Tell me about my boner

by BRK

 The gag tee shirt with a provocative slogan seemed like a good idea when he’d ordered it during a late-night stroke session, but now that it’s here it seems intent on changing his life in ways he might not be ready for.

Added: Oct 2019 Updated: 2 Apr 2022 13,718 words 21,697 views 4.9 stars (31 votes) Parts of this story were commissioned via Patreon Story Commission and Patreon Vignette Party.

I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My mouth was watering.

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

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

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

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

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

I parted my lips.

Ding dong!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

I stood there in the middle of my bedroom with The Shirt in my hands, conflicted, irresolute, and horny. My skin was still warm from the shower, and something in my brain told me it would feel so good to slide that soft, midnight-blue cotton over my head and pull it down over my trim, hairy chest and tight belly, letting it get all snuggly with me again. They went together, that little inner nudge was telling me, my torso and The Shirt. And then my heavy dick would get hard and stand up straight and proud right in front of it, collarbone-high and arm-thick, the letters behind it spelling out their life-changing exhortation: “Tell Me About My Boner.”

I wanted to put it on, and I suspected it had nothing to do with the tee-shirt hoodoo getting into my head. Some part of me liked what had happened. Some part of me liked guys talking about my dick and taking control of its size and potency. I felt the appeal of the idea flitter through me like a flock of ghostly butterflies, and that heavy-as-fuck dick I now had weighing down my groin responded, twitching and jumping against my thigh.

Fuck, I now had a dick I couldn’t possibly hide, and I wasn’t just getting off on being huger than any man on earth—I was into other guys making me that way.

I thought of Thatcher, and damn, another swarm of little phantom wings was flapping intangibly through me. I pictured those clever blueberry eyes of his… and I had a moment of raw emotional clarity. I’d been wasting this shirt on the UPS guy and the randy couple from the grocery store. If anyone was going to be the one to change me, it should be Thatcher. It should have been Thatcher all along.

I was half hard now, my super-thick prick waggling and straightening in front of me like a divining rod, its flesh rosy and its veins thin and purple. The thing was swelling and thickening in record time, too, like there was a primo high-pressure air-mattress pump blazing away right behind it in the back of my groin. Soon it would be hard, and then Thatcher—my sexy, saucy Thatcher—would get his chance to tell me exactly what he wanted to see…

Without warning, my horny-train derailed with a Fugitive-like crash. What the fuck was I thinking! Thatcher changing me more? Was I stupid? I needed to burn this shirt and then—then—Well, and then I’d just go through life with a boner so big it almost needed its own shirt to wear.

Geez, I’d fucked my life. Even soft it was massive. Putting on pants wouldn’t help. It would still be there. I’d never sail through a TSA line again—obviously I was smuggling something, they’d say. An armadillo, probably. Everyone would look at it, whether it was hard or soft. Hell, drying off after my shower I’d stared at it the thing myself in the bathroom mirror for a few moments, all huge and soda-can thick even flaccid, ready to demand all attention the moment it was raging hard and ready to cum anew, nuzzling wetly against that little notch in my collarbone where—

I paused in my mental wailing and backed up a few feet. The mirror.

The mirror…!

I pulled on The Shirt and hurried excitedly into the bathroom. The steam from the shower was dissipated, giving a crystal-clear image of me, wide-eyed and red-lipped, hair uncombed and my new wonderdick already completing its ratcheting to full-blown bonerdom, standing tall and majestic right in front of the mystery tee shirt that had made it the biggest tool since Logan Paul.

I waited until it was fully hard, straining toward my debauched-looking mouth. I resisted the siren call of lips and tongue on sensitive cockflesh. I wanted to stare at the thing—truly, it was beautiful, a work of art of red and pink cockflesh. Michelangelo could not sculpt a more splendid-looking megawang. My hands twitched impatiently at my naked hips.

I shoved all of that aside. This was serious. I was here on a mission, and not even the whole cast of Élite converging on my ruddy neck-high supercock with tongues out and hands slicked would distract me from what I needed to do.

I stared myself in the eyes. “Your boner,” I told my reflection solemnly, “is twelve inches long.” I spoke clearly and distinctly, like an Oscar presenter reading a name with a lot of consonants that he desperately doesn’t want to fuck up on national television.

