John was on another google search binge jackoff session. He had been online for at least four hours already, slowly crawling through the web for whatever images, sites, stories, could keep his hard on up, without a lot of him just touching himself. His underwear was, as any cliche about a 22 year old internet porn addict staying up in the middle of the night goes, down around his ankles, partially soaked in drying pre, one hand absentmindedly hovering over his dick, his other hand quickly scrolling with the mouse, following links through site after site, his breathing was harsh and heavy. His twinky body was slick with moisture, his back rigid against the support of his office chair. Living in an apartment alone had supported his latenight habits, and he was in full form tonight. His dick lazily twitched and oozed more pre as his hand grazed the head.
He wanted to see and read about super-masculine, gigantic guys. He wanted to imagine their growing, swelling muscles, their sweaty, glistening bodies wrestling and overpowering weaker guys, stomping through cities and leveling countrysides, enormous dicks perpetually hard and oozing god-like fountains of pre. He had sorted through dozens of sites: fanmade, smut sites, online forums. He was riding his arousal high like there was no tomorrow.
And then a link that he barely looked at took him to a site that actually made it through the fog of his arousal-zombified mind and caught his attention.
"Wish-Granter 2.0." The banner was simple, probably in Times New Roman, thick gold letters against a blank fuchsia background, underneath which were a bar to enter text and a "submit" button, and some instructions. John didn't know why, but this site seemed very important to have found. The URL was a bunch of numbers and letters in a seemingly random sequence, totally unidentifiable.
For a moment, he was at a loss as to what to do, but then a thought popped into his head. "Imagine what it would be like to be able to wish and become one of your musclebound, gigantic fantasies." His cock surged at the thought, and he began to imagine what it would be like to swell huge with muscle, burst out of the roof of his house, and drown his city with his cum. He whispered to himself, "That'd be fucking amazing."
The hand next to his dick clenched around it, and he began to imagine himself growing gargantuan, flexing enormous muscles, his dick up to his chin. What it would be like, like in some of his stories, for his cum to make other giants like him, and for them to destroy a city in the process of them boning.
His other hand began to mash at keys, and he was thanking the computer porn gods that his laptop autocorrected spelling mistakes. He typed out:
'I wish I was enormous, hunky, impossibly hung, irresistibly attractive, and could turn others like me, like in stories on the web.'
Or so he thought.
He hastily clicked the enter button as he stroked himself, and the screen immediately went black with four words in the center of the screen:
WIsh Processing. Receipt Printing.
The printer beside his desk started printing, and then the entire computer shut down.
Confused and alarmed, John jumped up, and subsequently tripped over his own briefs, keeling over and giving himself a good thunk on the head as he collided with his desk.
He awoke ten minutes later, dick soft but still in his hand, and quickly checked his head with his free hand. Just a little bump, but no cut and no blood. He began muttering about how stupid he was, when he noticed the printed piece of paper beside him on the ground. As he collected himself and pulled his underwear up, he swiped up the paper, collapsed back into his chair, and rebooted his computer.
His eyes still swimming mildly from his encounter with a heavy plastic object, he tried to focus on reading the receipt.
"Thank you for wishing…blah blah blah. It may take a few moments for your wish to activate blah blah, after your next period of sleep blah blah. Summary below, your business is much appreciated."
