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Awesome installment. So glad this is back. How about his other gay friends, do they know?
This story is so awesome.
“Dr. Stiles will see you now.”
Per our usual Monday evening routine, Owen and I were seated side by side in the same drab waiting room of Phallarmic, Inc. that we had found ourselves for the first time a month before. Looking up from my phone, I found the receptionist, Nancy, glowering at us coldly despite the fact that we were not familiar faces to her. It was hard to believe that four weeks had already passed since Owen had been prescribed the wonder drug that was Cresivir—or would have been, were it not for the increasingly pronounced bulge in his crotch. A growing body of evidence, some might say, with special emphasis on the “growing” part.
I’d been in the midst of a group text and quickly shot off one last message before rising from my seat: Have to go now—see you tonight. Seven o’clock sharp! If it was difficult to believe four weeks of wonderful, exhilarating penis enlargement had passed so quickly, it was harder still to realize that Owen and I had been dating nearly two months. This, however, was not a detail lost on my social circle. My two best friends in the world, Katherine and Aaron, had been pestering me for weeks to introduce them to my mystery boyfriend, having noticed that I was increasingly more tight-lipped about how I was spending my time despite being less and less available to hang out. Not mentioning Owen to them, let alone introducing him, was becoming a progressively complex knot to untangle. As a result, I had finally bit the bullet and reluctantly arranged a potluck dinner with them that evening.
But first: Owen’s weekly check-in.
We found the bookish doctor, Brian, sanitizing the examination table when we entered. His previous patient, another participant in the clinical trial, must have exited through some unseen door in the back of the building, I surmised. Every week we had dropped in, I had noticed that the waiting room was conspicuously empty. How many other men out there in the greater Cincinnati area were undergoing the same miracle treatments that Owen was? As he began shimmying out of his pants, his shockingly large bulge flopping into plain view, I wondered how many of his fellow participants were having the breathtaking success he was. There’s no one like him, I thought confidently. He’s one of kind.
“You’re do for a round of extracorporeal shock wave lithotripsy,” Dr. Stiles said, as Owen climbed on to the exam table, clad only in his overstuffed underwear. The material was stretched thin, perfectly accentuating each enormous testicle and the fat, turgid cock draped and packed over them. In my years of mindless Internet exploration I’d seen men who labored for hours in cock pumps for similar results and still come up short. “I should like to go ahead and get your weekly measurements out of the way first, however. Your progress has been remarkable, to say the least. And judging by the state of your, uh, attire, I expect to be no less impressed.”
The process was as simple enough. While Dr. Stiles washed up and snapped on a pair of latex gloves, Owen would pull and stretch himself to a powerful erection. The first occasion had been an awkward affair, with Owen blushing so profusely I was certain there was not enough blood remaining to get him hard. We’d asked for a moment of privacy, and without an onlooker, I was able to get Owen rock solid in under a minute. The second and third weeks, Owen had been markedly less self-conscious, but still asked Dr. Stiles to turn his back. Today, however, he merely reached for the waistband of his underwear and stripped them off without so much as a second’s hesitation. I nearly swooned as his meaty cock and equally stout balls dropped ponderously between his legs. I will never get tired of witnessing that.
Dr. Stiles turned, measuring tape in hand, and froze. After a protracted pause, he cleared his throat and traded Owen a shaky grin. “I don’t believe its necessary to ask if you’ve been following your routine,” he said, voice cracking. He rolled toward Owen on his wheeled stool, his eyes growing wider the closer he grew to the magnificent set of genitalia awaiting him. Though I’d watched him do this at least three times before, the doctor seemed no less kowtowed by the exaggerated dick before him. With a shaking hand he placed one end of the tape against Owen’s neatly trimmed pubic hair and took hold of the daunting prick behind its glans, pulling it parallel to the floor, running the tape along its length. But no matter how far Dr. Stiles pulled, Owen’s elastic dong met his demands, stretching further and further from his body. When it finally could be pulled no longer, the doctor glanced at the tape and quickly wrote down the number he saw there under the portion of his clipboard labeled BONE PRESSED FLACCID LENGTH. With all the reverence of handling an antique, he gently released Owen’s elongated schlong from his grasp.
