barucai

[Story] The Cultivator

Published: March 4th 2025, 9:00:08 am

Hi Hi ✨

This is a long one! One of the first stories I ever wrote about muscles and height growth - even before I started creating images! Wrote it just before opening this page, so there's no concrete universe and my writing skills might not be as sharp. Originally wrote it in my native language and later translated to English.

Parts 1 & 2 (and an interlude) should cover both last week's and this week's stories (almost 10K words!), and part 3 is in the works! Tiers 3 & 4 get a lot of extra images for this one! Let me know which direction you'd like the continuation to go!

📦 Grab the full res images from the attachment section of this post. ⬇️

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The Cultivator

Part 1

"How much you benching these days, Jean?" Michel slid another plate onto the bar, metal clanking against metal.

Jean Rousseau wiped his brow with the back of his hand and stretched his arms above his head. "Two-eighty, maybe two-ninety on a good day."

"Bloody impressive for someone who got drained three months ago," Michel whistled, stepping back to admire his friend. "You've nearly doubled your mass since then."

Jean settled onto the bench and adjusted his grip on the bar. "New gains," he said with a shrug. "They come back faster each time."

"That why the vultures keep coming back to you?" Michel asked, positioning himself as a spotter.

Jean drove the bar upward with a controlled exhale. "They're not vultures. They're customers." He lowered the weight to his chest. "And I'm a businessman."

He pumped out twelve repetitions without breaking a sweat, his shirt growing damp around the collar but otherwise showing little evidence of exertion. As he racked the bar, the television mounted in the corner of the gym caught his attention. The evening news was running their weekly "Economy of Extraction" segment.

"Turn that up, would you?" Jean nodded toward the screen while reaching for his water bottle.

Michel grabbed the remote from the check-in counter and raised the volume.

"...Minister of Drain Regulations announced today that prices for certified height transfers will increase by another seventeen percent next quarter..." The smartly dressed newsreader—easily six-foot-five with the broad shoulders of someone who'd purchased considerable upper body strength—shuffled her papers. "This marks the third price increase this year, reflecting the continued scarcity of height donors in the market."

"Bloody robbery," Michel muttered. "No wonder you won't sell your height."

Jean took a long drink of water and wiped his mouth. "It doesn't grow back, mate. Sell your height once, and you're stuck like that forever. Not worth any price."

On screen, the newsreader continued, "We go now to Francine Dubois, who's reporting from the National Drain Centre in La Défense."

The shot changed to a tall, elegant reporter standing outside a gleaming glass structure that resembled a cross between a hospital and a luxury spa.

"Thank you, Céline. I'm here at the flagship National Drain Centre where statistics released this morning show that muscle mass remains the most commonly transferred attribute, accounting for nearly sixty-two percent of all procedures."

The camera panned to show a line of men waiting outside the center's entrance, most of them in athletic wear that showcased well-developed physiques.

"Intelligence transfers remain steady at twenty-three percent, with linguistic abilities and specialized knowledge making up the remainder. Government sources indicate that the average woman now stands at approximately six-foot-three, with elite business women and politicians frequently exceeding seven feet."

The camera cut to an infographic showing silhouettes of men and women. The average man appeared to be around five-foot-nine, while women towered over them.

Jean frowned and started loading more plates onto the bar for his next set.

"Height transfer requests have reached an all-time high," the reporter continued, "despite being the most expensive attribute on the market. Sources at Banque Nationale confirm that height loans now constitute their fastest-growing financial product, with interest rates beginning at twenty-four percent annually."

"Banque Nationale," Jean muttered, his grip tightening on the weight plate. "Bloody leeches."

The report cut to footage of a corporate gathering, with tall, imposing women in tailored suits networking in a luxury hotel ballroom. Men moved among them serving drinks, all of them noticeably shorter and slighter.

"Market analysts suggest that women under six feet tall are finding it increasingly difficult to advance in corporate environments," the reporter explained as the camera focused on a particularly statuesque woman with striking features who towered over everyone else. "Competitive industries virtually require executive women to exceed six-foot-six, with board members at major corporations averaging seven-foot-two."

"That's your special friend, isn't it?" Michel pointed at the screen. "The Russian ice queen."

Jean didn't look up. "Irina Volkova. Banque Nationale's executive vice president of special acquisitions."

"Acquisition' is right," Michel snorted. "How many times has she drained you now?"

"Four." Jean positioned himself under the bar again. "And she's booked for next week. Pays triple the going rate."

Michel whistled. "Triple? What makes you so special?"

"Quality product." Jean pushed the weight up with a grunt. "Fast recovery. Reliable gains."

The news segment continued in the background as Jean completed his set.

"...controversial new study suggests that men with genetic predispositions for efficient muscle development are being targeted by corporate drain scouts. The Consumer Protection Authority has received over two thousand complaints of predatory contracts this year alone..."

Jean racked the bar with a clang and sat up. "Can we watch something else?"

Michel flipped to a football match, but Jean's eyes remained fixed on the screen where the news had been playing. He reached for his phone and opened his banking app. The numbers hadn't changed: more than a thousand euros owed to Banque Nationale's personal lending division. The interest had eaten up nearly everything he'd earned from his last draining session.

"You alright?" Michel asked, leaning against a nearby machine.

"Fine." Jean pocketed his phone. "Just thinking about how many more sessions it'll take to clear my debt."

"At the rate you're going, you could be debt-free in a year," Michel offered.

Jean laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's what I thought last year. And the year before."

He stood and moved to the cable machine for his next exercise.

"You ever wonder why you never make progress on that debt?" Michel asked, following him. "Even with what that Russian pays you?"

"Economy's tough," Jean answered automatically, adjusting the pin in the weight stack. "Interest rates are high."

"Bullshit," Michel said flatly. "Something's off. You're making good money, living like a monk, and somehow the debt never shrinks?"

Jean didn't respond, focusing instead on the careful contraction of his lats as he pulled the cable down.

"You ever think maybe there's a connection?" Michel pressed. "Between your debt and your best customer?"

The cable handle paused at the top of its arc. Jean's eyes met Michel's. "Don't."

"All I'm saying—"

"Don't," Jean repeated, his voice low but firm. "I know what you're saying. And you're wrong."

