God mode

by BRK

 Usually in video games, “god mode” is a way for programmers to test features and bug fixes without having to go the long way around. Sometimes, though, it’s exactly what it says on the tin.

Added: Apr 2021 Updated: 17 Sep 2022 5,430 words 11,618 views 4.5 stars (25 votes) Parts of this story were commissioned via Patreon Vignette Party.


“Install game in god mode?”

I frowned at the screen. I could be at the beach today—it was beautiful weather, and us lazy trust-fund kids are supposed to goof off en masse whenever possible—but I had set aside the weekend to play the very expensive and long-awaited WorldController 3 premium plus edition, knowing that my cute-but-boring junior-stockbroker roommate was away until Monday on a business trip. And now I was wondering if the whole thing was going to be huge let down before I even started gameplay. I mean, we were almost all the way through the installation, and now it was asking me about god mode? This must be a beta—no game ever lets its players run god mode, that was for developers only. Fuck, was this game even finished?

God mode was probably boring, too, but… well, I was kind of curious to see what I could mess around with in the game. I clicked yes.

Finally, the installation finished and the setup screen loaded. There were a ton of bells and whistles that weren’t there in WorldController 2, including screens where you could alter the available languages the characters could speak in-game, or the range of colors in the visible spectrum in-universe, that kind of thing. The biggest expansion, though was a series of screens called the Genome Control Panel.

I leaned back in my gamer chair with a smile. I liked it when I had a say what baseline normals looked like in universe. I could make the ordinary human in-game look as freaky as I wanted! As I moved through the screens, looking at the available options, I’ll admit I was a little turned on by all the possibilities.

On the left half of my monster ultrasize screen, a typical human came up. The level of detail and rendering was both fast and amazingly lifelike—I could have been watching a live HD video feed. I switched the avatar to male, because, yeah, and zoomed in on the head, clicking on the ears to start with. I tested the graphics interface by clicking on the top of the ear and dragging up just a little. The ear responded easily, changing shape as I pulled. Awesome. I dragged the ear up just a little more, making them noticeably but demurely pointed without going all the way to full Spock.

Wow, even the base avatar with the bland “human average” face looked damn sexy with his ears a little pointy like that. I was half-hard just imagining meeting up with him in real life. I clicked on his dark hair, which was trimmed fairly short on the sides, and pulled down. The hair dutifully grew out in response to my dragging the mouse, lengthening just enough to hide the ears with the point poking gently through.

Fuck, that was hot. I was all the way hard now. I might not even get around to actual gameplay—this human baseline manipulator was amazing.

My brain was on fire with things I wanted to check out, so I adjusted myself in my jeans and went to zoom back out to the full avatar. Before it shifted views, however, two screens flashed on the right side of the screen. One said “Ear Configuration” and had statistics on how common the current configuration—gently pointed—was out of 1,000. I grinned and changed the vanishingly low decimal in the box to 1,000. Everyone in my world would have these! That would make for very sexy gameplay. I clicked “OK” and the “Ear Configuration” screen cleared. The second box was headed “Hair Growth” and underneath were options for “Grow everyone’s hair by 1.5 inches”, “Increase baseline hair growth speed”, and “No changes”. I clicked the first one, because I like shaggy hair on guys and I really liked this look the avatar had at the moment. I clicked “OK” and that screen cleared, too.

Before I could go back to the avatar, though, another box popped up asking how I wanted to apply changes: “Partial (In-Game)” or “Full”? Well, I didn’t want only part of the population in the game universe to have (gently) pointed ears—I wanted it to be everyone in game. I clicked on “Full” to apply to the entire game universe, then checked the very useful “Don’t ask me again” box they had at the bottom of the screen. At the bottom was “Apply” and “Cancel”. I clicked on “Apply”. Finally, that screen was gone, too.

I started making more changes as they occurred to me. I kind of lost track of what I was doing and acted like I was fine-tuning and augmenting to the avatar rather than the population. Specifying a number out of a thousand each time felt like a hassle, though, so I found a default settings screen (which already had “Full” application and “Apply without prompting” as my preferences), and saw there was a setting to define the default population distribution of any changes I made along a fine-tuning slide bar with labels along the side like “Extremely rare”, “Rare”, “Not Uncommon”, “Normal”, and “Universal”. I set the bar to “Normal” and pretty much forgot about it.