But the damage had been done, so to speak. The button for launch had been pressed. The ribbon had been cut. As if possessing a mind of it’s own, Owen’s enormous cock had been roused from its sleep by the doctor’s ministrations. Now the real show was about to begin. Tugged and prodded, his huge johnson greedily retained the newfound length that the doctor’s measuring had gifted it and dangled long between his legs. As if someone had turned on a spigot, girth and bulk began pouring into his mammoth organ, capitalizing on its length and adding more still. With a gentle tug, Owen silently coaxed the swelling along, pulling his meat aloft. Show him what you’ve got, big man, I wanted to say. Grow that fucker as big as can be. Inch after inch of bulk gushed into Owen’s horse-cock with record haste, lifting it’s heavy head vertically, until it was at long last pressed stiff against his abdomen. Three sets of eyes lay upon it, but none of us spoke. Finally, Owen raised a hand, lovingly brushing the underside and the great, fat cum-tube it found there there, and hiked a thumb behind his stalwart shaft, pointing it toward Dr. Stiles.
“Do your thing, doc,” he said.
I wanted to thrust my hand in the air and wave it around, desperate to have the honors of measuring that marvelous, menacing erection, but Dr. Stiles was already moving in on it. More than once I had practically begged Owen to let me measure him while we were fucking, but he always declined. Anticipation, he always said, was the best aphrodisiac. And so I had to wait, a week at a time, until Monday rolled around and the clock hit 4:30pm to find out just how much my exceedingly endowed boyfriend had grown. I waited on tenterhooks, my own cock straining my jeans, and peered over Dr. Stiles’ shoulder as he scribbled the figure on his clipboard. Without missing a beat, Dr. Stiles shelved the measuring tape and reached for the caliper-like device so that he could approximate the diameter of Owen’s fat, cum-bloated testicles.
Soft: 9.5”- Erect: 11.5” x 7.25” – Balls: 2.5”
The next step of Owen’s measurements was, in my opinion, the most fun to complete and the reason why I had come to think of his weekly check-ins as “Milking Mondays”. Dr. Stiles always excused himself to give Owen and I some alone time so that we could drain his huge balls into a beaker. With some lithe finger-work on Owen’s part and some nifty oral skills on mine, he was spurting jizz in no time. Thick, creamy ropes blasted into the beaker as I palpated and squeezed his swollen nuts, drawing forth just under a solid ounce of cum.
“You continue to impress,” Dr. Stiles said breathlessly upon his return.
“Still a half an inch away from twelve inches though, right?” Owen said.
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but if you continue with your current trend of weekly improvement, I have no doubt you will in fact reach that goal, Mr. Evans.”
Owen perked up. “You think so?”
“I would dare call it an inevitability.”
Flashing me that kid-in-a-candy-store grin of his, Owen gave me a silent double thumbs-up as Dr. Stiles prepped the extracorporeal shock wave lithotripsy equipment (or, as I called it, the “ball buster”). The machine itself was reminiscent of a MRI and X-ray hybrid. As Owen lay on his back on the exam table, the doctor swung a large telescope-like arm over his exposed torso, positioning it directly over Owen’s groin. With a press of a button, the machine hummed to life, unleashing a torrent of invisible shockwaves directly into his testicles.
“Feels like getting kicked in the balls every time,” Owen grumbled to me afterward as he hobbled to the car. Once inside, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the bottle of Cresivir. He jiggled one of the pills into his palm and tossed it into the back of his throat.
I frowned. “Is it worth it?”
He tossed back a swig of water, washing down the pill, and smacked his lips.
“I’d walk right back in there and do it again."
Per our usual Monday evening routine, Owen and I were seated side by side in the same drab waiting room of Phallarmic, Inc. that we had found ourselves for the first time a month before. Looking up from my phone, I found the receptionist, Nancy, glowering at us coldly despite the fact that we were not familiar faces to her. It was hard to believe that four weeks had already passed since Owen had been prescribed the wonder drug that was Cresivir—or would have been, were it not for the increasingly pronounced bulge in his crotch. A growing body of evidence, some might say, with special emphasis on the “growing” part.
