Slow Strokes
A poor little mouse is humiliated and forced to entertain a room full of wild and horny guests.
The mouse blushed helplessly, squirming where he stood on the center of the stage. He couldn't see the audience, but he knew they were there- watching him, judging him, admiring and observing and cataloging his every move. In retrospect, he couldn't remember how this had all come to pass, or even how he ended up in front of hundreds of strangers, friends, and even his own MOTHER (somewhere in the third row) without a stitch of clothing on. But the utterly worst part about it, was the dreadful unending silence that embraced the auditorium. That- and his rock hard penis which arched out in front of him- as if proudly displaying it's length, size, and the angry race of his heart to the audience.
A thin droplet of pre trickled from the front of the crown.
He let a painfully humiliated fingertip dip down and glide across the thick member, stopping at the tip where a long strand of pre clung to it. He shuddered again and whimpered, ears pressing against his skull. This was too much. He couldn't do it. He couldn't go through with it... He wanted off the stage, out of the hot, burning spotlight and away from the prying eyes of the crowd.
He didn't move.
A whimper pierced past his little lips and the young mouse squeaked at the sensation of embarrassed pleasure that rippled through him. He couldn't back out now. He knew that deep down- there was so much money riding around him. It was such an odd thing to gamble on...and he didn't know how he ended up as the main attraction, but he'd be in more trouble than he was now if he didn't finish.
He wrapped his fingers around his penis and closed his eyes, giving himself a gentle stroke. The crowd gasped. A voice over the loud speaker crackled to life: ONE
The poor little mouse shuddered in embarrassment, squeezing his thighs together as if to try and hide his drooling length. He wondered idly how anyone could be perverted enough to watch a shy little mouse like him do such a private activity like this- and gamble on how many strokes it would take. He took a deep breath and gave a hopeless, helpless whimper. The audience watched quietly, every eye in the room upon him, staring, stalking his movements, glued to the gooey droplets that spilled from his bare penis and onto the floor.
"TWO" The loudspeaker crackled again. A hint of delight in the voice as the hidden eyes watched over the mouse. A tongue dipped across chapped lips, and a grin pierced the darkness. The poor mouse wasn't going to make it past ten. It was obvious at this point with the way his poor cock was throbbing from the sensation of so many eyes watching.
"THREE" A voice pipped again. There was a din of humor floating amongst the audience. They were laughing at him. All of them! He could feel it! Whether it was the size of his penis or the fact that it was on display or the fact that he didn't have much stamina, or the fact that some naughty fur was counting off the number of strokes his fingers made- he didn't know. But it made his erection throb with his heart beat.
The mouse gave a nervous whimper, biting along his lower lip with a squeak. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Just be swallowed up by the earth forever. He couldn't believe so many people had shown up to look at him strip down naked on stage and masturbate. MASTURBATE of all things! And what was worse, his own body was rebelling against him. The lights, the stage, the voice spitting out numbers over the loud speaker. Everybody watching his ever, single, minute action.
He had long since tuned the loud speaker out. Long since stopped listening to the humiliating voice narrating his horrible ordeal. It was something he could no longer handle. The entire experience was something he could no longer handle. He could remember a whooping cheer of delight- a sensation of fire burning through his pudgy little balls, and his body going tense. The loud speaker was saying something, and there was a crowd standing and cheering in front of him.
His plump, throbbing erection popped like a cork in champagne.
The first shot was massive- a thick ribbon like streamer of hot and sticky mouse cum- buzzing through air. It felt like a fired shot from a cannon, his cock was pulsing so hard. The second and third shots all burst from his member with an almost impossible display of force- vanishing into the darkness and leaving a sticky alabaster streak in their wakes. He had fallen to his knees- his legs unable to hold his weight any longer while another blast of mouse cum disappeared towards the center of the audience. Fifth and six shots only made it to half way off the stage and the seventh and eight final shot only dribbled down his fingers and to the sticky puddle he'd left on the floor. He dropped back onto his rump, panting heavily, legs spread with his bare penis still on wide display for the cheering audience.
Somewhere, in the darkness, he could make out the figures and shapes of money being exchanged between shadows. Someone had bet he could go longer, someone had doubted him, and still others had just come to see him naked and mortified. He looked around bashfully, unsure what to do, and reached down to cover himself with both his sticky paws and gave a whimper. He certainly wasn't sure he could do this for an entire week like he'd been contracted (Blackmailed, really)- and it was only Monday night.