Tell me about my boner

By BRK  Patreon Contact Page Twitter
2 parts
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• Latest update: 9 November. Next update: 23 November. (Submissions welcome.)

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• Latest from BRK: “Pool party”, Parts 1‑2.

Part 1

I must have been frowning my confusion as I signed for the package, because when I looked up the wiry, bald-by-choice UPS delivery guy was giving me a sympathetic smile. “You’ll remember it once you open it,” he said.

“Happens a lot, I take it?” I asked, returning the smile. I got a fair number of packages, mostly for work, and we’d exchanged a few words over the three months or so he’d had this route. Seemed friendly.

“People forgetting they ordered something? All the time,” he said, like he’d seen every reaction to getting a package there could ever be. What kind of weirdos did he have to deal with in his line of work? I was so glad my job let me work in my own little world, unaffected by just how strange people can be.

I nodded, telling him to have a nice rest of his day, and then went back into my little house, looking the package over doubtfully. It was a heavy, padded envelope, maybe ten inches by fifteen and a couple inches thick, and its white Tyvek surface was, apart from the shipping label, devoid of markings, logos, or any other clues as to its contents. Even the label had more info about me than it did the sender. The return address was someplace called MTS Fulfillments, situated in an industrial park in Denver. I shook my head, staring at it, but no epiphany occurred. The name meant nothing to me. That was definitely my particulars on the recipient side of the label, though. So what the heck had I ordered?

Bringing the package to my dining room table, I found a sharp pair of scissors and sliced open the flap. When I pulled out the contents, I laughed as it all came back to me. One night I’d been up casually working my mostly-hard dick toward a serious beat-off session, halfway into a second glass of Merlot, when I’d noticed a picture in my Twitter feed of this cocky-hot dirty-blond buff tough wearing a tee-shirt that read “Ask Me About My Boner”. I’d thought it was pretty funny and kinda hot at the time, and as I’d sat there lingering on the image in my feed I’d had a sudden impulse to chase it down and buy one of my own. The other guys at my new programming job had been trying to get me to dress down like them for weeks. I always wore slacks and button-up Oxfords (no tie, though) out of respect for the job, and they were all worn-jeans-and-funny-tee-shirt types, and lately they’d been wearing me down. I was starting to come around to the idea that maybe I could show the higher-ups how important my work was to me without buttoned-down collars and permanent press. Plus I didn’t want to alienate myself from the team and start getting left out of stuff because I was the nerdy one in a group of coders, for Pete’s sake. Well, I thought with a smirk as I stroked myself, if they wanted funny tee shirts, they were going to get funny tee shirts. I opened a new tab and started Googling, thinking about the awe my sartorial audacity would get when I walked in wearing a tee shirt like that.

As I clicked around my imagination started focusing on the possible reactions of one teammate in particular. Thatcher. He was an old-money type, the kind of guy you figured probably had Roman numerals at the end of his name just from the quality ofd his skin tone and the way he moved through the world like he owned it; he looked like a guy who modeled tuxedos and perfume by day and played something rough and uninhibited at night like rugby or MMA fighting, and sailed on weekends—something small that took real skill and physical strength and dexterity to manage. I’d seen him looking at me with a glint in his blueberry-blue eyes and a quirk of his wine-dark lips, more than one letting his penetrating gaze drop to the tease of chest hair exposed by the open collars of my dark, saturated-color broadcloth dress shirts. Maybe he thought a hairy chest was a sign I might be as manly as him, and as long as we only met in the private world of my fantasies there was no way to disabuse him of the notion. Even our work schedule was a turn-on; I worked from home three days out of five, so I had two days where I went in to work nervous/excited about seeing him and five days where I could toy with him in my head in the privacy of my second bedroom. Now I imagined us together in the office—there was no one else around, and half the lights were off for some reason—and he was offering me this coy, approving smile (very sexy) as he took in the writing on my tee shirt. Only, when I looked down, the writing didn’t say “Ask Me About My Boner”—it said “Tell Me About My Boner”. My brain had already realized what I wanted, and it wasn’t for me to talk about my dick to Thatcher—it was for Thatcher to talk about my dick to me.

