Repair and alteration

by Keyed

 Ricky wants to get bigger, but working out and eating right haven’t done the trick. That why he’s standing outside a door in the side of a dingy warehouse marked with a number and the words “Genetic Repair and Alteration.”

Added: Sep 2018 2,478 words 9,462 views 4.9 stars (16 votes)


Ricky was in an unfamiliar part of town; full of chain-link fences and cracked concrete where most signs were about machining or die cutting or tool repair. His attention was divided between the world around him and the map on his phone, and he almost passed his destination: a door in the side of a dingy warehouse marked with a number and the words “Genetic Repair and Alteration.”

He stared at the words, like he hadn’t expected them to really be there—but then he took a breath, opened the door, and stepped through.

Inside was a small workroom, with workbenches covered in electronic parts, umbilicals stretched overhead and underfoot, and screens displaying circuits and arrows and flashing acronyms. In one corner was a stack of empty rat cages. It was disordered, but not dirty; there was an intense sense of work underway, that any moment all the pieces and parts could come together into a cohesive whole. On the far side of the room was a door hung with a translucent plastic curtain. There was no one else in the room.

“Uh, hello?”

The curtain snapped open, and Ricky jumped at the sight of the insectile head that appeared, staring, in the doorway. Then a hand reached up, and pushed the magnifying headgear up, and the pleasant face of a young man appeared, somewhat disheveled, from behind it. He had thick, wavy hair, dark brows, and seemed sturdily built. Ricky guessed the man was in his late twenties, and felt the urge to trust him in spite of himself.

“Are you a customer? A cop?” the young man said. After a moment, a thought seemed to occur to him. “Both?” Another moment, and another thought, this one under his breath: “Mmm, that’d be hot.”

“Is… is what you do here illegal?” Ricky asked.

“No. Not yet! They can’t keep up!” the young man cackled, then pushed past the curtain and fully into the room. “I’m Dr. Sarraf. Pleased to meet you!” He thrust out a square, callused hand, which Ricky shook shyly, and then guided Ricky to a stool beside one of the workbenches, before dragging over another for himself. “Now, what brings you in.” His eyes slid over Ricky slowly. “You seem to be in good health, taking care of yourself. Not many healthy young men find their way here,” he said, then mumbled, “to my regret.”

And it was true; Ricky was also in his late twenties, and was trim and fit, of average height, well-groomed and by all accounts enviably healthy. He struggled for a moment to find the right words; the hope and ambition that had gotten him this far waning, he looked at his feet perched on the stool.

“It’s okay, you know.” The warmth in the Doctor’s voice made Ricky look up, and contact with warm brown eyes reassured him. “Whatever it is, whether I can help or not, it’s okay to talk about here.” His tone turned flippant again. “Besides, I’m a renegade, but still a Doctor. If I violated HIPPA I’d be in deep shit. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“I…” Ricky took a deep breath. “I want to be big. Muscular. Masculine.”

“You work out?”

“I’ve been working out, eating right, reading and supplementing and doing everything I’m supposed to for almost ten years, Doc. It’s kept me healthy, but after all that effort, I still look like somebody’s ‘before’ picture. I’m tired of watching seventeen-year-olds that look like me without having ever lifted a barbell walk in to the gym on January first and surpass me by the end of the year.”

The doctor’s eyes gleamed. “Ten years, eh? You’re an excellent candidate for my retroactive retroviral therapy. And your dedication suggests you won’t find yourself regretting the outcome. Right? You’re sure you want this?” There was another moment of heart-stopping eye contact.

“I want anything you can do to help me, Doc, even if it’s not much. I’m… I’m tired.”

The doctor grinned. “‘Not much?’—I guarantee you won’t walk away with those words on your lips. This way.” The doctor hopped off his stool, and without looking back, strode through the plastic curtain. Ricky hesitantly followed.

On the other side of the curtain was an even smaller room, but here the parts in the workroom made good on their silent promise, and were joined into a single… device. It sprawled up the walls, it hung from the ceiling, it trailed across the floor, and at its center was a reclining chair, like you might find in a barbershop, or a dentists’ office. Everywhere in the room were knobs, keyboards, and displays. A light in the ceiling gave reasonable illumination to the chair, but the rest was obscured in shadow, revealed mostly my the light of the monitors and flashing LEDs.

