Cassie

It was Monday. Clara was gone. I was despondent. Finally, someone who found me attractive, someone who found me worthy of intimacy. She was gone. My only woman friend, my best friend, and now I wouldn't ever get to see her again.

"I know we weren't able to have real sex," she had said later when things had quietened. "But I'll make it up to you."

"How?"

"You'll see," she had said.

She had then refused to be drawn on the topic and I stopped pressing her to tell me. I figured, OK, maybe she'd send a postcard or a filthy magazine or maybe even a saucy Polaroid (I hoped). Who knows the inscrutable mind of women? Certainly not a recently-minted monsterdick autist.

The weekend was uneventful; I had housework to do, the remodel wasn't finished. I thought about Clara constantly, reliving every instant of our act of affection and lust, but ordinary life intruded. And then came Monday. As had so often happened to me in the past, the secret cabal of all the girls in all my classes had met and decided that I was... something, now. My status had been updated, my little figurine on the big board shifted from one spot to another. Something was happening. Something was off. I was nervous. Had I embarrassed myself? Had Clara told them what a creep I was, how I'd just pretended to be her friend to have sex, and that it was terrible and I was not worth spitting on?

I didn't know. But I would catch two or three girls facing each other, as if they had been mid-conversation, but looking at me wordlessly. When I instinctively turned they would quickly resume their conversation. Oh god, I thought. Some fucking rumor. It never ends. I wished I could talk to Clara about it.

But it waned over the next few weeks and before long it seemed that I was back to the normal amount of low status, anxiety and boredom. I had tried once or twice to masturbate, but couldn't get any more than a soft semi-erection, only able to ejaculate a few moderate squirts. Whatever spell Clara had cast, it seemed, was now broken.

Winter had come and I was no longer able to commute, as befit my lowly status, by bicycle. Instead I began to take the school bus. I hated the school bus. It was another venue for me to feel uncomfortable and trapped with all the others, except in an even more confined space. I would board the bus in the morning, first to do so, sitting in the second row next to the window so nobody could reach me and mess my hair. By the end of the route the bus would become a deafening madhouse. We would be vomited out in front of the school and disperse in that fashion. At the end of the day the process ran in reverse, except that I couldn't pick my seat.

And so it was, with the bus filling quickly one afternoon, that Cassie came to sit next to me.

Cassie was highschool royalty. If she knew that I existed, it was merely accidental and unintentional on her part. She seemed to move effortlessly through school life, the great sun around which boys orbited hopefully and girls orbited admiringly. Every month her hair would somehow be more fashionable; her mother had her school uniform almost invisibly altered to flatter her teen movie cheerleader physique. I didn't know anything else about her except that her occasional breakups or new boyfriends would be treated by everyone as if it were breaking news on CNN.

So when she sat next to me, I was slightly surprised. But I went back to staring out the window and, I think, pondering an Asimov robotics story I'd read the previous night. The crowd on the bus dwindled as I thought about yet another bug the Three Laws. Suddenly, abruptly, I realized I'd be at my stop in just a few minutes. And just as abruptly I realized that Cassie was still sitting next to me. I was now quite puzzled. Cassie's stop was three before mine.

"Hey," I said softly. "Did you miss your stop?"

Her face turned. She looked at me with cool gray eyes, sizing me up like an entomologist cataloging a gnat. Without changing her expression even minutely, she said: "Is it true?"

"... What?"

She leaned towards me and her hand grabbed my crotch. She squeezed expertly, fingers and palm rapidly surveying me and mapping me. I jumped and yelped. "Hey!"

She straightened again. "I guess it is". Her expression was still impenetrable.

My bus stop arrived, oh thank god it arrived at last. I was deeply uncomfortable and urgently wanted to get away from this woman who had just groped me without asking. She stood up slowly and stretched lavishly, showing off the nubile shape that had launched a thousand boxes of Kleenex. "Well," she said. "Come on Oscar. Time to go."

Oh no. She knew my name.

She grabbed her bag from overhead and sauntered down the aisle and down the steps as if nothing had happened. I was slightly frozen until the bus driver grumpily said "C'mon, kid, it's cold." I too grabbed my bag and in a few hasty steps had also exited. The door snapped shut, the bus gave the deafening roar that would next be heard at Armageddon, and sped away in a cloud of questionably legal fumes. It rounded the corner and suddenly all was quiet; snow had fallen during the day, throwing its blanket of silence over the world. I began to walk home.

"No, not that way. This way. I know a shortcut." She grabbed my wrist and pulled me in the opposite direction. I was reluctant to make a scene -- who knew what horrible rumor this woman had the power to pox me with -- and so I followed. We rounded one corner, then another, and indeed there was a small lane that cut through to a small park. I became more and more unsure of where I was, but I followed, even as it became clear that in no way was this a shortcut.

