Peoplechange 2: The Client

by BRK   

When a man with a reality-changing gift makes a living creating beautiful men, the real rush comes from the ones who want even more.

My bloodline has an interesting tradition. Some families, you inherit professions. Others, you inherit privilege and entitlement. Ours? In our family, on the exact second you’ve been on the planet for two full decades, you inherit an intricately thin twisted-vine tattoo just above the knuckle of your right wrist-bone—and, with it, the eldritch ability to nudge the warp of human reality a bit with a few well-chosen words.

It’s not everyone in the family tree, thankfully, not that we’re terribly prolific. The gift tends to devolve on one or two random scions in each generation. I was the first Bàrrach in fifteen years to get it, and none of my cousins’ progeny exited their teen years with so much as a single leaf on their wrists, much to everyone’s confusion. Cousin Alfred, who hates me, thinks it’s something I’ve done, but (as I’ve told him many times) using the mark on itself and its operations is quite impossible; otherwise, the more avaricious or guilt-ridden of my ancestors would have wished it on all their kids or out of existence, respectively. My personal theory is that there’s a branch of the family tree that no one knows about and that doesn’t know about us—the bastard descendants of my libertine of a great-grandfather, perhaps—and that someday I’ll happen across a young, long-lost kinsman with a tattoo on his wrist and a gift he can’t explain. That will be an interesting day.

So what do I do with my gift? Well, I do what most of us Bàrrachs end up doing, one way or another: I make the world prettier. We can’t change the human condition—I mean, obviously, look around you—but we’re an aesthetic lot, and there does seem to be a shared impulse to make the reality around us a bit nicer to look at.

Case in point. I was in my London office one day—I trade as a very exclusive plastic surgeon, as a cover if you will, even if I’ve never actually picked up a scalpel—when my nude assistant, the one who looked exactly like Michelangelo’s David (if rather better endowed), stepped into the room. “Doctor Bàrrach?” he said, in the very pleasant Scottish lilt I’d given him. “Your one o’clock is here.”

I smiled warmly at him, which, thanks to certain tweaks to my appearance and its effects on others, caused him to blush with pleasure. “Thank you, William. You can send him in,” I said.

William withdrew, happy for the chance to interact with me, and I had a moment alone. I stood, nude, like William, and adjusted my erection to that it was exactly vertical, the wide, impressive head pushing hard into my sternum. I hadn’t gone crazy with my own body, for the most part. On receiving the mark eighteen years previously I had decisively adapted my form to meet my own standards of physical beauty, i.e. tall, broad-shouldered, fluidly-muscled, defined in a way that said “godly” rather than “bouncer”; and I’d been content to leave it that way, more or less. But even before I got the gift I was convinced that my erect penis was nothing short of a work of art: long and wide, with an elegant flair, traced with fine lines of red and purple and ending in a perfectly symmetrical ring of foreskin, like a crown on the sloping, scarlet, cum-spitting head.

And, well, works of art are meant to be seen, aren’t they? Over the years I’ve played with the size, the amount of spend, its magnetic allure, even the sensitivity; but I’ve never altered its classic proportions, whether its damp head nudged my navel, or, my collarbone, or, as now, the exact center of my chest, pressed between the firm swells of my comparatively demure and understated pectorals as though the smooth runway of my sternum was made to be nothing more than a resting place for the loveliest cockslit in all of Britain.

My one o’clock stepped in, closing the door behind him. He was a celebrity I had had before, a very handsome man with fashionable stubble and a tailored gray suit that tastefully suggested the remarkable physique beneath I’d helped him acquire. You’d recognize his real name, I’m sure; but this story isn’t really about him, so I’ll just call him The Client for now.

The Client approached me and stuck out his hand, using it to stroke my tall, beautiful erection in lieu of a handshake as was absolutely normal in my case. I smiled, and when his bold appreciation of my most favorite work of art caused a spurt of cum to issue from my stately pillar of a cock I nodded permission for him to lap up the sweet, gooey produce of his touch. He grinned and eagerly complied, bending to lick up the thick, tasty liquid, while I enjoyed the exquisite brush of his soft stubble on my most sensitive expanse of flesh. When he rose, his perfect lips, literally made to be stared at the silver screen, were artfully glazed with my personal spend; but before I could offer to kiss it off him he drew his thumb across his lips and then popped it in, savoring the last bit of my flavor.

