The Clinic

It was a rather unassuming little building, sandwiched between an off-brand sushi bar and an antique store. Unlike the locations surrounding it, the sign wasn’t in big neon letters. Just a small, black plaque, stating rather simply who owned the building, and what it was there for.

Dr. Oswald Mode - Hypnotherapist

Hypnotherapy...even now, as he stood in front of the building, Stanley was having second thoughts. It still sounded like a thing quacks did to make a quick buck off of gullible idiots. But then this guy in particular had been recommended by someone he trusted, and he’d gone through all the effort to set up an appointment...he could just try it for one session and quit if he thought the guy was trying to cheat him.

He stood on the sidewalk for a bit, still, still unsure about whether he should go in. His brown eyes stared at the plaque, through his strawberry blonde hair, which he hadn’t had cut in a while. Did he really feel so insecure as to go for this kind of solution? He needed to do something...then a chilly wind blew, right in his clean-shaven face, making him shiver in the raincoat that was about a size too big for his thin body, and he decided he’d better get inside, at least to get out of the cold if nothing else. He stepped forward, grabbed the handle, and opened the door.

Stan had never particularly thought he’d needed therapy before, but in recent years, his life had hit something of a standstill. Not that it was bad. It was quite a comfortable kind of rut - he had a job that paid well enough to keep a roof over his head, and there wasn’t anything terribly wrong that had happened to him. But...over the last couple of years, he’d found himself becoming something of a hermit. Where he would have leapt at the chance before to have a night on the town with friends, he’d started saying no to outings, finding reasons not to go.

It had been small at first, but after a couple of years, he’d woken up one day and realized people didn’t call him any more asking to go out. They didn’t expect him to. He’d lost contact with a lot of people he’d considered friends - and that had shaken him. It was a realization that had made him afraid to strike out on his own. It wasn’t like his confidence had been shattered so much as it had been...eroded. Without even realizing it had happened, he found himself feeling very small and lonely. At this point, a quick-fix like hypnotherapy seemed rational to him.

Now inside, he closed the door behind him - weird, seemed like the wind was picking up, practically pushing him inside - and looked around the building he found himself in. Much like the outside, it was small, unassuming, and...very green. Not a pleasant grassy green, either. It was the kind of depressing, dark-but-not-quite green of an unpleasant looking vegetable. There was a dark brown leather couch that seemed like it hadn’t been sat on in some time. There was a cheap looking black desk, with an old computer on it - one of those big box monitors, not the modern flat screens most people had these days. And behind the desk was a woman, filing her nails.

She was the spot of colour in the otherwise drab surroundings. She was fairly thin, might have been attractive if she didn’t have her red hair in a beehive style, and took off those horn-rimmed glasses. Her lips were a cherry red, pursed together in a pout as she focused on her nails. Her black suit outlined her figure fairly well, but her body language said very clearly she didn’t want to be bothered.

There was an awkward few seconds as the woman went on filing her nails without taking notice of the man who had just entered. Then, she finished up, and took a moment to admire her work, and looked up expectantly. She glanced briefly at Stan’s face, looked at the computer beside her, then back at Stan.

“Stanley, right?” she said, her voice somewhat low, but pleasant to listen to. “Go right up. He’s waiting for you.” she concluded, and pointed to her left, where Stan could see a stairwell. Stan nodded, and mumbled a thanks, walking past her as she went back to filing her nails almost immediately.

Stan climbed the stairs, his feet thumping softly against the green carpet. It seemed weird that he should get to meet this supposed doctor so quickly. That woman had picked him out of the list so quickly...well, maybe they hadn’t had many clients today so it was easy to guess? He couldn’t presume to know everything about this place, considering he’d only been inside it for half a minute.

At the top of the stairs was a wooden door. He stopped before it, unsure about whether to enter. The woman said the doctor had been waiting for him, but...probably polite to knock, so he did.

“Come in”, a deep voice said from behind the door.

Stan opened the door, and stepped into a room that was warmer in more ways than one. For a start it was more colourful - red and white wallpaper, with a cream coloured carpet. It was smaller, small enough that a bookshelf completely took up one wall of the room. The window looked out onto the street, which looked wet, rainy, and even colder from up here, in the beating heart of this little house. At the center of it, however was the man Stan had come to see. Dr. Mode himself.