So I’d shifted gears and started looking for that inscription instead. No dice. I started looking up custom tee shirt places, and most either had a minimum count or were too pricey just for one tee. I decided to bag all of this as a fun diversion and head over to my favorite hardcore video site, but as I was closing tabs I found one was open to a tee shirt place I hadn’t price-checked yet. The site was pretty minimal, mainly just the business name, “Magical Tee Shirts”, in a jaunty font across the top and a form below for an instant quote. I typed in my preferred version of the wording one-handed, fully hard by now as I thought about Thatcher taking up the suggestion with a smoldering, brash half-smile and a dangerous expression, entered my shirt size and the other info, and clicked submit. The price was about half the best one-off quote I’d gotten, so I stared at it, slowly stroking my average-sized stiffy as I considered. I took a quick drink of wine, then clicked “OK” as resolutely as I could. I keyed in my payment and shipping info on the next screen, and as soon as I clicked the final “OK” the tab suddenly closed, all by itself. I’d briefly wondered if my order had gone through, but… see, when I get turned on and really hard, my brain pretty much empties of anything that doesn’t have to do with sex. It’s like those Viking berserkers who see red and can think of nothing but fighting and mayhem the moment they set foot on the battlefield, except for me it’s not a world of blood but a world of heat, stimulation, sex, rigid cocks, and geysering cum.

I forgot all about it until the moment I opened the mysterious package and pulled out a plastic-wrapped, custom tee-shirt with clean white lettering on thick, thirsty-looking midnight blue cotton. The letters, I confirmed, spelled out my very own provocative imperative: “Tell Me About My Boner”.


I washed the shirt and put it away in my drawer, and that’s when things started to get a little strange. Somehow it always seemed to be on top in the drawer, and I was always almost grabbing it to pull on and then realizing which shirt it was and putting it back, blushing a little at the thought of actually wearing something that explicit to the bank, or at Target, or (god forbid) to work on an in-office day. The boldness you can imagine yourself capable of in the privacy of a late-night stroke session usually stays right there, in your imagination, or at least it does for me. I almost felt bad for the shirt, like I’d conjured it into existence only to consign it perpetually to my drawer. It seemed to want to be worn.

One day about two weeks after receiving the package I was in the canned goods aisle at the local supermarket a few blocks from my little house, standing in front of the tomatoes next to my mostly empty cart and mulling over making a pot of chili, when a saucy male voice said, “Wouldn’t I have to see it first?”

I glanced up in surprise to see a short-ish, olive-skinned gymnast-build muscle boy in skinny jeans and a body-hugging white tee shirt smirking amiably at me. He had straight black hair with a bit of product to poof it up even on a mid-morning grocery run, and his basket—his shopping basket, I mean—contained, no lie, nothing but a big package of thick, coiled kielbasa.

Actually, judging by the bulge in those dark, tight jeans, his other basket probably contained a hefty bit of hot Italian sausage as well.

I gave him a puzzled look. He nodded toward my chest. I glanced down at myself and was astonished and slightly dismayed to see that I was, in fact, wearing The Shirt. I’d thought I’d grabbed a random brick-red tee from my drawer before heading out to the store (I have a few), but… I couldn’t believe I’d been so careless. All of a sudden it was like there was a a big, bright spotlight on my dick, and I was half expecting to see that my heavy, dark-blue knock-around jeans had abruptly sprouted big, flashing arrows pointing directly at my crotch.

I slowly looked up at kielbasa boy, blushing. He was waiting for an answer, so I shrugged. His bright eyes were eating me up, though, and something about all the attention galvanized something in me, and I had a moment of cautious recklessness. “You, uh, can guess if you want,” I said haltingly, barely believing I was actually saying stuff like that aloud even as it came out of my mouth.

His hazel eyes met mine, and I could see he’d accepted my words as a challenge. “Weeelllll,” he said, drawing out the word as he slowly raked his eyes down my torso to my crotch. “You’re kinda tall and lanky,” he judged, fully embracing the opportunity I’d given him to talk about dick. “And everyone knows what that means.”

“Oh yeah?” I responded. I was feeling kind of drawn into the conversation and had half forgotten where we were. I wanted to hear more. “What does that mean?”

His eyes met mine again, intense and excited. “It means you’re big as fuck,” he announced quietly, biting his lower lip as he let his imagination loose. He was into this game, like he did this all the time. “You’re way huge, aren’t you? Twelve inches and super hard, right? No, bigger,” he said with a slow grin, escalating before I could say anything. Okay, maybe he was less of a professional cock-estimator and more of a professional cock fantasizer. “And as thick as my wrist,” he persisted, eyes glinting. “C’mon, am I close?”

