Anthony woke in the morning from strange dreams that he couldn't remember, feeling disoriented and uncomfortable. He thought maybe the dream had been sexual; even now, the smooth brush of his pajamas against his skin felt sensual, almost inappropriately so. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the strange, eerie sensation of menace that lingered in his mind. Finally he opened his eyes again, and glanced at the clock.
Shit. He was late for work.
Anthony dressed as quickly as he could, his mind distracted by thoughts of the inevitable dark look his boss would give him when he walked in. He grabbed a quick piece of toast for breakfast and took it with him as he dashed out the door, his shirt not even tucked in yet.
Traffic was thankfully light that day, and he was back on schedule by the time he strode through the sliding glass doors on the first floor of his office building. The secretary at the desk looked up and gave him a smile and a nod. Anthony nodded back at her, relieved, and made his way into the elevator.
One man was in there already, and kindly held the door for Anthony as he caught up. Anthony smiled his thanks and stepped on. The man was someone Anthony recognized—a clerk, or accountant, or something, from the sixth floor. He had a cheerful but generic face and a combover that hid nothing from anyone. Anthony had never bothered to ask him his name.
Somewhere around the fourth floor, the man began to fiddle with his briefcase, and his elbow brushed lightly against Anthony's arm as he did so.
Out of nowhere, an electric jolt of pleasure shot through Anthony from the point of contact straight to his groin. He groaned involuntarily.
The man looked up, startled. "Sorry, did you say something?" he asked.
Anthony, still completely startled by the sensation, blinked at him and said nothing. The man gave him a strange look, but then the elevator had reached the sixth floor and he got off, leaving Anthony alone in the elevator to ride up to the tenth floor.
Somewhat disoriented, Anthony almost missed his stop. But he managed to slip out of the elevator just as the doors started closing and made his way over to his cubicle. When he got there he sat down at his desk and stared for a moment at his blank computer screen without turning it on. What on earth had that been? For crying out loud, he was half hard already from a tiny touch on the arm! He gingerly poked the spot on his arm where the man's elbow had brushed, and though he felt a residual, tingling sensuality, it was nothing like the sensation he'd felt at the initial contact.
Maybe it was some weird static electricity thing? That didn't seem particularly plausible, but it was the best Anthony could do. He tried to put the strange event out of his mind and turned on his computer, buckling down to work.
He'd almost forgotten about it by lunch time, when he finally tore himself away from his work to go find some food at the office cafeteria. He was pondering a particularly difficult problem that he'd been working on for the past two weeks, and so didn't notice when his friend Todd came up behind him in the lunch lane.
"Hey Guy! Missed you at the barbecue last weekend!" said Todd cheerfully, slapping him on the shoulder in greeting.
Anthony nearly collapsed from the sensation. A warm, tingling jolt started at the point of contact and spread pleasure through his entire body, super-heating him and making him feel like his blood was boiling to the surface. He doubled over the edge of the lunch counter, feeling dizzy as blood rushed down to his cock.
"Whoah man," said Todd, removing his hand. "You okay? Didn't mean to startle you like that."
"I... I'm fine," said Anthony as he got his breath back. But he wasn't sure that was true.
He managed to get through the lunch line and over to a table without being touched again; Todd sat with him, but Anthony's heart wasn't really in the conversation. He spent the meal instead wondering what the hell was wrong with him. A few subtle experimentations—brushing a hand against his own arm, kneading the muscle of his shoulder—seemed to produce no result. He almost believed he might have imagined the sensation, except that it had been so strong.
Steeling himself, Anthony decided to go a little further in his testing. He smiled, standing up from his half-eaten meal (he'd been finding it difficult to eat anyway), and moved past Todd, patting him on the shoulder as he passed by.
Nothing. It was just a normal touch.
"Huh." Anthony stopped and stared at his hand. Maybe he had imagined it after all? How could that be?
"Oh hey, I'll walk with you if you're going back," said Todd. "Just give me a sec here." He closed the clear plastic container with the remaining half of his sandwich and stood up, grabbing the container in one hand and his lunch tray in the other.
