by BRK

Dante is having a problem with his dick not wanting to stay hidden, and the more he tries to do about it the worse it gets.

3,790 words Added Feb 2023 10k views 4.8 stars (10 votes)

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Dante tried ignoring his erection as he dug through the obscure, confusing, and probably illegal web archive looking for information about his condition, but his erection didn’t like to be ignored.

The past few days had been a level of phallic hell not even his own famous namesake could have imagined. He was caught in an escalating cycle of dickly defiance that seemed to involve his suddenly uncontrollable cock becoming whatever he didn’t want it to be.

It had begun without warning on Tuesday, with his big but normally well-behaved cock suddenly getting all thick and half-hard at the most inopportune times. Standing on the F train as they rumbled through Brooklyn on the way to his law office internship, he’d started visibly chubbing up in his snug-fitting slacks—to the appalled discomfort of the dowdy middle-aged woman with the already pinched expression seated directly in front of his crotch, as though she’d been seated there for this exact performance. Of course there was nowhere for Dante to go—the train was packed, as usual. There was also nowhere for Pinchface to look, except at the tube-shaped obscenity subtly but distinctly deforming the smooth lines of Dante’s pleated charcoal-gray dress slacks.

Dante had stood there red-faced for nearly the whole way from Bergen Street to Jay Street, while his fellow passenger tried looking anywhere other than directly in front of her face, her tall shopping bag pressed tightly between her shins as though someone with the effrontery to embarrass her by chubbing up on the subway might snatch her belongings, too. Finally, she’d very dug out an older model, obviously little-used smartphone from somewhere and started laboriously texting someone—or maybe she was typing a complaint up to the MTA or the manufacturers of his insufficiently discreet midline slacks, who knew. She might even have taken a picture to post on her wall, warning everyone she knew to be on the lookout for the skinny, mop-haired F-train perv with the tight pants and obstreperous wang.

Dante had felt a simmering, mostly unpleasant awareness of his dick all that day. He’d ducked into the bathroom to tuck his bulky half erection firmly under his balls, only for it to defiantly break free from its prison and push itself back down his pants leg at the worst possible moment—as he was standing in front of his entire team in the junior partners’ conference room, summarizing the documents he’d pulled for an ongoing illegal dumping case. The creeping horror Dante felt as he noticed the lead partner, a dignified, even genteel, 45-year-old environmental lawyer with a crisp white goatee, drop his clear hazel eyes to the exact spot where his intern’s semi-swollen cock had slipped maliciously into its most visible position down his leg, then pointedly turned his attention to the papers in front of him with a harrumph—all while the jock-bro ex-football-star associate and the seen-it-all female paralegal on the case completely failed to suppress their amusement—stayed with him the whole day like an ague, filling his twisted, watery guts with equal parts anxiety and vexation.

As soon as he could he’d dashed back into the men’s room to fix things. He remembered staring down the offending bulge in the big mirror over the sinks like he and his junk were two alpha males at a dive bar fighting over a date.

“Don’t make me break out the duct tape,” he’d warned the thing aloud, before undoing his pants enough to forcibly shove his half-hard tool well under his taint where it belonged. Dante thought he’d had the problem completely sorted, until the moment he was standing up to go home and his cock was suddenly shoving down his leg again, filling out a long and very obvious bulge just as the brotastic associate showed up at his cubicle. Likely he was just there to casually razz him about the meeting, but he didn’t even have to bother. One amused look down, one smirk from Keith the asshole before he turned away without even having to say anything, and Dante knew by morning he’d be fighting a firm-wide reputation as a horny, unprofessional washout-in-the-making, one that would stick with him like a bad smell for the rest of his internship.

That shit followed you, too. He’d probably be hearing third-hand stories about about his fat, unmissable dickslips when he was a partner somewhere with his own interns to torture. Assuming, of course, that that dream wasn’t already nipped in the bud by a cock that had suddenly and inexplicably forgotten how to be quietly inconspicuous like ninety-nine point nine percent of all cocks on Earth.

He snorted to himself in angry amusement as he packed up his messenger bag to leave, trying to make light of the situation despite his burning cheeks and mounting dread. Hashtag big dick problems, right? Other guys would kill for a chance to deal with humiliations like that. Starting with QB Keith, he was sure.

The next day, rising early as usual, he tried circumventing the problem with a revised wardrobe. First he found his snuggest boxer-briefs, convinced that the problem had mainly been the older, looser underwear he’d donned the previous morning. Newer, tighter briefs would do the trick and keep everything firmly where it belonged, he thought as he pulled them up. Somewhat vindictively, he pushed his fat, still semi-boned troublemaker roughly under his balls, then snapped the elastic against his flat lower belly, making a respectably compact, well-constrained meat-lump.

