Description Suddenly awash with money, Bill takes the plunge and follows the stories of secretly augmented men and women to a remote lab where they promise to fix everything he doesn’t like about his body.
|Updated||23 Nov 2019|
“Are you sure?”
Of course I was sure. I had been saving up, planning, engaging in subterfuge of various sorts, for months. Ever since I had seen the advertisement and verified it online, my mind had been completely occupied with this and little else.
At 24, I had completed my college education to my family’s satisfaction, and I had even turned an internship into a proper job. But two years in, my life as an analyst was proving a massive disappointment. Government contracting was incredibly dull and soul crushing, and financial data was the worst. The systems were so complex that nobody could really follow it, and during a systems upgrade some part of the chain of allocations and obligations had come undone. I had spent five months untangling the mess from a bunch of previous efforts, and even gotten a service award for my troubles. Money seemed to be flowing properly again.
What nobody but me knew was that I had found a tiny exploit in four different systems, something that must have been baked in from the very start, and never completed. What I had assumed was scrambled artifacts of a random update from the late 90s, by pure chance, seemed familiar—a bunch of commented code and notes that rang a bell. If I hadn’t coincidentally been clearing my head with a brain teaser website, I would never have caught it. But sure enough, decode the block and run it through a couple code lookups, and some bored genius had sketched out a brilliant way to steadily siphon money from the government, in such tiny amounts and from numerous sources, that it was virtually undetectable. All that was needed was the final step, which he seemed to never have finished. Maybe due to limitations of that era?
But with that clue, I was able to write a program to do what the other guy had started, and within four months I had a secret bank account set up in a dead man’s name, and two hundred and ten thousand bucks stashed away there. I dared not touch it directly.
And then I got scared, dismantled it all, and destroyed the evidence. I kept the account an built a routine to invest it—half in randomly chosen stuff, half in what I assumed would be stable stuff, and forgot about it for the most part. Once I’d had the automated stuff set up, I lost interest. Back to my soul-crushing boredom.
Two things happened in short order one bright May morning.
First, I decided to check on the account, after a coworker mentioned he had made a tidy sum on some stock or other.
I had six million dollars in that account.
Second, I accidentally stumbled across a “news of the weird” article in my feed, and decided to distract myself from my panic by seeing how far from reality it was.
The claims of full body makeover were pretty extreme, and I was pretty dubious as I plowed through all the research… but sure enough, the two doctors cited had legit publications until about four years ago, and then disappeared from academics. The photos matched and other minor details corresponded to what I was able to dig up online.
Somehow, this team had left university life and a failed biotech company, and started something new—in a country so tiny and remote, I had to double check with my travel agent buddy to make sure it was real.
And then I started seeing and reading about people who’d been and gone through the treatment. While none of them showed signs of anything extreme, they did show remarkably changes, comparable to a dedicated fitness program and the best plastic surgery in the world.
For another month, I obsessed on the possibilities, until I finally made my decision. Then another two months laying groundwork for a lengthy absence, while slowly converting funds and setting things up overseas for a new identity.
Finally, through several layers of anonymity, I contacted the clinic and asked the questions that had been burning in my mind for weeks and weeks.
The answers gave me hope, and what’s more, they quickly passed me along to the head doctors, who seemed excited by the challenge. We reached an agreed fee and made the arrangements.
As far as work knew, I was taking a vacation to Hong Kong and Thailand, but I was only passing through Hong Kong where I planned to disappear and travel the rest of the way under my assumed identity.
The weeks leading up to it were awful and tense, purely because of anticipation and second thoughts. But then I found myself on a plane with minimal luggage, most of which I would ditch long before I reached he clinic. It all went remarkably well, and suddenly there I was, alone in tiny island port, with sixty thousand dollars in cash and a backpack with my entire life in it.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Please follow me.”
“Doctor Miller is expecting you, through those doors.”
The entirely forgettable escort left with a bow, and I entered Dr Miller’s office.