I waited, my heart pounding loudly mere inches behind my uncannily towering erection. Thump. Thump. Thump!

A big dollop of pre squeezed out of the slit. I watched as it started trickling unhurriedly over the curve of the purpling glans—the glans of my very much not only-twelve-inches erection.

My shoulders slumped. Of course. I met my eyes and squared those shoulders again, reasserting my resolve. “Your cock!” I said, louder now. “Your cock is—”

Now, here’s where I mention something that hasn’t come up before. See, I have a voice-response virtual assistant installed in my house, and unlike some other services it doesn’t always respond just to its name. Sometimes it responds if you raise your voice in the right way, like Riker shouting at the ceiling of the Enterprise like that was where the computer lived.

“Playing Your Cock by Maxable B,” my virtual assistant said in its pleasant, male baritone from the smart speaker mounted to the right of the vanity. Its name was Craig, and the fact that it had a nice voice and was called Craig was the only reason I’d gotten it. And if you’re asking why I had a virtual assistant smart speaker mounted in there—well, who doesn’t forget they need to buy conditioner the moment they leave the bathroom?

To my horror, a raunchy hip-hop single from a gay rapper I’d barely heard of suddenly filled the room. “Your cock, it’s so divine / your cock, it’s adamantine / your cock, I love to lick it cuz it’s hard all the time—”

Too late I regained my faculties, even as I felt my dick stiffening even more than it had been before, like it was testing the boundaries between figuratively and literally rock-hard. “Craig, no!” I shrieked. “Shut it off!”

Your cock, it’s like a fountain / Your cock, you could cum a—

“Craig!” I shouted urgently. “Music off!!

All at once the bathroom was echoingly silent—apart from my heart, that is, which seemed to be trying to noisily pound itself right out of my chest. I stared at my now (thankfully metaphorical) adamantine cock, and watched as the drop of clear precum lolling across the slit raised itself slowly on a half-inch, low-pressure jet of pre, making a little expanding arc like the fountain in the opening of Married with Children. Drops started collecting on the tile at my feet, slowly making a little puddle of warm gooey pre.

“Fuuuuuuck,” I growled, low in my throat. I was never letting that thing read me naughty stories after this, that was for sure. I cut off an expletive and, modulating my tone slightly but keeping the imperative very clear, tried talking to the thing directly, determined to make the stupid left-back cousin of Skynet make its fuck-up right. “Craig,” I said sternly, “tell me I have a normal-sized cock.”

“I’m not sure I understand your request,” Craig said placidly, as dense as ever. “Do you want me to order you a medium-sized live rooster?”

“Nooo,” I said grimly, trying to control my anger, even as more pre dappled the tops of my feet. “I want you to say, ‘You have a normal-sized cock.’ Say it now.”

“I do not have ‘normal sized cock’ in my order history,” Craig said, his tone perfectly reasonable. “I have no chickens of any kind. Would you like me to order you—”

“Forget it!” I said. l stomped out of the bathroom, my rigid dick not moving even a millimeter this time as I went, though my precum was flying all over. I found my phone on top of the bureau, and without letting myself think about what I was doing I snatched up, opened my contacts, and called an ex-boyfriend at random.

“Heyyy,” Tony said. “How’s—”

“How big is my cock?” I interrupted him rudely. Then, belatedly realizing a pretext would help, I added tersely, “I’m taking a poll. A poll of exes.” Not that five guys, one of whom was a furtive handjob from a classmate who had gone on to become a monk, made an especially strong data set. I was already regretting this, but I was starting to get desperate.

“Uhhhh—”

“Just—please. It’s important.”

“Dude, are you with someone? Are they badmouthing your junk? Because you’re plenty big enough, babe. And your balls? They are seriously thick.”

I wanted to growl again as I felt my balls, already enlarged as necessary part of having a huge boner, get heavier and thicker still against my thighs. Geezus fuck! I tried a different tack. “How many inches would you say?” I asked him bluntly.

“Your dick? I don’t know,” Tony said, sounding confused and a little worried. “I’m eight, and you’re bigger than me, so—seriously, babe, what’s going on?”

I was tempted to beat the phone against my forehead. “What about precum?” I asked, clutching at straws. “It’s normal, right?”

