The Deluge

Clara was gone. Cassie was gone. But not, it seemed, without having taken counsel with her subordinate cruel bitches. Almost immediately I was an underground phenomenon. Would anyone dare to talk to me in front of others at the school? Of course not, I was an unclean one. But did women surreptitiously start asking me to hose them? Oh yes. Yes they did.

As winter gave way to spring, as the first brave birds began to chirp optimistically, as foolhardy green pioneers poked up through the earth, I came. I must have drained 44 gallon drums of my scalding cum onto the women who had previously barely recognized my face and who had never known my name. At their homes. On chairs, in their bed, their parents' bed, their sibling's bed, in the living room, the kitchen, the dining room. At someone else's home when two or even three asked to be doused collectively. But most of all in that art room, where there could be privacy from unexpected family and where there was cloth to cover a cool floor, pillows to spare knees and necks, where deep washing tubs and cleaning supplies existed and the floor was robust linoleum.

In that room I possessed them, one by one, like a sorcerer; I hollowed out their souls and became their sexual lich. I wore their shattered pride like a fur coat. Even before I would come, most of them would have felt the first spark of awe and perhaps... worship? Their eyes widened, or their jaws dropped, or they gasped loudly, or they giggled uncontrollably, or they hyperventilated. Every one of them had been warned, first by peers and then by me. Every one of them had formed their own fantasy proxy version of me and sized me up and decided the rumors were greatly exaggerated.

And every single one of them wildly underestimated what was going to happen to them.

I heard "oh my god" gasped, whispered or moaned in six languages. "Holy shit" or "holy fuck" in I think three. Jesus Christ got frequent shoutouts under his different passport names, as did God and even Maria. My engorged penis was adjudged by underlexical types as huge or ginormous. Sometimes it was also ruled to be monstrous, but also magnificent (reminding me a little wistfully of Clara saying so), glorious, stupendous, monumental. The massive testicles were not neglected: these were found to be incredible, spectacular, enormous, massive. They always turned out to be as big as my partner's hand when I would move their hand to heft one. Usually substantially bigger. Each of those moments of instinctual, unplanned, spontaneous awe and worship was burned photographically into my memory as if by laser beam.

I came bucketfuls on faces and necks and torsos and legs and arms and in hair and on cute asses and backs and narrow hips and wide hips and into every crevice, every surface my cum could possibly intrude. I didn't care if they protested about where I was cumming, I just hosed them until their brains broke. I stood over them and came while they reclined, I came on them while they were on their knees, I came on them while lying on my back being frantically stroked by two puny and inadequate hands (and sometimes four). I bulldozed their sanity with the time the vast distance a stroke required and the struggle simply to retain any semblance of a grip. Usually I'd release the entire cock from my pants. Sometimes I decided it would be funny to terrify them with the head alone. Sometimes I allowed them to undress themselves, or each other, and finally me. Sometimes they would hastily undo me -- four different cum pilgrims so hastily that they were smacked hard in their faces by the log springing up; one getting a black eye (which I was unable to see beneath the cum).

Word of my prodigious proportions and pourings-out spread like a once-in-a-century fire. Groups or three or four women would always be eyeing me from a distance, some knowingly, others unsure but gripped by the petrifying curiosity that I knew, with cosmic certainty, burned painfully in their crotch.

Exultant is hardly the word, friends. I achieved infinite sexual apotheosis daily. Like a child in a lego store I rushed from girl to girl, visiting some again and letting others go with memories of drowning in my seed seared into their souls forever. I would see one or two on weekdays, and was usually booked for multiple assignations on Saturday and Sunday ("I'm glad you're spending a lot of time outside instead of hiding in your room reading science fiction", my mom had said, while I had nodded as neutrally as possible). Some I liked and some I was indifferent to them, these would be merely drenched beyond reason. But the ones I hated, those I drowned pitilessly.

Word spread to other schools in the area. Perfect strangers began to send me notes via their agents and proxies at my school. Fine, I had said, but their friend from my school would chaperone them, I would cum on both, and the newcomer would be required to clean her friend head to tail with her tongue. Absurd! Arrogant! Outrageous! All, justly, had indignantly rejected down my lurid demand. But then one braved it, and was just hours later moaning and writhing on a bed with her childhood friend, both fully lubricated with cum, followed by struggling heroically to clean the endless layers of glaze. She pleaded pitifully for me to let her stop. For her insolence, I waited until she was mostly done and then I came on them both again. Within days, all the ones who had huffily said no changed their minds, and came back with urgent words of apology. And back. And back. Their self-respect I drowned, their sexual self-confidence I cast into eternal shadow with my continentally-scaled cockmeat.

For the first time in my life, I wasn't thirsty. I was horny, yes, gleeful and delirious, yes. But not thirsty in the soulful, bone-deep way that loneliness, sexual or romantic or otherwise, would entail. Oh, to be sure, I had to drink a lot of water -- I began carrying a gallon jug and would get through at least one and a half every weekday and two or three a day on weekends, to prevent the cum turning into glue. Less cum? Less slipping and sliding and squelching? Quite unacceptable -- my adoring audience deserved my most outrageous lashings of hyperpotent semen, laden with -- not just trillions -- but quadrillions of sperm. This required an ample supply of liquid medium. I was forever parched.

