Can’t ignore the balls

by BRK   

Volunteer for one little study, and suddenly you’re the guy with the giant nuts.

I don’t want to be that guy, the “don’t get him started about his balls” guy. I don’t. It’s just, no one has a frame of reference for what it’s like. And the randiest guys that are all about cock don’t think about their balls a lot, which to me is a little like getting excited about a Tour de France star and ignoring the bike. You can’t ignore the balls. 

I sure can’t, anyway.

It started with one of those campus flyers with “volunteers needed” in big letters at the top and those little tear-off strips cut into the bottom. A hundred bucks for two hours and a shot under controlled conditions. A few of the strips were already missing, though I knew for a fact that people who put up flyers like this always removed a couple of the strips themselves to make it look like it was a getting a brisk response. My buddy handled the flyers for the local Guitar Center, and he thought he invented it. He didn’t.

I stood in front of the board for a while, debating. I could use the cash. I’d recently lost my job at the dining hall due to outsourcing (it’s a subpar Pizza Hut/Taco Bell now, and, yes, everyone makes the “restaurant wars” joke) and I was skint enough I was budgeting meals and not liking the result. I’m skinny but high-metabolism and was used to eating a lot, more than I could now afford. My car needed a new transmission, too. Fuck the world.

So I called the number and got a time and that Wednesday I went to the place, a basement lab in the Science! Building. I met the tech, a cheery guy my age with messy curls, dark-framed glasses, and an honest-to-goodness lab coat with a Hawaiian shirt underneath. He smelled like coconuts, weirdly. Was he going to the beach later? There was no one else there, which seemed ominous—no volunteers, no staff apart from Coconuts Dude, just him and me in a sterile warren of white labs and gleaming equipment. 

I got the briefest possible disclosure—something about how some independent pharma protogiant had developed a promising phallic enhancement serum but had only belatedly anticipated a corresponding need for complementary testicular therapeutic treatment. I must looked wary at this, because he winked and said, “You’re probably in the placebo group anyway.” Whatever. A Benjamin was a Benjamin. I signed, he pulled out a big needle, I pulled down my pants and got the shot right there in the glutes.

The flyer said two hours, but most of that was “monitoring” in a side room after the shot—me in an uncomfortable metal chair with a sore ass, him silently sitting across from me with a clipboard, waiting to see if I experienced any discomfort. After one hour and fifty-five minutes without vomiting or keeling over I was released, and he gave me a crisp new hundred dollar bill and a business card. 

I looked at the card, which just had a bland company name like “Assessment Services Partners” and an email address. No phone number. I frowned. “Should I contact you if I have any problems?” I asked as I tucked the card and c-note away in a pocket.

“Absolutely,” he said, shaking his head no.

I frowned harder. He checked his watch. “Ooops! Time for the next victim!” he joked, and disappeared through the door. I didn’t see another soul on my way out. 

A week later I woke up with balls the size of grapefruits.

Not joking. Actual decent-size honkin’ grapefruits. The shape was grapefruity, too. You think your balls are ball-shaped, like, I dunno, croquet balls, but they’re not perfect spheres. Mine aren’t, anyway. They’re like the planet we live on, sort of flatter at the poles. They call it an oblate spheroid.

I also had the hardest morning wood of my life, not helped by the fact that I wouldn’t have needed that other serum, if you follow me. I was hung well above average, thin but long, just past 11 inches when I was spitting hard like I was now. It had given me some embarrassing moments in the past, but nothing like the trouble I was in now.

My junk was so riled up and ahead of the game I’d already messed a quarter cup of thin transparent natural lube into my actual navel—which had of course quickly filled up and overflowed all over my lower abs, getting my treasure trail and adjacent fuzz all wet and messy. Fortunately I’d been so hot I’d kicked off the covers, but I didn’t notice any of that. I was awash in hormones and so urgently aroused I literally had to jerk off, but as I sat up, poking myself in the belly with my adamantine cock, I was too panicked by the sight of my swollen balls to even think of pleasuring myself. “What the hell?” I kept muttering, close to hyperventilating. “What the hell? What the hell?”

My only consolation was that my balls looked normal, just… big. With some reluctance I gently cupped them in my right hand, and the relief of how normal and testicular they felt was swiftly displaced by a sudden susurrus of warm, rippling satisfaction. I let out a shuddering breath, and my cock grunted out more liquid sex onto my flat, already slick belly.