There was a pause, as Tony registered the extremity of my need. “Your precum is perfectly normal,” he said, like a parent reassuring a kid who’d been teased on the playground for the quantity of his pre-spunk. He added, “And anyone who says otherwise is a douche.”

With immense relief, I watched my fountaining precum fall back to a trickle, then subside to a slow, gratifyingly manageable drip. Oh, thank fuck.

“I mean,” Tony continued, “if anything, it’s more than—”

“Gotta go!” I said, and hung up.

I fell back onto the edge of my bed, dropping the phone on the comforter next to me. Of course, sitting down had the effect of not only placing my dick right in front of my mouth but also of filling my nostrils with the smell of cock and pre-spunk. I was so horny. And now that Maxable B had had his lecherous way with me, I thought, stomach sinking, that might actually be a permanent state. Great.

I resisted licking it with every ounce of willpower I had. I would not be ruled by this thing.

The cheery tones of a Skype call sounded again from the other room, intruding into my thoughts like a shark in a beach resort, making everything else scatter.

I stood up. I was in a mood like none I had ever known. Not even sure what I wanted or hoped for, I marched out of the room, finally ready for the long-delayed title bout of Thatcher vs. The Shirt.

I sat down at the desk in my home office, wasting precious seconds staring at the throbbing “incoming call” imagery that went with the insistently bubbly ringtone while my overheated and slightly manic brain was considering leaving my behemoth permaboner in full view for Thatcher to gape at. At the last minute a tatter of reason prevailed and, shoving the gods-accursed uberboner down with some difficulty, I managed to wedge it, rather painfully, under the desk. It pushed up hard against the particle-board undersurface, and I actually flexed it real quick just to see if it was strong enough and massive enough now that squeezing up against the desk would make the whole apparatus jump. Reassuringly—or, perhaps not—nothing happened. My furniture did not move, though my dick did protest rather strenuously at its current forced position, shooting a ripple of pain through my already jangling nerves as I connected the call with my free hand.

It immediately became apparent that, discomfort aside, I had made the right decision to get my pillar-o’-penis out of shot, because Thatcher was not alone on the call. My screen was divided: on the left was Thatcher, his alert, blueberry eyes pinning me in place like a stasis ray as soon as the call connected, and on the right was our boss’s boss, Dermot, a graying ex-track-and-field star (bronze at the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona!) now living out a comfortable second life as the unflappable exec in charge of our firm’s programming yahoos, design dilettantes, and info-tech smartasses.

The contrast between them was arresting, once I got over the shock of Dermot being on the call at all. Thatcher, who was clearly calling from home, was wearing a heather-gray tee shirt, and his longish ash-blond hair was brushed to show its gentle waves but was product-free, giving him just an edge of wildness that belied his young-patrician features as he stared at me with almost palpable intensity. Dermot, on the other hand, was at the office and dressed for it, with a white shirt patterned in a square azure-blue grid (I’d seen it before, it was one of his favorite shirts, and every time it reminded me of quadruled graph paper) accompanied by a cobalt-blue tie; his eyes were down, and he seemed to be leafing through a scattering of documents on his desk just below shot.

“Hey, Thatcher. Dermot,” I said, trying to hide my nervousness and, it went without saying, my very inappropriate arousal. The manic mood I’d been in only a moment ago was already starting to fizzle thanks to the left turn of having to deal with an unexpected interloper on my unformed fantasy moment with Thatcher, but I still felt that persistent need to upend the tables on my weird new fate brewing in my chest, waiting to come out.

Dermot, still rifling through his papers, merely grunted distractedly. Thatcher was giving me a sly smile with those wine-dark lips I dreamed about so often. He was eyeing The Shirt, the full lettering of which was in frame. “So,” he teased, “is that an invitation to remind you of the most comical mistake you’ve made?”

I huffed a breath, not looking down at the magic-imbued lettering. “Oh, I’ve made a few,” I said. “Starting with buying this tee shirt.” My dick strained again against the underside of the desk. Perhaps it was really trying to move it, or maybe it just to remind me of its existence. Like I could possibly forget.

