Natural-Women Enhancement Institute
a fantasy by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by a chronic masturbator
A fantasy thought came to me today.. A scientific&medical center established – Natural-Women Enhancement Institute. Women would be visiting it to request enhancement of their bodies in a natural way, without plastic surgery and implants.. Special nutrition complexes would be developed to emphasize and speed up the growth of boobs, buttocks and mombod belly, as well as for the overall mass/fat growth.. The best part of working at he center would be supervising and measuring their body development, carefully examinig their bodies on a regular basis with palpitation, boobs volune and weight measurement etc. .. seeing them partially and fully naked in the process of course.. having constant hard-ons and often masturbating and relieving myself throughout the working day.. With worker’s sperm gathered for scientific purposes too, like tasting the semen effect on skin of volunteering women..
The idea for the fantasy came to me when my mind—freshly rinsed and wrung out from another night of masturbation—wanders into worlds less encumbered by the limitations of physics or morality. This time, I envisioned an entire scientific and medical campus, a sprawling complex dedicated solely to the natural enhancement of the female form. The Natural-Women Enhancement Institute. Not plastic surgery. Not grotesque silicone. No, here, the advances would be biological, holistic, pharmacological: nutrition regimens, hormone cocktails, custom-tailored peptides, and gene tweaks—all designed to amplify the most coveted, primitive, excessive curves of the female body.
I would, of course, be the resident expert, the director of experimentation and clinical oversight. The women—volunteers or, more likely, eager patients—would sign up for rounds of these “treatments,” their bodies already brimming with potential. I imagined a seamless process, from intake to transformation: initial measurements and psychological evaluations, followed by bespoke dietary plans and daily supplementations. Regular monitoring would ensure progress—not just in numbers, but in aesthetics, in the art of soft tissue and flesh.
My role would require hands-on appraisal. Routine appointments would become ritualized: the women would be ushered into my exam rooms wearing nothing but translucent paper gowns, their anticipation and self-consciousness palpable. Some would be shy, folding their arms over their chest or tucking their knees inward as they perched on the edge of the cold table. Others—the exhibitionists, the former cam girls, the Instagram models—would let their gowns slide open, ready to be observed, palpated, admired.
I would document everything: the increase in bust circumference, the subtle swelling of the mammary tissue, the gradual accumulation of gluteal fat. I would weigh each breast, weigh each buttock cheek, track the precise geometry of areolas as they shifted and grew. I would do it with the cold detachment expected of a scientist, but it would be a lie. Every session would leave me with a thudding erection, shameful but persistent, and as soon as I closed the door behind them I would need to relieve myself—sometimes with the aid of their discarded gowns or the memory of their bashful smiles.
But the fantasy doesn’t end with the clinical; it mutates, grows bolder, more obscene by the hour. In my daydreams, the Institute would have a secret protocol, a “sperm sample program,” ostensibly for monitoring donor compatibility or genetic health. In reality, it would be an extension of my own lust, a pretense to collect and catalog the results of my relentless self-abuse. The samples would be labeled, color-coded, analyzed for viscosity and volume, even taste-tested under the guise of “transdermal absorption studies.” I would be called upon to explain, in impenetrable grant-speak, why volunteer subjects needed to rub fresh semen onto their breasts or thighs, and why it was critical for staff to supervise the process at close range.
The longer I dwelled on it, the more intricate the fantasy became. There would be monthly “progress showcases,” where the women would strip down for group comparison, and I would be tasked with making public, objective assessments about who had the best gains, the most promising trajectory, the softest, creamiest skin. Evenings would be spent in the staff lounge, the air thick with the musk of protein shakes and pheromones, my colleagues hunched over screens, watching time-lapse videos of breast expansion and slow-motion ass jiggle.
In short, it would be my paradise, a place where sexual obsession was a job requirement and every private perversion could be rebranded as research. I pictured myself working twelve-hour shifts, never fully soft, always on the verge of leaking through my scrubs, trying to mask the ache with academic professionalism but failing, deliciously, every time.
And yet, even this wasn’t enough to slake my hunger for the fantasy. I kept cycling through refinements: maybe the Institute would have a mentoring program, where the newest patients would be paired with “growth veterans,” women who’d already undergone dramatic changes and were now addicted to the process, the flesh, the constant affirmation. Some would opt for maximum size, ballooning into cartoonish proportions, while others would focus on perfect ratios, the golden mean of mammary to hip to thigh. I would oversee it all, the high priest of flesh, and every night I would go home with a head full of images and a body desperate to expel the day’s buildup through frantic, animalistic masturbation.
The more I imagined the Institute, the more real it seemed. Soon, I was watching documentaries about hormonal therapies and reading papers on adipose tissue differentiation, half as research, half as wank fuel. I started sketching out protocols, interview scripts, even patient intake forms. If I could have, I would have sent in a grant proposal on the spot, or started a blog chronicling my “findings.”
But all of this, of course, was just mental scaffolding for what truly mattered: the ceaseless, inexhaustible desire to see women’s bodies made bolder, fuller, wetter, and to be the one who orchestrated it all. To be the architect of an entire subculture of soft, ripe, ever-expanding flesh. Nothing else in life ever seemed so plausible, or so necessary.
It got to the point where, even during my own regular masturbation sessions, I found myself narrating the process in clinical language, as if I were dictating a report for posterity:
“Subject’s penis engorged to 128% of baseline volume in response to visual stimulus; arousal curve highly exponential, with spontaneous pre-ejaculate production at 2.7 minutes. Climax achieved via manual stimulation at 4.8 minutes; sample collected in sterile environment.”
Most nights, I would cum thinking about the moment when a particularly ambitious patient would stride into my office, her new breasts straining against the fabric of her blouse, and she’d ask me if I wanted to “inspect the results.” And I always did. Sometimes I’d imagine we’d fuck right there on the exam table, the data sheets fluttering to the floor, my hands sunk deep into the new adipose, her voice echoing down the sterile, linoleum-lined halls.
Other times, the fantasy was quieter: just the memory of a patient’s warmth, the accidental brush of her hip against my arm, the way her eyes would linger on mine when I told her she was “progressing beautifully.” I could never tell if the tenderness was part of the fetish, or if it was something that made the fetish possible at all.
Either way, the Institute became my private cathedral, my place of worship, the ultimate proof that sexual obsession is the only constant in my life. I knew it would never exist outside my own head. But in some ways, that made it even better. There were no ethics boards in my imagination, no fundraising deadlines, no HR complaints or liability waivers. Just pure, unchecked devotion to the cause of making flesh more flesh.
That’s what I thought about all day, every day, and late into the night. The next morning, I’d wake up sticky and sore, and I’d do it all over again.