Slowly, my eyes drift open. I’m staring up at a plain white ceiling crisscrossed by pipes, electrical wiring, and fluorescent lights. I try to sit up, but I’m unable to. My entire body feels relaxed—like it’s still half-asleep. I try to turn my head to one side, but I can’t do that, either. All I can do is move my eyes. All I can see is the ceiling.
I start to panic. Why can’t I move? What happened? Did I have an accident? Was I hit by a car while out on my jog? Am I in a hospital? No—hospital ceilings don’t look so… industrial. And they don’t smell musty like this. Where am I?
“Ah, you’re awake. Good.” The voice that says this is somewhere to my right, just out of my eyesight. I hear footsteps approach, and, soon enough, a man appears. He looks to be in his mid-forties, with weathered good looks and dark brown hair cropped short. He’s in dark jeans and a black tank top which shows off two very nice-looking arms. My eyes linger on them briefly before I remember myself. I look up to find him grinning at me, and my face flushes. I go back to staring at the ceiling and decide he’s not a doctor.
He moves closer to me. He seems to be studying my torso intently. He raises a gloved hand and prods me gently in the stomach. I can’t see his touch, but I can feel it on my bare skin.
Someone must have taken off my shirt.
He looks into my eyes, and the grin is back. “Have you nothing to say?” he asks.
Up until this point I hadn’t even thought about speaking. I try to ask him where I am, but I can’t move my lips.
His expression softens. “Of course—how stupid of me. The paralysis hasn’t worn off yet.” He looks from my face up to the ceiling. “Perhaps you’d like a better view.” He strides quickly along the table, past my head, somewhere out of my limited field of vision. I hear a few beeps, and my torso begins to rise upward. Apparently I’m on some kind of mechanical lounge chair. As I’m raised up, I can see more and more of the room. It doesn’t get any better than the ceiling. Everything is bare white walls, wires, and pipes. There’s a large machine in the corner, whirring away. It looks like it popped out of a 1960’s sci-fi movie. A series of tubes and wires lead from it to my table, where—once again—they pass outside of my sight. There’s nothing else on this side of the room that I can see. No doors, no windows, nothing.
I shift my focus to myself. Someone took off my shoes and socks. My feet lie helplessly on the end of whatever I’m on. It looks like a stainless-steel table. I examine my legs. They’re as nicely shaped as ever. (I try to stay fit—and am successful, if I may say so. I was attracted to the man’s arms, not envious.) I can’t see any signs of injury, but I also can’t see anything more than a couple inches above my knees.
“My, but you are beautiful,” the man says, moving back into the picture. Shocked, I stare at him. He smiles at me. “I’ve been admiring you for a while, you know. You run past my house at six almost every day, just like clockwork.” His eyes drift, tracing every muscle of my body. He licks his lips. I would tense up, but I’m still paralyzed. I need to get out of here. I try, desperately, to move some part of my body—to make some noise—anything!
But I fail.
As if sensing my panic, possibly from the rapid movement of my eyes, the man takes a step closer. He leans forward and regards me with affection. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t hurt you. In fact, I’m sure there are some who would kill to be in your exact position right now.” I can only stare at him in response. Unfazed, he continues. “You see, I’m a genetic engineer. More specifically, I’m an expert in regenerative science—that is, how bodies regrow lost limbs and things like that.”
He’s almost as shocked as I am at this small vocalization. “Marvelous,” he says. “Your body is recovering much faster than I ever could have expected. Unfortunately, this means some adjustments must be made.” He turns back to the invisible control panel and presses another button. Two metal restraints slide out of the table to either side of my ankles and noiselessly slip around them. I feel similar sensations around my wrists, wherever they are. I am now pinned to the table.
“Wuh…t,” I say. God, I sound like I’ve been drinking novocaine!
“What… are… you… going to do… to me?” Each word is a struggle and slightly slurred, but I make myself understood.
He laughs. The humor of the situation escapes me. He slides both of his gloves off, one at a time. His eyes shimmer. “I’m going to pleasure you like you’ve never been pleasured before.”