One of the most ridiculously beautiful women in the history of the world was seated at the desk.
“Before you ask, yes, I have been through the process. That’s why my colleagues and I are here—self experimentation. I wouldn’t go back if you paid me three times what I make now, and that’s just because this little place is too gorgeous to leave. Anyway, as you can see, it works. So let’s get on with discussion your treatment plan.”
She was utterly charmless. Blunt and bland except for her brains and her insanely good looks. But I could barely look anywhere else.
“I confess, I am intrigued by what you request, and we have been working out the… well, working out the kinks for weeks, if you’ll pardon the pun. You’re really testing the limits of the human form here, you know… but we can probably get you there.”
The technical and logistical discussion that followed, I will spare you, but she was utterly matter of fact about everything, including where they were not fully confident in the outcome. We talked, too, about the risks, and the costs, and legal stuff… three long hours passed, and we took lunch outside. The view of this semi-tropical paradise was spectacular, but even as a gay man, I was drawn to her unearthly beauty.
Finally, it was time to make the call.
“I think we have covered it all. You have fifty thousand US dollars in cash, and an account with the remainder set up?”
“I do,” I said. We quickly verified the account, and I would provide the access code after the procedure was complete. It was all very James Bond. Finally, she turned to me, and began recording on her smartphone.
“Last chance, Mr Dennis. I have to ask. You are aware you are risking your life with this medical procedure, and that you have been briefed on the risks, and you undertake them with full consent?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I replied.
“You are aware that you have made requests that would be considered unethical or problematic by most standards, and are not strictly legal in the United States? That there may be complications?”
“Finally, and for the last time before you begin your new life, Mister Dennis… are you sure, are you absolutely sure this is what you want?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Then we will proceed.”
All I remember after that were a few comments as I was led to my room, given two pills, and told to take them after going to the bathroom and, curiously, providing a semen sample. Which proved harder than I expected, because it was all suddenly real and it was almost hard to come.
Ten minutes after I took the pills, I was out.
I just realized, I kept some key information to myself.
William Dennis—Billy, to most folks, Bill at the office. If you’d asked my colleagues to describe me, you’d probably get nebulous answers. Clean cut, short brown hair, brown eyes, glasses. Shy.
Of course polite folk would avoid discussing why I was shy.
See, I had been moderately athletic in high school. Good enough to get on the baseball and soccer teams, at least. But then there had been the fire.
My body recovered. My face? Not so much.
It was a minor miracle that I had survived, and another miracle that my injuries weren’t worse. But the patchy, rough skin that grew back wasn’t pleasant to look at, and while my hair grew back eventually, I was left with what can best be described, charitably, as mild disfigurement. Big glasses hid the worst of it where my left eye had no vision to speak of and the disfigured skin was more pronounced. Senior year sucked, and I threw myself into academics to compensate… and got really good at nerd stuff. Went from being moderately known for sports to being a math nerd, and if that weren’t bad enough, had the realization that I was at least bisexual while watching former teammates work out, but figured I wasn’t exactly a catch either way, so why bother.
College had been a bit better, because I was a mostly anonymous presence on campus, but inside the classroom, I was a bit of a wunderkind. Graduated top of the class, full honors, and a year early, but had literally no motivation for grad school. Got recruited and hired through a friend of my professor.
So yeah, burn victim with a scrawny build (I’d never regained the mass I lost recovering from the fire), and no social life, but a good mind, at least.
When I woke up, it was super gradual—like strolling up a hill.
“I am astounded you got that to work,” said one voice. Let’s say Voice A. Female, probably African American, well educated.
“I am astounded he let me try it.” Voice B… pretty sure that was Dr Miller. “But as you saw, he had a pretty extensive list of requests, and, I’m sorry to say, nowhere to go but up.”
“Still, the changes are a bit more profound than I was expecting.”
“Isn’t it exciting, though? I mean, assuming it works and he stabilizes as we hope, it will be a game changer for serious injuries. And we need the good PR.”