Dermot finally looked up. “Oh, heh, that’s quite a shirt,” he said gamely, in the manner of a genial fiftysomething who’d taught himself to roll with whatever “the Zs” were doing these days. His expression brightened, a sure sign he was about to tell a story from his days as an athlete. “It reminds me actually of another wacky shirt, the one my buddy Ross wore to a party at the Seoul games in ‘88,” he said with a nostalgic smile. “It was like one of those ‘I’m With Stupid’ tee shirts, you know? Except instead of the arrow pointing to the side, it pointed straight down!” He chuckled a little at the fellow’s bygone audacity.

“Nice,” I said. “I could wish mine were a little dumber, to be honest.”

Thatcher perked up at this. “Yeah? Been causing you trouble, has it?”

I didn’t say anything, but he must have caught some hint of confirmation in my look because his smile got one notch cockier. My stomach butterflied a little.

Dermot politely gave his full attention to the matter at hand, setting aside his own agenda, which was very much in character for him. “So,” he said, squaring his shoulders and giving the text another thorough read through just to make sure he understood, “we’re to tell you something interesting about your ‘boner’, is that right?” He made it sound like it was a party game—the kind with mandatory participation, if you didn’t want to be a pooper.

“Oh, hey, Dermot, there’s no need—” I started to say, but Thatcher interrupted me.

“No, let him play,” he insisted, his eyes glinting. The glare I shot back at him was entirely ineffective. “Make it good, Dermot. Something saucy!”

“Saucy, eh?” Dermot pursed his lips, still considering the wording on The Shirt. “I’m more inclined toward something kind, like, oh, ‘It always makes people happy to see it’. Will that work?”

He looked up again to meet my gaze, his expression pleased and utterly guileless. I thought he was addressing me, but thanks to the magic of videoconferencing it might have been Thatcher he was speaking to, and in any event he beat me to the punch. Perhaps that was just as well, since I had no idea how to respond. I was sure, knowing Dermot, that he’d only meant to refer to my putative sex partners as were preparing for some form of intimate congress, alone in the bedroom or a like venue where a hard dick would be expected to be found; but I had an ominous gut feeling that The Shirt would, as it had done so far, most likely choose the broadest, changiest possible interpretation of whatever it was “told”.

Regardless, it was Thatcher that answered. “That’ll definitely work, Derm. My turn!”

I tried my glare again. “That’s really not necessary, Thatch,” I warned him.

Dermot, however, disagreed. “Now, be fair,” he admonished me. “You wear a shirt like that, you have to give everyone a go.”

I huffed in exasperation. “It’s not Fictionary!” I said. “It’s just a shirt!”

But Dermot would not be moved. “Thatcher?” he prompted.

Thatcher put on an exaggerated “thinking” expression, even going so far as to dramatically rub his razor-sharp jawline with the crook of his index finger. “Let’s see,” he said. “How about, ‘Its taste is delicious and irresistible’!”

Dermot, from his approving expression, seemed to this this was an especially inspired and apposite answer, but I was less pleased. I was sure Thatcher was simply looking forward to teasing me about this “attribute” when his flirting campaign actually got him to the point of tasting my dick; he, of course, had no way of knowing not only that the words would come true, but that the person overwhelmingly in the position of having to resist wrapping his mouth around my dick was me.

“Thatcher…” I growled.

“Or! Or—” Thatcher broke in, picking up on my irritation and wanting to torment me just a little more, “—how about—”

“You only get one go!”

“Let him finish,” Dermot said patiently, as if this were all a perfectly normal kind of interemployee exchange.

“—How about,” Thatcher repeated, “something like, ‘It cums as many times as you want it to’! That’s a good one, right, Derm?”

“Very cheeky,” Dermot agreed, as though that were the evident implied mission of the ‘game’, and Thatcher had therefore scored especially high marks. His expression became pensive. “Who is the ‘you’ involved, though, do you think?” he wondered. “Because sometimes ‘you’ has that generalized, third-person sense, rather than the pronoun. As in, say, ‘Take your average pole-vaulter, that’s the kind of person who—’”

“Can we please get to the subject of this meeting?” I begged. The idea that Thatcher’s “as many times as you want” might not refer to my own willingness to cum again had not even occurred to me, and I was just slightly panicked that people would have me cumming over and over at will. An image of the brazen, cock-appreciating couple from the supermarket surfaced in my head just then, and I shivered.

