The Derrick

This is a one-off dystopian story featuring penis worship and distension. Due to the plot and setting, it is categorized as Sci Fi & Fantasy. You could accurately call this a "lurid cautionary tale."

[TRIGGER WARNING]

Oliver is a fictitious character, and the narrative style expresses Oliver's incredibly offensive, and possibly disturbing, thoughts and opinions from the third person omniscient perspective.

This style means that statements may appear to be the authors' personal thoughts and opinions. They are not.

We do not wish to offend or kink-shame anyone with our writing; Oliver is an archetype, a symbol of many things. He disgusts us, personally, but we feel he is the best one to tell this story: butchered idioms, bigotry, and all.

You read at your own risk.

--

Everyone participating in sexual activities in this story is a consenting adult.

--

Oliver's heart hammered in his chest as he sat in the surgical prep room. It was an average-sized organ for a man of his stature, currently pumping 135 times per minute, forcing blood to course through the arteries, veins, and capillaries all over his body.

It was providing oxygen to fuel the activity of his skinny, tough, he called it, body. He was 5'6", barely below "average," but he felt every minuscule division in the seven inches between his own stature and what he convinced himself to be the average for adult men.

He was a donor, after all. How could he be expected to find the time to develop six-pack abs? He tried to work out when he could; but that wouldn't be enough for these tramps. No, they wanted a 6'3" stallion like the ones on the covers of their trashy romance novels. Didn't they know those illustrations were fake?

Oliver normally expended his regularly-building rage on the Lifted forums, where he was a moderator of all things shoe. He worked his way in, pretending to be a 5'1" man with a hormone imbalance. Tiny idiots.

It gave him immense satisfaction to wield his limited power to tyrannize his fellow, yet lesser, short-statured brethren. He gave new meaning to the classic Peter Steiner comic: "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog."

He loved being a dog, though. Reveled in it. Giving in to his own fledgling Napoleon complex ("Why not? People remember him a thousand years later!"), he frequently butted his way into discussions and insulted members, using his privileges to mute or ban anyone who so much as disagreed with him. If you don't like it, go somewhere else, he thought. The Internet's a big place.

Who needed the gym, anyway? It was just a bunch of cardio bunnies and narcissists flexing in the mirror and complimenting each other's "glutes."

Had it not been for another one of Oliver's organs, the more-realistic three inch height difference between his own and the 50th percentile may not have seemed so bad. He may not have seen it as a deficiency, even, had it been for this other, well, "issue."

He was embarrassed by his penis. Standing at three and a half inches long when fully erect (five inches in his mind, though he'd never mustered up the courage to put any measuring device to the test to challenge this discrepancy), and barely smaller than that when soft, the penis was perfect in every other way. Soft and hard virtually whenever he wanted, his self-titled "Monster" had a smooth cherry-colored head drained by a singular purple vein, the sight of which sometimes made him queasy.

His friend was graced by two average-sized, if invisible, neighbors. They were buried in a nest of pubic hair; he would leave it untrimmed even if he got a date, however infrequently that occurred. He had learned as a young man to wait until the eleventh hour to undress, for only the most callous of women would reject him at that point. They had danced, driven, and dined on his dime, but when it was time for the dicking, they wanted to ditch! Why did he always meet such frigid sluts?

The ones that stuck around seemed pretty satisfied, generally. At least they never complained! Oliver tried not to think about his manhood very often. In fact, Oliver tried not to think about any of his organs very often. Blood and guts grossed him out.

He tried not to look around or think about the fact that his heart was really just a glorified sack, squeezing in his chest. Shit. His vision tunneled, the sense bringing the memory of the initial surgical consult to his mind.

--

The brochure was hella snazzy. Eye color, nipple length, rotational capability of the elbow-it was crazy what this company could do! For just nineteen payments of $119.99, he could have permanently blue sperm.

Imagine that! Smurfing his way through bitches at the Leaking Clam, his grungy local haunt. Fuck that. If he had blue jizz, he'd roll up at the fucking Ramara. Just, blam!, on the doorman and walk in. He chuckled.

Opening the cover, he read the table of contents. The page of dicks on the opposite side stopped him for a brief second before he flipped quickly to "3: Height and Weight."

