FSE

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Wednesday

4:00 pm

Wiping the sweat off of his ever-increasing forehead, Aiden glanced around the carriage, pudgy fingers fumbling as they returned his boarding pass to his wallet. He felt exhausted; the meeting had overrun, meaning he'd had to hurry to catch the train, and one of the many things Aiden Lawler's body was not built for, it was running. Grunting, he wriggled his short arms out of the straps of his backpack, settling it against his stomach as he sagged into the chair.

Quickly, Aiden pulled a tissue out of a box in his backpack, wiping the cloying sweat from his forehead. He hated summer; not only did he sweat even more than usual, but his hay fever would start acting up. It seemed particularly bad this year in both respects: an unreasonably hot, dry summer kept him sweating and itchy as soon as he left his flat. Stifling a yawn, he continued to pat off his face and hands, stuffing the dampened tissues back into his backpack. "I'll need to get rid of the rubbish in here at some point," he thought, frowning slightly at the folded-up, empty sandwich box collection he'd been accumulating over the week.

The carriage started to fill; he'd just missed the rush, fortunately, so could get a seat. Aiden flushed anew when someone sat down beside him, the awkwardness of his large body being close to someone else sending a cold sweat oozing out of him. He smiled as politely as he could - his automatic response when he felt like that - and tried to look away. More and more people filled in the train, the air quickly becoming stifling as it filled with sweaty bodies anxious to get to their destination. Feet clamoured quickly on the platform as Aiden let his head rest against the window, glancing down at his phone nervously, he felt a bit of relief with the knowledge that they'd soon be under way.

An alert sounded, and the carriage doors slowly hissed shut. A few moments later, and the train jolted to life, slowly accelerating as it pulled out of the station. Aiden bit his lip, yearning to relax, but being trapped on the train meant that was impossible. He yawned again, trying to squeeze as much of himself against the side of the train as possible as his eyes grew heavy from the heat. As the rhythmic swaying of the carriage rocked him along, Aiden let his eyes close.

His pulse was pounding, along with the music and the red lights that flashed with the tempo. He was moving through the crowd: they danced and jumped, rubbing up against each other. Everyone seemed to be having a good time; he couldn't see their smiles or faces, but they were dancing, so they had to be, right? Besides, what did they have to feel upset about? They were all slender or buff; all with some kind of attractive body. All except him of course. He couldn't even be happy here.

He found himself being expelled from the crowd; he wasn't a part of it anyway. Now he was walking down a grimy corridor that seemed to spin beneath his feet. He never lost his footing though: whatever rhythm was running this place, he'd fallen into it. Step after step, he neared the red door at the end of the corridor: the door seemed to be throbbing as well.

Pushing through, he found himself in a restroom: from the urinals, a men's restroom. Again, the lighting in here was red. The pulsing of the music had been muted - he guessed when the door had closed behind him - but he still felt it reverberating through his bones. Nobody seemed to be in the men's room, aside from himself: nobody was at the urinal, and all the stall doors were open. He went into one of the empty stalls, the one as far away from the door as he could get.

He sat down on the toilet. Not that he needed to go; but because there really wasn't anything else to do. He guessed it was lucky he didn't, as there wasn't any toilet paper. There was, however, a hole. It looked through into the empty stall to the side of him. He got curious and looked through: yes, the stall was still empty.

"Feeling hungry?" a voice whispered, smoky and deep, bubbling with lust. The voice seemed to come from the back of his head, but it was obviously supposed to be coming from the stall in front of him. To add weight to the question, a cock was pushed through the hole, the hole seeming to stretch to accommodate the massive girth. The penis was massive, hanging erect and red - like everything else in this place seemed to be - and black ooze dripped from the thick head. Musk roiled his blood; in the stall he fell on his knees. He opened his mouth, gasping for air. "You don't have to do it, of course," the voice added, almost as an afterthought.

But he didn't really have the choice: he felt empty all of the time, despite being so fat. It was like being a balloon, sometimes. The cock slipped into his mouth, and he sucked on it: it tasted smoky, the black juices it dripped searing his throat.

"It's your choice," the voice confirmed. He felt a hot gush of smoke slide over him. It soaked into his flesh, filling his nostrils with the smell of charred meat. That didn't put him off sucking on the massive, erect penis poking through the glory hole. The folds and ridges of the flesh rubbing against his tongue throbbed, the veins surging with the thrum that overwhelmed him, locking him and the other guy in the same tempo.

It felt like he was blowing the stranger's cock for eternity. After a while, everything else had faded away: the attractive dancers, the strange corridor, the rest of the empty men's room. It was just him and the guy he was sucking off, and the door that separated him. He hadn't realised he'd been naked himself the whole time until he'd felt the black pre-cum sticking like tar down the centre of his body, searing his skin as it ran down to his own hard, twitching manhood.

"Very well then," the voice agreed; the statement sent a chill down his spine with the seeming finality of it. But the shaft was burning his mouth; the black fluid started to glow as the blood of the erection seemed to roar in his ears. It forced its way deeper inside him, stabbing into the back of his throat. That's how he felt the lava - the semen seemed just has hot, fire-tinted and thick as what came out of a volcano - burned through his core into his very blood and bones.

Startled awake, Aiden gasped loudly, before quickly realising he was in public and stifled any other noises he intended to make. He glanced down surreptitiously, glad his backpack was hiding his erection from the other passengers on the train. Aiden's good humour quickly dissolved, as he glanced around the emptier carriage, and then out of the window to the unfamiliar landscape hurtling by.

