Description His lover doesn’t seem to mind, but Quinn decides to try out some pills that are supposed to grow his dick anyway while Diego’s away. The fact that they work is less surprising than the two unexpected side-effects that soon develop.
|Updated||27 Apr 2019|
Quinn hovered his index finger over the “Complete Purchase” button on his smartphone screen for several long seconds before decisively mashing it. A revolving “wait” symbol appeared, lingering for a tense moment before being replaced by a happy “Your purchase is complete” screen telling him (a) his Discover had indeed swallowed the hefty price of the treatment and (b) a box would be winging its way to him via second-day air for arrival on Friday, just in time for Diego’s three-day shoot in Antigua. He’d have the loft to himself, with no partner around to trigger those embarrassing sitcom moments where Diego discovered incriminating packaging in the trash or walked in on Quinn popping strange pills.
Quinn gave his crotch a rueful smile. Operation Get Quinn Hung was on. “Hang in there, little buddy,” he told it. “Your salvation awaits.”
“You talkin’ to me?” said the Uber driver. Quinn glanced up to see that the driver, who he’d already noticed when he’d got in at the mall was the size of maybe one and a quarter Dwayne Johnsons, was glaring steadily at him in the rear-view mirror. Quinn himself was not a small guy—he was above-average tall, fit and very well-proportioned, with especially decent pecs for someone who wasn’t otherwise “built”—but he looked like a tall twig compared to this guy.
“Oh, uh, I didn’t mean you,” Quinn told the behemoth. “Obviously.”
The driver managed to keep up the stare-down in the mirror all the way to Quinn’s building, and it was with some relief that Quinn climbed out of the dark SUV and headed up to the apartment. Diego greeted him warmly, of course, and after a nice jointly prepared meal they settled into their deep, comfy, extra-long couch for a random-movie-watching session that soon devolved first into smarmy provocations, then into steamy lovemaking. Yet even as he lay there with a smiling, caramel-naked Diego sprawled sleepily on top of him, the skin between them slick with mingled spunk and the lube they kept in the end table, Quinn worried, as he always did, that he couldn’t possibly be truly satisfying his lover.
Sure, Diego had been the first guy in ages not to smirk at his undersized endowment or bitch at him for wasting their time. (“Tall, lanky guys are supposed to be fucking hung!” one hook-up app rando had yelled at him, genuinely angry. “This is fucking false advertising!”) In fact their unexpectedly sweet first encounter had deepened into love and commitment that was now nearly a year old. Quinn believed Diego loved Quinn’s stubby uncut cock as much as Quinn loved Diego’s. But… surely Diego couldn’t really be happy being fucked by a cock half the size of his own pouch-fillingly impressive endowment?
It didn’t help that Quinn’s hormones had been off the charts since puberty. Even now at age twenty-five he got hard from a look or a touch from the right guy (Diego was always the right guy), and sometimes he spilled into messy orgasm from a saucy lick to his earlobe or a lingering, languid caress up his long, softly defined, slightly hairy abs. And if anyone even breathed on his sensitive nips, which hardened as easily as his dick and were just as attention-seeking, forget it. Maybe it was to his advantage that his boners generally wouldn’t be noticed under his pants, but somehow Quinn didn’t feel like he’d lucked out on that score.
The box arrived on Friday as scheduled, a couple of hours after he’d dropped off Diego for an early-morning flight. It was a white, thick cardboard contained the size of a box of taco shells, nondescript apart from a demure HiPhyte NeoPharma over a P.O. box address in the top left. He shook his head. So shady. He was used to wistfully but resolutely ignoring cock-enhancement email spam, but his buddy Dave from his old job after college, who’d fucked him once and therefore knew that such a product was (ahem) relevant for him, had interrupted his usual string of memes and catty dms about demented relatives to send him the links with a note that swore that his new lover, who’d had the same (ahem) problem, had tried it and it really worked. Like, really, really, “I couldn’t walk the next day” worked.
And sure, Dave was flighty and often full of it, but—come on. There was no way he wouldn’t at least try it after a friend testimonial like that. He sighed and cut through the tape sealing up the box.
Inside on top was a folded-up paper that turned out to be one of those long pharmaceutical sheets of instructions, warnings, and disclaimers. Take two tablets every four hours, up to four times a day… Do not take more than the recommended dosage (Quinn smirked—he had read enough muscle- and cock-growth fiction to know better than that)… A small percentage of our trial population encountered the following rare side effects… yadda yadda yadda. He set the sheet aside and pulled a green pill bottle from the formed foam packaging filler. Apart from the silvery label, which just had HiPhyte DX3 and abbreviated set of cautions, it might as well have been a bottle of echinacea he’d picked up at Walgreens.
Heart fluttering slightly, he opened the bottle, removed the cotton, and shook out two flat, oval yellow tablets. Before he could change his mind, he slapped them into his mouth and swallowed them.
Inevitably, he glanced down at the crotch of his jeans.
