Undersized college student Casey develops a sudden need for a cock just big enough for people to know it’s there. And between his own skills and his unwitting roommate’s, he knows just how to make it happen.
Added: Jul 2022 Updated: 24 Sep 2022 21,490 words 14,849 views This story was commissioned via Patreon Story Commission.
Our first day back, I was setting down my tray (crunchy beef quesadillas today—¡deliciosa!) and was about to sit down at our table when Mike, who’d strategically beaten me to his seat, suddenly looked up at me with a look of very stagey dismay. “Oh, shoot!” he exclaimed. “I forgot to get napkins. Can you get us some? Since you’re up?”
I gave him the blandest look I could, suppressing my smile with a herculean effort of will. “Sure thing,” I said, leaving my tray and slipping off back toward the condiments and supplies station. A grin had fought its way onto my face by the time I got there, though, and my excited cock was already swelled to full hardness in rank anticipation; but I managed to calm my expression, if not my dick, before I got back to the table.
Mike’s hands were in his lap when I got back, as if for some reason he wanted it to be very obvious they were nowhere near my—food? drink? I wasn’t sure. As I sat down, I deposited the three-inch stack of the DH’s big brown napkins I’d brought back onto the table between us. Mike goggled at them. “That’s a lot,” he said, surprised.
I looked him right in the eyes. “A lot can be a good thing,” I said. I wasn’t using the app, but the long process of building and refining it had involved a massive amount of theoretical research about planting and reinforcing ideas. I knew how to make words work to get things moving in someone’s head, even without the app to reinforce it, and I suspected Mike’s deferential nature made him more susceptible than most.
Mike’s expression grew coy, his thoughts sliding inward for a moment. His teeth emerged to gently graze his lower lip, a developing tell (I was pretty sure) that he was thinking about dick, and he tipped his chin down to hide a small smile before abruptly shaking his shoulders slightly and reengaging with me. “Dig in,” he said cheerily, nodding down at my plateful of Mexican goodness. “It looks amazing!”
I did grin at him then. Then we both attacked our char-grilled segments of tortilla-meaty-cheesy goodness, and, yeah, it was amazing. I ate it all, gladly and deliberately. I knew there was no turning back now.
If I could go back in time and talk to my past self… but honestly, I don’t think there was a force in the universe that could have prevented me eating every speck of that meal that night. I would have licked the plate if it hadn’t been likely to tip Mike off. Call it superstition, but I was convinced that the complexity of the embeds’ functionality, and therefore the success of my plan, depended on Mike being certain that whatever was going to happen was all on him.
Which didn’t stop me from using the last square inch of tortilla to mop up every last drop of cheese and sauce I could manage. I finished all of my fountain cherry Coke, too, just in case. By the time I was done my mouth and tummy were sated, but my dick was revving with anticipation of things yet to come.
It was five whole days before the effects started to manifest.
I had a two-pronged plan for distracting myself from the frustration of waiting: diving into schoolwork, and teasing Mike. The second part was more fun, of course. Before I’d started all this I’d been pretty guarded about getting dressed, but now I cultivated a habit of brazenly changing in front of him after I took a shower, letting him get a solid look at the goods just so I could catch that quick, fleeting stare from him that was half scientific observation and half thirst for big cock. I began regularly lounging around the place in a tee shirt and boxers, something I hadn’t ever done before, just to get him used to having a chance to watch for any subtle changes as things developed.
I knew he was “secretly” dosing me every day—that much was obvious. What I didn’t know was how much and how often. After that first night he got better at being cagey and hiding his food-and-drink doctoring; but I was pretty sure his frustration at the lack of results so far—second only to my own—was driving him to up the dosage, and maybe the frequency, too. We hung out a lot more after spring break, sharing almost every meal together (always at his insistence). I was an inveterate breakfast-skipper, and suddenly Mike was affecting a friendly concern at my lack of morning fortification. We even started sharing library study sessions (complete with snack breaks in the plaza, natch)… taking the campus bus together even when our courses were in different buildings… that kind of thing. Mike was fully engaged with this project, as caught up in it as I was. Early on in the semester we’d talked about going in on a mini-fridge, and now after break one suddenly appeared on the floor of the closet we shared, and I couldn’t help noticing it was always stocked with my favorite juice drinks and snacks, while mysteriously lacking anything Mike enjoyed. Funny thing, that.
I’ll never forget that Saturday, five days after we got back to the dorms. Normally I was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from the moment my eyes popped open, but all that week I had been waking up slow and fuzzy-headed—my only real proof so far I had that I was in fact being medicated on the sly with whatever serum Mike had spent his break perfecting and upgrading—and that morning I was indulging in the chance to be all louche and logy in bed while Mike showered and I had to room to myself.
I was vaguely aware as I lolled about that I had especially insistent morning wood. I reached for it languidly under the sheet with my left hand, feeling otherwise liquid and boneless, like my wake-up hard-on was the only stiff thing about me. I grazed it with my fingertips, and a thrill just from the mere touch the pads of my fingers fluttered through me, so intense I audibly gasped.
Warily I wrapped my hand around it, and with a jolt my body sizzled with pleasure.
A rational thought worked its way through the heightened sensations. I was wrapping my hand around it. There was enough of a boner down there to do that.
The serum had worked.
The app that had made Mike dose me with the serum… had worked.
My Mancock plan had fucking worked.
My heart smashing at my ribs, I used my free hand—no way was I moving the other one!—and pulled the sheet away so I could get my first look at my own extra-personal version upgrade.
Like all guys I was used to the size of my dick. Three and a half inches rock hard; an inch and a quarter across; reddish-tan with a band of pink under the glans from the circumcision; blunt, squarish head. It curved back toward my groin a little when it was really a hard, like the overtaut intensity of the erection was bending it beyond the vertical. A dorsal arterial bulge trailed up the left side and then diverted across at a diagonal two thirds of the way up; another seemed to cut across it, making a sort of “f”. Back when I’d first noticed it, years and years before, I’d wondered if someday I’d find three other guys whose dicks spelled out “u,” “c,” and “k.”
That was my dick… before. And looking at it, feeling it, it was the same dick, only it had been scaled the fuck up. It had to be at least two inches longer and proportionately thicker on top of that. And despite having always had boners I could have pounded nails with, I now realized I hadn’t even known what “hard” was until now. My balls had leveled up too, no longer below-average, and I could feel their weight, and my cock’s weight, too.
And it wasn’t just that I was as erect as any man could ever be. I was manifesting serious arousal all over, in multiple ways. My balls ached with an urgent need to shoot. My cock was palpably hot in my grip and oozing messy precum all over my groin muscle—already the little flat area above my patch of pubic hair was smeared with pre, like my cock was applying some strange, clear ointment to one very specific part of my body. Even the scent was different: I could smell my arousal now, a faint, woodsy musk that I’d never noticed before, combining with the heat and the heft and the ooze to magnify my already heightened arousal beyond endurance.
I was hungry, hungry as fuck, and thirsty as all get-out on top of it… but no way was I going to be able to do anything before I blew the big load I was building up all over my belly. I still hadn’t moved my fist, though—why hadn’t I moved my fist?
“Wow,” Mike breathed from the doorway.
Oh, yeah. That was why.
Mike was standing near the (thankfully closed) door, damp from the shower and clutching a big blue bath towel to his waist, but as he moved compulsively toward me, wide-eyed and mouth agape, he seemed to forget about the towel and it flumped to the ground, exposing his own bent, uncut, just-below-average cock as it swelled to half-hard in what seemed like a single moment. He smelled like soap, shampoo, and the lime shave cream he used—all clean and pure compared to my carnal musk. There was no sound but my own pounding heartbeat.
He seemed not to notice he’d exposed himself to me or that he was getting visibly turned on—his focus was all on me and, specifically, on my dick. He knelt next to my bed, staring reverently at the upsized, agonizingly hard boner I had gripped in my left hand. His nostrils flared as he took in the scent.
“I had no idea you were so hung,” he said, his voice rough. The way his gaze was fixed on my cock, it was almost like he was addressing my dick directly and I wasn’t even there.
I smirked down at him, glad he wasn’t looking in my direction. So that’s how we’re going to play it? I thought to myself. Could be fun.
Aloud, I said, “Yeah, I guess you haven’t seen it… all the way hard.”
Mike swallowed. “Can I—” he began, but he didn’t finish the question.
My still-unseen smile widened. “Can you…?” I prompted.
He looked up at me for the first time. Yeah, that’s right, I’m here too. “Can I…” he started again, “…measure it?”
Not what I was expecting, but just as hot. I kept my eyes on his and nodded once. Go ahead, I thought. After all, you made it. It’s your baby.
Quickly Mike shot to his feet and moved over to his desk, oblivious to the slight bouncing of his own boomerang boner as he fished a metal ruler out of a drawer, then hurried back to the side of my bed. Kneeling again, he first gently unbent my hand from around my dick, as if he were taking possession of the thing for a moment, and then he took hold of it himself. His hand was warm and felt just as amazing as my own had, and I sucked in a noisy breath as I watched. I felt him grip, then squeeze, my precum smearing across his index finger as if my cock were marking him.
“Fuck, Case,” he breathed.
“Go on,” I prodded him, voice low. “Tell me how big it is.”
Nodding jerkily, Mike lifted the erection a few millimeters, though I was so stiff and so hard I’m not sure it would have budged much more than that. With his other hand he slid the metal ruler underneath. I winced, and he glanced up at me. “Cold,” I said, giving him a crooked smile.
He smiled back. “Don’t be a baby,” he said and returned to his work. Once the ruler was in place, he position my flat cockhead in the center, letting his ruler get doused with messy man-juice for his troubles. He wiped enough of it away to get a good look at the markings. “Six and… one eighth,” he read off officially, like an Olympic scorekeeper.
“Fuck yeah,” I whispered. Yes. This was good. This was the Mancock I’d been waiting for. Achievement unlocked! I couldn’t wait to show it off… once I got past taking care of the compelling need to climax explosively as soon as humanly possible, that is.
Mike was still looking at the ruler, like he was confirming the measurement, and some part of my brain wondered if he was going to record the numbers in some lab notebook later, alongside all the dosage amounts and times he’d given me so far… or if he had the kind mind that remembered that kind of thing without writing it down. Mainly, though, in that moment I was noticing how my erection was not only half a foot long, it was also nearly as wide as the ruler was. Wicked.
Mike pulled the ruler away. He seemed to notice the smear of precum on its middle, and then, to my shock, he brought the ruler close to his mouth, reached out with a big red tongue, and licked it away.
“Fuck, Mike,” I said, as Mike set the ruler aside on the nearest desk without looking. More words than that failed me. That was—fuck. He had just licked my precum off his ruler. Why the fuck was that such a fucking turn-on?
