Fallout

by BRK   

Jesse comes home exhausted and just wants to put his feet up. That warning notice on his front door can wait, right?

Jesse climbed out of the 4x4, dimly registering how loud the chunk of him pushing it closed seemed in the eerie, unnatural quiet of the little working-class neighborhood on the town’s outer fringe. A police siren wailed almost inaudibly in the far distance, like a wolf seeking its pack.

Jesse shook his head and started the trudge around the narrow weed-cracked walkway that led from the driveway to his dusty maroon-painted little house. What a day, he thought. The site had been one crisis after another, the traffic home had been harrowing, and his arms and legs ached. Maybe Kenny would give him a massage if he was home. That’d be nice. Kenny liked doing massages, feet especially. And other things, he thought with a smirk. His hours at the hospital were so unpredictable, though. His luck today, Kenny was stuck on the highway and wouldn’t be home for hours.

He got to the front door and frowned, noticing for the first time the sheet of paper someone had brazenly taped up at eye level—right over the peephole, too. Rude.

WARNING! it announced at the top in big, angry red letters, all bold and thick to get your attention. Fuck, I thought I paid that bill, Jesse groaned blearily to himself.

Below that was a mass of text, all of it in bold as well (defeating the purpose of bold, he mused sourly), followed by some emergency phone numbers in larger type. He thought about reading it all, but just looking at that much shouty text at the end of a long day hurt his tired brain. He only caught a few words, something about “extremities” and “exposed” and “exponential expansion”—was there some kind of bounty on X’s?—and gave up. He’d bring it in with him and read later.

As he reached up to pull the flyer off the door he noticed that he still had on his red-and-black high-dexterity work gloves. Well, Kenny did like seeing him in his gear, he thought with a tired smile.

With a bit of force he yanked the flyer off the door and cursed as the swath of extra-adhesive packing tape they’d used took a quarter-sized sample of the maroon paint with it when it pulled free, exposing the dull silver surface beneath. This fucking day.

Gritting his teeth, he dropped his arm, resisting the urge to crumple the thing in his fist in petty retribution. Instead, he fumbled out the retractable keyring attached to his belt with his free hand. Easily finding his house key, he unlocked the door and entered the house, barely remembering to close the heavy door behind him.

The house was dark and smelled oddly musty, but he couldn’t care about that. Tossing the flyer onto the clutter of mail, papers, and tools already littering the kitchen table he grabbed a longneck from the fridge, shuffled back into the living room, thunked his beer down on the end table, and dropped into his favorite recliner with a sigh and a jangle of keys. Kenny liked teasing him for already having a “dad” recliner as a 29-year-old with a rugby-player’s body and a sexy nurse for a boyfriend, but Jesse figured a working man needed what comforts he had. Someday, when he had more money, he’d swap it out for the fancy kind with the magic fingers.

He took a pull of his beer and tried to relax, but he felt hot and… well, tight, somehow, as if his skin were under a mild, uniform internal pressure. His junk felt funny, too, and he realized he was low-key horny. He found this oddly reassuring. He must still have it going on if he was feeling randy even after a day like this. His feet felt restless and uncomfortable, too. He blew out through his lips and thought, I should at least take off me boots.

Sitting forward, he bent to unlace his dark brown steel-toed work boots, only to be again reminded he was still wearing his high-dexterity leather gloves. Hastily he pulled these off, setting them on the side table next to the beer, and then got to work on his laces.

A minute later his shoes and socks were off and his dogs were blissfully free of all restraint, and he lay back in his fully extended recliner, legs up, arms sprawled on the arm-rests, and… fuck, why was he getting hard? Sure, it felt so good for his hands and feet to be liberated, but that wasn’t the kind of “feels good” that normally gave him a stiffy. It was like he was getting high. He always got turned on when he was baked for some reason, and something about the mood in the room and the warm dank air was making him feel a little stoned and a lot horny.

Bemused, he undid his heavy-duty jeans and zipped down his fly, shoving his pants and underwear down off his hips to give his half-hard tool a full and proper release. It looked glad to be free and immediately started growing to its full, hard, beefy thickness before his very eyes. “Yeah, okay,” he smiled at his incorrigible slab-o-cocky hand-buddy. It looked really big tonight, all heavy and fat, like a day’s deprivation and a couple hours of overtime had made it swell out of sheer impatience. He wrapped his mitt around it, though, and everything looked normal and familiar, the proportional fit of his already-stiff tool in his meaty hand exactly what he expected.

His feet tingled like they were trying to get in on the act, and he lay back, stroking languidly and wiggling his toes as the level of arousal within him seemed to rise and expand like a dark, dammed lake edging toward catastrophic overflow from a long stretch of torrential rain that only seemed poised to intensify its downfalling deluge.