“Stop it,” I panted. I was not going to submit to the lure of amplified pleasure, determined to hold onto what felt like very practical panic. This was not normal. I had to see a doctor, a scientist, somebody—

I remembered the understated business card Coconut Dude had given me. I’d shoved it in my wallet, which was across the room on my desk, along with the hundred (and unlike the c-note was still there). I jumped out of bed and immediately regretted it as my hairy thighs squished my newly huge balls for the first time. Manually hefting my junk out of the way, I padded across the room, carrying my nuts and with my iron hardon barely wagging. When I got to my wooden desk chair I sat down more cautiously than I ever had before. Grabbing the card from behind my ID and the picture of my parents (ugh, wrong time to catch my mom’s eye in the photo), I opened my laptop and sent an email to the address on the card asking for someone to contact me as soon as humanly possible. My guts turned to ice when the email immediately bounced—not just for the recipient but for the domain. Did I spell it right? I checked the card, then the email. I spelled it right. Did they spell it right? I tried variations on the name, adding hyphens and plurals, even trying the dot net. Every email bounced. 

I sat back, trying to ignore the fact that I was flushed and quivering with arousal, my dick tapping on my belly like it wanted in. The weight of my balls against my thighs was novel and unsettling, and… okay, it was also a little hot. But in an extreme way, like the first time a guy rims you and the pleasure of it only partly distracts you from the fact that however well you just showered an anus and a tongue were in intimate contact with each other, despite their normally being kept as far apart as possible in the human alimentary system for reasons that seemed generally sound and practical most of the time.

I had to see a doctor. We had a good on-campus health center… but the thought of going outside, of people seeing me in this condition, was horrifying. Then I had a light-bulb moment. Jerry in the single upstairs was a senior in the pre-med program—and his girlfriend, Jolene, was in med-school and about to start her residency. Eureka! Fumbling into a pair of loose sweats and an old tee shirt I hurried out of the room, barely remembering to grab my keys. 

I tried to run up the stairs and quickly realized that was a really stupid idea for someone in my condition. I walked up instead, for the first time as conscious of the movements of my body as an animator—not that many of them get the mull the logistics of walking up stairs with a hard-on and a set of orange-sized nuts. 

The slower ascent meant I was a little calmer when I got to Jerry’s room, but not much. I banged on the door. “Jerry! You there?” I called.

He pulled open the door and stared at me, looking tall and mussed in black boxer briefs. Decently built, but not my type, like a swimmer but so hairy you wondered about the drag. Behind him, Jolene lounged naked in Jerry’s bed drinking a Fanta, her big breasts staring back at me like I had accidentally walked into a porno. Either that or a British sex comedy. 

“What?” Jerry demanded, reminding me of why I was there.

I looked up at him, my frenzy probably as obvious to him as his annoyance was to me. “Jerry, you gotta help me!” I gasped.

Jerry’s eyes dropped to the very obvious boner I was carrying around behind my shirt and pursed his lips, repulsed. “Dude, I don’t swing that way,” he said sternly.

“I’ll do it,” Jolene volunteered from the bed, eyeing me with a smirk. Jerry gave her an even more annoyed look. “What?” she asked. “He’s huge! Unlike…” She gave him a playful look, and Jerry scowled harder. “Anyway, there’s a built-in indemnity for footlongs in the girlfriend contract,” she added lightly, still teasing. “Everyone knows about it.”

I huffed in exasperation. “Not that,” I said, shoving my sweats down enough to expose my new problem. “These!”

Jerry turned back to me and gaped. Jolene finally realized what was going on, her face going all serious and doctory despite her exposed boobs. “Ooh,” she said, waving me into the room, “Let’s take a look at that.”

Alas, the only revelation resulting from my impromptu nude doctor exam was exactly how cold Jolene’s fingers were. I was glad she didn’t have a stethoscope. I told her about the “study” I’d volunteered for, and she hummed and hefted, considering my junk from all angles. Her verdict, delivered with a shrug of her slight shoulders, was exactly the same as mine from before: my nuts were just fine, perfectly normal—apart them from being the size of an old man’s fists. 

“Come see me if there’s a problem,” she said, tossing me an unmedical wink. “Otherwise… have fun!”

“I gotta get to class,” Jerry said abruptly, all but pushing me out of the room. “Make sure there aren’t any ‘problems,’ okay?” he added in a low growl, closing the door after me the moment I was past the lintel. Through the wood I heard Jolene gently laughing.

I stood there in the hall for a moment, dwelling glumly on the instruction to “have fun.” Then Jerry’s words hit me. Class. Shit, I had class!

At that point I started learning what life was going be like from now on. Starting with pants.

