You sit down in front of your computer and bring up your e-mail program. You roll your eyes when you see that the first couple of messages are spam that your filters didn't catch. You shake your head at the first subject line. "I've got a huge cock and my girlfriend loves it," you read aloud. "That's nice, but --"
You stop because you notice a framed photo on your desk that you've never seen before. It's you and a cute brunette girl, your arms around each other, at what looks like an amusement park. You don't recognize her, and you have no memory of ever embracing anyone at an amusement park.
Your computer chimes, and another e-mail appears in your inbox. This is from an Angela Grace, and the subject line is "Can't Wait, Stud!" The body of the e-mail reads, "Hey, J., I already talked to Steve and Jess, and they'll meet us out front of the theater at 6:45. And then I don't have to work tomorrow, so we can stay up late tonight, if you know what I mean. See ya later! XOXOXO!"
Your initial is J, and you are friends with a couple named Steve and Jess. Well, they send out billions of these spams with random words in them, so by the law of averages, it makes sense that there would be one that would actually apply to you. But it doesn't seem to be selling anything, or phishing for your bank account info, or anything like that -- there aren't any links to click on.
Since you just woke up, it's a little early for you to be thinking. You scratch your head with one hand and take the other hand off your computer keyboard and rest it in your lap.
Only it feels like there's a sausage in your lap. You jerk your hand away and look down at what turns out to be a giant bulge under your pajama bottoms. You pull them down a bit and gasp at what's revealed -- your dick must be three times bigger than it used to be, with balls to match, and it's soft. But now that you're aware of its existence, you watch it start to harden; you can almost see the blood pumping into it, engorging it with every heartbeat. It rises to about a 45-degree angle. You're a little lightheaded as you reach for the plastic ruler in your desk drawer. You gingerly lay it across the top of your shaft -- you feel a little shudder from the sensation; apparently, you're at least as sensitive as you were before -- and come up with a measurement of eleven and a half inches.
"I've got a huge cock," you say in awe, and that phrase reminds you of something. You go back to that first spam, realize you'd said the subject line out loud, and then remember your dream -- "the gift of speaking only in truth," the voice had said, and so you put two and two together.
"My bed is made," you say, and when you turn around, your sheets are perfectly tucked in, and there's a blanket and comforter sitting on top. It reminds you of a hotel bed, so you grin and say, "There's a mint on my pillow." In the blink of an eye, one appears. You stand up to walk across the room to get it and almost lose your balance -- you're not used to the excess weight that's now between your legs.
You steady yourself, though, and as you sit on the bed and chew on the minty chocolate you conjured up, you contemplate what to do next.