January 20th, 2044 – Houston, Texas
The delivery room at Nile Valley Medical Center in Cairo had been a storm of organized chaos even before the world ended. Bright fluorescent lights hummed overhead, monitors beeped steadily, and the scent of antiseptic mixed with sweat and fear. Fatima, Khalil's wife, lay on the narrow bed, gripping the rails so hard her knuckles turned white. Contractions had come fast and furious all night, and now, at 3:17 AM on that fateful Tuesday, the doctor shouted encouragement while nurses bustled around with towels and instruments.
"Push, Fatima! One more big push!" the obstetrician urged, gloved hands ready.
Khalil stood at her side, his face pale but determined, one hand holding hers. He was a tall man with broad shoulders from years of manual labor on construction sites, his dark skin glistening under the lights. "You can do this," he whispered fiercely. "Our son is almost here."
Fatima screamed, bearing down with everything she had. The baby's head crowned, then shoulders. The doctor reached forward to guide the newborn out.
And then it happened.
In one frozen instant, Fatima's body went limp. Her grip on Khalil's hand slackened completely. Her eyes, wide with effort just seconds before, stared blankly at the ceiling. The doctor froze, hands still positioned but now holding nothing but air where the rest of the mother's body should have been. The lower half of Fatima—everything below the chest—simply ceased to exist. Her hospital gown collapsed flat against the bed, empty. The baby's lower body emerged into the doctor's grasp, but the connection was gone. No placenta, no umbilical cord trailing back to a mother. Just a perfectly formed infant boy sliding free into the world, crying loudly as if nothing unnatural had occurred.
Nurses screamed. Monitors flatlined on the maternal side. Khalil staggered back, mouth open in a silent howl of horror. "Fatima? Fatima!" He lunged forward, grabbing at the empty fabric, but there was nothing. The room erupted into panic—doctors shouting codes that no longer applied, security rushing in, the wail of the newborn piercing through it all.
Kota was born at that exact moment. The first breath he took coincided with the vanishing. And because of it, he was different. Immune. His tiny body showed no signs of the changes that would soon ravage every other male on the planet. His future penis and ass would develop normally, untouched by the shrinkage or the grotesque expansion that defined the new world.
In the hours that followed, Khalil clutched the baby boy to his chest, formula already being prepared by shell-shocked nurses as the hospital descended into global pandemonium. News reports flooded in—women everywhere gone, men's bodies twisted. Khalil's mind reeled. His wife—gone. His son—alive, but in a world turned upside down. By morning, he had arranged emergency travel documents, packed what little they could carry, and booked the first flight out of Cairo. Egypt was descending into disorder; Houston, Texas, where he had distant cousins and job prospects in construction, seemed like the only option for a fresh start.
The transatlantic flight was a nightmare of delays and crying infants. Kota screamed most of the way, hungry and confused, but Khalil fed him formula from pre-mixed bottles, rocking him awkwardly in the cramped seat. "You're all I have now, son," Khalil muttered under his breath, eyes red-rimmed. "No more of this madness. We'll make a life far away from whatever curse this is."
They landed in Houston amid pouring rain. Khalil rented a small two-bedroom apartment in a working-class neighborhood near the ship channel, the kind with chain-link fences and pickup trucks in every driveway. He found work quickly—construction crews were desperate for able bodies, even as the world adapted to the new normal. Formula became Kota's constant companion; Khalil mixed it meticulously, testing temperatures on his wrist each time, treating the routine like a sacred duty.
From the beginning, Khalil shielded his son from everything. The television stayed off or tuned strictly to old sports reruns—football, boxing, nothing with news. "Those people on TV are sick," Khalil would say, voice low and venomous. "Men acting like women, shaking their disgusting, oversized backsides. Real men don't do that. Real men work hard, stay strong, keep their dignity. Don't you ever look at that filth, Kota. Promise me."