My balls were too big to wear jeans—at least, not jeans in my size. I had to wear the ratty black laundry day sweats I’d yanked on to run (or rather, walk quickly but gingerly) upstairs. Worse, no underwear. I swear, the boxer briefs I tried to pull on laughed at me. So I was wearing sweats, which show everything, and totally commando, so preventing a wet bulge for people to stare at was out of the question. From that point on I was Skinny Guy, Big Package, forever.

Would I ever find clothes? Would I have to, like, troll cockpumping sites for underwear sized to fit a bowling ball? One thing was for sure, Lycra was out of the question. I’d always thought it felt like wet sandpaper, like you were wearing clothing that made you sweaty and was basically a cat licking you, and no way was I getting that near my scrotum no matter how big it was.

My dick wasn’t going down, either. My body was begging me to jerk off, but I was late to a critical class for my major already, and I was so hormoned out it was crystal clear a quick jerk in the shower wasn’t going to do it this time. (When I do manage to get it soft these days it doesn’t help with the bulge any, of course. I gotta admit, too, it’s slightly upsetting the way my soft dick looks kind of small now that it drapes over this melon-sized sack. I used to kind of like the look of it flaccid, but then my nuts had to get big and make it weird.)

In the end I just pulled on shoes and went to class in that same tee shirt and sweats, with my bookbag in front of me like a double-pocketed fig leaf. I thought being in class hard and shaking from arousal while trying to sit comfortably with testicles the size of small cannonballs and almost as heavy, or so it seemed, was the worst of it. Then, sitting in class as far back and isolated as I could get, all feverish and self-conscious and with my hair sweaty and sticking on end because I hadn’t even remembered to run a comb through it, I discovered the true function of giant balls. The true function of giant balls, it seemed, was to ensure the constant production of clear, free-flowing sex juice so that it could start seeping steadily out of your dick the moment you got hard, thereby guaranteeing a smelly, gradually growing wet spot toward the bottom of your shirt. Embarrassing all by itself. And then there’s the added bonus of what wet tee shirts are most famous for—and it’s not relative absorption rates in side-by-side trials. 

I was so mortified, and so needy, I almost just gave up and started jerking off my uncut 11-incher right there in my 100-person lecture. Before, it would have been a quick death, but now things were worse and instead of three minutes and a fast spurt, it would be endless. I was better off suffering the steady humiliation of being leaky, giant-scrotumed, and in need of climax in class. Did anyone notice? Some must have, but I was so agonizingly self-conscious I couldn’t really focus on anything but the mix of sexual need and radiant shame I was sending out in to the air around me in palpable waves like the RKO radio tower.

By the time I got back to the dorm I was angry and determined to teach my troublemaking junk a lesson, though deep down I knew the truth—all the instruction was in the other direction. I was pissed, though, and the moment I had the door locked and deadbolted behind me I had my shirt, shoes, and sweats off and tossed aside, ready to grab my problems by the throat. I sat down, remembering to cup my balls first, and wrapped my other fist around my cock and started jerking ruthlessly. In seconds I was cumming, and… okay, remember what I said about the purpose of giant balls? Add to that the production of so much high-pressure jizz you can risk choking yourself from the thirty-second-long frickin’ fire hose to the face. I mean, forget pearl necklaces, this was somewhere between white kabuki make-up and whitewashing the barn.

I stared down, panting, at my enormous, taut balls and relentless, unflagging ruler-straight (and nearly rule-length) cock, my heart sinking as I realized I had only primed the pump.

You know what? I thought, falling back into my bed. Fine. Lean into it. Life gives you giant balls, might as well make lots and lots of orgasmic, face-spraying spunk.

Consciously making myself relax, I grabbed a bath towel off the floor and calmly repositioned myself in bed, getting as comfortable as possible. I set the pillows behind me so I could see my massive nuts and long, amazing cock and I got to work, making my junk do what it was designed to do. 

Keeping my hand cupped around my huge, heavy balls, I started stroking again. My pace was more languid now, but my grip was strong and my strokes deliberate. I would wring every drop of pleasure I could out of these balls until I had every last wriggling semen in my endless reserves dying in a sea of spunk on my face, chest, and belly or sopped up in my thirsty cum-towel.

It took five huge body-soaking orgasms, but in the end after a solid two hours of effort I was finally and utterly sated. My erection ebbed to a half-chub in one hand and my balls remained cupped in the other as I drifted off to dreams filled with yet larger nuts and yet more explosive orgasms. In fact that’s pretty much how I slept from then onward, drowned in bliss with a smile on my face as I fondled my enormous balls for the rest of the night. I might be dreading the next morning and dealing with the outside world as a Megatesto-American; but every day would end in the same fashion, in matchless spunk-gushing euphoria, and though it’s often unpleasant and always inconvenient these days I honestly can’t imagine my life any other way.

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