I blinked at him and gasped a little, because… because… okay, something very strange was happening in my groin. My dick was changing. Thickening. Morphing. My mostly flaccid sausage was swelling in my boxer-briefs, and not because it was driving itself to erection but because it was unspooling from some hidden, endless source of cockflesh, some secret universe of dick. It was inching longer and fatter with every heartbeat, and I was momentarily stunned brainless. I couldn’t wrap my head around it just then, but I still knew what was happening. My once-average, cut prick was in that moment rapidly inflating to become a dick twice the size of any I’d ever seen in real life, especially when looking down at myself. And from the flush of heat I was feeling thanks to all this attention and this sudden onslaught of intense dirty talk about unnaturally big and fat erections, I was starting to think it wouldn’t be staying soft for long.

Kielbasa-boy took my shocked expression as confirmation he’d guessed right. “I knew it—you’re huge,” he said triumphantly, taking a half-step closer. He was almost all the way into his own fantasy now, the one starring his own version of me, the lanky, implausibly hung nerd at the Associated. His voice lowered, becoming sultry and insistent. “You’re so huge you suck yourself off every day, don’t you?” he said in a quiet, rough tone. His eyes widened and lost focus just a little, like he was picturing exactly what he was describing. Peeping in on my morning autofellatio. Jesus, he was going to bone me up and make that thing rip free of my jeans if he kept talking. “Fuck, man, you just pop your big, thick, fourteen-inch cock right in your mouth all the time because it’s right there and it’s so delic—”

There you are,” another voice said. I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and saw that we’d been joined by a slim, loose-limbed and fairly relaxed-looking dude, taller than my monster-cock-obsessed interlocutor and a bit younger-looking even with a full blond beard, his cut-off shorts highlighting his tight waist and exposing firm, hairy legs below. He favored his friend with an indulgent smile. “Have you been pestering this unfortunate—” His eyes drifted to me and immediately homed in on what must by now have been an obscenely large bulge in my jeans—I didn’t dare look down to see just how out of hand things had gotten. Perhaps literally. “Well, obviously not too unfortunate,” he corrected himself politely, raising his eyes reluctantly to meet mine. He wrapped an arm around the muscle-boy’s shoulders. “I’d say I can’t take him anywhere,” he added, eyeing my shirt with a curve of his lips, “but you did kind of ask for it.”

I swallowed. I was mortified, confused, and turned on, all at the same time, which was in itself even more confusing. I wanted to ask myself what the fuck was going on, but I knew. I knew. Even if my steel-trap rational brain hadn’t already worked it out, Beardy McBoyfriend had basically just told me. I felt kind of pale all of a sudden, and I couldn’t figure out of that was just from how unreal all this was and how overwhelmed I felt, or if all the blood in my body was draining into my suddenly enormous and desperate-to-be-boned monster wang.

Undo. There had to be an undo. How the fuck did I Ctrl-Z this clusterfuck?

I offered the boyfriend a weak smile. “You want to have a go?” I offered, nodding down at my shirt. “You look like you’d be more… uh, realistic than your friend,” I suggested. So lame. I was trying desperately to guide him into saying something like, “Hey, yeah, I’m sure you have an average-sized boner”, or, okay, “above-average-sized” was acceptable too, but this was not a conversational scenario anyone on Earth could possibly have been prepared for.

The boyfriend shook his head and offered me a crooked grin. “Dude,” he said, “if that bulge is any indication, you’ve got the biggest boner I’ve ever seen and then some.”

I stared at him for just a second, and somewhere in my head the words please let him only have seen average-sized dicks… please let him only have seen average-sized or slightly above average sized dicks… But nothing seemed to be retreating downstairs. The edit menu on my dick must have had a fucking grayed out “Can’t Undo” at the top. If anything my new monster tool plumped and flexed a little, and as if feeling its power the two of them looked down again and just stared at it. I blushed hot and red across my cheeks and hung my head, hoping my reactions came across as just being a kinda shy guy who happened to have an enormous prick. “Okay, well, it was nice meeting you,” I said hurriedly. I was taught to be polite, so I gave each of them a quick smile and started to turn away.

Before I could grab to my cart and slip out of this surreality, though, the muscle boy turned to his boyfriend and said, “You know…”

“No,” the boyfriend said immediately, though his rejection seemed more one of exasperation than of annoyance, like his insatiable size queen lover was always dragging him toward new sexual adventures and he felt like he had to be the sensible one.