I’d been in the midst of a group text and quickly shot off one last message before rising from my seat: Have to go now—see you tonight. Seven o’clock sharp! If it was difficult to believe four weeks of wonderful, exhilarating penis enlargement had passed so quickly, it was harder still to realize that Owen and I had been dating nearly two months. This, however, was not a detail lost on my social circle. My two best friends in the world, Katherine and Aaron, had been pestering me for weeks to introduce them to my mystery boyfriend, having noticed that I was increasingly more tight-lipped about how I was spending my time despite being less and less available to hang out. Not mentioning Owen to them, let alone introducing him, was becoming a progressively complex knot to untangle. As a result, I had finally bit the bullet and reluctantly arranged a potluck dinner with them that evening.
But first: Owen’s weekly check-in.
We found the bookish doctor, Brian, sanitizing the examination table when we entered. His previous patient, another participant in the clinical trial, must have exited through some unseen door in the back of the building, I surmised. Every week we had dropped in, I had noticed that the waiting room was conspicuously empty. How many other men out there in the greater Cincinnati area were undergoing the same miracle treatments that Owen was? As he began shimmying out of his pants, his shockingly large bulge flopping into plain view, I wondered how many of his fellow participants were having the breathtaking success he was. There’s no one like him, I thought confidently. He’s one of kind.
“You’re do for a round of extracorporeal shock wave lithotripsy,” Dr. Stiles said, as Owen climbed on to the exam table, clad only in his overstuffed underwear. The material was stretched thin, perfectly accentuating each enormous testicle and the fat, turgid cock draped and packed over them. In my years of mindless Internet exploration I’d seen men who labored for hours in cock pumps for similar results and still come up short. “I should like to go ahead and get your weekly measurements out of the way first, however. Your progress has been remarkable, to say the least. And judging by the state of your, uh, attire, I expect to be no less impressed.”
The process was as simple enough. While Dr. Stiles washed up and snapped on a pair of latex gloves, Owen would pull and stretch himself to a powerful erection. The first occasion had been an awkward affair, with Owen blushing so profusely I was certain there was not enough blood remaining to get him hard. We’d asked for a moment of privacy, and without an onlooker, I was able to get Owen rock solid in under a minute. The second and third weeks, Owen had been markedly less self-conscious, but still asked Dr. Stiles to turn his back. Today, however, he merely reached for the waistband of his underwear and stripped them off without so much as a second’s hesitation. I nearly swooned as his meaty cock and equally stout balls dropped ponderously between his legs. I will never get tired of witnessing that.
Dr. Stiles turned, measuring tape in hand, and froze. After a protracted pause, he cleared his throat and traded Owen a shaky grin. “I don’t believe its necessary to ask if you’ve been following your routine,” he said, voice cracking. He rolled toward Owen on his wheeled stool, his eyes growing wider the closer he grew to the magnificent set of genitalia awaiting him. Though I’d watched him do this at least three times before, the doctor seemed no less kowtowed by the exaggerated dick before him. With a shaking hand he placed one end of the tape against Owen’s neatly trimmed pubic hair and took hold of the daunting prick behind its glans, pulling it parallel to the floor, running the tape along its length. But no matter how far Dr. Stiles pulled, Owen’s elastic dong met his demands, stretching further and further from his body. When it finally could be pulled no longer, the doctor glanced at the tape and quickly wrote down the number he saw there under the portion of his clipboard labeled BONE PRESSED FLACCID LENGTH. With all the reverence of handling an antique, he gently released Owen’s elongated schlong from his grasp.
But the damage had been done, so to speak. The button for launch had been pressed. The ribbon had been cut. As if possessing a mind of it’s own, Owen’s enormous cock had been roused from its sleep by the doctor’s ministrations. Now the real show was about to begin. Tugged and prodded, his huge johnson greedily retained the newfound length that the doctor’s measuring had gifted it and dangled long between his legs. As if someone had turned on a spigot, girth and bulk began pouring into his mammoth organ, capitalizing on its length and adding more still. With a gentle tug, Owen silently coaxed the swelling along, pulling his meat aloft. Show him what you’ve got, big man, I wanted to say. Grow that fucker as big as can be. Inch after inch of bulk gushed into Owen’s horse-cock with record haste, lifting it’s heavy head vertically, until it was at long last pressed stiff against his abdomen. Three sets of eyes lay upon it, but none of us spoke. Finally, Owen raised a hand, lovingly brushing the underside and the great, fat cum-tube it found there there, and hiked a thumb behind his stalwart shaft, pointing it toward Dr. Stiles.
“Do your thing, doc,” he said.
