Casey’s mancock

by BRK

 Undersized college student Casey develops a sudden need for a cock just big enough for people to know it’s there. And between his own skills and his unwitting roommate’s, he knows just how to make it happen.

Added: Jul 2022 Updated: 30 Jul 2022 12,661 words 7,634 views 5.0 stars (18 votes) This story was commissioned via Patreon Story Commission.

L

Let me tell you about the dick that changed my life.

It was the briefest of moments, so incidental it’s laughable what an impact it had on me. It was a sunny early afternoon, the Friday of my first week at our rowdy state university—a school that happened to have a premier app development program, proven by many unbalanced report cards to be the only area I was remotely gifted in, hence my presence at a notorious party school. I was leaving the dining hall, relieved to be fed on comfort food (juicy third-pound burgers and possibly the best fries this side of a Belgian friterie) and to be done with my heavy class load for the week—apart from all the reading and response work I still had ahead of me, but that’s what weekends were for.

I was passing the rows of wooden benches they had set up near the doors, and I happened to be looking to my right, toward the nearest ones, when my eyes grazed across it. The cock.

The guy was lounging idly, legs splayed a little but not obnoxiously, elbows over the back of the bench with his face up basking in the sun, eyes closed. Dark blond hair, cut close. Features hawkishly sharp but pleasant enough. It was obvious from the thin, tailored white tee and the well-fitting Coca-Cola-red cotton sweatpants he was wearing that he took good care of his body: he was fit, buff really; possibly a jock, though I was learning that a lot of guys on this campus worked out even if they didn’t play sports or aspire to the meathead bro culture.

One other thing was also obvious: under those red sweats he was going totally commando, and the curves of his dick were as visible to observers as the contours of his elegant pecs under the loose but flattering tee. He was big down there, though not huge, and though the shape and weight of it were hardly left to the imagination the sweats still invited you to guess about all the details you could not see. Between you and the truth lay a single clingy layer of thick cotton fabric… and, inches above, a simple string-tied waistband that might be pulled down on a whim with a flick of a wanton thumb.

I lost a step, staring at the outline of his dick for a long, hot second before I made myself move on, my cheeks warm and my pulse thumping in my ears as I headed mechanically toward the campus bus stop. I might have been bummed at not being able to stand there and drink in the sight of that dick as much as I wanted, except for the fact that the image was still there, burned into my memory like I’d downloaded the guy’s crotch right into my brain and given it a permanent home, just so I could stare at it at my leisure. There was a bus waiting, heading dormwards, so I got on, took a random empty seat, and gave myself over to the phantasm.

It wasn’t that he was abnormally massive. He was a rank above average, maybe two. You could tell from the subtle-but-not-subtle imprint his dick made as it sloped over his hidden balls how round and thick his flaccid shaft was, like a bratwurst. The edge of his circumcised cockhead made a visible line, and below that you could sense the glans itself, wide but also a bit pointed, like a worn-down mountain-peak. The overall vibe was heft. Manliness. This was a cock, impressive enough to be casually displayed, approval of its virile presence expected and assured.

With an absorbing totality that I can only compare with sudden alien possession I knew what I wanted. I wanted that. I wanted a cock that was visible… prominent… maybe just a little intrusive. The way Sweats Guy’s dick had so easily and cavalierly pressed itself into my awareness, making me know he had a cock despite the utter passiveness of its presentation? That. That factness of his cock. What overcame me and engulfed me, in that moment, was a need for a cock no one could miss, that no one could avoid, that impinged on the consciousness of others just by existing in my pants.

As you might have guessed I was not currently in possession of such a cock, a fact of which I was acutely aware. My dick wasn’t minuscule—not in a medical, statistical sense—but I’d spent all my puberty anxiously waiting for my daily hardons to keep on growing past the size of my thumb, to no avail. Things hadn’t gotten any better in the years since, either, any more than my scrawny, mostly hairless, average-sized, average-height body had edged past barest masculine adequacy in any other way. I had mousy hair, dishwater-brown eyes, a body that might at best be categorized as “defined” if you wanted to be generous about it… and I could probably sprawl on that bench in front of the dining hall in wet tighty-whiteys right through the lunch rush and still not have anyone notice my junk.

The rest of it I didn’t really care about. What consumed me now was an aching, inexorable, unpurgeable imperative to possess a Mancock, like him. To have a cock everyone would know was there wherever I was and whoever I was with.

It was tormenting, in a low-grade kind of way, but it wasn’t as heartbreaking as you might think. A small but substantial layer of my brain knew the cold truth that cock sizes didn’t change and that I was suck with the thumb-cock I had… but I must admit that most of me, without consultation with my more rational elements, kind of just added the outline of a Sweats Guy Mancock to the mental fantasy I kept of myself. I mean, it’s not wrong to pretend, right? As long as you don’t look in the mirror too hard or directly at yourself, and you keep your imagination fully occupied while you jerk off and ignore certain categories of sensations, it works, pretty much. I didn’t need to be eaten up with bitterness at not being able to have what had suddenly become my only and most all-important need. Because make no mistake: I did need it.

Ironically, it was that stolid, rational part of my brain that got me into trouble, because eventually it figured out what the dreaming, deliberately oblivious rest of me hadn’t: how to get a Mancock of my very own.


Spring semester I returned to discover my old roommate had dropped out and a new bunkmate had been assigned to my own slice of our collective cinder-block purgatory. To me Mike was a godsend in a lot of ways. For one thing he was a size smaller than me and even less physically impressive, though his Syrian heritage gave him a dusky skin tone I found I rather appreciated. With that came more and darker hair, above and below; and, when he grew it out, a considerably fuller beard than the patchy brownish mess I ended up sporting whenever I forgot to shave.

He was also genuinely friendly and amenable to conversation, two personality traits that definitely could not be attributed to the grumpy, odorous, Neanderthal-foreheaded brute who’d previously occupied the other book-thin mattress in Gilbert 1103. In fact Mike was constitutionally nice to the point of deferential, which I noted early on and which came in handy as my plans developed.

Most importantly, Mike just happened to be a biosciences prodigy from a family of accomplished and obsessive scientific adepts, and had already done a great deal of personal side research and experimentation into the feasibility and practical methodology of human genital expansion.

His motivations were fairly selfless: his initial interest had been sparked by the possibilities of tissue regeneration for those who had suffered injury, and were in parallel with recent cutting-edge advances in the regrowth of skeletal muscle his family was involved in that were still in the earliest stages of experimentation. After catching a furtive glance or two my way when I returned from the showers, though, I did manage to extract a bashful confession one night that he had a passing interest in dick that had nothing to do with line graphs, test tubes, and bunsen burners.

That was my hook.

I mentioned before that I had some aptitude in the area of software development, but it’s actually more specific than that. For years I’d been working on and off on a particular kind of app, one that used specially-targeted subsonic Klein-Riggins pulses to subtly guide and redirect the moods of others. There were, theoretically, all kinds of viable uses for such a technology, but the truth of why I did it was more sordid than I’d like to admit: my drive to perfect the app had always been rooted in wanting to force my bullies to shut their pie holes and leave me the fuck alone. So, yeah, my vision was… not quite as world-positive or altruistic as Mike’s.

