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Description After a Halloween night ambulance ride ends up at the wrong hospital, Ronnie wakes up to find discover that his removed appendix isn’t the only thing that’s different about him.

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In my defense… I thought the paramedics were just dressed as zombie ghoul things. Because, Halloween, right? As they were hauling me away in the ambulance all I could think was how cool it was the EMTs were distracting us patients from our distress by getting all made up with dark, gray-green body paint, stringy hair and swollen, bulbous noses, and what looked like shifting, grape-sized lumps under their skin in random places on their arms, necks and faces. Maybe I could have done without the oozing sores and the bloodstains on their ragged uniforms, sure, and the fake extra-pointy teeth they were wearing looked really uncomfortable, but the truth was the pain from my rupturing appendix was ripping me open and I was thrilled to have anything else to focus on.

The maniacal driving of Zombie Ghoul EMT #1 wasn’t doing me any favors, though, careening as he was through city streets like his ass was on fire. So I tried to concentrate on Zombie Ghoul EMT #2, who was hovering over me with his bloodshot eyes all wide and kinda crazed-looking. He was muttering through his bared teeth and waving his hands over the stripy red-and-white shirt of my Where’s Waldo costume (I still had on the glasses and hat, too) without, I couldn’t help but notice, actually injecting me with painkillers or anything. “So,” I gritted out to Zombie Ghoul EMT #2, “you going to eat my brains later, or is that, like, a third date kind of thing?”

Zombie Ghoul EMT #2 glared up at me briefly and, no lie, actually went “Rrrrrr!” at me through his pointy, bared teeth before going back to muttering and waving his spindly gray-green hands over my wrenching, treacherous guts. I was seriously glad he looked away so dismissively, to be honest, because when he’d glanced up at me just then was when I’d noticed for the first time that his left eye was a size larger than the other one and was kinda bulging out of his skull a little. The whites were all mapped with angry red lines and the eye was ringed in this thin, shiny goo around the edges. It looked like you could just pop his eyeballs right out of his head. My lips peeled back automatically and a queasy feeling joined the writhing agony in my deepest innards. So, him not looking at me, that was a win. Then, just as I was contemplating how excruciating it would be to start barfing in the middle of an acute appendicitis attack, Zombie Ghoul #1 took a sudden turn so hard it nearly turned the ambulance over, and the rush of pain from my guts sloshing around was so intense I pretty much blacked out.

An unguessable amount of time later I awoke in a darkened room, achy and confused. At first I thought I must be in a hospital bed and I looked around expecting to see curtains and monitors and the like, but my eyes weren’t quite working and all I could make out was a soft, magenta-tinged light coming from a tall window on the wall to my right. The window was open a crack, and the nighttime city noises seeping into the room were familiar—and so was that soft magenta light, I realized: it was from the mostly socks and hosiery clothing store across the street, H’s Big Time!, which kept its giant neon pinkish-red marquee lit up 24/7. Cool air fluttered over me, raising the hairs on my bare legs and torso, and with some surprise I registered that I was home, lying naked in my own bed, though I had no idea how I’d gotten here.

I stared up at the ceiling and tried raking my spotty memory into some kind of order. There was that awful, agonizing stab of pain that had hit me right in the middle of my army ex’s best buddy Ahmed’s brilliant blacklit Halloween rave at his west-side club, dropping me white-faced to the ground while everyone else ringed round me, a bizarre, blurry posse of Thors and Wonder Women and Pennywises and Donald Trumps all jabbering amongst themselves and waving their phones at me. I’d been pretty freaking pissed. Halloween had always been my night. The other holidays—they were about other people. But Halloween? That was the night you could revel in pure, selfish pleasure, like the demons and other hellborn creatures supposedly released on All Hallow’s Eve, only to be vanquished the next morning on the day of All Saints.

And believe you me, I needed it after a year in a shitty job in department store retail job and no boyfriends, no fuckbuddies, nothing but every guy’s most intimate pals, Porn and Hand. But that night? That night, I was resolved to have a hedonistic blast and maybe, just maybe, get myself laid for the first time in forever. The rest of my life could wait. Against all odds I’d made a good choice of costume this year, as people kept coming up to me saying “There you are!” and I’d actually had a few interesting conversations that way and even danced with a guy for a bit. All my stress was starting to unwind and I had just gotten in the swing of things and was even contemplating the merits of making a pass at the sexy, stubbly, crooked-smiling stranger in the Indiana Jones outfit who kept giving me a considering look… and then—bam! I was writhing on the floor in crippling pain being Instagrammed by assholes.