“But babe, a guy that size, you know one mouth blowing him won’t be nearly enough,” insatiable size queen lover pressed.

Even as he was saying the words something in my brain murmured a shocked, He’s right, you know—and fuck, I was getting hard for real. And that was not a good thing. Either my stupid giant dick would strangle itself trying to reach its new, massive size while wrapped up in the confines of boxer-briefs and thick jeans, or it would rip through cotton and denim alike like a football team through a homecoming banner and spring to full, majestic hardness right there in front of the diced tomatoes. Either way, I had to get out of there, right that second. “Okay, gotta go,” I said hastily, and, grabbing my cart, I was out of there in seconds, the “Wait!” from the guy who’d done this to me smacking against my back and propelling me the rest of the way out of the aisle.

No sooner had I got free to the front of the store than I was instantly stymied, staring at the busy check-out lines arrayed before me like a spray of turnpike tollbooths, and it hit me all at once that there was no way in creation I could hold it together anything like long enough to pay for the romaine lettuce, black grapes, and Honey-Nut Cheerios I’d managed to drop in my cart already before my day had taken a twist into the impossible. In that moment, as I was standing there, the imagery hit me again like a tidal wave. Two mouths on a giant, fourteen-inch dick. Those guys’ mouths, hot and attentive, lathing and mouthing and licking me from either side… and, FUCK, then my mouth too came into frame, joining them eagerly from above. I shivered, hard, and my dick made a real go at ruthlessly forcing itself to full and unbelievable stiffness, like it knew there was nowhere for it to go and was past fucking caring.

I abandoned my cart like I’d sworn of groceries for life and booked it out of the store. By the time I hit the sidewalk on the other side of the parking lot I was running.

Part 2

I burst into my house and slammed the door behind me, falling against it in agony as I scrabbled to unbutton my jeans. My dick was still hulking out, and unlike Bruce Banner I was not wearing pants of the stretchy purple variety that didn’t try to bend your unbendable dick like a goddamn paperclip. It took three tries to yank down the straining zipper, then I tried shoving the jeans down only to bite back a cry as my almost totally hard dick got caught under the waistband and tried to snap off. Panting and flushed, I freed it with shaking hands and dropped trou at last, leaving me in snug gray boxer-briefs that were already damp around the tip of the impossible tool straining at the soft cotton, still not done expanding even though it already jutted obscenely past my hip like I was trying to smuggle one of those steering wheel club things in my shorts, only in a jumbo, four-inch-wide heavy-duty version, like for monster trucks or something. My heart was tripping, and not just because I was turned on. What the hell was happening to me.

Cautiously, I peeled my briefs off my new monster cock. Immediately it sprang free and jumped to full, steel-girder, straight-up hardness, slapping softly against my stupid, life-wrecking tee-shirt like it wanted to burrow through it and nuzzle the shallow, hairy gap between my defined but nothing special pecs. I drew in a long, shuddering breath, staring at it as it filled my vision.

It looked huge. Too huge. Wide and kind of flat, but still thick front to back, and way bigger than any dick had a right to be. Colossal. It also looked… delicious.

My mouth was watering.

My mind was racing, like my whirling thoughts were trying to keep pace with my speeding pulse. Fuck. This was—fuck, fuck fuck fuck. What the fuck was I going to do? Apart from spend the next hour tasting that beautiful dick. It would be so easy. My stomach actually growled a little. I hadn’t had anything but coffee today—I wasn’t much a break fast guy—and now my body was telling me exactly what it craved. I’d be having a fucking protein breakfast every morning from now on, starting right now.

No. This was crazy. It was too much. How would I get any work done? I took too many jerk-off breaks as it was. I already loved how good my cock felt in my hands more than was good for optimal productivity. I’d actually considered shifting to in-office full time just to curb the temptation to distract myself with a rush of hand-delivered pleasure—sometimes I even coded one-handed, which isn’t as much of a time-saver as you might think once you factored in all the trouble-shooting you had to do afterwards. And now this. I loved the taste of dick when it was someone else’s, and combining self-stimulation and cocksucking was like winning the masturbation lottery. It was too tempting. No, more than that—it was too potentially necessary. Once this beautiful, fat, sexy cock passed my lips and touched my warm, eager tongue for the first time, once my lips closed firmly around that thick, hard shaft, would I ever be able to keep my mouth off it again?