Consciously or unconsciously, Mike squeezed my boner hard, and I shuddered head to toe. More precum spattered on my lower belly. “Dude,” I rasped, “I gotta—you gotta help me.”
I’d barely gotten the words out before his hot mouth was around the head of my dick. I almost lost it then and there, but then he pulled his hand away and swallowed the whole shaft in a single motion, butting my stubby cockhead against the back of his throat, and—yeah. All at once I was done. I barely had time to get out a strangled warning of “Mike—!!” before I was gripping the sheets and cumming hard into his hot mouth. He swallowed it all down like a pro, turning me on even more even as I emptied my massive load down his throat.
I lost a few moments after that. When I resurfaced I was back to being boneless, like I had been when I’d woken up, though now I was now also sweaty, panting, euphoric, and completely sated in every corner of my being. Mike was playfully mouthing my softening cock, watching me with big eyes, but after a few beats of this he pulled off and smiled smugly up at me, his freshly-shaven chin and upper lip smeared with stray blotches of my rather copious spend.
I felt a twinge of regret that I hadn’t given him more. “Sorry,” I said sheepishly. I hadn’t expected to cum so soon, but the level of sensation was so much greater than I was used to, it was basically impossible to withstand.
He stood, still smiling, and I saw that his own thigh was streaked with jizz, his cock now red and soft. Fuck, I’d made him cum as quickly as I had. “Don’t be,” he said. Spotting the ruler, he grabbed it, and put it away in his drawer with the rest of his school supplies like he hadn’t just turned it into a very specific kind of sex toy. Then he moved over to his school-issued bureau and started pulling on underwear. “C’mon, get dressed,” he said, his back to me as hauled up his crimson boxer-briefs. “There’s still time to make it to breakfast.”
My stomach fluttered in faint alarm, and not because I wanted to avoid the DH’s famous blueberry pancakes. “Uhhh…” I hesitated, not sure what I was going to say next.
Mike turned and looked at me, his dark eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“I… I think I’m not hungry?” I said uncertainly.
Mike smiled, eyes glinting as he pulled up his jeans. Clean and freshly shaven with smears of cum on his lips and his thick hair all tousled, he looked innocent and debauched all at once. “Bullshit,” he said. He nodded toward my stomach. “If I can hear it, you can hear it.”
As if to clinch the argument, my traitorous belly rumbled audibly into the silence. We both laughed. “Fine,” I said, sitting up, unaccountably anxious. Spitefully, I grabbed Mike’s towel to clean my stomach off with.
“Good,” Mike said. He was still watching me, at the moment wearing just the jeans, shirtless and shoeless. “I can’t wait to try more things with you.”
Our eyes met for a second before he turned away, cheeks ruddy, to find a shirt to wear to breakfast. Maybe he was referencing the dynamic between us now that he’d blown me—were we friends with benefits? More than that?—but something in the pit of my stomach told me that wasn’t what he’d been talking about.
I thought I knew what self-conscious was. Before that fateful Saturday I’d walked around knowing that I was not as fortunate as other guys—in height, in hotness, in cock size, all of that—but it was a safe kind of self-consciousness, if you get what I mean. To look at me I was ridiculously average: 5’9”, 160 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. In attractiveness and stature I fell short of a lot of the guys I saw on campus and in my classes (or, I guess I should say, the guys I noticed, which kind of reinforces my point), but that averageness, that banality, imbued a comforting anonymity that I could wrap myself up in whenever I was mixing with the madding crowd. I wasn’t a pipsqueak, or an ogre—I was just meh. And as for the thing I felt truly insecure about, my undersized dick? It wasn’t like anyone could see it. It was a personal shame, but it was also a secret shame. I’d been bullied early on, but never about my dick. No one had ever jumped up on a table in the high school lunchroom, pointing at me and shouting, “Look everyone, it’s Thumb-Dick!” and setting the whole school jeering at me. (Not in real life, anyway, though scenarios like had haunted my dreams occasionally but persistently pretty much from the moment Wikipedia brutally enlightened twelve-year-old me with the unwelcome knowledge that I was less than amply endowed.)
The truth was that when it came to my dick, the only hater I had was me, and I was always more or less aware of how my having a size-S dick and being uptight about it were basically the two sides of the same coin. Both were parts of me that were completely invisible to the masses of humanity around me, hidden away in my pants and in my fucked-up psyche, respectively.
Something about that changed that Saturday. (Or “D-Day,” as I later thought of it.) It didn’t even make sense to me at the time. I first became aware of the self-perception twist I was experiencing in relation to Mike.
I’d always been a couple inches taller and a few pounds of (untoned but not nonexistent) muscle heavier than my slightly smaller, if hairier and more conventionally handsome, roommate. The whole semester we’d walked all over campus together plenty of times, especially after spring break, and I’d never given our minor size misalignment a thought. Now, though, as we walked to the DH to catch the tail-end of breakfast that first Saturday morning, him trying to hide his smirks and me still aglow with the best orgasm I could remember having, I was suddenly acutely conscious of being taller than him—like our size difference was something that everyone would notice and comment on as we walked past.
It was the same two inches as before; nothing had changed. But I was feeling that size difference like it was tied to my boosted cock size, like I’d been Mike-height before (I hadn’t) and everyone would notice my whole body boning up or something, ratcheting me up a notch larger than my mundanely scrawny roomie. His low-key smug excitement kind of fed into it, too. It was like he was parading me around, showing off the roommate that had two inches on him, as if our size difference was mapped directly to the real, still-hidden boost he’d given my rapturously happy dick.
Not that I wasn’t edgy on that score, too, because I sure as hell was. I was half-to-three-quarters hard the whole way to the DH, ramping up to an aching, full-blown erection by the time we breezed through the double doors and joined the milling crowd still lining up for the last rounds of raspberry waffles and custom omelets before the lunch reset in half an hour. I kept telling myself that even at six inches—six and one eighth!—my hard-on was still invisible in my baggy black jeans, not that I didn’t keep checking. But knowing my long-desired Mancock was there, that my once-paltry dick was no longer insignificant size and girth, no longer completely under the radar, had me red-cheeked and prickly-skinned all the way from the tray-pickup to the cashiers.
It was so stupid. I didn’t even understand why I felt that way. I kept telling myself, Dude, this is what you wanted! Revel in it! Strut, baby, strut! And I really was feeling that end if it, too. Random grins broke across my face with no warning. One of them was so sudden and so giddy it seemed to startle the omelet lady as I gave her my order for the fillings I wanted in my eggs. She must have thought I had a weird fetish for diced bell peppers, though maybe it says something nice about her that she tipped in a bit extra. No judgment from her when it came to food perversions, I guess.
On the way to the table, tray in hand with Mike’s compact form leading the way just ahead of me, I tried goading myself into not being such a noodge. I thought back again to red sweats guy from fall semester, the blond hottie with the casual dick-display thing going on. You could do that now, I coached myself. You could totally go out there in sweatpants and no underwear, just manspread and let everyone see the dickprint of your soft cock. You’re there, dude.
I knew I wasn’t, quite—sweats guy was still a size or two up from me, I was pretty sure—but even so I was way ahead compared to just a week back. “Soft,” though? Maybe not anytime soon, not with me being totally wrapped up in my dick like this. My dick-thoughts and dick-hormones were both racing flat-out like my body was the Tour de France and the yellow vest was up for grabs.
Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t actually own any dick-showoff sweats. I could buy some, though. Maybe I should buy some…
As we approached our usual table, moving to opposite sides and setting our trays down so we’d be facing each other like always, I caught Mike’s almost-smile again as it twitched at the corners of his lips. He’s got nice lips, I thought randomly. Then in my head I saw them wrapping around a certain, recently boosted part of my anatomy, and I actually had to adjust myself as I sat down so my suddenly extra-stiff hard-on wasn’t stabbing me in the upper groin.
Fuck, that’s a new problem, I thought, a thrill of giddy pleasure slithering up my spine. I’d never had to move it out of the way before!
I met Mike’s eyes. They were smoldering. Fucking smoldering. I had no idea he could smolder. “Thinking of earlier this morning?” he teased.
Now this was something he could smirk about without giving the game away. I felt my cheeks redden again and gave him a crooked smile. Fuck. I thought I’d be, well, cockier once I had more cock, but Mike was more than outdoing me in the self-satisfied department.
“Actually, yeah,” I admitted. Should I tell him I wanted to do it again? Maybe it was just the excitement of the plan having worked, but I was feeling a lot hornier than I was used to being. I was pretty sure that if he sucked me off again, right then and there in the middle of the DH, I’d still need a third blow job before I’d even begin to level off.
Damn, I hope this ramps down once I get used to being bigger, I thought. Being this horny would be a hell of a distraction in while I was in class. Or trying to study. Or sleep. Heck, just then I felt so full of energy and so teeming with sex hormones it was tough to imagine ever sleeping again.
Mike winked at me. “Good,” he said. He was all smarm—though in a very cute, boy-next-door way. Wholesome smarm. Charm smarm, if you will. He was wearing his midnight-blue polo with the tiny off-brand gold duck stitched over the left breast, and the nice, V-shaped slice of his dark, wispy but copious chest hair it exposed made him seem extra-virile. Or at least it did that morning.
“Dig in, then,” Mike went on, nodding to my plate. “The sooner you finish your eggs ‘n’ waffles, the sooner we can… do other things.”
My stomach fluttered as I followed his gaze and looked down at my plate. Had he already dosed my stuff? It was definitely possible. See, the thing is that as soon as we’d come back from break I’d started doing this thing where I very deliberately left my tray back on the rack next to the condiments while I went to fetch my drink from the fountains, making sure to turn my back on my food for a good minute or two while I methodically filled one of the DH’s jumbo 30-ounce cups with soda or (in the mornings, as now) their fresh, frothy, extra-delicious orange juice from the lots-of-pulp spigot. After three meals a day of this for a solid week I was already so self-conditioned (and, today, so distracted by own horniness) that I hadn’t even thought about it as I’d gotten my o.j. this morning, but…
We were still staring right into each other’s eyes. Had he dosed me? Did I want that? Without formulating any kind of real or definitive answer to that question I heard myself saying, “You know, Mike, I’m really… happy. With, you know, how things… turned out.”
Mike grinned wolfishly. It was a slightly open grin, and I caught a glimpse of that greedy and unexpectedly talented tongue of his behind his white teeth. “Me, too,” he said boldly. My dick squeezed hard, the wet, stubby head digging insistently into the side of my groin muscle.
Shit, are we still pretending we’re talking about the blow job? I thought. Because if that smile is saying anything, it’s saying, “Good, ‘cause I want more.”