"Fuck," Aiden swore, his body feeling an uncomfortable chill as he realised he'd missed his stop.

5:36 pm

George's eyes snapped open as he felt himself falling: not exactly the feeling he wanted to feel. A shocked cry echoed around the plane cabin. The threatened tumbling out of the sky didn't eventuate, and after a few more unpleasant bumps, the plane returned to flying smoothly through the air. A few moments later, and the captain's voice quickly crackled throughout the aircraft to assure the passengers and crew that it had just been a rough patch of turbulence.

Smiling briefly, George buzzed for the air hostess; a pleasant young girl, reminded him a lot of his niece, actually. He'd told her as much when he'd boarded, complimenting her. That, of course, had been the first foray into assuring prompt attention when he'd want it during the flight. Plus, after taking part in some stressful negotiations with Australia, his mind was still in that place. Things had gone as well as one could hope for, he thought, and was just glad to be getting home after two weeks abroad.

"Yes, Mister Goldwin?" the air hostess inquired, smiling down at his still-handsome face, his wavy grey hair crinkling on the back of the first class seat.

"I wonder, my dear," George asked, already forgetting the girl's name, "if you could get me some sparkling water." Still able to pull off a somewhat boyish expression, he switched it on and looked up apologetically, "I must have fallen asleep with my mouth open."

Smiling back at him, she quickly answered with, "Certainly, just give me a moment," before disappearing to satisfy his request. George allowed himself a brief glance at her shapely posterior before letting his eyes drift back to the screen showing they were only an hour or two out from their destination.

Thanking the air hostess when she returned with his refreshment, George decided he'd have enough time to watch a movie. Scrolling through the options, he settled on "Interstellar" before settling back in his chair, downing the water that fizzed pleasantly against his tongue.

The meal sat in front of him, the long, sturdy, old-fashioned table stretched out covered with an unstained white tablecloth, covered in glittering silverware. It looked, he thought, a little out-of-place amongst the blinking panels and smooth metal and plastic surfaces of the spaceship's interior, but the thought was brief. His hand was moving, almost of its own accord, to lift the ornate silver cover from the platter in front of him; his stomach rumbling as his nose, and then his eyes, filled him with a hungering for the roast pork on the plate in front of him.

The whole pig had been presented to him, apple set squarely between the beast's large, honeyed jaws. His stomach rumbled uncomfortably, as he slid back down into his seat. His hand closed around the handle of a comically large carving knife; the other held a two-pronged fork. He slid the fork forward, the teeth biting into the pig's succulent flesh.

As he punctured the brown skin of the pig, black juices leaked out, spreading out over the side into which he stuck the fork. Accompanying the oozing juices was an aroused moan, muffled by the apple in his mouth. The juices continued to leak out the sides of the pig's mouth and nostrils too, thick and dark and oddly shiny. Using the knife, he pierced the apple, poking it out the far end of the pig's mouth. The creature's legs twitched, hooves stretching outwards as the pig started to grow.

The moaning pig's face turned, looking at him, eyelids opening to reveal fiery, orange orbs that he could feel staring at him hungrily. It clicked its jaw from side to side, its jaw hanging slightly open as the black juices spread across his face, making the pig look shiny under the fluorescent lights. The head turned, looking at him, as the pig said, "I'm all for rough play, but would you mind getting that out of me?"

Realising he'd not moved the fork out of the pig, he did so with a wet squelch. Appreciatively, the pig moaned, knocking over nearby platters as he stretched out his elongating limbs, the ends looking more like fingers and toes. They were unusual fingers and toes, to be sure, but still obviously more manipulative digits than a pig would normally have.

The pig had been presented on his front when he'd lifted the lid off of it; it now pushed itself forward, moaning ecstatically as its black, swirly cock thrust into view. Getting into a sitting position, letting its legs dangle over the edge of the table, the boar looked into his eyes, groping itself as it slid into his lap. He dropped the utensils he'd been holding as the shiny, black boar-man writhed against his crotch, the action causing him to feel blood surging down into his own genitals while the somewhat porcine shaft jabbed at him in the chest.

He felt the popping as the buttons were torn off of his shirt, the boar-man freeing his scraggly-haired chest and torso. The creature's snout pressed against his nipple; he was slightly surprised when he wasn't covered by the black juices that had oozed out, but a quick glance at the table seemed to suggest the fluid only seemed to stick to the now-boar-man's flesh. A smooth, flat tongue played over one nipple, while the beast's roaming hands played with the other while sliding down the side of his body.

The boar-man's erection rubbed against his freed chest, dark, burning fluids splattering against him, dripping down his chest to burn into his body's flesh. The boar's snout lifted up, pressing against his face and pulling him in for a sloppy wet kiss. The chair collapsed beneath him, and he found himself falling as the boar-man's thick ass cheeks stroked either side of his growing erection.

"Well, you're a big one, aren't you?" the boar-man moaned.

He could feel the creature sitting up, the thick buttocks seeming to suck his cock towards the slick, rear opening, squeezing against his length as the boar-man raised himself up and down, moaning and splattering the hot, smoky juices further and further over his bared chest. His own erection was hard, but it seemed the monster riding it was getting the most pleasure from the situation: the fluid leaking out onto him began to glow, thickening as his shaft erupted, the boar's nostrils twitching as he moaned louder and louder.