I made a whole bunch of adjustments I thought would be hot to see in the game, applying them to my avatar and getting more and more turned on. I made him a few inches taller, more handsome, gave him a fitness model build… then I got my freak on and added two extra fingers to each hand and two toes to each foot, with all the digits a little longer, too. When that applied, and my handsome, naked, sculpted beauty was just casually standing there with hands loaded up with nice long fingers that looked like they were multiplying right there on his hands, I very nearly came in my pants.

I had to do it. I clicked on the avatar’s dick. I stared at it for a second, my little brain slightly melted with everything this game was letting me do—I was not thinking straight at all in any sense of the word. Then I dragged it longer, then dragged it thicker, then dragged it longer again. Then, my mouth dry with anticipation and excitement, I option-dragged that big, thick, soft cock to the right and released. Whoompf—two footlong-soft, extra-fat cocks. I swear to god, when I saw that I actually did cum in my pants. I applied the change and zoomed back out, panting at the amazing avatar I’d created from deep within the most luscious spontaneous afterglow I could remember—not that I could even recollect my name at that particular moment.

My email pinged loudly, startling me and making my already racing heart jump in my chest a little. I decided to take a break from the game setup—geez, I was still in setup!—and figured I’d check my email while I calmed down. I reached for the mouse to switch programs, tracking my hand because I was still floating from my very intense orgasm, and froze, staring at my hand… my hand, with the two extra fingers that had not been there before.

No way. No way!

With my other hand I slowly reached up to touch my ear. The upper tip, which was gently, demurely pointed, was just poking through my shaggier-than-before hair. I turned off my monitor to see my reflection. I was still me, still ginger and freckly, but I was better-looking enough that I kind of wanted to make out with the face I saw in my darkened monitor. The bottom of the screen also showed just the tops of bulging shoulders under my black, worn-out old Nsync tee, which (I glanced down) was rather tight across the chest all of a sudden…

My email pinged again, startling me a second time. Moving on automatic I turned my monitor back on and switched to my mail app.

There were three messages from GLplay, the manufacturers of WorldController, the subject lines all shrieking “URGENT! Do not install WorldController 3p+!” and “Link to patched version enclosed—download immediately!”

I understood instantly. Just as I had suspected at the outset, what I had wasn’t supposed to be out in production—but not for the reason I had thought. They didn’t want anyone else to have God Mode. And I could understand where they were coming from because I didn’t want anyone else to have it either. I might be too freaked to use it again, but I sure didn’t want anyone else mucking around with the source code for my entire reality.

Quickly I went back to the game. I knew there was a page where you could enter arbitrary commands to affect the game environment, because I’d already used it to normalize casual male shirtlessness, casual gay attraction between men, and casual caresses and kissing between guys who were attracted to each other, because fuck yeah I wanted to see all of that in the game. I found the screen and typed in the text box: IN THE SETUP AND GAMEPLAY OF THIS GAME, USER1 IS IDENTICAL WITH and then entered my name and address, and my social for good measure, and clicked “Apply”. No error messages, so I knew that was accepted. Then I typed, ONLY USER1 HAS OR KNOWS ABOUT GOD MODE IN THIS GAME. EVERYONE ELSE WHO KNEW PERMANENTLY FORGOT ABOUT IT 20 MINUTES AGO. I clicked “Apply” and stared at the screen, heart pounding. No error messages. It must have gone through, right?

I switched back to the mail app.

The frantic messages from GLplay were gone. Completely gone. Not in junk, not in deleted, just gone.

Like they had never been sent.

I felt back in my chair, head spinning. The screen seemed to go out of focus, along with everything else. I could not even piece two thoughts together. The only thing that even sparked any awareness in my confused brain was the fact that my crotch was getting cold, because I had shot a major load in my pants. Though weirdly the mess was not on the middle but way off to the left, toward the side of my hip…

Slowly I looked down at my lap. Visible and prominent in my beat-up old jeans were two huge sausage-shaped bulges, outlining the perfectly normal twin footlong cocks I was packing along the crease of my hip. Presently they were half-hard, and twitching like they wanted to bone up again, so footlong didn’t even describe them at the moment because just now they were even bigger than that.

