The power of God

Hello readers. I want to tell you that English is not my first language, so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes.

Fiti was walking home after spending the morning studying Civil Law and Contracts in the university library.

It had been a tough day; he wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep, he was study a lot, or simply the fact that he hadn’t had a full day off since early summer. The fact that Granada was gripped by a bone-chilling cold that wouldn’t leave until March at the earliest didn’t help at all.

Even so, with his stomach growling because lunchtime was near, he ignored his accumulated exhaustion and kept walking at a brisk pace while listening to music. That was just how he was: resilient and naturally optimistic. Even knowing that life was one constant uphill climb that kept getting steeper because of the decisions made by old men who would never suffer the consequences of their policies, he knew they would face it with the best possible attitude and try to do their best.

As Madonna’s “Jump” played in his ears, he passed—as he did every day—the dumpsters in front of the Hotel Continental. Normally he paid them no attention; he’d walked the same routes so many times he was sure he could do it blindfolded. But today something caught his eye. He stepped closer to the paper-recycling bin and saw, beside it, a book.He smirked sideways, thinking it was ridiculous that he’d stopped for a discarded book, but something about it called to him. He clicked his tongue, glanced around to make sure no one was coming, then picked it up and slipped it into his backpack.

Back at his mother’s apartment—where he still lived—he dropped the backpack in his room and made lunch. His mom was the regional manager for Peugeot dealerships, so she was often away most of the day. For food he kept it simple and made his favorite: macaroni with ground beef and tons of cheese. After eating and cleaning the kitchen, he went to his room and took out the book.

He felt a mix of curiosity and mild annoyance at himself for having fished it out of the trash and not being able to resist the impulse. He set it on his glass desk and sat down.The cover was old leather, a color somewhere between brown and black. He opened it; the pages were yellowed and gave off that unmistakable old-book smell. There was no title, no author, no edition information. The first two pages were completely blank. When he turned past them, he found text:

I, the sorcerer Sancho Quijón, faithful subject of His Grace Alfonso X of Castile, have devoted my entire existence to finding the source of magic. If I am correct, Your Majesty will be able to make real anything he writes in this book, with all the Grace of God, and thus conquer all of Hispania so that it may at last be Castilian.

He couldn’t help bursting out laughing at how ridiculous it sounded. “Magic, sure. What’s next, the Three Wise Men are real?” he thought, still chuckling at the stupidity. To think he’d stopped and saved it from being recycled. He hadn’t expected much, but he had to admit it had made him laugh. Just to be thorough, he quickly flipped through the rest; there was nothing written except the text he’d already read.

He smiled again and went to close it, but as he did, a strange sensation—almost like a pull—stopped him. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt as if the book wanted him to see something. He sighed, wondering what to do. He was certain what it claimed was a lie, an old wives’ tale people back then believed because they were blinded by mysticism and religion. He was a man who trusted science, and clearly science had never produced anything remotely like what the book described; otherwise the world would look very different.

All the same, just to silence that strange urge—or thought, or whatever it was—he opened a drawer and took out the watch his beloved grandfather had left him: a basic Longines Conquest with quartz movement. Perfect for proving the book was just a book. He set the watch on the desk, grabbed a pen, and on the page after the first text, in his exaggerated, ornate handwriting, wrote:

The Longines Conquest I have to my left will change its caliber to an L888.5, from the same company. It will also have, on the back, the same exhibition case-back as Longines automatic models so the movement can be seen.

He set the pen down on the page and stared at the watch. At first nothing seemed different, but in the blink of an eye the seconds hand began sweeping much more smoothly and continuously—like an automatic movement. -. Shocked and still convinced it was impossible, he picked it up and looked at the back. Sure enough, there was now the automatic caliber he had written.

His breathing turned rapid as his brain processed that the book was no joke—it was real, and everything that implied. Literally anything he wrote would become reality. He was holding something as close to the power of God as existed. He took off his smartwatch, put the Longines on his left wrist, picked up the pen again with his right hand, and thought about what to write next. An idea came to him to confirm the book truly had omnipotent power:

Into my bank account—Fructuoso Fresco Úbeda, IBAN ES69 0254 4564 3278 9875 0702—an instant deposit of 10,000 euros will appear. It will be tax-free and fully justified, meaning the tax authorities will have no claim on it.

His phone buzzed with a notification and with a mix of speed, clumsiness, and nerves he unlocked it. It was from BBVA—his bank—informing him of a new deposit. When he opened the app, he couldn’t believe his eyes: his balance was now 10,420 euros. He let out muffled screams of excitement, jumped from his chair, and started pacing the apartment. He had just found the purest definition of unlimited power, and the possibilities were equally limitless.