I’d had one genuine, real world success: by my senior year my high school’s biggest fuckhead, Jerrod, had moved on to even weaker prey than me, which allowed me to stalk him unnoticed and finally use version Zeo 2d of my app and phone augment one afternoon to get him to stop looming over a terrified pipsqueak named Randy, without either of them being aware of it. That moment when Jerrod had straightened up, frowned, and abruptly marched off in mid-sentence, leaving a pale-looking Randy to slump against his locker in shocked relief… I gotta admit, I sprang the biggest I-accomplished-something-awesome hardon in the history of high school. Well, okay, maybe not the biggest, but you know what I mean. I was stoked, and damned proud of myself. I was onto something—something that humanity needed, and that only I could deliver.

So I’d kept going, even though I was past the point of having serious bullies of my own, adding on layers of software and hardware complexity and delving into the inciting of more minute and discrete actions than the “stop and go away” impulse I’d originally been driven to perfect. I was now pretty sure the latest version, Lost Galaxy 5b (shut up), could successfully induce a permanent predisposition—kind of like a post-hypnotic suggestion, but more durable and replicable—without any in-moment or subsequent awareness of me, the app, or the inducement on the part of the subject.

I’d managed to test it once since I’d gotten to State, on a hairy-eared jock I had in one of my intro classes. I’d spotted him manhandling some busty woman at a party without permission, and, watching with mounting excitement from a few feet away—this was a justifiable target if ever there was one—I quietly pulled out my phone and opened the app. Quickly and carefully I created a new foundational mood embed for the guy that linked “women” and “respect.” Once that was set up, I dialed the intensity to 7 out of 10, aimed my phone, and pressed “Send.”

For a minute, nothing happened. Then the asshole seemed to observe his arm around the woman’s shoulders, and her uncomfortable expression, and… he pulled back, his face a picture of confusion. The woman was just as perplexed, and watched him with a suspicious frown as he withdrew completely from her space and slowly backed away into the crowd. The rest of the night, and thereafter as far as I could tell, he kept his hands to himself, and had even shown up to class a few weeks later with a female friend he seemed to treat as an equal. Fuck—now those were some solid results.

All of which meant that as soon as all of the pieces were on the board—my encounter with Sweats Guy and his unavoidable dick; Mike and his junk-enhancement research; my success with the app—the plan was all but inevitable. Once I was sure of what I was going to do I couldn’t even put off implementing it for more than a few days. Maybe I was afraid I’d second-guess myself and pull back, but honestly I think it was pure impatience, underlain by that insidious, compulsive, always-present need I had now, to have the subtly intrusive dick that nature, or God, had callously denied me.

And so it happened. It was the night before everyone left for Spring Break. We were at the dining hall, both of us eating and on our phones at the same time—pretty routine for us, except my phone wasn’t open to any social media or coursework. It was open to the app.

I had already prepped and laid in my embeds, ready to transmit. The first was a craving for the sight of huge cock on other guys—that would serve as motivation. The second was an amplified need to perfect and enhance the effectiveness of the genital growth serum I knew he’d already developed to human-testing stage, though he’d so far shied away from taking this last step. Thus, the third embed: a need to test his serum on me, by sneaking me regular doses without my knowledge. I didn’t want to see it coming.

It was all in place, set up and ready in the app. There was nothing left for me to do but aim and shoot. It didn’t even occur to me to consider whether what I was doing was a good idea, or that there might be darker consequences to my embeds beyond the fantasy of having the dick I was obsessed with having. None of that crossed my mind for a second. I lifted my thumb, pressed “Send,” and it was done.

I put my phone away, joking to myself that it had done enough damage for one day, and scrutinized my friend as we demolished our stacks of warm ‘n’ juicy chicken tenders. (Honestly, our DH was aces at any food that was truly, intrinsically bad for you. Perhaps the nutrition majors were using them to conduct their own cynical experiments on bad food-choice decision-making.)

At first, Mike seemed exactly the same, studying his email like always while blindly dipping his tenders into his little ramekin of honey-mustard and stuffing them into his mouth. After a while, though, I noticed his eyes start to flit from his phone as guys periodically walked past out table, and when he bit his lip unconsciously at the sight of a particularly fortunate dude walking past, his basket obviously well-packed with goodies, I felt a shiver of excitement rush up my spine.

That night in the room he actually asked me about my dick and whether I was happy with it. I told him the truth: I wished it were bigger. He nodded thoughtfully. The next morning, as we were heading out to his car (I was seeing him off before heading on to the train station for my own homeward journey), he said he was looking forward to the rest of the semester, which might just have some “interesting surprises.”

I was fucking hard the whole train ride home. It would be ten days before we got back and started classes again, and I could not wait to see what my buddy would do to me.

Our first day back, I was setting down my tray (crunchy beef quesadillas today—¡deliciosa!) and was about to sit down at our table when Mike, who’d strategically beaten me to his seat, suddenly looked up at me with a look of very stagey dismay. “Oh, shoot!” he exclaimed. “I forgot to get napkins. Can you get us some? Since you’re up?”

I gave him the blandest look I could, suppressing my smile with a herculean effort of will. “Sure thing,” I said, leaving my tray and slipping off back toward the condiments and supplies station. A grin had fought its way onto my face by the time I got there, though, and my excited cock was already swelled to full hardness in rank anticipation; but I managed to calm my expression, if not my dick, before I got back to the table.

Mike’s hands were in his lap when I got back, as if for some reason he wanted it to be very obvious they were nowhere near my—food? drink? I wasn’t sure. As I sat down, I deposited the three-inch stack of the DH’s big brown napkins I’d brought back onto the table between us. Mike goggled at them. “That’s a lot,” he said, surprised.

I looked him right in the eyes. “A lot can be a good thing,” I said. I wasn’t using the app, but the long process of building and refining it had involved a massive amount of theoretical research about planting and reinforcing ideas. I knew how to make words work to get things moving in someone’s head, even without the app to reinforce it, and I suspected Mike’s deferential nature made him more susceptible than most.

Mike’s expression grew coy, his thoughts sliding inward for a moment. His teeth emerged to gently graze his lower lip, a developing tell (I was pretty sure) that he was thinking about dick, and he tipped his chin down to hide a small smile before abruptly shaking his shoulders slightly and reengaging with me. “Dig in,” he said cheerily, nodding down at my plateful of Mexican goodness. “It looks amazing!”

I did grin at him then. Then we both attacked our char-grilled segments of tortilla-meaty-cheesy goodness, and, yeah, it was amazing. I ate it all, gladly and deliberately. I knew there was no turning back now.

If I could go back in time and talk to my past self… but honestly, I don’t think there was a force in the universe that could have prevented me eating every speck of that meal that night. I would have licked the plate if it hadn’t been likely to tip Mike off. Call it superstition, but I was convinced that the complexity of the embeds’ functionality, and therefore the success of my plan, depended on Mike being certain that whatever was going to happen was all on him.

Which didn’t stop me from using the last square inch of tortilla to mop up every last drop of cheese and sauce I could manage. I finished all of my fountain cherry Coke, too, just in case. By the time I was done my mouth and tummy were sated, but my dick was revving with anticipation of things yet to come.


It was five whole days before the effects started to manifest.