“You might want to check his levels. He wakes up now, it could be a problem,” Voice A said.
“Shit, you’re right. He needs to stay under or his pain receptors will be overwhelmed.”
… And then blackness. Silence. A feeling of mild electrical current…warmth…
“…and he should be waking up soon. Mr, Dennis?”
“Mmmrrrrph,” I said.
“Can you understand me?”
My vision swam, then pulled into focus. Dear god, her face was like a gravity well that pulled you in, inexorably.
“Motor skills not quite there yet? That’s okay, they should sort themselves out pretty soon.”
“Numb and thirsty?”
“We can fix that.” Then: “As you might recall, we’d planned to keep you under for days, even weeks, at a time. The work was going to be extensive. But as it happens, you’ve been under, more or less, for nearly seven months.”
That made me more alert. “What the—-!”
“It was necessary. We brought you partly out of it twice, and it nearly killed you. We decided it was best to keep you under.”
“So the good news is that the skin repair was a complete success, and most of the other things you requested for this phase seem to have worked within acceptable margins.”
“Acceptable… margins?” I repeated, forming the sounds carefully.
“Well, as you know, we have some really bleeding-edge technology on hand here. And we have used some of that on you. So the good news is that your skin has grown evenly, with improved elasticity. And your body seems okay with it, no sign of rejection or abnormal response.”
“I sense a ‘but’ here…”
“Well, to be blunt, you’re not quite the same color as you were… The protocol to even out your skin tone seems to have… overcompensated.”
Oh. I can live with that, I guess. “Mirror?”
“Soon. We have other things to go over. In order to address your musculature and libido related requests, we have made some changes to what we discussed earlier. While you were under, results from another study came in and you were a perfect candidate… and that has succeeded in ways we didn’t expect.”
“Which is why you’re strapped down. Now, moving on… the original plan was to add a bit of height by breaking and regenerating the bones in your legs. Instead, we were able to rig something more effective, and that… that really worked.” After a beat, she continued: “Finally, we used more mundane methods for your genitals. Stimulation, hormones, pumps, the works. In that regard, we exceeded expectations.”
I had asked for a pretty big cock, a fantasy. If you’re going to remake your whole body, might as well go for the old standards. But given what I’d asked for….
“By how much?”
“I told you he’d ask that right away, you owe me dinner,” said another voice—the assumed African American voice from before.
“Fine, Francine,” Dr Miller rolled her eyes.
“Well?” I asked.
“You had requested an erect length of 14 inches. I had hoped for 12.5 at minimum. But—probably because of the other treatments, the heart tune-up needed to support a larger frame, skin elasticity, growth and testosterone supplements….well, you have quite a result.”
“Doctor, you’re going to give the boy a conniption. Just tell him how big he is!”
“We measured you at 17.2 inches erect, Bill. You’re nearly 10 inches soft. Which I am afraid hasn’t been that often.”
Holy crap. How was that even possible?
“Some big ole balls on you, too,” Francine said. “And that boy is thick. Oh, you better measure again, I think that thing just grew again!”
“Bill, this is remarkable, but hold on one moment. We need accurate measurements.”
By now feeling had returned to most of my body, but the moment she touched my ginormous cock, I felt it down to my bones.
“Yeah, I called it, you just added half an inch,” Francine said.
“How the heck am I supposed to—?”
“Bill, calm down, please. You forgot your other treatments. You may have a cock to break all records, but you aren’t exactly tiny. It’s more proportional than you might imagine.”
I had asked for another inch or two, hoping to hit 6’4 or 6’5. Even at that size, 14 inches would have been a lot of cock.
“As I mentioned, a new treatment option became available and we applied it immediately. It’s an advanced genetic tool, and we used tall models and athletes from around the world as a model to fill you out. Of course, we started with your legs and major bones. Even for your size, you have slightly longer arms than might be expected.” She frowned. “Once again, we hadn’t quite factored in the competing techniques and how aggressively we were pushing your body. We hadn’t imagined that they would all be so successful, to start with, nor how they’d interact.”