As the man moves towards the end of the metal table, I feel both fear and arousal. A part of me wants the police to burst through the door I know must be behind me immediately, but another part of me wants them to wait another thirty minutes or so. Regardless of my feelings, though, I can do nothing but watch.
The man walks down to my feet. He gently lays his hands upon them and begins to massage them. His hands are warm and slightly calloused. They feel nice—strong, but gentle. I catch a soft moan before it escapes my lips and silently curse myself. I know I should be more freaked out by this man’s actions! I blame my mild arousal on the drugs floating around in my system, then I settle back into the wonderful massage I’m receiving.
He suddenly crouches down and presses his face against my soles, rubbing them against his stubble. This time I do moan. The man moans, too. “You have no idea what’s coming,” he says, still cradling my feet against his face. “I’m so excited.” He kisses each foot lovingly, then he stands back up and takes a step around the table to my left. He runs his hands along my left leg, pausing briefly at my thigh, massaging the muscle there. He leans down and kisses it. Then he runs his tongue along the each groove from my knee to my waist, caressing my inner and outer thigh with his hands as he does so. (This alerts me to the fact that my running shorts have been removed as well.)
At this point I expect him to reach over and touch my penis, but he doesn’t even get close. Instead, he continues with his tongue along my abs, licking the groove between each as if it were filled with honey. His hands work the area just below my pecs and to either side, tracing the outlines of each muscle. He then runs his hands up across my armpits and along my biceps (my arms must be extended above my head) and settles his face in the groove between my pecs. He inhales deeply and rubs his stubble gently up and down. I can smell cedar in his hair. His calloused palms continue to knead my arms like warm dough.
Through all of this, I’m barely keeping control of myself. I’ve long since lost the will or the means to prevent an erection. I can feel all eight inches of myself standing proud somewhere beyond the man’s body, begging—throbbing—for attention. I focus all of my will on keeping my mouth shut. I refuse to moan again. I’m successful, too—barely—although his hands against the underside and sides of my pecs felt especially good.
He lifts his face and looks into my eyes. “Here we go,” he whispers.
I have just enough time to wonder whether he’ll go for my cock now when he rises slightly and returns his hands to the undersides of my pecs. He slowly rubs the spaces there, where each firm muscle meets the rib cage. Back and forth, his fingertips glide. Back and forth. Each slow stroke sends shivers through me, electrifying my chest with an expectancy I’ve never felt before. I don’t know what it means.
He moves his electrifying touch to the outer edges of my pecs, repeating the same number of strokes before bringing his fingers around to my upper chest. He then gently caresses my upper chest in circles with his fingertips, just below my collarbone, brushing my skin so gently that it almost feels like feathers. The circles he traces gradually move downward, leaving nothing but desire in their wake.
I close my eyes, relishing the sensation. I’ve had my fair share of experience with sex, but I’ve never felt anything like this before. Slowly the man’s fingers inch closer to my nipples, and each newly-traced circle brings with it some new sensation of pleasure—of impatience. My nipples are hard—I didn’t even know my nipples could get hard. Before now I had always thought of them as nothing but small, pink disruptions in the otherwise uniformly-colored expanse of my chest.
But now they feel different. They call out for attention. They need his touch. I need his touch. I need him to rub them and pinch them. I need it bad.
He stops. I open my eyes and look up at him more eagerly than I’d like to admit. If possible, his expression is almost as needy as my own. He’s staring at my chest intently, breathing quickly. His fingertips are still pressed into the muscle there.
“Wh—” I begin.
“Shh,” he interrupts, never moving his gaze from my pecs. “Focus on the feelings in your chest. Can you feel it? Close your eyes and feel it.”
Obediently, I close my eyes again and focus on my pecs. They feel warm and big—like I’m experiencing the best pump of my life. I can feel his fingertips pressing against the muscle gently, and I imagine sexual energy moving from those fingers into my chest, invigorating the muscles beneath. My nipples especially feel this energy, seemingly growing even harder. I feel the man remove his fingers from my chest, but the energy continues to increase. My mouth opens slightly, and my breathing speeds up. I furrow my brow. What is this sensation? It feels like something inside me is building up—getting ready to…
“Yes. That’s it. Try to flex now. That may help.”