The superlative aroma of my breakfast drifted up from my tray, and my stomach growled audibly. My heart fluttered a little, like my belly was still hell-bent on betraying me and all my secret desires.
Mike’s dark eyebrows flickered, registering his little win. Picking up his fork, he gestured toward my tray. “Eat,” he said.
In that moment, I think, an outside observer would have picked up on nothing more than a guy innocently urging his roomie to down his waffles and omelet before they got cold, but I sure as hell knew better. Nonetheless, being without options as I was, I picked up my fork and did as I was told, all the while racking my brain to figure out how I could hint a bit more emphatically that he could stop now… without giving everything away. Now that the biotransformation was real (and pulsing away impatiently in my pants) I’d was half-aware of sort of subtextual fear that bringing into the open the cock growth he’d induced in me, from his perspective without permission or experimental sanction, might just get him started thinking about where his illicit urge to experiment on me could have originated. I felt an unexpected pang of guilt, and immediately brushed away the whole problem of my complicity, along with any thought of broaching the masquerade we were now firmly entrenched in just yet. By the time I’d cleared my plate of bell-pepper-crammed eggs and yummy maple-drizzled raspberry waffle goodness (and downed all my sweet pulpy o.j., too), all under the watchful eye of my craftily-smiling minder, I was no closer to figuring out what to do next.
That whole weekend was like a fever dream. I kept getting hard for what seemed like no reason. Mike tilting his head to look up at me, reminding me of that feeling of size disparity I’d been experiencing since that first trek to the DH. Six guys of mixed ordinariness-to-hunkiness playing a bit of impromptu keep-away with one of the guys’ phones on the campus green, a couple of them shirtless, all of them laughing. Jaleel from down the hall passing me bare-chested as I left the common bathroom area, heading for the showers at two in afternoon on Saturday with a towel over his muscley, blue-black shoulder, as though he’d accrued some sudden need to clean himself off in the middle of the day.
Every time, Mike was there, ready to lend his mysteriously high-level oral expertise to my current predicament. I didn’t even have to worry about reciprocity—he blasted in his own load in his hand every time, as if the mere idea of wrapping his hot mouth around my rigid, size-boosted dick was way more than enough for him.
Any normal guy would lay back and enjoy it. Instead I was getting perversely nervous. I wasn’t a hair-trigger-erection kind of guy (or, at least, I hadn’t been), and even at my most ridiculously post-pubescently hormonal I hadn’t been shooting huge wads of cum five, six times a day like this, each one feeling like it was the first orgasm in a week. I was so spun around by all this I honestly couldn’t tell if it was just a persistent euphoric reaction to finally getting my Mancock, or if Mike’s incremental junk upgrade had micro-boosted more than the size of my dick. What I did know was that I was experiencing a major spike in sex-urgency, more than I’d ever felt before, and the scary part was it didn’t seem to have any limits no matter how often I came—and as the hours and days passed it didn’t seem to show any signs of dying down, either.
One thing definitely preventing me from slipping into a willing sex-coma was that little snag known as classes. I might have been a savant at app development, but, as previously mentioned, my aptitude in other areas tended to come up woefully short; and, freshman as I was, my curriculum was as crammed full of dross as a hoarder’s attic and as dull as a paint-drying competition. Case in point: that weekend I happened to have a paper coming due on the Gilded Age (snore), and, seeing as it wasn’t even started yet, I pretty much had to spend Sunday afternoon in the library researching and writing the damn thing. Mike went with me as usual, whether to monitor his project or get his jollies from being around his star experimental subject I didn’t know, but once we were there and ensconced at one of the big study tables I found myself having serious trouble focusing on my laptop screen with him right there across from me. Even with him innocently poring over his own study materials—he’d brought his physical sciences text, and I was pretty sure that class was as much of a breeze for him as bioscience would have been—the fact was that just him being there, and me aware all the things he’d done to me (on multiple axes), was triggering a pavlovian response I couldn’t escape.
Worse, he’d finally cottoned on to my chest-hair fetish, presumably after all the eye-dives I’d given to his open polo the day before, and today he’d managed to dig up from somewhere a lilac tee shirt I’d never seen before with the biggest V-cut this side of J.Lo’s Grammy Awards dress. Seriously, I could see his xiphoid process.
I gulped and tried to retrack my wayward brain to the very grade-important paper I was writing. I positioned my cursor and commanded myself to stop fucking around and get this done. Where was I? Right. I started typing again. The seeds of labor discontent (I wrote) exploded in the messy Pullman Strike of 1894, led by the cocksure union leader Eugene Dicks…
I paused, frowning at the screen, then pounded on the backspace key. “Debs,” not “Dicks,” I chastised myself as I typed in the correction. Heh, sounds like a slogan for Closeted College Boys Anonymous.
I looked up to find Mike staring right at me, his eyes kindled with that strange lust of his I couldn’t be sure was carnal or proprietary. He was slumped casually over his book with his head propped up on one arm, fingers pushed into his hair, which meant that his penetrating lust-gaze was kind of up and through his lashes, his sexy-thick eyebrows almost in the way. He hadn’t shaved that morning, either, and a dark smudge of bristle framed his jaw and mouth. My cock, which had been languishing at three-quarters hard for the last half hour, stiffened instantly to full-blown erection. Damn it, I thought.
“I gotta go find a book,” I said abruptly, standing so quickly the heavy oak chair I was sitting in scraped audibly on the thin industrial carpet. Mike said nothing, but his lips curved upward into a small, knowing smile. I bolted for the stacks, feeling my cheeks redden for the umpteenth time that weekend.
You moron, I scolded myself in confusion as I took refuge in the tall, narrow rows of endless bookery. Getting a bigger dick was supposed to make you more confident, not less!
Seriously, what was wrong with me?
Figuring I ought to head for the American History section just in case—I should probably bring back some sort of tome just to save face, I thought, though either way the chagrin would be monumental—I swerved left and headed down the long middle aisle in the general direction of the library’s trove of nineteenth-century mundanities. Turning into the appropriate row, however, I slowed, hesitating.
I wasn’t alone.
This shouldn’t have taken me by surprise. This was the main library, after all, and it was the second half of the semester, a time when even slackers begin to stir and seek the perpetuation of their languid college life via the minimum of work necessary for a passing grade. Right now there were no doubt hundreds of students in the building, prowling the stacks, clattering away at their laptops, thronging the computer lab, or commandeering the reserved study group rooms upstairs for hourlong bitch sessions occasionally punctuated by actual course-related confabs. Me acting like Wall-E on an abandoned Earth was a little dumb.
In fact I was starting to think I recognized the tall, well-built blond (still obliviously browsing the Chester A. Arthur shelf) from my U.S. History course—the same class I was struggling to write a paper for that weekend. It was a hundred-person lecture in a big, soulless amphitheater-style classroom, but I was pretty sure I’d noticed him a few times. He always sported three things: a toothy grin, white sneaks, and a stripy rugby shirt, and today seemed no exception: I couldn’t see the smile as his back was to me, but the sneaks were there, and the loose, white-collared shirt featured the requisite broad stripes of rust-red and gray and showed off his naturally well-proportioned shoulders rather nicely.
He also, I saw for the first time, possessed a very sweet ass.
My cock shivered with excitement, going so hard it pushed itself out of the angle I’d had it at in order to be able to sit down and snapped back to its normal stance, proud and perfectly vertical, as I stared in entranced wonder at Blondy’s delightful butt. From where I stood, maybe nine or ten feet away, I had the perfect vantage to take in its beauty both intrinsically and relative to the whole. It was beyond enticingly formed—round and firm and a little flat on the sides, and pitched high and pert as though it were made of marble, or stone, or fucking adamantium. His light-blue jeans hugged each cheek like a jealous lover, at the same time brazenly trumpeting every curve for all to see. On him, even the seam that ran up the seat between the two cheeks seemed provocative somehow, as though it were signposting the muscle-cleavage behind it and, discreetly but unavoidably, the tight hole secreted within.
I wanted in there. I wanted to fuck him.
I’d never fucked anyone. Nor had I been fucked—heck, Mike was only the second guy to even blow me. I’d been too self-conscious before. Even in the midst of that suddenly sexed-up weekend, full of nonstop hard-ons and impromptu fellatio and more orgasms than I could count, I hadn’t thought once about butt sex. The blowjobs, and the climaxes that came with them, were too good, too all-consuming to leave traces of anything else but the white-hot pleasure of the moment.
Now, though, my brain crowded with images. Blondy, silently pulling down his jeans, exposing that creamy, perfect ass. Or, fuck, I was so hard right then I could probably push my dick right through the denim and plow straight into his tight, hot—
Mike also had a nice ass. A really nice ass. He was probably a virgin, too. Maybe he’d like it if I slid my big, stone-hard Mancock into his innocent, unbroached hole. Maybe he’d want to feel the real, fleshy results of his science-ninja brilliance pushing deep inside him, questing for that spot that would make him crave my cock in his ass forever more…
My eyes were still boring into Blondy’s rounded glutes, their stellar shape mixing in my head with Mike’s more demure but nonetheless exquisite butt. Just then Blondy shifted his weight, making his ass change position, almost as though the cheeks were taunting me… daring me.
All at once I had to cum. Had to cum. A huge, sure-to-be-brain-melting orgasm had bubbled up urgently out of nowhere, and I was going to fucking blow my load right there in the American History stacks. My brain raced. Where? Where could I go? Somehow I remembered there was a men’s room nearby—I’d used it once earlier in the semester, pre-D-Day, when I’d needed to slap cold water on my face after almost dozing off checking various books in the Reconstruction shelves for chapters on the 1876 election scandal. I could see it in my head—it was just past the end of this row. Right? It had to be. It had to be there.
Clamping down on my orgasm with every muscle in my body and every particle of will I could muster I pelted down the row, pushing past Blondy. Unfortunately the act of doing so and his surprised reaction accidentally brushed his butt against my aching boner as I slid past him, which did not help. Emitting a desperate whimper I ran, literally ran, out of the row and into the back corridor, found the men’s room (hallelujah), and dove into it and into one of the stalls. I shoved my jeans and underwear down—thank fuck for narrow hips—only just in time to start spurting more cum than a Roman legion in a brothel.
I didn’t even have time to aim it at first—I barely got it down enough so I wasn’t spitting jizz all over my purple Ninja Steel logo-stripe tee shirt (shut up), and I was so hard I couldn’t possibly have levered it down very far anyway. So I just came willy-nilly, all over the toilet, the handle, the wall, everything. I tried compensating by bending over some, changing the angle as best I could, but that mostly meant I was cumming more directly on the seat and the flush-handle… anywhere but in the bowl whence I could flush my jizz and my embarrassment securely down the pipes into sexual oblivion.