Michel raised his hands in surrender. "Sure, mate. Whatever you say."

Jean completed his workout in silence, methodically moving through exercises designed to maximize the muscle groups Irina preferred: shoulders, chest, arms. His body responded as it always did, with the enhanced efficiency that made him so valuable as a donor. While a normal man might take a year to add significant mass, Jean could rebuild in months what took others years to develop.

It was past nine when he finally left the gym. The streets of Lyon were quiet as he walked to his small apartment on the outskirts of the business district. He passed a group of young women laughing outside a bar, all of them at least six feet tall. A decade ago, they would have been considered unusually tall. Now they were just average.

One of them noticed him passing—or more specifically, noticed his well-developed physique—and whispered something to her friends. Their laughter followed him down the street.

Jean's phone buzzed in his pocket. The name on the screen made his stomach tighten: VOLKOVA.

He answered on the third ring. "Madame Volkova."

"Jean." Her voice was deep and rich, with just a trace of Russian accent. "I was reviewing your file. You've been making excellent progress."

"Thank you, madame."

"Our appointment is for next Thursday, yes? At three?"

"Yes, madame. I'll be there."

"Excellent. I'm looking forward to it. We're hosting an important leadership summit next month, and I need to be... impressive."

Jean swallowed. "I'm at ninety-two percent of my previous peak. Should be at full capacity by our appointment."

"Good boy." The words were patronizing, but her tone was all business. "Oh, and Jean? My team noticed some inquiries about your loan terms. Is there a problem I should know about?"

His pace faltered. "No problem, madame. Just reviewing my finances."

"I see." The silence stretched for several seconds. "You understand that we've extended you considerable flexibility with your repayment schedule. It would be unfortunate if that arrangement needed to change."

"I understand."

"Excellent. Until Thursday, then."

The line went dead. Jean stood motionless on the sidewalk, phone still pressed to his ear. After a moment, he slipped it back into his pocket and continued walking, his shoulders slightly hunched despite years of training himself to maintain perfect posture.

When he reached his apartment, he didn't turn on the lights immediately. Instead, he moved to the window and looked out at the city. In the financial district, the towers of Banque Nationale glowed against the night sky, a beacon of power and wealth. Somewhere in those towers, Irina Volkova was probably still working, her enormous frame settled into a custom-made chair, making decisions that affected thousands of lives.

Including his.

Jean finally flipped the light switch and surveyed his small living space. The apartment was sparsely furnished: a bed, a table, two chairs, a modest television he rarely watched. The kitchen was equipped with the basics needed for the high-protein, carefully measured meals his regimen required.

On the wall hung a single decoration: a framed photograph of Jean with his mother and sister, taken years ago before his father's gambling debts had fallen to him to repay. Before Banque Nationale had entered his life. Before Irina Volkova had discovered his genetic gift for muscle development.

He moved to the refrigerator and began preparing his evening meal: six ounces of chicken breast, two cups of brown rice, steamed vegetables. The routine was so familiar he could do it without thinking, which left his mind free to contemplate the truth he'd been avoiding.

Michel was right. Something didn't add up with his debt. Despite making payments for nearly three years, the principal had barely decreased. Each time it seemed he was making progress, some new fee or rate adjustment would appear, pushing the finish line further away.

And each time that happened, Irina would contact him with a new draining opportunity at an "exclusive" rate.

Jean's phone buzzed again. A text this time, from a number he didn't recognize:

Want to discuss your Banque Nationale situation? Tomorrow, Café Lumière, 2pm. Come alone.

He stared at the message, finger hovering over the delete button. After a long moment, he placed the phone face-down on the counter and returned to his meal prep.

Tomorrow he would pretend he'd never seen the message. He would follow his carefully planned diet and training schedule. He would continue building himself back up to peak form for Irina Volkova.

Because that's what he was now: a cultivator. A producer of the physical attributes others purchased to enhance their own lives and careers.

And for men in his position, there were worse ways to make a living.

The alarm blared at precisely 5:30 AM, and Jean's hand shot out to silence it before the sound had fully registered in his brain. Years of the same routine had programmed his body to respond automatically, even before consciousness fully returned.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment, taking inventory of his body. Right shoulder: slight soreness from yesterday's workout, but nothing concerning. Quads: adequately recovered from Tuesday's session. Overall energy levels: optimal.

Jean moved to the bathroom and positioned himself in front of the mirror. With clinical detachment, he observed his reflection. The gains were coming along nicely. His shoulders had widened considerably in the past week, the deltoids forming round caps that stretched the fabric of his sleeping shirt. His chest had filled out too, creating a solid shelf above his narrowing waist.

He reached for the measuring tape on the shelf and wrapped it around his upper arm. Eighteen and a quarter inches – a half-inch increase since last week. He noted the measurement in the app on his phone, then repeated the process for his chest, waist, and thighs.

The app displayed a graph of his progress: a steep decline three months ago when Irina had last drained him, followed by a rapid upward curve as his body rebuilt the lost mass at an accelerated rate. The line was approaching the peak recorded before his previous drainage.

Jean nodded, satisfied. One more week of intensive training, and he'd be at optimal capacity for Thursday's appointment.

He prepared his breakfast with mechanical precision: eight egg whites, one whole egg, a cup of oatmeal with a measured spoonful of honey, and a protein shake. As he ate, he scrolled through his schedule for the day: morning cardio, work at the delivery company from nine to three, afternoon strength training, meal prep for tomorrow, sleep by ten.

The message from last night flashed in his mind. Café Lumière at two. He dismissed the thought and closed his schedule.

After breakfast, Jean changed into his running clothes and headed out for his morning cardio. The streets were still quiet, with only a few early commuters making their way to work. He settled into an easy pace, his breath forming small clouds in the cool morning air.

As he ran, he passed a construction site where a new corporate headquarters was being built. The workers were already busy, most of them men of average height directing machinery or handling materials. He noticed a tall forewoman overseeing the project, her seven-foot frame imposing as she consulted blueprints with two engineers.