Dr. Sarraf was already busying himself with typing at one of the keyboards, but looked over his shoulder and said, “Sit down! Sit down, I’m sure you can’t wait to get started. I know I can’t.”

Ricky shuffled past the electronics and perched on the chair. After an awkward moment, the doctor grabbed a clipboard with a pen on a string, and handed it to Ricky. “Get this filled out—legal stuff, can’t be avoided—and by the time you’re done I’ll be ready for you.”

Ricky filled out his name, some medical history, acknowledged that this was an elective procedure and his insurance wouldn’t pay for it. It was a single-page form, but still took 15 minutes to complete. When he was done, the doctor took it from him, had him undress down to his underwear, and began hooking him up to the device. He explained each attachment, and while Ricky understood less than half of what he said, he was nevertheless reassured. “This is a blood pressure cuff; this is a heart rate monitor; this measures skin impedance…” Eventually Sarraf noticed his patient’s eyes glazing over, and shrugged. “This is all just to monitor your wellbeing and satisfaction during the work. None of it does anything—it just tells me what’s going on. This last bit is the only magic part.”


The doctor coughed genteelly. “This last bit is the only proprietary part.” He held up a wickedly long needle on the end of a long plastic tube. “This will introduce each customized retroactive retroviral into your system. I suggest looking away, unless you’re extremely calm about this sort of thing.”

Ricky turned his head, and the IV was inserted into his wrist. When he looked back, Sarraf had already retreated behind a keyboard and monitor.

“Let’s start with the basics: your innate ability to grow muscle. Obviously we’ll increase the satellite cell count, but we need to think ahead about height; do you want to be tall? Otherwise, we can also include a myostatin mutation…”

“I… I don’t want to be any shorter than I am, I guess.”

“Okay, we’ll skip the MSTN defect. Ready? Sit back and let’s see what we can do.” As the doctor said this, the light increased, some, and as Ricky reclined in the chair, he saw there was a mirror above him. A slightly cool sensation spread from the needle in his arm, up and into his body. The sensation rapidly turned warm, and he felt… full. Tense. Heavy. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, he gasped. His mirror image was muscular. Beefy. Thicker arms, thicker legs, a bigger chest. He guessed he was suddenly 30 pounds heavier, and it showed. “I… I didn’t think it’d be right away!”

The doctor chuckled. “It’s retroactive, you see? Like it had always been there. So this is what you’d be if that ten years of working out and eating right had been done with your new genes, and their predilection for putting on muscle.”

The longer Ricky looked, though, the stranger his reflection seemed. He was definitely muscular, but it looked odd. Not like the jocks he lusted to be like.

The doctor chuckled. “Don’t worry, Richard. We’re just getting started. You’ve got the muscle, but the wrong skeletal structure, still.”

And Ricky could see he was right. He was muscular, but not athletically V-shaped; he was still twig shaped, even if the twig was now as thick as a log.

“Luckily, your biacromial distance is also largely genetic.”

Again, a rush of cool followed by heat, and a sharp stretching in his neck and shoulders. He could feel his new delts moving against the pleather of the chair, and in the mirror he watched his shoulders get broader, and broader still. His rib cage expanded, barreled out. He looked wide, now. Intimidating.

“We can also narrow the hips…”

Ricky nodded, eagerly and wide-eyed.

Cool, then heat, and his waist shrunk, his whole pelvis narrower. His shoulders seemed at least twice as wide as his hips. He looked like a statue, like the smooth icon of an athlete.

“You carry what little fat you have at your waist.”

Ricky nodded again. Even before he’d changed, when he was skinny, he couldn’t quite get his lower abs to show; there was always a little bit of pudge there. And even now, looking at his transformation in the mirror, he could see his abs were soft; it was just less noticeable beneath his imposing shoulders.

“Let’s shift that tendency for a fat pad down to your glutes, mm?”

Cold, warm, and Ricky watched the fat dissolve from his now-ripped, flat stomach. He felt the additional bulk in his seat. “Oh my god.”