I finished, red-faced and sweaty, as much from the humiliation as from the cumming. I blinked hazily through my euphoria at the mess I’d made. Any fool would know what had happened here, not only from the visual evidence but also on account of the very powerful odor that semen seems to deliberately produce at all the wrong moments. Not exactly a CSI moment.
I straightened, panting slightly, my stubborn, still-hard dick clutched in my cum-covered fist, and tried making sense of… well, anything. My mind was a churning fog of emotions sand sensations, none of it connected or at all helpful.
For a brief second I had the most ridiculous impulse. I had to clean all of it up. With what? I thought desperately. Toilet paper? There were no paper towels in our university’s restrooms, only air dryers—those sure wouldn’t help. What would I do, seek out a janitor? “Excuse me, sir, could I borrow your mop? See, I just sprayed a quart of spunk all over one of the stalls in the second-floor men’s room—totally accidentally—so, um, if you could just lend me a few of your cleaning implements…”
All that inanity, however, was quickly driven right out of my head by a more pressing realization—namely, the fact that the cock I was clutching in my spunk-coated hand was definitely not the same size it had been when I’d woken up in a state of phallic epiphany the morning before. The heft was heftier. The length was lengthier. Not much in either case, but just enough to be positively, tactilely perceptible to my knowing grip. It was bigger. I was bigger.
I stared at the mess I’d made, feeling close to blue-screening. I had to do… something, but I had no idea what. I had no fucking idea how to deal with this.
Someone came into the bathroom, whistling something jaunty, and got into the neighboring stall, noisily slamming and latching the door. Energized by the injection of panic this induced I quickly used my other hand to awkwardly zip up, then, departing the stall and seeing no one around, I hurriedly washed the cum off my hand and got the fuck out of there, wiping my wet hands on my pants as I guiltily abandoned the evidence of my epic orgasm, there for some unlucky soul to discover. It felt unnervingly like retreating from the field of battle—a battle I had most decidedly lost. And my gut told me this was only the beginning.
I hoped my Monday mid-morning small-group, double-length class in Java interface development would distract me from my confusingly conflicted feelings about my dream-scenario cock level-up being more complicated than I’d expected. That hope was… sadly misguided.
I’d slept late that morning, waking up to a raging hard-on and an empty room. No sign of Mike anywhere, just the faintest hint of his natural scent lingering like a place-holder covering his absence. Did he have a class Monday mornings? I didn’t think so. A study group maybe?
I checked my phone—shit, I was going to be late, and I had a boner to kill first. Hurriedly I grabbed the tiny tube of lube I had hidden in my lower desk drawer under a few blank notebooks and slicked myself up, then spent exactly three minutes jerking myself to another big orgasm, trying the whole time not to think about how massively my dick was filling my fist. As usual of late my hardon lingered after I came, red and defiant, and I stared at it as I wiped myself down.
I couldn’t escape the fact that it felt amazingly good to be hung. Just having a stiff, gently curved-back erection that I could wrap my hand around like I was gripping, I dunno, a motorcycle throttle or a baseball bat was inescapably awesome. Having this dick, though, clearly came with side-effects I had not been expecting, and three days in I was still struggling to sort out my reactions.
I should be happy, right? I was happy, right? I mean, one of those side-effects was regular blow-jobs from a natural-born cocksucker, and that was definitely a plus. The frequency with which such relief was becoming necessary, on the other hand…
I tossed the cum-towel aside into my hamper and got up to grab Mike’s ruler from his desk—the same ruler he’d licked my precum off of so suggestively a few mornings back—and sat down again, my hard-on arcing slightly toward my belly button as though it wanted to nose its way into it someday. I hadn’t been tracking my exact size, leaving that to Mike’s no-doubt meticulous science-nerd recordkeeping (not that he’d measured me overtly since Saturday, as we were both still pretending I was just a normal, hung guy no one was experimenting on, but I was sure he was keeping up somehow). That morning, though, I needed a number.
My balls were bigger, too, I’d noticed. I should probably get a tape measure and see where they were at. I could use it for girth, too. Or Mike could. If we got past the stupid game of “growth, what growth?” we were playing, I was sure he’d willingly gather all the stats he could on how big I was down there.
Just as Mike had, I slid the cold, metal ruler under my dick, pushing the end firmly against the base. Already I could tell my tool was wider, relative to the ruler, than it had been on Saturday, and when I saw where the blunt head was topping out my heart actually tripped over itself, making my pulse stutter alarmingly.
I gaped at where my cockhead was smearing its final, belated pearl of cum onto the ruler, like it was trying to mark the spot for future reference. There was a line there, one of the thick ones, and the number next to it was… 8.
My cock squeezed involuntarily, pushing out another tiny drop of cum—right onto the 8, as it happened, like it was claiming the number for its own.
Eight. Eight thick, fist-filling inches.
Okay. That wasn’t too weird, I told myself as I wiped the ruler clean with a tissue and put it away back in Mike’s desk drawer. Lots of guys have eight inches. It’s hung, that’s all. You have a Mancock. Buy the red sweats, dude, you have—a—Mancock.
Okay. This was good. Cold shower. Cold shower, and class, and life with an awesome, manspread-and-brandish, strut like a superstar Mancock.
Even having managed to get myself soft via the aforementioned cold shower, I still had a little trouble with my briefs. All I had clean was Jockeys, and the pouch was not quite big enough for my bigger, thicker dick and my heftier nuts as well. Not only that, the cut of my briefs pushed my junk up and out in a way that actually made it a bit difficult to zip my fly up over the fat, compact mound that was my cock and balls.
I managed to get everything squared away, finished dressing, grabbed my bag, and hurried out. I definitely didn’t want to turn up late for this class. I’d been lucky to place into it and the material, unlike the fucking Gilded Age, was stuff I was genuinely interested in.
When I got to the computer lab where my class was, though I wasn’t technically late yet the other fifteen students were already there, chatting idly as they waited for me (and the prof) to join them. Unluckily the classroom door was at the front, which meant that as soon as I entered sixteen pairs of eyes lifted from their monitors to skewer me. Then, as my stomach twisted, most of those stares dropped directly to my crotch.
Conversations stopped. Those students who weren’t eyeing my basket glanced at the others to see what they were looking at, then joined them in checking out what was evidently a rather more prominent bulge than anyone was accustomed to seeing on me. Red-cheeked and chastising myself for wearing my light-blue, tailored jeans and not the baggy black ones again, I passed up the center aisle and took my usual seat in the fourth row of desks, slumping low as I self-consciously booted my computer and logged into my account.
I could feel my seatmate, an easy-going, very fit lacrosse fanatic named Clint, giving me the side-eye. He had long, sandy hair (and evidently knew his way around a bottle of conditioner, because that mane was lush as fuck); lots of ear-piercings; an occasional hint of guyliner; hairy forearms; and a leather wrist cuff I thought was pretty sexy. He kept glancing over at me while I carried on pretending to check through my code, wondering where the professor was.
I could feel Clint wanting to ask if that was really all me down there. But for fuck’s sake, this wasn’t summer camp, and we weren’t thirteen. Guys didn’t ask stuff like that at our age. You just didn’t.
I really, really hoped I was right about that.
The worst part was that all the attention was literally going straight to my cock, which only made the problem worse. If I couldn’t manage to calm myself down I was going to make even more of a spectacle when I inevitably had to stand up again in front of everyone. Or… maybe I could just sit here forever. That was a possibility, right?
Just then the professor walked in—and Professor Fitzwilliam, “Fitz” as we called him, was a real DILF, too, like, he could have been some brash and buff superhero’s calmer, brawnier, slightly hairier older brother. At the same time, Clint shifted in his seat to let his knee brush experimentally against mine, forcing an electric thrill through me and swelling my cock to half-hardness. With its space cramped as it was it felt like it was pushing hard against the zipper, as though a little more force, another shove toward hardness, and the zipper teeth would start to strain against each other.
I… didn’t jerk my knee away or anything, but I must have reacted visibly somehow because Fitz turned and paused in midstep to look right at me. That, in turn, had the rest of the class turning to stare at me again—except for Clint, of course, who placidly kept his eyes front and his expression as bland as could be.
After a long second Fitz resumed his walk across the front of the room, set down his messenger bag, and started the class. By this point we were all a good ways along with our semester projects, so we were deep in our own apps in short order, with Fitz moving from station to station to quietly discuss each student’s progress and forward plans. I dug in, too, using what willpower I had to drag all of my attention to the UI architecture I was working on and ignore the now shamelessly firm press of Clint’s leg and the burgeoning, semi-stiff cock I had strapped uncomfortably over my balls. My self-engrossment in my favorite pastime was just starting to work—my dick was even on the cusp of ebbing back toward only half-hard, and I was pretty much accepting Clint’s leggy intimacy as a temporary environmental given—when Fitz suddenly looked up from where he was stooped over Daphne’s screen three rows up and said, “Casey, can you have a look at this?”
I sucked in a breath. In our first week we’d had to share an app we’d already created, however crap, and while I hadn’t (of course) exposed the actual live version on my mind-bender app, I had been able to dig up a trial utility I’d created as part of its development to model data on mood and attitude for multiple subjects. Daphne’s project, I knew, happened to involve similar biometric data handling, so it wasn’t too out of left-field for Fitz to pull me in for advice. It wasn’t even the first time Fitz had called me in on another student’s gig—though it was the first time he’d asked for me while I was packing a bulge apparently just big enough to get me pulled aside in a TSA line in case I was smuggling a bit of contraband in my underwear. “Did anyone else pack your Jockeys for you, sir?” “Uh…”
Fitz and Daphne were both looking at me expectantly. Answering Fitz’s invite with a breezy “Nope, I’m good” wasn’t exactly an option, so, excruciatingly uncomfortable but trying to hide it, I climbed to my feet.
I watched as their eyes swiveled down in unison toward my uncharacteristically packed crotch. Fitz, ever the professional, calmly turned back toward the screen beside him as if he hadn’t seen anything unusual. Daphne did not.
Slowly, and for what felt like several very long, very silent minutes, I walked the green mile from my desk to hers. Finally I was standing next to Daphne, with Fitz perched on the desk next to her keyboard, eyes on her dev constructs like they were the most interesting things he’d ever seen.
Daphne still had her eyes locked on my bulge like she’d been told never to look away or her cat would buy it.
I cleared my throat, found that my mouth had gone dry, and tried forcing all the saliva I could out of every moist surface my oral cavity possessed. Fitz pointed at the screen and calmly asked what I would suggest for the particular routine Daphne was stuck on.