I had a two-pronged plan for distracting myself from the frustration of waiting: diving into schoolwork, and teasing Mike. The second part was more fun, of course. Before I’d started all this I’d been pretty guarded about getting dressed, but now I cultivated a habit of brazenly changing in front of him after I took a shower, letting him get a solid look at the goods just so I could catch that quick, fleeting stare from him that was half scientific observation and half thirst for big cock. I began regularly lounging around the place in a tee shirt and boxers, something I hadn’t ever done before, just to get him used to having a chance to watch for any subtle changes as things developed.

I knew he was “secretly” dosing me every day—that much was obvious. What I didn’t know was how much and how often. After that first night he got better at being cagey and hiding his food-and-drink doctoring; but I was pretty sure his frustration at the lack of results so far—second only to my own—was driving him to up the dosage, and maybe the frequency, too. We hung out a lot more after spring break, sharing almost every meal together (always at his insistence). I was an inveterate breakfast-skipper, and suddenly Mike was affecting a friendly concern at my lack of morning fortification. We even started sharing library study sessions (complete with snack breaks in the plaza, natch)… taking the campus bus together even when our courses were in different buildings… that kind of thing. Mike was fully engaged with this project, as caught up in it as I was. Early on in the semester we’d talked about going in on a mini-fridge, and now after break one suddenly appeared on the floor of the closet we shared, and I couldn’t help noticing it was always stocked with my favorite juice drinks and snacks, while mysteriously lacking anything Mike enjoyed. Funny thing, that.

I’ll never forget that Saturday, five days after we got back to the dorms. Normally I was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from the moment my eyes popped open, but all that week I had been waking up slow and fuzzy-headed—my only real proof so far I had that I was in fact being medicated on the sly with whatever serum Mike had spent his break perfecting and upgrading—and that morning I was indulging in the chance to be all louche and logy in bed while Mike showered and I had to room to myself.

I was vaguely aware as I lolled about that I had especially insistent morning wood. I reached for it languidly under the sheet with my left hand, feeling otherwise liquid and boneless, like my wake-up hard-on was the only stiff thing about me. I grazed it with my fingertips, and a thrill just from the mere touch the pads of my fingers fluttered through me, so intense I audibly gasped.

Warily I wrapped my hand around it, and with a jolt my body sizzled with pleasure.

A rational thought worked its way through the heightened sensations. I was wrapping my hand around it. There was enough of a boner down there to do that.

The serum had worked.

The app that had made Mike dose me with the serum… had worked.

My Mancock plan had fucking worked.

My heart smashing at my ribs, I used my free hand—no way was I moving the other one!—and pulled the sheet away so I could get my first look at my own extra-personal version upgrade.

Like all guys I was used to the size of my dick. Three and a half inches rock hard; an inch and a quarter across; reddish-tan with a band of pink under the glans from the circumcision; blunt, squarish head. It curved back toward my groin a little when it was really a hard, like the overtaut intensity of the erection was bending it beyond the vertical. A dorsal arterial bulge trailed up the left side and then diverted across at a diagonal two thirds of the way up; another seemed to cut across it, making a sort of “f”. Back when I’d first noticed it, years and years before, I’d wondered if someday I’d find three other guys whose dicks spelled out “u,” “c,” and “k.”

That was my dick… before. And looking at it, feeling it, it was the same dick, only it had been scaled the fuck up. It had to be at least two inches longer and proportionately thicker on top of that. And despite having always had boners I could have pounded nails with, I now realized I hadn’t even known what “hard” was until now. My balls had leveled up too, no longer below-average, and I could feel their weight, and my cock’s weight, too.

And it wasn’t just that I was as erect as any man could ever be. I was manifesting serious arousal all over, in multiple ways. My balls ached with an urgent need to shoot. My cock was palpably hot in my grip and oozing messy precum all over my groin muscle—already the little flat area above my patch of pubic hair was smeared with pre, like my cock was applying some strange, clear ointment to one very specific part of my body. Even the scent was different: I could smell my arousal now, a faint, woodsy musk that I’d never noticed before, combining with the heat and the heft and the ooze to magnify my already heightened arousal beyond endurance.

I was hungry, hungry as fuck, and thirsty as all get-out on top of it… but no way was I going to be able to do anything before I blew the big load I was building up all over my belly. I still hadn’t moved my fist, though—why hadn’t I moved my fist?

“Wow,” Mike breathed from the doorway.

Oh, yeah. That was why.


Mike was standing near the (thankfully closed) door, damp from the shower and clutching a big blue bath towel to his waist, but as he moved compulsively toward me, wide-eyed and mouth agape, he seemed to forget about the towel and it flumped to the ground, exposing his own bent, uncut, just-below-average cock as it swelled to half-hard in what seemed like a single moment. He smelled like soap, shampoo, and the lime shave cream he used—all clean and pure compared to my carnal musk. There was no sound but my own pounding heartbeat.

He seemed not to notice he’d exposed himself to me or that he was getting visibly turned on—his focus was all on me and, specifically, on my dick. He knelt next to my bed, staring reverently at the upsized, agonizingly hard boner I had gripped in my left hand. His nostrils flared as he took in the scent.

“I had no idea you were so hung,” he said, his voice rough. The way his gaze was fixed on my cock, it was almost like he was addressing my dick directly and I wasn’t even there.

I smirked down at him, glad he wasn’t looking in my direction. So that’s how we’re going to play it? I thought to myself. Could be fun.

Aloud, I said, “Yeah, I guess you haven’t seen it… all the way hard.”

Mike swallowed. “Can I—” he began, but he didn’t finish the question.

My still-unseen smile widened. “Can you…?” I prompted.

He looked up at me for the first time. Yeah, that’s right, I’m here too. “Can I…” he started again, “…measure it?”

Not what I was expecting, but just as hot. I kept my eyes on his and nodded once. Go ahead, I thought. After all, you made it. It’s your baby.

Quickly Mike shot to his feet and moved over to his desk, oblivious to the slight bouncing of his own boomerang boner as he fished a metal ruler out of a drawer, then hurried back to the side of my bed. Kneeling again, he first gently unbent my hand from around my dick, as if he were taking possession of the thing for a moment, and then he took hold of it himself. His hand was warm and felt just as amazing as my own had, and I sucked in a noisy breath as I watched. I felt him grip, then squeeze, my precum smearing across his index finger as if my cock were marking him.

“Fuck, Case,” he breathed.

“Go on,” I prodded him, voice low. “Tell me how big it is.”

Nodding jerkily, Mike lifted the erection a few millimeters, though I was so stiff and so hard I’m not sure it would have budged much more than that. With his other hand he slid the metal ruler underneath. I winced, and he glanced up at me. “Cold,” I said, giving him a crooked smile.

He smiled back. “Don’t be a baby,” he said and returned to his work. Once the ruler was in place, he position my flat cockhead in the center, letting his ruler get doused with messy man-juice for his troubles. He wiped enough of it away to get a good look at the markings. “Six and… one eighth,” he read off officially, like an Olympic scorekeeper.

“Fuck yeah,” I whispered. Yes. This was good. This was the Mancock I’d been waiting for. Achievement unlocked! I couldn’t wait to show it off… once I got past taking care of the compelling need to climax explosively as soon as humanly possible, that is.

