Zack checked the time on his smartphone and swore to himself. He looked up, glowering briefly at the stopped traffic in front of him and, further ahead, the overturned semi that was blocking the highway for the foreseeable future, certainly for the rest of the darkening October afternoon. The only difference between the turnpike and a parking lot right now was that parking lots have a way out.
Why had he decided to keep on living at home again, and not move into campus housing? Suddenly living his whole life at school, nights as well as days, seemed a whole lot better than living half his life in the car.
He glanced back at his phone. Travis was going to be online soon, if he wasn’t already, and he’d be looking for Zack’s text. Zack felt a flush of anticipation and licked his lips.
He looked around one more time, frowning balefully at the half mile of stopped traffic penning him ahead, behind, and in the lanes on either side. He leaned a bit out of his open window, but couldn’t see much more, certainly no hope of a imminent resolution.
Someone two cars ahead had gotten out of his beat-up old red Honda and crawled up on his own hood to stretch out.
Zack eyed the unreachable shoulder wistfully. He couldn’t even pull off the road to do this.
His cock was already hard in his jeans. He adjusted it with the heel of his right hand so that it lay pulsing along his hip.
He cursed mindlessly and, sparing a last glance at the returned his attention fully to his own phone, and, breathing out roughly, began composing a text with his long, nimble thumbs, muttering the same words to himself as he did so—a bad habit he’d developed when he’d first started texting ages ago. “Hey T, how’s it hanging?”
One heartbeat thumped, then another. A reply popped up before his heart could measure a third beat. Just seeing it made Zack’s hard cock flex involuntarily.
The reply said: “Bigger.” Then, a follow up to spell it out: “It’s hanging bigger.” Zack could almost smell Travis’s amazement, and his worry.
Zack licked his lips again. He replied quickly: “Again?”
The response was immediate. “Fuck yeah again.” Then: “Every day. It grows every day dude.”
Zack gasped as his cock jerked violently against the constraints of his tight, faded old jeans. He pushed against it with the heel of his hand again without thinking, still keeping the phone in both hands, thumbs ready to converse.
Zack took a second to consider his next response. Escalate, carefully. He texted quickly: “I bet it’s not ‘hanging’ then.”
“No dude,” came the reply so quickly it seemed instantaneous. Then: “It’s hard for you.”
This was the key to Zack’s conversations with Travis. They didn’t know each other in real life. They’d met via private chat on a site devoted to gay male body transformations, Travis initially sending him a blind hello because he’d liked some of Zack’s posts in the forum about fantasies of muscle and cock growth. They’d chatted, first via IM, then texting by phone, and once, awkwardly, by voice—Travis was too nervous to role play on the phone, but he was great at it by text, and after the phone conversation they’d gotten past their mutual guardedness enough to share pictures and real names. Now with images to form the baselines of their chat fantasies, they’d embarked on a new and fertile phase of getting each other off. They’d both blown quite a few loads over their shared imaginings.
But suddenly, about a month ago, a few weeks into Zack’s new semester, Travis had disappeared—he stopped initiating wild growth fantasy texting sessions, and in fact he hadn’t posted any comments at all on the site, or any of the other sites Zack knew Travis also frequented. Zack emailed him once, just to say he hoped everything was okay, but he was conscious of the difference between virtual fuckbuddies and actual friends and didn’t pursue it. Then ten days ago Travis had started texting him again.
They sounded like the stuff of a continuous role play: Travis said his cock was growing, without explanation. Growing every day, without fail, without slowing down. He said Zack was the only one he could talk to about it—but talking about it was, well, stimulating, too. They chatted at 5 p.m. every day without fail, and every time Zack blew a huge load with very little help from his hands (which were busy thumb-typing anyway).
Zack wasn’t supposed to take any of it seriously, of course. He was supposed to think it was just another role play, only spread out over days instead of minutes to up the ante.
But Zack knew better.
He’d always been able to tell whether someone was telling him the truth. When he was ten and his kid brother told him the dog had broken his favorite Transformer, he knew Justin was lying, and felt sorry for him. When the stern social studies teacher in high school announced that he’d graded their quizzes but accidentally left them at home, Zack knew Mr. Quinn was lying, and laughed out loud in class, earning a sharp look from Quinn and amazed glances from his classmates. When Travis sent a pic of himself and it was of a sandy-haired, dimpled 19-year-old boy who was too cute for words, Zack had known it was nonetheless exactly what Travis looked like in real life.
And when Travis started telling him that his wet, thick, throbbing boner had suddenly started unaccountably, relentlessly growing a solid half an inch every day, Zack had known he was telling the truth. This was no fantasy role play, not this time. And Zack had started to become obsessed.
For the tenth time Zack nearly typed that he wanted pictures, that he wanted to go to him in real life and see this tower of flesh. But somehow Zack sensed that he couldn’t break the pretense. Travis was confiding in Zack only because he was sure Zack thought it was another hot role-play. Zack was afraid that if Travis realized his cover story, that it was all fantasy, were blown Travis would vanish again, terrified of being thought a freak. He could tell Travis was getting scared, but he was keeping that out of his confidings to Zack in order to keep up the RP pretense.