As he stood, his arm accidentally brushed against Anthony's back, and once again it happened. Anthony's knees felt weak as his entire body was wracked with pleasure so intense it was nearly unbearable. And then the touch stopped and the entire sensation cut off abruptly as quickly as it had come, leaving Anthony hard and terrified. Todd hadn't even noticed.
"Uh-actually," Anthony stuttered, fumbling for the words, "I, uh, I think I'm going to call it a day. Go home early. I'm not- not feeling well."
"Yeah?" Todd looked over at him. "Yeah, you do look a little flushed. Alright. Feel better."
Anthony nodded, already moving towards the exit, and didn't bother to reply.
Anthony was still half-hard by the time he made it back to his apartment. He strode in like a man on a mission, dropping his briefcase and jacket onto the floor as he made his way into the bedroom. He already had his fly down by the time he sat down on the bed, and grabbed his cock in hand, tugging it with shaking fingers.
Nothing. He felt... touch, could feel the sensation of skin against his fingertips, but the usual waves of pleasure he expected from masturbation were wholly absent. He tried, pulling hard enough to hurt, slicking himself up with hand cream, fisting himself slow and tight... but nothing. No pleasure, no steady rise toward orgasm, and no relief from the lingering electric sensations that still played across his nerves, taunting him.
After nearly an hour of trying to get off, Anthony sobbed. His body still remembered how it felt when he had been touched, desperately craved more of the pleasure, but he could do nothing about it. Finally, frustrated beyond measure, he got up and went to take a shower.
The drops of water felt sharp and pleasant on his skin as he stepped under the spray. His whole body felt over-sensitized to the threshold of pain. He grimly set to work with his bar of soap, trying to ignore it.
Anthony was a thorough washer—not pornographic by any means, but he was a bit of a neat freak and wanted to make sure that every part of him was clean. So when the edge of his bar of soap nudged against the pucker of his anus, he was completely taken by surprise by the resulting sensation.
Pleasure swamped him, a blinding, consuming white light. It was so intense that it took his breath away, stole his vision, and paralyzed his whole body. He was barely aware of his own spasms as he came heavily against the shower wall, sliding down to the floor as his legs failed to support him any longer.
When he came back to his senses, he was breathing heavily. He swallowed, the feeling harsh in his throat, trying to recover from what had been the most intense orgasm of his entire life. He wondered if he'd had a heart attack somehow—everything seemed slightly hazy and unreal.
As he caught his breath, he found himself unable to deny his curiosity. Would it be possible to... no. He shouldn't. It had nearly killed him the first time. But... just to see...
He gingerly touched the soap to the edge of his asshole again, and once again erupted in a spontaneous orgasm. It was painful—he'd been fully soft, and the hardening of his cock and orgasm had seemed to come all at once. It hadn't been quite as intense as the first one, but it was still hard enough to knock the breath right out of his lungs and leave him panting, blinded, on the shower floor.
He sat a long time in the shower, recovering, unsure what to do with this new information. The water began to grow cold, pattering down onto his sensitive skin. He shut it off.
He spent the evening trying to find some clue as to his condition on google, but nothing that came up on his searches seemed to fit his symptoms. He found a lot of stuff on sensitive skin and some info on nymphomania, and waded through a large number of porn sites that came up when he tried searching "sensitive anus" and "blinding orgasm," but nothing described what he had felt.
Anthony slept uneasily that night, tossing and turning fitfully. The following morning he was groggy and acting more or less on autopilot, and made his way to work more out of habit than a conscious decision to go.
He entered the office building and stepped onto the elevator as usual, and his brain only seemed to clear itself of fog when it finally registered a sense of alarm; there were already five people on the elevator with him when the doors opened for the second floor and seven more attempted to cram on. Belatedly, Anthony remembered that the company was hosting a huge conference today, and that the building would be packed.
When the doors opened on the third floor, only half the people waiting were able to enter the elevator before it was entirely full to capacity. Anthony found himself smushed against the wall in the back corner of the elevator with people pressing against him from all sides.