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Quinn scoffed at himself, shaking his head. Of course nothing, because pills don’t work that way. Resisting an irrational urge to down another pair of the yellow pills “just to make sure”, he recapped the bottle and returned to his office in the back end of the loft to work on his current freelance coding project.
An hour later he was typing away, immersed in constructing a utility routine for use throughout the app he was building, when he suddenly realized he was completely hard. He frown down at it. Normally he had to be at least thinking about guys to sprout wood, but this boner had happened while his mind was focused entirely on datetime variable casting. Licking his lips, he unzipped his fly and let out his cock, embracing it in his left hand while he tried to keep typing with his right. He stroked himself absently, trying to keep up the momentum on his coding. Only… of course, his nips were twitching, demanding attention even more insistently than normal. With a sigh he abandoned his code and began using the fingertips of his free hand to brush and caress his left nip through his tee shirt.
Electricity shot through him. Five strokes in and he was already close. Quickening his pace slightly on his cock, he moved to his other nip, giving it a gentle tweak… shit, he was going to cum. Hastily he pulled up his shirt, expecting his release to spatter across his pale, defined abs as usual. Only this time, his release was much more intense than he was used to, his whole body seeming to spasm with pleasure as he shot huge, thick spurts of hot cum all over the Ubuntu logo across his chest. Heart still pounding hard from the orgasm, he stared down at the gooey mess, astonished that a random mid-day hand-job could be so… epic. He opened up his left hand and focused on his cock, still mostly hard and looking like it was encased in a cummy cocoon. He shuddered with an aftershock of pleasure. Was it… did it look a little fatter? Fuck, it was definitely fatter. And longer? Maybe? He grinned. He might have to find a ruler later. His orgasm-euphoria mixed with warm anticipation.
Maybe Dave wasn’t full of it after all.
He got up and washed his hands. After that he pulled off his shirt to soak in the washer, then he came back to his desk and, with a slightly shaking hand, he set the alarm on his phone for the next dosage in three hours. No way was he going to miss taking every one of those pills he was supposed to.
The rest of Friday was more of the same. He took the pills on schedule. He took breaks to eat. Mostly he worked on his coding gig, only he kept getting interrupted over and over again by these spontaneous, unprovoked waves of powerful arousal that heated his blood, sent tingles through his skin, and caused his dick to spontaneously spring to rigid, aching hardness. In the past Quinn had already had occasion to liken his tendency for sudden turn-ons to being flipped like a switch, and now it was even more so. It was like “code code code code bam hard as fucking rock and hot all over”. He was thinking about it, too, a low rippling current in his heads even while he was trying to concentrate on work—that probably fed it, he guessed.
Every time the sudden dick-stiffening arousal hit him he fished it out and felt a shiver of uncomplicated awe as it hefted just that little bit longer and thicker and heavier in his hand.
Once his dick was out he immediately began jerking it toward release, getting off on the rush of a bigger dick in his hand on top of the deep pleasure his easily stimulated cock always loved to give him. He was now automatically reaching for his nips, too, not even trying to keep working once he was in “switched-on” mode. They felt even more sensitive than before, almost uncannily eager and responsive, both of them big and hard and hungry for his caresses and especially for that little pinch that almost always hurled him straight over the edge into a crazy, cum-spitting orgasm. He started to think of it as three points of stimulation, an erogenous triangle of accelerated, mounting ecstasy. Even his balls were feeling swollen and subtly intensified, like he was spitting out more concentrated spunk and in greater quantities—that, at least, seemed obvious from the high-pressure spray of hot, thick jizz spattering across his bare chest every time he came, and came, and came. (He was working shirtless now—no need to risk staining any more of his favorite geek tees.)
As he lay in bed after taking his fourth and final dose of the day, he tried counting back through the number of times he’d gotten abruptly turned on and worked himself to a chest-coating climax since he’d first opened the box that morning. He wasn’t sure—there had been so many—but it had to be something like thirteen times. The idea blew him away. It also… turned him on. In seconds his dick had leapt up as fast as an obscene gesture and was back to being as stiff as a board, like he hadn’t cum in weeks. Fuck, even as a teenager he hadn’t been this horny—relentlessly, unquenchably, like he had infinite reserves of arousal. Was this just for while he was taking the pills, or would it last?
It didn’t matter. The pills were working! With a disbelieving grin he reached for his bigger, weightier hard-on with his left hand, and his thick, hard, incredibly touch-hungry nips with his right, wondering just how much improvement he’d be able to show his hot, beloved Diego. This time, the mental image of Diego wrapping his sweet, sexy, stubble-ringed lips around his newly embiggened dick was what made Quinn blow his load, and this time his release was so huge his spunk splattered over his neck, his chin, and open, panting mouth. He reached out his tongue in time to taste his own bitter, wonderful spend, erupted straight from his own unstoppable prick.