We arrived at what I presumed was her home. She turned again to look me in the eyes. Her cheeks were now softly pink; making her All-American features even more homecoming queenish. "You look cold," she said (and I was). Again she grabbed my wrist, pulling me through a front door that seemed to melt away without any of the incompetent key juggling I had to live with. She put her bag down, kicking off her shoes. "Take your shoes off," she said. "This is a no-shoe household." I did as she asked, putting my bag down also. Thank goodness, I thought, that I had worn fresh socks today.

She walked up to me calmly, expression still unreadable, and began to run her finger tips lightly down my chest. It tingled, electricity racing to my crotch. Oh no, I thought. She's messing with me. They're going to jump out and laugh at me. But her hand kept descending, still light. This time, when she reached my cock, she did not grope, she caressed, and softly asked, "Do you like this?"

"Yes," I said, without a thought passing through my head.

"Do you want to fuck me?"

I grunted involuntarily. "Yes." She smiled, pleased that I too had yielded instantly to her whims. She took my wrist and took me to a fairy land bedroom. Pink everywhere. Frilly this, frou-frou that. She pushed me onto the bed unexpectedly. I fell backwards. She moved to mount me.

"Now," she said. "Let's see it."

She unzipped my pants. Her thumbs expertly hooked over elastic before she pulled down everything roughly and suddenly I was exposed. The cold, the confusion, the shock, the anxiety: all of it added up to a fairly modest semi erection on my part. "Hmm," she said. "It's big, but not as big as I heard." She lightly tapped her cheek with a finger.

"Take your clothes off," she said. I took off my shirt, while she shed clothing as if it was never there. Soon she was naked. And she looked very, very good naked. I felt the dragon grumbling in its slumber. Pointing at the corner of the bed, she said "Sit there." She took a cushion from her desk chair and threw it on the ground, then kneeled on it smoothly. Without a word she opened her mouth and began to slurp my still-rubbery cock into it. She expertly pulled in more and more with her lips until it was mostly gone. She locked eyes with me, clearly amused at my shock. But then she frowned and her eyes snapped back to my cock.

The dragon had been summoned.

"Oh," I said casually. "Not as big as you heard, is it?"

I felt the hot tingle in my cock and blood rushed. It began extending and widening rapidly. She was shuffling back awkwardly every few seconds. After just a few seconds, her teeth began to dig into the top and bottom of it. She had begun to hyperventilate, only able to nostril-breathe, one whistling comically. With a panicked look in her eyes she reached and pulled on her teeth, trying to widen her jaw. "Owh," she said.

"What?"

She pointed at the cock frantically. "OWH!"

Ah. That's what she was saying. Caring only about my own comfort, I wriggled slowly out of her mouth. This was fortunate, because now, unbound by her teeth, the blood began to rush in like a flood, my dick surging and swelling. She leaned back and back as it grew towards her. "Holy fucking shit," she said, all her self-assured coolness now gone. She moved back. It kept growing. "Holy. Fucking. Shit."

She nervously placed a hand it, her attempt to hold it so obviously in vain. Cock spilled out obscenely between her fingers. Her other hand joined from the other side and only now could she barely encircle it. Precum flowed and began dripping steadily on her. She tried to lick it awkwardly, but she was clearly struggling to process the sudden destruction of all her certainties.

But I also saw in her eyes a spark of lust. And then it hit me.

If she had even given me a thought, it was that she didn't like me. I wasn't here because she wanted me. She just wanted the new stud horse to pay a visit to her stable. I was just going to be a fat juicy cock for her to enjoy and then discard. But the magnitude of my penis, the way my enormous testicles hung sternly below it, had thrown her way off balance.

I knew, with the certainty of polished steel, that I fucking hated her guts. For how I had just been a peon and only now was I worth her oh-so-precious time. From the occasional, highly precise, cruel putdowns that had come without warning or consequence. I hated her because without that stupefying cock I would still be classified as subhuman. But I had revealed that I was actually Priapus and now, by all the muses, I would punish her hubris.

I knew from her figure that I would never fit in her; now I didn't even want to. But I knew she would let me cum on her, because the contents of her modestly-dimensioned brain pan had not yet begun to derive the consequences of those massive tanks of sperm dangling purposefully beneath the awesome shaft.

I smiled. "I'm just going to serve myself, thanks."

She nodded, with slight confusion on her face.

I grasped the base with one hand, hoisting the cock, now throbbing, veins trying angrily to burst through the skin, toward her face. "I need some lubricant." She snapped to recognition and began desperately shoving her hand around a drawer she opened, eyes still locked on the long, wide avenue of cock that stretched endlessly away from her. "Here," she said, pressing a lotion into my hands. "Here," she repeated, a little more urgently.

It was scented -- rose -- and it was at first cold to the touch. It warmed quickly on the stove-hot cockmeat. Still supporting the base with one hand, with the other I began to stroke. Slowly at first, letting the steady drizzle of precum fall on her. I slowly dragged the head down her face, leaving a thick trail. The head of my cock first obscured her forehead, then her nose and mouth and chin were covered. Her eyes had comically followed the stately progress, trying to process the unintelligible vastness of just the head itself.