“Oh dear, we’ve embarrassed him,” Dermot said, entirely unrepentantly. He obviously thought the ‘game’ had gone very well.

“Poor guy,” Thatcher agreed, transparently very happy to have gotten a rise out of me. Oh, if only you knew. My monsterboner pressed frustratedly at the bottom of the desk, wanting to get to my mouth, or someone’s mouth, as urgently as possible. It was as done with this call as I was.

Finally, Dermot shifted into more of a business mode. “The reason for this meeting,” he explained briskly, looking back over those papers that were just out of shot, “is that I’ve been asked to separate off a small programming team to develop an in-office app to manage special-products shipping. I’ve named the two of you as the initial members of that team, and I’d like you to tie up and hand off your existing projects and be working on this one within the week. I’ll email you the specs by tonight, if you’re both willing.”

This was unexpected and very welcome news. Our firm tended to reward special project work at bonus and promotion time, and the work itself was right up my alley. “Sounds great!” I said, and meant it.

“I’m definitely on board,” Thatcher chipped in, eyeing me through the screen like a rump roast just to get my reaction. I rolled my eyes.

“Good,” Dermot said. “You two should choose the best method of collaboration for you, but I would suggest that a face-to-face set-up, either in the office or—”

“I’ve got plenty of room at my place,” Thatcher broke in, still assessing me hungrily on the sly. “Big table to spread things out on, and killer wi-fi.”

“I’m not sure—” I started to say.

“Excellent,” Dermot said, looking up again at last. “I’ll trust you both to get started right away.” Then he smiled jovially at me and added, “I can’t wait to see what you wear for the next update call. See you in a week!” And then he logged off.

I was still blinking at the blank half of the screen where Dermot had been when I caught Thatcher’s glinting, blue-eyed stare. “Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Ten o’clock. My place.” And with that injunction delivered, he signed off as well.

I just stared at the screen for a second, sure I was justified in being slightly alarmed at what had just happened. Then my dick reminded me of how uncomfortable it was being pushed down at such a painful angle under the desk, and I somewhat reluctantly wrenched it free. It immediately snapped up to a perfect vertical, spraying drops of precum along the way with impressive centrifugal force, and almost hitting me in the chin and smearing more of that warm, clear slime over the lower part of my face.

I drew in a breath, and… fuck. It smelled amazing.

I heaved a sigh and, with a certain amount of resignation, leaned forward and wrapped my mouth completely around the head of my delicious, perma-boned, for all I knew infinitely orgasmable cock.

Tomorrow. I would be taking this beast to Thatcher’s tomorrow. I couldn’t figure out whether I was looking forward to it or scared shitless. Or both.

I stood in front of Thatcher’s door with my heart in my throat, mainly because he head of my permanently hard, constantly-vox-pop-boosted megacock was practically nudging my Adam’s apple from the other side. I felt it smearing warm, enticingly-scented precum all over the base of my neck as I shifted awkwardly, waiting for my aggressively flirty, sexy-and-he-knows-it coworker to answer his fucking doorbell.

Even now—standing here on Thatcher’s doorstep in the bright sunshine of early morning, leather messenger bag slung over my shoulder full of plans and notes for the actual business-related project that should be consuming all of our attention for the next few weeks, with my saucy office partner due to swing the pastel blue door in front of my wide open any second now—the powerful impulse to incline my head downward and take the wide cockhead of my ultradong into my hot, welcoming mouth was just as intense as it was when I was lolling about alone in the privacy of my own abode. The ride over had been a constant struggle against the inviting scent of my own pre and the vivid memories of how good my dick tasted and felt filling my mouth, broken occasionally by me succumbing to temptation, much to my own chagrin and frustration. Who the heck put so many double-long red lights on the busy streets between my small-’n-chintzy suburban bungalow and Thatcher’s fancy manse in the hills, anyway? Anyone would get bored waiting at those.

I think a fair few people saw me going at it on the way. Saw it. Amazing if they hadn’t, really. My boner was too big to hide: both collarbone high and as thick as a bike-nut-buff UPS guy’s arm thanks to that self-same delivery dude’s awed gushing only the day before (damn that guy!). I couldn’t put it under my shirt anymore; that just pushed the shirt out rather comically, drawing more attention to it than it did on its own with its sheer size and potency.