His heavy cock was raging hard again when he woke up Saturday morning. That wasn’t so unusual, but what was strange was that his lower face, neck, and chest felt weirdly stuff and crusty, as if… wait, he’d cleaned off the cum from last night, hadn’t he? No, he definitely had. He’d climbed out of bed, wet a washcloth with warm water, and stood in the front of the bathroom mirror scrubbing cum out of his dark brown stubble and sparse chest hair, all while tossing himself the occasional sardonic “Can you believe this?” look. And yet now it was like the whole clean-up hadn’t happened, or…
He licked his lips and tasted his own cum, some of it still warm, though other swaths of his spunk had clearly had a chance to dry—he could feel it pulling at his nascent beard on his jaw and neck, and on the skin of his lower cheeks. Criminy, there were layers of the stuff. He had to have cum at least twice in his sleep, all over himself. Maybe more than twice—maybe a bunch of times. Good thing he tended to stay on his back when he was tired, he thought wryly, or he would have painted the whole room.
Man, he was thirsty. Thirsty… and horny.
As was now almost automatic, he reached for his slowly expanding dick with one hand and his ultra-happy nips with the other. He took his erection in his grasp and groaned—it had grown more in his sleep, and was almost half again as girthy as it had been the previous morning during Diego’s “I’m going to miss you” pre-departure blow-job, and palpably an inch, maybe even an inch and a half longer. He wanted to look at it closely later, tracing the veins and coloring and admiring the new shape and size. He was making progress; another day on the pills and he’d have a real cock, big enough to make both Diego and his ass very happy.
Just the idea of a hefty, proper-sized Quinn-cock had his pulse speeding up and his skin warming in a second, his more-considerable-than-before balls tightening and roiling in readiness as he gripped his shaft hard. He touched his fingers to his left nipple—and stopped.
Something else had grown in the night. His stomach dropped as he moved his hand across to his other nipple, irrationally unsure what he wanted to find. No—two somethings had gotten bigger while he slept.
He glanced down nervously. At the bottoms of his naturally firm and defined pecs were two protrusions that were rather too big to be called nipples anymore. They were purple and firm and as big as the top half of his thumb, and as Quinn stared at them he realized they resembled nothing so much as the blunt, stubby head of his old, pre-improvements cock, with only the missing foreskin to distinguish them from the original equipment he’d just yesterday started upgrading. Fascinated and appalled all at once, he gave the left cockhead-shaped nub an experimental brush and gasped. Fuck, they were sensitive! His balls felt like they leapt up in eager reaction to the touch, and his iron-hard dick jerked in his hand. Most shockingly of all, a tiny pearl of precum was even now emerging from the tips of both of his ex-nipple cocknubs as he watched in stunned amazement.
“Ho… holy shit,” he breathed. His head swam, but he’d never been so aroused in his life.
Unable to wrench his gaze away from his two new stimulus-points, Quinn reluctantly uncurled his other hand from around his cock, and, heart slamming against his chest, he drew both hands up to his new cocknubs. Barely daring to breathe, he gave them each a gentle, feather-light twist, mirroring the turn of his fingers so that the simultaneous twists were in opposite directions.
He couldn’t hold back a yelp as he suddenly came, hard, the gouts of cum erupting from his cock painting his face with blood-hot spunk, so that he had to close his eyes, squeezing his lids shut only just in time. But the deepest thrill came from the tiny twin answering releases spitting little jets of fresh, hot cum across the insides of his palms. Quinn panted, stars drifting against his closed eyelids. Fuck, he was soaring, floating miles in the air over the city. He might never come down. That had to be the biggest orgasm he could remember having.
It was a while before he could even think again. Those cocknubs—they were… fuck, they were amazing. Were they just temporary, a weird ephemeral side-effect like the serial hair-trigger orgasms? Or… maybe he’d get to keep them? He was torn, completely unsure what to hope for. Would Diego… like them? Would Diego like to brush his lips over them, a dry touch at first until moistened by their little beads of pre, before parting those sweet lips, exposing the tip of his wicked, worldly tongue and the teasing tips of his white teeth…?
Quinn realized he was not only fully hard again but ready to cum without touching himself anywhere if he pushed that fantasy even a moment longer. No, he didn’t know if that was what he wanted to hope for, but he’d certainly be imagining it from now on, in Technicolor and Sensurround. He was kind of shocked at how extreme his desires and fantasies were becoming. Was he jazzed about being hung… or was it a byproduct of the pills? For the first time he wondered what else the pills were doing to him that he couldn’t see. Maybe nothing, but in that moment he wasn’t sure what he knew about himself. The thought intrigued him, somewhat to his surprise, and his thickening tool and newly spring cocknubs all tingled with curious desire.
Well, he knew one thing. He had a goal, and he was going to make it happen. He needed to get up, take a shower, go take his pills, chug probably that whole carton of o.j. in the fridge, and generally get started on day two of Operation Get Quinn Hung.
He smiled. He couldn’t wait.