Kota, too young to understand, would nod solemnly from his high chair. As he grew, the rules hardened. No internet without supervision. No friends over after school if Khalil suspected they talked about "the changes." School permission slips were scrutinized. When Kota came home from first grade asking why some boys in his class bragged about their "big cakes" during recess, Khalil exploded.
"Those boys are freaks!" Khalil shouted, pacing the tiny kitchen, his fists clenched. "The world went wrong, son. Men aren't supposed to have asses like that—huge, wobbling, clapping monstrosities that make them walk funny. It's unnatural. Disgusting. Weak. A real man has a flat, strong backside from honest work, not this... this perversion. And their tiny little things down there? Pathetic. Don't listen to them. Don't repeat it. You're going to grow up right—tall, strong, normal. No shaking, no showing off, no talking about bodies like they're toys."
Kota learned quickly to stay silent on the topic. He was a quiet child, curious but obedient. In elementary school, the bullying started early, mostly because he stood out. Being one of the few Black kids in his mostly Hispanic and white working-class school drew attention. "Hey, darkie!" kids would shout on the playground. But it escalated when they noticed his body didn't match the new standard.
By fourth grade, most boys had developed the exaggerated lower bodies—hips flaring wide, asses ballooning into thick, jiggling shelves that strained against uniform pants. They walked with that permanent sway, cheeks clapping softly with each step. Kota's ass remained flat, athletic from running and playing soccer, nothing more. In the locker room after gym, boys would compare.
"Check out my cakes, bro," one would say, turning to show off twin globes bigger than basketballs, soft yet firm, the deep cleft visible even through underwear. "Feels so good when I twerk it. Yours is so flat, Kota. Like a girl's from the old pictures. Weird."
Kota shrugged it off at first. "It's just how I am," he'd say, trying to diffuse. But they pressed.
"And your dick? Bet it's tiny too. Most guys only get like one inch hard now. Lucky if two."
Kota didn't understand. At home, Khalil never measured or discussed sizes. Showers were private, quick. Kota knew he had something down there, but assumed it was normal. He hit puberty early, around eleven, and by thirteen his flaccid length already hung at three-and-a-half inches, thickening as he grew. Erect, it reached a solid six inches—perfectly average pre-event, but a monster in 2044.
He had no reference. No porn, no health class discussions (those were banned in many districts post-event anyway), no fatherly talks beyond "keep it covered, be a man." So when classmates bragged about "almost two inches," Kota thought they were joking or using weird units. His own six felt embarrassingly small to him, especially since he was taller and broader than many.
Middle school brought worse. Lockers slammed, whispers followed him. "Flat-ass Black kid thinks he's tough. Probably packing nothing." Teachers looked the other way; the new culture celebrated the big-assed femboy aesthetic, so outliers like Kota were easy targets.
Khalil's homophobia ramped up with Kota's age. Dinner times became lectures.
"Those boys at school—shaking their fat asses like sluts," Khalil would growl, fork stabbing at rice and beans. "Disgusting. Men don't bend over for each other. They don't beg to get fucked by whatever tiny prick is left. It's sickening. If I ever catch you even looking at one of those freaks, Kota, you'll be grounded for a year. No sports, no friends, nothing. Real men play football, lift weights, build things. They don't prance around with their cheeks out, clapping like applause for perverts."
Kota would eat silently, nodding. "Yes, Dad." Inside, confusion swirled. Why did everyone else have those huge asses? Why did they seem so happy grinding and twerking in videos he glimpsed on friends' phones before getting caught? But he never asked. The rules were ironclad.
High school in Houston's sprawling suburbs amplified everything. Westfield High was a mix of pre-event holdouts and the adapted majority. Hallways echoed with the rhythmic clap-clap of massive asses swaying in tight jeans, booty shorts, or jockstraps peeking from low-rise pants. Boys with three-inchers were local celebrities, surrounded by admirers offering to "help relieve the pressure." Fertility machine babies—born later—followed the new norms fully, their bodies expanded from puberty onward.
