It was an accident.

Of course, the first time in decades that I decide to treat myself, it ends with me sitting in a courtroom. My wife called it a mid-life crisis and- well, maybe she was right. But it didn't change how signing off on that cherry-red Corvette, or how that single hour of driving around, made me feel like I was a young, virile man again. Cliche, fine, but you raise two kids and work your ass off for 30 years without a little kickback. Well, I got it. And my short-lived, self-indulgent joyride ended with a nineteen-year old Haitian kid splayed out on the asphalt; bleeding out from a crack in his skull I haven't been able to unsee since my deposition. I should be in jail, but like the coward I am, I shelled out the money to get myself the best, most unscrupulous lawyer I could afford.

"Your honor, the young man was a gangbanger. He and his friends had my client's vehicle in their sights, intending to accost him, burglarize him, and perhaps worse. This was an act of self-defense, through and through."

I didn't want it to go this way. I was just trying to keep myself out of the clink, I didn't want to demonize the kid in front of his friends and family. But I didn't speak up, either. I just sat there, head down, trying to pretend like I couldn't feel the eyes burning holes through my neck. Turns out, I should've paid closer attention to who those eyes belonged to. In particular, a little old woman who seemed vaguely related to my victim. Probably a grandmother, but with how close-knit those communities are, I'd never know. And once my lawyer got me off, I didn't care to find out. I just wanted to leave it all behind me. Wanted to forget that I'd ended an innocent life because I felt something as vain as my manhood dwindling. Wanted to go back to my cold, distant wife, my disrespectful brat of a daughter, and my slacker son. But she had other plans.

I was on my way out of the courthouse when I felt a cold, clammy hand close around my wrist. Somehow, I knew it was her before I even turned to face her, but the one-two punch of feeling her other hand cup my dick and balls through my pants stopped me dead in my tracks. Her dried up, twisted mouth had one word to carry on that tobacco breath I've come to dread.

"Bigger."

Before security had her escorted away, she had a few more choice words to say. This time, outloud. "You wanna be a big white man, huh? Big man 'n big, fast car. Well now you gonna be as big as you want, pig!"

I tried not to think anything of it. But then I got "Bigger." Started feeling my dick rub up against the front of my pants when I walked, and my stance widen so my nuts didn't chafe against my thighs. Within a span of three days, I went from a below-average four-and-a-half inches to an enviable seven. There's no shot that old bitch didn't have something to do with the change, but I can't track her down. And between my wife growing more attached to my new endowment, and my kids growing to respect me more, I'm having a hard time seeing her curse as anything other than an unearned blessing.

But just how big am I gonna get? And how much room is my growth going to take up in my life?

Message me if you're interested in playing the family, please. I'd rather not conduct this through chats. I already have an idea of how I want this to play out that'll keep it intriguing, involving incest, sex addiction, cuckqueaning, non-con, feminization, and more. Contrary to the way this is set up, I'm not a fan of huge hyper sizes, although you should expect things to enter the realm of surrealism when it comes to the actual dimensions. I should also state that I'm most interested in partners who are comfortable writing in third-person, in past-tense, despite the exposition. Talk to you soon.