Then there was that weird ambulance ride with… EMTs in ghoul costumes? Was I remembering that right? And… the hospital had seemed disturbingly strange too, looking all run down and abandoned, at least from the woozy, half-conscious glimpses I got as the the crazed ghoul-paramedics raced me through it on a gurney. I was so out of it at that point I thought it must have been the pain delirium that had me imagining flickering lights and cobwebs across unlit corridors and red luminous eyes in the shadows, and being alone in a dark, cold operating room with a female doctor dressed as a bug…

The fact that I was home must have meant I’d had the appendectomy. I waited for the post-operative discomfort to hit me, but despite being sliced open at Beetlejuice General I was somehow feeling nothing other than the cozy, slightly stiff sensations of a long stint in bed. I didn’t have the muzzy feeling I got from anesthetic or pain-killers, either; if anything, my mind was pretty damn clear for just having woken up from who knew how long a sleep. And my body—it felt like it was thrumming with energy.

Something wasn’t quite right.

Frowning, I lifted my head slightly so that I could take a look at my belly. After an appendectomy there should have been bandages, I was sure of that, but all I could see was the gently defined recessed of my abs, crunching very slightly as I sat up further to get a better look, propping myself up on my left elbow while I reached automatically for my belly with my other hand. I slid the flats of my fingers gently up and down my ab muscles, feeling for a scar or incision, but there was nothing—though my skin seemed to tingle in appreciation of the touch, and my dick twitched, surprising me into a smile. I was a pretty sensually oriented guy, craving my own touch almost as much as that of another, but I hadn’t expected my body to be all randy and raring to go after a bout in the hospital—not that my body was betraying any evidence of one. Had the whole thing been a dream?

The lack of an incision or a scar was puzzling and unnerving, like my memories weren’t lining up with my reality. Then I remembered that my ex had had his gall bladder out laparoscopically through the navel… could the bug-woman doctor I blearily remembered have done my appendectomy that way? Now that I thought about it, I did feel a barely perceptible tug just behind my belly button, like they had indeed gone in that way and there was something tied off just under the skin.

I slid my hand down toward my tight little innie and touched it experimentally with the pad of my middle finger. I expected it it feel uncomfortable and sensitive, but instead I got a feather-light brush of pleasure. That was weird. I gave it another gentle touch, and got the same result—a faint, gossamer taste of warm, simple pleasure, like a finger’s caress along my jaw, or a graze of lips along the side of my neck. A tingle slipped up my spine, and my dick twitched again.

Drawing in a deep breath, I took the next logical step, pressing down hard with my fingertip. I expected to feel a stronger sensation of pleasure, like my navel had somehow been turned into a button set right into the middle of my belly that was marked “press here for carnal enjoyment”. What I wasn’t expecting was for my finger to shove into the navel as if the doctors who’d operated on me had just walked away without closing me up and had left a tight, puckered hole leading straight into my guts.

I would have been supremely grossed out had it not felt absolutely awesome for my finger to be penetrating this unexpected aperture. It was like the whole purpose of my navel now was for things to be shoved through it. I heard my ragged breath in the quiet room—in fact it was so quiet in my little apartment bedroom I could almost hear my dick slowly filling and getting progressive bigger and harder. It didn’t matter that there shouldn’t have been a hole there. Everything in me demanded I keep going.

I pushed in further and felt another rush of raw gratification. I’d never bottomed before—I wasn’t actually very sexually experienced—but I had gotten off while fingering myself before, and this was already feeling ten times better. Automatically, inevitably, I started pushing my middle finger further and further in, until I was down to the knuckle, my other fingers splayed across my firm, flat abs. Inside it felt hot and good, sort of like I was actually shoving my finger into my own internal organs, though it wasn’t quite like that and I was feeling things I couldn’t quite explain and didn’t want to try to figure out it my increasingly blissed out state. My navel flexed and I realized I had some muscular control down there. Tentatively I squeezed around my finger near the base and hissed from the sudden intense pleasure. I immediately did it again, harder, and felt an even bigger rush. Fuck, this felt so amazingly good. I was never going to take my finger out of my tight, hot navel-hole, never ever ever.