This had been unexpected, but he'd not found it unpleasant. His own penis throbbed, aching for release. The boar's hole seemed to grip him, almost like a firm hand stroking it, and it was as well-lubricated as a young lady's excited snatch.

"...sir? Excuse me, Mister Goldwin?"

Startling awake with a snort, George looked up. His mind took a second to remember: "Yes, the air hostess, the plane, the negotiations." A quick glance around the cabin told him he was the only one remaining in first class, and quite possibly the plane.

"We've landed, sir," the air hostess informed him.

"Oh, yes, thank you," he replied, rather flustered as he undid the belt around his waist. Standing up, the blanket draped over his legs sagged down. George felt some relief the air hostess had not been around to see the large erection that had saved it from falling completely to the floor.

7:11 pm

Piers waited for the video to buffer, slowly pulling his shirt off his dark, athletic frame. His erection bulged out the front of his tracksuit pants, until they too, were removed, the deep pink head of his erection poking out from his retracted foreskin. Lying back in his bed, naked apart from his socks, he glanced at his laptop.

Below the link to the video he'd just clicked, Miles had added, "Mind if I watched?" The question had been punctuated with a winking smiley face.

Slowly stroking his thick shaft, Piers quickly typed - or at least, intended to type without typos - "Maybe next time? Don't want to get your hopes up lol." His attention was elsewhere, and accuracy was never really one of Piers' best qualities. He started the video, muting it in case one of his flatmates overheard the sound of guys moaning as a short sequence of an athletic African man fucking a slender, prostrate white guy in the mouth.

Piers cock didn't shrivel up immediately, but he wasn't sure whether that was due to not disliking the video or just being too pent up to care what he used to help himself get off. But he was at university, finally free from his parents and able to make his own mind about thing, and while he did find the female form very alluring - a few posters in his room testified to that - he certainly had mastery of his own reins to experiment. Plus, he was in art school; it seemed almost a course requirement.

The position in the video had changed: now the white guy was bent over, muted noises of what Piers hoped was at least feigned pleasure were shown on his reddened face before the video cut to the black cock pounding into his ass. Piers continued to stroke, increasing the tempo. There was something wild about it; he wondered if it was just that guys liked the physical act of sex, and that made them put up with more when receiving it. "At least it's giving me ideas for our sculpture project," he thought, sinking back into his mattress, allowing himself a little lee-way in making his own moaning sounds.

A thick, creamy load shot out, the splatter contrasting against his deep brown skin. He gave it a quick glance with his artistic mind - quite difficult as his body underwent a short, but still pleasant, orgasm - and he had to agree with Miles. They'd argued about it before, that semen looked better against black skin from a contrast point of view. Miles could have been racist, or trying to come on to him, but right now Piers didn't care. His cock landed with a sticky, meaty thud against his chest as he wiped his hand against his leg. For some reason, his bed felt particularly comfortable right then. Stretching with a grunt, he rested his head against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling as the euphoria washed over him, slowly draining his will to move.

The plates of his armour clinked against one another as he moved deeper into the cavern. The air was oppressively humid and smoky, with warm water dripping down from the stalactites jutting down from the ceiling. He got the nagging suspicion it had been a mistake to wear heavy armour. He debated switching out his armour for something less heavy and more mobile; he'd picked up enough from around the place, so he certainly had enough.

But, damn it, if he was playing as a knight, then he was going to look like one. Fashion came first.

His sword swinging in the scabbard at his side, he held up his shield with one hand and a torch in the other. The flames danced about, casting eerie shadows on the rocky, uneven walls of the cave. Of all the sounds he could hear - the steady drip of water down the fang-like rocks into the hungry, slowly expanding puddles below; the burning crackle of the fire at the end of his torch; the scraping chink of metal pieces rubbing up against one another - the one that he could hear the loudest was the heavy, low rasping of his breathing, and the pounding throb of his hear.

The cave narrowed, and he squeezed through a partially-collapsed tunnel, holding his breath and hoping he didn't get stuck down here, until eventually coming out the other end into a much larger cavern in the rock. He knew he was in the right place now: five paces into the chamber, and his torch was already picking up the glittering of round chits of gold, and the twinkling of fist-sized gems tossed carelessly around the place. Before his face grew a mountain of gold and other treasures, dragged below the earth by the monster he'd come here to slay.

Climbing up the pile of gold, his boots sinking underneath the surface of the coins, he carefully headed upwards, waiting for the surprise attack to come. His eyes scanned the darkness, craning to see where the dragon might be laying in wait. Slowly working his way to the top of the pile of coins, he warily checked around himself, turning in a circle until he reached the summit of the treasure trove. He looked around: the dragon was nowhere in sight. He felt confused; there was no way a place like this would be without a dragon. Had there been a glitch of some kind? Maybe the dragon had glitched into the walls?

Sliding down the other side, just to be thorough, he scanned about, pulling off his helmet while his torch burned between his legs. It was getting unbearably hot, and it didn't look like there was going to be any fighting. Sinking into the pile of coins, he leaned back, panting from the exertion of climbing the slippery pile in heavy armour.

Suddenly, the treasure below his legs moved; his heart pounded anew as the treasure he'd been standing on opened its mouth, the deep voice accompanied by a fresh plume of heavy smoke. "Not that I don't appreciate a guy on my face," the dragon laughed, "but would you mind getting off me?"

