This is a one-off dystopian story featuring penis worship and distension. Due to the plot and setting, it is categorized as Sci Fi & Fantasy. You could accurately call this a "lurid cautionary tale."
[TRIGGER WARNING]
Oliver is a fictitious character, and the narrative style expresses Oliver's incredibly offensive, and possibly disturbing, thoughts and opinions from the third person omniscient perspective.
This style means that statements may appear to be the authors' personal thoughts and opinions. They are not.
We do not wish to offend or kink-shame anyone with our writing; Oliver is an archetype, a symbol of many things. He disgusts us, personally, but we feel he is the best one to tell this story: butchered idioms, bigotry, and all.
You read at your own risk.
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Everyone participating in sexual activities in this story is a consenting adult.
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Oliver's heart hammered in his chest as he sat in the surgical prep room. It was an average-sized organ for a man of his stature, currently pumping 135 times per minute, forcing blood to course through the arteries, veins, and capillaries all over his body.
It was providing oxygen to fuel the activity of his skinny, tough, he called it, body. He was 5'6", barely below "average," but he felt every minuscule division in the seven inches between his own stature and what he convinced himself to be the average for adult men.
He was a donor, after all. How could he be expected to find the time to develop six-pack abs? He tried to work out when he could; but that wouldn't be enough for these tramps. No, they wanted a 6'3" stallion like the ones on the covers of their trashy romance novels. Didn't they know those illustrations were fake?
Oliver normally expended his regularly-building rage on the Lifted forums, where he was a moderator of all things shoe. He worked his way in, pretending to be a 5'1" man with a hormone imbalance. Tiny idiots.
It gave him immense satisfaction to wield his limited power to tyrannize his fellow, yet lesser, short-statured brethren. He gave new meaning to the classic Peter Steiner comic: "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog."
He loved being a dog, though. Reveled in it. Giving in to his own fledgling Napoleon complex ("Why not? People remember him a thousand years later!"), he frequently butted his way into discussions and insulted members, using his privileges to mute or ban anyone who so much as disagreed with him. If you don't like it, go somewhere else, he thought. The Internet's a big place.
Who needed the gym, anyway? It was just a bunch of cardio bunnies and narcissists flexing in the mirror and complimenting each other's "glutes."
Had it not been for another one of Oliver's organs, the more-realistic three inch height difference between his own and the 50th percentile may not have seemed so bad. He may not have seen it as a deficiency, even, had it been for this other, well, "issue."
He was embarrassed by his penis. Standing at three and a half inches long when fully erect (five inches in his mind, though he'd never mustered up the courage to put any measuring device to the test to challenge this discrepancy), and barely smaller than that when soft, the penis was perfect in every other way. Soft and hard virtually whenever he wanted, his self-titled "Monster" had a smooth cherry-colored head drained by a singular purple vein, the sight of which sometimes made him queasy.
His friend was graced by two average-sized, if invisible, neighbors. They were buried in a nest of pubic hair; he would leave it untrimmed even if he got a date, however infrequently that occurred. He had learned as a young man to wait until the eleventh hour to undress, for only the most callous of women would reject him at that point. They had danced, driven, and dined on his dime, but when it was time for the dicking, they wanted to ditch! Why did he always meet such frigid sluts?
The ones that stuck around seemed pretty satisfied, generally. At least they never complained! Oliver tried not to think about his manhood very often. In fact, Oliver tried not to think about any of his organs very often. Blood and guts grossed him out.
He tried not to look around or think about the fact that his heart was really just a glorified sack, squeezing in his chest. Shit. His vision tunneled, the sense bringing the memory of the initial surgical consult to his mind.
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The brochure was hella snazzy. Eye color, nipple length, rotational capability of the elbow-it was crazy what this company could do! For just nineteen payments of $119.99, he could have permanently blue sperm.
Imagine that! Smurfing his way through bitches at the Leaking Clam, his grungy local haunt. Fuck that. If he had blue jizz, he'd roll up at the fucking Ramara. Just, blam!, on the doorman and walk in. He chuckled.
Opening the cover, he read the table of contents. The page of dicks on the opposite side stopped him for a brief second before he flipped quickly to "3: Height and Weight."
