Dear Friend: The Full Story You Needed

Dear Friend,

I’m not going to waste your time with small talk. You didn’t come here for that. You came here because the ache is back—sharper than ever—and you need someone to make it worse before it gets better. You need someone to drag you deeper into the fire until you’re burning alive with it. And I’m the bastard who’s going to do exactly that.

So lean in. Let me whisper this straight into your ear, like we’re pressed together in the dark, my breath hot against your neck.

This is the full story of Jake. The one I only hinted at before. The one I couldn’t tell you all at once because if I had, you would’ve come too fast and missed the best parts. But now you’re ready. Now you need every filthy detail.

Jake was twenty-four when the wrongness finally broke him.

He’d spent years pretending. Binding his chest until his ribs screamed. Wearing three layers in summer just to hide the swell he hated more than anything in the world. Smiling at family gatherings while inside he was dying, piece by piece. The mirror was his enemy. Every morning he’d stand there, naked, staring at the body that betrayed him. Soft hips. Curved waist. Tits that no binder could fully flatten. And between his legs—nothing. Nothing that felt like it belonged to a man. Just a small, sensitive nub that mocked him every time he touched it.

But touching it was all he had.

At night, when the house was quiet, he’d lock his door and strip down. He’d lie on his back, legs spread wide, hand shaking as it slid down his stomach. He’d close his eyes and imagine. Always the same fantasy, worn smooth from repetition.

He pictured his chest flattening, the fat melting away, hard pecs rising in its place. Dark hair sprouting across them, coarse and masculine. His voice dropping low, rough, capable of growling commands that made other men weak. His shoulders broadening. His jaw sharpening. And between his legs—god, between his legs—the real miracle. His clit swelling, thickening, lengthening into a real cock. One he could grip fully. Stroke slow and deliberate. Feel throb in his hand like it had a heartbeat of its own.

He’d rub himself raw to that fantasy. Circling his clit hard and fast, hips bucking, whispering “grow, please fucking grow” until he came with a muffled cry into his pillow. The orgasm was always intense—shaking, blinding—but the second it faded, the shame rushed in. Because tomorrow the mirror would still lie.

Then he found the stories.

Not the clean, inspirational ones. The dirty ones. The ones hidden in anonymous forums where trans guys finally told the truth. The ones that talked about bottom growth like it was the holy grail. Guys posting weekly updates: “Month 2: 1.5 inches hard, so sensitive I can’t wear boxers anymore.” “Month 4: 3 inches, thick enough to stroke properly, came just from morning wood rubbing the sheets.” “Month 6: 5 inches, balls fully dropped, fucked a guy last night and he called it a cock the whole time.”

Jake read them obsessively. He’d sit in the dark, phone screen glowing, one hand down his pants the entire time. He’d edge himself for hours, reading the same threads over and over, imagining every detail happening to him. The way the skin would stretch as it grew. The new weight between his legs. The way pre-cum would leak when he got hard. The first time someone else touched it—sucked it—called it by the right name.

He started saving money in secret. Found a clinic that didn’t ask too many questions. Got on low-dose T through back channels because the wait lists were years long and he was drowning.

The changes came slow at first.

Oily skin. Acne on his shoulders. A little fuzz on his upper lip that he stared at for hours in the mirror. And then—the thing he’d prayed for—bottom growth. It started as increased sensitivity. He couldn’t wear tight underwear anymore without getting aroused all day. Then the swelling. He’d check every morning, pulling down his boxers, heart pounding. It was bigger. Pinker. Standing out more. He’d touch it gently, reverently, and the pleasure was so sharp he’d have to sit down.

He started measuring. 1 inch. 1.5. 2 inches hard—thick enough now that when he stroked it, it felt real. He’d stand in front of the mirror, jeans around his thighs, pumping slow and watching it grow in his hand. Pre-cum beading at the tip. Veins starting to show. His voice cracked the first time he moaned out loud—lower, rougher—and he came instantly, untouched except for his hand on his new cock.

But slow wasn’t enough anymore.

Around month five, everything exploded.

He woke up one morning in agony—not pain, but need. His whole body was on fire. He threw off the covers and the cool air hit his skin like ice. His chest was different. Tighter. Flatter. The fat had shifted overnight, leaving hard muscle underneath. Dark hair had sprouted across his pecs, a trail leading down his stomach. His shoulders felt broader. His arms heavier.

He stumbled to the mirror, naked, and stared.

The man looking back was almost unrecognizable.

Strong jaw. Adam’s apple prominent. Chest flat and hairy. And between his legs—fuck.

His cock was hard, curving upward, thick and long—six inches at least, maybe more. Veins bulging. Head flushed dark purple, slick with pre-cum that dripped steadily onto the floor. His balls hung heavy below, full and aching.

He didn’t think. He just acted.

He wrapped his hand around it—full grip now, fingers not touching—and the heat shocked him. It was like holding something alive. He stroked once, slow, feeling every inch, every vein, every pulse. His knees buckled. A deep groan ripped from his throat, so low it vibrated in his chest.