Sliding away, he fumbled for his sword, feeling the plates cutting through the padding into his flesh as he rolled away. The dragon breathed fire, igniting some of the oily puddles that had gone unnoticed in the room, filling the air with a heady, relaxing scent of incense as it burned.

He looked up at the huge, golden creature, its black, pupil-less eyes staring into him as it rose, sitting up on his haunches. It stretched, the wings casting shadows, cutting off the rest of the chamber, a huge veiny reptilian cock plunging out of its chest. The shaft completely towered over him as he moved backwards, trying to stay out of the way of the moving dragon.

"Thanks for getting off me," the dragon chuckled, "now how about getting me off? I really feel like relaxing and letting the world just pass you by, don't you?" The dragon reached to the side, grabbing something out of a large box in a small cave opening up quite a ways, dropping it gently in front of him. His booted foot slipped on some coins; he fell back to have whatever it was that the dragon had dropped on him fall into his lap.

It was a blunt. Or whatever the equivalent was.

"Come on," the dragon suggested, "let's get stoned and fool around for a bit." It leaned over, breathing smoke right into his face, a playful light dancing around its pitch-black eyes. He felt his head swimming; he felt lighter and more relaxed. He returned the dragon's grin, feeling his cock pushing up against the crotch of his armour, watching the veins of the dragon's mammoth erection twitching beneath the jet black surface of the shaft.

Blinking slowly awake, Piers yawned, his cock plastered to his tight muscles amongst patches of cooling seed. Vaguely remembering his dream, he chuckled at the thought the video's contents had had an effect upon him. The memories didn't last long, however, and he was distracted by the flashing orange alerts on his computer. He noticed he'd been asleep for over an hour.

"Fell asleep," Piers typed, informing Miles of why he'd been away for so long. He licked his lips, his mouth feeling full of cotton.

"What did you think?" Miles asked a few moments later.

"Didn't seem too bad," Piers thought. "Kinda groggy though. Gonna shower and watch cartoons I think." Sliding onto his feet, he looked around his room for his clean towel.

8:47 pm

"Hi," Philip called out, exhaustively shucking his coat and hanging on the hook near the door he'd just stepped through. His suitcase slammed against the tile floor as he headed towards the bathroom.

"Dinner's ready," Philip heard his wife call out. "Anything exciting happen?"

"No, just the usual parent-teacher conference stuff," Philip grunted, pulling his cock out to aim it into the toilet bowl. He sighed as he urinated; he hadn't wanted to complain too much to Selina about the parents whose kids were doing fine caring too much, while those that really did need to talk to him didn't turn up or just got angry at him. It was almost enough to get him to start smoking again; thankfully, Selina wasn't going to let him start up again.

After Philip finished pissing, he gave his hands a thorough washing, looking at his round, plain face in the mirror. He looked even more exhausted than he felt. "Fuck," he thought, "and it's only Wednesday..."

Emerging from the bathroom, Philip quickly made his way into the kitchen, giving Selina a loving kiss as she presented him with the stir-fry she'd just whipped up. "Thanks," he added, trying to smile as he asked, "how was your day?" on the way to the couch.

"Not too bad," she replied, snuggling next to him as he sagged into the couch. "Nothing much happened at work, and afterwards we went out for Carla's leaving drinks..."

Philip tried to pay attention, but it was like he was trying to hold his brain together, but it kept slipping through his fingers. The words just passed through his brain as he gathered food onto the fork and popped it unthinkingly into his mouth. He nodded and grunted at just the right moments, or at least what he hoped was the right moments.

"You've not been listening to a word I've said, have you?" Selina asked, smacking him playfully.

"Mmhmm," Philip muttered automatically, before parsing what she'd said. Quickly apologising, he replied, "Sorry, it's just I'm barely keeping it together here."

"It's okay," Selina mumbled, whisking his mostly-finished plate away. "You looked dead on your feet when you came in."

"Thanks for the compliment!" Philip joked.

"Put something on," Selina suggested. "Something you won't mind missing."

Picking up the remote, Philip turned on the television, flicking through the channels as his eyes drooped lower and lower. He smiled briefly when Selina returned, snuggling up next to him. She took the remote from his hands. It felt nice; she felt so warm, so alive right then.

And then he was alone, and falling.

He plummeted through the black void wrapped around him. He wondered how long it would take for him to hit the ground; honestly, he didn't particularly care if or when he did. He wasn't even sure if his eyes were opened or closed; if they had been opened, he'd have liked to have closed them and just let himself keep falling.

Things started appearing in view below him: a large lake, surrounded by trees dotting the large plains that stretched off to infinity. The "sky" was still dark and featureless; only his memories of travelling at night allowed him to pick out the features: the slight glittering of ripples in the water from a moon he couldn't see, the distinct differences between shades of black showing the roughly circular shapes of trees viewed from a bird's-eye view.

For some reason, he was naked. He wasn't cold - far from it, he felt a little too warm - but he couldn't feel any material flapping against him or pressing on his skin. It was almost like skinny dipping in the air; he gave a half-hearted chuckle, thinking of when he hit the ground, whoever found him was going to wonder where his clothes were.

