Wishing star

by EcstaticS

Chris sees a guy with a really massive dick and wishes on a star for a dick that was even bigger. What he doesn't know is that sometimes the stars are listening.

Added: 13 Jun 2020 7,594 words 4,312 views 4.9 stars (7 votes)

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I close my eyes—the acrid taste of bitter drinks lingers on the back of my tongue. I didn’t want to be here. Another party—another endless night where everyone else seems to be having fun, but I feel incorrigibly alone.

My roommate led me here—as he always does. I don’t like him going out alone. I worry about him when he’s at these sort of things and doesn’t have anyone to look out for him. I guess you could say that I’m paranoid and possessive—I just like to think of it as strong paternal instincts. I look out for my friend.

The concrete of the balustrade feels cool through my jeans—I enjoy sitting on the edge of this brownstone roof and letting my legs dangle into the air below. I observe the fleeting, careening arrangement of air molecules dashing about below—completely oblivious to my figure above. And were I to fall, they would all get out of my way—they wouldn’t band together to support me, delay my descent.

I may have had too many drinks—I really shouldn’t be sitting on a fourth-story ledge like this, tipsy as I am. I really ought to get down onto less precarious plateaus.

But it is such a beautiful night. I can see clear across the city, sitting like this. A few stars even twinkle through the orange abyss of light pollution to smile down on me.

I know it’s cheesy, but ever since I was a kid, I used to think that the stars watched back. Unlike the uncaring air molecules swirling around us—I always felt like the starlight cared. Our lives mean something to them. I’ve watched them wink back at me as if they could understand, as if they are in on the cosmic joke—they’re aware of the abstruseness of this mortal coil. The moratorium regarding the seriousness we’re supposed to maintain on human life gets lifted when you interact with the celestial spheres. After all, they’ve seen it all throughout those millennia shining above us. No human impropriety phases them. They know a good mortal joke when they see one—the absurdity of men.

We are all living a mortal joke—impressed with our own incandescent importance. That’s the greatest joke of all, believing that we matter. We are just dots on a green continent floating in a blue ocean on a swirling ball in the middle of nowhere. A little solar system at the butt-end of a galaxy on the edge of a universe that was created for Gods-know what purpose. Perhaps beings in other universes matter more—but not here. Here, we are just ants marching in straight lines from cradle to grave. One following the other. Thoughtless.

Whoa—I am waxing philosophical tonight, aren’t I? There must have been something in that last drink they gave me. Maybe whatever made it electric green also had neurotropic qualities. Absinthe, maybe? I really should get off the wall before I tumble over my own grandiosity.

The door swoops open behind a few paces me. I swivel my head, keeping a tight grip on the balustrade, to see who else has found their way up onto the roof. A mop of dark hair steps into the shadowy lamplight. He glances around and catches my eyes.

“Hey, sorry,” he growls. “I thought this empty.”

“No,” I say. “But I can share. You’re welcome to stay.”

“No. It’s all right. We were looking for some privacy.”

That’s when I notice the willowy blond huddled behind him. The scrap of silver that deigns to pass itself off as a dress would not keep her warm enough in this autumn air. Even from this distance, I can see her skin pimpling. Her arms cross themselves below her untethered breasts—her nipples stand sentry on metallic ramparts.

He wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her close as they turn and descend back into the pulsing void, the heavy door clunking closed behind them. I remember that guy from earlier—I had seen him standing at a urinal in the men’s room. He wasn’t easy to forget. He was planted more than a foot away from the porcelain, but he was holding the longest cock I had ever seen. It easily spanned the distance to the urine receptacle like a rope bridge crossing a great divide. He seemed to get-off on the fact that the two other guys in there (besides me) were watching him, gawking—he reveled in their disbelief on his freakishly endowed manhood.

Frankly, I’m surprised he had his arm around a woman, up here—I would have posited that such exhibitionist tendencies in front of men would have suggested another sexual persuasion. But perhaps it’s just a big-dick thing—liking to flaunt it and show it off, regardless of who is looking. He’s a universal acceptor when it comes to having his prodigious phallus appreciated.

My mind rolls down through my shirt collar toward the buckle of my jeans and my pelvis—my own thoroughly adequate member coming into view. I love my cock—in some ways, he’s my best friend. He is alert, always does his job—and I’ve never gotten any complaints. But still, I wonder what it’d be like to possess a prolific manhood similar to that of the guy I’d just seen. What would it be like to be so hung and swaggering, a pendulum of sexual energy descending nearly to my knee? How would it feel to live like that, I muse? Powerful? Embarrassed? Perpetually eroticized?

