Chapter 4: Adding a Little Extra Insurance
The screen went dark, leaving Jason alone in the humming silence of his reshaped dorm. The phantom scent of her coconut sunscreen lingered in his sinuses. He looked at his hands—the new calluses on his palms, the stronger tendons on the backs—and a cool, curious thrill settled in his chest. The pencil had rewritten his muscles, his memories, his entire social landscape. It had given him a girlfriend, a history, a stronger body.
But it had only addressed the exterior. The interior, the private geography of himself, remained untouched.Original. Flawed.
His eyes drifted from his hands to the top drawer of his desk. Taped to the front was a faded, half-peeled warning label about microfiber cloths. Inside, tucked behind spare chargers and old notebooks, was a small, silvery foil packet. A condom. A relic from his old, untouched life. He took it out, placed it on the desk next to the pencil. The foil shimmered under the dorm’s fluorescent light.
This was the next logical experiment. Not a change to someone else, or to the world around him. A direct, personal edit. The ultimate vanity.The ultimate control.
He picked up the pencil. The graphite tip, slightly frayed from its earlier use, seemed to gleam. He didn’t think about morality, or consequence, or the slippery slope he was sprinting down. He thought only of parameters. Of design.Ten inches. Thick as a soda can. A definitive, absurd measurement. He focused on the feeling of impossible density, of sheer, anatomical dominance. He pictured the condom packet, and then, more importantly, he pictured what it was meant to contain.
He wrote directly onto the foil, the letters small and precise: 10” long. 6” circumference.
The graphite left a faint, silvery streak on the metallic surface. For a second, nothing happened. Then, a deep, internal tugging sensation began in his groin, a sudden and profound rearrangement of tissue and blood.
He gasped, the chair creaking as he straightened. It wasn’t pain. It was an immense, overwhelming pressure, a rapid expansion against the confines of his jeans. The denim, loose just a moment ago, was now strained taut across his lap, the fabric tight as a drumhead. He watched, detached and fascinated, as the material tented obscenely, the zipper digging into the swollen flesh beneath. A low groan escaped him as the growth continued, a relentless internal swelling that crowded his thighs, pressed against his lower abdomen. He could feel every frantic heartbeat in the new, massive weight of it.
And with the physical change came the memories. They didn’t trickle in; they crashed over him like a rogue wave.
He was fifteen, in a locker room shower, acutely and painfully aware of his difference, other boys glancing and then quickly looking away, a mixture of awe and intimidation in their eyes. He was eighteen, buying condoms at a pharmacy, the old woman at the register giving the Magnum box a weary, knowing glance. He was on a date with Jessica from his freshman chemistry class—a girl who had never spoken to him in the old reality—her eyes going wide in the dim backseat of his car, her hand hesitating before touching him. “It’s… it’s okay,” she’d whispered, a lie he’d heard before.
Then, brighter and more vivid: Ava. Not on a screen, but in a room that smelled of her perfume and gym chalk. Her face, gorgeous and made-up, her golden bangs slightly askew, was looking up at him from between his legs with determined, playful nervousness. “I’ve seen the videos,” she’d giggled, her British accent melodic. “I can handle it.”
The sensory memory was brutal in its clarity. The first warm, wet touch of her plush lips tentatively encircling the bulbous, flared head. The stunning, exquisite tightness of her mouth. The look of pure, unadulterated surprise in her hazel eyes as she realized the sheer girth of him, the impossible depth required. She’d pushed forward, her throat working, a muffled gagging sound vibrating through him. She’d managed about half the length before her body rebelled, her cheeks bulging, her eyes flooding with reflexive tears. She’d pulled back with a wet, ragged gasp, strings of saliva breaking as she coughed, turning her head to the side, her shoulders shaking. “Bloody hell, J,” she’d wheezed, a strand of spit on her chin, her mascara slightly smudged. “You’re a monster.”
He’d loved it. The contrast had been breathtaking: her cute, influencer-perfect face, framed by those blonde bangs, utterly debased by the act, made lewd and desperate by his body. Her embarrassment had been cute, her failure a testament to his magnitude. She’d laughed through her coughing fit, wiping her mouth, and kissed the inside of his thigh. “We’ll need more practice,” she’d said, and the memory glowed with affectionate possession.