Actually, it was almost big enough to wear its own shirt, which was kind of funny, and I’d toyed with the idea of making it wear The Shirt. I’d actually given the idea serious consideration, just as a joke, until I’d recoiled at a sudden, unnerving thought—what if the text, TELL ME ABOUT MY BONER, somehow gave my cock a boner of its own? I’d shuddered violently at the idea, and resolved never to even go there in my head again. Anyway, I could have put any tee shirt on it, or, heck, draped a towel or a small tablecloth over the thing, but I kept thinking that anything I did to conceal the gigantaprick would look stranger and more alarming than the real thing. I wasn’t a people person but I was pretty sure I knew how people reacted to things, and my gut told me a pillar in a pillowcase erupting from my trousers would absolutely incite more disturbed huggermugger in the populace than the prosaic truth of a guy with a dick too big for his pants or his shirt.

And then there was Dermot’s contribution to the pickle I’d gotten myself in. My boss’s innocent, well-meaning suggestion was that everyone would be happy to see it, and I knew now that The Shirt made all utterances made about my dick literally true and in spades. Plus I was pretty sure I’d experienced the effect of Dermot’s assertion first hand, when I was looking in the mirror after my shower that morning. I’d seen my reflection’s supertool, thick and round, the shaft crisscrossed with blue and red, the head already glistening with pre again after a careful cleansing under the spray, and… I’d actually smiled, filled not just with lust and a burning desire to taste it, but… affection? I’d grinned into the mirror then, shaking my head. That was my dick, I thought wryly, and I was happy to see it.

I’d gotten a lot of thumbs up and cheers from people in other cars, too, as I navigated through heavy traffic on the way up to Thatcher’s, along with all the startled looks and double-takes—especially when I broke down and got to work on the exposed, delicious glans at those stupid red lights. I think some of them took pictures and video, of my dick and of me going at it. That convertible full of tube-topped, floppy-hatted college girls at the long light by the Walmart definitely did.

I let out a breath, looking down briefly. Call me foolhardy, but I was wearing The Shirt. Not just because the thing had pulled its little trick of showing up front and center in my drawer all folded and clean after I’d tossed it forcibly at the hamper the night before, always reverting to me like it thought it was Jim Lake’s fucking Trollhunter amulet or something. My mission today (I squared my shoulders) was to get Thatcher to help me walk back some of the extreme changes that had been made to my dick in the various encounters I’d had since I’d first gotten this life-transforming joke tee. I mean, I did like seeing it, and I was already accustomed to taking it into my mouth and cumming five times in a row if I wanted to, but… c’mon, this thing was out of control. Surely it needed to be made—well, “smaller” was a word any man would instinctively shy away from when it came to his dick, even me, but more… I dunno, “manageable”? Thatcher liked talking about my dick. He could be guided into suggesting it back into something close to reasonable, right? And if he wanted me to fuck him, well…

I considered this uncertainly. The truth was that everything I knew about our cocky, privileged boy Thatcher had me thinking he was a natural top. Probably he’d want to pound my ass like a beast while his hard thrusts made me fuck my own face, which—fuck, that was a very graphic and rather compelling image. I licked my lips, and my fever-hot megadong shivered against my torso, a fresh gush of warm pre oozing wetly onto my neck and dribbling slowly down to tangle my chest hair follicle by follicle, right past the collar of my wonderfully perverse, me-altering tee shirt.

Suddenly thinking the worse of my plan I almost made to rip it off, to keep it from making any more mischief, but just then my phone buzzed in my pocket.

A text from Thatcher. COME AROUND BACK, it said.

Huh. No wonder he hadn’t answered the door. Feeling unaccountably foolish, like I should have known somehow to meet Thatcher in the back of the house, I went back down the cement porch steps to the driveway. My humungo-peen was so stiff it barely moved as I headed past the sturdy late-model silver Saab I’d gotten second-hand for a song through my car-dealer brother-in-law, making for the tall wooden fence and the gate leading to the back yard.