Then, just as a fallback in case the briefs didn’t do their job, he pulled on his baggiest slacks, the herringbone ones he’d had tucked in the back of the closet ever since some joker at a wedding he’d worn them to had asked him if it was “Hammer Time.” He hated to pull them out, but today they were necessary.

He nodded to himself in the mirror on the back of his closet door. In these pants, even the round, hefty protuberance of his tightly packed junk barely showed. No embarrassing bulges today, he thought (wrongly). He gathered his wallet, keys, and phone and headed confidently out the door of his apartment to start his morning.

He heard the snickers as he was doctoring his coffee in the 17th-floor break room, distracted by thoughts of the work ahead of him that day on the dumping case. Casting a glance at a nearby table he saw three of the other interns from that year’s crop watching him over their lattes and pastries, unmistakably amused. “You okay, Dante?” said the most cutthroat one among them, the ginger with the maliciously glinting eyes. “You, uh, need anything?”

Dante paused in mid-stir, frowning at them. “Huh?”

His persecutor nodded downward to Dante’s crotch. Dante followed his gaze and let out a loud “Fuck!” without meaning to, sparking a round of open laughter from the table of onlookers. Red-cheeked, Dante abandoned his oversized mug and fled to the nearest men’s room without a backward glance.

What he saw in the over-sink mirror frankly astonished him, not least because the visual evidence belatedly corroborated what he’d been subconsciously feeling for the last ten minutes or so without letting himself realize it. Not only had his dick somehow slipped completely free from the extra-constraining new boxer-briefs and swollen to its now semi-permanent half-hard state, but the bulge it created down his pants leg was at least as obvious as it had been yesterday, maybe more so. Given that the pants he was wearing at the moment were considerably looser—especially in the leg—there could only be one possible conclusion, however illogical: his dick had deliberately grown in girth and length so as to become problematically visible in his present attire.

This was not a conclusion Dante accepted easily, despite his eyes, his logic, and the feel of heavy, warm dick against his thigh all telling him that that was exactly what had happened. Unnerved, he was about to reach into his pants to investigate further when he heard the door to the men’s room open. Quickly he darted into a stall. Whoever had come in stepped over to the urinals, audibly unzipped, and started doing his business. Fuck. Being trapped in the men’s room was not exactly ideal.

As silently as he could, Dante dropped his own pants and sat down on the toilet, glaring in cold panic at his dick. His reckless and rebellious tool, meanwhile, seemed to be taking the opportunity to demonstrate its newly massive length and girth by rapidly inflating to a new full and majestic hardness before his very eyes.

Dante aimed a string of unspoken curses at his spitefully self-enlarging prick. He knew anthropomorphizing his tool made no real sense, and yet in that moment it was impossible to escape the explanation that, after years of being tucked away to avoid the remarks and embarrassment that came with a decent-looking but essentially geeky guy charting on the far end of the bell curve dick-wise, something had finally snapped and Dante Junior here had vowed to stay hidden no longer.

“Fuu-u-uuck you,” he mouthed at his traitorous, purple-tinged monster erection. As though in answer, his dick squeezed pleasantly, forcing out a bead of clear, thick precum. A luscious tremor of sexual warmth rippled through him as he watched the strangely enticing sex-liquid slide along the porous ridgeline of his cockhead and over the still-retreating cuff of his foreskin before starting the long journey down his wide, veiny shaft to his well-trimmed pubes.

He wanted to make more of that juice. Hell, he wanted to force this thing to spit all the cum it could all over his and its own magnificent hardness, like that was what Dante was meant for—not to mention the greatest pleasure he could ever possibly experience. He could practically taste that orgasm, and it struck him as being almost eerie how much he wanted to make it happen.

This thing knows how to fight dirty, Dante thought grimly.

He glanced toward the stall door. Beyond it, he could still hear high-pressure liquid output streaming against porcelain. How much could that guy have had to drink already? It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. Had somebody been pounding down venti lattes since daybreak or something?

Dante had to do something. How his dick had him over a fucking barrel like this he didn’t know, but his position was growing progressively more untenable. Size increase aside, he had to kill this incrediboner—and right the fuck now, before anyone came looking for him. But he couldn’t very well do what he needed to while Mr. G. Whiz here was still out there smoothly spraying untold gallons of clear yellow effluvia back into the ecosystem.