Then my hard, uncut cock slapped against the back of my hand, and I instantly retracted my vow.

I sat up properly now, scooching back to lean my bare shoulder-blades against the cool wall behind me, and stared at my reddened, eager cock jumping impatiently against the back of my hand where it lay spread across my belly, my longest finger pushed completely into my new navel pleasure hole. My long beautiful cock seemed to be begging me to trade places with that lucky finger, and I couldn’t think about anything else—not about how impossible this was, not about how this hole was definitely leading someplace warm and crowded that was not my own innards, not even about how my rigid, pleasure-greedy dick looked bigger than it should have in the dim, pink-tinged light. There was only one imperative in my head: fuck myself, now. Visions of pistoning my big dick hard and fast in and out of that tight, hot hole until I was shooting massive amounts of cum all over whatever wonderful space I was shoving into swamped by brain. Not only was there no way I wasn’t going to do it, if it was as soul-satisfying as I thought it would wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop—and right now, in that moment, that was as compelling a thought as the rest of it.

Slowly, relishing the gentle burn of withdrawal, I withdrew my middle finger from my navel and slid it aside. My dick instantly dropped heavy and hard against my stomach, the wide, precum-slick head now inexplicably reaching a good three or four inches past the place it was now fixated on above all other things.

I knew my dick. Long and ruler-straight, flat on top and round underneath, pale like me and prone to blush angry red around the upper reaches of the shaft, with a wide, blunt head that seeped a lot of precum and a foreskin that pulled almost completely off the glans when erect. This was unquestionably my dick, down to the signature derailed-train-like curves of the long, thin red line snaking up the flat top of the shaft a few millimeters to the right of the main veiny ridge. It was my dick, just… a few inches longer.

I couldn’t think about that now. The impossibility of my dick didn’t matter, the impossibility of the hole didn’t matter; what mattered was doing this thing, now, before I chickened out. With a slightly shaking hand I reached over wrapped my fingers one by one around the thick shaft—not for the usual reason, not this time, but simply to guide my tool into its new home. Maneuvering the iron-hard tool like a gear shift I slid it around, looking for the best entry position, while simultaneously lifting and writhing my belly just enough to line everything up. Suddenly the tip slipped into the constricted hole, and as I reflexively squeezed around it I almost shouted at the wild pleasure riffling through me from my dick and my navel hole alike. I froze, trying to get a handle on these new sensations, but my cock and my tight new hole were not having any of it, both practically shouting at me with wanton urgency for more… more… more.

Not wanting any other sensations to interfere with the purity of this moment I pulled my hand away and slowly leaned forward, letting my big, hungry dick push further and further into the hot, narrow space behind my belly-hole. Breathing hard, I gaped at how much this was unlike any level of sexual pleasure I’d ever felt before—not jerking myself, not the handful of random blowjobs I’d gotten or the couple of times I’d gotten a chance to fuck my one actual hometown boyfriend before his National Guard unit was unexpectedly activated and I was on my own again. Nothing compared… and I wasn’t even close. It was so uncanny that a sudden fear washed through me, and even though I could feel ever millimeter of my dick inside the hole, some rational part of my brain grabbed my id by the shoulders and shook it roughly, repeating over and over that I’d already figured out the space I was thrusting into wasn’t my insides—clearly the hot space with the smooth, shifting masses I was feeling on the other side wasn’t my own liver and intestines, which meant I had no idea where the fuck I was shoving my beautiful, one and only dick, and if I was wrong about this I might never fucking see it again.

In a sudden panic I pulled straight up off my dick, panting and sweaty with a tornado of emotions coursing through me, and I sat there for a moment staring at my fat, huge, quivering erection and the tiny, innocent-looking navel it is nosed itself rudely into. There was no sign of any catastrophe: my dick looked exactly the same as before, except for the fact that shoving through the hole had made the whole head and several inches of shaft damp and glistening with my streaming precum. Not only had nothing terrible happened, I now regretted having stopped even for a moment. The aching emptiness of my tight, hot belly-hole was heartbreaking, and the equally powerful tormented feeling of bereftness from my desperate, raging, sensation-addicted hard-on was just as intense. My doubts seemed to drain away like an emptying bath. It didn’t matter where this hole came from. It didn’t even matter where it meant. All that mattered to my sex-focused, lust-soaked brain was that my big, long, impossibly hard dick belonged shoved in that hole as deep as it could possibly go.