Immediately I try to flex my pecs. They’re still mostly paralyzed, but the attempt does appear to do something. The warmth inside my pecs increases, faster now, focusing more towards my hardened nipples, swirling there. Each small pink nub is the center of a hurricane. “Please,” I moan, all willpower lost, “I need you to touch them.”
“No. Keep flexing. Trust me.”
I do as he says, too lost now in growing pleasure to even remember that he’s holding me captive, latched to a table in some unknown room. I flex, harder and harder. Each flex seems to decrease the paralysis slightly. Each flex feels a little better—a little warmer—a little more concentrated on my nipples. My nipples themselves are practically screaming for attention now. They feel harder than I ever could have imagined. And bigger. The growing pleasure emanating from them makes them feel enormous—long and bulging—pulsing—seemingly pulling on the rest of my chest with their heavy weight.
I flex. I flex and I flex over and over again until I no longer know where I am or who I am. All I know is this need to be touched. If someone asks me to trade my soul for one brief brush of a finger against each nipple, I will agree instantly—if I can even understand language in this frenzied state.
Finally, I can feel some kind of peak approaching. Grunting, I flex my pecs harder than I ever have before. My elbows rise off the table. My wrists strain against their restraints. My abs contract into a street of smooth cobblestones. My biceps bulge; my thighs bulge. Everything bulges. I feel as if I’m trying to bench press a million pounds.
I hold the flex for what seems like an eternity before all of the energy in my chest seems to draw in on itself at once, running through my nipples like an electric bolt of the most complete pleasure I’ve ever felt.
I grunt and collapse back against the metal table, gasping for air, utterly spent. My nipples still feel enormous and hard—still beg for attention—and my chest still feels warm, but I can’t flex any more, and I instinctively know doing so would accomplish nothing.
I open my eyes and look up at the man. “Please,” I cry, “I can’t anymore. Please touch them.”
The man cannot remove his gaze from my chest. “I will in a moment, my dear boy. First, though, just let me look at them.” His eyes hold a look of awe and wonder.
Confused, helpless, I try to look at my chest. I’m almost too exhausted to lift my head, but the paralysis has eased off substantially, and I manage to do so.
What I see shocks me almost as much as it thrills me to my very core. My nipples have grown—if they can even be called nipples any more. Each small pink nub has somehow elongated and thickened incredibly. Each now appears to be at least eight inches long and six inches around at their widest. They are thicker near the base, then taper slightly before flaring out again. Each is also capped in something which looks like it could have once been the nipple itself—a sort of mushroom cap with flared edges perched on top of the nipple shaft.
It takes me only a moment to realize each of my nipples now looks exactly like my penis.
“Do you like them?” the man asks, obviously in awe of them himself.
I am at a loss for words. The realization that the man could see them—that they weren’t some lucid fantasy—that they were real—brings me to a new level of excitement. I try to reach down and grab them—to feel their pulsing reality—but my arms are still restrained. I look desperately up at the man, but he is still enraptured.
I am about to beg for him to release me when he moves. Slowly, he raises his right hand, his arm trembling with excitement. My breathing quickens as his hand approaches what used to be my left nipple. As it eases closer, my breath comes shallower. Eagerly, I strain to pivot myself, trying to bring my nipple closer to his grasp. It begs to be touched. It begs for release. They both do.
I can’t even imagine what fulfilling these needs will entail.
Finally, after an eternity of expectation, the man’s index finger comes into contact with my nipple just under the head. The pleasure is so intense my eyes roll back into my head and I groan. The man groans, too, and brushes his lone finger along what is normally the frenulum of a penis. Instinctively I flex my left pectoral hard and rub myself up against his fingertip. The contact brings even more pleasure.