He was sat back on a chair, behind a rather ornate looking wooden desk. Portly was perhaps a word you might use to describe Oswald Mode. A less kind word would be fat, or obese, but Oswald considered those compliments, personally. He was a rotund kind of man, and he clearly enjoyed being so. His dark blue sweater vest was just big enough to fit him, neatly outlining his round shape, and he wore a white shirt underneath - the sleeves were rolled up, revealing, rather surprisingly, a set of coloured tattoos, inked to look like a cosmos, with swooping, shooting stars, and trails of aurora.

Like his assistant downstairs, he too wore glasses, but these were circle rims, and made him look somewhat kind, which was helped by his large black beard - large enough to rest on his rather inflated chest. The beard had a few streaks of grey, but it seemed like he had combed it to accentuate the grey rather than hide it - like he was proud of getting older. He still had a full head of hair, although his hairline was starting to pull back - he’d probably be bald on top within 10 or so years.

In his hand was a book, which he was reading. Stan glanced at the cover - John Milton’s Paradise Lost, which Stan had to admit he’d never read. It was quickly closed and set down, though, as Dr. Mode stood up and extended his free hand to Stan.

“Stanley, I presume?” he asked. He had a deep, bassy voice that filled the room, but was smooth and pleasant to listen to - helped by his British English accent. Whoever he was, he’d clearly picked the right profession, at least.

“Uh, yeah.” Stan replied.

“It’s nice to meet you. You’ve probably already gathered that I’m Dr. Mode, but there’s no need for such formalities here.” he said. His beard mostly covered his lips, but Stan could tell he was smiling warmly. “You can just call me Oswald. Please, sit.” He gestured to a set of chairs by the window, and Stan took one, grateful to sit after walking for quite a while to get here. Oswald walked around the desk, and took the seat opposite him.

“I’m not going to waste too much of your time, Stanley.” Oswald began. “I think you’ve told us plenty already about why you’ve decided to ask for my services, so I’m not going to go over things we both already know. Shaken confidence, social anxiety...that sort of thing, right?”

“Yeah…I mean, it’s not that I don’t know how to talk to people…” Stanley began. “Just, like...I used to, and then I forgot? And I guess I want to bring back that...knowledge. I wanna be confident, like I used to be. Maybe more confident. I don’t wanna be scared of...going out anymore.”

Oswald smiled. A kind smile. Or…

“Well, I’m certain I can help with that, Stanley.” he said. “Now, I must warn you, before we get started, that by the nature of this kind of therapy, I will be...altering your mind somewhat. It’s nothing too serious, but I just want to confirm that you’re okay with this. In case you’re concerned that I’m doing something horrible to you in secret, I record all my sessions, and I can give you a copy of the recording if you so wish, once we’re done.”

Stanley thought on it a moment. It seemed fair enough. “Alright. I would like a copy, if that’s okay.”

“That’s perfectly fine, Stanley. Now then, shall we get started?”

“Uh...alright, sure. What are you going to do? Is it gonna be a swinging pocket watch kinda deal?” Stanley asked.

Oswald let out a loud laugh, that went on for...a bit longer than necessary. “Ohohoho, Stanley, no. It’s not like in the movies. I don’t use methods so...crude, if you will.” He sat up straight, and looked directly at Stan. “No, no, all I need you to do is look into my eyes, Stanley, and listen to my voice.”

Stan looked at Oswald’s pear green eyes, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Are you sure?” he asked, nervously.

“I’m sure, Stanley. Just look...and…”

Oswald’s eyes flashed red.

“Sleep.”

And then Stanley was asleep.

---

Oswald smirked, as Stan slumped in his chair, staring gormlessly at the large man who had hypnotized him so effortlessly.

“Humans. Honestly, you’re so simple…” he muttered to himself. “...whatever. Don’t worry Stanley. I’m going to fix a lot more than your confidence, boy. Let’s see what you’re keeping locked up in that head of yours.”

He reached out his hand, and clasped it around Stan’s temple, his thumb resting on Stan’s forehead, while his entranced captive simply let him. There was a moment of silence, as Oswald focused, then he pulled away.

“Oh, well, classic denial, isn’t it?” he began, talking to his unresponsive patient. “There’s a lot you’re keeping locked away in there, a lot more than you know, but...again. Humans. You’re a simple lot, so picking the locks is child’s play, but bringing it to the surface, that’s a very different kind of job. To be the kind of person you truly want to be, Stanley, you’d have to have lived a very different life than the one you have been living...luckily for you, that’s exactly what I’m here to fix. So, let’s start from the top, and go back, shall we?