I wanted to thrust my hand in the air and wave it around, desperate to have the honors of measuring that marvelous, menacing erection, but Dr. Stiles was already moving in on it. More than once I had practically begged Owen to let me measure him while we were fucking, but he always declined. Anticipation, he always said, was the best aphrodisiac. And so I had to wait, a week at a time, until Monday rolled around and the clock hit 4:30pm to find out just how much my exceedingly endowed boyfriend had grown. I waited on tenterhooks, my own cock straining my jeans, and peered over Dr. Stiles’ shoulder as he scribbled the figure on his clipboard. Without missing a beat, Dr. Stiles shelved the measuring tape and reached for the caliper-like device so that he could approximate the diameter of Owen’s fat, cum-bloated testicles.
Soft: 9.5”- Erect: 11.5” x 7.25” – Balls: 2.5”
The next step of Owen’s measurements was, in my opinion, the most fun to complete and the reason why I had come to think of his weekly check-ins as “Milking Mondays”. Dr. Stiles always excused himself to give Owen and I some alone time so that we could drain his huge balls into a beaker. With some lithe finger-work on Owen’s part and some nifty oral skills on mine, he was spurting jizz in no time. Thick, creamy ropes blasted into the beaker as I palpated and squeezed his swollen nuts, drawing forth just under a solid ounce of cum.
“You continue to impress,” Dr. Stiles said breathlessly upon his return.
“Still a half an inch away from twelve inches though, right?” Owen said.
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but if you continue with your current trend of weekly improvement, I have no doubt you will in fact reach that goal, Mr. Evans.”
Owen perked up. “You think so?”
“I would dare call it an inevitability.”
Flashing me that kid-in-a-candy-store grin of his, Owen gave me a silent double thumbs-up as Dr. Stiles prepped the extracorporeal shock wave lithotripsy equipment (or, as I called it, the “ball buster”). The machine itself was reminiscent of a MRI and X-ray hybrid. As Owen lay on his back on the exam table, the doctor swung a large telescope-like arm over his exposed torso, positioning it directly over Owen’s groin. With a press of a button, the machine hummed to life, unleashing a torrent of invisible shockwaves directly into his testicles.
“Feels like getting kicked in the balls every time,” Owen grumbled to me afterward as he hobbled to the car. Once inside, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the bottle of Cresivir. He jiggled one of the pills into his palm and tossed it into the back of his throat.
I frowned. “Is it worth it?”
He tossed back a swig of water, washing down the pill, and smacked his lips.
“I’d walk right back in there and do it again."
JJ_Jumbo
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Was it ever! This is amazing writing, @GJackN.
BeardedMuscle
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BeardedMuscle
Loved Member
I'm asking because his balls grow too and an increase in testosterone would naturally cause an increase in other traits governed by that hormone.
I hope no more aggression. I like Owen just way he is 
The growth of Owen's balls and his corresponding hormones will definitely have consequences, but he's self-possessed enough to be in control of his temper and appetites...most of the time. That's not to say he doesn't get angry, just that it takes quite a bit to get him there. There'll definitely been more interplay between he and his colleague, Travis, which will verge on the aggressive.
BeardedMuscle
Loved Member
I don't ever equate aggression with anger. They can exist together but are separate things. I meant aggression in terms of becoming more alpha, being more forward, becoming the initiator of encounters, outgrowing some of the shyness, and growing less inhibited. These are the aspects I was thinking of when I imagined Owen finding himself in a familiar scenario but reacting differently. You touched on this in the last exam room scene when Owen was asked to undress and did so with greater enthusiasm. I'm eager to read other examples. I can imagine Owen deciding that sweatpants are now way more comfortable for casual situations like going grocery shopping and he doesn't care that going commando can be quite revealing in the most minor of sexually charged moments.
I wonder if Dr. Stiles will allow Owen to have a longer... trial.
As Owen's grows larger, his confidence and comfortability in his own skin certainly becomes more pronounced. This will manifest in a myriad of ways, but I would not say "aggressive" so much as I would assertive. He has largely lead an insular life and been self-conscience of his endowment and that's a difficult mold for him to break. Showing off his huge assets is easier with people he knows and trusts, but he isn't readily comfortable doing so with strangers and unfamiliar onlookers. Not yet anyway.
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this story is a wet dream. thank you so much.
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