Mike was still looking at the ruler, like he was confirming the measurement, and some part of my brain wondered if he was going to record the numbers in some lab notebook later, alongside all the dosage amounts and times he’d given me so far… or if he had the kind mind that remembered that kind of thing without writing it down. Mainly, though, in that moment I was noticing how my erection was not only half a foot long, it was also nearly as wide as the ruler was. Wicked.

Mike pulled the ruler away. He seemed to notice the smear of precum on its middle, and then, to my shock, he brought the ruler close to his mouth, reached out with a big red tongue, and licked it away.

“Fuck, Mike,” I said, as Mike set the ruler aside on the nearest desk without looking. More words than that failed me. That was—fuck. He had just licked my precum off his ruler. Why the fuck was that such a fucking turn-on?

Consciously or unconsciously, Mike squeezed my boner hard, and I shuddered head to toe. More precum spattered on my lower belly. “Dude,” I rasped, “I gotta—you gotta help me.”

I’d barely gotten the words out before his hot mouth was around the head of my dick. I almost lost it then and there, but then he pulled his hand away and swallowed the whole shaft in a single motion, butting my stubby cockhead against the back of his throat, and—yeah. All at once I was done. I barely had time to get out a strangled warning of “Mike—!!” before I was gripping the sheets and cumming hard into his hot mouth. He swallowed it all down like a pro, turning me on even more even as I emptied my massive load down his throat.

I lost a few moments after that. When I resurfaced I was back to being boneless, like I had been when I’d woken up, though now I was now also sweaty, panting, euphoric, and completely sated in every corner of my being. Mike was playfully mouthing my softening cock, watching me with big eyes, but after a few beats of this he pulled off and smiled smugly up at me, his freshly-shaven chin and upper lip smeared with stray blotches of my rather copious spend.

I felt a twinge of regret that I hadn’t given him more. “Sorry,” I said sheepishly. I hadn’t expected to cum so soon, but the level of sensation was so much greater than I was used to, it was basically impossible to withstand.

He stood, still smiling, and I saw that his own thigh was streaked with jizz, his cock now red and soft. Fuck, I’d made him cum as quickly as I had. “Don’t be,” he said. Spotting the ruler, he grabbed it, and put it away in his drawer with the rest of his school supplies like he hadn’t just turned it into a very specific kind of sex toy. Then he moved over to his school-issued bureau and started pulling on underwear. “C’mon, get dressed,” he said, his back to me as hauled up his crimson boxer-briefs. “There’s still time to make it to breakfast.”

My stomach fluttered in faint alarm, and not because I wanted to avoid the DH’s famous blueberry pancakes. “Uhhh…” I hesitated, not sure what I was going to say next.

Mike turned and looked at me, his dark eyebrows lifted. “What?”

“I… I think I’m not hungry?” I said uncertainly.

Mike smiled, eyes glinting as he pulled up his jeans. Clean and freshly shaven with smears of cum on his lips and his thick hair all tousled, he looked innocent and debauched all at once. “Bullshit,” he said. He nodded toward my stomach. “If I can hear it, you can hear it.”

As if to clinch the argument, my traitorous belly rumbled audibly into the silence. We both laughed. “Fine,” I said, sitting up, unaccountably anxious. Spitefully, I grabbed Mike’s towel to clean my stomach off with.

“Good,” Mike said. He was still watching me, at the moment wearing just the jeans, shirtless and shoeless. “I can’t wait to try more things with you.”

Our eyes met for a second before he turned away, cheeks ruddy, to find a shirt to wear to breakfast. Maybe he was referencing the dynamic between us now that he’d blown me—were we friends with benefits? More than that?—but something in the pit of my stomach told me that wasn’t what he’d been talking about.

I thought I knew what self-conscious was. Before that fateful Saturday I’d walked around knowing that I was not as fortunate as other guys—in height, in hotness, in cock size, all of that—but it was a safe kind of self-consciousness, if you get what I mean. To look at me I was ridiculously average: 5’9”, 160 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. In attractiveness and stature I fell short of a lot of the guys I saw on campus and in my classes (or, I guess I should say, the guys I noticed, which kind of reinforces my point), but that averageness, that banality, imbued a comforting anonymity that I could wrap myself up in whenever I was mixing with the madding crowd. I wasn’t a pipsqueak, or an ogre—I was just meh. And as for the thing I felt truly insecure about, my undersized dick? It wasn’t like anyone could see it. It was a personal shame, but it was also a secret shame. I’d been bullied early on, but never about my dick. No one had ever jumped up on a table in the high school lunchroom, pointing at me and shouting, “Look everyone, it’s Thumb-Dick!” and setting the whole school jeering at me. (Not in real life, anyway, though scenarios like had haunted my dreams occasionally but persistently pretty much from the moment Wikipedia brutally enlightened twelve-year-old me with the unwelcome knowledge that I was less than amply endowed.)

The truth was that when it came to my dick, the only hater I had was me, and I was always more or less aware of how my having a size-S dick and being uptight about it were basically the two sides of the same coin. Both were parts of me that were completely invisible to the masses of humanity around me, hidden away in my pants and in my fucked-up psyche, respectively.

Something about that changed that Saturday. (Or “D-Day,” as I later thought of it.) It didn’t even make sense to me at the time. I first became aware of the self-perception twist I was experiencing in relation to Mike.

I’d always been a couple inches taller and a few pounds of (untoned but not nonexistent) muscle heavier than my slightly smaller, if hairier and more conventionally handsome, roommate. The whole semester we’d walked all over campus together plenty of times, especially after spring break, and I’d never given our minor size misalignment a thought. Now, though, as we walked to the DH to catch the tail-end of breakfast that first Saturday morning, him trying to hide his smirks and me still aglow with the best orgasm I could remember having, I was suddenly acutely conscious of being taller than him—like our size difference was something that everyone would notice and comment on as we walked past.

It was the same two inches as before; nothing had changed. But I was feeling that size difference like it was tied to my boosted cock size, like I’d been Mike-height before (I hadn’t) and everyone would notice my whole body boning up or something, ratcheting me up a notch larger than my mundanely scrawny roomie. His low-key smug excitement kind of fed into it, too. It was like he was parading me around, showing off the roommate that had two inches on him, as if our size difference was mapped directly to the real, still-hidden boost he’d given my rapturously happy dick.

Not that I wasn’t edgy on that score, too, because I sure as hell was. I was half-to-three-quarters hard the whole way to the DH, ramping up to an aching, full-blown erection by the time we breezed through the double doors and joined the milling crowd still lining up for the last rounds of raspberry waffles and custom omelets before the lunch reset in half an hour. I kept telling myself that even at six inches—six and one eighth!—my hard-on was still invisible in my baggy black jeans, not that I didn’t keep checking. But knowing my long-desired Mancock was there, that my once-paltry dick was no longer insignificant size and girth, no longer completely under the radar, had me red-cheeked and prickly-skinned all the way from the tray-pickup to the cashiers.

It was so stupid. I didn’t even understand why I felt that way. I kept telling myself, Dude, this is what you wanted! Revel in it! Strut, baby, strut! And I really was feeling that end if it, too. Random grins broke across my face with no warning. One of them was so sudden and so giddy it seemed to startle the omelet lady as I gave her my order for the fillings I wanted in my eggs. She must have thought I had a weird fetish for diced bell peppers, though maybe it says something nice about her that she tipped in a bit extra. No judgment from her when it came to food perversions, I guess.