It was a common sight these days: physical labor performed by men, supervision handled by women. The drain economy had reshaped more than just bodies—it had transformed the entire social structure. With the ability to purchase height, strength, and intelligence, women had quickly come to dominate fields that had once been male bastions.

Jean completed his circuit and returned to his apartment to shower and change for work. His job at the delivery company wasn't glamorous, but it kept him active and paid enough to cover his basic expenses. The draining income went entirely to his loan repayments.

At precisely 8:50, he arrived at the warehouse and clocked in.

"Morning, Rousseau," his supervisor called from her elevated platform. Madame Leclerc was relatively modest in stature—perhaps six-foot-four—but what she lacked in height she made up for in muscle mass. Her forearms were thick as most men's calves, and her handshake was notoriously painful.

"Morning, madame," Jean replied, moving to the assignment board.

"You're on downtown deliveries today. Take van three." She tossed him a set of keys, which he caught one-handed. "And Rousseau?"

"Yes, madame?"

"You're looking good. Next drainage coming up soon?" There was nothing inappropriate in her tone—it was the same casual interest someone might show in a colleague's vacation plans.

"Thursday, madame."

She nodded. "Thought so. You always bulk up right before. Good for you—getting top rates, I bet."

Jean forced a smile. "Can't complain."

"Well, don't let them take too much. I need you back here lifting boxes by Monday."

"Yes, madame."

Jean spent the morning making deliveries throughout downtown Lyon, maneuvering the van through narrow streets and carrying packages up to offices and apartments. At each stop, he was conscious of the looks he received—the appraising glances from women who recognized a professional donor when they saw one.

Some were merely curious. Others carried a hint of disdain, the kind reserved for men who had found their place in the new order. A few showed clear interest, and not just in his attributes. Even in a world where women could purchase physical enhancements, there was something appealing about a man who naturally cultivated them.

By one-thirty, Jean had completed his assigned route and was heading back to the warehouse. As he turned onto the boulevard, he found himself approaching Café Lumière. Without consciously deciding to do so, he pulled the van into a nearby parking space and shut off the engine.

For several minutes, he sat motionless, hands still gripping the steering wheel. This was foolish. Dangerous, even. If Irina discovered he was exploring ways to escape his debt, there would be consequences. People who crossed Banque Nationale had a way of finding themselves blacklisted from drain centers, their credit ruined, their prospects evaporated.

Yet he found himself checking his watch: 1:42 PM. He had time.

Jean pulled out his phone and called the warehouse. "Madame Leclerc? It's Rousseau. The van's running a bit rough. I'm going to have it checked before bringing it back."

"Fine," she replied. "But be back by three for your next route."

"Yes, madame."

Jean exited the van and crossed the street to the café. It was moderately busy with the lunch crowd, most of the tables occupied by businesswomen enjoying late lunches. He scanned the room, unsure who he was looking for.

A hand raised from a corner table. Jean frowned. The man was ordinary-looking, perhaps in his early fifties, with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a rumpled suit that had seen better days.

Jean approached cautiously and took the seat opposite the stranger.

"Monsieur Rousseau. Thank you for coming." The man's voice was soft, requiring Jean to lean in slightly to hear him over the café's ambient noise. "I wasn't sure you would."

"I'm not sure why I did," Jean replied honestly. "Who are you?"

"My name is Henri Dupont. I work for the Financial Regulatory Authority." He slid a business card across the table. It looked official enough, but Jean knew such things could be easily faked.

"What do you want with me?"

Dupont glanced around, then lowered his voice further. "We've been investigating certain practices at Banque Nationale for some time. Specifically, their drain-based lending division."

Jean's heart rate increased. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do." Dupont removed a folder from his briefcase and opened it on the table. Jean recognized his own financial statements. "You've been making payments on your loan for three years. Substantial payments, including income from multiple drainage sessions. Yet your principal has decreased by less than eight percent."

Jean stared at the documents. "How did you get these?"

"That's not important. What's important is what they show." Dupont turned a page. "Each time you approach a significant reduction in your principal, there's a corresponding adjustment in your interest rate or a new fee appears. Always keeping you just on the edge of progress, but never quite over it."

"Banks adjust rates all the time," Jean said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Not like this." Dupont looked up, meeting Jean's eyes. "And not exclusively for clients who happen to be premium drain donors for their executives."

Jean fell silent.

"You're not the only one, Monsieur Rousseau. We've identified at least thirty-seven cases with identical patterns. Men with exceptional attribute development potential, all carrying loans with Banque Nationale, all serving as regular donors to executives."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I think you know. Banque Nationale is manipulating your debt to keep you dependent on drainage income. And I suspect a certain executive—" he flipped to another page showing a transfer record with Irina Volkova's name "—has a personal interest in ensuring you remain available as a donor."

Jean felt cold despite the warmth of the café. "What do you want from me?"

"Information. Testimony. Evidence of coordination between the lending division and the executives who drain you." Dupont closed the folder. "Help us build a case, and we can help you escape this cycle."

Jean checked his watch: 1:58 PM. He needed to get back to work. He needed to maintain his routine, continue his training, prepare for Thursday's drainage. The carefully constructed life he'd built teetered on the edge of disruption.

"I need to think about this," he said finally.

Dupont nodded, producing a small device that looked like a standard mobile phone. "Take this. It's a secure communication link. When you're ready to talk, press the power button three times. We'll contact you."

Jean hesitated, then took the device and slipped it into his pocket. "I'm not promising anything."

"Of course not." Dupont stood and offered his hand. "But consider this, Monsieur Rousseau: what happens when your body can no longer rebuild itself so efficiently? When your attributes become less valuable? Do you think Banque Nationale will show you any mercy then?"

Jean didn't answer. He shook Dupont's hand briefly, then turned and left the café, his mind churning with unwelcome thoughts.

Back in the van, he sat for a long moment before starting the engine. The schedule he'd so carefully constructed—the routine that gave structure to his life as a professional donor—suddenly felt like a prison. Each workout, each measured meal, each drainage session: all of it designed to keep him producing the attributes Irina Volkova desired.

For the first time in years, Jean allowed himself to consider an uncomfortable question: Was he a businessman engaged in a legitimate transaction, as he'd told Michel? Or was he simply livestock being cultivated for harvest?