As I study these possibilities—I notice my own phallus stiffening—and discover a swelling orb of longing erupt inside my belly. Perhaps it’s the alcohol and not having enough to eat—but I suddenly feel as if this is the greatest need I’ve ever felt. I absolutely must become as fantastically endowed as this guy. I’ve never wanted anything so much.

My eyes turn back to the horizon, and I notice one star in particular blinking seductively at me. It seems to be cooing, whispering sweet exhortations, inviting me to supplicate my desires to this pulsing celestial sphere. Breathing into that pit of desire congealing inside of me, I whisper to my new astral friend, “Star in the sky…I wish on you tonight. Make me as monstrously well-endowed as that guy. Bigger, even. Make me the most hugely hung man in the nation. Make others quiver in awe before my mammoth phallus.”

I don’t know where these words are coming from—again, perhaps it is my inebriation—but the words are ballooning within me like an enchanter’s spell. They float on the oxygen molecules like dirigibles—bouncing from one cloud to the next. I imagine my entreaties bobbing their way towards my celestial friend. And he is winking back—his blinking has become nearly salacious. Then, all so suddenly, he disappears. A light out of the night sky—a fallen angel. Maybe he took my wish and ran—because he is definitely gone. Perhaps the orange smog ate him.

I feel suddenly empty—as if that wish had taken up part of me and now was free-floating out amongst the ether. Staggering off the concrete wall, I sway back towards the door to the downstairs. What time is it, I wonder? We can’t be that far off from dawn. It’s time to go home. My roommate can fend for himself from this point on. I am suddenly tired—as if the departure of that wish had dropped me into thick mud. I can barely keep my eyes open. I hope there are no nefarious neighbors on the subway tonight—I probably will fall asleep on the ride home.

Cautiously, holding firm to the railing, I descend the rickety stairwell painted black numerous times over to coat the insipid pieces of gum careless attached to the floorboards and rails. The undulating, neon glow of the raging party continues to burn below. It feels too bright for my eyes. Part of me wants to find Bryan—tell him that I’m leaving and heading back to our place—but I can’t stomach the thought of traveling back into that milieu. I head as quickly as I can for the exit—and swiftly, I am back into the cool night air. It’s three blocks to the subway station. I should be able to make it there and, hopefully, remain awake for the duration of the train ride back home.

I awake in a fog. Sunlight is streaming through my window—and my face feels sticky and overheated. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth with some sort of pasty sediment leftover from last night’s revelries. I am still fully dressed, I notice—shoes and everything. I must have incoherently collapsed onto my mattress when I got to my room.

The memories of last night mull about in my skull like a jigger full of convoluted spirits. I wish I could drain them. The color of the daylight seems too-orange—it feels late in the day. Pawing the dresser top beside my bed, I uncover a disbanded watch face shining three pm up at me. Ugh. I’ve slept all day—too long. Thank goodness I had nothing of importance to get done this Saturday. I really should get out of bed and take a hot shower. Clear up the mugginess inside my brain with a steam bath.

I peel off last night’s garb like a stale, second skin that needs shedding. I toss it into the hamper—boots and all—and stretch nakedly up towards the ceiling. My limbs are long, and I nearly touch the fan blades twirling dedicatedly overhead. I scratch the patch of hair in the middle of my chest and then my right buttock. Stumbling forward, I peel out from behind my door into the hallway. Bryan’s door is slightly ajar, so I peek in and see him still sleeping. Good for him—he made it home.

He and I have an interesting relationship. Friends, mostly, but there has always been a spark of something extra that only rears its head when one of us has become been drunk, lonely, and sex-deprived. Nothing sexual has ever happened between us—but it always felt like it might. Regardless, I am grateful that he and I have such ease with our bodies around one another. It’s nice to live with a roommate and not feel like I have to keep my appendages covered at all times. He and I hang out naked sometimes—not as often as I would like, but sometimes.

I tenderly shut his door and move towards the kitchen. I have to pass through it, stopping to turning on the coffee pot, to make my way to the shower. I enter the black-and-white checkered room, my eyes scanning the counters and floors. It’s neat and organized but in need of a clean. I will try to work on that today. I am halfway toward the coffee pot when I notice an unexpected silhouette piled onto one of the diner chairs that Bryan and I rescued from a recently liquidated cafe. At first my mind assumes that it must be a package or a pile of clothes—but then I realize what it is. It’s a man—a short, bright-eyed man in a metallic coat smiling at me.