Pleased by the compliment, I gestured to the two armchairs positioned in front of the large window-wall overlooking the city, and we sat comfortably, me leaning back a little to enjoy the peasant weight of my permanent erection against my chest. It was like a heavy, steel torpedo that erupted with torrential semen anytime I liked. “What can I do for you, then?” I asked.

The Client licked his lips, whether in nervousness or to chase the taste of me I wasn’t sure. “The thing is, Doctor Bàrrach, I have a favor to ask,” he began. His voice was one designed, by me, to tug at your desires, and I hadn’t made myself immune, either, wanting to enjoy my own handiwork. “That treatment you gave me, the one that made me so—”

“Ripped?” I suggested, amused. My clients seem to know anything is possible with me, even if it shouldn’t be, but they don’t question it; everyone goes home thinking I performed some kind of in-office ‘procedure’ that accomplished exactly what they craved. This comely young stud had come to me three months back wanting to be thirty pounds heavier with hard, perfectly-chiseled action-hero muscle. As it turned out he was desperate to break into superhero films—shortsighted, maybe, given the pendulum swings of Hollywood, but there was no judgment from me. I was happy to add a bit more masculine beauty to the world.

He smiled, admiring his bicep as his flexed it under the fabric of his tailored suit. “I still not sure how it worked, but—” He looked up at me with a grin. “—it sure worked. I walked out of here a new man. Hell, I signed the contract for Dark Justice the same week.”

I’d seen that movie. He’d spent a lot of time in it with his shirt off, as my actor clients tended to do, and to great effect. I do nice work, if I do say so myself, and so did that cinematographer. Even the chest hair was perfect, artful without being extreme, all in flat swirls across those curved, sun-toasted mounds of idyllic pectoral splendor. Having that half-naked, moodily-lit, hair-painted loveliness splashed on all our screens for millions to see and re-see (and admire and beat off to) definitely accomplished my long-term goals to a tee. “And?” I prompted.

He bit his movie-poster lips again. “I want it again,” he said in a rush.

My hard-on flexed, pushing another spurt of hot pleasure-goo onto my godly chest, but The Client didn’t seem to notice. “Again,” I repeated blandly, feigning a nonchalance I certainly didn’t feel. I loved this part.

“Another thirty pounds? Is it… possible?” he begged. Now that his secret desire was out, he was becoming more shameless.

I shivered, experiencing the edges of actual orgasm without letting myself fall into it.

The rush made me unable to speak for a moment. The Client, mistaking this for reluctance, looked distressed. “I’ll pay!” he blurted out, leaning toward me. “I’ll pay extra!”

I almost said, “Pfft! Money,” because truly I did not need any kind of remuneration other than the deeply pleasurable—indeed, for me, erotic—chance to twist the reality of my clients toward greater and greater attractiveness. But I’ve found that not accepting money confuses them, and not being able to put their finger on exactly what I’d done for them was already a nubbin in their brains, thanks to the standing reality-shift I’d done early on that no one who had a “procedure” remembered what had happened in this room while we were standing on the big Persian rug together.

Instead, I smiled reassuringly. “Well, then,” I said finally. “You know what to do.”

The Client jumped up with a grin, instantly pulling off his suit coat as he moved to the open center of the room and tossing it on a side-table there before working on his Stefano Ricci leather Oxfords, adopting the awkward one-legged crane shoe-removal pose for maximum expedition. I followed slowly, relishing his excitement and need.

This was the most thrilling part of what I do, and the one that I honestly hadn’t seen coming: my clients, the ones that come to me to become sexier, gorgeouser, masculiner—they always want more. Not all of them have the balls to come to me a second time, but they want to, and when they do the rush is indescribable.

It doesn’t matter what the change is. I had a celebrity restauranteur. He was very hot, smoldering even, the perfect Italian beauty; but he was self-conscious about being shorter than everyone. He was tired of being 5-foot-7. He wanted to be taller, and he didn’t question that I could make it happen. He wanted six inches—and who doesn’t, one way or another? So I did my thing and told him, “When you leave this room you will be 6-foot-1,” feeling the gentle vibration under my feet that came with the use of my mark. And he was. He loved it. He was truly impressive at that height, in all his TV and social media work, a real Adonis in a white chef’s coat and toque. He was more visible than ever, literally and figuratively, and the world was once again a more beautiful place.