“The confidence is easy, you’ve done it before, you can do it again. Fairly recently, too...relatively speaking. That’s a slight enough adjustment. No need to worry about your friends being confused by your absence, because you were never absent, were you, Stanley?”

Stan spoke out for the first time since being put into a trance. “No…” he said, absentmindedly.

“All those long nights on your own, Netflix binges, long naps, they didn’t happen, because you were out with your friends. Do you even know what goes on in Game of Thrones anymore?”

“Nah…” Stan said, settling into his relaxed posture. “People say it’s really good but...I haven’t had time to watch it…”

“Of course, of course”, Oswald continued. “You’ve been focused on more fulfilling activities, haven’t you, spending time with your friends.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan said, sitting up, but still zonked. “I love it. We go pub crawling every week.”

Oswald put a finger to his bearded lips. “Hm...wrong direction”, he muttered to himself, then leaned forward. “No, Stanley, I don’t think so...I’ve not really pegged you as a drunkard. You don’t really go to bars, do you?”

“Uh...yeah...I, uh, don’t really like alcohol”, Stan corrected himself. “I don’t have a problem with it, but…”

“That’s fine.” Oswald cut across. “It’s your choice, Stanley. You don’t have to go to bars to have friends. You have a different kind of friend group, from what I can tell.”

“I...do?”

“Yes. I can tell by your body. You keep yourself in shape, don’t you?”

Before, Oswald’s words had simply been altering Stan’s mind, but with his last sentence, they were beginning to alter his body. It was a small change, barely noticeable, but Stan had gained a bit of muscle over his body - his arms were slightly bulkier, his legs slightly thicker, he had some barely defined abs...small things, but it was more than he’d had before.

“Yeah, yeah…” Stan nodded along. “I go to the gym, sometimes. After work.”

“Mmm...are you sure, Stanley?” Oswald tilted his head, looking at Stanley sideways. “It looks to me like you go a bit more often than…‘sometimes’.”

“Every week?”

“A bit more.”

“Twice a week?”

Oswald rolled his eyes. Honestly, they could be stubborn when they wanted. It was having the desired effect, though. As the frequency that was suggested increased, muscle continued to grow on Stan’s body. He was getting gradually buffer, his biceps becoming more defined, pressing against the shirt he wore underneath the raincoat.

“Do you want to take that off?” Oswald suggested. “You must be feeling warm.”

“Yeah...kinda hot in here…” Stan mumbled, slowly unzipping the raincoat and shrugging it off, revealing a light blue polo shirt beneath, that was starting to get stretched by the muscle he’d gained over the last minute or so. It still fit him, for now, but it was starting to feel a bit of strain. Around his wrist was a cheap looking golden watch - an analogue one, quietly ticking away the hour. Stan pushed the raincoat to the floor, not able to care about it in his entranced state.

“Anyway, back to the gym…” Oswald continued. “Just judging by your body, I’d say you go...hmm...almost every day that you could, wouldn’t you? I think they call people like that ‘gym bunnies’, or am I wrong?”

“Something like that…” Stan murmured, mostly to himself. His body continued to get bigger, his pecs starting to press harder against his shirt, his abs becoming tighter. There was definitely a six-pack there now, a bigger body held up by a pair of strong, powerful legs. The new Stan had never skipped a day of gym in his life, not if he could help it.

“And you’ve been going, almost every day, for a long time, haven’t you?” Oswald asked, already knowing the answers. “I’d say since you were 18, certainly. Perhaps even before then. You were always good about your diet, weren’t you, Stanley?”

“Yeah...can’t...can’t stand...fast food.”

“Right from the start, you knew the kind of person you wanted to be. The kind of person the world admired. Survival of the fittest. The people who are strong and powerful, that’s the kind of person you wanted to be like.”

Stan kept growing, his polo shirt and jeans really starting to struggle against keeping his newfound muscle covered. They clung tightly to his body, outlining every part of his musculature. His sleeves slid up, pulling back, unable to stay around his enlarged shoulders.

Of the odder changes was his watch. It expanded around his thickening wrist, the gold painted metal turning to a black plastic, while the face of the watch changed - cogs and gears becomes wires and chips, the clock hands became numbers, the glass became a screen, and before long, Stan was now wearing a Fitbit, with all his personal details already loaded up on it.