The ground was approaching faster now; more features stood out, able to distinguish the various shadows from one another. It was strange just how much texture could be conveyed in the dark. As he continued to plummet towards the ground, he wondered if maybe his eyes were just adapting to the low level of ambient light seeping out of everything in this alien place.

Then the talons dug into his shoulders, wrenching him out of his pleasant fall as his legs spun about, his hips twisting, his junk slapping against his body. The grip was tight; he winced as he felt blood trickle down. At least, he thought it was blood; he couldn't really see what it was, but his shoulders were punctured, after all. What else could it be?

Craning his eyes upwards, he tried to make out the creature that had caught him. He first presumed a giant falcon, or eagle, or some more fantastical bird of prey: instead, what he saw was more humanoid. Or possibly demonic; clutched in its taloned feet, he could see the large, bat-like wingspan glowing from some kind of greenish - moss, he supposed - that sprouted over its body in huge patches. The flesh scraping up against his shoulders felt tough, almost...

Almost like stone; but that would be absurd, stone wasn't made for flight...

Nevertheless, that's what he felt gripping him: stone. The creature pulled him up, knees spreading apart, a heavy weight dangling on his head. Hard stone orbs seemed to slide on top of his short, black head, a thick hefty cosh dangling over his face, bouncing off of his bulbous nose.

"Oh great," he thought, "it's rubbing its crotch on my head."

He couldn't do much about it: he couldn't really use his arms - the creature's grip was far too strong - and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to shoo it away even if he wanted to. Splattering into the ground was one thing; he wasn't quite sure he wanted to be torn limb from limb while falling. He was way too cowardly for that.

Besides, there was something oddly arousing about having the creature's genitals resting on his face. He certainly wasn't gay - he never had feelings towards another man - but there was something appealing about being in a position where he didn't have to worry about anything, or take control, or do any of the things he was expected to do. The creature's crotch, softened by the luminescent moss, also seemed to ooze something erotic onto his head. He hoped he wouldn't be forced to act on it, but it was nice to have nothing to really worry about but feeling aroused.

Jolting awake, it took Philip a moment to recover, twitching as he woke up on the couch in the darkened living room, covered in a blanket. Reaching down, he rubbed his erection. His tired eyes looked through into the kitchen, unable to focus on the clock displayed on the stove. But the time began with a one, which wasn't a great sign. Getting up, he unfastened his belt, letting his pants drop down, allowing his sleep-induced boner to bulge out the front of his boxers as he got to his feet.

Walking towards the bedroom, he peered in; although he was exhausted, he felt energised enough from his short nap that he felt in the mood to make use of the unexpected erection. Half-tempted to wake up his wife, instead he pulled off his shirt, revealing the once-toned, now-slightly chubby chest bristling with hairs. Scratching his crotch, he headed towards the bathroom to have a quick jerk-off in the shower.

10:23 pm

Blake thrust in and out, panting loudly. Sweat was rolling off of his body. Carol - Claire? - whoever it was moaning below him seemed to be enjoying herself, feeling his cock stretching her out, as it jerked and throbbed in her juicy parts.

Half-drunk, with a bit of a contact high, Blake's body pressed against her, his thrusts driving him deep inside tonight's conquest. Her tits felt good against her: he always liked that, the warm, jiggly breasts pressing up against his large, strong body. Girls loved him: he was a big boy - in every respect - and they were just drawn to him. Which suited him just fine, he was just as mad about them.

The "C"-chick he was ploughing couldn't tear her eyes off of him when he'd arrived with a couple of his friends and an offering of lager for the host. She'd given him that look, and so he quickly ditched his mates, honing in on her, talking to her a bit until they both agreed to take it into the bedroom. Blake wasn't sure whose bedroom it was, but that didn't matter; there was a bed, and enough privacy to pash her, and work themselves out of their clothes. He was still grinning as he thought of her eyes looking at his huge package spilling out of his unbuttoned boxer fronts, disbelieving it was real until he'd gotten fully starkers and climbed on top of her.

She'd clutched at his muscular back, whining in pleasure as he'd grunted, feeling her fit body squirm beneath him as he went to work. That had been what felt like an eternity ago; his cock was throbbing and sticky from sliding it into her, and his balls were aching. He was ready, but he felt so damned good right then, he didn't want it to stop.

"Argh, fuck!" Blake yelled, finally unable to hold it off any more. His spunk gushed out of him, splattering inside her. "Fuck," he thought immediately, "what if she gets pregnant?" The worry immediately dissolved; he felt too fucking good to care, as he pulled out of her, wincing as his sensitive knob emerged into the room.

Rolling off of her, he sagged into the bed, his cock still drooling as she grabbed his face, sucking on his mouth like a drunk vampire. A puddle of jizz trickled down the muscular curves of his legs, crawling down towards his crotch as they frenched, until the need for air pried their lips apart.

She started to snuggle up close to him; it was nice, even though she sounded really far away. She yawned; Blake nodded, and yawned right back, pulling the blanket down to allow them both to slide underneath the covers.

He knew it made sense that he was back at school, despite being about ten years too old for this sort of crap. He'd come back, for some reason, and everyone was okay with it, so it had to be okay. He wasn't even at the school, but even this wasn't strange: instead, he was listening as the other boys breathed heavily, their naggingly familiar features popping out at him as he looked around the dark cabin. Most of them weren't asleep; just pretending in case one of the teachers came around and busted them. Some probably had fallen asleep - not intending to, but that just happened sometimes when you wanted to fake it.