He pushed the thought away and started the van. There were deliveries to make. A routine to follow. And in one week, an appointment with Irina Volkova that would temporarily strip away the physical strength he'd spent months rebuilding.

But as he pulled into traffic, the weight of Dupont's device in his pocket reminded him that perhaps—just perhaps—there was another path forward.

Three more days of training, and Jean's physique had reached its peak. Standing in front of the mirror after his evening shower, he admired the results of months of disciplined work. His chest had expanded to fifty-two inches, his waist trimmed down to thirty-one. His arms bulged with vascularity, veins snaking over biceps that measured nearly nineteen inches. His thighs had grown so substantially that he'd had to purchase new trousers to accommodate them.

He was, by any standard, enormous—at the absolute upper limit of what his frame could naturally support. And in less than a week, much of it would be gone, transferred to Irina Volkova's already imposing body.

Jean dressed in loose clothing that nonetheless strained against his muscles, and headed out for his evening walk. It was a small indulgence he allowed himself, this unstructured time to clear his head before sleep.

The streets were busy with nightlife as he passed through the entertainment district. Women in fashionable clothing towered over the smaller men accompanying them. Outside an exclusive club, Jean noticed a group of corporate types—all women well over six and a half feet tall—being ushered past the queue by a deferential doorman.

One of them turned as he passed, her gaze automatically assessing his physique with the practiced eye of someone who understood the drain market. She nudged her companion and whispered something. Both women laughed.

Jean continued walking, his jaw tightening. The sensation of being evaluated like a commodity never grew less uncomfortable, no matter how many times he experienced it.

His phone buzzed. The screen displayed a message from Irina:

Schedule change. Session moved to tomorrow, 10 AM. Reply to confirm.

Jean stopped mid-stride. Tomorrow? He'd planned for Thursday—a full week of recovery before returning to work. Moving the session up by three days disrupted everything.

Another buzz:

Extra 15% compensation for the inconvenience.

Jean hesitated, then typed:

Confirmed for 10 AM tomorrow.

The response came immediately:

Excellent. Be well rested. I need maximum capacity.

Jean pocketed his phone and changed direction, heading back to his apartment. The change meant he needed to adjust his preparation. No evening meal—he'd need to fast for at least twelve hours before the drainage to ensure optimal transfer efficiency. And he should sleep immediately to ensure his body was fully recovered from today's training.

As he walked, his mind returned to his conversation with Dupont. The investigator's device remained hidden in Jean's apartment, untouched since their meeting. Part of him wanted to activate it, to tell Dupont everything about his relationship with Banque Nationale and Irina Volkova. Another part feared the consequences of betrayal.

Jean's phone buzzed again. Michel this time:

You up for a drink? I'm at Le Coin.

Jean replied:

Can't. Session moved to tomorrow morning.

Three dots appeared as Michel typed his response:

That Russian witch changed the schedule again? Man, she owns you.

Jean frowned and didn't reply. Michel had become increasingly critical of his arrangement with Volkova, especially after their conversation at the gym. The last thing Jean needed was more doubt seeded in his mind before tomorrow's session.

When he reached his apartment, Jean went straight to the kitchen and drank two liters of water. Hydration was critical before a drainage. He'd have one more liter before sleep, then nothing until after the procedure.

As he prepared for bed, a news segment caught his attention from the television he'd left on earlier.

"...protests continued outside parliamentary offices today as demonstrators demanded stronger regulations on drain markets. Critics argue that the current system disproportionately benefits wealthy women while exploiting financially vulnerable men."

The camera showed footage of a modest-sized gathering outside a government building. Most of the protesters were men, but Jean noticed several women among them—all of average height or below, suggesting they either couldn't afford or chose not to participate in attribute transfers.

"The Donor Rights Association released a statement calling for caps on drain frequency and mandatory financial counseling for regular donors. A spokesperson cited concerning statistics about donor mental health and economic outcomes."

Jean sat on the edge of his bed, suddenly attentive.

"Meanwhile, the Association of Drain Recipients countered with their own study showing that attribute transfers have contributed over two hundred billion euros to the national economy through enhanced productivity and competitive advantage in global markets."

The segment cut to an interview with a statuesque woman in an immaculate suit, her height making the male reporter look childlike beside her.

"These procedures are voluntary, regulated, and fairly compensated," she stated firmly. "The drain economy has created opportunities for both donors and recipients. Attempting to restrict it based on outdated notions of 'exploitation' ignores the agency of the men who choose to participate."

Jean recognized her—Élise Moreau, CEO of a tech conglomerate and a frequent spokesperson for the drain industry. He'd met her once at a corporate event where Irina had brought him as a sort of trophy, a visual demonstration of the quality of her chosen donor.

He switched off the television and lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The decision to become a professional donor had seemed so straightforward three years ago. His father's debts had been transferred to him after the older man's sudden death—a common practice among less reputable lenders. Jean had been working two jobs just to make the minimum payments when a scout from Banque Nationale had approached him at the gym.

The offer had seemed like salvation: consolidate his debts with the bank at a "favorable" rate, and in exchange, become a registered donor for their executive program. His genetics made him an ideal candidate—able to rebuild quickly what was drained, maximizing the bank's return on investment.

It was supposed to be temporary. Two years, they'd said. Two years of draining sessions, and his debt would be cleared. But two years had become three, and the finish line kept moving further away.

Jean's eyes drifted to the dresser drawer where Dupont's device lay hidden. Perhaps after tomorrow's session, he would contact the investigator. Perhaps it was time to break the cycle.

With that thought, he set his alarm and closed his eyes, willing his body to rest before tomorrow's harvest.

The alarm woke Jean at 6 AM. He rose immediately, his body tense with the familiar pre-drainage anxiety. The ritual began: a final measurement of each muscle group to record his peak condition, a cold shower to improve surface circulation, loose clothing that wouldn't restrict blood flow.

Before leaving, he paused by the dresser and withdrew Dupont's device. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped it into his pocket.

The National Drain Centre gleamed in the morning light as Jean approached. Despite the early hour, the facility buzzed with activity. Men with well-developed physiques entered through one door, while women—many of them visibly taller or more muscular upon exiting than when they arrived—departed through another.