Oswald was quiet for a moment, pleased with how Stan was coming along...but it wasn’t quite there yet. It was close, but...there was a desire in Stan’s heart, and “roided up, slick gym bunny” wasn’t it. Oswald was going to bring it out, but it was going to require quite a bit more...bending of reality.

“Yes, yes...you’ve been going at it for quite some time, trying to achieve that body you desire.” he continued. “But it’s about more than just the body, isn’t it? It’s an ideal, a belief, about what it is that makes a man, that defines masculinity...that’s what drives you. Your body, it’s...a sculpture, to you. An ode, to being a man. That’s why you don’t shave much, for example.”

With that simple phrase, Stan was clean-shaven no more. Almost instantly a crop of stubble sprouted on a face that had been shaved only that morning, but the growth wasn’t limited only to his face. A small dusting of light hairs pushed out over forearms, some over his chest...but you had to be in the right light to properly see them.

“After all, that’s what testosterone does to a body, doesn't it? Makes it grow hair, so what’s more manly than a body with hair on?” Oswald asked rhetorically. “Oh, people noticed, when you first started getting the hint of moustache hairs on your upper lip, maybe they nagged you to shave, but that was just proof, wasn’t it, to you? Proof you were becoming a man. So you encouraged it.

“But the kind of look you want, a thick beard, a veritable carpet of body hair, muscles so big you can’t even walk properly...that’s not something that just grows overnight, is it? That’s something that can take a lifetime of work, Stanley, more than some twenty something can manage.”

Oswald sat back. “So then”, he said, “I suppose it’s good for you that you’ve had an extra 20 years to work on it, hm?”

This was a very hard shift, significantly opposed to Stan’s view of himself. If Oswald wasn’t careful, it might fall apart - but then, Oswald had been doing this for a long time. A very long time. He knew how to handle it by now. Even so, Stan suddenly struggled in his chair, as if he was about to jump up.

“It’s not that hard to believe, Stanley.” Oswald reassured him. “You’re such a big man, after all. Look at you...positively bulging with muscle. That’s not something you just get in a matter of days, is it?”

It was like all the mass he’d accumulated with Oswald’s nudging was now being doubled. His pecs pushed out, and the polo shirt he wore, already struggling to handle him, was near enough obliterated, ripped open at the collar as his chest became huge, huge enough to stop him looking down at himself. It tore around his shoulders, his back becoming mountainous, his biceps becoming large and powerful, triceps too. His forearms thickened even further, his hands grew in size, the Fitbit around his wrist snapped and fell to the floor.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Oswald said, laying his own, chubby hand on Stan’s muscular one, which was gripping the armchair tightly. “You don’t need it. You never did. Stats and figures, they don’t prove anything. Your manliness is obvious by your very presence. Those years, they’ve been very kind to your face, I think.”

Finally, Stan’s face was managing to catch up with his body. Aside from the stubble, it hadn’t been touched much by the dramatic changes of his body, but now it seemed like his very skull was reforming. His brow pushed forward, giving him a somewhat permanent frown. His eyebrows thickened, becoming large and bushy. His jaw squared off, the lower part pushing forward a little, becoming very masculine indeed...before it was covered, by a fast growing beard.

The stubble grew in length, becoming a thick, bushy beard that covered his lips and chin. It grew up the side of his face, sideburns connecting to the rest of his hair. Despite its bushiness, however, it remained tightly trimmed, well looked after, cut perfectly to match the shape of his much more masculine jaw.

Oswald smirked a little. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion, but…” he muttered.

His eyes turned a darker brown, and his skin became more leathery, but tough. He was definitely getting older now, although unlike the portly man across from him, there were no hints of grey hair. Indeed, it seemed like his hair was only getting darker, as hair pushed out across his back, becoming thicker, his chest becoming fluffy with what could be practically described as fur. His spine popped, as it grew in length, and he grew in height - he had been slightly under 6 feet before, but now he was pushing past it.

His jeans were no longer able to take the strain either, the button snapping open as his waist became too wide for it to handle. The bottom of the jeans were being torn up by his enormous legs muscles, ripping open and exposing some very hairy, but very muscular, beefy legs. His trainers were quickly destroyed too, his feet growing several sizes, forcing the laces to snap open and set them free.

Oswald pulled his hand away, and sat back once more. Stan seemed to be accepting it. Now for a bit more of the mind mending...this was a simple but fun one - especially when the subject was repressing it.