I nearly fall out of my skin as I tumble backward. I don’t shout, but as I careen back, the man smiles wider and extends a hand out to me.

“Sorry to startle you,” he whispers in a dusky voice. “I’ve been waiting here for some time—I had thought you’d be up long ago. Sir Astrelous, at your service.”

He keeps his hand extended as if waiting for me to shake it. I am still in shock—and suddenly awkward to realizing my own lack of clothing. I place one hand over my genitals and reach the other out to meet his. I am not sure if he is a deranged individual who has wandered in, an abandoned friend of Bryan’s, or merely a personal hallucination. Whatever I took last night should be strong enough to make the third possibility real. This peculiar man doesn’t seem homeless—his clothing is neat and orderly with a three-button suit under his silvery jacket and a smartly-tied necktie in a knot so elaborate that I could not have managed in my most cognitively alert state.

“Uh, Chris. Nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure, Chris,” he replied, shaking my hand firmly. I notice that his eyes haven’t once darted downward to examine my disrobed frame—it was as if he was accustomed to seeing naked, hungover men staggering around all the time. “We really must get going—I have other places to be before it gets dark again.”

“Sorry, what?” I say, shaking my head. He speaks as if this were a continuation of a previous conversation—as if I should know why he’s here and his reasons for conversing with me.

“Your wish, of course. We need to get started if we are going to make any progress before I have to be back up for nightfall.”

He stands and brushes imaginary dust off of his holographic coat. I realize now that his outer garment is truly opalescent—it glows like star shine.

“My… my wish?” I ask doubtfully.

“Yes, the wish you made last night. Don’t you remember? You spoke to me—quite specifically, I might add. I am so flattered when anyone chooses me out of the trillions of other stars in the night sky. You’d be surprised how seldom it happens nowadays. People are so consumed with their iPhones and earphones and iPads and WhatsApp’s that they hardly notice me—talk to me—the way you did. Well, I was just so plumb flattered that I had to hurry down here once I got off my shift and offer to help you out right away.”

My mind is reeling. This man is a star? Like, a real, heavenly body? This entirely defies my knowledge of cosmology and solar operations. This is not what was taught to me in my elementary, high school, or collegiate astronomy classes. Heavenly bodies aren’t supposed to have, well…corporal bodies. They are supposed to be giant, erupting balls of burning gas millions of light-years away. They certainly shouldn’t be sitting in my kitchen granting wishes.

“Now then,” the man says, stepping forward and brushing my hand away from my nether-regions, “what have we got here? Don’t be so shy, Christopher. I’ve seen lots of naked humans galumphing about over the many millennia I’ve sat watching—there’s nothing to be ashamed of with me.”

I feel my cheeks reddening as he picks up my member and weighs my testicles consideringly.

“Ah, yes. A little larger than average, I think. Girthy, some might even say. But definitely not the pendulous, prodigious phallic specimen you so emphatically wished for last night.

“I have to say, Christopher, the potency of your wish was truly remarkable. I don’t know how you summoned such fervor when you cast it out to me—but it sounded like a bright siren echoing over the quiet cacophony of other protestations. We stars heard your wish clear as a bell—it’s another reason why I rushed down here. You sounded so desperate—so insistent. You seemed to truly need an enormous penis.”

He lets go of my dick, and it swings freely between my thighs. I am beginning to wonder if I should shout to wake up Bryan. I need confirmation if I am hallucinating or not—is this just a dream? Am I still in bed? Or do I really have an odd, little man in my house professing to be a star and manhandling my junk?

“Well, I will need to take you down to Serena’s place for starters. And then maybe Orion’s boutique on Seventh. Yes…and if you really want to get that large, then we will definitely need to stop at Sarin’s demesnes for a final fitting.” He picks up a bowler hat and swiftly turns toward the door. He unlatches the three bolts screwed onto the white doorframe and swings the vestibule open. He is halfway out the door when he turns back to me. “Well, hurry up! Time is wasting.”

I take a hesitant step forward, my cock swaying in the crisp afternoon air—there’s a draft from an open window somewhere.

“Wait—what? Where are we going?”

“I just told you,” he says, sounding exasperated. “Weren’t you listening?”