Agitated, Dante waited, fixing his glare with his troublemaking tool as he did so in the forlorn hope he could somehow intimidate his dick into understanding that he was not to be messed with. Finally, there was a zip and a flush. Dante’s heart leapt, only for it to fall again as he heard the door swing open as Mr. Pisser was washing his hands. “Hey, Bob.” “Hey, Rodgers. Hey, Ashok.”

Dante’s guts tightened, knowing what was coming next. Soon enough, dark fabric was moving past the crack between stall door and frame, and that and the vectored sound of expensive leather scuffing against tile, ending with a final shuffle directly in front of him on the other side of the stall door, confirmed that both newcomers were taking up positions at the urinals.

Fuck, Dante thought. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Barely a few cubic feet of empty air and the flimsy steel modesty barrier of the stall door separated him from the newcomers. If he did anything, there was a very good chance they’d hear it. Fuck, anyone with a good nose and a minimum of experience with manly emissions would probably smell what he was up to, sooner or later.

Being frog-marched out of the firm with his stupid fat dick hanging out of his pants, metaphorically if not literally, was so not on his to-do list for today. Why hasn’t anyone ever invented soundproofed toilets? he mused bitterly, though it quickly occurred to him that the reason might very well be closely related to his present situation.

He sighed. Waiting this out wasn’t going to work. This boner was not going away. Fatally, without thinking he’d managed to bolt into what had to be the worst men’s room in all the office plan to hide in. Its location nearest the main kitchen on the busiest floor in a typically caffeine-obsessive firm like this one meant that this place would basically be like Grand Central Station all the way past lunch. Which was not even taking into account the unavoidable certainty that his team would absolutely come hunting for him long before then. Worse, the testimony of the redheaded intern would lead anyone who asked straight to his hidey-hole. It wouldn’t take much deduction to guess where he’d fled after getting called out.

He might only have minutes before he was discovered.

There was nothing for it. With great reluctance he wrapped his right hand tightly around his upper shaft as if it were a neck he was planning on throttling—which wasn’t far off. It filled his hand much more than usual, proving its inexplicable but incontrovertible expansion to at least half again its previous fully hard size past any denial. There was actually a lot more room for a second hand below the first at this size than there had been before. Knowing this had to be done as efficiently and thoroughly as possible, Dante shouldered his questions and all the impossibilities aside and added his left grip further down under his right. With one last glance at the stall door he started slowly working his dick, as grateful as he had ever been for being uncut and not needing any more lube to get this job done than the steady quantities of precum he was slowly burbling over his bulky cockhead.

The first cautious stroke produced an almost shocking infusion of intoxicating full-body pleasure, and Dante froze with his hands clasping his massive cock, alarmed and mortified by what seemed to be a dramatic increase in the sensual sensitivity of his mutinous cockflesh. Someone left, but more people were coming in—one had actually stepped into the neighboring stall and was loudly peeing into the toilet there, unwilling to wait for a urinal. Dante had to do this, and he had to do it immediately, quietly, and thoroughly enough he’d be finally able to stuff his forcibly softened dick back under his balls where it belonged and escape this bathroom, if not the whole damn planet.

Mortified, panicked, and feverishly turned on, Dante started again, pumping his fists upward and then down, slowly increasing his speed. The pleasure was intense, and he had to bite back the little moans he wanted to release from how desperately good it felt. He could already feel his orgasm building, and with it mounted new layer of fear that he wouldn’t be able to hold back. Which was a very real possibility, if the coming orgasm felt as good as he thought it would.

Worry was not helping, he told himself. He tried clearing his mind and concentrating on this single task of silently provoking an orgasm. Up, down, up, down. His skin was hot and his heart was pattering. The gratification these simple movements were giving him was off the charts, but he ruthlessly pushed down the noises he wanted to make. Up, down. End this. Make it cum.

But his too-big dick stubbornly refused to play possum any longer. It was done hiding. With a gasp, Dante watched as it pulsed dramatically, pushing his hand open slightly as it swelled up ever bigger, harder, thicker, and—worst of all—more sensitive. Shaking, he started stroking again, and a series of embarrassing, involuntary whimpers escaped him as he slid his hands up and down his enormous shaft. He couldn’t help it. At first he kept them as quiet as he could, but as his climax galloped toward him he couldn’t keep all the noise in, and finally a traitorous high-pitched whine of raw pleasure freed itself from his unwilling throat.

A second of weird stillness fell outside the stall. He couldn’t tell who was out there—maybe everyone had left? But then a set of knuckles rapped on the stall door. Dante stilled his hands anxiously. “You okay in there?” someone asked. He didn’t think he recognized the voice, but he was too frazzled to be sure.