On the way to the table, tray in hand with Mike’s compact form leading the way just ahead of me, I tried goading myself into not being such a noodge. I thought back again to red sweats guy from fall semester, the blond hottie with the casual dick-display thing going on. You could do that now, I coached myself. You could totally go out there in sweatpants and no underwear, just manspread and let everyone see the dickprint of your soft cock. You’re there, dude.

I knew I wasn’t, quite—sweats guy was still a size or two up from me, I was pretty sure—but even so I was way ahead compared to just a week back. “Soft,” though? Maybe not anytime soon, not with me being totally wrapped up in my dick like this. My dick-thoughts and dick-hormones were both racing flat-out like my body was the Tour de France and the yellow vest was up for grabs.

Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t actually own any dick-showoff sweats. I could buy some, though. Maybe I should buy some…

As we approached our usual table, moving to opposite sides and setting our trays down so we’d be facing each other like always, I caught Mike’s almost-smile again as it twitched at the corners of his lips. He’s got nice lips, I thought randomly. Then in my head I saw them wrapping around a certain, recently boosted part of my anatomy, and I actually had to adjust myself as I sat down so my suddenly extra-stiff hard-on wasn’t stabbing me in the upper groin.

Fuck, that’s a new problem, I thought, a thrill of giddy pleasure slithering up my spine. I’d never had to move it out of the way before!

I met Mike’s eyes. They were smoldering. Fucking smoldering. I had no idea he could smolder. “Thinking of earlier this morning?” he teased.

Now this was something he could smirk about without giving the game away. I felt my cheeks redden again and gave him a crooked smile. Fuck. I thought I’d be, well, cockier once I had more cock, but Mike was more than outdoing me in the self-satisfied department.

“Actually, yeah,” I admitted. Should I tell him I wanted to do it again? Maybe it was just the excitement of the plan having worked, but I was feeling a lot hornier than I was used to being. I was pretty sure that if he sucked me off again, right then and there in the middle of the DH, I’d still need a third blow job before I’d even begin to level off.

Damn, I hope this ramps down once I get used to being bigger, I thought. Being this horny would be a hell of a distraction in while I was in class. Or trying to study. Or sleep. Heck, just then I felt so full of energy and so teeming with sex hormones it was tough to imagine ever sleeping again.

Mike winked at me. “Good,” he said. He was all smarm—though in a very cute, boy-next-door way. Wholesome smarm. Charm smarm, if you will. He was wearing his midnight-blue polo with the tiny off-brand gold duck stitched over the left breast, and the nice, V-shaped slice of his dark, wispy but copious chest hair it exposed made him seem extra-virile. Or at least it did that morning.

“Dig in, then,” Mike went on, nodding to my plate. “The sooner you finish your eggs ‘n’ waffles, the sooner we can… do other things.”

My stomach fluttered as I followed his gaze and looked down at my plate. Had he already dosed my stuff? It was definitely possible. See, the thing is that as soon as we’d come back from break I’d started doing this thing where I very deliberately left my tray back on the rack next to the condiments while I went to fetch my drink from the fountains, making sure to turn my back on my food for a good minute or two while I methodically filled one of the DH’s jumbo 30-ounce cups with soda or (in the mornings, as now) their fresh, frothy, extra-delicious orange juice from the lots-of-pulp spigot. After three meals a day of this for a solid week I was already so self-conditioned (and, today, so distracted by own horniness) that I hadn’t even thought about it as I’d gotten my o.j. this morning, but…

We were still staring right into each other’s eyes. Had he dosed me? Did I want that? Without formulating any kind of real or definitive answer to that question I heard myself saying, “You know, Mike, I’m really… happy. With, you know, how things… turned out.”

Mike grinned wolfishly. It was a slightly open grin, and I caught a glimpse of that greedy and unexpectedly talented tongue of his behind his white teeth. “Me, too,” he said boldly. My dick squeezed hard, the wet, stubby head digging insistently into the side of my groin muscle.

Shit, are we still pretending we’re talking about the blow job? I thought. Because if that smile is saying anything, it’s saying, “Good, ‘cause I want more.”

The superlative aroma of my breakfast drifted up from my tray, and my stomach growled audibly. My heart fluttered a little, like my belly was still hell-bent on betraying me and all my secret desires.

Mike’s dark eyebrows flickered, registering his little win. Picking up his fork, he gestured toward my tray. “Eat,” he said.

In that moment, I think, an outside observer would have picked up on nothing more than a guy innocently urging his roomie to down his waffles and omelet before they got cold, but I sure as hell knew better. Nonetheless, being without options as I was, I picked up my fork and did as I was told, all the while racking my brain to figure out how I could hint a bit more emphatically that he could stop now… without giving everything away. Now that the biotransformation was real (and pulsing away impatiently in my pants) I’d was half-aware of sort of subtextual fear that bringing into the open the cock growth he’d induced in me, from his perspective without permission or experimental sanction, might just get him started thinking about where his illicit urge to experiment on me could have originated. I felt an unexpected pang of guilt, and immediately brushed away the whole problem of my complicity, along with any thought of broaching the masquerade we were now firmly entrenched in just yet. By the time I’d cleared my plate of bell-pepper-crammed eggs and yummy maple-drizzled raspberry waffle goodness (and downed all my sweet pulpy o.j., too), all under the watchful eye of my craftily-smiling minder, I was no closer to figuring out what to do next.


That whole weekend was like a fever dream. I kept getting hard for what seemed like no reason. Mike tilting his head to look up at me, reminding me of that feeling of size disparity I’d been experiencing since that first trek to the DH. Six guys of mixed ordinariness-to-hunkiness playing a bit of impromptu keep-away with one of the guys’ phones on the campus green, a couple of them shirtless, all of them laughing. Jaleel from down the hall passing me bare-chested as I left the common bathroom area, heading for the showers at two in afternoon on Saturday with a towel over his muscley, blue-black shoulder, as though he’d accrued some sudden need to clean himself off in the middle of the day.

Every time, Mike was there, ready to lend his mysteriously high-level oral expertise to my current predicament. I didn’t even have to worry about reciprocity—he blasted in his own load in his hand every time, as if the mere idea of wrapping his hot mouth around my rigid, size-boosted dick was way more than enough for him.

Any normal guy would lay back and enjoy it. Instead I was getting perversely nervous. I wasn’t a hair-trigger-erection kind of guy (or, at least, I hadn’t been), and even at my most ridiculously post-pubescently hormonal I hadn’t been shooting huge wads of cum five, six times a day like this, each one feeling like it was the first orgasm in a week. I was so spun around by all this I honestly couldn’t tell if it was just a persistent euphoric reaction to finally getting my Mancock, or if Mike’s incremental junk upgrade had micro-boosted more than the size of my dick. What I did know was that I was experiencing a major spike in sex-urgency, more than I’d ever felt before, and the scary part was it didn’t seem to have any limits no matter how often I came—and as the hours and days passed it didn’t seem to show any signs of dying down, either.