Guessing that bending over like a jacknife might not be enough, I twisted around onto my back, my butt against the reassuring coolness of the wall behind my bed, and, bending my knees, I slowly lowered my shaft into my waiting navel. I barely even needed the guidance of my hand—my dick seemed to know where to go, now—and I pulled it away as soon as the glans started to breach the restraining ring-muscle that seemed to have developed around this new, hot, and very constricted passage that seemed exactly narrow enough to force me to push my wide, rigid dick with no small amount of serious effort. Unable to help myself I cried out in pleasure as I drove my cock in deeper and deeper. Shifting my position I inched my but a bit further up the wall, forcing my cock even further into the hole, and my cry became a high-pitched whine. I squeezed my navel-muscles around my dick and felt such a rush of incredible pleasure I almost came just from that. Now firmly seated with my dick almost all the way inside the close, hot space beyond my belly-hole I paused, breathing hard. My dick was brushing up against something firm and round and hot—it felt a lot like flesh, actually. Maybe it was several somethings, because it could feel the same kinds of curved, taut surfaces pressing curiously against my erection on all sides. I should have been freaked out, but the way those surfaces were gently shifting felt like minute, loving caresses against my touch-addicted, super-sensitive cock. I would have sworn in that moment that the space my dick was in was a space designed for dicks—for my dick especially. The shifting of those firm, hot surfaces seemed to slowly increase, and I started moving my legs to drive my dick in and out, in and out, each thrust seeming to drive me a hundred times closer to the edge. In the past I’d played games with myself, trying to see how long I could prolong an orgasm, but with all this stimulation there was no way I was going to last.

I’d barely even finished thinking the words before a lightning seemed to build somewhere deep inside me. My balls seemed to tighten and churn and my dick pushed up and down with incredible speed, and then—pow! I was blasting through the most intense orgasm I could remember. I shoved my dick as far into the hole as I possibly could and sprayed volley after volley of hot jizz all over whatever dick-welcoming place I’d discovered beyond my hungry, cock-squeezing navel-hole. My chest was heaving as I tried to catch my breath. I was covered in sweat, my hair was lank, and my feet hanging helplessly over my head, and I’d never been happier in my life.

I collapsed onto my side, my still mostly hard dick slipping out of my navel with an audible pop, and I just lay there for a while, my world pleasantly spinning as my dick and belly-hole send up effusive thank-yous with a discernible undercurrent of Again! Again!

I stumbled to the shower in a happy, post-o daze, still trying not to think about things as I stepped under the water… though now that I was not actually having sex with myself there was less to inhibit the more sober and occasionally disturbing thoughts now creeping around my rational mind. The one word I was trying not to think at all costs, portal, kept trying to surface, but I kept just as relentlessly pushing it down as I soaped myself up under the warm spray. The problem with a portal, I kept trying not to think, wasn’t even that I didn’t knew where it went—the problem was that, like any other transitional passage from one space to another, a portal could go both ways. But I wasn’t letting myself think about that, and though my fingers itched with curiosity as I scrubbed stray spunk off my abs, I managed to hold back from playing with it any further.

And anyway, it was my dick that belonged in it, I told myself; and if I kept my dick in it all the time, there wouldn’t be any other possible utilization for me to even worry about. Said dick, already hardening again at the idea of another go, seemed to assent and volunteer.

Pleased by this plan, I dried myself off, changed the sweaty sheets that I might have lain in for days for all I knew, and climbed into bed. My curiosity about my unknown period of post-operative convalescence was finally whetted, though, and I checked my phone, which lay charging on the bedside table as usual. Amazingly, it was still Halloween night—or, rather, very early in the morning on November 1, All Hallow’s Day.

I fell back against my pillow, brows knitted, as I considered this. I’d been sure I’d been out of it for at least a day or so, but the whole crisis—my appendicitis attack at Ahmed’s big rave party, the ambulance ride, the weird hospital—had all been only four or five hours ago.

I ignored the pile of concerned messages from various acquaintances—most of them were only internet friends, anyway, and just texted Ahmed to let him know I was home and okay. Already feeling myself drifting rapidly toward what promised to be a very deep sleep, I set the phone aside on the table and had just enough consciousness left to guide the head of my heavy, fully re-hardened dick into its new home before I fell back into cozy blackness.