Zack thought that Travis might bolt anyway soon, if the growth kept up, and he needed to be sure he could find Travis before that happened. Because he wanted, yearned, to see this huge cock, to see it grow if (as it seemed) it kept on growing without any sign of slowing down or stopping, and—if he were honest with himself—to see if whatever had happened to Travis could, somehow, be made to happen again. To him.
At that thought, never far from the surface of his mind, Zack’s cock flexed and surged mightily in his jeans. He realized he hadn’t replied back and it had been a few seconds. Bad sexting etiquette. “I wish I could see it,” he texted honestly. “Touch it. Put my mouth around it…”
“Me too!” came the eager reply after a moment. “It’s so big now I actually need another hand.”
Zack shuddered from toes to scalp at that. His too-hard cock jerked and thrashed, wanting out, wanting Travis’s hot imagined hole.
“Are you sucking it?” Zack texted, and swallowed. If they’d been on the phone Zack would have said it in a hushed voice.
A pause, then: “Yeah,” Travis admitted. “All the time now.” A beat, then: “Can’t stop.”
Oh god. It was not much of an exaggeration, Zack knew. He panted, and strangely, as he considered his response, he was unexpectedly aware of his nipples. They were hard and sensitive, and his mind was momentarily full of them, poking out from his flushed obsessive-swimmer pecs and rubbing against the tee shirt that stretched tight across them.
Zack was breathing heavily, his face and body flushed and stimulated. He was trying to come up with a reply that would convey just how aroused he was when Travis texted again. “I found a morph online that looks kind of like how big it’s gotten,” it read.
Before Zack had finished registering that this was a lie and mouthing oh shit to himself the picture Travis had sent was opening on his phone.
When it was fully loaded Zack stared at it, mouth open, literally drooling. It was a snap from a laptop web cam, showing a naked, well-proportioned young man leaning back in a desk chair, the frame showing from just below the knees to just above the chin. And dominating the image was a cock so huge that no one but Zack would ever believe it was not a morph, but in fact an honest-to-god pic of his sexting partner Travis and his impossible cock.
Just the thickness—it was clearly as wide as a Snapple bottle and, though flatter front-to-back, was almost as thick—would have anyone looking for realistic cock pics scoffing and lovers of cock growth sure they could see the pixels. But what really made the pic destined for morph sites only was the length. It was topping out halfway up the anonymous stud’s (i.e., Travis’s) sternum, the top third or so even wider than the rest, before topping out with a luscious cock-head that seemed just a bit small, like the muscle-overwhelmed faces in those drawings made by artists whose specialty was planet-sized pecs and legs the size of mountains.
Zack, his heart now pounding harder than he’d ever known it to, was suddenly aware that a new pic was loading, and before he could brace himself for what he knew had to be an ante up from that pic he was looking at a pic that, while still framed to avoid showing the face, showed Travis’s mouth bent down enough to lick the back of his towering glans with a long, red tongue.
The image slammed him in the libido and his body writhed, and then he was blasting a huge load, cumming violently with his whole body.
“Hey! Buddy!” shouted a voice. Jarringly Zack remembered where he was. The shouts were coming from a cop striding angrily toward him down the broken white painted line between the lanes. In a second he was bending down at Zack’s window, looming over him. Zack, still shuddering from his orgasm, watched unnerved as the cop, from behind dark sunglasses, seemed to take in first the image on Zack’s phone, then the huge dark stain under Zack’s right jeans pocket.
“Put your freaky porn away and start moving,” the cop growled, but in an undertone, as if he wasn’t so big a jerk as to broadcast what Zack had been up to to the other drivers. The cop jerked his head forward and Zack saw with a start that the lane in front of him was empty for about three cars’ lengths, and the cars on either side of him were slowly moving forward. Up ahead more cops were guiding traffic around the accident where enough space had been cleared for a car to get by. They were alternating lanes, and Zack was screwing everyone up. Cars behind him were honking, probably had been for a few moments.
Zack started to speak up to the cop who’d barked at him and apologize, but he was already moving back to his post, glancing over his shoulder at him. Zack waved instead and put the car in gear, pulling forward with a jerk. He felt weirdly exhilarated that he’d been caught getting off, by a cop, in the middle of hundreds of people, as he’d been virtually clubbed in the face by a massive telephone pole of a cock twice the size of anything he’d seen in real life.
But it was real. Zack, as he pulled around the overturned semi trailer (even that—its size, its length, its thickness—reminded Zack of Travis’s cock, to his own amusement), knew he needed that pole in his hands, needed to feel it as it got a tiny bit bigger with each passing moment, with every heartbeat in Zack’s yearning chest. Nothing else mattered to Zack now but finding his online friend Travis and worshipping his phenomenal, growing cock.
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