“And at the core of all that manliness, well...Stanley, I ask you, what is more manly than loving your fellow man?” Oswald suggested. “You don’t need a woman, Stanley, you never did. All you need is the presence of your fellow gym goers, and you can be a kind and loving man, can’t you? But there’s a part of you that seeks competition, that seeks, above all else, to prove that you are better than your fellows. That you are stronger, more powerful than them…so you seek to dominate them, do you not? Not simply in the physical form, but a literal domination.

“Nothing makes you feel better than subjugating another, Stanley. It is not enough to be confident. It is not enough to win. Others must lose, they must be humiliated by you.”

The words were definitely having an effect on Stan. The zip of his pants was lowered, revealing a jockstrap he hadn’t put on that morning, and something inside of it was growing.

“Go ahead. Don’t feel ashamed.” Oswald offered. “I don’t think there’s anything you’d feel shame over, anyway, is there?”

Stan let go of the arms of the chair he sat in, and reached down towards his groin - it was a little difficult for him, his biceps pushing against his inflated chest, but he was able reach inside the jockstrap, pulling it down, and revealing a cock that was getting bigger, not just because he was becoming aroused by Oswald’s talk of domination, but because it was literally growing in size. Stan stroked it, coaxing it to grow himself, as his face moved from a look passive acceptance to a hardened, mean-looking sneer.

“Yes, that’s right.” Oswald encouraged. “Oh, nothing gets you more excited than the thought of taking one of your pals, and destroying him so thoroughly, that he thinks only of you for months afterwards. He might try to get away, but he’ll always come back to you...his big, hairy daddy, for another round of domination.”

Stan continued to stroke himself, mumbling pleasurably to himself. He glanced across at Oswald. “Mmf...yeah...I’d dominate you in a heartbeat, big guy.” he said.

Oswald’s face lost its smile for a brief moment, and his eyes flashed again. “Don’t get ideas above your station, Stanley. Although...that is a promising move, I will say…” he was somewhat surprised. It had been quite a bit easier to grease the wheels of this one. Of course, all he was doing was bringing out what the person really wanted to be, but they could be surprisingly resistant to that in some cases. Stan, for his part, seemed very ready to become his “true” self.

There was a moment of relative silence, as the hypnotized Stan continued to jerk himself off, letting out little grunts of pleasure, his cock a good 9 inches long now. His voice was deeper, his grunts almost bestial in nature. Oswald quietly considered how to move forward. There wasn’t much left, but these would be some fairly dramatic changes. He was going to be changing the very core of who Stan was...and that could be very difficult sometimes.

Best to start small, move to the big stuff. “Either way, though, you don’t mind letting the world around you know that you’re dominant, do you?” Oswald began. “What reason have you to be ashamed of any of it? Who would dare say anything against a man as big as you?” Stan let out a gasp of pain, as a pair of metal rings pierced his exposed nipples, shining against the furry carpet of his chest hair. Simultaneously, a drop of blood dribbled out of his nose, as a horseshoe piercing appeared, forcing its way through his septum. None of it stopped him from pleasuring himself - he was too caught up in the throes of a passion the likes of which he’d never felt before.

“Yes, yes...looking like quite the bull there.” Oswald smirked. They could always go one better though. “The piercings...and the leather too. You’re a regular leather daddy dom, Stanley, isn’t that right?”

“Ungh...fuck yeah…” Stan replied, his eyes closed as he kept pleasuring himself. It wasn’t far off, an explosion was welling up inside him, but it...wouldn’t come out, for some reason. He pumped more furiously, frustrated by his apparent inability to cum.

As he worked himself, the scraps of the shirt that had torn around his body began reforming themselves, wrapping around his shoulders, pulling tightly across his chest. The material turned from thin cotton to hard leather, darkening to black. A metal ring appeared at the center of his chest, and the leather wrapped itself around the ring, swooping back around his body, bringing all the attention to his hairy pecs. His shirt had become a set of leather straps - no good for covering the body, but then, that wasn’t the point.

A similar process was affecting the clothes on his lower body, too. His jeans were turning into the same shiny black leather as the straps his shirt had become, fixing themselves, becoming big enough to fit around his enormous, tree-trunk legs, but not so big that they didn’t cling tightly, showing off just how muscular he was on every part of his body. The jockstrap turned to leather too, a zipper running down the front as it connected to the trousers, and gaps opened up around the inside of his thighs, turning the trousers into leather chaps. His trainers, destroyed by his expanding feet, reformed themselves too, but as the soles that sat beneath his feet pumped up, it was clear they were becoming a very different type of shoe - the hard leather climbed up around his ankles, then went further, ascending to just around his shins, turning his boring, white trainers into a pair of hard, leather boots.