In the present, still fully clothed, Jason leaned back in his chair. The pressure in his jeans was immense, almost painful. He closed his eyes, letting the fabricated memory play on a loop. Her choked gasp, the tear in her eye, the proud, helpless expression afterward.
He undid his button, wrenched down the zipper. The relief was immediate and slight. He had to shove the waistband of his briefs down to free himself. What emerged was not merely a larger version of what he had before. It was a foreign object. A thick, heavy pillar of flesh, veined and ruddy, lying against his stomach. The measurements he’d written were not an exaggeration.It was absurd. It was comical. It was his.
His hand, which now remembered a lifetime of accommodating this, wrapped around the shaft. His fingers didn’t touch. The grip was new, requiring his whole hand to sheath the girth. He began to stroke, slowly at first, the skin moving smoothly over the iron-hard core beneath. The memory of Ava’s first attempt surfaced again, brighter, hotter. He saw the precise moment her control broke, the gasp, the cough.
His breathing hitched. His strokes grew faster, his fist a tight, moving band around the immense column. The chair groaned under his shifting weight. In his mind, her cute, embarrassed face, framed by golden bangs and gorgeous makeup, was the perfect counterpoint to the obscene physicality of the memory. The lewd act. Her choked submission to his new, designed body.
The climax built not as a wave but as a seismic event, a deep, gathering pressure in his base that seemed to resonate through the new, heavy weight of him. When it broke, it was less an eruption and more a violent, prolonged release. Thick ropes of semen shot across the floorboards of the dorm room, the first few pulses landing with audible splats against the linoleum, the subsequent ones arcing lower, pooling on the scratched surface. The force of it surprised him, the volume was more than he had ever produced. It was a giant load, befitting the new apparatus.
He sat there for a long moment, breathing raggedly, the new part of him slowly softening into a still-impressive weight in his hand. The room smelled of sex and stale laundry. He looked at the results of his work splattered across the floor, then down at himself.
A slow, unchecked smile spread across his face. It wasn’t a smile of pleasure, but of profound, unsettling discovery. The pencil didn’t just edit facts or bodies. It edited consequences. It edited responses. It edited desire and the memory of satisfaction. He had given Ava her muscle, her devotion. Now he had given himself this. A new arsenal. A new point of reference for every interaction, past and future.
He took a moment to admire the sheer, vulgar reality of it. The glistening proof on the floor. The heavy, spent weight in his lap. It was perfect. It was his.
Reaching for a towel from his laundry pile, he cleaned himself up mechanically, then tossed it onto the mess on the floor. He tucked himself away, the act now a complex maneuver. The dorm room was quiet again, but the silence was different. It was the silence after a fundamental change. He picked up the pencil, rolling it between his new, calloused fingers.
Ava was on a plane.She would be here tomorrow. She would remember this body. She would remember trying, and failing, to take all of it.
He looked at the bulletin board, at the altered photos of her. His gaze drifted to the blank wall next to it, then to his own reflection in the dark laptop screen. The edits so far were reactive, defensive, desire-driven. But the power thrumming in his hand felt proactive. It demanded a project.
What else, he wondered, could be designed?
What else, he wondered, could be designed?
The question pulsed in time with the faint, fading ache in his groin. His eyes scanned the dorm room, this laboratory of his new existence, and landed on the bulletin board. The printed-out Instagram grids of Ava stared back, her smile now a artifact from a simpler layer of reality. He sat forward, the chair protesting under his shifted weight, and woke his laptop. The screen glowed, illuminating his focused, placid expression. He navigated to her profile with ritualistic familiarity, his new callouses clicking softly on the keys.
He scrolled past the recent, post-edit progress videos—the monumental squats, the heavy deadlifts he now remembered spotting. He went further back, into the digital archaeology of her before. Before the pencil, before him. He found the video he was looking for, posted months ago. The caption read: “WHAT 80KGS LOOK LIKE ON A 5’2” GYM GIRL.”
He clicked play.
The video was casual, less polished. It opened with a first-person shot of her bare feet on a digital scale. The numbers flashed, settled: 80.0 kg. Then it cut. The new shot was from behind, a full-body mirror selfie. She was in a black thong and a matching sports bra, smiling coyly over her shoulder. “See?” she said to the camera, her old, lighter accent clear and bubbly. “It’s all in the legs!”