I had a few dreams, I think, but I only remembered pieces of one. I was back in the dark, cold operating room in the seemingly abandoned hospital. There were no machines, no trays of instruments, just just me lying on the operating table, trying not to pass out from agony, and a female doctor in a white coat, but no gloves or mask, dressed like a bug, though with a human, exposed face complete with lipstick and eyeliner. I wasn’t even sure what kind of bug she was: I was having trouble focusing by this point, and anyway it seemed to be shifting, like it couldn’t decide. Beetle? Ant? Praying mantis? Giant inchworm? Ugh, it was making me queasy again. Focusing on her face didn’t help, what with the way she was smirking down at me. Doctors really shouldn’t smirk.

“Oh, you’ll do,” the cicada-woman sneered. I wasn’t sure if she was sizing me up physically for something, or reaching into my brain and assessing my character and potential for whatever she had in mind. Given the turn things had taken, anything seemed possible. “You’ll do perfectly,” she repeated, as if daring me to ask what exactly I’d do for.

Whatever, Trakeena. I wasn’t having it. She couldn’t really be there. None of this was what was really happening—I had to be delirious from the pain. Only one thing mattered, anyway—making it stop. “Appendix,” I rasped.

“Yes, I’ll take care of your appendix,” Dr. Dragonfly cooed, her wings flexing restlessly behind her. “And in return, you shall serve as my conduit… the gateway into your world of something you couldn’t possibly…” Whether she trailed off then, or I passed out as a way of tuning out her monologuing, I had no idea; but that was all I remembered from the dream. Weird, right?

After a long period of restful blackness a new dream started to emerge. I was lying in my bed, still naked with the sheets again cast aside. I was warm and pricked with sweat. My rigid dick had slipped free of its cozy belly-hole, but as I lay there sleeping I felt the sensation of breaching in my navel anyway—only it was coming from the other side. Nothing moved in the cool, still night, and then, slowly, the blunt head of a thick hard-on poked through, like a timid gopher sizing up the terrain. My chest rhythmically rose and fell, but there was no other movement.

Nothing happened for a moment, and then, as if of its own volition, my right hand moved off the bed beside me. It slid over my flank and began drifting over my abdomen, homing in on my navel and the cockhead impudently protruding from it.

Perhaps sensing my approaching hand, the strange cock now pushed out further, first one inch, then another, then more, gaining boldness with each thrust. My hand opened, finger spread, and then, naturally, because that’s what hands do, it closed around the stiff, familiar shaft of the massive, trespassing erection. My hand seemed to recognize it and tightened around it in lazy, accustomed comfort.

The firm, thick shape felt at home in my hand, of course, not simply because it was a big, hard dick, but because it was the exact shape and feel of my big hard, hard dick. As I discovered when I woke to find it wasn’t a dream, and that my hand was clasped around a sweet, beautiful, keenly sensitive cock identical to my own. It was so much like my own that, as my hand shifted around it, I could actually feel it, as if it were my own. I gasped, and I knew that my hand wasn’t going anywhere.

And even though I understood that none of this was possible, even though I knew that it wasn’t my cock but could only be some kind of alien, possibly demonic, cock-creature (or something pretending to be a cock-creature) the rest of which was likely coiled and lurking in the never-never space on the other side of my belly-hole, probably one of dozens or even millions waiting to come through… well, honestly, it felt so good to touch it, so fucking amazing to squeeze it with my fist and my navel at the same time, to stroke it and to pamper it and… and… just to contemplate driving it to shoot all over my chest and abs and probably my face and the fucking wall behind me, that for the second time that night I just jettisoned all rational thought and said screw it.

No—postponed. It was just postponed, the thinking and the reasoning and all that. I could deal with that. Taking my own massive, bigger-than-it-should be boner in my other hand, I began stroking off in tandem, knowing with giddy anticipation that I was setting myself up for some of the most incredible orgasms any man had ever known.

The rest of it—portals and cock-creatures and ghoul paramedics and gloating bug-doctors? It’s Halloween, I told myself. I’ll deal with reconciling reality and supernatural in the morning. Defiantly, I slowly increased my stroke-speed, my eyes rolling back as layers of untold bliss cascaded through me.

Description After a Halloween night ambulance ride ends up at the wrong hospital, Ronnie wakes up to find discover that his removed appendix isn’t the only thing that’s different about him.

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Updated3 Nov 2018
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