I said… something. I don’t even know what I came up with. I’m willing to lay odds Daphne couldn’t have said either. All I knew was, her eyes were like fucking lasers, and I was pretty sure that, in a scenario where they really were lasers, the denim covering my straining junk wouldn’t have held up for more than a few minutes. Everyone else was staring, too, but given that I was standing next to Daphne’s desk in the front row, most of them could only see my backside. That started to feel hot, too. Fuck, I thought, if all of that were actually real I’d’ve been lucky to walk out of there with any pants left at all.
Fitz nodded, so maybe whatever bullshit I’d served him was actually reasonable. He looked up and, to his credit, steadily met my gaze as he thanked me for my help. I turned around and trudged the long walk back to my seat. As I plopped down in my chair, valiantly resisting the urge to keep going and slide all the way under the desk, Clint offered me a comradely smile. “Nice one,” he said. I had no idea whether he meant my advice, my dick, or my ass.
His leg drifted back against mine like it belonged there, and the renewal of touch somehow felt even more jarringly exhilarating than before. My cock and balls responded by redlining to near-orgasm in the space of a second. I closed my eyes and squeezed my fists. No orgasm… no orgasm…! I chanted desperately. I tried filling my head with distractions and nonsense. Random TV. Videos I’d seen. An infomercial for the Shamwow started playing loudly in my brain—I’d looked it up once after someone else had gone on about it in some Reddit sub or other—and I thought it would help, except in my version Vince Offer kept winking at me, flirting harder and harder as he extolled the product’s ability to mop up amazing quantities of cum—
It was no use. Between Vince and Clint and Fitz’s DILFness and the unrelenting entreaties of my ferocious, indomitable Mancock to be able to spurt all its jizz everywhere, now, right now, now now now, I… I couldn’t handle it. I lasted five agonizing minutes before I bolted the classroom for the nearest men’s room—which was all the way down the fucking hall, naturally. This time I managed to get my ass on the seat and, through careful aiming of the explosive parabolas of cum shooting skyward from my almost immutably up-pointing, incredibly stiff erection, managed to get almost all of my spunk in the bowl, with only a few round splats of jizz landing on the inch-wide tiles between my feet.
I leaned back huffing as my release finally dwindled and died, though I was careful to keep my still-spasming dick pointed up and away from my favorite green-and-white Angel Grove High tee shirt (shut up), riding out the ragged edge of my orgasm.
I tried waiting for my unruly prick to go down, but five minutes of edgy bliss passed and my boner had still only relented by… maybe ten percent. So, yeah. I had to face the hard facts (so to speak). I needed to either go back, as I was, or walk away. Both were beyond embarrassing, but the bottom line was this: there were still 90 minutes left in this class, and bailing on such a critical course was simply out of the question.
Eventually I sighed, unspooled a wad of toilet paper to wipe the cum off my hand and a few spots on my inner thighs, and pulled up my pants, literally and figuratively. Gritting my teeth I zipped up, with some difficulty, over my vertically-positioned, ruler-straight still-mostly-hard-on, squared my shoulders, and—flushing my jizz away along with my pride—marched solemnly back to my classroom, knowing beyond any doubt that every single person there would know exactly what had just happened.
After the debacle in Java class I wandered the campus, irrationally sure everyone who saw me must “know.” They’d heard the rumor from a friend of a friend of one of the students in my class. Some perv hacking into the CCTV had uploaded the whole thing and it was going viral. Professor Fitz had emailed a heads up about me to his colleague and accidentally hit “group email to everyone everywhere.”
My skin prickled with heat, and my frazzled brain snapped and spattered like frying bacon. The truth was none of that needed to happen for all the world to be up to speed on my dick situation. Soon enough anyone who spent any time with me would get the lowdown on just how out of control my dick was.
Fuck, I was getting hard again, just thinking about my dick going rogue. How awesome that my growing inability to manage my (also growing) dick was enough of a kink for me that it actually intensified the problem. A vicious cycle like that would only end up with me in the corner of a padded room constantly stroking and cumming all over myself, my junk expanding and libido relentlessly building until I inevitably came to some untimely but picturesque end, like choking on my own spunk or getting crushed by my constantly swelling balls.
And bingo, I was totally boned. In every sense, I thought morosely.
I sat down on a bench in the little grove of tall pines wedged between the technology/engineering cluster and the new performing arts complex, trying to stop my mind from spinning out while my thick jerk of a hard-on throbbed angrily against my hip, demanding attention. I tried to convince myself that Mike didn’t really want things to get out of hand. Now that he’d proven his serum worked and gotten what he wanted he’d scale back for sure. He had to. Keeping things spiraling into greater and greater intensity would be insane.
I had to cum. Had to had to.
No. I’m a human being and I have willpower. I can control this. If Buddhist monks can focus their concentration with enough intensity to lift pebbles off the ground, I can master my own dick. I got this. I say when and where I climax, not my stupid balls or my insatiable dick.
I was so close.
Fuck! Okay, concentrate. I already knew thinking about random TV was risky after a smirking, extra-flirty version of Vince Offer with his amazingly absorbent Cumwow had shouldered his way into my pre-orgasmic meltdown. I tried thinking about coding instead—I knew I could always get lost in that. But even as I started picturing the lines and blocks of code that had gone into my hypno app, hoping to deep dive into my safe place, my brain sadistically rerouted my imagination to the screen in my Java code class.
I could feel the room all over again. The painful self-awareness. Clint the Lacrosse fanatic’s thigh pressed against mine as he casually come on to me, adding a layer of turbulence to my already precarious state. Then I started reliving the incident with Can’t-Stop-Staring Daphne and the unfairly sexy Fitz… the run to the bathroom and the sweet, explosive orgasm I’d had there… walking back into class, the bulge from my three-quarters-hard dick feeling as obvious as a ferret and my flushed skin telling the whole story. They were all looking at me—and Fitz was the worst, because he wasn’t judgy, he was empathic. I’ve had students nut over me before, his face was telling me as I marched up the long aisle of doom back to my seat. Prof-crushes are totally normal. And yeah, okay, I would totally fuck Professor Fitz, but he was not the problem.
Damn it—spoke to soon. My brain had him bent over his desk and begging for it before you could say DILF Prof. No! I had to stop thinking about fucking Professor Fitz! Just… stop thinking, I told myself. Stop imagining dicks, and hot bodies and mouths and asses and cumming—
I was hunched over on the bench and panting a bit, no doubt attracting odd looks from the student passers-by. Trying to force back an orgasm through a sheer effort of will is no easy feat at the best of times, and in that moment it felt like pushing against the engine car of a freight train and trying to get it to go in reverse. I had to empty my brain somehow, but I had no idea how anyone actually accomplished that. How did you empty your brain? A blow to the head with a two-by-four was all I could think of.
My dick strained hard to reach the joyous cliff of release, wearing down my not-so-indomitable resistance, like an arm-wrestling opponent who’s been toying with you this whole time and is ready to go for the smack-down.
Fuck, there has to be a lumber yard around here somewhere, I thought, almost hysterical from the stress.
This was it. I was going to cum in my fucking pants right here in the middle of B campus. In my fucking light-colored jeans that would make a huge obvious wet spot no one could miss. And that would be the end. Utter mortification. I would be Cums-In-His-Pants Guy forever. There would be jokes. Hashtags. Listicles. “Top ten most epic humiliations—you won’t believe number eight!” I would be number eight. I would never live it down. My grandchildren would hear the story of how I had to run across campus with my jeans soaked in my own cum and laugh at me. Except I’d never have grandchildren because my fated husband would snicker as soon as he saw me because he’d know the story, everyone would know. Oh, god, it’s happening, it’s happening—
“Dude, you okay?”
I looked up sharply at the familiar voice to find Clint standing in front of me, looking concerned. The natural lighting, combined with a bit of dappling from the trees, made him look even more enticing than he did under the classroom fluorescents. His long luxurious hair shone, his shoulders were bulging and square under his light tee, his hairy forearms were corded, and his bulge was right in front of my face.
Why was he here? Coincidence? Had he followed me? Didn’t matter. He was here, and I would beg if I had to. The shock of him being there pushed back my orgasm a fraction, but then my superficial attraction to him, my awareness of his possibly deeper interest in me, and most of all his full, sexy, cocksucker’s lips had the damn climax pushing back even harder in seconds.
“Clint…” I whined.
It was just a syllable, just his name, but he must have heard the desperation. “Dude,” he said again, like he recognized my need. He immediately sprang into action, looking around us for emergency shelter from prying eyes. “C’mon,” he said urgently, grabbing my shoulder and helping me up. He bundled me through the trees until we were in a concrete recess behind the Odeon. As soon as we were out of sight he pushed me against the stained cement wall and sank to his knees, ogling my swollen bulge hungrily.
“Hurry!” I squeaked.
Tossing a grin up at me, Clint quickly slid his long, thick hair behind his ears in a quick, habitual gesture, then popping open my jeans and unzipping my fly he yanked down my pants and not-quite-big-enough Jockeys in a single, swift motion. My steel-hard dick sprang enough on release to splatter some precum across Clint’s face before resuming its usual unconquerable position, straight up and curved back to nuzzle my lower belly.
We both stared at it in wonder for a minute. It’s only eight inches, I told myself, but it sure looked huge, as wide as a tongue and bigger than anything I’d seen in real life. Come to think of it, if this thing was growing at a rate of an inch a day in length (with a proportionate increase in girth), it stood to reason by now I probably wasn’t eight inches anymore. I had to be eight and a half, maybe even close to nine. It looked bigger than that, even, all massive and thick like it was slipping past the bounds of phallic normality.
The thought made me shiver with need. Literally the only thing keeping me from cumming all over Clint in that moment was the fact that both I and my dick wanted that cum to be spraying hard inside his mouth and down his throat, right the fuck now.
“Dude—” I gasped.
With a big smile, Clint got to work. Leaning up he unceremoniously engulfed my entire hard-on in his hot, wet mouth. It felt so impossibly good I actually wallowed in the sensation for a moment, staving off the climax that little bit more while I became this being of pure unbridled gratification. But then he wrapped his hands around my thighs and started expertly pistoning on my cock, using his lips and tongue to maximum effect, and I instantly started losing control. It felt like he’d barely started before my release started welling up, filling my senses and rocketing me past the point of no return. “Clint, dude, I’m gonna—” I rasped.
Clint redoubled his efforts, and almost instantly I was pounding the back of his throat with hard sprays of hot cum. He made a slight choking sound and pulled up a little, but not completely off, zealously gulping down my release like a champ. I kept cumming, I don’t know how much but seemingly more than any guy really should be able to, and he swallowed down every single damn drop like it was his life’s passion to do so.