All he wanted to do was sneak out and jerk off. That's what he remembered most about camp: not the cabins, or the games, or any of that shit, just the giddy thrill of sneaking out into the darkness, trying not to get caught to rub one out while not being caught by one of the other boys because that was fucking queer. Once again, he was just dressed in his boxers, an erection tenting up his sleeping bag. He remember getting a lot of stares when the other boys had seen his junk: he - and it - just seemed to keep growing all the way through puberty, and he could tell they were jealous. And now, he was a fully grown man who had fucked a whole host of women. He idly wondered about one teacher he'd had a mad crush on while he slowly moved, trying to avoid making the wooden frame of the bunk beds creak as he climbed down, his hefty adult cock throbbing at full mast.

Being bigger made that difficult; he was surprised he could even fit on the bed once he climbed off and looked at it, before tiptoeing to the window. His ears pricked up, his skin tingling as he waited for someone to pipe up and ask what he was doing, or for one of the teachers or parents who'd come to supervise them came over to check none of them were going to do anything like he was doing. But then, he was an adult too; surely they'd understand he could look after himself now? Fuck, he was probably taller and stronger than most of them as well.

The window slid open easily; climbing out wasn't difficult for him, but doing so without making too much noise was another matter. Yet, he must have done it, because here he was, loping through the camp like some horny werewolf just looking for somewhere to howl and jack off. His cock trickled a little; it craved attention, and enjoyed the exciting escapade he was undergoing.

He loped along, body eating up the distance to the edge of the camp, climbing over the fence into a large field. The full moon beat down into the field, and he quickly yanked down his boxers, revealing his slick, throbbing shaft to anyone and anything with eyes in the vicinity.

Including the horse staring right at him.

He yelped, jumping back. This wasn't a normal horse; it was a huge stallion, at the same time ethereal and the most "real" thing he could see. The dark horse was surrounded with what looked like blue flames licking across the surface of his fur, his otherwise-empty eye sockets burning brightly with the same brilliant blue, only more condensed as it stared into him with its flames. It snorted, twitching the huge, black shaft that plunged out from its belly. He watched the cock raise, the stallion slapping himself in the chest with it, the flared, flat head twitching and dripping a viscous fluid that filled the air around him with a musky smoke that infused the night with a potent erotic thrumming that wormed its way into everything.

Panting heavily, he let his hand drop; the stallion's burning eyes held his gaze, almost willing him to indulge himself in front of its demonic gaze. He felt his shaft slam up, splattering pre-cum onto his body, as he felt something tweak him, pushing him back into the uncontrollable sexual urges puberty had forced upon him. It never really lessened, or he thought it hadn't until now. He didn't care the demon horse was watching him jack off; he just needed to do it, right now.

"...cheating piece of shit!"

Breaking him out of his dream, Blake winced as he felt Tonia smashing her clenched fist right into his crotch. "Christ, you fucking crazy bitch!" he screamed, the left-overs of the erection the quickly-forgotten dream rapidly dissipating as his voice shifted up an octave. He cursed; whoever dobbed him in was going to be missing a few teeth once he found out.

"Don't bother coming home tonight!" Blake's soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend added, "You can pick up your shit from the skip outside!" Turning in fury, she smacked him a couple of times - he easily took the weak, if angry, blows - before she stormed out. Curious party-goers peeked into the room, before quickly realising they didn't want to get involved any more than they had been in a domestic dispute.

Blake glanced about. Claire or Carol or whoever he'd fucked had made herself scarce. He could hear Tonia cursing at him as she screamed her way out of the party. A door slammed, and then an engine revved loudly, and he heard the squealing of tires accelerating rapidly on asphalt.

"Dumb bitch," Blake thought, "it's my name on the lease."

11:59 pm

Tarun popped another tablet into his mouth, quickly chasing it with alcohol as he grabbed the drinks and sashayed his way over to the booth where the band - at least those that hadn't hit the dance floor with the girls or guys with their choice - sat with some of the fans that had decided to join them. As he plopped down the round he had bought, he hoped that everyone's IDs had been authentic; he hated being such a buzzkill, but he was on the job and had the band's reputation to keep in mind. Nothing killed a hot, new group's chances better than getting drunk and fucking an underage fan. Plus, he had just bought the first round; it was the least they could do.

Shaking off his chest as he approached, jostling the glasses intertwined in his fingers without spilling them - Tarun had perfected this manoeuvre - the table cheered him back as he served up everyone's order, resting the requests from those hitting the dance floor on the table while the others scooched closer together to give him room to slide into the end of the booth they'd claimed as their own.

The club was loud, so Tarun only caught the fact the girl on Chris T's arm wanted his attention when she tapped him on the arm; he was caught out scoping the room for someone to hit on. "I like your tats," was what he saw her mouth. Grinning back at her, he pulled the sleeves back up his arm, showing off some more. The action was noticed by Chris T, who immediately tugged on her arm as he started talking loudly to her. Trying not to roll his eyes at the young drummer's unnecessary jealousy, he slid out of his seat; his head was spinning a bit more than he liked, and he felt a quick trip to the bathroom to force some stuff up and splash a bit of water on his face would not go amiss.