At my pointed look, she shook her head and chuckled. “Sorry.”
“I’ll tell him,” Francine broke in. “Bill, you are 6 feet, 10.2 inches tall. We think. You haven’t actually stood for months.”
“As for the rest, I think now we can show him,” Francine continued. “But let’s do it right. blindfold him again.”
They wheeled over a large mirror, then had me close my eyes as they positioned the bed.
There was a surprised looking demigod strapped to a hospital bed in the mirror. Despite the bed’s width, the golden skinned behemoth had shoulders that reached both edges. Huge, but somehow still aesthetic, muscles covered his entire body. Proportions that defied belief—huge wide pecs, solid cobbled core, Adonis belt, beefy defined legs, calves that would put a soccer star to shame… he was borderline bulky, but built like an animal, almost. He radiated strength, even while strapped unmercifully to a table.
And dear god, that dick, thick as a shampoo bottle and impossibly long, stretching up to his sternum and throbbing and oozing precum….
He forced himself to look away. His face was perfect, unblemished, though he now had Nordic or Asian cheekbones and a stronger jawline. His eyes, formerly brown, had gone almost perfectly amber, and had a new, piercing quality to them, as well as an almond shape. Like a half-Korean guy he’d met in college, or Dante, the shaved black kid from accounting.
That perfect, golden skin flowed beautifully everywhere, so even it almost looked like he had makeup on, and he realized that his mousy brown hair had gone chestnut, with honey blond streaks. It was also a mess, and much longer than he expected.
“Yes, you need a haircut,” Dr Miller said. “You won’t need a shave, we have been managing that through other means. Though it looks okay on your shoulders like that. Maybe keep it a little long.” She smiled. “Honestly this is a perfect storm. You have a damned near perfect body. We may have got a little carried away with our genetic modeling, but those cheekbones seems worthwhile.”
“I can barely speak, this is amazing!” Shit, I looked like a walking wet dream. My dick agreed, stretching up to get a better look. A squirt of pre shot inches out of the tip.
“Damn, boy, I think you did it again,” Francine said in awe. “Yeah, you hit it. I can’t believe this, you have an eighteen-inch dick.”
“Fuck,” I said, and erupted.
It was almost like I had never cum before, but had twenty years of it stored away. I made quite a mess, and poor Francine got the worst of it, with me a close second…
Seven months of nothingness. Ten minutes of talk. One mind-bending orgasm. Yeah, I passed out. Wouldn’t you?
When I came to later, the ladies—sorry, both doctors (Francine was a geneticist and had a background in sports medicine)—had quite a laugh at my expense.
“Don’t worry, my eager friend, your staying power will return. We managed all the mods you asked for, remember? This time was more about your recovery than anything else. You’ve been out for months, did you really think you’d spring out of bed and do somersaults?”
“I guess. I mean, we originally talked about weeks, not months.”
“Boy, your recovery is going to be fun, you hear me? That, we start tomorrow. Today, we are going to worry about testing your mental faculties. When you’re under that long, brain damage is a risk.”
“I remember that was in the paperwork,” I said. Advantage of having a nearly eidetic memory. I told her what page it was on in the PDF.
Breakfast was a smoothie, partly intended to test whether I was properly functional. It didn’t taste great, but I sucked it down greedily. A few days of liquid diet, then hopefully back to solid food..
Then more memory tests, then some cognitive and reasoning tests. Nothing. lost, as far as we could tell.
Then a long nap.
The next few days were like that, but day three saw some gradual movement, physical activity.
For all that I looked impressive, my muscles hadn’t been used in months, and only the extraordinary technology at their disposal had kept me from wasting way away. Even then, they’d pushed the limits a little. I noticed, however, that my caloric intake seems pretty high. Turns out this body needed a few thousand calories more than it did months ago. Estimates were 6,000 calories a day, or enough for three people!