Just then I heard the lock turning. Impulsively I saved the game, closed it, and shut down. Just as the screen went black my junior stockbroker roommate, Ben, burst through the door and dropped his suitcases in disgust. “I got all the way to the airport, and then the CEO rescheduled for next month at the last minute,” he griped.

I was busy noting his gently pointed ears, more obvious than mine since he still had a very neat trim (though it was still a little long for him, probably by about an inch and a half). But then he then proceeded to rip off his comfy-looking teal polo shirt like it was made of itchy or something and tossed it over his suitcase, revealing a body that should have been in front of a professional photographer’s camera or modeling enormously expensive swimwear in a runway in Milan. “That’s better,” he said, relieved. My eyes drifted down some more and stopped. The bulge in the chinos he was wearing was shaped to suggest careful packing and compression, but I could tell it was way more than twice as big as it would have been before.

Ben came over and bent down and happily me a deep, sloppy kiss—with tongue—before moving past me toward the kitchen, sliding a many-fingered hand along my naturally bulging shoulders as he did so. I turned and stared at him as he pulled a beer out of the fridge and screwed the top off with one finger-festooned hand, holding it in the other as he tipped it up and took a long swig. He set the bottle on the counter and grinned. “We should order in tonight,” he suggested. “And tomorrow I want to do something completely stress-free, like going to the beach and ogling guys in Speedos or something.”

A grin spread across my face. “Sounds like a plan. Uh, you order, I just gotta take a shower.”

“Will do.” He glanced down at my chest and shook his head. “Man, I gotta start hiding your tee shirts, though. Pecs like that should be free and unconstrained.”

He might be right about that, I thought. Actually, wearing a tee shirt did feel kind of strange, come to think of it. Ben picked up his phone and started thumbing through the food ordering app, and I grabbed my chance to get up and book it out of the room without him clocking the mess in my pants.

I left the game alone for a long time after that, as I was having plenty of fun without needing to make any more changes. And when I did come back to it—ah, but that’s a story for another day.

The most unexpected side effect of the changes to the world I’d accidentally made playing WorldController 3 premium plus edition in god mode? It’s a tough call, but I’d say it’s how it being normal guys having two dicks now somehow made it so that hot dogs always come in pairs, too. I mean, I’d always tacitly assumed sausages were phallic, hot dogs especially, but seeing two long, thick wieners crammed into every extra-wide hot dog bun at every cookout and ball game really made it incredibly blatant. Actually most things you’d think were phallic now had two shafts instead of one, especially in architecture. (Including the Swiss Re Gherkin… and the Washington Monument. Proof, at last! Not that there’s anyone I can tell.) Any old-fashioned column-shaped tombstones were doubled now, too. I read up on it, and apparently it goes all the way back to bifurcated ancient memorial steles in Etruria, Mesoamerica, and Xia-era China. Art, too, of course, was profusely affected. Everything from the naked heroes on Grecian urns to Michelangelo’s David had two distinct, decent-sized wangs.

Actually there was another upshot of normalizing two big, heavy dicks that was completely unexpected and took me a while to cotton onto, which was the fact that what I’d actually made universal was the possibility, and the likelihood, of dick multiplicity. It wasn’t that every guy had two dicks—just that it was normal for a guy to have two. Because, as I discovered very quickly, in the revised world I’d created a guy might have one, or three, or six. I think I read on Wikipedia that 73% of guys had two phallusus (the average length soft, I noticed, coming out suspiciously close to exactly 12 inches), with maybe ten percent each for one dick or three, and outlier populations with more or, in a few rare cases, none. In the past six months, out of the ten or so premium-hot hookups I’d fucked around with there had been at least two rakish, self-sure triple-cocked guys—and one tall, skinny, adorably bashful guy with four big ones that he couldn’t manage to get soft the whole weekend we were messing around.