Getting to Thatcher’s back yard was not the five-second walk it would have been at my humble home. His two-story colonial was all columns and brick trim and white siding and enormous, spotless windows—large enough for a dozen me’s, I thought, though secluded enough thanks to a rolling, dark green lawn and high shrubs and trees marking the property bounds. The shaded, down-sloping expanse of grass on this side of the house felt healthy and lush, like the soil in these parts was giving it its fullest possible life, and I was just thinking I kind of wanted to pull off my sneaks and run barefoot back to wherever Thatcher was when I rounded a corner and the back deck came into view. It was raised up so that the deck level was above me, and as I approached I spotted Thatcher up there, close to the edge nearest me, lounging languidly on a lawn chaise in nothing but a pair of green-and-yellow-striped nylon swim trunks.

I slowed to a stop, taking the opportunity to drink him in as he basked under the bright morning sun, waiting for me to find him. He was extremely fit, unsurprisingly. Not swole like a bodybuilder, but buff and very defined, like someone given every natural-athlete gene the human biological code had to offer. Each generously-formed, well-shaped muscle showed clearly under his lightly bronzed skin, from his striated delts and long, firm abs to the delineations of his quads, forearms, and intercostals. He was lean and limber, ready to move, and I suddenly found myself imagining sex between us, him active and energetic, pouncing on me like a jungle cat and rolling me around in a playful, lust-soaked tussle that wouldn’t end until we’d both cum like god-potent, frenzied studs.

Then he turned and smiled right at me, his dark-blond hair catching the sun. The strong blue of his eyes was visible even from where I stood on the lawn below, and, fuck, I think my dick and I fell a little bit in love with him in that moment.

Then he caught sight of my thunderdork, and I watched as his expression shifted from his habitual sauciness to open awe. He stood slowly, coming to the edge of the deck where the wooden railing separated us, and stared down at me for a long, silent moment. His smile returned gradually, still awed, and his blueberry eyes seemed to darken as he took in my beautiful, inviting, utterly impossible dick. Meanwhile I was amused to see Thatcher’s dick reacting to mine, swelling in jerks and spasms to full hardness in a matter of seconds, big enough it stuck of the leg of his trunks. I smiled inwardly, a little relieved not to be the only one at this “business meeting” with an exposed cock.

Thatcher wiped his mouth—I must have missed him drooling over my own dick while my attention was on his—and I could see he wanted to get down to me as fast as possible. He glanced behind him, then seemed to discard the idea of taking the roundabout route to where I stood via the stairs off the deck. Instead, he vaulted over the railing and landed on the lawn next to me with a soft thud, his feet and fist taking his weight in a kind of three-point stance like he was some kind of action-movie stunt man.

He straightened, grinning smugly. As he did so the leg of his swim trunks shifted behind his boner so that it was almost half exposed. A few days ago I would have said that was a big cock. Actually it was still a big cock, I reminded myself. I was a bit of an outlier on the scale of men’s phallic proportions.

I met his eyes, struck again by how intensely blue they were. “I thought we could go for a dip before we got down to business,” he said silkily. I was impressed at how he’d managed to saturate both stages of our projected morning activities with innuendo. He glanced down at my UPS-guy’s-arm-sized, incessantly raging erection. “Can you, uh, swim with that thing, or is it so heavy it sends you right to the bottom?”

I couldn’t help trading smarm for smarm. “Will you rescue me if it does?”

“Absolutely,” he said, staring at it. I don’t know that he even saw The Shirt—his attention was all on my dick. “Fuck, how do you keep your hands off it? Or your mouth, for that matter,” he added with a wink, eyeing the short distance between my pre-oozing slit and my parted, oh-so-cock-hungry lips.

He stepped toward me, but I held up a hand.

“I-I have a condition, before you… before you touch,” I stammered. Here was my chance, I told myself. In exchange for tactile contact, I could get him to say something about my dick that would make it less of a… force.

Not that I had any idea what that would be, or even what I actually wanted. Yesterday, when I’d had a go at making change-statements in the mirror, I’d tried rolling it back to twelve inches, but—would that be enough for me now? Was I getting addicted to having this huge, heavy gargantutool in my life, in my mouth, in my bed with me, its scent intoxicating me all day long?