Anthony clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. From everywhere he was touched—a dozen different points—came the pleasure, lightning that rocketed around his nerves backward and forward, making his skin tingle and his groin ache. He was rock-hard in seconds, a feeling of fullness pooling in his testicles, cock straining desperately against his pants.
He wanted to get out at the next floor, but the elevator was too tightly packed to move through easily, and he dreaded the thought of what brushing forcefully against so many bodies would do to him. Already his legs had practically given out on him; the only reason he hadn't collapsed was the press of bodies holding him upright.
The pressure in his dick was intense, and still growing. He felt like he would have to come in his pants from the sheer buildup of pleasure inside him, but the ache of unrelease only grew worse and worse. He gritted his teeth and waited. A few more floors, surely...
On the sixteenth floor, where most of the conference rooms were located, the elevator emptied itself. Desperately, Anthony forced himself to follow the crowd as it brushed through those waiting to get onto the elevator, each new touch a torture against his flaming skin, and dashed down the hallway to the bathroom the second he had a clear space. He shot into the men's room and slammed his way into a stall, locking the door behind him.
Desperately he drew down his fly and started to jack himself off. He expected it to take no more than the barest nudge of his fingers against his member before he came, but once again he found that his own hands on his cock did nothing for him. The straining pleasure merely built further, tormenting him, begging for release.
With a sob of desperation, Anthony thrust a hand down the back of his pants and brushed a fingertip against his anus. He felt the orgasm grow closer, but it still wasn't quite enough, so he pressed harder, his jaw clenched in frustration.
As the tip of his finger nudged inside his anus, he erupted into orgasm. The sheer amount of sperm that left him was frankly uncanny. His vision whited out again and he felt as though he'd never stop coming—on and on the seed flowed out of him, spurts of it missing the toilet as he spasmed and spilling his jizz onto the floor and walls of the stall.
When it finally finished, Anthony collapsed to the floor, exhausted, fly still undone, hand still down the back of his pants. He came to his senses slowly, disgusted and a little frightened by the mess he'd made.
Anthony composed himself, zipping up his fly with trembling fingers, and then did his best to clean up both himself and the stall. This was terrible. It felt wonderful, absolutely amazing to his body, but it was completely out of his own control. He had no idea what to do.
Uncertain what to do next, he did what he was scheduled to do and attempted to go back to work. The conference was an important event in the company's calendar, and members from their partners across the globe were in attendance for a wide variety of meetings, presentations, and events, all held in the building. Anthony knew it would be bad if he missed it. At least he wasn't scheduled to give any presentations. But he wasn't sure how long he could last in his condition.
He tried his best to avoid being touched, but it was nearly impossible in the current atmosphere. Casual touches and brushes continued to set him off, and no amount of waiting or thinking unpleasant thoughts seemed to cause his arousal to fade. This meant that any time he got even half-hard—and with the amount he was being touched, it was usually more like a full, embarrassingly pants-tenting hardon—his erection refused to fade until he went to the bathroom and fingered himself until he came. Walking around the halls of the conference with a giant bulge in his slacks was not exactly the best way to impress the partners.
What was even worse, the fingering seemed less effective each time he went to do it. The second time that day he snuck into the bathroom to relieve himself, he was unable to get off until he'd buried his finger almost halfway into his rectum. The third time he snuck out to the restroom, he had to shove the finger in as far as he could. The fourth time—right before lunch—he was forced to penetrate himself with two fingers before he could come.
Lunch was even worse. His boss brought around a group of twelve Swedish businessmen to meet him and eat lunch with them. Each hand that shook his was a jolt of pleasure straight to the groin, and by the last of them he was desperate to at least sit down to avoid the sheer embarrassment he would suffer if any of them glanced down at his pants.
He was painfully hard through the entire meal, and did a likely terrible job of keeping up his part of the conversation; he was too distracted even to tell. Finally, when he was halfway done with his food and one of the Swedes leaned over and put a hand on his arm in preparation for sharing some bit of information—a joke, probably—Anthony stood abruptly.