Dicks on page one. Of course. Their ad wasn't subtle, either: "Raising eyebrows, and averages, since 2020." With a little prick and ruler icon. Must be nice to be born with money-just fix all your problems, leaving unlucky people like him in the dust. Averages. Fuck averages. They were probably made up, anyway.

He paused extra long on page two, tits. He didn't want the other three men in the waiting room thinking he was into dudes.

He just wanted to add nine inches and 30 pounds, he told himself. Enough to turn some heads at the club. Not the ones he turned now, mousy bookish ones too often ruined by glasses. Well, ruined by genetics and then the glasses, he laughed to himself. No more fugly girls for him.

Damn, no prices. He suspected that would be the case. It was the reason he was here, embarrassing as it was to be seen getting out of the HitchARide. Its AI "driver" had whipped it out of the parking lot to its next pair of pick-ups, abandoning him on the football-field-sized asphalt expanse.

They should plant more trees at a fucking place like this, he thought.

Bodyaug's radio ad on KNPN The Kingpin hadn't mentioned prices, filling their 30-second time slot with all the bizarre body modifications and augmentations you could want. Couldn't they get back to the music? Price apparently wasn't an issue to some people. Lucky assholes.

But the ad had promised to give him a free consult, and up to ten inches. He wasn't greedy. Nine would do. Thinking of Page One, he hoped that the ad had been talking about height. Otherwise, more money down the drain. HitchARide wasn't cheap.

The wait was an unbearable ten minutes trying not to make eye contact with the other guys. It's Austin, Texas. They were probably there for tits. Shit, he thought, he hoped they didn't think that's what HE was here for.

--

He looked around. "Where is this asshole?" He was starting to get impatient. It wasn't yet time for his surgery, but if there wasn't anyone in front of him, why couldn't they just start NOW?

He had met Dr. Whatshisfuck, who had been happy to show him examples of satisfied, and tall, customers. But when it came time to get down to business, he had been reluctant to give Oliver prices. Of course. Realizing he was being taken for a ride, he had raised his voice and stood aggressively, his lifts adding their characteristic inch and a half to his height. Doc finally gave up the goat, though. Oliver was no idiot.

Hearing what the monthly payment would be (For 15 years! He'd be as big as a house, but c'mon!), the doc's bullshitting was no wonder. But no amount of trickery would get the bastard to drop the price, something to do with insurance.

He had almost left, but the slick motherfucker had gotten him to stay by telling him they were having a sale.

--

Ahhh, now it made sense. This slippery sonofabitch was gonna try to upsell him. He could try.

"We do have one offer right now, but it doesn't sound like you need it." Oliver had paused, having risen and headed for the "doctor's" door. "Most guys walk out when I mention it, like they're too embarrassed."

"I ain't embarrassed of shit." He walked back over and sat down, to prove it.

Holding eye contact with Oliver and staring him down, Dr. Whatever had turned to the previous page of the sparse manual and began his schpiel: "Your average adult American man's penis is exactly 6.22 inches long, a statistic that has steadily grown, if you'll pardon my joke, since we did our first large-scale study decades ago in 2020, when it was a mere 5.12 inches."

The blood rushed to Oliver's cheeks. The doc's eyes had wandered down to the brochure and its assortment of limp dicks, ranging from slightly larger than his to one that drooped out of its rich owner's hand. His eyes had followed the doc's, then jerked up. This jackass in a white coat had looked up at him right when he said "mere." "The fuck was that supposed to imply?"

The doc ignored him. "Of course, you've seen that our normal rates are high for height and weight already. And that's a change everyone will know you've made. Being more, well, discreet, these are very expensive," he spoke, gesturing to the page. His implication was now clear.

"Fuck you, I could afford it. But my dick is already big. Too big, some of the time. I'm leaving. I'll find someone to make me taller for cheaper." He knew how to haggle.

Doc held up both hands in defeat. "You're right; I can't make you taller for cheaper. But I can make you bigger for cheaper."

At this, Oliver paused. He'd clearly bested the man, but maybe he could go double or nothing. The pause continued, and so did the doc: "Bigger than your wrist." Fuck. He looked down at his arm. Slim for a wrist, but startlingly big as a cock.

"It's a way to beat Mother Nature at her own game, which is why you're here. It's the reason everyone's here." Doc paused. "Would you like to see it? It's extremely realistic. You'd be the only one to know. That is, unless your wife..."