Panting now, and almost delirious with lust and excitement, I beg him to do more—to use his entire hand—both hands—his mouth—anything.
In reply, he brings his left hand up and draws it slowly nearer to my right nipple. I watch as it approaches, groaning and whining, lost to all but the expectation.
His left index finger makes contact.
It feels even better the second time, if that’s possible. My body is positively awash in pleasure. Perhaps my nipples are linked somehow, creating more sensation when touched together than either can alone.
The man simultaneously rubs each frenulum in a circular motion. My eyes roll back into my head, and I gasp.
Gently—ever so gently—the man eases each of his hands entirely around its respective nipple. He closes them, and I am lost in waves and waves of intense eroticism. The pleasure is unbearable—more than I’ve ever experienced, whether because my nipples are closer to my brain than my cock, or because there are two of them, or because the man amplified the sensation in my nipples along with their size.
The man slides his hands down, pulling my nipples’ foreskins down, stretching them out. Oh my God, they have foreskins. I’ve always wanted a foreskin, and now I have two! The man slides his hands back up, bringing along with my new foreskins so much pleasure and heat and sexual energy that I almost explode.
He repeats the stroke a second time—a third time—and still I can see no end in sight. Still, with all this pleasure, I feel no closer to release—to some kind of end. I shudder when I think of what the end will be. In desperation, I begin flexing my pecs again, but this only seems to increase the pleasure without end.
This is impossible. My nipples are penises. My nipples have foreskins. I have three penises. I am getting a double hand job, and my dick, hard and dripping down below, isn’t even involved!
I am sweating profusely. I feel my back slipping on the metal table beneath me. I feel precum dripping down my cock, coating my stomach and balls.
I feel precum coming out of my nipples, now, too. The man makes sure to catch it all with his hands, rubbing it into my nipples with each loving stroke—up, slowly, from the base of the nipple protruding from my pec… up to the head… then down, slowly, to the base again. My God, precum. What else can my nipples do now? Can they…? I writhe against my restraints, desperate for freedom so that I can help the man with his ministrations.
“Easy,” he says softly between his own pants. “The end is approaching. Can’t you feel it?” He continues to stroke my nipples slowly. Too slowly. It’s unbearable.
And now I can feel it. Somewhere, amidst the endless cascades of pleasure and desire, an itch is growing. It rises in my groin and each pec simultaneously, working its way up my dick from base to tip, and working its way through my quivering pectorals in the same spiral motion as before, centering on my pulsing nipples, rising up through them as through my throbbing penis.
With each second, the itch increases. I know what’s coming, and I can’t fathom it. How could I possibly feel more pleasure than I already am?
“I’m—” I pant, flexing my chest with every stroke of the man’s slightly-calloused hands.
“That’s it,” he encourages, picking up his pace now.
I gasp at this increase in tempo. My entire body is on fire with ecstasy. The itch in my cock has nearly peaked, as has the itch in each of my nipples. I moan and I whimper. I writhe with joy. I cannot control myself. “I’m—!” I gasp, barely audible.
“Yes!” he cries, stroking up and down, up and down, faster and faster.
“I’m coming!” I cry. The pleasure builds in one final massive crescendo before peaking at an impossible level. The sensation is too incredible. No human mind has ever conceived of such pleasure. I cannot describe it with words. The pressure—the pleasure—rises quickly through my cock and my nipples, one enormous three-part orgasm.
And then I’m screaming as cum is blasting out of my cock, all over my abs. I’m screaming as cum is blasting out of my nipples, splattering all over my torso and face—all over the man—all over everything.
I’m screaming with the most intense pleasure any man has ever experienced.
And then I pass out.
I awake some time later. Because the light in the basement has remained constant, I can’t be sure how long I’ve slept. I crane my head to either side, trying to see the man who calls himself an “engineer.”
I am unsuccessful. I can’t see anything else besides the bare white walls and the large whirring machine in front of me. Whatever else is down here, it’s far enough behind me that I can’t see it from my place strapped to the hard metal table.
