Glascock

You woke with your thumb buried between your slick lips, saliva trailing down your chin like leftover cum. The dream still throbbed behind your eyes: Dr. Stephie Glascock, petite and commanding in her white coat, bending you over the yoga mat after check-in. Except she wasn’t just the professional doctor. In the dream she was a futanari goddess—her skirt hiked up to reveal a massive, veiny 8-inch cock, thick as your wrist, the fat purple head pushing past your tonsils while her heavy balls slapped your chin. You’d sucked her like a desperate whore, gagging and moaning, your own pudgy little boner looking laughably small and soft by comparison.

Reality slapped you when you threw the covers off in your luxurious suite. Your morning wood strained against the compression shorts—maybe five and a half inches on a good day—but it looked tiny now, almost cute. Pathetic next to the dream monster that had claimed your throat. You wrapped your hand around it and stroked slowly, thumb still in your mouth, already leaking pre-cum as the serum buzzed warmly in your veins.

The full-immersion program was meant to melt your soft belly, love handles, and modest chest fat while boosting testosterone. Instead, it was turning you into a giant-shecock addict.

Yoga at 1:30 PM became the first public breaking point.

The studio was packed with 600 participants—300 morbidly obese, 300 pudgy like you—moving through modified flows. Trainer Brittany Mounds demonstrated in skin-tight leggings that clung to her powerful ass and thick thighs. But your eyes locked lower. Every time she shifted into a wide stance, a heavy, unmistakable bulge shifted between her legs—long, thick, semi-hard. Dr. Glascock circulated, correcting postures with cool professionalism. When she reached you in downward dog, her hand pressed firmly on your lower back… and something else—hot, heavy, and growing—brushed against your hip.

Your own cock surged, pushing obscenely against the compression fabric, a wet spot blooming at the tip. Your soft belly hung low, love handles jiggling with every breath, but all you could think about was dropping to your knees and freeing whatever monster Dr. Glascock was hiding.

“Deeper stretch,” she murmured, voice low. Her fingers trailed down your spine, teasing the cleft of your ass through the shorts. You whimpered softly.

By savasana you were rock hard and leaking, thumb sneaking into your mouth while everyone’s eyes were closed. The girl beside you—a curvy participant with heavy breasts and soft thighs—noticed and smirked. Her own top showed diamond-hard nipples… and the clear outline of a thick cock resting against her inner thigh.

The private medical exam destroyed what was left of your resistance.

You stood naked under bright lights, soft belly protruding, love handles spilling over your hips, modest chest fat making your nipples puffy and sensitive. PA Allen Butt measured everything clinically. Your cock hardened instantly in his gloved hand.

“Promising girth increase from the serum,” he noted.

Then Dr. Glascock stepped in.

“Prostate response check,” she said, snapping on fresh gloves. They bent you over the padded table. Allen’s finger first—professional, pressing your prostate until you moaned and your cock drooled. Then Glascock took over.

Two slim fingers became three, stretching you open. She curled them expertly, milking your prostate while her other hand reached around to fondle your balls.

“Look at this pathetic little thing,” she whispered so only you could hear. “So small compared to what we’re packing. The serum is working beautifully on you.”

You came hands-free with a broken cry—thick ropes splattering the floor while your belly and thighs jiggled. When you turned around, flushed and panting, Dr. Glascock’s trousers showed a blatant, heavy bulge. The head of her cock strained visibly against the fabric, a wet spot forming.

She smiled. “Clean up your mess, patient.”

You dropped to your knees and licked every drop off the floor while they watched.

The rest of the day was a gauntlet of temptation.

Lunch in the mixed dining hall buzzed with “transformation energy.” Brittany sat across from you, legs spread under the table so her thick thigh pressed against yours. You felt it—her massive shecock, soft but heavy, radiating heat through her leggings. Counselor Lily Schultz pulled you aside for therapy and “accidentally” let her skirt ride up, revealing lacy panties struggling to contain a fat 9-inch semi. Nurse Mahli gave you a protein shake later and made you suck the thick straw while maintaining eye contact, her own bulge twitching.

By evening strength training you were feral.

Jamal spotted you on squats, but it was Brittany who “assisted” from behind. She ground her crotch against your ass during the lift—eleven thick inches of hardening girl-cock nestling between your cheeks through two thin layers of fabric.

“Feel that?” she whispered. “That’s what real power feels like.”

You nearly came on the spot.