But by the weekend I was eating solid food, ravenously, and while I was still sleeping 14 hours day, I was able to walk, and do a very basic workout, though my stamina wasn’t there yet. The truth was, it was remarkable, given how long I was under, that I was mobile at all.
“Six feet, ten and a quarter inches, and four hundred and eighty three pounds,” Dr Miller said.
“Almost skin and bones,” Francine chuckled. “Gotta put some meat on them bones. Only 58 inches for your chest?”
“Why are you laughing?” Miller asked. “She was being serious. You’ve been making good progress but tomorrow you’re going to start proper training.”
Proper training? I had been in PT for hours each day for a week, and it had been hell. But I guess it was working. I could stand without falling over and walk short distances unassisted.
For all my glorious muscle, I was weak as a rag doll.
“Don’t give me that look, Bill. We didn’t bust our asses to build all that muscle for you, just so you could waste away.”
In order to fuel my body, I was eating enormous meals, and being fed via IV at night while I slept. 5,600 colonies per day. And as I got stronger and did more, it would only increase. But they were right, my incredible physique was made in a lab, not in a gym, and it wouldn’t last without effort.
I was finally getting used to the height, and the general shape of my incredible new body. And it seemed every day was a new milestone. The ladies had produced a trainer—a big bulky Thai guy who went by Jack. Almost three hundred pounds of brutish wrestler, but he was also smart and an advocate of some radical exercise theory. His accent was thick as his neck. Our workouts left me exhausted, and they seemed nonstop. Eat. Work out for three hours. Sleep. Eat. Repeat. The only good part was he was also a masseuse, probably the best I ever experienced.
But there were two things I couldn’t get used to.
First, my dick. It was ridiculous at almost 18 inches, and the accompanying libido was astoundingly distracting. Even flaccid it was uncomfortably large, not quite 12.5 inches over balls the size of potatoes. Frankly, it got in the way most of the time, even with regular attention. And the foreskin, which seemed so exotic and interesting at first, only added to the dissociation.
Second, I didn’t look like me anymore. I looked more like some fantasy novel cover by Frank Frazetta. Conan, perhaps. I’d catch my reflection and be quietly freaked out at the huge sexy beast found there. And the face was so different, I doubt anyone could link this new person to the old me.
Whatever genetic cocktail they’d invented for me, it seemed to have left me with an oddly appealing mix of features—high cheekbones and almond eyes being prominent, along with flawless golden skin. But I knew it was a mix of traits from the entire human diaspora. Dr Miller had this idea that our destiny was to reintegrate all the various strains of humanity, genetically speaking, and she and Francine had selected a menu of traits that seemed ideal and compatible. The result was stunning, even after a few weeks of seeing it every day. My brain just kept rejecting the idea that I looked like that.
And here I had just wanted to be taller, more muscular, and less ugly.
What I was getting used to, however, was a low-level but almost constant state of sexual arousal. No, not arousal. Interest. It wasn’t just that I was horny—all the damned time—but rather that I could sense it in others. In fact, all my senses had gotten sharper, and it had been overwhelming at first. But each day it had gotten better, and I began to realize that my brain was processing a lot more info about the world around me than it used to.
What I had told the doctors was that I was feeling overstimulated, like an autistic experiencing sensory overload, those first few days. They’d chalked it up to having been deprived of my senses for months, and I’d accepted that as a likely cause—but one morning I realized my sense of smell had become extremely acute. The next evening, I got up to pee and realized I could essentially see just fine by the sliver of light from the faint LED monitoring lights. My night vision was significantly boosted. Tactile sense? Oh yeah. My cock, of course, was super sensitive, but my fingertips were too, and if I concentrated a bit, my entire skin seemed more sensitive than my dick used to be. My sense of taste didn’t seem that enhanced, so far, but to be fair, the food here was more fit for fuel rather than pleasure.