“I, uh. Oh—okay. Let me—let me go get some clothes on.”

“Well, hurry! We haven’t got time for lollygagging—we’ve got places to be! Penises to grow!”

I rush to my room and hurriedly don a wool sweater, a pair of blue jeans (skipping the underwear), and a beat-up set of old sneakers. Still sticking my heal into one of them, I rush to the door. Should I leave Bryan a note? It is positively bonkers of me to go with this guy—I really should alert someone to my whereabouts. But what would I write to him? Hi, Bryan. A star showed up in our apartment and wanted to take me on an adventure to grow my cock. I’ll be back in time for dinner. Hugs, C? No, not likely.

Following him through the doorway, I feel the thick, oaken door blow closed behind me of its own accord. Sir Astrelous is already racing down the vintage stairwell towards our neighbors below. I race to catch up with him.

“So where are we going first?” I call out.

“We’ll start with Serena—she has a shop set up in this city, so we haven’t far to go. She’ll be able to increase your size a fair some—and she’ll be the easiest to get to grant the change amongst the three. Plus, she’s always hungry for new visitors. We should be able to catch a cab to get to her.”

We are escaping my apartment building’s front entrance—Sir Astrelous is already hailing a taxi. Before I can get my bearings, we are in a tattered backseat of a yellow cab headed out of the “transitional” neighborhood I live in toward the pencil-thin towers of downtown.

I stare out the window and again wonder what on earth I must have drunk last night to give me these unearthly visitations today. I press the coolness of the glass against my forehead and feel myself begin to doze.

Serena’s shop turns out to be a ratty, tattered storefront. A garish, pink awning spans over a fire-blackened brick entryway sunk half-a-story below an desolate street. Her windows glow with the twisted, neon signs declaring “Celestial Rock Shop” and “Metaphysical Tokens.” Palmistry is available, apparently, from three pm until midnight, Tuesday through Saturday. I’ll have to remember that, in case I ever desire a repeat trip of this incredulous endeavor.

Sir Astrelous is skipping down the chipped, concrete steps and prying open the battered, once white-washed door. He calls into the dark interior.

“Serena! It’s Astrelous—are you decent?”

“No, but come in anyways,” replies a husky voice that sounds somehow both like a whisper and like a bellows. She’s warm caramel oozing over jagged sea salt.

I follow close behind him and listen to our yellow cab zooming away. Stepping into the twilight room, I notice a fluorescent assortment of gauzy scarfs hanging from the ceiling, creating a motley canopy. I feel like I’ve stepped into some mythical Bedouin’s tent—I am expecting Scheherazade to materialize in an ephemeral swathe of incense smoke. Low, round tufts are scattered around on plush, Turkish carpets. A tea set stands on a low table made of too-many ornate, spindly legs.

Sir Astrelous crosses confidently to a emerald tuft of brocade and sits, seemingly entirely at ease. I follow, and sit myself on one beside him. It squishes underneath me, as if filled with rubber shavings. The room is still dark, even with me giving my eyes several seconds to adjust. I take in the artwork on the walls—scantly-clad men and women frozen in provocative postures. Oiled and undulating bodies trapped in time—mid-ecstasy. I seemed to have stepped into the midst of an artistic rendering of the KamaSutra. So many heaving bodies in various states of copulation. My eyes turn down to the table before me, and I nervously jangle a teacup.

From out of the back, a woman swoops in with a haw-like nose and deep eyes that glow with a soft, internal radiance. She is dressed normally enough—nothing eccentric to match the gaudy interior of her shop. She dives low and circles around Astrelous, kissing him on either cheek.

“Astrelous! What a surprise! I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

“Serena, such pleasure to see you again. You haven’t changed, even by a day.”

She laughs as if pleased. “Oh, Astrelous. You flatter me—but I do so appreciate it.”

Her hungry eyes sweep over to me and drink me in. I watch her observe every aspect of my figure—from toes to crown. She is radiates libidinousness—her breasts swell in anticipation as she inhales.

“And what have you brought for me today? This fine specimen of a young man.”

I feel my cheeks get hot. It’s not every day that I have a woman so overtly compliment me—stares, I am accustomed to, but not words. Not since I was a teenager and my mother’s friends would get drunk and try to seduce me at her canasta parties.

“He needs your assistance, Serena,” my guide says, tapping me on my knee. “We were hoping that you could change his karma, slightly—re-arrange the placement of the planets at his time of birth, so they would have cast their light on him to make his phallus more profound.”