Somewhere, another machine whirs to life. I have only seconds to wonder what the sound means. What new eroticism has the engineer prepared? My cock twitches.
Then a gentle breeze blows across my bare skin. It’s only the air conditioning. I chuckle and look up. I can see the vent set into the ceiling to my right. The cool air chills me slightly. It feels good as it runs across my torso. Very good. I moan involuntarily. My nipples begin to harden.
Everything comes back to me in a rush. My eyes grow wide and I glance down at my chest. There, where each nipple should be, is an amply-sized penis, lolling from one side to the other as blood flows into it, hardening it. Already I can see they’re half hard, nearing six inches in length and almost three inches around. I flex my chest involuntarily, causing each penis to jump and fill with more blood.
I try to grab them with my hands, but the restraints keep my arms and hands pinned to the table. I’d forgotten about my restraints. I moan in frustration as my nipple cocks reach full hardness. Their foreskins slip back, revealing perfect, sensitive heads. They pull forward on my chest with their weight, pulsing with need.
As if realizing it’s being left out, my original cock begins to harden as well. Somehow the idea that some of my three cocks can be hard while the others are soft turns me on even more. I haven’t ever had to worry about coordinating my cocks before. I’m so turned on I begin to think I might cum without any physical stimulation at all. That would be so hot.
A chair creaks somewhere behind me. ”You’re awake.” It’s the engineer. I hear him stand and walk towards me.
“Please,” I beg, remembering his prior ministrations. ”They need to be touched.” I arch my back, thrusting my chest into the air. A single drop of precum appears at the tip of each cock, glistening in the harsh fluorescent light. I don’t care anymore that I’ve been kidnapped—that I’m strapped to a table like a human guinea pig. I’ll spend the rest of my life here in this basement if it means I can feel his hands—any hands—anything—on my nipple cocks again. The lust they create in me overpowers me. Perhaps my sexual needs increase with every additional cock? Whatever. I don’t care. I don’t about anything as long as I can feel flesh against flesh, rubbing and sliding.
The man walks into my view. He is wearing the same outfit, but I can find no trace of my cum on him. I must have been asleep at least long enough for him to clean up. ”Please,” I say again, almost panting.
“Not just yet,” he says, smiling. ”But if you’ll be patient, you’ll be able to pleasure yourself soon enough.” His eyes sparkle behind his glasses. I can tell he’s almost as excited as me at the prospect of a self-administered double hand-job. Maybe he’ll even touch my original penis at the same time. So much pleasure from three separate sources at once. My mind reels at the thought.
The engineer pads softly to the foot of the table and runs a hand up my thigh towards my dick. He pauses for a moment, then touches my balls. He prods them gently, watching them roll in response, then he slips a few fingers beneath them, between my legs, and hefts my balls in his hand. ”Yes,” he mumbles to himself, “they have expanded to meet demand, just as I’d anticipated.”
“What?” I ask. His fingers feel very nice down there. Very warm.
He looks up at me and smiles. ”Your testicles have grown to supply the semen required by three penises. They needed to meet your body’s increased demands.” His grin widens. ”They’ll grow much more before we’re through.”
I know what he says can only mean one thing. I moan again and close my eyes. I am trapped. Helpless. I can only wait—can only anticipate. How many cocks will I have when he’s finally through with me? And where will they be?
I can feel precum dripping down all three of my cocks now. I wonder if it tastes different at each source? Probably not, if it’s all coming from the same two testicles. But how is it getting to my chest?
I feel his hands on both my nipple cocks, and I inhale sharply. It feels even more incredible than I remember. I open my eyes and watch as he slides his firm grip up and down each hard rod a couple times, spreading the precum around evenly with his strong, warm fingers. Each movement he makes brings me closer to another orgasm. I can feel the pleasure growing to an inevitable peak throughout my entire chest. I know it will only be seconds before I cum.
I can’t wait.
Then he stops. He releases my nipple cocks. They pulse gently with pleasure, pumping more precum out into the open, begging to be touched again. They’re driving me wild. They don’t know I can’t answer their calls. I turn my gaze quickly from them to the engineer, ready to beg for him to bring me to climax.