It didn’t matter what I might have said, though, because Thatcher wasn’t having any of it. He moved another step closer, inches away. His nostrils flared a little—he was smelling its compelling scent. Was his mouth watering, like mine was? “Aw, c’mon, babe,” he said, his smirk dimpling his classically handsome face on one side. “You’re asking me to keep my hands off this beauty when we’re this close? Not possible.”

I drew in a breath. Did that count? “Wait—” I started to say, but he cut me off, even as his hands found my hard shaft and started gently stroking, sending tiny shivers of pleasure up my spine.

“Fuck, you’re so hard,” he whispered as though thinking aloud, all his attention on the stiffness of my fragrant dick. “You could fuck concrete with this thing.”

I grunted, feeling my dick become even harder, harder than any dick ever, and no less sensitive. I was almost swooning. Get it together, I tried coaching myself, but I couldn’t hear my own worries over the swell of how nice it felt, what he was doing with a few gossamer strokes of his hands.

He smiled as he enjoyed the new necessity of touching me, picking up the thread of what he’d been saying before. “I bet all the hot guys are like me. Always caressing your big, beautiful boner,” he said, still sounding distracted as he watched his own hands slowly stroking its ungodly length. Finally he met my wide-eyed gaze, his blue eyes full of lust and swagger. “That’s how it is, right? Every conversation with us, we stand close, stroking this amazing tool of yours. Right?”

Well, that would be how it was now, thanks to you, I thought, a little dazed. I tried to say something, to divert this dangerous line of discussion somehow, but my own long-simmering lust for Thatcher and the way he was confidently slow-stroking my dick two-handed like he’d taken charge of it just swamped my brain, leaving me momentarily speechless.

My acquiescence seemed to embolden him, because he moved even closer, close enough to kiss. My megaboner was a physical presence between us as he caressed it, gently but relentlessly—like it really was impossible for him not to touch it if he was this close, in my personal space. “And sometimes,” he continued, his voice all cocky and growly, “you even let us taste.”

My heart tripped, and even in my flushed and aroused state I knew this would be too much. I couldn’t see how to completely negate this change in a way he’d confirm, though. All I could manage was to shake my head very slightly and gasp, “Only you.”

He grinned wide and nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Only we get to taste. You, and me.”

I let out a shuddering breath as he bent his head and swallowed the head of my huge, ultra-hard uberschlong. He stroked the head with his very talented tongue, mouthing around it as he kept on manually stimulating the long, wide shaft below, and… fuck, it felt so amazing. Startled into some kind of reciprocation I shoved my hand into his long hair, clutching his shoulder on the other side, and let myself drown in this moment. Sucking myself felt amazing, of course, but Thatcher doing it was even better, and he was so good at it you had to wonder how many megadicks he’d had to practice on.

A part of my brain rebelled at Thatcher moving in and taking such liberties. Other voices were shouting that we had to stop, or we’d be at this all day, or maybe forever, a new existence consisting of nothing but Thatcher sucking and stroking me until the ends of time. I had to get him to stop, and the only way I could do that was to make myself cum, because, fuck, I could do that now, thanks to him.

I knew it was a huge orgasm even as it welled up in my balls and shivered up my spine, before the explosion of cum nearly sent me to my knees. I held onto Thatcher’s hard, meaty traps as I blasted cum into him. He swallowed what he could, then pulled off, gasping, as I continued spraying his face with hot spunk, my own senses going white with impossible pleasure.

Finally I came down from my orgasm, still clasping Thatcher’s shoulder for support. He was beaming at me through his dripping faceful of jizz, the happiest, cockiest man on earth. I might have pictured my eruption as some kind of retribution, paying him back for his taking this weird kind of shared ownership of my dick, but of course Thatcher saw my aggressive firehosing as nothing but reward. There was a stripe of spunk on his thigh, not mine, so he’d cum, too. I’d done that to him, at least.

“Come on,” he said. He grabbed my wide, slick, immutable dick by the middle the way another guy might have grabbed my hand and led me further into the back yard. “Definitely time for that swim.”

I stumbled mutely after him, knowing it was pointless to object that I had no trunks with me. Not only was his response predictable, but—really, what would have been the point of trunks anyway? I shook my head. This day was not going as planned, and it worried me deeply that I almost didn’t care.

More Like This

 Looking for stories 

Got one you want to share? Send it in.

 Commissions are open 

Want a BRK story? Find out more.