledge that all those girls (and some of the boys) were sizing him up would probably give him such a hard-on, it would be in danger of bursting free from its spandex prison. Here, in the privacy of the shower, he could let his fantasies run wild, and his cock grew to its full eleven-inch glory before battering the shower curtain with volleys of cream.
When it came time to shave his legs, he took a seat on the edge of the tub. He'd become so adept at the process that it had become a standard part of his seduction routine to offer to shave a date's legs for her. Every girl he had tried it on had complimented him on his delicate, masterful touch. When he was particularly persuasive, the shaving continued northward from the legs.
At the end of twenty minutes, he stepped out of the tub, his fingers and toes fully pruned. He toweled himself dry from head to toe, then wiped clear a circle on the foggy mirror to shave his face. His sharp-angled cheekbones and deep-cleft chin presented particular challenges, so he tended to let the stubble grow thick between meets and in the off-season. With a few days growth and his dark brown eyes, he could pass as a dead ringer for Jason Statham, although at six-three, the strapping young swimmer would tower over the considerably shorter actor.
He walked back into his bedroom and lay down on the bed nude, allowing himself to air dry. There would be plenty of time to get dressed before his parents got home, although even then he usually wore little more than square-cut trunks and a muscle shirt around the house. He worked hard on his body and wasn't ashamed to show it off. He interlaced his fingers and placed them behind his head as he lay back on his pillow. His massive feet dangled over the end of the bed, the propulsion from their absurd length providing the secret weapon in his success in the pool. He stared at the ceiling, where he had posters of Michael Phelps and Tom Daley thumbtacked for inspiration. A broad smile grew across the young man's lips as he imagined himself following their examples and making it to the Olympics. He already had plans for a tattoo of the Olympic rings, located directly above the base of his cock.
"Damn," thought Michael Holster as he closed his eyes, "it's good to be me."