Jean bypassed the main entrance and headed for the executive access at the rear of the building. A security guard recognized him immediately.

"Monsieur Rousseau. Madame Volkova is waiting for you in the premium suite."

Jean nodded and followed the guard through the security checkpoint. Unlike the public drainage halls with their rows of transfer stations, the executive level featured private rooms designed for comfort and discretion. The wealthiest clients paid premium rates not just for the attributes they received, but for the exclusivity of the experience.

The guard led him to Suite 12 and knocked once before opening the door. "Your donor has arrived, Madame Volkova."

Jean entered a luxuriously appointed room that resembled a high-end spa more than a medical facility. The lighting was subdued, the air lightly scented with lavender, the sound system playing classical music at low volume. At the center stood the transfer apparatus—a sophisticated version of the public models, with attached monitors and enhanced comfort features.

And there, reviewing something on a tablet computer, stood Irina Volkova.

Even having seen her many times before, Jean was always struck anew by her imposing presence. She stood a full eight feet tall, her frame powerfully built with muscle he had provided over multiple sessions. Her features were classically beautiful in a severe way, with high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun that emphasized the elegant length of her neck.

She wore a tailored suit that accentuated her broad shoulders and narrow waist—a silhouette that would have been impossible without the attributes she had purchased. When she turned to face him, Jean felt the familiar combination of intimidation and reluctant admiration.

"Jean." Her voice filled the room despite its measured tone. "Thank you for accommodating the schedule change."

"Of course, madame."

She approached, her movement fluid despite her enormous size. With deliberate assessment, she circled him, her gaze taking inventory of the physical assets she would soon claim.

"Excellent development," she murmured, reaching out to grip his upper arm. Her hand—proportionally large for her frame—easily encompassed his bicep. She squeezed, testing the density of the muscle. "Perhaps your best yet."

"Thank you, madame."

"Remove your shirt."

Jean complied, revealing the full extent of his physical development. Months of careful training had sculpted his torso into an anatomy chart of perfectly defined muscle groups.

Irina made a sound of approval and ran her hand across his chest and down to his abdomen. There was nothing sexual in the touch—it was the evaluation of a connoisseur appraising fine merchandise.

"The technician will be here shortly to begin the procedure," she said, returning to her tablet. "I've requested a comprehensive transfer this time. The leadership summit next month includes a physical competition component."

Jean nodded, though unease flickered through him. A comprehensive transfer meant she would take nearly everything—leaving him with the minimum muscle mass legally required. His recovery would be longer, more difficult.

"Will that be a problem?" Her eyes met his, cool and evaluating.

"No, madame."

"Good." She set down the tablet and moved to stand directly before him. Even with his considerable height, Jean had to tilt his head back to meet her gaze. "You've been a consistent producer, Jean. I value that greatly."

"Thank you, madame."

She studied him for a moment longer. "I spoke with our lending division yesterday. About your loan situation."

Jean felt his pulse quicken. "Oh?"

"It seems there was an error in how your payment schedule was structured." Her expression revealed nothing. "We'll be making some adjustments that should accelerate your progress toward full repayment."

"That's... very generous."

Irina's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Banque Nationale values its relationship with quality donors like yourself. It's in everyone's interest to ensure those relationships remain... productive."

Before Jean could respond, the door opened and a technician entered—a woman of moderate height wearing the centre's medical uniform.

"Good morning, Madame Volkova. We're ready to begin whenever you are."

Irina nodded. "Excellent." She turned back to Jean. "Shall we proceed?"

Jean hesitated, his hand unconsciously moving to the pocket containing Dupont's device. He could feel his future balancing on a knife's edge. If he went through with this drainage, nothing would change. He would rebuild, drain again, and continue the cycle indefinitely.

Yet what was the alternative? Reject Volkova now, and his debt would surely be called in. Without drainage income, he would lose everything.

"Jean?" Irina's voice carried a hint of impatience.

He withdrew his hand from his pocket and nodded. "I'm ready, madame."

"Good boy." She gestured to the transfer apparatus. "After you."

As Jean moved to the machine and began to position himself on the donor platform, he caught Irina's reflection in one of the room's mirrors. For just a moment, her carefully composed expression slipped, revealing something predatory in her gaze as she watched him prepare for extraction.

In that instant, Jean understood with perfect clarity: This was never going to end. She would never allow it to end. Not until she had taken everything of value he had to give.

The technician approached with electrodes and began attaching them to strategic points on his body. "Just relax," she instructed. "The procedure will begin in approximately three minutes."

Jean closed his eyes, feeling the familiar weight of resignation settle over him. Three minutes until the drainage began. Three minutes until his painstakingly cultivated attributes would flow into Irina Volkova's already formidable body, further enhancing her power while diminishing his own.

Three minutes to decide whether to continue this cycle—or risk everything to break it.

Part 2

Jean opened his eyes as the extraction machine powered down, its gentle hum fading to silence. He felt the hollowness that always followed a drain—the peculiar lightness, as if his body had become a shell.

"Procedure complete," the technician announced. "Transfer efficiency rated at ninety-seven percent. Well above average."

"Excellent." Irina's voice sounded deeper, more resonant than before.

Jean turned his head with effort. The drain always left him weak, but this comprehensive session had taken more than usual. Through bleary eyes, he watched as Irina examined herself in the full-length mirror that occupied one wall of the suite.

She had changed into a workout ensemble—form-fitting compression shorts and a sports bra that highlighted her new gains. The transformation was remarkable. Muscles that had already been formidable now bulged with new mass, her shoulders broader, her arms thicker. Definition appeared where there had been smooth curves, creating valleys and ridges across her physique.

Irina raised her arms and flexed, watching as her biceps peaked impressively. She rotated, examining her newly enhanced back, the musculature spreading like wings beneath her skin.

"Magnificent," she murmured, running her hands over her abdomen where Jean's carefully cultivated six-pack had been added to her own already impressive core.

Jean looked away, focusing on the ceiling. This was always the worst part—watching someone else enjoy the strength he had worked so hard to build.

"How are you feeling, monsieur?" The technician approached with a cup of electrolyte solution. "Can you sit up?"