Weirdly, this spread in the dick-count demography was in pretty stark contrast to the multifinger thing, which as far as I could tell was totally uniform in its presentation worldwide. Everyone had six fingers and a thumb, period, and everyone had fourteen toes, too. That was just, you know, baseline human, like the subtly pointed ears we all had. Polydactyl guys with more than seven digits a hand were in the category of urban legend and questionable online videos, though I’d seen the rare clips featuring these ten-fingers-a-hand families in Mexico and India that seemed pretty credible.

The biggest changes were probably cultural. My stipulations in the game, that most guys be attractive, and that casual kissing and touching between men who were attracted to each other be a routine thing, had not surprisingly mashed up and resulted (men being as they are) in a new normal that involved pretty regular man-on-man kissing and ongoing tactile contact. Deep, tonguey make-outs replaced not just handshakes but even your basic smile and hello in most social situations. This part of the change I experienced first-hand pretty much from day one. Cuddling and making out with hot guys was as much a part of my day as eating, no exaggeration (and some days it inches toward breathing). Seriously, there’s a lot of mouth and tongue. And hands. And because I made it so guys wear shirts pretty much only when they have to, most of the hunky, multifingered, massively cocky kiss-normalized adult male population is topless except when they’re actually standing outside in the snow, serving in uniform, meeting with boards of directors—that kind of thing. The rest of time: pecs and shoulders and soft, sweet smooches hello.

Examples of the prevalence of male toplessness were everywhere. Local news reporters are generally shirtless now, even if they’re handing back to the more dignified anchors on the studio set wearing tight polos or thin tee shirts. Casual Friday in most corporate settings these days means things like brightly colored belts or a fun temporary tattoo on your bared delt. And working from home tends to lead to your coworkers correctly assuming you’re getting your actual work done around chronic bouts of two-fisting your thick, distracting wangs.

All of this is reflected tenfold in media, as you’d expect, though interestingly the changes there are often more subtle than you’d expect from the radical revisions one could see in real life. We had the same franchises and media juggernauts as before, just with overt and subtextual changes along the way that altered their feel while keeping the overall story. For example, one of my favorite TV shows, Supernatural, was pretty much the same apart from all the (sometimes angry, always passionate) snogging the shirtless Winchester bros ended up doing. And a show like The Boys… well, there were some interesting plot developments that leveraged almost every change I’d made to this world plus a few side-effects I hadn’t yet clocked in the wild.

Speaking of media, another unanticipated wrinkle was that, with humans now all pointy-eared, the most common attribute signifying sci-fi aliens was now shifted to having four arms. Even the original ‘60s version of Mr. Spock was pretty convincing. From what I read, Roddenberry apparently persuaded Desilu to go all out on the extra arms Leonard Nimoy was fitted with below his own for three seasons despite the otherwise tight budget after the first try was deemed unconvincing. And as for the reboot? I’ll need proof before I believe that Zachary Quinto doesn’t have four very nicely defined arms inside that blue science officer tunic.

The “casual” part I’d specified for all the touching and kissing also culminated in “roommate” now equating more or less exactly with “guy you share your bed and the occasional orgasm with.” It’s so normalized that a lot of college dorms have only one full- or queen-sized bed, especially at state schools where the budget savings could be used for other things. Like, say, the men’s athletic programs. (These, like the pros, always played shirtless, even the ice hockey teams, so there was less call in the budget for uniform expense—but, c’mon, they still needed equipment and stuff.) Apparently, in this version of reality my random decision to rent out my extra room after a year of having the condo to myself had involved a rather intimate (if R-rated) application process, one that Ben still fondly remembered with a wry little smirk.

It wasn’t constant lasciviousness and nonstop sex out there, don’t get me wrong. People weren’t fucking in the streets or subways or anything. What I’d normalized was this casual male intimacy that fed off a concurrent hotness upgrade to create a rather friendlier baseline between guys. So, lots of hugging and making out and general closeness, even among strangers and pretty much always among friends and acquaintances.

Corporate culture has eased as a result, though the need for profit still trumps everything else as always. Still, I’ve read that some of the bigger, more progressive corporations have “break rooms” that let you do a bit of “socializing” to take the edge off during the day. My roommate, Ben, isn’t so lucky; the brokerage firm where he works is a little backwards in this respect, much to his annoyance, and the kissing in the halls and elevators that punctuate his actual work only builds up his horniness through the day. I’m happy to help him with that when he gets home, and he’s happy to let me.