One thing definitely preventing me from slipping into a willing sex-coma was that little snag known as classes. I might have been a savant at app development, but, as previously mentioned, my aptitude in other areas tended to come up woefully short; and, freshman as I was, my curriculum was as crammed full of dross as a hoarder’s attic and as dull as a paint-drying competition. Case in point: that weekend I happened to have a paper coming due on the Gilded Age (snore), and, seeing as it wasn’t even started yet, I pretty much had to spend Sunday afternoon in the library researching and writing the damn thing. Mike went with me as usual, whether to monitor his project or get his jollies from being around his star experimental subject I didn’t know, but once we were there and ensconced at one of the big study tables I found myself having serious trouble focusing on my laptop screen with him right there across from me. Even with him innocently poring over his own study materials—he’d brought his physical sciences text, and I was pretty sure that class was as much of a breeze for him as bioscience would have been—the fact was that just him being there, and me aware all the things he’d done to me (on multiple axes), was triggering a pavlovian response I couldn’t escape.

Worse, he’d finally cottoned on to my chest-hair fetish, presumably after all the eye-dives I’d given to his open polo the day before, and today he’d managed to dig up from somewhere a lilac tee shirt I’d never seen before with the biggest V-cut this side of J.Lo’s Grammy Awards dress. Seriously, I could see his xiphoid process.

I gulped and tried to retrack my wayward brain to the very grade-important paper I was writing. I positioned my cursor and commanded myself to stop fucking around and get this done. Where was I? Right. I started typing again. The seeds of labor discontent (I wrote) exploded in the messy Pullman Strike of 1894, led by the cocksure union leader Eugene Dicks…

I paused, frowning at the screen, then pounded on the backspace key. “Debs,” not “Dicks,” I chastised myself as I typed in the correction. Heh, sounds like a slogan for Closeted College Boys Anonymous.

I looked up to find Mike staring right at me, his eyes kindled with that strange lust of his I couldn’t be sure was carnal or proprietary. He was slumped casually over his book with his head propped up on one arm, fingers pushed into his hair, which meant that his penetrating lust-gaze was kind of up and through his lashes, his sexy-thick eyebrows almost in the way. He hadn’t shaved that morning, either, and a dark smudge of bristle framed his jaw and mouth. My cock, which had been languishing at three-quarters hard for the last half hour, stiffened instantly to full-blown erection. Damn it, I thought.

“I gotta go find a book,” I said abruptly, standing so quickly the heavy oak chair I was sitting in scraped audibly on the thin industrial carpet. Mike said nothing, but his lips curved upward into a small, knowing smile. I bolted for the stacks, feeling my cheeks redden for the umpteenth time that weekend.

You moron, I scolded myself in confusion as I took refuge in the tall, narrow rows of endless bookery. Getting a bigger dick was supposed to make you more confident, not less!

Seriously, what was wrong with me?

Figuring I ought to head for the American History section just in case—I should probably bring back some sort of tome just to save face, I thought, though either way the chagrin would be monumental—I swerved left and headed down the long middle aisle in the general direction of the library’s trove of nineteenth-century mundanities. Turning into the appropriate row, however, I slowed, hesitating.

I wasn’t alone.

This shouldn’t have taken me by surprise. This was the main library, after all, and it was the second half of the semester, a time when even slackers begin to stir and seek the perpetuation of their languid college life via the minimum of work necessary for a passing grade. Right now there were no doubt hundreds of students in the building, prowling the stacks, clattering away at their laptops, thronging the computer lab, or commandeering the reserved study group rooms upstairs for hourlong bitch sessions occasionally punctuated by actual course-related confabs. Me acting like Wall-E on an abandoned Earth was a little dumb.

In fact I was starting to think I recognized the tall, well-built blond (still obliviously browsing the Chester A. Arthur shelf) from my U.S. History course—the same class I was struggling to write a paper for that weekend. It was a hundred-person lecture in a big, soulless amphitheater-style classroom, but I was pretty sure I’d noticed him a few times. He always sported three things: a toothy grin, white sneaks, and a stripy rugby shirt, and today seemed no exception: I couldn’t see the smile as his back was to me, but the sneaks were there, and the loose, white-collared shirt featured the requisite broad stripes of rust-red and gray and showed off his naturally well-proportioned shoulders rather nicely.

He also, I saw for the first time, possessed a very sweet ass.

My cock shivered with excitement, going so hard it pushed itself out of the angle I’d had it at in order to be able to sit down and snapped back to its normal stance, proud and perfectly vertical, as I stared in entranced wonder at Blondy’s delightful butt. From where I stood, maybe nine or ten feet away, I had the perfect vantage to take in its beauty both intrinsically and relative to the whole. It was beyond enticingly formed—round and firm and a little flat on the sides, and pitched high and pert as though it were made of marble, or stone, or fucking adamantium. His light-blue jeans hugged each cheek like a jealous lover, at the same time brazenly trumpeting every curve for all to see. On him, even the seam that ran up the seat between the two cheeks seemed provocative somehow, as though it were signposting the muscle-cleavage behind it and, discreetly but unavoidably, the tight hole secreted within.

I wanted in there. I wanted to fuck him.

I’d never fucked anyone. Nor had I been fucked—heck, Mike was only the second guy to even blow me. I’d been too self-conscious before. Even in the midst of that suddenly sexed-up weekend, full of nonstop hard-ons and impromptu fellatio and more orgasms than I could count, I hadn’t thought once about butt sex. The blowjobs, and the climaxes that came with them, were too good, too all-consuming to leave traces of anything else but the white-hot pleasure of the moment.

Now, though, my brain crowded with images. Blondy, silently pulling down his jeans, exposing that creamy, perfect ass. Or, fuck, I was so hard right then I could probably push my dick right through the denim and plow straight into his tight, hot—

Mike also had a nice ass. A really nice ass. He was probably a virgin, too. Maybe he’d like it if I slid my big, stone-hard Mancock into his innocent, unbroached hole. Maybe he’d want to feel the real, fleshy results of his science-ninja brilliance pushing deep inside him, questing for that spot that would make him crave my cock in his ass forever more…

My eyes were still boring into Blondy’s rounded glutes, their stellar shape mixing in my head with Mike’s more demure but nonetheless exquisite butt. Just then Blondy shifted his weight, making his ass change position, almost as though the cheeks were taunting me… daring me.

All at once I had to cum. Had to cum. A huge, sure-to-be-brain-melting orgasm had bubbled up urgently out of nowhere, and I was going to fucking blow my load right there in the American History stacks. My brain raced. Where? Where could I go? Somehow I remembered there was a men’s room nearby—I’d used it once earlier in the semester, pre-D-Day, when I’d needed to slap cold water on my face after almost dozing off checking various books in the Reconstruction shelves for chapters on the 1876 election scandal. I could see it in my head—it was just past the end of this row. Right? It had to be. It had to be there.

Clamping down on my orgasm with every muscle in my body and every particle of will I could muster I pelted down the row, pushing past Blondy. Unfortunately the act of doing so and his surprised reaction accidentally brushed his butt against my aching boner as I slid past him, which did not help. Emitting a desperate whimper I ran, literally ran, out of the row and into the back corridor, found the men’s room (hallelujah), and dove into it and into one of the stalls. I shoved my jeans and underwear down—thank fuck for narrow hips—only just in time to start spurting more cum than a Roman legion in a brothel.

