He was enveloped in light again, but a different sort of light than before, not that he was able to really explain what that meant. If forced to try, he might have described that first light, in the alley, as a kind of pressure, pushing itself around his body and into him–permeating his body from the outside. However, this second shot felt like an odd warmth, like how he might imagine a plant reacting to sunlight, spurring him to grow, working on him from the inside out, encouraging him, rather than forcing him. It felt so good he held the trigger down for longer than he had initially intended to do so. When he did finally release it, the light dissipated and he shivered, looked at himself in the mirror, and his jaw dropped.
This wasn’t better–this was worse. In fact, it looked like the gun had simply taken who he’d been, and just dialed the knobs up to eleven, like an even kinkier version of his already kinky self. He was even shorter–probably just an inch or two shy of five feet tall, but incredibly wide and heavily built–his head sitting directly on two thick shoulders, his arms hanging off at an angle, like his musculature couldn’t quite let them rest at his sides. He looked like he used steroids…and now that he thought about it, he did…use steroids. He’d used them for years, along with…with some other things he couldn’t quite remember. His head felt so sluggish, suddenly–thinking had been a bit harder before, but now he felt even dumber.
His balls, however, had been stretched down to an obscene length–at his height, the length from his groin to his knees was a bit shorter than average, but he reached down and found them swinging between his knees, each of his balls the size of an orange. The stretchers he’d put on earlier now appeared to be permanent–there was no way he could fit his balls through the opening, and looking closer at the metal weights, he saw that they appeared to be soldered into place…and, and he couldn’t wait to get his next one. He tugged his balls down, looking at the space between the highest weight and the top of his sack–he could almost fit another one on right now. It would hurt, of course, but he’d get used to it. He fucking loved getting used to it. Maybe if he called Rick in the morning he would put another on him tomorrow afternoon.
Tugging on his balls had made his cock start leaking–then again, when wasn’t it leaking? His cock was…larger, but not because it had grown. Rather, it looked thick and inflamed, like it had been pumped larger over time. It had a massive ring through the head, however, and his cum simply ran down the ring, dribbling from there to the floor, and he had two other massive rings through his nipples, and they looked to be even larger than his engorged and pumped cock. The rings he had on were all connected to thick chain, and the three chains were tied together below his pecs with a heavy padlock–guys at the club fucking loved tugging on his chains, getting him all riled up and leaking…but there was something…off about his nipples, and his pecs. Sure, he was a massive roided muscle freak, but there was no way his pecs could be that big, and they felt…kind of soft. He twisted a nipple and felt it immediately become wet between his fingers, and he moaned, his hand moving to his other nipple. Fuck, he loved milking himself–when the steroids had started fucking with his pecs, he’d decided to just roll with it–sure, the hormones were experimental, but the feeling he got from them–it was almost better than his little puny cock, and guys fucking loved his man milk. In fact, he felt pretty full–he should probably give himself a milking before going to bed.
He waddled away from the mirror, forgetting the gun on a side table, and went into his bedroom, where a couple of milking machines he’d ordered especially for himself were set up in a corner. After unlocking the chains and disconnecting the rings from his flesh, he put two tubes leading to one tank on his nipples, and a third around his cock, and turned on the machine. The sensation of all three milkers sucking on his tits and cocks overwhelmed him, and he fell to his knees, one hand reaching around behind him to start pumping the huge, eight inch dildo crammed in his loose hole in and out, working his prostate and forcing even more cum out of him.
A part of him was horrified. A small part, growing smaller. His new mind simply didn’t have much room to feel much of anything beyond pleasure, and he rode the waves of his near constant orgasms for hours, until his cock and pecs were finally empty. Exhausted, he disconnected the tanks and carried them to the huge fridge in the kitchen–milk on the shelf, cum in the door–and then slumped off to bed. But he felt better in the morning–in fact, he felt great. He took his shots, ate a huge protein heavy breakfast, and then brought the milkers out to the living room, hooked himself up, and milked himself empty while he worked out all morning and into the early afternoon. It wasn’t until he got up to make himself a shake that he saw the gun on the table where he’d left it, and dimly remembered that as natural as this might feel, this wasn’t him. He knew he should do something about this, should try to fix this, but fuck it. He…liked this. Why fix what ain’t broken? He didn’t need fixing, he loved this body…but he could always try and…and fix some other people, right? In fact, he had a few neighbors that could use some fixing, and he still had a few settings on the gun he hadn’t tried yet…why not see what those could do, eh?
Bracken's Corner 