Hearing followed… and that is when I decided to keep mum, for now, about my sensory capabilities. Because I overheard something a few rooms away, a quiet discussion, in which Dr Miller was explaining my situation to someone on the phone, a deep male voice with a pleasant British accent, but I couldn’t make out much of what he was saying. Dr Miller had replied that she would report to him if any other unexpected changes occurred. And something way she said it seemed… off. My gut told me to pay attention.
I wasn’t aware of anyone else on the staff, certainly no other male doctor. Nobody had mentioned anyone else. Who else was involved?
I’d been jogging at a brisk pace for the better part of an hour. I was bored.
“Yes, more tests,” Dr Miller said.
“Doc, I’ve been poked and prodded enough. For god’s sake, I spent years with a busted-up face and a scrawny nothing body. I haven’t had any damned action in years. Now I’ve basically got the body of a god, and I want to use for something other than your personal experiment.”
Francine arched an eyebrow as she stood nearby, monitoring all the things the electrodes attached to my body had to say.
“Don’t blame you for wanting to put that monster to use,” she said.
Dr Miller had seemed brusque and on edge all morning as she put me through my paces. She shot Francine a look that could have felled a lesser woman, but the voluptuous dark-skinned milf just ignored it.
“Not until we’re sure that everything we did has stabilized. You saw those numbers; his hormones—”
“His hormones are off the charts, I know. Have you looked at this monster we created? Of course his damned hormones are off the charts. You don’t even want him to play with himself. It’s been weeks now, the boy needs a fuck. Probably ten fucks.”
Miller frowned. “It’s too soon.”
“I gotta tell you, Doc, we haven’t seen a change in days now. I think this is the new me,” I said, “all of it. And I’m just about done with this. I didn’t sign up for this. I’m done.”
I stepped off the treadmill—an hour at what for anyone else would have been full speed, and I’d barely broken a sweat—and switched it off.
She was, in the end, pretty easy to read. At least for me. I could almost smell her anxiety, but if not I could certainly see it in her face. She had a rather expressive face that she wasn’t quite able to control, and she’d have been awful at poker.
But it wasn’t just that—I was simply better at picking up signals, body language, everything really. I’d kept mum about some of my more impressive changes, minimizing the full extent of my various improvements. They knew my normal vision was improved, but they hadn’t caught onto my vastly improved night vision. Or my improved hearing, or other senses. They had some inkling that everything was a little better—but not just how amazing they were. Again something inside me suggested I keep mum.
While I was mostly joking about smelling her anxiety, there was another subtle scent I was picking up, and that was Francine’s interest in me. The previous day, she’d gone off to the bathroom after my morning workout, and came back very nonchalant—but I could tell, by smell alone, that she’d cum in the bathroom. Of course I said nothing, but deliberately showed a little extra skin or dick a few times, and sure enough, despite a fantastic degree of self control, I knew she was aroused.
“Fine. I suppose we have enough data. What precisely did you have in mind?” Dr Miller said with an exasperated sigh. “You plan to just go hit the town?”
“Well, I figured I’d see if any of your staff here were game,” I said, “and start there.”
Francine gave the tiniest gasp, almost inaudible, but quickly tamped it down.
“I’d prefer you not do that,” she said. “You could seriously injure someone with that cock.”
“Can’t hurt to ask around a little. That little touristy town a few miles away, perhaps.”
“I really don’t care what other objections you may have. I paid for a service, you rendered that service, and I did you a favor by letting you continue playing mad scientist afterwards. I’m done with that. I’m going to go back to my room, pound out a couple of loads, and then get ready to hit the town. Clearly a brisk 10-15 mile jog is no longer a problem for me, so you don’t even need to get a car for me.”
Again, that flash of interest from Francine wafted past my sensitive nose. She liked my aggressiveness, I guessed.
As I left, after the doors closed, I could hear them arguing about me, but I couldn’t stay nearby without being found out. Frustrated, I stomped off to my room and did as I said I’d do.