As I watched, fascinated, a new pearl of precum emerged from the thumb-wide slit. It swelled tantalizingly before slipping slowly down the side of the fat, red, and already slicked cockhead. My fat, red, slicked-up cockhead. This thing was mine. It wanted me, and I wanted it.

I licked my lips. I was breathing deep, in and out, unable to take my eyes off it. Could I really start down this road? Could I not? Could anyone not?

I had to try it. I’d regret it if I didn’t. That’s what people said in situations like this, right? Not that there were situations like this, but I felt like I’d heard or read that line a dozen times. Mundane life, fantasy beckons, if you don’t try it you’ll regret it the rest of your life. I didn’t doubt that. I would regret it. Hell, I was already regretting not having wrapped my mouth around it the instant it leapt free from my shorts like a spring snake from a can of peanut brittle. My pulse was pounding like I was on the brink of changing every damn thing in the world. I was doing this.

I parted my lips.

Ding dong!

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Instinctively I jumped away from the door, only I’d forgotten I had my pants around my ankles and nearly face-planted on the entryway carpet, grabbing the heavy table by the door only just in time. My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to get out. Gasping, I found my voice before doorbell could ring again, which might well kill me. “No, thank you!” I yelled through the door. I sounded just a little hysterical in my ears. Shit, I was going totally off the rails today.

“UPS, I need a signature,” my delivery guy called back unflappably.

I hung my head. Marshaling what was left of my tattered inner calm, I straightened myself up and, with a sigh of resignation, reached down and pulled up first my briefs, then my jeans. I thought about trying to hide my impossible dick in my pants somehow, but that dog wouldn’t hunt—my wang was so hard it wouldn’t even move more than a centimeter or two from the vertical. Naturally, I thought. Fucking of course.

I buttoned my jeans over it with difficulty, then stared down at myself. I could just open the door like this, I thought, with my chest-high boner right there for all the world and my UPS guy to see—well, this was my life now, after all. But I just couldn’t do it. Instead I rucked up my tee shirt—the tee shirt, the one that had caused all this trouble in the first place—and hauled it back down over my giant prick. It hid, of course, exactly nothing, the shape of my palm-wide, sternum-snuggling tool obvious under the none-too-loose fabric and producing a kind of speed-bump down the middle of the cocky wording I’d thought was so sexy and daring a few weeks ago when I’d ordered it. But… well, there must have been more futile concessions to decency at some point in the human experience. Not that I could imagine any.

I opened the door, and sure enough, my UPS guy was there, a small box probably containing one of the sample components I was coding for under his arm and proffering the signature device in my direction. “Hey,” he said, “just need to sign for your…” His eyes fell to the phallic leviathan under my shirt and stuck there. “…package,” he finished distractedly.

Satan’s balls, now I was one of the weirdos on his delivery route. Fuck, he probably had an anonymous Twitter or something where he recounted the crazies he encountered on his end of the logistics process, like topless moms sunbathing on the front porch, or grampas who answer the door in clown outfits, or lanky, panicked-looking work-from-home coders with touch-hungry erections the size of a freakin’ baguette.

After a moment of staring he belatedly noticed the writing on my shirt and huffed a laugh, not looking away once from the behemoth pulsing against my torso. “Dude, I don’t think you need that to get people talking about your…” He swallowed. “Damn, I had no… just, damn.”

Wait—was this my chance? Anything was worth a shot. “Tell me it’s only average,” I told him urgently. “Or, okay, only above average. Please?” I begged.

He finally looked up at me, astonished. “Dude, are you nuts? That thing is practically at your neck!”

No, no, no! I grabbed the sides of my head with both hands. “Don’t exaggerate!” I pleaded.

“It is, dude!” the UPS guy insisted, back to ogling the sheer immensity of my rigidly erect monster dick. “I mean, just look at it!”

I didn’t have to look. I could feel it. Where before the wet head of my dick was nuzzling the lower reaches of my sternum, I could now feel its warm, firm press in the hollow above the notch my collarbone just below my throat, and fuck, it felt like it was made to fit exactly there. I groaned quietly in the back of my throat. Another half inch and it would be nosing past the collar of my tee shirt, and fuck even gestures at decency then. So much for it being worth a shot getting UPS guy to talk about it! I should have learned my lesson in the grocery story with Beardy McBoyfriend.