He paused it. The video froze on the image of her backside. It was impressive, always had been—the foundation of her influencer fame. Round, strong glutes built from years of hip thrusts. But now, to his eyes, freshly accustomed to her more extreme form, it looked almost manageable. The muscle was defined, but the cover was lean. He could see the separations in the hamstrings. It was powerful, but it wasn’t monstrous. It wasn’t his final version.
A cold, creative clarity settled over him. The earlier act had been about personal augmentation. This was refinement. Curating his masterpiece.He picked up the pencil. It felt warmer now, almost humming. He didn’t hesitate. Leaning close to the screen, he carefully drew a vertical line through the “8” in “80KGS,” transforming it into a “1.” He added a second zero. The new caption now read: “WHAT 100KGS LOOK LIKE ON A 5’2” GYM GIRL.”
He hit the spacebar to play the paused video.
The change wasn’t a morph.It was a replacement. One frame, she was the woman he’d first followed. The next, she was something else entirely.
The scale in the POV shot now read 100.0 kg. The number was stark, impossible for her height in any conventional sense. But the body in the mirror that followed defied convention. It avalanched into the frame. Her thighs, already substantial, now pushed against each other with dense, relentless mass, their outside sweep creating a profound silhouette. The black fabric of her thong, the same item, now strained over a landscape that seemed to have its own gravity. The glutes were not just larger; they were profound, a shelf of power and softness where thick muscle swelled under a generous, jiggling layer of fat. Every slight adjustment she made in the frozen frame—the shift of her hip, the subtle flex—now suggested a deep, liquid movement beneath the skin.
The video unfroze. She smiled over her shoulder, the same coy expression, but her body’s new density gave the gesture a different weight. “See?” she said, her voice slightly breathier, as if carrying the extra twenty kilograms in her lungs. “It’s all in the legs!” She gave a little bounce, a celebratory shimmy.
The effect was seismic. The jiggle was not a tremor. It was a slow, undulating wave that traveled from the crest of her hamstrings up through the full, overflowing curve of each cheek, a lingering oscillation that took a full second to settle. The sheer mass of her seemed to warp the space around her in the mirror, pulling all the light and attention into the incredible, fertile swell of her lower half.
Jason’s breath caught in his throat. A bolt of pure, visceral ownership shot through him. He had written this. He had authored this impossible, breathtaking physics.
His hand was already moving, shoving his jeans and briefs down past his hips. The earlier climax was a distant memory. His body, his new, designed body, responded with instant, obedient fervor. He rose to full mast effortlessly, the thick, heavy weight of him jutting against the cool air of the dorm. He took himself in hand, the scale of himself feeling perfectly matched to the scale of her new image.He scrolled.
He watched the revised video again, his grip tightening, his strokes slow and possessive. He clicked to her main grid, scrolling through years of posts that were now, subtly or drastically, different. A beach photo from two years ago showed her in a bikini, her backside now a breathtaking, expansive curve that shadowed the sand beneath. A side-shot in leggings at a competition showed her quad sweeping forward like the prow of a ship, layered with new muscle. A candid in jeans, laughing, the denim threatening to split at every seam under the pressure of those rewritten 100 kilograms.
Each image fed the furnace in his gut. This wasn’t just attraction. It was the dizzying high of pure, unmediated creation. He had taken a human being and edited her into a monument to his specific desire. Her smiles, her laughter, her casual captions—all were now the charming accessories to a form he had dictated.
The climax built swiftly, a harsh tension drawn from the deep well of his control. He didn’t think of her as a person on a plane. He thought of her as a file, a document he had perfected. His release was quiet, sharp, a clenched-jaw affair that spilled over his fist and onto the towel already on the floor. He sat there, breathing hard, staring at the screen. At his work.
His phone, face-down on the desk, buzzed. A text notification. He wiped his hand clean, picked it up.
Ava 💕: Just landed in Dallas for the layover. This plane seat was NOT built for these cheeks lol. Miss you already. xx
He looked at the message, then at the frozen, monumental image on his laptop. A slow smile touched his lips. He typed back, his fingers sure.
Jason: lol blame all those deep dish pizzas i supposedly bought you. can’t wait to see them in person. miss you more.He sent it. The reality would accommodate the joke. It would weave the pizzas, the teasing, into their shared history. The pencil lay beside his keyboard, a sliver of worn wood and graphite. Tomorrow, she would walk into his reality, a walking testament to its power. He wondered what he would choose to edit next.