I could penetrate none of them. For one thing, my absurdly overdimensioned cock would never even begin to fit in the mouth or the vagina of any woman, no matter who she was. I was sure of that now. And it was for the best that I couldn't fit into anyone body, as there was no imaginable condom short of a parachute that would protect myself from disease and them from unwanted pregnancy. And I faced another difficulty, which was age. My bass-ackwards district's age cutoffs meant that all the cum gargling supplicants from my own school were guaranteed to be 18 and it was why I was already 19. But as I began to draw pilgrims from further afield, this was no longer sufficient. I quickly learned their various enrolment cut off dates by heart. Oh, you're in 12th grade at St Mary's? Wonderful, let's undress. Oh, you go to Fuckfield High? Cool. When's your birthday? If they named a figure that guaranteed they were 18, I'd say "correction, it's today" and take them to the dairy mill. If it was too early, even by a day, I would send them away to reconsider their dreadful wickedness. Anyone below 12th grade, at any school, I simply refused to meet at all.

Predictably, my grades had suffered, due to the endless hours given over to hosing down every desirable, consensual, school-aged woman within a 3 hour driving radius with my limitless fountain of cum. I griped once or twice in the cooling dark and before long, I had a complete roster of tutors, some even with backups, some working as a pair to coach me, for all of my subjects. Just tutoring, I would say sternly. Of course, they would say, just as sternly. But then after an hour or two of grappling with calculus or American literature or (how apropos!) human biology, their resolve would break and my tutor or tutors of the evening would soon be closely studying an awesome physiology worthy of a devoted NEJM volume.

These tutors would come to my home, which by now was almost habitable. I tried to sneak them in and out. Dad never noticed, of course, being as he was the fount of my own autism. But mothers hopeful for their sons' prospects are able to see through lead and hear through miles of concrete. So she met many of them. She began to remark almost daily often how lovely it was that I was making new friends -- and all such well-mannered and charming young women! Yes. Well-mannered indeed.

None of the news or awareness this heady elevation to the Throne of Olympus had reached the ears of any of the boys at my school, or anywhere else that I could tell. They were utterly oblivious, entirely and completely ignorant of the hurricane of lust and cataclysmic sexual destruction swirling around them every day.

It's true that boys at school had begun to give me a slightly wider berth because I had begun to fill out substantially, my gargantuan testicles providing all the necessary testosterone and much more. Every repetition at the gym was rewarded with great thick layers of muscle almost immediately. But otherwise I remained largely unnoticed; my lifetime's work, to hone a cloak of schoolroom invisibility, being quite mature by this point.

It was the first day in spring that a window had been opened in the classroom. The nucleus of boys in my class who considered themselves to be comedians were jabbering more energetically than usual, energized by the crisp fresh air. I had long since learned to tune it out. But then I heard one say, quite distinctly, "Oscar's dick is tiny."

It had been spoken in one of those freak lulls in conversation; it carried through the entire silent room like a gong had been struck angrily. There was a split second of absolute noiselessness, and then five of the women sitting together at the front of the room -- four of whom I had nearly drowned, one still in the queue to visit the elephant enclosure, all of whom I'd heard the comedians describing their primitive sexual fantasies about -- burst into laughter. Just absolute gut busting laughter. The boy comedians began to laugh too, excited that this crude insult was so funny. The rest of the room began to laugh also.

The women who had started the mirth kept the laughter going far beyond a normal standard of cruelty. They were bent over laughing, eyes with tears in them, one of them struggling to breathe so badly that she sounded like a pipe organ in distress. They laughed and laughed and laughed, would begin to breathe and catch their breath, then look at each other, or at me, and begin vocally spasming with incandescent amusement all over again. In the boys' eyes I saw malicious glee at their savage putdown, at how they had slightly but conclusively elevated themselves in the jungle hierarchy. In earlier times I would have turned crimson; for indeed I had been, for my entire life, the miserable proprietor of a pathetic penis. Instead I smiled politely. I knew for a fact that the one whose girlfriend was wearing an ostentatious purity ring was hungrily gulping my cum twice a week, when I could fit her into my calendar. Several of them had been abruptly broken up with, their cum-slathered features coming effortlessly to mind. So I smiled politely.

With two of the girls still chuckling, in strode our teacher, clad in the chinkless armor of tenure, equipped a +3 mace of maxed-out pension. "Shut up you little bastards," he rasped through accumulated decades of pack-a-day, "and open to chapter 8, page 312".

Following the scene, two competing rumors circulated. Among the boys, that I was comically micropenised, worthy of contempt and derision. Among the women, the knowledge of my sprawling genitalia and its stunning capacity to pump out cum like it was an alabaster oilwell flashed like an electrial surge. It didn't matter to me what any of them thought, though. I had my inexhaustible supply of women to satisfy myself, whenever I felt like it. I had trousers that held more meat than a butcher's freezer room. I no longer bothered to fantasize. I never had to apologize. I never had to be nice or polite or even patient. If they didn't like it, too bad. Next victim please.

But there was a growing problem.

I had a crush on someone.