Jean nodded and slowly pushed himself to a seated position. His arms, once straining the seams of his shirt, now seemed pitifully thin. His chest, previously a bulwark of muscle, had flattened considerably. He knew without looking that his legs would barely fill his trousers.

The transfer had stripped him of nearly everything, leaving only the legally mandated minimum. The physical mass now adorned Irina's towering frame, making her even more imposing.

"Drink this," the technician instructed, handing him the cup. "Then rest for at least twenty minutes before attempting to stand."

Jean sipped the sweet liquid, grimacing at its artificial taste. Across the room, Irina continued to admire her enhanced physique, testing each muscle group with practiced movements.

"I believe this will be more than adequate for the summit," she said, finally turning her attention back to Jean. "Your attributes complement my frame exceptionally well."

"Thank you, madame," Jean replied automatically, his voice sounding thin and reedy to his own ears.

Irina approached the transfer apparatus and looked down at him. The size difference between them, already substantial, now seemed absurd.

"You've outdone yourself this time," she said, reaching down to pat his shoulder. Her hand—now packed with the strength he had cultivated—felt impossibly heavy. "The quality is exceptional."

"I'm glad it meets your expectations," Jean managed, fighting the urge to shrink away from her touch.

"The technician will assist you with recovery, and your payment has already been processed." Irina moved to a nearby chair where her business attire waited. "I've also arranged for a car to take you home when you're ready."

Jean nodded, watching as she began to dress. The tailored trousers and blouse she had arrived in now strained against her newly enhanced physique. She frowned slightly at the tightness, then shrugged.

"I'll need to visit my tailor this afternoon," she remarked, more to herself than to him. "These won't do anymore."

As she buttoned the blazer that completed her outfit, Jean noticed her checking her reflection again, satisfaction evident in her expression. The drain had done more than add muscle—it had enhanced her presence, her confidence.

That was the real product he provided, Jean realized. Not just physical attributes, but power.

"Oh, one more thing," Irina said as she gathered her belongings. "About the leadership summit I mentioned."

"Yes, madame?"

"I want you to accompany me."

Jean blinked in surprise. "Accompany you?"

"Yes." She straightened, towering over him. "The summit lasts five days at Chateau Bellevue in Cannes. You would attend as my personal guest."

Jean knew immediately what this meant. Irina wanted to display him—her prized donor—to her peers. It was a power move, a way of showcasing not just her newly enhanced physique but also her ownership of its source. He would be paraded around like a prized pet, a visible reminder of her status and influence.

"I appreciate the invitation," he said carefully, "but I need to begin my recovery regimen immediately. The next session is only a few months away, and—"

"You can train at the hotel's gym," Irina interrupted. "It's state of the art. And I'll compensate you for your time, of course."

"That's very generous, but my routine is quite specific—"

"Three thousand euros per day."

Jean fell silent, calculating quickly. That was more than he would make in two weeks at the delivery company.

"Five thousand," Irina continued, reading his hesitation. "Plus expenses, naturally."

The amount was staggering—enough to make a meaningful dent in his debt, even after Banque Nationale's manipulations. But the idea of being displayed as Irina's trophy for five days made his skin crawl.

"I'm not certain my supervisor would approve the time off," he hedged.

Irina's smile was cold. "I'm sure Banque Nationale can speak with your employer. We have considerable influence."

There it was—the implicit threat beneath the offer. Refuse, and his employment might suddenly become precarious.

"Seven thousand per day," she said, her voice softening. "That's my final offer, Jean. Think of what that would mean for your financial situation."

Thirty-five thousand euros for five days of humiliation. It was almost a quarter of his remaining debt.

"When is the summit?" he asked, resignation in his voice.

"Next week. We leave Monday morning." Irina's expression showed she knew she had won. "I'll have my assistant send you the details."

"Very well, madame. I'll be ready."

"Excellent." She moved toward the door, then paused. "Do try to rebuild at least some definition before then. I'd prefer you look somewhat presentable."

With that, she was gone, leaving Jean sitting slumped on the transfer apparatus, his body depleted and his dignity in tatters.

The technician approached again. "Would you like to rest a bit longer before I help you dress?"

Jean nodded, suddenly exhausted. "Yes, please."

"I'll check your vitals again in ten minutes." She adjusted the monitoring equipment beside him. "You transferred an exceptional amount today. Your recovery will take longer than usual."

"I know."

The technician—her name tag read "Sophie"—worked efficiently, checking his blood pressure and heart rate. Jean noticed, almost despite himself, that she was neither tall nor muscular—unusual in this setting. She stood perhaps five-foot-six, with a slight frame that suggested she had never participated in the drain economy, at least not for physical attributes.

Most striking, however, were her breasts—remarkably full and heavy on her otherwise slender frame. They strained against her uniform, creating an almost comical disproportion.

Sophie caught his glance and smiled wryly. "Attribute transfer," she explained, answering his unasked question. "But not muscle or height."

"I didn't realize that was an option," Jean said, embarrassed at being caught staring.

"It's a newer market." She checked something on his monitor, then made a note. "Weight transfer with targeted placement. Very popular these days."

"I imagine so," Jean murmured.

"Men sell weight they don't want, women buy targeted enhancement." Sophie adjusted something on his IV drip. "It's more accessible than muscle or height transfers. Lower cost, faster recovery for both parties."

"Seems like a win-win."

"For those involved, yes." Sophie checked his blood pressure again. "Your recovery is proceeding well. Do you think you can stand?"

Jean nodded, and she helped him to his feet. His legs felt like rubber, barely supporting his weight.

"Careful now," Sophie guided him to a chair where his clothes waited. "Take it slow."

As Jean began to dress—his clothes now hanging loosely on his diminished frame—Sophie continued her work, checking monitors and recording data.

"The breast market is absolutely booming," she remarked conversationally. "My guess is that within a few years, the average cup size will increase by at least two letters. We're already seeing it in corporate environments."

"Like height," Jean observed.

"Exactly like height. Started as a luxury, becoming almost a requirement." Sophie handed him his shirt. "At this rate, we'll all be walking around with enormous knockers by 2030."

Despite his exhaustion, Jean couldn't help but smile at her candor. "Is that the official medical projection?"