Finally I subsided, and he rose, grinning widely and wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. I looked down and saw his other hand was already putting away his own not unimpressive dick, the dribbles of cum oozing over his fingers telling me he’d enjoyed what we’d just done almost as much as I had.
I half expected him to give me a cummy kiss, like Mike did whenever he blew me—my roomie being a big fan of sharing my cum with me right after I’d just released it in such an explosive manner. Instead Clint just grinned and moved close, his hot, spunk-tinged breath on my cheek. “Gimme your phone,” he whispered.
Frowning, I retrieved my phone, unlocked it, and handed it to him. I thought I knew where this was going. He entered his contact info, then sent himself a text before handing the phone back to me. I glanced at the screen before tucking it away—he’d entered himself under “BJ.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. He was still grinning, but I could tell that when he said, “Anytime,” he meant it.
I nodded, silently accepting the offer. This got me the cummy kiss after all. For some reason he tasted different from Mike, even with it being my cum either way. He smiled when he broke free, moving his lips to my ear. “Don’t be afraid to show that thing off, dude,” he said, hand on my upper arm, thumb making little sensual stroked along the muscle there. “I don’t know why you’re skittish about being hung and everything, but you know what I think?” He pulled back, making eye contact. I stared at him. He had pretty eyes. “I say, own it,” he said.
Then he winked and sauntered off, whistling something I didn’t recognize. I slumped back against the wall, trying not to think about how I couldn’t “own” it if I couldn’t even control it. At least I had an emergency volunteer blowjob wrangler, I thought sardonically. Of course, needing to have an emergency volunteer blowjob wrangler was exactly my problem.
Finally I heaved a sigh, zipped up, and started heading back to the main part of campus, still flushed and euphoric from the epic release and yet at the same time hyper-aware of how my bulge was probably more noticeable than ever.
As I walked toward the campus bus stop I could already feel the trailing edge of my next orgasm. It wasn’t here yet, but it would be. Soon.
Own it. You should own it.
This was a mistake.
I was in the big line to get into Alejandro’s, the big, bustling all-friendly night club five blocks off campus, telling myself I needed to not be here even as I inched closer and closer to the main doors. Trying to drown my troubles in noise, bodies, and booze was not a me thing to begin with. The real reckless thing, though, was coming here. This place had a reputation—it was known for people being able to find their nut, one way or another. It started with a local meme a couple years back where internet wags were comically emphasizing the “hand” part of the name—you know, dudes, let’s go to Alehandros, ha ha, like it was code for guaranteed pleasure by the end of the night (manual or otherwise). Word was the owners even deliberately leaned into it by leaking a newly commissioned logo design that actually featured a splayed neon-yellow hand behind the traditional scarlet Gotham-face rendering of the name. No such rebranding was ever actually implemented, of course, but these days there was always definitely that little implied nudge of innuendo whenever anyone heard the name.
So why was I here? Was I tempting fate, or was I coming home to my people?
The place’s subtextual renown was still au courant, judging by my experience so far with the crowd without. I’d had my arms caressed twice, my back felt up, my butt grabbed, all anonymously by no particular member of the tight, gender-mixed crowd as we shifted and slurried toward the doors. A little while back, when the crowd experienced one of those little surges you get where everyone suddenly shifts around in confusion at the same time, I’d even had a guy “accidentally” back his butt up against my crotch and let it sort nuzzle my (not so uninterested) crotch for a bit before he’d given me an arch and very unapologetic “Oh, sorry” over his shoulder and slipped back into his little group.
Such a bad idea.
I was close to the entrance now, only a few yards back. I was gripping my phone so hard, if I were any stronger I probably would have cracked the screen. I had my hypno app loaded up and ready, all set to bamboozle the bouncer into letting me in without checking my ID, a necessary recourse as said ID would reveal I was only 19. It wasn’t the app that had me frazzled and in need of mindless diversion, though—I already knew it would work like a charm. It was actually the app that had brought me here. I was thumbing through it distractedly, trying to figure something out in my head, and I stumbled across the “no need to see his ID, he’s good” module from back when I’d fixated on getting to celebrate getting into the top-ranked software dev program here and had used my tech abilities to make it happen.
It was what I’d been trying to figure out that had me bothered. I’d been sitting at dinner across from Mike, watching him watch me with that “I’m gonna suck you so hard after this” gleam in his eye. I was fiddling with my phone, and when Mike got up to get seconds and I was done watching his ass as he merged into the crowd I realized I was opening the app, and before I knew it I’d set up a module to get Mike to stop wanting me bigger and cut off the dosing. That had to be the solution, right? I’d made Mike crave my dick getting bigger and bigger, so it was down to me to fix this. I had to try it. And yet… for the life me, as I sat there taking in him avidly downing his second plate of spaghettini with pesto sauce like was packing away energy for later, thumb over the big red button, I couldn’t do it. I could not pull the trigger.
And then the meal was over, and we were back at the room and Mike was fellating me like he’d fucking invented it and I’d been starved of orgasms for weeks—I’d had four that day already but my dick was always ready, always giving more and more pleasure every damn time—my mind was swimming. How could I be consumed with the ecstasy of sex and, at the same time, sliced through with self-doubt over my own inability to end something I’d done to myself that was only getting crazier and crazier?
I got to the front and locked eyes with the bloated WWE refugee they had manning ID check. At my side I moved my thumb and pressed “go” on my screen. The bouncer stared back at me for all of a second and a half and then blandly waved me in, and… there I was, stuffing my phone away as I entered the wall of light and sound inside the club, once again reaping the rewards of having invented a mind-altering computer program.
This, I could do. Zapping Mike, I couldn’t do. Even though I’d done it before.
Being low-key turned on was starting to become normal now, but my arousal had been ramping up during the wait on line, surrounded by all the young, horny, and occasionally touchy-feely clubgoers, and as I stepped into the club I could feel it spiking. My junk, never fully asleep these days, was taking notice, swelling a little in my boxer-briefs. I’d figured as I got ready to go out, changing clothes and slipping out while Mike was showering, the taste of his smug post-b.j. spunk kiss still on my lips, that having more meat down there was at least good for being able to better pack away my dick, shoving the thing down and under with a good, firm zip-up to keep it in place. The flip side of that was that when my anaconda started trying to uncoil, as it was now, its straining and machinations were that much more uncomfortable—and a lot more visually obvious.
Fuck. Two things to try to forget. My impotency at mind-fucking Mike, and my overpotency in… well, in the thing I needed to mind-fuck Mike over.
Even standing here on the fringes I was getting looks. More people came in behind me, forcing me further into the roiling pit of happy humanity, doused as they were in camaraderie, endorphins, and swirling magenta spotlights. Maybe it was in my head, but it felt like the crowd was parting as I went, everyone’s eyes drawn to my obscene bulge, and my brain started racking up the stares, the grins, the lip-licks, the thumbs ups…
Own it. Forget. Own it and forget.
I was heading more or less automatically toward the bar, but all at once alcohol-induced oblivion flipped in my head as a prospect from being an intriguing anxiety-panacea to completely repulsive, and I veered away, tracing a descending spiral path into the writhing mêlée of sexy, sweaty bodies on the gel-dappled main floor. The music was pounding, filling my bones and moving my ass and shoulders to its irresistible rhythms, and I let myself succumb with little resistance. It was what I was here for.
I danced for some time, floating in the mixed bliss of a base-line half-arousal owing to my ever-present, constantly growing libido and the exhilaration of moving my body in synchronicity with a hot of fellow celebrants. The music shifted and seemed to intensify somehow, driving deeper and deeper into my core, and I was dancing close with people all around, bodies moving with mine, against mine, and it was amazing because it was sexual contact without sex—no orgasm, to stress, just pleasure, steady, tantric, and unending.
I found myself dancing with someone who emerged in my blurred perceptions as somehow exceptional in this throng of hotness. We were gyrating so close we were practically spooning, and I could feel almost all of his body against mine. He was rangy and elegantly muscled, his movements so fluid and deft I thought he could have been a dancer for real. He was a bit taller than me, with smooth, blue-black skin that seemed to crave the lights; his ochre tee shirt was warm and damp, a testament to his exertions, and when the music shifted gears he turned around, and I saw he was quite possibly the most handsome man I’d seen since I’d moved here all those months ago.
It was in that moment that I discovered something unfortunate about my accreting, increasingly difficult libido. All the time now was dealing a need to cum that built up and up, like a rising tide, until it passed the point where I could ignore it and I had to cum. This part of my “gift” also meant that I was always ready to cum, pretty much on demand. That was the constant, steady, chronic arousal part of what was happening to me, every day getting just that little bit more intense and with the amount of time I could ignore the arousal build-up before needing to cum slowly contracting, day by day.
That part I was familiar with. Familiar, fuck—I thought about it constantly. The part I hadn’t quite cottoned onto was that I was also susceptible to a hotness trigger. Any time I was with a guy who I knew could make me explode in delirious orgasm, I would need to cum. I should have figured this out already. I’d experienced it with Mike over and over, practically every time he looked at me, but more flagrantly it had with others, several times in the last couple days. First there was library guy, who had converted a state of high but banked arousal into an urgent need to blast my spunk in the bathroom. Fitz, in the classroom—same thing. Clint. All cases where I was already turned on, but the presence of a guy whose mouth I wanted wrapped around my troublemaking superdick seemed to precipitate a compulsive, unavoidable orgasm.
Gaining a better understanding of what I was dealing with was no comfort in the actual moment, though, because as I looked up into the lusty, appreciative eyes of my hunky, slinky dance partner, I knew it wasn’t academic. He was so hot, and I was turned on by him, that the trigger had been activated and I needed to blow my load right the fuck now.
Consumed with instant panic, I fled, forcing my way through all the bodies and off the dance floor and down the back all the way out the emergency exit, into the cool night of the back parking lot.
There were a few people around, no one close. My rational processed weren’t working anyway. I just sort of turned my back to the lot and started wrestling my dick free. It was a challenge to do without dropping my pants, something I wasn’t ready to do in public quite yet, but I managed it in the end and was just about to strangle my now-steel-hard dick into climactic submission when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you—?” my dancer hottie started to ask, before he saw what I was doing.
“Either help or go away,” I gritted out. My humiliation couldn’t descend much further—I was already picturing myself hopping boxcar trains with a bindle on a stick over my shoulder after this was over—so inviting the assistance of strangers was pretty much chicken-feed.
“Easy choice,” Dancer said, and before I knew he was on his knees in front of me. “I was right, that’s one impressive tool,” he remarked as he eyed my fat, raging erection with approval.
“Whatever,” I said, impatient to get that mouth around my sensitive cock. “It’s only nine inches.”