“You’ve been unlucky with your tendons, too.”

Ricky sighed, and nodded yet again; his biceps were big, now, but they curved back several inches from his meaty forearms; big, but somehow dainty, or a little fussy.

“We’ll lower your lat insertions, shorten the biceps and gastrocnemius tendons…” The doctor was talking half to himself.

Cool, warm, and Ricky watched in awe as his biceps stretched down his arm, longer and thicker. His calves swelled, and lengthened. Then his back stretched and slid, sweaty, against the chair beneath him. His once-small lats spread down, and out, into broad wings. He was V-shaped now, dramatically. His lats showed around his torso, even from the front.

“We can also adjust your skin tone?”

Ricky, now looking like a pale marble ghost of a Roman athlete, nodded, speechless, and his skin gently darkened, taking on a warm tan.

Ricky had to blink away an unexpected mist of emotion from his eyes: the man in the mirror was a jock. He looked like he played football college. Like a gym rat. Like he clasped his friend by the forearm, like he got invited to pickup volleyball games on the beach. A genuine jock. A type specimen of the species.

He stared at the mirror in silence for a long time, flexing, touching his body, coming to terms with it.

“So. What do you think?”

“It’s… it’s incredible, Doctor.”

“Fulfills your wildest dreams?”

Ricky hesitated. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful…”


“Well, I look like a jock—like a quarterback—could… could we go for bodybuilder, instead?”

Doctor Sarraf’s eyes got bigger, for a second, then he frowned, deep in thought. “How do you feel about steroids?”

“I… I was never able to bring myself to do it. This masculinity hang-up… my balls are—were—one of the only signs of my manhood, I guess?”

“Mmmm. Well, rather than exogenous hormones, I suppose we could try and give you normally super-physiological levels internally…”

“In English, Doc?”

“We could make you your own steroid factory. No ball shrinkage; they’d be hyperactive, instead.”

“I want anything you can do to help me, Doc,” Ricky repeated, grinning in anticipation.

The doctor spent some time typing, making faces, shrugging, and typing some more. “Here goes.”

The same rush of cool, and then very warm indeed, uncomfortably hot in his balls, but like a sunbath all over his body. Ricky’s now-broad frame began to put on serious muscle: massive delts; thick, square, hanging pecs; huge and veiny arms, traps that engulfed his neck. Thighs as big as his waist had been when he first sat down, what seemed like an eternity ago. At the same time, his balls swelled, his meager body hair spread, across his chest, his neck, and down his bulking abs. Twenty-some years of steroid-user levels of testosterone made themselves apparent, to his chagrin, as the hair on his head thinned, his pecs turned perky and a little fatty, like breasts, and his abs were covered by a small belly. “Uh, Doc?”

“Hmmm. Some side effects to deal with, there. Male pattern baldness is easy to fix; estrogen suppression, though…” The doctor spoke, apparently to himself, and began to type again.

This time, the chill from the needle was followed by the prickly itch of hair returning to his head, his breasts receding and turning back into hard pecs, and the accumulated fat draining away, leaving Ricky’s body tight, hard, red, and vascular. His shoulders now hung off the sides of the chair. His thighs were huge, and swelled out from an impossibly tight, hairy, hard waist. His underwear, bunched up above his ripped and space-hogging quads, looked like an afterthought.

“You may find your libido increased, Richard; hair-trigger erections are a common side effect of testo… oh.” The doctor stopped, because Ricky’s underwear was tenting, and he could see the desperation in Ricky’s eyes.

“Doc,” he said, through a haze of lust. “What… What can you do with my dick?”

The doctor grinned and nodded decisively. “Increased length, girth, eliminate prolactin response to make refractory time nearly zero…”

“Don’t tell me about it, doc. Please!”

Cold, then hot, and Rick’s underwear began to tear. A foot-long column of pulsing, leaking, steel-hard flesh trembled in the light, attached to an equally behemoth man.

“Doc.” Rick’s eyes were wild, almost unseeing as they sought out Sarraf’s.

“Yes, Richard?”

“I want anything you can do to help me, Doc. Please?”

The doctor smiled, licked his lips, and complied.


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