He jerked off right there against the sink. Fast and desperate at first, hips thrusting into his fist, grunting with every stroke. Then slower, teasing, drawing it out. He watched himself in the mirror—the way his new chest flexed, hair sticking to sweat-slick skin. The way his cock slid through his fist, shining with pre-cum. The way his balls drew up tight, ready to unload.

He edged himself for an hour.

Stopped every time he got close, squeezing the base hard until the urge passed. His cock throbbed angrily, leaking more, turning darker. His whole body trembled. Sweat poured down his back. His thighs shook. He talked to himself in that new voice—rough commands, filthy praise.

“Look at this fucking cock.”

“Feel how thick it is.”

“You’re finally a man.”

When he finally let go, the orgasm destroyed him.

It built low in his gut, hot and heavy, spreading outward like lava. His cock swelled impossibly thicker in his hand. The first spurt shot hard across the mirror, thick and white. The second hit the counter. He kept coming—rope after rope—grunting deep and animalistic with every pulse. His vision whited out. His legs gave way. He slid down the wall, still stroking through it, milking every last drop until he was spent and shaking.

The room smelled like sex. Like cum and sweat and raw masculinity.

He stayed on the floor for a long time, catching his breath, feeling the weight of his softening cock against his thigh. Still heavy. Still real.

That was the day everything changed.

He stopped hiding.

He bought new clothes—men’s jeans that hugged his bulge, tight shirts that showed off his flat, hairy chest. He walked taller. Spoke deeper. And people noticed.

At the gym, guys stared. In bars, they approached. He hooked up for the first time as himself—really himself—with a guy who knew exactly what he was and wanted it more because of it.

The guy—Matt—couldn’t keep his hands off him from the moment they got inside. They barely made it past the door before Matt was on his knees, yanking Jake’s jeans down, moaning when his cock sprang free—seven and a half inches now, thick as a wrist, balls heavy and full.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Matt whispered, before taking him in his mouth.

Jake grabbed his hair and fucked his face. Not gentle. Not asking. Just took. The wet heat, the suction, the way Matt gagged but pushed forward, taking more, wanting more. Jake growled down at him, voice like thunder: “That’s it. Choke on my cock. Take every inch.”

Matt did. Tears streaming, throat working around him, nose buried in Jake’s new pubic hair. Jake came hard down his throat, hips jerking, filling his mouth until it spilled over. Matt swallowed greedily, moaning like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

But Jake wasn’t done.

He pulled Matt up, stripped him fast, bent him over the couch. Rimmed him until he was begging, hole twitching and wet. Then lined up and pushed in—slow at first, feeling that tight heat clench around his cock, inch by inch. Matt cried out, pushing back, taking him deeper.

Jake fucked him hard.

Skin slapping. Sweat dripping. Chest hair rubbing against Matt’s back as he leaned over him, one hand around his throat, the other stroking Matt’s cock in time with his thrusts. Matt kept moaning—filthy, broken sounds—telling Jake how big he was, how good he felt, how he’d never been fucked like this before.

Jake came again deep inside him, roaring, filling him up while Matt clenched and came untouched, spilling over Jake’s hand.

They did it three more times that night.

Different positions. Different rooms. Jake topping twice more, then letting Matt ride him slow and deep, feeling that cock buried to the hilt while Matt whispered praise in his ear.

“You’re perfect.”

“This cock is perfect.”

“You fuck like a god.”

By morning they were wrecked—sheets soaked, bodies marked, room reeking of sex. Jake lay there with Matt curled against his hairy chest, feeling the weight of his spent cock, the ache in his muscles, the deep satisfaction in his bones.

He was finally home in his own skin.

And it only got better.

The growth continued. Eight inches. Nine. Thick enough that guys gasped when they saw it. Balls so heavy they swung when he walked. Chest hair thick and dark. Voice so deep it made people shiver.

He started writing his own stories.

Posted them anonymously in the same forums that saved him. Every filthy detail—the measurements, the sensations, the sex. Guys messaged him thanking him, telling him they came reading it, begging for more. He became part of the cycle. Giving back what he’d taken.

Because that’s the truth of these stories.

They’re not just porn.

They’re lifelines.

They’re proof that the body you jerk off dreaming about can be yours. That the cock you imagine can grow real and thick and hard between your legs. That the chest you hate can flatten and harden and sprout hair you’ll love running your fingers through. That the voice you strain for can drop low and commanding and make you hard just hearing yourself speak.

It happens.

Slowly at first, then all at once.

And when it does, you’ll touch yourself constantly. You’ll come harder than ever. You’ll fuck and be fucked as the man you always were. You’ll wake up every morning grateful for the weight between your legs, the flatness across your chest, the depth in your throat.

You’ll live the fantasy.

So keep reading.

Keep stroking.

Keep aching.

Because your body already knows what’s coming.

It’s growing.

It’s changing.

It’s becoming.

And when it finally arrives—the man you’ve always been—you’ll understand why you needed these stories so badly.

Because they weren’t just words.

They were your future calling.

Now go finish what you started.