"Oh, absolutely," Sophie grinned. "I've run the numbers myself. Very scientific."

Jean buttoned his shirt, now several sizes too large. "At least women haven't figured out how to drain youth yet," he joked darkly.

Sophie's smile faded slightly. "Don't give them ideas. Some research team somewhere is probably working on that already."

"Might be the end if they succeed."

"Indeed." She helped him into his jacket. "The car Madame Volkova arranged is waiting whenever you're ready. Do you need a wheelchair to the exit?"

Jean shook his head. "I can manage." His pride, at least, hadn't been completely drained.

"Very well." Sophie handed him an information packet. "These are your recovery instructions. Follow them carefully, especially the nutrition plan. It's essential for optimal rebuilding."

"Thank you."

"And Monsieur Rousseau?"

"Yes?"

Sophie lowered her voice. "Be careful at that summit. Those events... they can be complicated for people in your position."

Jean studied her face, sensing there was more she wasn't saying. "Have you attended one?"

"Not personally. But we see donors afterward." She busied herself with the monitoring equipment. "Just watch yourself, that's all."

"I appreciate the warning."

Sophie nodded but said nothing more, leaving Jean to wonder what exactly awaited him at Chateau Bellevue.

As the center's car carried him back to his apartment, Jean stared out the window at the passing city. Lyon looked different somehow—or perhaps it was his perspective that had changed. The women on the sidewalks seemed taller, the men more diminutive. The drain economy's effects were visible everywhere, reshaping not just bodies but the entire social landscape.

He reached into his pocket and felt Dupont's device, still unused. The investigator's words echoed in his mind: "What happens when your body can no longer rebuild itself so efficiently? When your attributes become less valuable?"

Jean had no answer. But as the car pulled up to his building, he made a decision. After the summit, he would contact Dupont. This cycle had to end—before it ended him.

The doorman—a short, slight man who couldn't have been more than five-foot-six—held the door as Jean emerged from the car, his movements slow and careful.

"Good afternoon, monsieur," the doorman greeted him, his eyes widening slightly at Jean's diminished state. "Drain day?"

"Yes," Jean replied simply.

The doorman nodded in understanding. "Take care, monsieur."

Jean made his way to the elevator, acutely aware of his weakness. The comprehensive drain had left him with barely enough strength to function. It would be days before he could return to work, weeks before he could resume meaningful training.

Yet somehow, he was expected to be "presentable" for Irina's summit in just a few days.

As the elevator doors closed, Jean caught his reflection in the polished metal. The man staring back at him seemed like a stranger—hollow-cheeked, thin-limbed, diminished. Not for the first time, he wondered if this was how his father had felt in those final months, drained of everything valuable, left with nothing but debt and desperation.

The summit, Jean decided, would be his last performance as Irina Volkova's prized donor. Whatever came after—whether justice through Dupont's investigation or ruin at Banque Nationale's hands—would at least be something different.

Something chosen, rather than simply endured.

The elevator chimed, reaching his floor. Jean stepped out, his legs still unsteady, and made his way to his apartment. Inside, he moved directly to the refrigerator and began his recovery protocol: protein, amino acids, carbohydrates. The familiar routine provided some comfort, a semblance of control in a life that suddenly seemed to be accelerating beyond his grasp.

As he ate, Jean's phone buzzed with a notification. A transfer from Banque Nationale: his payment for today's drainage. The figure made him pause—significantly higher than their usual rate, with a note: "Bonus for comprehensive transfer quality and summit attendance agreement."

Jean set the phone down, his appetite suddenly diminished despite his body's desperate need for nutrients. Even this—this concrete benefit of his arrangement—now felt tainted.

He forced himself to finish his meal, then moved to the bedroom. Sleep was critical for recovery, and he would need all his strength for what lay ahead.

As he drifted off, Jean's last conscious thought was of Dupont's warning about the summit. What had Sophie seen in donors who returned from such events? What wasn't she telling him?

The questions followed him into uneasy dreams, where giants walked the earth and men like him were harvested for their essence, drained and discarded when they had nothing left to give.

Interlude

Jean awoke the next morning feeling as though he'd been hit by a lorry. Every muscle ached with the hollowness that followed a comprehensive drain. He reached for his phone on the bedside table and checked the time: 10:37 AM. He'd slept for nearly fourteen hours.

With considerable effort, he pushed himself to a seated position and took stock of his condition. His arms, once thick with carefully cultivated muscle, now appeared thin and sinewy. His chest had flattened dramatically, and when he placed a hand on his abdomen, he felt none of the defined ridges that had been there just yesterday morning.

The comprehensive drain had taken almost everything, leaving him with the legal minimum required by regulations. He knew from experience that the first three days post-drain were the worst. After that, his exceptional genetics would begin the rebuilding process, faster than most but still painfully slow compared to the instant transformation Irina had enjoyed.

Jean reached for his phone again and scrolled through his contacts until he found his mother's number. He rarely asked for help, but in his current state, he could barely manage to prepare the nutritionally dense meals his recovery protocol required.

She answered on the third ring. "Jean? Is everything alright?"

"Bonjour, Maman," he said, his voice still weak. "I had a comprehensive session yesterday. I was wondering if you might be able to stop by later... I could use some help with meal preparation."

There was a brief pause. "Of course, mon cher. I'll bring some groceries. An hour?"

"That would be perfect. Thank you."

"It's no trouble. Rest until I arrive."

Jean ended the call and slowly made his way to the bathroom. The face that greeted him in the mirror looked gaunt, the cheekbones more prominent than usual, dark circles under his eyes. He showered—the warm water providing some relief to his aching body—and changed into loose clothing that wouldn't emphasize his diminished state.

By the time the doorbell rang, Jean had managed to make coffee and was sitting at his small kitchen table, reviewing the recovery protocol Sophie had provided.

"It's open," he called, not wanting to expend the energy to walk to the door.

The door opened, and Jean looked up to greet his mother. The words died in his throat.

"Maman?"

Sylvie Rousseau had always been a petite woman—five-foot-three at most, with a slight build that Jean had inherited before his donor career began. The woman who entered his apartment stood at least six feet tall, her previously delicate frame elongated but still slender. Most striking, however, were her breasts—improbably large on her otherwise slim body, straining against the fabric of her blouse.