My cheeks are definitely burning, now. She smiles dreamily.

“So, you want me to work my magic to change the spheres and make this man’s cock grow, is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The tip of her tongue touches her upper lip. She undoes the top button of her blouse, exposing even more bosom. They heave achingly.

“Well, I don’t have any clients coming for an hour and a half—so I’ve got time. Go ahead—erm, what’s your name?”

“Chris,” I whisper.

“Go ahead, Chris. Head into the back and take off all your clothes.”

I look at Astrelous and he nods excitedly. “Trust me, Christopher—if this is what you want, she will be able to help you.”

I honestly don’t know why I’m acquiescing. This is all so absurd. I should be home, I know—I should be getting out of the shower and checking in with Bryan regarding his exploits last night. Instead, here I stand being steadily stripped by a woman’s mind as she paws at her own breasts and cheered-on by a diminutive man in a kaleidoscopic surcoat.

Shaking a little, I lift myself off my tuffet and traipse towards the back of the shop. The lighting grows even dimmer here, so I use my fingertips to trace their way along the walls. I feel the crackling of old wallpaper under my fingerpads. The air feels thick with perfume and aromatic oils.

I arrive into a wide, candlelit chamber with a massage table set up in the center—a white sheet draped across it. I remove my sneakers, jeans, and to—and hop onto the table. The air feels electric; I feel my arm and chest hairs standing on end, and my skin tingles. I am conspicuously aware of my breath—it feels deeper, more robust. As if I am breathing more fully than I am used to.

The woman arrives in the doorway. She smiles at me and casually removes one earring after another, her head cocking to each side. She sets them on a countertop on the far side of the room, beside a sink. She washes and drys her hands and turns to face me.

“Do you know who I am?” she asks in a voice that sounds like midnight.

“I believe Astrelous called you Serena—is that right?”

She smiles wider. “But do you know who I am?” she repeats herself. I’m feeling embarrassed—am I not hearing her or not answering correctly?

She takes a few strides towards me, further unbuttoning her white shirt to reveal a lacy, black brazier underneath.

“I am the goddess of the dawn. The bringer and taker of fortunes. I am the guardian of the wanderers, the lost, and the forgotten. I am the protector of in-between spaces, the places of change and unknowing. I control the fates of these things—I am the purveyor of that which is in flux. And so do you, Christopher—do you wish me to change something for you?”

She is so close to me, now. Her lips are inching towards mine—plump and supple. Her bosoms are practically spilling out of her bra, copious as they are.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, I would.”

She licks her lip again. “Then, you need to name your desire.”

“To be bigger—my cock. To make it as big as you can make it.”

Her eyebrows rise toward her obsidian hairline. “Is that so? Well, I will do what I can. But first, you need to make me an offering.”

“Wh—what kind of offering?” I ask, my lips trembling as they linger only a finger’s breadth away from hers.

“You need to offer me some of your life-force.”

Sharp, polished fingernails tickle the periphery of my foreskin. I feel my cockhead engorging, lengthening. She wraps her fingers around my mast and slowly begins to stroke.

This isn’t any sort of normal handjob—it feels as if electricity is pulsing out of her hand and into my manhood. Thousands upon thousands of neurons are firing—tingling my nether-bits, stimulating them into full arousal and beyond.

My cock feels long and hot in her grip. She rubs some fragrant oil into my skin and pumps harder. I have left my body—I am flying through sun-streaked clouds miles overhead—I am ebullient. What little part of my consciousness is still inside my body has clamped my other hand firmly onto the table top to keep me upright—I could easily collapse, topple over. My eyes—which no longer feel like my eyes—watch her pull a small dish from under the massage table and hold it under my urethra. She’s milking me harder—and I am climbing higher into the stratosphere.

I don’t know if it’s seconds or hours that pass by—but I feel deep rolls of orgasm roiling in my perineum. My cock is throbbing, and I am cumming. Glob after gooey glob of man milk rushes out of me and into the bronze dish she holds. I fill it with more semen than I think I have ever produced in my life—my whole body is shuddering uncontrollably. On a scale of one to ten, this orgasm is a seventeen.

After minutes of uncontrollably spasming—and what must have been a dozen or more spurts of semen—I feel myself coming down. I see her mascara’d eyes looking at me approvingly. Her fingernails brush over my cheek with tenderness, as she turns from me and approaches a shelf opposite of the sink. My cock is still throbbing and hard.