Oliver had been looking around the room, trying to see if there was some clue to tell him if this guy was legit, but he snapped his head back up at the doctor. "Man, what makes you think I..." But the doctor had casually risen in place from his swivel chair while he spoke, his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his pants. The thumbs had remained below Oliver's eye level, but Nessie hadn't.

Shocked into silence by the man's casual nudity, Oliver accidentally gawked at the leviathan for a half second. Then he burst to his feet, angered. "Man, what the fuck!"

"Oh man, I'm sorry about that. I just so get used to how natural it feels, that I forget sometimes how much of a shock the first look is." He sat back down, pulling his pants forward around his enormous hog with an exaggerated movement. "I'm like a modern-day FDR."

Not getting his reference, Oliver responded to the man, "I don't care how much fuckin' dick you bought. I'm good." But he did not immediately move.

The doc held up his hands, palms out. "Hey man, no judgment. Had a micropenis before, myself." What a weirdo. No wonder this guy was such a pervert. "The actual length is a trade secret that Bodyaug would appreciate you keeping to yourself, but I won't spoil it. You'll want to measure it for the first time yourself."

He'd had enough of this guy's hard sell. "Man, that's it. I don't know what kind of fuckin' freak you are, but I'm outta here. Lose my number."

"Fair enough. Just so you know, it's only a thousand bucks. See ya."

Oliver paused again on his way to the door for the second time. "What?"

"Thousand bucks. Soup to nuts, if you'll pardon the expression. To be clear, the, uh, Deez Nuts testicle upgrade is not included in the sale price. But The Derrick is a relatively new model, so it's only for a limited time. Short production run of just a few, so you don't have to worry about your... partner having seen it before. Comes with the standard palm remote, of course."

Creep. Oliver walked out. He waited to leave the office before tapping out instructions on his wristpad for a HitchARide. He'd have to pay for both seats to avoid the embarrassment of being picked up here with another passenger. Angrily, he noted that he'd kept the wristpad in plain sight for their meeting. He might as well have written POOR on his forehead.

That remote would be sweet, though.

--

After his initial shock that the thing had a name, for God's sake, and mulling it over for a few days, he had opted to upgrade after all, surprising even himself. He couldn't afford the G, but they had given him a 0% loan. He couldn't remember how long the loan was for, a few years, but the payment was only $50.

He could afford that for what he was getting. What hundreds of Austin's hottest skanks were going to be getting, he corrected himself. His only stipulation was that the surgery was performed by as few people as possible, and he would never have to go back to the consult center again.

Because the robot dick, or whatever, was experimental, he'd had to digitally sign a bunch of documents and waivers. Basically, he couldn't sell it. Okay. Fucking lawyers, he thought. Who's gonna buy a used dick, anyway? Fuck's sake. Not to mention the task of removing it, leaving whatever mangled car crash was left of his original one.

Oliver's palms felt suddenly sweaty. Envisioning that foot-long chick magnet had taken his mind off the brochure's surgical diagrams that he hadn't cared to look at. It would be better when it was "on" him, and he could admire it at his own leisure. They had assured him that the procedure was reversible, anyway. Expensive as hell to do it, but it could be done.

The doc and his assistant walked up. She was a bit on the heavier side, but her thick, full lips and cheeks gave her a surprisingly hot face. They'd look good wrapped around his new purchase. "Oliver, we're ready if you are." Maybe he should give her his number before surgery. After all, she'd certainly get hot operating on his new hog. Slut. If she turned him down, he'd make up some shit to post to the forums anyway.

Okay, here goes nothing. Bidding a silent goodbye and "fuck you" to his old dick, he climbed onto the gurney.

--

He was dizzy. What's going on? He looked around. The room was empty and blindingly white. His eyes ached. In a rush, everything came back to him: the lifts, the forums, a rapidfire ad for body augmentation, the consult, the doctor...

He swallowed hard. His throat was dry, and it was difficult. He looked downward anxiously.

Fuck. Yeah.

For the first time, the sheet draped over him was raised by a conspicuous lump. The stark white cover was just thin enough to give away the giant that was sleeping beneath it.

His heart surged, causing the bulge to twitch. Well, it would have been a twitch on his old, sad dick, he thought. This was a fuckin' lurch. He could see the outline of a vein, as big as a pencil. He was surprised to feel the sheet against "his" penis. They really did use all your own nerve endings, he thought.