I didn’t even have time to aim it at first—I barely got it down enough so I wasn’t spitting jizz all over my purple Ninja Steel logo-stripe tee shirt (shut up), and I was so hard I couldn’t possibly have levered it down very far anyway. So I just came willy-nilly, all over the toilet, the handle, the wall, everything. I tried compensating by bending over some, changing the angle as best I could, but that mostly meant I was cumming more directly on the seat and the flush-handle… anywhere but in the bowl whence I could flush my jizz and my embarrassment securely down the pipes into sexual oblivion.

I finished, red-faced and sweaty, as much from the humiliation as from the cumming. I blinked hazily through my euphoria at the mess I’d made. Any fool would know what had happened here, not only from the visual evidence but also on account of the very powerful odor that semen seems to deliberately produce at all the wrong moments. Not exactly a CSI moment.

I straightened, panting slightly, my stubborn, still-hard dick clutched in my cum-covered fist, and tried making sense of… well, anything. My mind was a churning fog of emotions sand sensations, none of it connected or at all helpful.

For a brief second I had the most ridiculous impulse. I had to clean all of it up. With what? I thought desperately. Toilet paper? There were no paper towels in our university’s restrooms, only air dryers—those sure wouldn’t help. What would I do, seek out a janitor? “Excuse me, sir, could I borrow your mop? See, I just sprayed a quart of spunk all over one of the stalls in the second-floor men’s room—totally accidentally—so, um, if you could just lend me a few of your cleaning implements…”

All that inanity, however, was quickly driven right out of my head by a more pressing realization—namely, the fact that the cock I was clutching in my spunk-coated hand was definitely not the same size it had been when I’d woken up in a state of phallic epiphany the morning before. The heft was heftier. The length was lengthier. Not much in either case, but just enough to be positively, tactilely perceptible to my knowing grip. It was bigger. I was bigger.

I stared at the mess I’d made, feeling close to blue-screening. I had to do… something, but I had no idea what. I had no fucking idea how to deal with this.

Someone came into the bathroom, whistling something jaunty, and got into the neighboring stall, noisily slamming and latching the door. Energized by the injection of panic this induced I quickly used my other hand to awkwardly zip up, then, departing the stall and seeing no one around, I hurriedly washed the cum off my hand and got the fuck out of there, wiping my wet hands on my pants as I guiltily abandoned the evidence of my epic orgasm, there for some unlucky soul to discover. It felt unnervingly like retreating from the field of battle—a battle I had most decidedly lost. And my gut told me this was only the beginning.

I hoped my Monday mid-morning small-group, double-length class in Java interface development would distract me from my confusingly conflicted feelings about my dream-scenario cock level-up being more complicated than I’d expected. That hope was… sadly misguided.

I’d slept late that morning, waking up to a raging hard-on and an empty room. No sign of Mike anywhere, just the faintest hint of his natural scent lingering like a place-holder covering his absence. Did he have a class Monday mornings? I didn’t think so. A study group maybe?

I checked my phone—shit, I was going to be late, and I had a boner to kill first. Hurriedly I grabbed the tiny tube of lube I had hidden in my lower desk drawer under a few blank notebooks and slicked myself up, then spent exactly three minutes jerking myself to another big orgasm, trying the whole time not to think about how massively my dick was filling my fist. As usual of late my hardon lingered after I came, red and defiant, and I stared at it as I wiped myself down.

I couldn’t escape the fact that it felt amazingly good to be hung. Just having a stiff, gently curved-back erection that I could wrap my hand around like I was gripping, I dunno, a motorcycle throttle or a baseball bat was inescapably awesome. Having this dick, though, clearly came with side-effects I had not been expecting, and three days in I was still struggling to sort out my reactions.

I should be happy, right? I was happy, right? I mean, one of those side-effects was regular blow-jobs from a natural-born cocksucker, and that was definitely a plus. The frequency with which such relief was becoming necessary, on the other hand…

I tossed the cum-towel aside into my hamper and got up to grab Mike’s ruler from his desk—the same ruler he’d licked my precum off of so suggestively a few mornings back—and sat down again, my hard-on arcing slightly toward my belly button as though it wanted to nose its way into it someday. I hadn’t been tracking my exact size, leaving that to Mike’s no-doubt meticulous science-nerd recordkeeping (not that he’d measured me overtly since Saturday, as we were both still pretending I was just a normal, hung guy no one was experimenting on, but I was sure he was keeping up somehow). That morning, though, I needed a number.

My balls were bigger, too, I’d noticed. I should probably get a tape measure and see where they were at. I could use it for girth, too. Or Mike could. If we got past the stupid game of “growth, what growth?” we were playing, I was sure he’d willingly gather all the stats he could on how big I was down there.

Just as Mike had, I slid the cold, metal ruler under my dick, pushing the end firmly against the base. Already I could tell my tool was wider, relative to the ruler, than it had been on Saturday, and when I saw where the blunt head was topping out my heart actually tripped over itself, making my pulse stutter alarmingly.

I gaped at where my cockhead was smearing its final, belated pearl of cum onto the ruler, like it was trying to mark the spot for future reference. There was a line there, one of the thick ones, and the number next to it was… 8.

My cock squeezed involuntarily, pushing out another tiny drop of cum—right onto the 8, as it happened, like it was claiming the number for its own.

Eight. Eight thick, fist-filling inches.

Okay. That wasn’t too weird, I told myself as I wiped the ruler clean with a tissue and put it away back in Mike’s desk drawer. Lots of guys have eight inches. It’s hung, that’s all. You have a Mancock. Buy the red sweats, dude, you have—a—Mancock.

Okay. This was good. Cold shower. Cold shower, and class, and life with an awesome, manspread-and-brandish, strut like a superstar Mancock.

Even having managed to get myself soft via the aforementioned cold shower, I still had a little trouble with my briefs. All I had clean was Jockeys, and the pouch was not quite big enough for my bigger, thicker dick and my heftier nuts as well. Not only that, the cut of my briefs pushed my junk up and out in a way that actually made it a bit difficult to zip my fly up over the fat, compact mound that was my cock and balls.

I managed to get everything squared away, finished dressing, grabbed my bag, and hurried out. I definitely didn’t want to turn up late for this class. I’d been lucky to place into it and the material, unlike the fucking Gilded Age, was stuff I was genuinely interested in.

When I got to the computer lab where my class was, though I wasn’t technically late yet the other fifteen students were already there, chatting idly as they waited for me (and the prof) to join them. Unluckily the classroom door was at the front, which meant that as soon as I entered sixteen pairs of eyes lifted from their monitors to skewer me. Then, as my stomach twisted, most of those stares dropped directly to my crotch.

Conversations stopped. Those students who weren’t eyeing my basket glanced at the others to see what they were looking at, then joined them in checking out what was evidently a rather more prominent bulge than anyone was accustomed to seeing on me. Red-cheeked and chastising myself for wearing my light-blue, tailored jeans and not the baggy black ones again, I passed up the center aisle and took my usual seat in the fourth row of desks, slumping low as I self-consciously booted my computer and logged into my account.