"ExcusemeI'llberightback," he said in a rush, and dashed towards the door as fast as his aching cock would allow.
He darted inside the first door he could find that didn't look like it led into a crowded meeting room, and found himself in a janitor's closet. He shoved his pants down to his ankles and thrust three fingers into his anus with barely a pause. They slid in easily; by the third time he'd finger-fucked himself that morning he'd been forced to lube up his asshole with hand soap to allow the digits to slide in.
Now, even three fingers didn't seem like enough. Anthony sobbed and slid in a fourth, but he just couldn't seem to get them deep enough. He could feel himself closing in on the orgasm, but the closer he got to it, the harder it seemed to be to get any further.
Anthony glanced around the janitor's closet desperately for something phallic, anything, and finally closed his hand around the plastic handle of a mop. He leaned against one corner of the small room and angled the mop as best he could, aligning it with his ass. With a strangled, triumphant cry at last, he shoved his hips backwards and impaled himself on it, sliding the mop handle up his ass until a good half a foot of the thing was buried inside him. He reached behind himself and grabbed as far down the shaft as he could manage, and proceeded to fuck himself with it, thrusting it in and out with harsh, brutal motions.
He came quickly and once again blindingly hard, spilling his seed all over the room, his ass clenching in spasms around the mop handle. In a distant, fuzzy part of his brain, he was astonished that he had any seed left to come with at this point. When he finally managed to regain his senses, he was lying on the floor of the janitor's closet, still impaled on the mop. With a groan, he grasped the shaft tightly and pulled. It slid out of him far more reluctantly than it had gone in, and the long, drawing-out sensation as it left woke his cock again, although not nearly to the hardness it had been. With a look of disgust he eyed the mess he'd left on the mop handle and estimated that at least ten inches of the thing had disappeared inside him. It hadn't felt like that much as the time, which was somewhat frightening in itself.
Things were a little easier in the afternoon, but not much. He made one more trip to the janitor's closet, and had been forced to use not just the mop but also a broom handle at the same time. The trend of increase was really starting to alarm him; what would it take next time?
His worst fears were soon realized; the second time that afternoon he retreated to take care of himself, he was unable reach orgasm. He tried and tried, filling his anus with broom handles, the bottom of bottles of cleaning supplies, and anything else he could find in the closet. But all the penetration only seemed to make things worse; it was pleasuring him further, bringing him closer and closer to the edge of orgasm, but it never seemed to be quite enough, like it wasn't quite large enough, or wasn't going in quite as deep as he needed.
The day was almost over anyway, and so Anthony decided to skip out. There wasn't any way he could walk around the halls like this anyway, not without making a fool of himself. He took the stairs down the first floor—a significant number of flights, particularly when one was attempting them with a painfully stiff cock—and made his way out to his car in the parking garage.
When he got into his vehicle he did not immediately drive home, but drove instead to the closest adult store he could remember the location of (only because he'd occasionally driven past its garish neon sign when he went out to dinner with his friends after work). He parked his car and darted in, desperate for relief.
"Please," he asked when he stumbled in, startling the young woman with bright pink hair and a wide variety of facial piercings who was standing at the cash register reading a magazine. "Please, what's the largest dildo you have?"
The woman looked at him skeptically, but came out from behind the counter and led him into the back of the shop. She showed him a section of shelving labeled "Fisting... And Beyond!" in a cheerful font. The display was full of enormous phalluses in cheap cardboard-and-plastic boxes, many of them easily six inches in diameter and over a foot long. Most of them were black, aggressive-looking things that couldn't help but bring to mind the word "punishment."
Anthony grabbed the largest one he could see and fumbled for his wallet. "How much?" he muttered, knowing he sounded like a crazy person, but unable to care. "What do you need for it?"
Sure enough, the woman's eyebrows clearly indicated her suspicions that she was dealing with a man on drugs, or possibly someone having a psychotic break. Nevertheless, she plucked the sex toy from his fingers and strode back towards the cash register. Anthony trailed in her wake.