The tip of my cock I placed on her chin, precum steadily overflowing. Faster. Still smooth. Long strokes, strokes that required me to lean forward. Faster. Soon I felt it, I felt the gathering electricity.

"Get ready," I said. She nodded.

It was pointless warning her. She had no idea what was about to happen. She probably thought I'd have a few big squirts, a bit more than she usually saw, and that would be that. The white heat deep in my perineum began to burn. Some modest ropes, just scouts, shot out in short order, sliding around her chin to drip on her chest. In her eyes in sensed a small amount of relief and recognition. I was just an ordinary man after all.

The first real rope, the first of the unlimited spool of thick rope I knew lay inside of me, came so abruptly and with so much pressure that it didn't slide around her chin. Instead two pencil-thick streams of cum shot out from each side, landing on the pink bedspread. She jerked back, saying "What the h-," when the next rope arrived. Then the next. Each blast of cum stumbled over the last. I aimed loosely around her face. It didn't matter how well I aimed. There was so much cum it would cover everything anyway. I began to groan uncontrollably. I didn't give a fuck what she thought of me. She was just a cum canvas now. Just a drain.

"I'm going to drown you in cum, you dumb ignorant fucking slut," I said, my voice a deep baritone. She whimpered. "I hate your fucking guts, you vapid little cunt. I'm going to ruin you forever."

Where did these words come from? From my sudden disposal of pretending that I was civilized and reasonable and polite. I just wanted her to feel pathetic, ashamed, chastened. Myself? I felt exultant. I felt powerful. I felt vindicated. And these feelings drove what seemed like an endless flood of cum. Cum was soon everywhere. Cum on her face, on her chest. Her pink bedspread with the frilly lace top? Ruined irreparably, with cum drenching the expensive lacework. Her monogrammed pillows? Soaked with cum, the expensive fabric ruined forever. The carpet by the bed? It was beyond any cleaning and would need to be removed and replaced. Her desk, her cute handbag hanging on the chair, her poster of the little kitten hanging with the caption "hang in there!", none of these were spared my biblical deluge. And to be clear, dear reader, I wasn't directing cum onto the these things as petty vandalism. There was just a massive amount of cum. Some had sploshed off her, some were just misses when she moved to spare herself more of the onslaught, some fell off her in heavy slabs. But the cum covered her, and covered her precious things.

Oh god it felt so good to punish and humiliate this arrogant torturer with my limitless cum.

A geological aeon passed and finally the cum began to subside. "Give me your hand," I said. She did, and I wrapped it around the increasingly flaccid form of the beastly shaft. "Milk me, you vain little slut," I commanded, pushing the cock against her lips. Without a word she gingerly and silently she took in the tip, still milking, slowly easing the whole head into her mouth. It was a fraction of its fully erect size, but I could see her cheeks bulging on each side. I sensed thick, lazy cum pouring over her tongue, I felt her swallow multiple times, I felt her trying to find space for her tongue with this fleshy, obese monster crushing it underneath. At last, the last drop was drained. My testicles were still oversized but, to my own eyes, visibly depleted. I pulled my cock out.

I hadn't got a drop on me. Not a speck.

Her jaw hanging like she had passed out. I began to dress. She sat there, breathing heavily, whimpering. She wiped away cum from her eyes and stared at me without the slightest clue of what had just happened.

"Your room is a disgusting mess," I said, waving my hand casually. "Be a good little bitch and clean it up."

"O... OK," she said hesitantly. "I'm..."

"Yes?"

She looked down at the bed. Ounces of cum slid off her head and splatted noisily onto the cum already on her legs.

"I'm sorry, Oscar."

"Mm-hmm. I'm going. See you tomorrow."

And then I turned my back and left. In my mind I reviewed every microsecond of her drenching, every facial expression, however minute. I knew I had placed the final, eternal seal on her lust. No man, no star quarterback, no college dick-slinger, no frat bro megastar, no professional athlete, no internet studs, no male dancer, no porn star... nobody would ever be able to drench or terrify her so completely. She had barely touched me, I had not penetrated her, but she was branded forever with the knowledge of my utter, granitic sexual supremacy over her.

Ugh. It shouldn't feel so good to get revenge. It's supposed to be served cold, isn't it? Not by the hot bucketload? But... it felt incredible. She had taken me into her room to use me as a disposable sex toy, never expecting to become one herself. And now she knew the terrible reality that she would never be able to get this encounter out of her head, not for the rest of her life. Graduating, dating, getting married, giving birth, growing old, dying in a hospital bed, it didn't matter. I now possessed her for all the most important moments of her life. I would always be present in her mind, wake or sleep, cumming on her. She would feel indescribable shame and guilt and the knowledge that I had been granted the moral imperative of all creation to humiliate her.

And she would wish, deep in the part of her she'd struggle to suppress for the rest of her living days, that I would do it to her again. The next day, she disappeared.

But the smell of rose still reminds me of her shocked, cum-smothered face, and I every time I smell it, I smile.