She opens a round box and stares inside. Turning around, she asks, “Are you sure this is what you want? Once this change is made, it cannot be undone. It will be as if you’ve always lived your life this way.”

I feel an echo of that pulsing hunger in my gut that I experienced last night—that immense need to be more hung. With the greatest certainty I’ve ever known, I confidently say, “Yes.”

She nods and pours my sexual fluids into the box she is holding. Suddenly, the world goes dark. I vaguely sense my body hitting the tabletop before my conscious mind spins into blackness.

I stand in a smoke-filled room. It’s like that penultimate scene in the Harry Potter films where the protagonist stands with Dumbledore in a misty train station that resembles King’s Cross. I somehow remember that when Rowling was writing the books, she didn’t actually mean King’s Cross—she was picturing another train depot in her mind and she gave the wrong name.

I don’t know why I am thinking about that now. The room is swirling in fog, and I only see the vaguest outlines of shapes in the periphery. I hold up my hand—it looks luminous. I seem to be glowing.

I take one step forward, and the noise of my foot hitting the pavement ricochets through the space like a gunshot. The air quivers.

I stop—and smell what seems to be rose petals. Fragrant, fresh—newly crushed. And then, in the distance before me, a shape emerges. Dark at first, the figure moves closer and becomes more discernible. Part of me wants to run—but I stay. I am curious.

It’s a woman, I can tell by her outline. As she steps closer, I see that she is naked. Broad, wide hips of golden skin. Round, full breasts that seem gravitationally impossible—they’re so wide and buoyant—they move like Jell-O on springs. She has long, dark hair curling down to the middle of her back. A small waist and an overflowing bush. As she walks, I can see meaty labia dangling between her thighs—they must be enormous for me to see them so clearly from here.

She has a lascivious smile on her perfect face. She appears timeless—both youthful and mature at the same time. Her arms are long and willowy.

Without a word, she comes up to me and grabs my cock with one hand. I try to speak, but she holds up a manicured finger to my lips and smiles. She is, unquestionably, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—it’s as if a horny teenage boy had drawn her.

She pulls on my tumescent manhood and kneels before me. Putting it into her mouth, she begins to move her tongue around my glans and gently suck. I’ve had quite a few blowjobs in my life, but this one is instantly the best. I would have thought she had a dozen tongues, the way she kneads and massages my knob. I am actually seeing stars, I am in such ecstasy. My feet are lifting off the ground, and I am floating midair. This is not a metaphor—I am actually flying as she sucks me off.

A cascade of fireworks is exploding within me. A fire is burning, threatening to erupt out of my skin. I never knew I could feel this way. She is sliding her hand up and down my shaft—and I look down and am astounded to see that it appears unusually long. Her mouth is wrapped around my head, but I still somehow have enough length for her to fit both her hands around my length, with room for a few more. As she sucks, I am floating further away from her, but my cock still stays in her grasp—a leash extending out.

I reach the point of excitement where I would ordinarily cum, but my orgasm just keeps climbing. I feel like I am about to burst. She releases her lips from around my inflated, bulbous cockhead and slides my otherworldly-sized phallus down to her vagina.

Her pussy is wet and dripping. Strands of clear fluid descend from her beautiful lips. She pulls me into her as a thirsty person gulping water. She wraps herself around my flesh—and my orgasm climbs higher. I feel myself throbbing—her gripping me with her insides. Bigger yet, I grow. She slides herself down repeatedly on my meaty shaft. Her eyes roll back in her head and lightning dances around us. We float higher into the misty sky, rotating and fucking. I still keep thinking that I’m about to cum, but nothing happens. Higher we ascend. This is a mountain with no valley on the other side.

She continues to thrust onto my enormous poll—both of our bodies quiver uncontrollably. Her mouth drops open in silent euphoria. There is a light passing between us that is so bright and brilliant that I am practically blinded. I close my eyes, and feel her fingertips wrap around my arms.

Finally, I erupt.

I awake in my bed and immediately recognize that the color the light is too orange. It’s evidently late in the afternoon—and I cannot remember the last time I slept so far into the day. What was I doing last night that would justify my somnolence? My mind feels foggy, lethargic. Like a car engine that doesn’t want to turn over.

My hand reaches out for the nightstand beside me and feel for my watch. It takes a few fumbles, but I finally grasp it in my paw. It feels wrong in my hand—too heavy and cold. My detachable watch face is usually adhered to cheep, worn leather. This watch is metal and thick—cool to my touch.