She rang him up and he paid for the toy with shaking hands, spilling coins all over the counter when he tried to come up with exact change. Furious with himself, he pulled a handful of additional bills out of his wallet and threw them on the counter. "Keep the change," he said, grabbing the toy and fleeing the store.
He knew he wouldn't make it all the way home in his current state. It was too much; it hurt, how hard he was, and the pleasure was like lava in his veins, torturing him and keeping him from getting what he needed.
He practically fell into his car and slammed the door shut behind him. With a swift motion he reclined the driver's seat back as far as he could and then yanked his pants down around his ankles. He ripped into the cardboard box containing his new purchase and pushed the detritus of the wrappings away from him.
In order to line up the head of the toy with his anus, he was forced to lift his ankles—pants still around them—up over the steering wheel onto the dashboard. But he didn't care. All that mattered was that he could feel the enormous black head of the sex-toy at his entrance, and that it was sliding in, sliding further and further and it was impossibly deep and impossibly wide and it was filling him up, and it was such a relief, such a desperate relief that he was crying, and then it was inside him, all the way inside, the entire foot-and-some-odd-inches was buried in him, and then he was fucking himself with it, plunging it in and out, needing to feel it, needing to feel like he was being taken-
He was just about to climax when he heard the siren.
Seconds later a uniformed police officer was knocking at the window of his car, and when Anthony didn't stop fucking himself with the dildo, the officer opened the door and grabbed him forcefully by the wrist. Anthony cried out as more unfulfillable pleasure flooded into him from the touch.
"Sir!" said the officer sharply. "This is a public area! You are under arrest for public indecency! You have the-"
The policeman had grabbed the end of the dildo and yanked it out of him, and suddenly Anthony felt bereft—he was so, so ready! He just needed to come! With a cry of despair he lunged after the toy, slamming against the police officer.
The next thing he knew he was slammed face-first into the side of his car, feeling the cold metal of handcuffs around his wrist. "-And assaulting an officer," the policeman was saying. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say..."
Anthony barely heard him over his own anguish and the sharp, hot pleasure of the officer's body where it leaned against him, forcing him against the metal of the car. He couldn't stop crying and pleading for his dildo back, even as the officer stowed him in the back of the police car and dropped the toy into a large plastic evidence bag.
They locked him in a cell by himself at the jail, which made Anthony howl with despair. "Please!" he tried to call to them as they left him alone, "I need my dildo back! Please, if you won't give it back to me, won't someone at least fuck me? Please!"
With a sob he sank to his knees and dropped his pants. He tried to fist himself, but he couldn't get his hand that far back behind himself. With a desperate cry he dropped his hand and lowered his head to the ground in defeat, his ass still in the air. "Oh please," he whimpered, "please!"
Suddenly, something slid into him. It was enormous—bigger even than the dildo, so big that it felt like it might literally split him in half. Anthony wondered if his hips would crack, but then he didn't care because he was gloriously full, so full he thought the cock inside him might spear him completely through and come out his mouth. And then someone was fucking him, hard. Their thrusts were brutal, slamming him forward and scraping his knees against the cement floor.
It was so perfect, the penetration, that he came within three thrusts of the mysterious cock. And then again a minute or two later. And then again. He began to come so often that the orgasms seemed almost to blend together, and each one was more painful than the last, emptying him out and leaving him hollow, and then demanding more.
Eventually his sobs of pleasure turned to screams, and he tried to reach back, to push the person away from him.
His hands encountered what felt like cold, smooth stone, and he looked behind him as far as he could to see long, talon-like obsidian fingers clutching his hips as this strange person continued to fuck him. And continued. And continued for what felt like hours, until finally the enormous cock slammed into him one last time, deep, so deep, and it felt like it was going deeper, and deeper, like it was a liquid filling him up from the inside, like an acid eating his flesh from within.
Anthony gave a last scream as the dark liquid filled him to the brim and began to drip from his eyes like tears. The last thing he heard was a dark, ancient voice that murmured "Now you are mine."
And then he was lost forever.