His mind drifted as he stroked mechanically, thinking uncharacteristically of giants and ogres and strange lands where his normal wasn’t normal. Normally he was a down-to-earth, meat-and-potaties guy, even when it came to porn, but his brain was drifting as he silently jacked himself in his favorite chair. Weird how giants were supposed to be ugly, like the deformed monsters in that movie Jack the Giant Slayer, but Jesse’s slightly fevered imaginings were all about giants who guys wouldn’t mind being picked up by. Like Beau Bridges in Village of the Giants, or—his pulse quickened—Paul Rudd as Giant Man in Ant Man and the Wasp. He hadn’t gotten too turned on when he’d watched that movie with Kenny, right here in this room, but now it was here with him, making him imagine all the possibilities…

His balls surged, heavy and bloated against his thighs. His cock jumped, too, straining against his hand and throwing off enough heat to melt a fudgesicle. He stroked harder, away and back, using two hands more for the girth than the length. His feet twitched and flexed, feeling strong and heavy and unaccountably hot, like his hands, cock, and balls. It was like every inch of flesh in his extremities was teeming with rapidly expanding maelstroms of energy, all of it feeding somehow into his burgeoning arousal.

He stroked himself feverishly, lifting his arms more and more to fully minister to his demanding cock. His body kept lurching, straining and twisting under the skin. He was getting close. But something was weird. Everything was out of proportion. His brain was drowned in a vat of thick, hot desire—it was hard to think. He had to do something. Cum? He did have to cum. But—

Opening his eyes, he stared in confusion at his cock. It was like he was seeing it in macro-vision, zoomed in on a screen. Every detail seemed right under his eyes: the wide shape (thicker in the middle, Kebby’s favorite part), the wiggling veins and arteries, the shift in color near the upper shaft, the flare of the mushroom cap, the pursed lips of the slit in profile…

His heart sped, loving what he was seeing even if he didn’t understand it. His cock felt as good as it ever had, crazy heavy and swollen with pure, quivering, sensual need, and it looked almost as good as it felt. Cocks were the embodiment of everything masculine and sexy and—fuck, he needed to cum.

He tried stroking upward, all the way to the tip, but though his beefy hands wrapped easily around the heavy shaft, his arms didn’t seem to reach. What—? That didn’t make sense. He tried sliding his hands upward again, but as he did so he caught sight of his feet beyond his cock and gasped.

Though they were further away it seemed like he was examining his feet with the same kind of magnified vision as he was his cock. His feet looked amazing. He’d always thought his feet were kind of sexy, and had gone barefoot as a teenager whenever possible, running around in the grass of his grandma’s big back yard and kicking off his Cons to bare sockless feet in the movies, at friends’ houses, even in class, much to the scandalized awe of his buddies and the ire of unamused teachers. Now, seeing them in this weird close-up vision, he was in love.

He stroked himself rapidly, iron-hard and leaking, staring at his long, arched feet and long, strong toes with just a bit of hair on the knuckle. As his desire built they seemed to swell even bigger before his eyes, his cock lurching thicker and larger in his hands, and he realized in a fog on confused lust that it wasn’t his eyes that were seeing things in magnification—it was the things that were magnified.

The rush of this thrilled him, accelerating his arousal and the effect producing it. With a thump he felt a hit against his glans, and he looked up to see his tool had slammed against the living room ceiling. Jesse could only think this was awesome and stroked desperately with his giant hands, need to blast jizz all over that ceiling and everything else. He watched himself stroke. Nothing else penetrated his brain except was he was doing, which meant the only thought he had about his massive hands and how they were as big as the scoop of a front-end-loader now was that he needed hands that big for a cock this huge—stroking himself with ordinary hands would never cut it, even if his arms still being normal-sized meant he could only reach the bottom half of his glorious, needy cock-edifice.

There was a crack, and the heels of his monster-sized feet finally dropped to the floor with a smack, possibly denting the hardwood under the industrial-grade wall-to-wall that had come with the house. Jesse goggled, staring with urgent infatuation at his growing feet. They were bigger that him now, huge and beautiful and hot as fuck. He wanted to feel them, but he couldn’t stop stroking. No, it wasn’t his own touch he was craving. He imagined Kenny, naked and stiff, using his whole hard, sexy body to pleasure every inch of his giant feet—

Suddenly the door burst open, and he heard Kenny rush in. “Babe!” he called. “Didn’t you hear about the evac—?!”

The dam broke, and Jesse came, erupting like a volcano. Cum sprayed out of him, battering the plaster ceiling so hard he used his massive hands to pull it back before it battered a hole into the attic, letting the firehose spray gush over the vouch and living room wall behind him. Vast oceans of pleasure drowned him like a dozen month-delayed orgasms, and he gasped, panting, even as his hands, feet, cock, and balls lurched larger in one more burst of raw pleasure, making his climax intensify even further.

It was ages before he came down, heaving and blissed out beyond anything he’d ever experienced. The living room had to be soaked, but his attention was on his altered configuration—one normal rugby-construction worker bod, but with massively expanded hands, feet, and cock. He looked over at Kenny standing by the door goggling at him. He was still in his scrubs, and—as he had had occasion to note before—these did little to hide his lover’s hefty erections.

He grinned and extended his scoop-like hand. Judging by Kenny it was at least four feet in breadth across the palm, with long, massive digits just itching to wrap around his hot, very aroused husband.

“C’mere,” he said, sliding his enormous hand gently around his man, this thumb brushing along Kenny’s well-proportioned torso, making his not-quite-sated cock twitch with renewed interest where it slumped on the floor next to him. When Kenny licked his lips, eyes darkening with a new, unlocked level of lust, Jesse let his grin twist into a smirk. Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible day after all.

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