He speaks quietly, like a professor to a struggling student: ”The semen is pumped through a series of specialized veins. These veins grow just beneath the skin. Can you see them?” He presses a finger against my chest, just below my right nipple cock, and runs it lightly down to my abs. In the hard fluorescent light I can just make out the bulge of the vein he is tracing—a vein I’ve never seen before. He brings his finger up and runs it along the same stretch of vein again, and now I realize I can feel the vein pulsing slightly, delivering a steady supply of precum to the large, plump tube of flesh which used to be my right nipple.
“I can feel it,” I tell him excitedly.
“Yes. The veins, besides delivering semen, also connect the nervous systems of your various cocks. This increases the pleasure you feel exponentially, but it also makes it very hard to ejaculate from only one penis at a time. There will usually be a cascading effect. You have already experienced this.”
I nod. I look forward to experimenting—to masturbating only one penis and experiencing orgasm and ejaculation in all three. I can feel my heart speed up and my breathing quicken.
He studies my body for another moment. I shift slightly, presenting myself to him, not ashamed at all by my need, only hoping he’ll take the bait.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he moves back to the area behind me and begins pressing buttons. I hear his voice from above me: ”Last time I could administer the necessary drugs and chemicals while you were unconscious. I am afraid this time you may feel a slight sting. Don’t worry.” He chuckles. ”It will be worth it.” I hear a click somewhere near my right ear, then I feel a cold object press against my right bicep. ”Here we go,” the engineer says. I can hear the excitement in his voice. I’m excited, too.
I hear another click and feel something prick my arm. The pain lasts only a moment.
“Because of your state of arousal—and because your body is now already used to the drug’s processes—you should experience the transformation momentarily.”
I’m breathing even faster now—almost gasping. ”Where?” I ask.
“Can you feel it? Can you guess?”
I concentrate as much as my incredible arousal will allow, trying to determine any changes. My three cocks gently bob up and down with each breath, leaking another dollop of salty nectar at each head with each pulse of my new semen vein network.
I moan with excited arousal.
And then I feel it.
In my tongue.
I moan again and writhe as the realization washes over me.
“You’ve guessed, then,” he says between his own sharp breaths. ”You can feel it coming—growing.”
I twist my body against my restraints, unable to control myself. I’m panting. I can feel my tongue thickening slowly, losing some of its maneuverability in my mouth. It pulses gently with pleasure as it slides against my teeth and along the insides of my mouth.
“I can feel it,” I groan. ”I can feel it growing.” The sounds are muffled, as if I’m talking with a mouth full of food—or cock, rather. The very act of speaking is incredibly arousing, causing my sensitive tongue to jostle and slide around my mouth and through my full lips, as if receiving an involuntary blowjob.
But wait—why involuntary? In a sudden flash of insight, I know I can give myself a voluntary blow job. I don’t even have to move anything besides my tongue itself! At long last, I can pleasure myself, despite my bindings. This must be what the engineer meant! I begin sliding my tongue in and out of my mouth, through my encircling lips. It feels much rounder and fuller now, every second growing more like a cock than a tongue. The end flares a little now as well, like a cock head. I pull it deep inside my warm, moist mouth, then push it back out, running it along my lips in a way which sends shivers down my spine.
In and out, in and out. I can feel the now-firm root of my tongue in the back of my mouth, gliding down my throat. It never blocks my airway, but it does rub constantly against the soft, wet lining of my throat. It feels incredible. My entire mouth and portions of my face are practically pulsing with pleasure. The pleasure causes me to vocalize constantly, with each new moan, groan, and grunt sending intense, pleasurable vibrations through my tongue.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop. How will I be able to function in the real world, now? Will I ever be able to speak? How will I be able to leave the house when I am constantly sliding a perfect, engorged cock in and out of my own mouth in a never-ending cycle of pleasure and orgasm?
Who cares? This feeling is all that matters. My tongue penis is all that matters.