I could feel my seatmate, an easy-going, very fit lacrosse fanatic named Clint, giving me the side-eye. He had long, sandy hair (and evidently knew his way around a bottle of conditioner, because that mane was lush as fuck); lots of ear-piercings; an occasional hint of guyliner; hairy forearms; and a leather wrist cuff I thought was pretty sexy. He kept glancing over at me while I carried on pretending to check through my code, wondering where the professor was.

I could feel Clint wanting to ask if that was really all me down there. But for fuck’s sake, this wasn’t summer camp, and we weren’t thirteen. Guys didn’t ask stuff like that at our age. You just didn’t.

I really, really hoped I was right about that.

The worst part was that all the attention was literally going straight to my cock, which only made the problem worse. If I couldn’t manage to calm myself down I was going to make even more of a spectacle when I inevitably had to stand up again in front of everyone. Or… maybe I could just sit here forever. That was a possibility, right?

Just then the professor walked in—and Professor Fitzwilliam, “Fitz” as we called him, was a real DILF, too, like, he could have been some brash and buff superhero’s calmer, brawnier, slightly hairier older brother. At the same time, Clint shifted in his seat to let his knee brush experimentally against mine, forcing an electric thrill through me and swelling my cock to half-hardness. With its space cramped as it was it felt like it was pushing hard against the zipper, as though a little more force, another shove toward hardness, and the zipper teeth would start to strain against each other.

I… didn’t jerk my knee away or anything, but I must have reacted visibly somehow because Fitz turned and paused in midstep to look right at me. That, in turn, had the rest of the class turning to stare at me again—except for Clint, of course, who placidly kept his eyes front and his expression as bland as could be.

After a long second Fitz resumed his walk across the front of the room, set down his messenger bag, and started the class. By this point we were all a good ways along with our semester projects, so we were deep in our own apps in short order, with Fitz moving from station to station to quietly discuss each student’s progress and forward plans. I dug in, too, using what willpower I had to drag all of my attention to the UI architecture I was working on and ignore the now shamelessly firm press of Clint’s leg and the burgeoning, semi-stiff cock I had strapped uncomfortably over my balls. My self-engrossment in my favorite pastime was just starting to work—my dick was even on the cusp of ebbing back toward only half-hard, and I was pretty much accepting Clint’s leggy intimacy as a temporary environmental given—when Fitz suddenly looked up from where he was stooped over Daphne’s screen three rows up and said, “Casey, can you have a look at this?”

I sucked in a breath. In our first week we’d had to share an app we’d already created, however crap, and while I hadn’t (of course) exposed the actual live version on my mind-bender app, I had been able to dig up a trial utility I’d created as part of its development to model data on mood and attitude for multiple subjects. Daphne’s project, I knew, happened to involve similar biometric data handling, so it wasn’t too out of left-field for Fitz to pull me in for advice. It wasn’t even the first time Fitz had called me in on another student’s gig—though it was the first time he’d asked for me while I was packing a bulge apparently just big enough to get me pulled aside in a TSA line in case I was smuggling a bit of contraband in my underwear. “Did anyone else pack your Jockeys for you, sir?” “Uh…”

Fitz and Daphne were both looking at me expectantly. Answering Fitz’s invite with a breezy “Nope, I’m good” wasn’t exactly an option, so, excruciatingly uncomfortable but trying to hide it, I climbed to my feet.

I watched as their eyes swiveled down in unison toward my uncharacteristically packed crotch. Fitz, ever the professional, calmly turned back toward the screen beside him as if he hadn’t seen anything unusual. Daphne did not.

Slowly, and for what felt like several very long, very silent minutes, I walked the green mile from my desk to hers. Finally I was standing next to Daphne, with Fitz perched on the desk next to her keyboard, eyes on her dev constructs like they were the most interesting things he’d ever seen.

Daphne still had her eyes locked on my bulge like she’d been told never to look away or her cat would buy it.

I cleared my throat, found that my mouth had gone dry, and tried forcing all the saliva I could out of every moist surface my oral cavity possessed. Fitz pointed at the screen and calmly asked what I would suggest for the particular routine Daphne was stuck on.

I said… something. I don’t even know what I came up with. I’m willing to lay odds Daphne couldn’t have said either. All I knew was, her eyes were like fucking lasers, and I was pretty sure that, in a scenario where they really were lasers, the denim covering my straining junk wouldn’t have held up for more than a few minutes. Everyone else was staring, too, but given that I was standing next to Daphne’s desk in the front row, most of them could only see my backside. That started to feel hot, too. Fuck, I thought, if all of that were actually real I’d’ve been lucky to walk out of there with any pants left at all.

Fitz nodded, so maybe whatever bullshit I’d served him was actually reasonable. He looked up and, to his credit, steadily met my gaze as he thanked me for my help. I turned around and trudged the long walk back to my seat. As I plopped down in my chair, valiantly resisting the urge to keep going and slide all the way under the desk, Clint offered me a comradely smile. “Nice one,” he said. I had no idea whether he meant my advice, my dick, or my ass.

His leg drifted back against mine like it belonged there, and the renewal of touch somehow felt even more jarringly exhilarating than before. My cock and balls responded by redlining to near-orgasm in the space of a second. I closed my eyes and squeezed my fists. No orgasm… no orgasm…! I chanted desperately. I tried filling my head with distractions and nonsense. Random TV. Videos I’d seen. An infomercial for the Shamwow started playing loudly in my brain—I’d looked it up once after someone else had gone on about it in some Reddit sub or other—and I thought it would help, except in my version Vince Offer kept winking at me, flirting harder and harder as he extolled the product’s ability to mop up amazing quantities of cum

It was no use. Between Vince and Clint and Fitz’s DILFness and the unrelenting entreaties of my ferocious, indomitable Mancock to be able to spurt all its jizz everywhere, now, right now, now now now, I… I couldn’t handle it. I lasted five agonizing minutes before I bolted the classroom for the nearest men’s room—which was all the way down the fucking hall, naturally. This time I managed to get my ass on the seat and, through careful aiming of the explosive parabolas of cum shooting skyward from my almost immutably up-pointing, incredibly stiff erection, managed to get almost all of my spunk in the bowl, with only a few round splats of jizz landing on the inch-wide tiles between my feet.

I leaned back huffing as my release finally dwindled and died, though I was careful to keep my still-spasming dick pointed up and away from my favorite green-and-white Angel Grove High tee shirt (shut up), riding out the ragged edge of my orgasm.

I tried waiting for my unruly prick to go down, but five minutes of edgy bliss passed and my boner had still only relented by… maybe ten percent. So, yeah. I had to face the hard facts (so to speak). I needed to either go back, as I was, or walk away. Both were beyond embarrassing, but the bottom line was this: there were still 90 minutes left in this class, and bailing on such a critical course was simply out of the question.

Eventually I sighed, unspooled a wad of toilet paper to wipe the cum off my hand and a few spots on my inner thighs, and pulled up my pants, literally and figuratively. Gritting my teeth I zipped up, with some difficulty, over my vertically-positioned, ruler-straight still-mostly-hard-on, squared my shoulders, and—flushing my jizz away along with my pride—marched solemnly back to my classroom, knowing beyond any doubt that every single person there would know exactly what had just happened.

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