He looked up at me then, his expression one of disbelief. “Friend, I know cocks, and this is no nine-inch cock,” he said authoritatively. “In fact, if I had to guess—”
He took it into his mouth, catching me by surprise, and barely remembering we were in public I stifled what would have been a very load moan. He took me all the way in, right down to the pubes, and then pulled all the way off again. He smacked his lips theatrically, then he smiled wide, nodding. “Yep, that’s eleven, easy,” he said, eyeing the length and girth critically as if gathering supporting evidence for his expert throat-measuring.
I didn’t want to hear this. If he was right, my growth wasn’t just constant, it was fucking accelerating. No way could I deal with that right now, if ever. Fuck, at this rate that hobo bindle-rod over my shoulder wouldn’t be a branch or a broomstick, it’d be my fucking erection. “C’mon, please,” I growled, trying to demand and beg at the same time.
Dancer took pity on me and started in my dick again, and I was instantly redlining, overcome with insane amounts of pleasure. He didn’t just stick to basic oral technique, either. His hands entered the fray, sliding along my legs and into my briefs and under my balls, and my ecstasy magnified. As he worked my desperate cock with his gifted tongue and virtuoso lips, a lone finger started making its way backwards along my taint, writing a trail of fire across my entire nervous system. Before it got anywhere near its prize, I was suddenly and inescapably hurtling over the cliff like a doomed Wells-Fargo wagon, horses, passengers, cargo and all plummeting to terrible, exquisite death. I got out a strangled “I’m gonna—!” and then I started blasting, shooting scads and scads of cum down his willing, convulsing throat.
I was still soaring, head back and eyes closed, when I felt Dancer abruptly separate from me, pulling off my dick and getting rapidly to his feet. And then, from somewhere close behind me, I heard something else I definitely did not want to hear.
“All right, boys,” the gruff, male, suspiciously policey voice said, “let’s see some IDs.”
The holding cell was dark and sterile, a twenty-by-twenty square of concrete and iron stowed in a forgotten corner of the cop shop basement like its denizens were meant to be left there and forgotten. There were no officers down here, no civilian clerks, basically no one at all but those of us unlucky enough to be fingered by the police (and not in a good way). The cool air was thick and unmoving and smelled weirdly like old Twizzlers.
A single outdated CCTV camera was mounted high on the blank beige corridor wall, staring impassively into the cell. I’d passed the security booth as Officer McGruff had escorted me around back and down the stairs to my new digs, the freckle-faced youth ensconced within dozing peacefully in front of the monitors showing color scenes from all over the complex, but if anything knowing I wasn’t being watched made me feel more like a castaway. The camera had one of those red indicator lights on the housing, too, and the more I glanced up at it, the more that red light felt to me like a second eye. Like, the lens part did its job and fed everything that happened down here to the monitors upstairs like it was supposed to, while that baleful red eye was the camera secretly keeping what it saw for itself.
I wasn’t alone, but I wished I were. Having Dancer here might have helped. Though I’d only just met him and we’d barely shared more than a hot dance and a magnificent blow job, his easygoing confidence would have been a balm on my simmering anxiety as I waited in legal purgatory. Then again, maybe his tall, lean, dark-hued body would have been a crazy distraction of the kind I didn’t need right now. Even though I had just shot a fucking deluge of my hot, thick, bittersweet spunk down Dancer’s talented throat a half-hour before, I was still so horny my whole body was warm and faintly trembling with arousal. It was like all my cells and the very atoms that made me up were sizzling with this raw, increasingly potent, terrifyingly inexhaustible carnal energy, so much so that the sexual needs of my being were no longer focused and manifested solely in my straining, overheated crotch.
Anyway, Dancer was gone—he’d taken advantage of the fact that I was between him and the cop and popped back deftly through the door of the club before Officer Grumpypants could bark “Hold it right there!” like every cop ever. Stunned and mortified, I hadn’t been quick enough to do the same, and I’d had a strong hand clamped down on my right shoulder before I could even think about trying to escape.
I’ve watched enough British TV that I half expected him to growl “You’re nicked!”, but of course that didn’t happen. Instead he just wordlessly and irresistibly propelled me to his police-issue SUV, stuffed me bodily in the back, and left me there to stare out the window at his unexpectedly sexy butt, tree-trunk legs, and flaring V-shaped back and shoulders packed into a straining navy-blue uniform as he tromped heavily back toward the club. I watched him go, torn between fear, humiliation, and a new spike of lust just from this merest retreating glimpse of my apparently herculean captor. Officer Grumpypants? Officer Hunkypants, more like. A few minutes later he abruptly returned to shove in with me the rest of his catch for the night, my current cellmates, and with the three of us packed in the back seat we were off to the station.
Now I sat on the floor against one ecru-painted cinder block wall—it was only a holding cell, so there were no benches (or anything else)—and tried not to get jittery in the presence of the other two men in there with me, one of whom was giving me the mother of all stink-eyes. They were a couple, or so it seemed, and my presence seemed to agitate them both, though in markedly different ways.
Sitting opposite me was the smaller of the two, and the sneer he was aiming at me so intense I was getting goosebumps from it. He was wiry, medium height, and bone-white, with an angular, winsome face, pouty, strawberry-red lips, a narrow, straight nose, and floppy, cotton-candy-pink hair. His attire consisted of tight black skinny jeans, scuffed Doc Martens, and an old jeans jacket with the sleeves ripped off and left open at the front. The lack of sleeves exposed sinewy arms and delts, one of which—the left—was adorned with his only visible tattoo: a small red heart. I couldn’t help thinking that he should have gotten the heart inked on his cheek instead, just to complete the whole anime villain look he had going.
His counterpart, at the moment lounging near the bars with his hands in his pockets and peering idly into the featureless corridor, was unlike Boots in both body and demeanor. Tall and thin but nicely muscled, with extremely smooth skin the color of warm desert sand, he looked like the guy who’d been a beanpole growing up but started working out and ended up looking skinny and built at the same time. His waist was narrow and flat with a tiny white scar to the left of his lightly-cut abs; above them he had pert, square, hairless pecs that were flat but still protruding, and shoulders that stuck out enough to make him suggest a capital T. Everything else was long and crazy-defined, too—long arms, long legs, long abs. Even his neck looked like it might be an inch or so more than you’d expect.
It was easy enough to observe the details of his tanned, honed physique as he had on nothing but loose, tastefully ripped jeans and a beaten-up pair of red Vans, and the exposed length of his fit, bare torso was almost indecent. It was like he was a human hard-on that was only half covered up. His face was pleasant, at least, placid and handsome. He was smooth and clean-shaven even at this hour, but his black caterpillar brows gave away the fact that his loose, carefully layered platinum hair was an affectation. The whole package made him slightly exotic, as though his body, skin, and hair combined to edge him just beyond the human norm.
Boots was still glaring at me, and I shifted uncomfortably. I tried closing my legs a little bit, but there wasn’t much I could do to hide the fact that I was half-boned and packing more than I should be down there. My junk was the fourth person in the room, and Boots was clearly affronted by its very presence.
I was upset and hating the prominence of my mancock I’d been so hungry for. That voice in my head, though, the one that was telling me to own all of this, was having none of my anxieties—or Boots’s resentment, for that matter. Yeah, how dare I bring a real Mancock here? it snarked. I deserve to be put away just for showing you up, Pinkie.
My lips tightened. I wanted to argue with this impulse, grab it by the shoulders and shake some reason into it. Sure, I’d asked for a mancock. Sure, I’d done everything I could to make it happen. But—fuck, feel that need building up, like a pot coming to a boil, was a constant thing now, and it was getting worse and worse. I was going to need to cum, again, over and over, more and more often, shooting vaster and vaster quantities of hot sperm all over my fucking life. Owning that? That was like submitting myself to my increasingly monstrous and domineering libido. The lack of control was so unbearably—terrifying exhilarating oh god
I was hard. My fat, now nearly footlong erection was throbbing searingly against my hip. My balls felt thick and churning, like little clementine-sized factories working double-overtime to produce more spunk than was humanly possible.
Part of me hated this. I felt like an animal, unable to stop myself getting hard, needing to cum, hushing out my spunk more and more and more. It was weird and alarming. I couldn’t even keep Mike from growing me bigger, leveling up my libido to be even more dominant, despite that being totally something I could do if I really wanted to. My cock, my arousal, my need to cum—it was all taking over my life.
But my inner own-it impulse didn’t care. It thrilled with excitement. Utterly conflicted and more than a little unnerved, I started thinking that it might just be my hulking, untiring libido itself that was pressuring me to give in and surrender total control.
I caught Boots’s narrowed eyes—I could tell he could feel it, too. What was happening to me wasn’t being kept in my skin anymore. My inhuman levels of arousal and need were radiating outward from me like my cock was trawling for fresh victims, and the way Boots had his upper lip pulled back showed that he knew and was not pleased.
I glanced over at Vans. He was staring now, too, blank-faced like he hadn’t intended to look. It struck me that while Boots’s eyes stayed on my face, Vans had his gaze pointed right at my crotch, like it had been lured there and then snared.
I wasn’t too surprised—seduction-wise Vans was already partly in the bag before we’d even made it to the holding cell. He’d sat in the middle on the ride over from the club, and his wide, square shoulders had unavoidably overlapped with mine. As we jostled through the dark side streets his had pressed progressively more firmly into mine, his long, lean thigh doing likewise, and I could feel his simmering pleasure from the escalating contact. Now he wanted more, and my arousal was becoming so intense I was practically intoxicated with the sultry heat that wanted to give it to him. That sense I’d had before, that my next orgasm was brewing on the horizon, returned in full force—and I wouldn’t have to gallop very far to get there.
“You don’t get him for free,” Boots seethed abruptly, speaking for the first time. His voice was a pleasant tenor that was very much in keeping with his overall look. I wondered if he sang.
I checked Vans’s handsome face. He was licking his lips—and that’s not just a metaphor, he was actually sliding his tongue along his lips in interest and anticipation. I looked back at Boots, my Mancock heavy and rigid and demanding action.
I had to make this happen. It was either Vans and Boots making me cum, or me standing up and blowing my load helplessly all over the cell like a pathetic slave to my too-powerful cock and balls. It was that fucking powerlessness, the way things were spinning more and more out of control, that killed me. The only thing I could grab onto was the idea that suborning Boots and Vans would be something I could make happen, something that could make me feel like I was the master of this beast after all.
Yes, my inner lust-demon urged. Let’s do this. Let’s fill this place with cum.
I had to cum anyway. I couldn’t hold it back.
“Maybe it’s not up to you,” I heard myself say roughly.