I moan loudly. My tongue is now a penis. I can feel its full head and thick shaft with my lips. Its fleshy surface is slightly more soft and wet than my other cocks’—perfect for its permanent home in my mouth.
Suddenly, my mouth is filled with the erotic taste of my own slightly salty precum, meaning the engineer’s pleasure veins have worked their way from my tongue down into my testicles and my tongue has developed its own independent urethra.
I keep working my tongue in and out of my mouth, experimenting with different lip configurations. Trying to twist and bend my new cock—as I used to twist and bend my tongue—now meets with too much resistance to allow me to form words, but the very attempt at bending creates a new kind of pleasure somewhere deep inside my tongue. I quickly add this new technique to my self-sucking arsenal, resulting, along with the sliding and vibrating, in more pleasure than I ever could have imagined. Something about my tongue cock’s proximity to my brain must increase the pleasure tenfold. I can barely even see straight.
A new change comes over my tongue now. The outer layer of it separates, forming a loose sleeve over my inner tongue. This new sleeve has much more give and slowly increases in length, creating what I quickly realize is a foreskin sheath for my new cockhead.
My tongue has a foreskin. How is this even possible? And how is it so incredibly arousing? I pump my new foreskin in and out of my mouth. It feels so pliant and smooth—like slippery wet velvet.
I nestle my cock tongue back in my mouth and shut my lips. Then, slowly, I press my tongue through my lips, applying just enough suction to keep my new foreskin inside. I see stars. Somehow, in the previous couple seconds, my tongue’s cockhead and frenulum must have increased in sensitivity, perhaps thanks to the appearance of the foreskin.
I slowly retract my cock tongue until all but the head is back inside my mouth. Precum oozes slowly onto my lips and down the side of my face. Then, ever so slowly, I push my cock tongue back out into the open, manipulating the foreskin with my lips as I go.
Finally, I push my new cock out as far as I can, knowing before I even look that it’s sticking out several inches from my mouth, with more still rubbing around inside my mouth, enticing the rest back inside with promises of warm, moist, caressing skin.
I look down at my tongue.
It’s definitely a cock. It’s a perfect cock. I can tell it has completed its transformation. Beyond it, I can see my two nipple cocks. I’d been so wrapped up in blowjob heaven that I’d forgotten about them. They—along with my original cock—are impossibly hard, still dutifully pumping out steady streams of precum. I can feel it dripping off my torso and pooling onto the metal table underneath me.
Almost unconsciously I suck my tongue cock back into my mouth and push it back out again. Oh, God, the unfathomable pleasure of it!
In and out, in and out, always finding new ways to tease myself, bringing myself again and again to new heights of ecstasy. How long before I cum? I feel so good. I can’t imagine not having cum already, and yet I haven’t. How much farther up into space can I go? How much more pleasure will I experience before I finally climax with whatever super-orgasm is coming?
I don’t care. I don’t care if I ever orgasm. This feels too good. I run my tongue cock along the insides of my cheeks, biting gently down with my teeth, scraping exquisitely against the sensitive skin near the head. Each pang of pleasure feels as good as any orgasm—or, at least, any orgasm I’d had up until today.
Something moves to my right. It’s the engineer! I’d entirely forgotten about him. He moves to the edge of the table near my head, then he slowly bends forward until our faces are mere inches apart. I look deep into his eyes, quietly thanking him for this gift. He nods in understanding, not wishing to disturb the mood with words. Then he brings one arm across my torso, careful not to touch my two engorged nipples, and braces himself on either side of the metal table. I spend a brief moment admiring again his muscular arms as revealed by his dark tank top. His biceps and triceps bulge. I can see forests of dark hair hidden deep within his armpits, as perfect as anything I’ve ever seen. I can feel my desire for his body increasing with every moment.
The engineer lowers himself down slowly until his lips are only separated from mine by a hair’s breadth. I can feel his hot breath on my face, can see the shadow of stubble across his rugged jaw. He is breathing as quickly as I am, obviously aroused at my tongue’s recent transformation.