Tarun's eyes seemed to throb along with the music, the room shifting beneath his feet as he staggered a little. Fortunately, staggering at a club wasn't terribly unexpected, so he didn't embarrass himself too much. He looked at the crowd, uncomfortably noticing - and not for the first time - most of the party-goers were easily half his age. Despite working hard, and getting lucky with his mixed genetics, he certainly only looked thirty-something while pushing on fifty with a vengeance, but that still didn't stop him from increasingly getting these flashes that he was somewhere he didn't belong.

The sand felt good upon his feet, his toes sinking down, swirling the granules around, the dark water lapping around his ankles, his whole body dripping with the saline scent of the sea.

"Huh?" Tarun thought. For a moment, he thought he was somewhere out. Then he was falling, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, his lungs straining to get enough oxygen in to fuel his over-extended system.

He was standing on the beach now, clothes hanging off of him as they sagged with the weight of sea-water, strands of seaweed clinging to his body. Slowly, pulling them off, he looked around. He was on an island, somewhere far from the mainland, he guessed; turning around, he looked out into the dark ocean and saw no lights, save for a grinning moon and the sparkling glitter of stars far off in the inky blackness.

The dark sea lapped up around his ankles, and turned to look at the lights and noises. He definitely wasn't alone on the island; in fact, it sounded like there was a pretty big party happening. Or rather a carnival: the music had that jaunty, too-happy tenor to it, and it repeated enough while he stood there that he was already getting sick of it as he started to walk further up the beach. The outline of the structures all looked like big, billowing tents swaying in the gentle island breeze. No matter how "uncool" it was, he was still going to go there: as great as spending time on a deserted island beach would have been, you couldn't really enjoy yourself when you could barely see the front of your face.

Bracing himself for the onslaught of children, he clambered up the rocks that cut the beach off from the carnival. When a metal band announced itself with a frenetic, loud guitar solo, he almost fell backwards; he must have caught his shirt on something, as it held just long enough for him to grab at a sturdier rock to hold him steady, saving him from plummeting backwards. Gasping for air, he rolled up over the edge, tilting his head to get a better look: that music hadn't been what he was expecting at all.

While the people running around were loud, unruly and much younger than him, they were all males and also definitely not children. Young, naked men laughed as they drank, walking through the gaps between two tents. Those that weren't naked were not exactly dressed for the event, unless he'd stumbled onto a rather explicit pride parade of some kind.

Grinning, he quickly pulled off his clothes; he was already starting to get hard from the sight of all the young, hot guys streaming through. He'd fit in well enough, he hoped: even though he was much older, and showing signs of it, he was still in good shape. In fact, he thought he seemed a fair bit younger now; although he was standing in the shadows.

Peering out slowly, his grin widened significantly: this was definitely the place for him, he decided, able to see in one tent where a free-for-all orgy seemed to be taking place. Turned on, he looked around; it wasn't the only sexual contact happening at the festival, but at least from where he was, it was certainly the most popular.

"Where's your ticket?"

He'd just been about to step out into the main concourse when he felt his arm getting seized. The grip was strong, and a little arousing in its own way, but it was definitely a shock. He turned his head; even though the figure was draped in black, he could tell he'd been grabbed by an enormous, muscular man: the clothes he wore left very little to the imagination, the pectorals bulging out in line with his eyes. Whoever this was, he was a very big boy.

"Where's your ticket?" the mysterious Big Boy repeated.

"I - I guess I just washed up on the beach," he answered. "I just wanted to-"

"You're too old to be here," Big Boy grunted.

"How fucking rude was that?" he thought, stunned into silence.

Somehow, though, he must have said it, as Big Boy answered him, "How rude is it to strip off and think you can join in?"

Tarun groaned, eyes suddenly filled with blobby greyness and oddly muted beeping sounds.

Two carnival-goers, seemingly oblivious to what was going on, bumped into his back, laughing and falling to the ground. Plastic pitchers spilled beers as the two fairly-rotund youths fell on each other, starting to make out. He watched their erections start to grow; his own twitched in response.

"Don't think you're getting out of this," Big Boy warned.

Blinking once, Tarun found himself waking up, staring at a dull grey ceiling. Machines beeped and blooped around him, one of them breathing into him while another pumped his stomach. A doctor, noticing his patient's eyelids fluttering, quickly jabbed the light of a small torch into his eyes. Trying to protest, Tarun tried to move his arms, only to find them cuffed to the hospital bed he was lying on.

"Mister Buckley?" the doctor stated, "Can you hear me?"

Tarun nodded, details slowly coming back to his vision. The doctor continued, informing him he'd overdosed; Tarun tried to pay attention, but his mind was wandering. The young doctor was very cute; he wouldn't mind "playing doctor" with him on a more casual basis. Couldn't they get more plain, older doctors to do this kind of thing? It would be far less distracting.

Trying to answer the doctor's questions as best he could, Tarun was told he'd overdosed. They were pumping his stomach now, but the fact he was awake and somewhat lucid was a good sign. He answered questions about what he'd taken, and when. He answered truthfully, at least to what he could remember. He wasn't embarrassed, at least not about that.

"God, I hope I didn't shit myself," Tarun winced.

Thursday

1:35 am

Despite the fact his ass was still stretched raw and he felt exhausted and sticky, Takeo gritted his teeth as he climbed up the trellis running up the back of his house. His stick-like limbs barely had enough strength to lift his body, even though that too was almost obscenely slender. What he lacked in physical strength, however, he more than made up for in desire.

The desire not be caught by his father.