My bleary eyes blink to discern the time. My sheets feel too soft, too. Not the well-washed cotton I had purchased from Target eight years ago. These are silky, Egyptian, high thread-count sort of things.

The watch says five pm. Sheesh! I slept through most of the afternoon. I only have a moment to recognize that thought about the passing of time before I’m distracted by my watch. It isn’t mine—where did it come from? It’s got a fancy designer name inscribed across its face. Not a watch I could ever afford. Did someone leave it here?

I swivel my head toward the center of my room. And it’s still my room—but things are… off. There are high-end-looking clothes I’ve never seen before. My cheap PC has been replaced with a souped-up Mac with dual screens. A sleek racing bike leans against one wall. Where did all this stuff come from, I wonder wearily?

I don’t have long to ponder. Bryan gently taps his knuckles on my already ajar door and doesn’t pause before stepping in. He stands there in his boxer shorts, his curved pecs gleaming in the afternoon sun. I immediately feel my belly lurch and my member start to swell.

“Hey, Kong. You’re up finally?”

I rub my eyes. “Yeah. God, I don’t know why I’m so tired.”

He crosses his thick arms in front of his torso and smirks.

“Well, I do. You kept those two, hot blonds squealing until seven in the morning. Thank God that I’m a heavy sleeper. The way you kept them going, you probably kept the whole apartment building awake.”

“I… uh, I did?”

I rub my palms together. They feel hot. Sweaty. I’d just been using them on two women? I feel like I would have remembered.

“Anyhow, they left their numbers for you,” he says, holding up to Post-It notes. “Want me to add them to the pile?”

“What pile?” I ask, sitting up. I feel a heavy thud land between my thighs as I upright myself. I get the distinct feeling that there is something unusually large in my boxer shorts—but right now is not the moment to investigate in front of my roommate.

“You’re out of it, huh?” he says, smiling again. He crosses over to my desk and tosses the colored scraps of paper on top of a small pile of other Post-Its.

I don’t understand. I carefully stand on to my feet—my head feels like its spinning several stories above me. What the hell happened to me last night? I’m normally never like this. I uncoil myself and stand tall—my legs are too heavy, wooden. And, speaking of heavy, there is an uncommon sensation of pulling happening down in my nether regions. I go to reach for it, and my foot slips—sending me crashing down onto one knee.

“Whoa, Kong. You all right there?” Bryan asks, reaching for me.

My shin stings—but I notice for the first time what he’s now twice called me.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” I ask.

“Calling you what?”

“Kong,” I say, righting myself back to standing.

He looks confused. “Everyone calls you that.”

“But my name is Chris,” I say, feeling stupid, like I’m not getting the joke.

“Yeah, but everyone calls you Kong.”

I must look dazed and confused—because Bryan seems to be pitying me. He lays it out. “Kong. Donkey Kong. Everyone knows that you’re the dude with the donkey dick. So we call you Kong. It’s been your nickname since you were seventeen, and the boys at Boy Scout camp found out what you were packing.”

“I…” I am speechless. The monster between my legs thickens even more. He seems to notice.

“Ah, you’ve probably got a cam show to do now, don’t you? I won’t disturb you.” He gestures toward my dual computer screens. “I’ve got to run anyway…I’ve got a date, and I’ve got to go all the way out into the fuckin’ burbs for it. She’s so worth it though, man—an eleven out of ten. Tits out to here,” he says, holding his arms more than a foot away from his chest. “Can’t show you to her, though—because we know what’ll happen,” he says, laughing.

He pats me on the shoulder, and then—blindingly fast—he taps me on the dick. Without further remarks, he exits from my room, shutting the door behind me.

I am so confused. My roommate calls me “Kong” because of my “donkey dick,” I have a bedroom full of fancy shit, and I have a cam show that I’m supposed to be doing? And more pressingly, I seem to have an enormous semi ballooning in my boxer shorts.

I stumble over to my computer chair and take a seat. A tremendously prodigious dong slips out of my boxer leg and onto the plastic beneath me. Fuck. It looks so thick and long. That is definitely not my penis as I remember it.

I pull it further out of my shorts…and boy is it mammoth. It’s reaching full hardness now… and damn! He wasn’t joking. I really am the proud owner of a legitimate donkey dong.

