Recovery (Patreon)

He was slowly getting his life together, piece by piece, day by day. After a month he’d lost all hope they would ever catch her. The police had been slow from the start. They didn’t even know how to classify the crime to begin with. It was a crime though, they all agreed. The prosecutor made a whole list of possible charges, but aggravated assault was the one that made life the easiest for the law. Someone had been held against their will, bodily mutilated, and now the perpetrator needed to be apprehended and given the opportunity to tell her side.

There wasn’t really any counseling to be had either. They knew how to handle sexual assault. If it was a female victim, send her off to a shelter and place her in a support group. For male victims, tell them tough luck, and if they show any immediate trauma, send them to the normal shrink.

He hadn’t been raped though, or anything close to that. Quite the opposite. His dick and balls had just kept growing, and he had been hornier and hornier. She had just teased him. “Imagine how much cum you store in there. Can you feel the pressure?” Oh, how he did. He pleaded with her. He would do anything, if she would just let him cum.

“One inch longer dick or one inch wider chest?”, she had asked. He knew what would happen if he said dick. He had already answered that, and wasn’t sure he could take any more. “Chest.” he’d answered, and energy had surged through the body, followed by the now familiar feeling of growth. She rubbed her hand over the skin, still tingling from the transformation. “You are going to look ridiculous! So, again, one inch longer dick or one inch wider chest?”. He didn’t know if she would continue until he said dick. He suspected that it didn’t really mattered what he said. She was going to do whatever she wanted anyway. “Chest.”

It took a bit longer for science to let him down than the law. No one could tell what had happened to him. HIPAA made his “condition” confidential, but when you are the only known case word gets around. He didn’t mind, as long as there was help. In fact, he liked some of the changes. Big dick, chiseled, muscled all looks good on paper, until someone makes a cartoon version. “Huge ass fucking muscle morph” was what she had said. He had never heard the term “morph” before, but now knowing it he would agree.

They didn’t really offer any useful solutions. The changes in bone and facial structure were difficult and painful to undo. The changes in muscle fiber composition was done down to genetic level, and they had no idea how to alter that. The only real solutions they could offer were snipping his dick, injecting hormones and surgically move hair follicles around. No thanks.

He tried cardio only, calorie deficient regimen. Nearly collapsed of exhaustion. Didn’t lose a pound of muscle. It was all about acceptance now, as his counselor would have said if he had one.

Read my commentary.