"Oh, Jean," she said, setting down several shopping bags and moving toward him. "You look awful, mon petit."

Jean stared, momentarily at a loss for words, as she bent to kiss his cheeks. "You've... changed," he finally managed.

Sylvie laughed lightly. "Yes, quite a bit since we last saw each other." She straightened and gestured to her dramatically altered figure. "What do you think?"

"I'm... surprised," Jean said carefully. "When did this happen?"

"The height came first," she explained, moving to unpack the groceries. "Do you remember Monsieur Lefèvre? Our neighbour for all those years?"

Jean nodded. The elderly man had lived next door throughout his childhood.

"He passed away two months ago," Sylvie continued, her movements efficient as she organized ingredients on the counter. "Cancer, poor man. But he had made arrangements beforehand... he left me his height in his will."

"His height?" Jean blinked. "That's... unusual."

"Not as much as you might think. He had no children, and we'd been close since your father died." She measured rice into a pot. "He was quite tall—six-foot-four—and knew I'd always wished for a few extra inches."

Jean watched as his mother moved around the kitchen, still coming to terms with her transformed appearance. It was strange seeing her like this—still recognizably his mother, but with proportions that seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

"And the..." He gestured vaguely toward her chest, embarrassed despite himself.

Sylvie glanced down at her enhanced bosom and smiled wryly. "Ah, yes. That was more recent. Weight transfer has become quite affordable, you know. Most of my friends have had something similar done." She began chopping vegetables with practiced ease. "At my age, it's nice to feel youthful again."

There was something surreal about discussing his mother's breast enhancement in his kitchen, but Jean supposed that was just another oddity of the drain economy they now lived in. Physical attributes had become commodities, transferable and purchasable, altering the bodies of those Jean had known all his life.

"How often do you donate?" Sylvie asked, changing the subject as she moved to prepare a protein-rich stew that had been part of Jean's recovery routine since he began his donor career.

"Every three to four months, usually," Jean replied. "This one was... more extensive than most."

"For that woman from the bank?" There was a note of disapproval in Sylvie's voice.

"Yes. Madame Volkova."

Sylvie added ingredients to the pot with more force than necessary. "I don't like your arrangement with her, Jean. It doesn't seem... equitable."

"It pays well," Jean said defensively. "The debt is decreasing."

"Is it?" Sylvie turned to face him, skepticism evident in her expression. "Three years of this, and how much progress have you made?"

Jean looked away. "It's complicated."

"It always is, with banks." She returned to her cooking. "Your father said the same thing."

The comparison stung, but Jean couldn't deny its accuracy. He had inherited more than just his father's debts—he'd inherited his financial naivety as well, his vulnerability to predatory arrangements.

They fell into silence for a few minutes, the only sound the gentle bubbling of the stew on the stove.

"Have you heard from Elise?" Jean asked eventually, referring to his sister.

Sylvie shook her head. "Not in months. The last I knew, she was doing quite well in her political career. Regional council, I believe." She stirred the pot thoughtfully. "She doesn't call much these days. Too busy climbing the ladder, I suppose."

"And growing taller," Jean added wryly.

His mother gave him a look. "Yes, well. That's the world we live in now, isn't it? Your sister always was ambitious. I imagine she's done whatever necessary to compete."

Jean nodded, thinking of the women he saw in government and business—nearly all of them towering over seven feet these days, their enhanced physiques signaling their access to resources and power. If Elise was succeeding in politics, she had almost certainly participated in the drain economy as a recipient.

His gaze drifted to the framed family photograph on the wall—the one he'd looked at just yesterday. It showed the three of them years ago: Jean still a teenager, lanky but average height; his petite mother with her natural proportions; and Elise, then seventeen, already showing signs of the determination that would drive her career.

The people in that photograph barely resembled the ones they had become. His mother, now elongated and disproportionately busty; Elise, likely transformed by purchased attributes he could only imagine; and himself, oscillating between carefully cultivated strength and the hollow weakness that followed each drainage.

"The world has changed so much," Jean murmured.

Sylvie followed his gaze to the photograph. "Yes," she agreed softly. "Sometimes I hardly recognize it." She turned back to him, her expression gentle. "Or myself, for that matter."

She brought a bowl of the steaming stew to the table and set it in front of him. "Eat," she instructed. "You need to rebuild."

Jean picked up the spoon, grateful for her help despite the strange circumstances. As he ate, he watched his transformed mother move around his kitchen, efficient and caring as always, even in her dramatically altered body.

"Thank you for coming," he said finally. "It helps."

Sylvie smiled, and for a moment, Jean could see past the physical changes to the woman who had raised him. "That's what mothers do, mon cher. No matter how tall we get."

She prepared several more meals for his refrigerator, labeled with reheating instructions, then spent the afternoon ensuring his apartment was organized for his recovery period. As she was preparing to leave, she paused by the door.

"Jean," she said, her voice serious. "Whatever this arrangement is with the bank and that woman—I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do," Jean lied, thinking of Dupont's device still hidden in his dresser, of the summit next week, of the cycle he was determined to break. "I have it under control."

Sylvie studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Call me if you need anything else. I'm only a phone call away."

After she left, Jean returned to the kitchen table and opened his recovery journal, meticulously recording his post-drain measurements and condition. The numbers were disheartening: his biceps reduced from nearly nineteen inches to just over twelve, his chest from fifty-two inches to forty-one, his overall weight down by nearly thirty pounds.

It would take weeks of intensive training and precise nutrition to rebuild what Irina had taken in a single session. And now, he was expected to appear "presentable" at her summit in just a few days.

Jean closed the journal and leaned back in his chair, his gaze returning to the family photograph. So much had changed since that picture was taken. His mother transformed by attribute transfers. His sister likely enhanced to compete in her political career. And himself, caught in a cycle of building and losing, never truly owning the body he worked so hard to develop.

But next week would mark the beginning of something different. Whether through Dupont's investigation or some other means, Jean was determined that this summit would be his last performance as Irina Volkova's prized donor.

Whatever the cost, he would find a way to break free.