Ironically my greatest gaming session ever resulted in a dramatic drop in time spent engrossed in digital hijinks. Before, I’d wile away days and weeks exploding enemy monsters into showers of misted blood and gore or roaring around hairpin curves in cars meant to break the laws of physics along with traffic regs—and I thought that was golden, the pinnacle of everything I’d prayed adulting would be like from the moment I’d gotten my first console on my eighth birthday. Now, though—what game could be more immersive than this fantasy world I’d created?

The other side was that I was a little spooked by what I’d been able to accomplish in that single sesh of WC 3 P+. I hadn’t even gotten past setup mode, and I’d changed myself and everyone else, permanently and for real. That day after it happened, after Ben left for work (sent on his way with a nice goodbye mutual handjob, naturally), for the first time in forever my premium, special-order gamer chair sat empty. I didn’t even fire up my computer—all I wanted right then was for my monitors to stay black, just like they were. Instead, after staring at my setup for a few minutes I turned abruptly on my heel and went back into the bedroom, pulled on jeans, socks, and shoes, left my tee shirts in the dresser drawer where they belonged without really thinking about it, and went out into the bright, beautiful, sunshiny world.

That first day out I was self-conscious of the big, double-lump I had in my pants—for about ten minutes. As I walked down the street and into the big, leafy part that adjoined our block I kept seeing all these attractive, hunky, pointy-eared men, all ages, heights, and ethnicities, all with prominent bulges pushing out their flies. I seemed to attract extra attention, true, but not for anything unusual about my crotch, as though ginger, freckly me had been blessed with an extra-strong attractiveness boost during my little reality makeover, even to the point of being on the verge of kinda irresistible. By midmorning I was already used to it, and by noon I’d started losing track of the number of guys who’d paused to share a kiss and an embrace with me on the winding paths of the park before resuming their business.

It was the same every time I went out. There was a commonality of behavior, and yet every one was different. As the weeks passed I met more and more guys, all different, all part of this new kind of masculine society. One day a month or so in it was very sunny but mild and breezy, and I found myself cataloguing the variety and uniformity of my male encounters as I went. There was one dark-haired, well-groomed guy in a white shirt and tie who tasted like chocolate when he kissed me and felt lean and hard under his business drag. There was a dark-skinned runner in emerald bicycle shorts, just cooling down from a lap around the park, with a damp, warm sheen of sweat that smelled like a field of wild grass and felt surprisingly nice pressed against my own bare torso as we snogged.

After him I ran into a tall, tan, skinny forty-something wearing heavy dark cargo pants that couldn’t quite conceal a package fully half again as heavy and thick as mine. He was walking a big, happy, yellow-furred shiba inu on a long leash, but we were only paying attention to each other. His brown eyes were earnest but edged with fierce curiosity, and I noticed the points of his ears were a little sharper than most, emerging from his thick, swept-back hair like little castle peaks poking out of a rolling forest. And then there was his body. I’m as big a fan of hot, hard muscle as the next guy, but something about that lean, sharply defined, fluid physique was positively swoonworthy. Honestly, I wanted to trace all its lengths and curves with my tongue, teasing him over the course of a long, lazy Sunday to hear all the little noises he’d make. He had a slightly earthy/minty smell—I had noticed early on how the attractiveness spike I’d induced in the male population wasn’t limited to just the visual, but included all five senses in a complex of hotness.

At first we just slowly stroked arms for a minute, staring into each other’s eyes while I made small talk with him and the dog wound the leash around our legs. Finally he bent and quickly gave me a brief, electric kiss that sizzled through me for several minutes after he’d sheepishly untangled us and we’d gone our separate ways.

Forget high-res wide-screen imagery, I thought as I bought an ice cream sandwich from a cart manned by an older, burly stunner sporting a white apron over his bare torso: this was the game I wanted to play. As I wandered I started thinking about possible pretexts for being out here and interacting with the thousands of diverse and dick-thickeningly hot men I’d unknowingly surrounded myself with.