He could topple governments, bankrupt companies or make others the most cutting-edge in human history, bend anyone to his will, even bring the Spanish Empire back to life. He could do anything he could imagine. In that flood of ideas, the dirty and perverse ones soon surfaced.

Beneath the elegant, kind, intelligent image his family and friends had of him—the reason people still wondered how he could be so disinterested in having a partner—lurked a full-blown pervert. He had never hidden it from himself or denied it. After all, he’d had unrestricted internet access in an era before parental controls were common, so over the years he had gathered a huge amount of information and now knew exactly which fetishes turned him on and which didn’t.

He sat back down, but before giving free rein to his perverted mind, he remembered two of his other great pleasures—food and looking good:

I will always be at my ideal weight of around 90 kg, no matter how much I eat or how little I exercise. This will in no way affect my digestive system, which will function normally. In addition, without training I want the standard physique of arms capable of lifting 30 kg, a back capable of carrying 80 kg (plus my own body weight), sufficiently strong abs, and a flat stomach strong enough to support my back and prevent any lumbar pain or muscle problems in the lower back. My legs will have 20% more strength than normal.
The increase in strength will also come with a corresponding increase in muscle mass.
I will only have body hair in the genital area, and I will be able to decide at will whether or not I want facial hair.

He felt the change instantly, so he rushed to the bathroom and stripped. At 1.83 m and with an already strong build—he walked a lot and occasionally cycled—he had always had a good body, especially his legs. But now, with everything he had written, he looked even better. Combined with his face, he had gone from cute and handsome to outright hot.He looked at himself happily, striking bodybuilder poses in the mirror. He wasn’t bulging with muscle, but what he had was perfectly defined. And finally, after so many years, that little belly—the last remnant of the obesity he’d had at 15 or 16—was gone.He looked down at his stomach, now completely hairless except for his head and pubic area, and at his cock.

It was already hard, knowing all his fantasies could now come true. He glanced at it sideways—15 cm long with a slight upward curve—and smiled, tears of joy welling up. He wiped his eyes and returned to his room, grabbing the pen immediately and writing:

On my current phone and all future phones, an app will appear that only I can see and interact with, allowing me to modify every parameter of my penis and testicles. As a limitation, I will not be able to make my penis larger than it currently is, though I may make it smaller whenever I wish.

He picked up his phone and, sure enough, the app was there. He opened it and saw the parameters of his manhood:

• Flaccid length: 7 cm
• Flaccid girth: 6 cm
• Maximum length: 15.02 cm
• Maximum girth: 12 cm
• Time to erection: 3.5 minutes
• Time from erection to ejaculation: ~14 minutes
• Number of orgasms possible: 1
• Refractory period: 7 minutes
• Testicle circumference: 7 cm
• Fertility: 89% (100% possible)

He had to admit it turned him on wildly, but what he already knew he was going to do next turned him on even more. For a couple of years he had discovered SPH (small penis humiliation) and the premature-ejaculation fetish, and he wanted—needed—to try it. Unfortunately, he could never call himself small, and no woman in her right mind would either. As for coming prematurely, he had once tried training himself to do it, but between loving to edge and his logical, dominant side telling him it was absolute madness, he had given up quickly. But now, able to change things with no real consequences, nothing was stopping him.He changed the parameters to:

• Flaccid length: 1 cm
• Flaccid girth: 0.8 cm
• Maximum length: 2.5 cm
• Maximum girth: 2 cm
• Time to erection: 10 seconds
• Time from erection to ejaculation: 25 seconds
• Number of orgasms possible: 7
• Refractory period: 30 seconds

He hit accept and watched his cock shrink until it looked like a tiny peanut. He felt an overwhelming mix of **** arousal and self-mockery at how pathetic it was to have made himself so small—which only made him hornier. He quickly plugged in his external drive, found a video from the IWC model “MissMistyGoddess” titled “Mr. clitty limp,” and hit play. Using only his thumb and index finger—because nothing more would fit on that tiny thing—he jerked off frantically (if you could even call it that) while the flawless-bodied woman with the hypnotic voice told him how pathetic he was. Seconds later he confirmed the app hadn’t lied: he came instantly, which only deepened the humiliation and, with it, the arousal.

He was living his dream—the dream that combined absolute power with the deepest humiliation and the fetishes he loved most. And this was only the beginning.

Hello readers. I hope you enjoyed this opening to the story; it’s my first time writing such detailed erotic fiction. Besides the main path I’ll be developing, feel free to create your own branches and ideas about what you would do with that kind of power—we’re here to have fun and get turned on. Don’t forget to save the story and vote if you liked it!