And he was still talking, though it sounded like it was half to himself. “So thick, man,” he was saying. It was like bedroom dirty talk, except we were standing at my front door fully clothed—not that clothing was as functional for me as it had been an hour ago. “I didn’t know they could get that thick,” he went on, relentlessly. “Damn, it’s nearly as big as my arm…”

It wasn’t, though, or—shit, it hadn’t been, because in that moment I felt the thickness start to swell up before he’d even gotten to “dude”. Automatically my gaze shifted to the delivery guy’s arm. He was lean and sinewy but very fit, like a bike nut who very begrudgingly acceded to the use of any other kind of vehicle, and though he was no bodybuilder his upper arms had to be… what, fourteen inches? Shit, whatever they were, my dick was, sure enough, officially almost that thick now—the hoodoo or whatever my shirt was working seemed to think that “nearly” meant “deduct a millimeter”. And it was a lot rounder than before on top of that, more like an actual fucking arm than my previously kinda flat, slablike giant dick had been. A side effect of this was that it now stood out even more against my shirt than it had before. Because, of course.

“Stop!” I said. I felt like it was going to explode. I was still grabbing my hair, I realized, and with an effort of will I managed to disengage my hands and lower them to my sides, though god knew they wanted to be someplace else. Maybe with some other hands to keep them company. And a mouth, or three.

UPS guy looked up, a little chagrined. “Sorry, dude,” he said, but then his lips curled and he jutted his chin slightly toward my shirt. “You did ask, though,” he added wryly.

I took the signature pad and started scrawling my name. “Yeah,” I said. “I might be burning this thing once you’re gone.” I made it sound like a joke, but it sounded like a promising possibility, even if it precluded the chance of ever getting back to normal again. I handed the pad back to him, and he took it.

“I like it,” he said genially. “Gives us normal guys an excuse to talk about it.” While I was mulling over the phrase “normal guys”, he took the small box from under his arm and handed it to me. I thought he would turn and head back to his truck like always, but he hung there a second. I blinked at him. Finally he said, “So, I know this is kind of weird, but… can I—” He hesitated a fraction of a second. I was sure he was going to say “touch it”, and whatever blood wasn’t already in my dick slipped up and warmed my cheeks. Finally he finished, “—take a picture?” He winced, hearing how weird the request sounded.

I gaped at him. “What?” I said, a little too loudly. I thought about that putative Twitter account again. Shit, did he really have one? Maybe a sexy one, with the guys on his route that gave him a woody?

He saw my alarm and raised his free hand placatingly. “I won’t share it, I promise,” he said hurriedly. “I just wanted it for—you know what, never mind,” he broke off, interrupting himself. “H-have a good day.” He turned on his heel and headed for his truck at a trot, turning once he got to it to give me one last, lingering stare before climbing behind the wheel and squealing away from my curb down the street.

I was still standing there in my doorway, stunned, and—realizing with a frisson of alarm that any moment now a neighbor might come along and tell my my dick was as big as the Washington Monument and it actually would be—I closed the door, locked it, and threw the deadbolt. The silence of the house wrapped familiarly around me.

I was alone with my neck-high, arm-thick dick.


There was no point in waiting. Moving into the bedroom I pulled off the shirt at last and tossed it spitefully into the side chair, relieved to no longer be subject to its chaotic magic. I thought again about destroying it somehow, and man, was I tempted, but even after the debacle with the UPS guy—fuck, he’d actually made it bigger!—I hadn’t quite let go of the idea that using the shirt was my only way back to a dick I could leave the house with. I’d come up with a plan… later.

I looked down, feeling a rush of need. Before, my cock had been… accessible. All I’d’ve needed to have done was just sit down and bed over, and the head would slide into my mouth. Now, though… now, it really was right there. The wide, almost fist-sized head was barely a couple inches from my lips. No sitting necessary, no bending over, no nothing.

I let out a long breath through my nose, and shivered as a felt the warm gust along the touch-desperate, extra-sensitive flesh of my unnaturally large head and shaft. Something else blossomed in me, too, a feeling of incandescent power. I could give myself more pleasure than I could ever have dreamed of, and just the idea firmed my already steel dick even more, and send another wave of giddy enjoyment through me. It didn’t help that I felt like I was boiling with hormones, like swallowing this cock was more critical to my existence than food, or exercise, or breathing.

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I licked my lips, then slowly, experimentally, I lowered my head just a bit and extended my tongue downward.