As I got to the fountain at the heart of the park I had an idea. Smiling to myself, I reversed course and ducked out of the public space to a nice greengrocer’s across the street, returning fifteen minutes and a brief, eyes-only encounter with a long-haired, generously muscled blond behind the counter later, a paper sack full of form, red and white Gala apples in hand. I cased the center of the park a bit and found a shady spot along the edge of the wide, bricked disc around the fountain. There, I set down the bag, pulled out three of my fruity purchases, and, heart thumping, started to juggle.

To my great relief it all came back to me. I’d been really good at it once, but I hadn’t juggled in ages—not since college. Fortunately my revised body still remembered the moves, instinctively lofting and fielding the apples like I’d been practicing religiously all this time. Before long I had gathered a crowd of men, women, and children all willing to pause and be diverted for a little while. After a few minutes of three-ball cascade I started carefully introducing some of the more complicated moves I could remember, easing first into a rainbow cross, then a reverse infinity, letting the palpable appreciation of the crowd feed me the necessary confidence to escalate my performance.

One danger I had encountered when I was leveling up as a juggler was that once you slipped into moves that you’d trained yourself to do without thought, your mind can start to wander if you don’t keep a firm hold on your concentration. This as it turns out, was the main risk of my being out of practice. I had recently found out about the four-armed thing as the way aliens were signified in science fiction in this reality, and all at once while I was tossing my Galas around I had a sudden mental image of Spock, doing what I was doing, only he of course was juggling four-handed.

The idea gave me a prickle of excitement: if I had four arms, my imagination was telling me, I could give them all a crazy impressive show. The challenge of it would be a thrill, too. And the best part was, I had the power—I could go home, fire up my computer, and make myself four-armed for real.

I pushed the thought away and focused on my performance. I kept changing everything up for several minutes, wowing the crowd and provoking a few gasps and claps along the way, before finally segueing into a high-speed chop shower finale—one that was a little too ambitious for me and that I barely kept control of. Alarmed by sudden visions of me beaning my hapless onlookers in the face with hard, pulpy fruit I hurriedly rolled back into a simple cascade, pocketing the first two apples in turn before bringing up the last one for a wet, resounding chomp.

This earned me a round of applause from the amused crowd, and I grinned and bowed, chewing showily to milk the finale and trying not to give away I was breathing a little heavily—it felt like I had been doing push-ups all that time, and there were little beads of sweat dotting my delts and trickling down my shallow cleavage. As I bowed I noticed some of my transient audience was dropping coins and bills at a spot near my feet—I hadn’t put a hat out (I don’t need the money) but someone had donated a ball cap, the interior of which had already attracted fair bit of moolah. I think my improved looks had as much to do with it as my expert but slightly rusty skills, though, the giveaway being that I’d also managed to gather a collection of four or five hot guys who wanted to reward my performance in a more intimate fashion than with cold, hard cash.

As I was just finishing a very nice kiss and hug with a brash, wide-eyed skater-boi type who gripped me hard and who tasted a bit like waffles and syrup, I felt a hand on my shoulder and someone behind me spoke in my ear. “You were amazing,” the voice whispered.

I turned to see the tall, lanky, perky-eared cutie with the equally cute and perky-eared shiba inu, and one look in those dark brown eyes told me that he wanted to reward me, too, only a lot more intensively than my little crowd of fans was presently doing. Something swelled in me, and I don’t just mean in my pants. Giving him a quick nod, I bent and scratched the shiba inu behind his ears. “Hey, pup,” I said. “Want to show me where you live?” The dog grinned his affirmative, lolling his tongue amiably at me.

That seemed like a good sign. So, snatching up the spontaneously-appearing hat and my bag of remaining apples, I waved goodbye to the other fans, then joined the hunk-and-pup duo as we headed back to his place, there to unveil just what was packed away in that extra-large basket of his.

The sun beat pleasantly down on our bare shoulders as we walked, and a fragrant wind wound gently along the path with us, making me think we could almost float our way to wherever we were going. A dark temptation niggled at some secret corner of my inner being, telling me I could make that happen, too.

I snuffed the idea out with a thought. How could I need any more than what I already had? This, I told myself, this was the first day of a whole new life, and I could not wait to be out here in the real world (as it now was), exploring and enjoying everything, and everyone, that I possibly could.


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