Dicks on page one. Of course. Their ad wasn't subtle, either: "Raising eyebrows, and averages, since 2020." With a little prick and ruler icon. Must be nice to be born with money-just fix all your problems, leaving unlucky people like him in the dust. Averages. Fuck averages. They were probably made up, anyway.
He paused extra long on page two, tits. He didn't want the other three men in the waiting room thinking he was into dudes.
He just wanted to add nine inches and 30 pounds, he told himself. Enough to turn some heads at the club. Not the ones he turned now, mousy bookish ones too often ruined by glasses. Well, ruined by genetics and then the glasses, he laughed to himself. No more fugly girls for him.
Damn, no prices. He suspected that would be the case. It was the reason he was here, embarrassing as it was to be seen getting out of the HitchARide. Its AI "driver" had whipped it out of the parking lot to its next pair of pick-ups, abandoning him on the football-field-sized asphalt expanse.
They should plant more trees at a fucking place like this, he thought.
Bodyaug's radio ad on KNPN The Kingpin hadn't mentioned prices, filling their 30-second time slot with all the bizarre body modifications and augmentations you could want. Couldn't they get back to the music? Price apparently wasn't an issue to some people. Lucky assholes.
But the ad had promised to give him a free consult, and up to ten inches. He wasn't greedy. Nine would do. Thinking of Page One, he hoped that the ad had been talking about height. Otherwise, more money down the drain. HitchARide wasn't cheap.
The wait was an unbearable ten minutes trying not to make eye contact with the other guys. It's Austin, Texas. They were probably there for tits. Shit, he thought, he hoped they didn't think that's what HE was here for.
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He looked around. "Where is this asshole?" He was starting to get impatient. It wasn't yet time for his surgery, but if there wasn't anyone in front of him, why couldn't they just start NOW?
He had met Dr. Whatshisfuck, who had been happy to show him examples of satisfied, and tall, customers. But when it came time to get down to business, he had been reluctant to give Oliver prices. Of course. Realizing he was being taken for a ride, he had raised his voice and stood aggressively, his lifts adding their characteristic inch and a half to his height. Doc finally gave up the goat, though. Oliver was no idiot.
Hearing what the monthly payment would be (For 15 years! He'd be as big as a house, but c'mon!), the doc's bullshitting was no wonder. But no amount of trickery would get the bastard to drop the price, something to do with insurance.
He had almost left, but the slick motherfucker had gotten him to stay by telling him they were having a sale.
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Ahhh, now it made sense. This slippery sonofabitch was gonna try to upsell him. He could try.
"We do have one offer right now, but it doesn't sound like you need it." Oliver had paused, having risen and headed for the "doctor's" door. "Most guys walk out when I mention it, like they're too embarrassed."
"I ain't embarrassed of shit." He walked back over and sat down, to prove it.
Holding eye contact with Oliver and staring him down, Dr. Whatever had turned to the previous page of the sparse manual and began his schpiel: "Your average adult American man's penis is exactly 6.22 inches long, a statistic that has steadily grown, if you'll pardon my joke, since we did our first large-scale study decades ago in 2020, when it was a mere 5.12 inches."
The blood rushed to Oliver's cheeks. The doc's eyes had wandered down to the brochure and its assortment of limp dicks, ranging from slightly larger than his to one that drooped out of its rich owner's hand. His eyes had followed the doc's, then jerked up. This jackass in a white coat had looked up at him right when he said "mere." "The fuck was that supposed to imply?"
The doc ignored him. "Of course, you've seen that our normal rates are high for height and weight already. And that's a change everyone will know you've made. Being more, well, discreet, these are very expensive," he spoke, gesturing to the page. His implication was now clear.
"Fuck you, I could afford it. But my dick is already big. Too big, some of the time. I'm leaving. I'll find someone to make me taller for cheaper." He knew how to haggle.
Doc held up both hands in defeat. "You're right; I can't make you taller for cheaper. But I can make you bigger for cheaper."
At this, Oliver paused. He'd clearly bested the man, but maybe he could go double or nothing. The pause continued, and so did the doc: "Bigger than your wrist." Fuck. He looked down at his arm. Slim for a wrist, but startlingly big as a cock.