The doc's pretty assistant chose that opportune moment to make her presence known. "Glad to see you're both awake," she said coyly.

"Oh, shit," he said, hurriedly covering the lump with his hands, still afraid to actually touch it. Well, he noticed, one hand and one bandage. His right hand was wrapped in gauze, protecting his new remote.

She had been seated next to him, reading a novel, but now she stood at his right side, still wrapped tightly in the white lab coat. She'd pulled a clipboard from her purse. "Wait! Don't touch. I need to run diagnostics. Anyway, not like I haven't seen The Derrick before."

"Oh, right. How did the surgery go?"

"I dunno. I wasn't there for the surgery."

He was confused. "Wait, I thought you were Dr. Whatever's assistant."

"No, I'm just a contractor. I picked up this gig a few months ago, and...", she shrugged, grinning at Oliver, "it's not too bad." Holding her clipboard in one arm against her ample bosoms, she tapped his dick twice in quick succession with her pen. "Looks like that works!" she said, cheeks red as she marked her clipboard.

Her initial taps had started some sort of process in the snakelike organ, which suddenly began to swell in his lap. Amazed by the sensation and the specter-like sheet rising in front of him, Oliver's mouth dropped open. "Sweeeeet."

"You won't be able to do that, of course, until you've completed your payments. Until then, it'll 'operate' like the old one did, and you'll be able to spend your Mojo on extra erections or other perks, if you'd like."

He'd better read that manual more carefully! The documents he'd signed had described Mojo, the virtual currency he could use to get perks for his new phallus, but he hadn't really been listening. It was hard enough to scrape together fifty bucks a month, and the Mojo packages started at $99.99. Maybe for his birthday. He didn't want to think about that right now. He was still dizzy from surgery.

The penis had finished its brief movement and was flaccid again, but still immense. "Ready for the big reveal?" She interrupted his reverie. He now noticed her shapely figure. This type of girl wouldn't have spoken to him first with his old, er, height? Reminded again that he had not altered the dimension that he originally intended, he responded.

"You better believe it."

She checked the door, then faced him. Like a sexy magician's assistant, she quickly whipped back the blanket. Her eyes and smile shone as her breasts bounced with the movement.

He glanced at it briefly, but he still found it uncomfortable to think of this as "his" dick, yet. He looked back up at her. "Okay, am I good to go now?"

"Whoa there, stud, eager to try it out?" His crimson cheeks stole even more blood from his body. "I have some more tests to run. Don't you want to be sure it works?" The entire time she spoke, she had never removed her eyes from his new organ.

He realized that they were trying to pull a fast one on him. "Wait a second, the doctor didn't need you to do the surgery?" He had assumed that the surgery would require lots of expertise and plenty of hands. "What the fuck am I paying for?"

She looked up from his dick without marking anything on the clipboard. What was she checking? "Actually, the retail value of The Derrick is somewhere in the neighborhood of $60,000. It's the programming. The materials themselves are quite easy to compose into, um, the organ."

He noticed for the first time that her skin was flushed. She was hot for him. He guessed it was money well spent, after all. "So what's the catch? 90% off retail price for a guy who heard about it on the radio seems pretty sketchy."

"It's all about the Mojo, baby. TM. Here, lemme demonstrate. Give me your hand. The gauze isn't really necessary. Same Day Stitches were included in your purchase."

She freed his hand from the wrap dexterously, clearly having done this many times at her new "job." It looked the same as it had before the surgery implanted a microchip or something in it. He didn't care exactly what it was, since no one would be able to tell.

"Alright, dear. I want you to think about getting hard, and snap your fingers." God bless technology, he thought, snapping his fingers. Within a breath, his cock had inflated to monstrous proportions.

He had an uncanny feeling like he was watching an old alien movie as the monument in his lap stretched to the sky. Playing a hunch, he snapped again. The beast slept. "Down boy." Her eyes were glued to his gun the whole time, fascinated. His heart accelerated.

"Uh, yes, it's got simple nano-leads inserted into your CNS, which, um, monitor your arousal level. It's almost like it reads your mind sometimes. I'm told." She stopped talking momentarily, distracted. "I think you need to turn up the volume on your palm. Thumb to ring finger for louder, thumb to pinkie for softer.