Kota remained the anomaly. Tall for his age at six-foot-one, athletic build from track and weightlifting (pushed hard by Khalil), dark skin, short-cropped hair, flat ass that barely filled out his basketball shorts. His cock, when measured secretly in the bathroom one night, hit four inches flaccid, hanging heavy and thick. Erect in the shower, six inches stood proud—veiny, girthy, what would have been enviable before. But to him, it felt inadequate because he heard constant bragging about "two whole inches" as if it were a victory.
Senior year arrived in fall 2043. Kota turned eighteen quietly—no party, just Khalil grilling steaks and repeating the same warnings. "Stay away from those ass-shakers, son. They're everywhere now. The world's gone soft. Weak. But you're strong. Normal."
January 20th, 2044 dawned cold for Houston. Kota walked the crowded hallways toward his locker, backpack slung over one shoulder. The air smelled of body spray and faint sweat—the constant undercurrent from boys whose huge glutes generated heat just from walking. Everywhere, shelves of ass bounced: one guy in skinny jeans had cheeks so enormous they created a shelf you could set a drink on, the fabric stretched translucent over the curves. Another bent to tie his shoe, and the motion sent waves rippling across twin planets of flesh.
Kota kept his head down, trying to blend in. But Kyle and Edmond spotted him near the water fountain.
Kyle was a stocky Latino senior with a legendary ass—easily triple the old female standard, each cheek a wobbling, doughy mass that jiggled hypnotically. Edmond, white and lanky but with hips flared dramatically, had cheeks that clapped audibly when he sped up.
"Hey, flat-ass!" Kyle called out, voice loud enough to draw stares. "Kota the Black ghost-boy. Still no cakes after all these years?"
Kota tried to diffuse, forcing a smile. "Come on, guys, it's too early for this. Just getting water. Leave it alone."
Edmond laughed, stepping closer, his own massive rear swaying. "Nah, man. Look at you—flat as a board back there. Walking like a stick. Everyone else got blessed with real booty. You? Nothing. Bet your dick matches. Micro tiny. Like 0.5 inches hard on a good day."
The crowd snickered. Kota felt heat rise in his cheeks. "Guys, seriously. Drop it. I'm just trying to get to class."
Kyle pressed in, voice dripping mockery. "0.5? Maybe even less. Micro-dick Black boy. Meanwhile, check this." He subtly adjusted his shorts, showing the outline of his 1.8-inch erect nub straining against fabric. "One point eight, bro. Almost two full inches. That's power now. Chicks—well, guys—line up to ride it. You probably can't even get it up past your balls."
Kota blinked, genuinely confused. His mind flashed to his own hidden size. "1.8 inches? That's... tiny. Why brag about that?"
The hallway went quiet for a beat. Then outrage.
"You fucking with us?" Edmond snarled, face twisting. "Tiny? This is huge now! Most guys got one inch max. You're mocking us, flat-ass?"
Kyle grabbed Kota's arm. "Prove it then. Let's see what you're packing if you're so big."
Before Kota could react, they moved fast—Kyle yanking at his belt, Edmond holding his arms. The pants came down just enough in the chaos, revealing everything: Kota's thick, four-inch flaccid cock resting heavily against his thigh, uncut, veiny, impressive in girth even soft. Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
"Holy shit..."
Kota's face burned with embarrassment. He thought they were exposing his "tiny" shame. "Stop! What the fuck!" He yanked his pants up, shoving them away, and bolted toward the bathroom, heart pounding, convinced the teasing would explode now that everyone saw his "small" dick.
He slammed into a stall, breathing hard, mind racing. Why did they act shocked? Four inches flaccid felt normal to him—maybe even small compared to the exaggerated stories he half-heard. He had no idea it was the equivalent of a pre-event ten-incher: massive, dominant, the kind that would make him the ultimate prize in this new world. His flat ass suddenly felt exposed too, the contrast stark.
Outside, whispers spread like wildfire. But inside the stall, Kota sat on the toilet lid, head in hands, unaware of the power he unknowingly held. The blessing his father had hidden so fiercely was about to change everything.