Stan bucked his hips, trying to make himself cum, but it just didn’t seem to be happening. His wrist was starting to ache a bit, and he tried to ease off a little...which was good, because the next part was going to be very important.

“At the heart of it all, though, Stanley,”, Oswald’s smooth British voice snaked its way into his ear, “I find myself asking of you a very simple question. Why? Why be like this? Not that it’s a bad thing, but...it’s important to understand why you feel the way you feel...and for you, I think it goes back to your childhood, as so many things in our lives do.

“You’ve always felt repressed, haven’t you? Frustrated. Constrained. Like a wild animal, in chains. Ever since you were a child, a beast has been inside you, crying out to be set free, and the adults around you pinned it down and told you to be ashamed of it. That’s all religion is good for, isn’t it?” Oswald paused. This might be a hard sell. The original Stan wasn’t religious. He might find some connection in the repression, and that might be enough...and it seemed like it was.

“Y-yeah…” Stan breathed out, going slower now. “T-that God shit...j-just locks you up…”

“Ah, but it wouldn’t be that, where you come from, would it?” Oswald replied. “You have a different name for the...ah…‘big man’, don’t you?” he said, with just a hint of distaste in his voice. He hoped Stan would make the connection himself - it would make the rest easier.

“No...yeah...yes…” Stan said, and Oswald smiled. He could already hear the change, the slight inflection of accent knocking on Stan’s American. “Allah...they called him...but what does it...FUCKING matter...different name, same shit.” His English was becoming slightly stilted - he was clearly fluent, but his accent was getting thicker with every word, and he was taking his time to enunciate each word as best he could...while he jerked off.

His skin was changing - he had started at a pale white, but as he had grown in muscle it had become more bronzed...and now it was turning to a tanned brown, a tan gained not by working out in the sun, but through years and years of genetics. He was gaining an entirely new history, not just of his life, but of several lives around him and before him.

This was why Oswald started small - the big stuff could be REALLY big, but the small stuff shifted the goalposts just enough, that the big stuff was believable...and that was all it needed to be. The subject’s mind did the rest.

“At the heart, it’s an act of rebellion, isn’t it...ah...Tariq?” Oswald asked. The name was such a small thing at this point he didn’t really have to bother trying. “For all those years the elders and your parents kept you locked away, not letting you reach your true potential. It’s why you left home, why you worked so hard to have the powerful body you do, why you fuck and dominate the men around you. It’s the ultimate rebellion, the ultimate ‘fuck you’, isn’t it?”

“Yes…!” Tariq replied. “Fuck them! All the...people who...held me back...gahh!!” He yelled in frustration, desperate to cum now.

“They wanted a good little Muslim boy, didn’t they?” Oswald goaded him, practically grinning. He was almost finished. “But that’s not what they got, and you’ve dedicated your whole life to proving that. That you’re better than that.”

“Yes, yes, yes…” Tariq was lost in it now, he just needed one final push.

“You’re strong, Tariq. You’re powerful. You’re dominant. You’re one hot, Arab, leather muscle daddy. It’s what you were always meant to be, and nothing...not even a higher power, is going to stop you!”

Tariq didn’t even respond properly - he just let out a guttural, almost beast-like yell, as the switch finally flipped, and a powerful spurt of cum came forth from his cock. But that wasn’t all - the final, eventual release was like the opening of floodgates, as his muscles increased in size once more, his biceps, triceps, his back and shoulders, his pecs and abs all blowing up more, to a size that seemed like it should be impossible. His cock grew in length once more, gaining another couple of inches - it might almost be a foot long, now. His balls swelled, churning as he let loose with more of his seed, the seed of a thoroughly changed man. The hair on his head and his beard turned black, the same black hair that covered his body all over - on his chest, his back, his arms, his legs. Hair grew out of his wizened but powerful knuckles, as cum rained onto his chest, the hair growing long enough to pull on. He grew in size once more, now coming close to a 7 feet tall, his spine popping once again with the strain. Everything about him was so much bigger...so much better.

A man named Stanley had entered, and now, sitting there, panting in the afterglow of the best orgasm of his life, was the man Stanley had always wanted to be. Tariq had been somewhere deep inside him, and Oswald had coaxed him out, slowly at first, but with a finale that satisfied.