Each day, I’d awakened to a massive boner, and I’d had to get it soft before I could pee. So every day started with a lengthy, almost animalistic, wanking session where the goal was just relief. At least 2-3 more times per day, the need overtook me. Dr Miller frowned a lot about it, and begged me to wank less, but she didn’t understand the needs I now had. And then I’d do it again before bed. That was just bare maintenance.
Still, it felt fantastic. And very, very quickly, I’d learned that sucking yourself off is fucking amazing. So that was the plan—take the edge off, grab a shower, get dressed, and brave the humidity and heat along the road to the village. Between locals and tourists, someone was bound to be interested.
I’d barely tasted my pre when I heard a footstep outside my door, and a moment’s hesitation later, a quiet knock.
“Come in, Francine,” I said. I leaned back, relinquishing my prize for the moment. It bobbed obscenely in front of me.
Almost submissively, she entered and quietly closed the door. Her eyes never left my dick.
“Looks like you’re busy,” she offered. “Need a hand?”
“Probably,” I said. “Probably more than one.”
“Shit, were you…. were you licking your own cock?”
I obliged, tapping the glans lightly with my tongue and flexing slightly to pull it back toward me. I sniffed it a bit, and damn if it didn’t smell good, musky and manly. I slowly licked as much of the side as I could.
I put on a bit of a show, really. I teased myself into spurting a bit of pre, which I used with both hands to lube my immense fuckstick. Then I leaned forward and began to lick it up, eventually working the whole swollen head into my mouth, relishing every step. Then, with what I hoped was a sensuous grin, I tightened my abs and forced the monster deep into my throat.
Without leverage or a little help, I could get maybe 4 inches in me. With a bit of leverage, though, it was about 7 inches—which still left an obscene amount of cock, nearly a foot, sticking out.
“God. Damn. That’s hot!” she said.
“hrffr wrf twrr”, I said, then chuckled. Hard to talk with your own cock in your mouth. “Sorry, mouth full. Better with two.”
She nodded, almost in a daze, and began stripping off her clothing. Each layer revealed more of her shapely form, and also let loose a moist cloud of arousal. I couldn’t really smell my own properly, but I was sure it was there.
My immense cock throbbed in front of me, and I leaned forward to scoot off the bed. But Francine put her hand gently on my chest and pushed firmly away, so she could straddle my leg.
“I have been waiting for this for a month, maybe more,” she confessed. “First those amazing eyes and cheekbones, then the muscles, and finally that huge cock,” she said. “But no more, we need to fuck, I need you to shove your dick as far into me as it will go, and I want to milk you for hours.”
Now, I like guys, and I like girls. In a pinch, I probably like guys a little better than girls. But Francine? Damn.
She was probably in her late 30s or early 40s, but a total milf. Creamy dark chocolate skin, nice tits, classic hourglass figure, strong legs, nice ass, the works. A bombshell, really. She had some muscle to her and lots of junk in all the right places. And, I noticed for the first time, amazing eyes. They were hazel, slightly darker than usual, and she didn’t use a ton of makeup, just a bit of eyeliner.
“Now, mister big stuff, I think it’s time we see what this baby can really do.” She’d grabbed it with both hands, and was slowly gliding her hands up and down the shaft. Her hot, wet crotch was straddling my legs, with the beast of a cock sticking up from between us.
“Sounds fantastic to me,” I said. “But aren’t you worried I could hurt you?”
She responded by angling herself differently and simply going down on my 18-inch cock, slowly filling her throat with my most sensitive organ, about halfway down, without triggering a gag reflex. She slowly pulled away, leaving a long strand of pre cum between her lip and my dick.
“You weren’t our first augment,” she said. And then she dove in, swallowing my entire cock in one smooth motion.
I could see it throb in her throat, and could feel it within her. The muscles of her throat seemed to swallow in one long, delicious moment, and any self-control I’d had a moment ago just… went. I probably pumped a pint of jizz down her gullet before I stopped, and she calmly pulled off the gargantuan penis to look me right in the eyes.
“Now that you’ve got that out of the way,” she said, “let’s get serious.”