The second I made contact, brushing the tip lightly along the seam behind the slit, a huge thrill of pleasure shot through me, and I closed my eyes, drinking in the sensation. I moved my tongue slowly along the crease, sliding steadily toward the frenulum, inflamed with a warm kind of ecstasy I’d never experienced before, a pleasure that layered the stimulation of a greedy cock under my raw lust for cock. I was feeling both. I was feeling both! And, fuck, I’d only just gotten started. My tongue touched the frenulum, then curled every so slightly to trace along the underside of the head, and all at once I was already close, ready to shoot a massive load right in my own face.

And what a waste that would be, I thought, my lips curving. My pulse sped up again as I contemplated what came next.

Bending my head only a little further forward, I opened my mouth, nice and wide. I had a big one, after all. Remembering the feeling from a few moments before, I blew gently across the head and upper shaft and was rewarded with another rush of concentrated pleasure. Then I moved down and took the head of my giant cock into my hot, ready mouth.

An explosion of colossal gratification flooded all through me, and it was so intense and so sudden that all at once I was rocketing straight into a massive climax. Hurriedly I pushed myself further in, cramming the whole head and a few inches of shaft into my mouth so that I could get in as much tongue-loving as I could. Almost automatically my hands grasped the long, rigid shaft, my fingers barely touching as I registered its heat and an uncanny desire for hand, lips, and tongue that seemed to be rooted in my larger-than-before balls and roil all the way up my mighty shaft like it was made of steel and touch-craving. A few strokes, a couple of licks around the head, and I was gone. Jizz surged up my enormous shaft and pounded out the top like a gushing oil well of pure, hot spunk. My mouth quickly filled with warm, creamy cum and I pulled off myself, sputtering as I continued to shoot my enormous release, getting a face-full of it after all as I sprayed again and again, ungodly euphoria saturating my brain and every cell of my sex-loving body. I closed my eyes and started laughing at the absurdity of it and the soaring pleasure of the sudden, intense orgasm as I went on shooting, the high-intensity spurts smacking against my forehead, face, and half-open mouth as my dick jumped in wild release.

I sank to my knees on the bedroom carpet, some part of my brain making a note to get a wet rag to rub my seed out of the rug fibers, and maybe to lay out a beach towel or something before I started this again. I was still laughing softly to myself, and I let my head fall back as the spurts slowly subsided, arcing up now and splatting across my neck and shoulders and rolling thickly down to make a mess in my chest hair. I was throbbing with primal, unadulterated joy, galactic in scope and unprecedented in intensity, and I let myself bathe in the sensation for some time after my giant dick had stopped coating me in sperm.

Finally, I climbed to my feet, feeling loose-limbed and transformed. My dick, still half-hard but done for now, hung heavily from my groin, arched a little outward with the remnants of its former erection. I smiled down at it, shaking my head. “What am I going to do with you?” I asked it. It was mostly a rhetorical question, though. Because I knew. I knew what I was going to be doing with it. I’d be chasing that timeless moment of exhilarating satiation that would leave me wanting to do it again, and again, and again.


I came out of my shower, still drying my hair, to hear the familiar bouncing ringtone of a Skype call coming from the second bedroom I used as an office. Stepping in to peer at the laptop screen I saw the call was from Thatcher, and my stomach did a little flip. I’d missed a call while I was in the shower, too, so he definitely had something he wanted to go over with me.

I stared at the screen, considering. He’d be at home today, since we had the same three and two schedule, and I couldn’t help but think about how he always looked damned sexy whenever we traded video calls from home to discuss the current project—his longish hair was carefully combed and styled at the office, just like the rest of him, but he was looser and more relaxed at home, like you were getting a little more of a glimpse of the real him. I’d even caught him once without a shirt, and I was pretty sure that hadn’t been an accident.

I looked down at my heavy, colossal cock, hanging obscenely from my groin like I’d been born with Goliath’s cock instead of my own. Though now completely flaccid it was still ridiculously huge, and at the thought of a tousled, sexy, unguarded, and potentially interested Thatcher it gave a definite twitch of interest.

The ringtone ended, but he knew I’d call him back. The only question in my mind was what I’d be wearing, because for some reason I didn’t fully understand the temptation to pull on The Shirt before calling him back was so strong it was nearly irresistible.

I bit my lip, hung my head a moment, then padded back to the bedroom to retrieve the tee shirt that had changed my life, and, it seemed, was destined to keep doing so.


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