I notice a tape measurer crunched up on my desk. Do I measure myself during these cam shows to flaunt my size, I wonder? I must. Why else would I keep a fabric tailor’s strip on my desk.

I measure my length first. Whoa. Eight and three-quarter inches. That’s… that’s intense. It’s a legitimately huge dick. Reaching the tailor’s tape around my shaft… six and a half inches. Whoa. I am… huge. No other way to say it. I am a fucking hung stud.

Gripping my meaty manhood with one hand and marveling at how amazing it feels to stroke, I fire up my computer with the other. On my desktop, Chaturbate is left open. I navigate to my profile and quickly discover that I have over ninety-thousand fans. Holy shit. I must do this a ton! I flip open another screen and pull open my bank account. Sure enough—there are a whole lot more zeros in there than I remember there being. Like, I don’t need to worry about paying rent anymore. I don’t need to worry about paying rent for the next four years, in fact.

Holy crap. What the fuck happened to me? I hear the front door close—Bryan must have just left. I stagger out of my wheely chair and head toward my door—my massive manmeat swaying heavily side to side with each step. I feel the reverberations of his heaviness each time my heal strikes wood.

I head into the kitchen—suddenly hungry and thinking that maybe things will be clearer if I eat some breakfast and drink coffee. And I almost somersault in surprise when I realize that there is a man standing by the front door. And it’s not Bryan.

“Ah, you’re finally up!” the short man in a metallic coat cries. “I was worried that you’d sleep through the entire afternoon, and we’d miss our next appointment.”

My heart is pounding rapidly. Who is he? What is he doing here? Where did he come from?

He doesn’t seem to be surprised by my confusion. He rushes up to me, spins me around, and pushes me back toward my room.

“Hurry up. Get some clothes on. Serena took too much time with you, and we need to hurry if we are going to make both other stops before nightfall.”

I let him push me—a spark of recognition is burning in the back of my brain. I know this man. How do I know him?

He ushers me in and throws a silky, black t-shirt and a pair of jeans at me. I catch them and effortlessly pull them on. My enormous phallus doesn’t easily fit, but I bash him in. As I button the last button of my fly—memory finally catches flame, and I remember.

“Sir Astrelous! It’s you…I’ve been—” It all flashes back. The wishing star. The trip to Serena’s shop. Fucking that woman in the train station.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he cries, flitting his hands about, encouraging me to hurry. “Serena’s powers rewrite history—so it often takes time for the mortals at the center of it all to remember the way things were before she intervened. The other two people you’re going to meet aren’t the same—they will make alterations within the fabric of this time, this reality. But yes, good, you remember who I am. It could have taken much longer.”

I pause with my shirt halfway down my abs. “So… all this stuff, my nickname, my dick… it’s as if it’s always been this way?”

“As if it were the way you were born, yes. You’ll eventually have to rediscover how people treat you. For some people, it’ll have made no difference—for others, it’ll be quite the change.” He motions to the pile of small papers on my desk, “As you already see, you have quite the expanded list of romantic suitors.”

Well, I’ll be struck dumb. She did it. Serena actually did what she promised. I am now the proud owner of a heftily enlarged member—and my life has been made different from the experience. Apparently, I’m a lot more popular in this reality.

I strive to glimpse, to recall the way my world used to be—how things were different. But my memories feel like grains of sand slipping between my fingers. I can tell that before too long, I too will forget that I was ever any different than I am now. This is my new truth—it is the way things always have been.

“Hurry up! If you still want to get bigger…there’s two more stops we need to make. And these aren’t going to be as easy.”

“Why? What do you mean?” I pull my shirt down and jam my feet into flip flops. I notice their logos. Prada… fancy.

“Serena had a shop in this city—Orion and Sarin do not. So we are going to have to travel by starlight to get there.” I follow him out into the kitchen. He pulls a small, clear, cylindrical device from one of his many pockets. “You’re going to want to close your eyes. And be prepared to vomit—this is distinctly uncomfortable for mortals… especially the first time you do it.”

He reaches an arm around the small of my back and pulls me close. The top of his head comes up to the bottom of my chest.

“Are you ready?” I am confused, but I nod. “Then here we go.” He flicks the device in almost an indiscernible pattern. The next thing I sense, I am dissolving. Spinning into starlight. I feel the molecules of my body forced into what feels like a black hole. I become infinitesimally small—almost the size of a single atom. And suddenly, we are gone. We just blinked out of existence.

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