After the final session you didn’t even make it back to your suite.

Dr. Glascock found you in the medical wing and locked the door.

“On your knees.”

You obeyed instantly. She unzipped slowly, teasing. Her cock sprang free—nine and a half inches of perfect, veiny futanari meat. The shaft was thick enough that your fingers didn’t meet when you wrapped both hands around it. The head was swollen, glossy, already drooling a thick bead of pre-cum. Heavy balls hung beneath, and just behind them her tight pussy glistened with arousal.

You attacked it like a starving animal. Lips stretched obscenely wide around the fat head. Your tongue swirled, sucking hard, taking her deeper until she bumped the back of your throat. Glascock moaned, fingers tangling in your hair, and began to thrust.

“That’s it… choke on superior cock. Your little pudgy prick could never satisfy anyone.”

She fucked your face with long, deliberate strokes. The bulge in your throat was visible—each thrust creating a obscene swell that traveled down your neck. Saliva poured down your chin, dripping onto your soft chest. Your own cock—small, ignored, pathetic—twitched and leaked continuously.

When she came it was volcanic. Thick, hot ropes blasted straight into your stomach. You swallowed frantically but there was too much—cum bubbled from your nose and the corners of your stretched lips. She pulled out at the end and painted the last powerful spurts across your face, glazing your cheeks and forehead.

You came untouched, humping the air, your tiny load pattering weakly onto the floor beneath your jiggling belly.

But she wasn’t done.

Brittany, Lily, and Mahli joined minutes later. The full-staff “after-hours evaluation” began.

They stripped you and laid you on the wide exam table. Brittany—eleven inches, brutally thick—took your throat. Lily fed her nine-inch cock into your ass, stretching you open with one long push while Mahli straddled your chest and tit-fucked your soft pecs with her fat 8.5-incher. Dr. Glascock directed, occasionally sliding back into your mouth between turns.

You were a complete fucktoy.

Double penetration turned into triple as they rotated. Brittany and Lily filled your ass and throat at the same time, their cocks rubbing together through the thin wall inside you. The bulge in your belly was unmistakable—your soft pudgy stomach distending every time they bottomed out. Cum inflated you. Load after load pumped deep until your belly rounded noticeably, sloshing with their seed.

Size comparison humiliation was relentless.

“Look how small his is,” Brittany laughed, flicking your leaking cock. “Barely five inches and they’re all twice as thick.”

They made you hold them side by side—your pathetic dick dwarfed next to even the smallest of theirs. You came again from the shame alone.

Public use followed. They dragged you—cum-drunk and leaking—into the semi-private atrium after hours. A dozen other staff and select participants watched as the four of them took turns. One in your mouth, one in your ass, one in each hand. A growing crowd of futanari women stroked their massive cocks, waiting their turn.

By midnight you’d taken over twenty loads. Your ass gaped, cum farting out with every thrust. Your throat was raw and velvety. Your belly was visibly swollen, bloated with gallons of thick futanari seed. Your face, chest, and soft belly were glazed white. Someone had written “Shecock Cumdump” across your love handles in drying semen.

You loved every second.

The rest of the check-in week followed the same glorious pattern.

Morning yoga became public worship circles. You’d drop to your knees in the middle of the studio, surrounded by jiggling bodies, and rotate through every dominant woman’s cock. Afternoons were gangbangs in the medical wing. Evenings were full-staff orgies in the largest suite.

Every cock was bigger, thicker, more addictive than the last. Thirteen-inch monsters that made your eyes roll back. Double anal that left you gaping and ruined. Throat bulges so pronounced you looked pregnant from the neck down. Cum inflation sessions where they pumped you so full you waddled, belly round and heavy.

Your own transformation accelerated in the most delicious way. The serum melted some fat, but mostly it heightened every sensation. Your ass became a perfect, soft, hungry hole. Your throat relaxed easier. Your little cock stayed hard for hours but only came when they mocked it.

By the final day you were the program’s official stress toy. During the closing ceremony you were bent over the stage, taking every senior staff member one after another while the entire cohort watched. Dr. Glascock finished last, flooding your guts while announcing your “remarkable progress.”

You slept that night in a puddle of cum, thumb in your mouth, dreaming of the next phase—where every woman in the facility would have even bigger shecocks, and you would spend every waking hour worshipping them.

The serum had worked perfectly.

You were no longer pudgy participant #472.

You were the program’s eager, addicted, cum-stuffed shecock slut.