And then… at some point he realized he was yearning to be even taller. The fact that we had made this notional thing happen, that this fantasy was made real, unlocked an impossible thing and made it possible. It planted a seed in him. He wanted it again.

He came back to me. “Six more inches, doc. Please.” I temporized, wanting to see how he would react. I told him I was booked solid. The gentle push-back only made the need build in him.

Finally he showed up without an appointment, his considerable erection obvious in his thousand-dollar suit. “Please. I gotta be taller!”

I gave in. I made him taller. And as he left, a 6-foot-7 god, I could see it in his eyes. He already wanted more. It was just a yen, and maybe that was all it would be… or maybe it would build and grow as he lusted after even greater height, even more inches, and 6-foot-7 wouldn’t be as perfect for him as 7-foot-1, or even more. There was always more, somehow.

Then there was the public relations golden boy who couldn’t stop thinking about his thick, ruler-straight 9-inch cock and how much he accomplished letting it get sucked by anyone who wanted something from him. What if it were bigger, tastier, more suckable? Now, as a freebie I usually include a substantial cock boost as a tacit part of my services, because, hey, I’m making the world nicer to look at and be in. Just drinking my cum grows your cock—I’d seen to that early on, and honestly over the years that and a few stray remarks I’ve made while I was mildly inebriated have probably raised the average prick size in my part of the world by a considerable margin.

But this guy wanted a real upgrade, a full 14 inches of sweet, fellatable suck-meat. I obliged, not without a little give and take in the negotiations. He left with an upgrade in irresistibility he hadn’t asked for or known he’d gotten and, most impressively, an unstoppable erection that was instantly the talk of the P.R. world. His business boomed, his rep soared. And then—six months later I ran into him at this all-star event he’d wrangled, and at the first opportunity he pulled me aside into a corner and whispered in my ear, “What are the chances you could do it again?” Fuck, I’d nearly cum all over his Armani tux. Desire was a potent thing in the universe,

And now, this guy. A sexy devil, propelled to A-lister by 14 kilos of exquisitely crafted cum-in-your pants muscle, and it wasn’t enough—the proof being the clothes he was flinging off in my consulting room, gleefully impatient to get even hotter. He was already almost naked, and as I approached he was yanking off his boxer briefs to reveal a very, very hard cock.

I took a moment to admire it as he straightened before me. I had taken the liberty of improving it retroactively, so he’d always been a gently-curved 11 inches with a thickness than might daunt the, er, less adventurous. He barely paid it any attention, though. As he looked down at himself it was his firm pecs that caught his eye, and his fuzzy eight-pack washboard abs, and his gymnast’s arms and shoulders, and the legs that looked sleek and tireless—the total package, really. He looked up at me, eyes shining, his bared toes wiggling against the red fabric of my “procedure zone,” the large, expensive blue and gold Persian rug that magically stayed perfectly clean despite all the vast amounts of cum that had rained down on it over the years.

The Client was now watching me watch him. “I’m ready, Doc,” he said.

I took a step closer. “Very well,” I said, and spoke a truth. “Today, every time you make me orgasm, drinking my cum will give you ten more pounds of perfectly sculpted aesthetic muscle.” I felt the pleasant thrum of my power, making what I had said a fact of the reality I lived in.

Those movie-star blues glinted like I’d given him a challenge. “And what if I make you cum four times, Doc?”

His brazen need charged me up with so much hot, roiling pleasure, I wasn’t sure he couldn’t make it happen. This kind of lust for my growth kind of made me lose a modicum of control. “You’re welcome to try,” I rasped. I was already close to giving him his first dose, but I’d still make him work for it.

“Yeah?” He moved closer, holding my gaze, his alluring voice twisting in my guts. His hands found my cock, stroking with one hand while he blatantly collected cum to lube himself up with the other. I spurted again, giving him more, instantly riding the edge of full-on release. “And what if I want one of these, too?” he asked, caressing my giant shaft with his palm.

Balls, he was pressing all my buttons. Did he know it? “That would be—unh—a separate procedure,” I got out. “A s-series of procedures, actually.”

He smiled. “Sounds like a plan for the future,” he said. “Now, turn around, Doc, and let’s make both of us happy.”

I grinned, and as I turned I mused that I was certainly going be adding a fuck-ton of beauty to the world today. Ten pounds at a time—with, of course, a few secret extras thrown in, because that’s the kind of man-hunk altered-reality connoisseur I am.

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