“It’s always up to me,” Boots hissed instantly.
I just smiled at him, and with how messed up I was feeling it probably looked pretty creepy—it couldn’t have been a normal smile. Then I looked over at Vans and, very deliberately, my whole body buzzing with a hundred emotions, I spread my knees a few inches further apart.
Vans started moving slowly toward me as if he were being pulled by an invisible string, his milk-chocolate brown eyes fixated on my burgeoning, twitching junk. “Stop,” Boots ordered, but Vans didn’t seem to hear him. He was hard, too, and despite his loose jeans I could tell he almost as big as I was; but his dick didn’t have the all-compelling star power mine had.
Committed now, I stood, my erection massive and straining painfully in my plum-colored club pants. Vans’s mouth dropped open a little in admiration. He sank to his knees in front of me but didn’t reach for my fly, just knelt there, awed. I grabbed it convulsively through the fabric of my pants, and he sucked in a soft breath. Being on his knees further emphasized the way his long, defined torso made him look like a man-sized hard-on, and I shivered, my hazy orgasm-horizon telescoping toward me even closer.
It was almost enough to satisfy my wounded need for control, but I wanted more. I looked over at Boots fuming silently where he sat across the room. “You just going to watch?” I rasped.
He shot to his feet and stomped across the cell, his pale blue eyes alight with an angry fire. All at once he was right in my face. I thought he was going to tell me off, but what he said was, “I’m not going to suck your fucking cock.”
I held his gaze for a second, nodded jerkily, then grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him, hard. He opened for me immediately, almost defiantly, and our tongues started wrestling for dominance as our mouths mashed hungrily against each other.
I fumbled for my fly with my free hand, but Vans quickly pushed it out of the way and started working with practiced ease to open my pants and pry my massive prick free. Barely a heartbeat passed before I was feeling the cool air of the cell on the heated skin of my fat prick—followed quickly by the euphoric wet heat of a mouth that knew exactly how to take care of a big, hard, domineering mancock. This was how I discovered Vans had a tongue-piercing, one he was well-versed in bringing to bear against hard, needy, oversensitive cockflesh.
I moaned into our feral kiss, and was answered with a pleased rumble in the back of Boots’s throat, a kind of nonverbal “Yeah, he’s good, isn’t he?” I pushed harder into the kiss at this boast, and I felt Boots and Vans both snake hands around to my back and ass as they intensified their pleasuring of me.
A spark of self-awareness flickered amidst the tumult of raging gratification, but this little inkling of rational consciousness wasn’t flaring up to remind me of anything so mundane as the fact that we were in a semi-public place, or than a cop was likely to show up outside our cell at any moment, or even that we were actually on camera in full view not only of the cop on duty in the booth but of anyone who happened to be walking down that corridor past its big glass windows like I and my new cock-cronies had done only a couple of hours before. Nope, my little lust-battered, almost-drowned dendrite was speaking up to remind me that I kept letting guys blow my increasingly unmanageable without any reciprocation and I needed to stop being a disrespectful douche about that.
With Mike, I’d graduated from clumsy handjobs while he sucked me off to deft mutual pleasuring with a little sixty-nine action mixed in. We’d been leading up to me plowing Mike’s ass for the first time—we both wanted it badly, and the only thing holding us back from it was that neither of us had done it before. (And, well, my dick was only getting bigger, though we were both still lamely pretending it wasn’t.) But my libido was building up to become so strong and intense that I was now having these increasingly frequent encounters that combined my unbearable, unstoppable need to get off and the deep, alluring pull I was sending out to random horny guys around me. First there’d been lacrosse guyliner hottie Clint, who blew me and walked away with a smile. Then lithe, smoldering Dancer out back of the club, getting a taste and then some. Now I was being energetically double-teamed in the cop shop basement by a pair of sexy, mancock-entranced perps—and just because it felt so torrentially, overwhelmingly good, I was just going to take my brain off the hook and enjoy it? My momma raised me better than that!
Not taking my mouth off Boots’s I slid my arm aggressively down under his, feeling up his torso as I went, until my palm reached the hard, wide, stubby manhood writhing behind the fly of his skinny jeans. Boots moaned hard into the increasingly sloppy kiss, and I grunted back, shaking with pleasure as Vans pulled back and then rammed down onto my dick so that my cockhead bottomed out deep in his throat, his wide, studded tongue twisting around the whole of my length. I used my other hand to grip the back of Vans’s incongruously white-blond hair, holding back from forcing him down on my dick and fucking his face with the last shreds of willpower I possessed. Vans went on lovingly stimulating my insatiable cock, one hand keeping a tight grip on my ass while the other did something jerky below.
That reminded me of what I was supposed to be doing. Boots’s jeans were tight, but he was a slender fuck and, with me feeling like I didn’t have time to mess around with buttons and zips, I just went and pushed my hand down under his waistband and grabbed his tusk-like cock in the tight, heated space behind his fly. His wide, uncut cockhead was already very wet, leaking all over a small piercing there, and the urgent little noises Boots made as I started stroking up and down, my forearm sliding against his slight, pale torso, told me he was as close as I was.
Then Vans was doing this twisting, sucking thing with his lips and mouth, and suddenly it was game over. I grunted into the messy kiss to warn them both. Boots grunted back, practically humping my hand in his desperation. Vans quickened his pace, while gripping me so hard I was sure there would be finger-marks on my left glute for days. Mike would think that was so hot!
That sent me. Boots starts spraying his load up my forearm just ahead of me, them all at once I was cumming violently, gushering hot seed straight down Vans’s eager throat, even as the movements of his other hand sped up before he tensed, joining us in an explosive triple orgasm. Vans tried valiantly to keep up with my output, but there was too much to swallow and he pulled back, resulting in his face getting covered with the last few bursts as I unloaded what felt like three orgasms at once.
As soon as I finished he was on his feet, joining Boots and me in a lazy, gasping three-way kiss that was more the rubbing of tired mouths and tongues together as we drifted in a kind of mutual ecstasy. The spunk covering Vans’s smooth face rubbed all over ours, as if he were sharing what it was like to fellate my amazing cock with those who hadn’t known such a wonder. Our hands were everywhere, feeling each other up and pressing our bodies close like this was foreplay instead of afterglow.
I was so turned on by how hot all this was. And then—fuck. I felt it starting. The next one. I was already building up to the next one.
We were at this for a while—a few minutes, anyway, though it was really hard to tell—when we heard an ostentatious throat-clearing. We looked up curiously to see Officer Hunkypants standing outside the cell, arms crossed over his barrel chest. I hadn’t really gotten a good look at him from the front before, and with his full, dark beard and signs of a hairy chest at his collar he looked kind of bearish from this angle. “You! Lover Boy!” he shouted at me. “Upstairs!”
Not wanting to end the show prematurely, I turned my face to a now-grinning Vans. “Thanks,” I said, giving him a proper kiss. He made no reply, but the twinkle in those chocolate-brown eyes said, “Anytime.”
I turned back to his pale companion. His cocky look was back, but he wasn’t quite so angry now. “You get that one gratis,” he said.
I smirked at him, calling him on his bullshit. He seemed about to suggest arranging some future encounter when our cop chaperone bellowed, “Now!”
We separated, and I started casually putting my half-hard cock back into its hideaway, in full view of everyone. Officer Bearhunk looked away and started noisily unlocking the cell. The door swung open with a squeal. I finished tucking myself away and, with a last wave at Boots and Vans, preceded our burly constable up the steep back stairs to the main floor, still too floaty to worry about whatever legal-system horrors awaited me.
It was still pretty quiet up here. We marched past the security booth, and I noticed the hapless cutie stationed there was now awake and feverishly rubbing at the crotch of his uniform trousers with a wad of napkins. Oops! I guess we’d had an audience after all. The officer’s anguished efforts at cleaning himself up reminded me that I myself still had smears of cum drying on my cheeks thanks to Vans sharing my bounteous facial with the two of us—but the mood Officer Bearhunk was projecting made me hesitate to ask him for a skin care interval before the main event.
I wondered if it would show in the mug shots.
I expected to be trouped back to processing to be formally charged—with what, I wasn’t sure. Public indecency? Technically as I was 19 I shouldn’t have been inside Alejandro’s, but then, they hadn’t caught me actually inside the club. The exact category of my transgressions were quickly rendered moot, however, as Officer Bearhunk bypassed the bullpen and processing areas completely and proceeded to march me right out the main double doors and out into the cool early morning air outside, stopping on the sidewalk steps in front of the precinct.
I turned to him in surprise. “You’re not arresting me?” I laughed in relief.
He gave me a hard look, the same one he’d no doubt intimidated many a miscreant with, but I was unfazed. He was a few inches taller than me and considerably bulkier, but flying high from my monster orgasm as I was all I could do was grin impertinently at him. He tried doubling down on his glare. “Just because you got off this time—” he began.
I couldn’t help it. I snickered, and he blushed. “Just—get a room next time,” he growled.
I smiled wider, oddly touched. My problem wasn’t going away, and I had a feeling we’d meet again. Maybe he’d never meant to charge me, or maybe he was only turfing me out of the place because I was too much of a sex bomb for him to deal with (not to mention Boots, Vans, the security kid, and god knew who else). Either way, I sensed that there was some part of him that was into all this.
I pushed up and gave him a quick, bristly kiss, and he let me, though his expression as I dropped back on my heels was one of confused consternation. He gestured behind me. “Be off with ya,” he said. “Your ride’s waiting.”
He stomped back into the precinct, the doors clattering shut behind him. I turned around, not sure what he’d meant, and felt a rush of excitement, affection, and guilt as I saw Mike lounging a few steps away, leaning against an Uber, his bookbag over one shoulder. “Hey,” I said, going over to him. “What are you doing here?”
We slipped into a hug without conscious thought, his groin pressing inquiringly against mine. “Your roommate is your default emergency contact in the university’s system,” he explained. “I guess you never changed yours.”
“I guess not.” My hand slid up under his bookbag, something he normally only had with him if he was on his way to class. “Why’d you bring this?” I asked curiously.
His dark brown eyes glinted in the street lights. “I brought you your breakfast,” he said.
My pulse sped up a little at that, and my only semi-quiescent cock twitched and thickened, pressing hard against Mike’s unmissable erection. We held each other’s gaze for a long moment, our mutual secrets tangling between us. “Cool,” I said finally, managing a smile. We kissed a little just to work off a bit of sex-energy, then, not wanting to annoy the driver too much, we climbed into the car and headed back to that room Officer Bearhunk had told me to find, my next towering, relentless orgasm building fast as we drove into the waning night.
After being disfigured in an accident, Al learns that he doesn’t need his old body or face when he can simply copy the best features of those around him.