Oswald sat back, mysteriously having avoided being hit by the jet of cum that had been let loose from Tariq’s cock. Tariq himself was not so…“lucky”, but it was all a matter of perspective. Strings of cum dripped down his furry body, and he licked his lips.

“Well...I think that’s all I needed to do.” Oswald snapped his fingers, and Tariq awoke. In the blink of an eye, the room was clean, and Tariq’s cock was back in his leather chaps...but it pressed tightly against them, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Tariq sat up straight slowly, holding his head, like he had just woken after a long sleep. “Where...am I?” He asked slowly, his accent even thicker now.

“You’re in my clinic, my good man.” Oswald replied. “We found you, passed out outside. I’m not exactly a medical doctor, but I supposed it probably was best not to have you be outside in the cold rain.”

Tariq nodded, coming back to the world. It surprised him that he was still in his leather gear. It was probably weirding this guy out...although it wasn’t like that mattered to Tariq. People could stare all they liked. He liked it when they did, after all. “Uh...well...thank you, I suppose. I think I should…”

“Going?” Oswald finished for him. “Just down the stairs and out the front door. Do you want a coat?”

Tariq scoffed, as he stood up. His confidence was coming back to him. “You think a man like me needs a coat? Let the rain beat me all she likes.” He curled an arm, and flexed at Oswald, although found it a little difficult, thanks to the respective sizes of both his bicep and his pec. “I can take it...and I can give it even harder.” He leaned forward, towering over Oswald who remained sat in his chair, but seemed rather unaffected by the display. “Would you like me to give it to you, piggy?”

“No, no,” Oswald replied good-naturedly. “This little piggy’s done all the porking he cares to. But if you take the second right down…” he glanced out of the window and pointed behind Tariq, “...that way, you’ll find plenty of gentleman happy to take my place.”

Tariq scrunched up his face a little, annoyed at being denied, but something...made him want to comply. Any other guy would’ve been on their knees begging to be allowed to lick his feet, but this fat little doctor seemed weirdly immune. “Alright.” he accepted. “But don’t think I won’t be back for you, piggy.”

Oswald gave a non-committal hum, as Tariq stood up straight and headed for the door. He stopped for a moment - he was a bit too big to fit through the doorway straight on. After a second of contemplation, he turned sideways, bent his head down, and shuffled through the door. His leather boots thumped loudly against the carpet, shaking the building, as he waddled down the stairs, his thighs too big to allow him to walk normally. He stalked through the reception, ignoring the woman behind the desk, who also seemed perfectly happy to ignore him, despite his imposing presence, pulled open the front door, and pushed his way out into the street.

The second he got out onto the street, feeling the cold wind blow roughly against him, he recognized where he was, and remembered the bar the doctor had mentioned. He went there every so often - not to drink, you understand. That was a holdover from his Muslim childhood he couldn’t quite let go of - alcohol had never tasted good to him. No, he went there to find new men to conquer. Twinks and chubby bears were fine enough, but what really thrilled him was dominating a man just as muscular as he was, which was disappointingly hard to find these days. Maybe he’d get lucky tonight, though. At the very least, he’d get something. Men fell over themselves to serve Tariq. He began lumbering off in the direction of the bar, carving a path through the people on the street, as they gave way for him. Getting in his way was a very bad idea, after all.

---

Oswald hadn’t moved from his chair, but quietly watched the bull of a man he’d created stomp off down the street. He smiled. A job well done. Although, what was it about the dominant ones? They always thought they could take him on. It was laughable.

Frankly, he was kind of surprised that he hadn’t been found out yet. He’d figured someone like Bartholomew, or Hell, even Peter might have come down by now to send him running, but he supposed part of it to do was with the nature of the service he was providing. He was making people happy, in the end. Reaching into their hearts and bringing forth their true desires. Sure, they were a bit raunchy, but what were you to expect from a person like Oswald? And really, people only came into the clinic if it was what they wanted. They invented reasons to rationalise why they would suddenly see a building that hadn’t been there before - a friend recommended it, for example - but they saw it because they desired to become the person they were always meant to be. It was a valuable service. Dr. Mode was happy to provide it.

Really, the name was the most disgustingly transparent part of it. Oswald Mode. As-mode-us. He thought people would’ve caught on sooner. But then, he was the demon of lust and desire...and those things tended to make humans a bit stupider than usual.