He opens his mouth, extends his tongue slightly, and runs it across my lips, teasing me. I understand and slowly extend my own tongue from the sensual safety of my mouth.
The head of my tongue cock exits my mouth and enters his, rubbing along his velvety tongue and lips as it goes. I moan at the sensation, adding a pleasurable vibration to the experience. French kissing has taken on a whole new meaning.
He begins giving my tongue a blow job, licking, sucking, quickly proving he knows much more than me about oral ministrations. I kiss him back as well as I can with my lips. I can’t bend my tongue anymore, but I continue attempting to twist and bend it for the attempt’s inherent pleasure.
I pump my tongue in and out of my own mouth and his, passing through two sets of lips, feeling his own tongue teasing the underside of my cock, then licking around the foreskin. I thrust deeply, only stopping when I rub against the delicious back of his throat.
He moans and sucks harder.
The vibration and sudden increase in suction make me moan, too.
Then I can feel it. I can feel it finally coming.
I whimper, writhing in my restraints. The orgasm is building somewhere inside my mouth, rising higher and higher. Somewhere, distantly, I’m aware of matching sensations in my chest and between my legs. One of my movements brushes my right nipple against the engineer’s arm, grazing it with his arm hair. I can’t think. I gasp at the sensation which travels like a bolt of lightning through my chest. I can’t keep my mouth shut around my cock any longer or I know I’ll faint. The engineer doesn’t move his arm, and I continue brushing my right nipple against it in slow motions back and forth.
The added sensation kicks the pleasure into an even higher gear. I’m coming. There’s no stopping it.
The engineer, sensing the impending orgasm, increases his speed and suction.
I groan. I pump my tongue cock in and out of his mouth, rub my nipple cock back and forth across his arm.
It builds. It builds. Where will it stop?
I vocalize involuntarily—something between a sigh and a whine. Distantly, I realize I am no longer in control of myself.
The engineer moans again. He sucks on my tongue’s foreskin and teases its urethra, lapping up the increased flow of precum being pumped out.
I reach the peak.
I scream, and all at once I’m pumping cum through my tongue and into his mouth. The feeling in indescribable. Every pump causes my tongue to spasm and jerk forward, deeper into his mouth. I can feel him swallowing my cum as fast as it gushes out, working my tongue cock’s head with his throat muscles in the process, milking me for all I’m worth.
The incredible feeling of orgasm travels down my throat and branches out into my chest. It reaches each of my nipple cocks, which subsequently emit waves of intense pleasure and orgasm themselves. I scream again. They feel impossibly good. Ten times better than they felt not so long ago. My right nipple especially burns with pleasure. It feels like it must be exploding.
The cum from my chest shoots up into the air and rains back down on us, splattering us both with the physical manifestation of my pleasure. Each pectoral muscle and nipple spasms again and again like delicious electric fire. Again and again I shoot from my tongue and nipples.
Then I can feel the pleasure shoot from each nipple down my abs and into my groin, and my original cock also orgasms, spraying the engineer’s torso with more cum and sending cascading waves of pleasure back up my body to my nipples and tongue.
For a brief moment I am cumming through four separate cocks. Four cocks. I know nobody has ever felt this much pure ecstatic bliss before. I feel as if I have almost entered some new plane of existence. I can feel it just beyond my grasp, calling to me through the endless pleasure.
Then, with a final jerk, my tongue ceases its movements. Soon my nipple and original cocks also stop their movements.
I gasp again and again for air, momentarily stunned, unable to comprehend my new existence.
The engineer slowly releases my tongue cock from his mouth, slurping an sucking as he goes, sending a few final shivers through me.
Rising, he swallows the last of my tongue’s cum and wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. He is covered in cum. I am covered in cum. The table is covered in cum. I can feel it sliding around beneath my back.
The engineer smiles and says, “I will allow you a moment of respite while I clean up. Then we shall move on to the next stage.”
My mind, still numb with the impossible pleasure of it all, fails to understand his words. My body does understand, however. And it quivers with anticipation.