“Y-yeah,” he called out. “Uh, breakfast burritos, you know?” He freed one of his hands and reached behind him to press the manual flush button, hoping a pretend courtesy flush might lend his flimsy story some credence.

The person outside the stall laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, I hear ya,” he said, and from the tone of his voice Dante could not tell whether the guy had bought the lie. “Uh—good luck!” he added. This was followed by the sound of swift footsteps and the bathroom door opening and closing.

Dante let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t sure if he finally had the bathroom to himself or not, and at this point it didn’t matter. He had to finish now. He stroked himself mercilessly a few more times, each jerk ramping his arousal by what felt like an order of magnitude. His heavy balls tightened, seemingly overburdened with an impossible amount of cum, and then all at once he was erupting with way more spunk than he’d ever seen spraying out of a cock. Wave after wave of pleasure wrecked him as he kept coming, and though he somehow suppressed most of the noises pushing out of him he couldn’t hold back a thin, desperate moan as his release seemed to break his brain, deliberately suffusing him with more white-hot, delirious pleasure than he could possibly handle.

Footsteps, the door, someone leaving. Didn’t matter. He’d finally cum.

He sat slumped on the toilet, heaving and sweaty, as his orgasm died down. Mechanically he pulled several wads of the thin industrial-quality toilet paper off the roll and wiped off first his thighs, then the seat between his legs, with only moderate effectiveness. All the rest of it that had splattered on the floor and wherever else, he’d just have to leave.

He eyed his cock resentfully. It was softening, some, but it still looked ridiculously, disproportionately big. Sure he had no time left to waste, he stood and forcibly crammed the protesting, still two-thirds-stiff partial erection down between his legs and behind his now-clementine-sized balls, then pulled up his boxer-briefs, wincing as his ass cheeks touched the cold globs of cum that had ended up inside his shorts while they were down around his ankles. He frowned down at the bulge, which looked literally obscene, before hurriedly pulling up his pants and zipping his fly—a task that required a bit more effort than he was used to as his bulge strained against the teeth of the zip.

The men’s room door opened again. “Dante? You in here?”

Dante almost groaned aloud. He knew that voice. “Be right out, Keith,” he called. Buttoning his pants and redoing his belt, he gave his telltale bulge a last, despairing look before stepping out of the stall.

Keith was right there, leaning his butt against the sinks, arms folded over his firm chest. Dante tried to hustle to the sinks, but Keith’s eyes immediately went to Dante’s inexplicably massive basket. “Where ya been, bro?” Keith said conversationally, eyes still fixed on Dante’s junk as Dante washed his hands as nonchalantly as possible. He sounded amused, but it was also clear he thought Dante fucking around was a dick move, as it were. “Client meeting’s at 11,” Keith continued flatly, “and there’s still a ton of—”

Dante cut him off. “You know what?” he said, turning to face Keith as he dried his hands. His voice sounded a little shrill in his own ears, but he was past being able to deal. He ran a still-damp hand through his mop and said, “I’m… not feeling well. I’m going home.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah? You’re not feeling well?” he repeated. This time he didn’t have to look pointedly at Dante’s crotch, but the disdainful glance down was implied.

“Breakfast. Burrito.” He said the words as if they were a password that freed him from all obligations.

Keith held his gaze. “Uh huh.” Then, apparently done with Dante’s bullshit, Keith turned on his heel and exited the bathroom like a man on a mission.

Dante made good his own escape a moment later. Deeming venturing into the cubes to grab his bag to be too risky, he headed straight for the elevators and out of the building, his mind and future in turmoil.

An hour later he was sitting naked and ragingly hard in front of his home PC, hunting down any information he could find about his situation. Finally, after hours of trolling the regular web, the dark web, the dank web, and anything else he could find, he found what he thought might be the answer on a body horror page under the ungainly title Phallovexatio, loosely translated on the line below as the Curse of the Troublesome Phallus.

Sometimes dicks woke up, was the general idea. And sometimes… they woke up angry. Determined to be seen. The more you hide it, the bigger it grows. The more you do things that would normally satisfy it, the thirstier and more insatiable it becomes. There was no stopping it, and there was no cure.

The shocking nature of this revelation—the irrepressible power possessed by this chest-high, out of control pleasure monster—made him cum spectacularly all at once, violently pelting jets of hot sperm all over his face as his body rocked with overdoses of searing, primordial bliss. Dante fell back in his chair, shuddering with unrelenting orgasm, wondering wildly how things could possibly have gotten this good and this bad at the same time.

3,790 words Added Feb 2023 10k views 4.8 stars (10 votes)

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