Being caught out of the house after curfew was one thing, but the questions would naturally move on to where he had gone off to. Takeo could almost hear his father's voice now, grilling him in Japanese - he could always tell when his dad was angry when that card got played - and literally anything seemed preferable to telling him the truth. "I went out because some hot daddy bear was looking for a little attention tonight, and I wanted the extra cash to help move out." Panting as he peered cautiously into the window, he wondered what would win out: his father's incurable homophobia, or the grudging respect when he slammed down the money he'd made that evening.

Trying not too laugh too much at the idea of his father approving of his ruthless pragmatism, Takeo slowly slid up the window. Thankfully, the bathroom was unoccupied, and after a shifting of some knick-knacks, he was able to sneak in quietly. "Enter the ninja," he thought, "the gay, rent-boy ninja." Although he really could have used the shower - his customer's semen was still on him - showers were too noisy, and he didn't want to fall asleep. Instead, he crept along the corridor, inching over the creaky floorboards beside his father's bedroom, towards his own near the front of the house.

Quickly stripping down to his boxers, Takeo slid into bed. He yawned, his jaw aching. The client had been quite well-endowed, or at least his mouth and ass believed that to be the case. His engineering textbook glared back at him: he stared back at it, remembering the call he'd gotten from his boss that pulled him out of class to travel out to some middle-class suburb to see to a rather bland, embarrassed-looking married guy. The book blurred in his vision, his last thoughts before falling asleep being that he'd have to catch up on the coursework he'd missed.

A noise roused him from sleep: it was Mr. Brooks his boss - his pimp - calling to tell him he had a job, to get his ass over to some new address and get fucked. He squirmed, slipping out of bed to get dressed. He was tired, but he couldn't really say no to Mr. Brooks.

In the blink of an eye, he stepped up to the wrought iron gate, quickly looking at his phone to check it was the right address. This place was fancy - and so, contained a wealthy client - which left him confused as to why he was here. It was the right place, however; so he walked up to press a button on an intercom at the gate. He didn't need to: the gates slowly yawned open for him, and he quickly stepped through. Thankful he'd dressed nicely, but was still confused. There was good money to be made in prostitution, but Mr. Brooks never got calls from people in houses like this. But it seemed he was expected, as soon he was entering the large house, barely able to remember the walk up the long driveway to the entrance to the mansion.

At the door, he was greeted by a man wearing a comfortable, tailored robe and little else. "Man" was a little inaccurate: while the messy shock of hair curling around the figure's head could have been down to being in bad need of a haircut, the horns and the bestial ears made it clear he was dealing with something inhuman. That became even more apparent as the strange "man" allowed his robe to spill open: he'd seen quite a few cocks in his time, but none that looked like this outside of some rather adventurous searching online, and the hoofed, hairy legs were definitely not what he'd been expecting.

He, however, had been. "Come in," the goat-man suggested, stepping back to let him inside; a part of him wanted to leave, but he was already inside the house, the door closing behind him when he realised this. Impossibly, the mansion was bigger on the inside than out; he soon found himself in a bedroom that seemed to expand to the horizon. All he could really see was his host, settling in by sprawling upon a giant canopied bed, the robe trailing behind him, the deep pink rod jutting out in anticipation.

Not too sure what he was expected to do, he stood there, looking at the cock, and the two large testicles stretching the brown sack just underneath. "Why don't you make yourself more comfortable?" his host suggested, patting the bed beside him. Quickly - but not too quickly, he could tell this client was a fan of spectacle - he began to disrobe, showing off the slender, almost boyish body he had. His genitals were small, but then people didn't usually hire him for those, and his holes had been cleaned; or at least, he felt reasonably prepared.

Tentatively crawling onto the bed, he allowed his host to beckon him closer, waiting for the tantalising touch of the thick-nailed hands. Despite being touched sensually a lot in his profession, he quickly started getting aroused: the goat-man had magic fingers that seemed to access the small bits of him that usually went ignored by his other clients, but elicited intensely erotic feelings. He reached out towards the beastly, glistening shaft with his hands, wanting to make a start, but his host gently brushed his hand aside. "We'll get to that later," he said, "right now, this is all about you."

He didn't want to complain - that would be unprofessional - but this seemed a little odd. He wasn't going to complain though, allowing his client to toy his limbs into outstretched positions, leaving him vulnerable, yet not eager to take advantage. Despite not being touched, the animal-like cock jutting out of the furry sheath quickly oozed; the creature's pre-cum was black and fiery-hot. It burned as it touched his bare, smooth, youthful skin. Some clients had burned him, and he had a few scars from that, but this was something else. This he enjoyed, his cock throbbing, his body wanting to pleasure the other's drooling shaft, to feel more of that potent heat absorbing into his body.

"There we go," the satyr replied, now straddling over him, allowing his cock to dribble directly onto the prone form beneath him.

Looking up at his host, all he could think of was how amazingly mesmerising his brilliant, inhuman, violet eyes were.

Takeo's eyes didn't want to open, but they did; groggily staring at the clock. It was way too early to be up. Sliding about in the sheets, he felt his morning wood twitch as it rubbed up against the fabric of the sheets.

He felt dirty; it was though he could smell the huge load squirted into him, even though that had been hours ago, just as fresh as if it just happened. Takeo worried his father might pop in before heading out to work in the morning. "Hope I don't smell too much," he thought, before closing his eyes again.