Cum

The purposeful brushes of her crop along Alasdair's throbbing cock drove him insane. Her unrelenting determination obliged her the responsibility of disannulling his laddish manhood. She had ridiculed and demeaned him, taking control of his judgement. She had bust his balls—thankfully more figurately than literally—then restrained him, taking control of his physicality. Now she wrestles control over his dick, his sexuality, the basis of his masculinity he, to a certain extent, never commanded. Cumming was not only a stopgap for his incandescent fancies. Spaffing his thick load by Martina's hands would despair him.

He raced through combative solutions for his desire, knowing he would need a substantial foil to counter the reflex he trained since discovering masturbation. Both his lungs and heart marathoned while he sustained his anxiety. Though the brawny man sought to ease his abdabs with moderated breaths. Alasdair closed his eyes, noting his haggard breathing worsening as the radiated pleasure tightened his balls. Gently, he inhaled and maintained his breath, feeling a slight discomfort while his chest and stomach expanded, combatting the conflicting sensual desires. Upon exhaling, calmness laden his core. By the fifth breath, Martina's degrading commentary held no leverage over his self-indulgent vices. And by the tenth breath, the pulsating tension dimmed to a modest nestle comprising her flat spade neighbouring his manhood.

But only for a moment.

He jolted upwards, a dullness flooding his limbs upon pulling from the restraints. He opened his eyes, finding Martina's fist grasping his cock. His erection jerked in her soft hands while she stroked his shaft.

"You little schemer," she laughed, "all you henches are the same."

Her fingers skimmed his abdomen, causing him to jolt.

"Let it go, Alasdair. Staving off the inevitable is pointless."

Heat grazed his face and prick, her glares both pestering and worsening his edge. Martina strokes hastened, her soft palms making his stomach flitter. Each sudden brush against his swollen balls thwarted his attempts at re-focusing his thoughts. His breathing exercise became a battle, with each intake of air falling short. She looped around his glans, her therapeutic fingers meeting each time at the apex of his sensitive head. The brawny man took in a swift breath, the renewed sensation raising a tingle in his chest. Again, his penis dribbled, then streamed, his clear, viscid pre-ejaculate, lubricating his shaft and sharpening his pleasure.

Martina laboured on without distraction; eying him rather than his erection. The corners of her mouth curled at Alasdair's foolish simper. He gripped the mattress as the sensual pressure rose, pitting his balls at the base of his flared cock. He streamed more and more fluid, autonomously bucking his hips upwards through Martina's moistening grip, aiding her in his accession towards ejaculatory inevitability.

"Last words," she questioned, a sultry tone in her voice.

"Please…please Martina…don't do…Unngh!"

Her delicate handiwork upsurge the delectation heaped at his sac, the tensed muscles of his erection spurting his thick white milt with each passing second. Martina flinched away from the thunderous eruption, her mouth falling open upon Alasdair letting fly a rope of semen, so high it struck the ceiling with a dull, but heavy clip.

The burly man groaned aloud as he continued shooting ropes after ropes of cum into the air; his inability to handle his shaft allowing his juices to toss about everywhere: his face and hair, the window, the mirror, even the lights. Fatigue annexed him, a calm taking over, settling his pounding heart and gasps with each pressured **** ousted from his softening dick. He swore beneath his breath, at last placated of his sexual tension. Sadly, this short-lived tranquil broke into Martina's clamorous laughter and applause, shrilling his ears.

"Impressive. What you lack in size and stamina, you make up in volume and spectacle," she walked away, shaking her head while her amusement faded into brief chuckles, "you won't get a lady off, but at least you could treat her with drollery."

"Fuck…you!"

She gussied herself before a mirror, her hilarity returning with each auditable swear Alasdair muttered beneath his breath. Once satisfied, Martina wagged her fingers at the beta pup, only to stop and stare at his groin. After his Herculean climax, Alasdair's flaccid penis appeared smaller than his first unveiling, lost in the hairs of his pubes and the skin around his elephantine balls. The man glowered at her lopsided grin, turning his body over as much as possible to conceal his shame.

"Let me out!"

"No," her hands on her hips, her amusement fading. "You act like a child; you get punished like one."

"Let me out! Don't you dare leave!" Alasdair shouted, but Martina had already strutted towards the entrance; her exit.

"See you in the office, Mr Myers." And with that, she left. Not bothering to close the door.

"Get back here, Martina! Get your ass back here!"

With might and main, Alasdair yanked against the restraints and paddled the bed with his frame, relentless vilification of Martina snapping away from his mouth. Though at a certain point, there was only so many swears and affronts he could propagate ahead of losing purpose. Long gone was his target, marooning painful spasms in his muscles after several minutes rampaging counter his predicament. The needle-like prickles ate at his strength, leaving unrigged his coalition among his upper and lower limbs.

"Fuck you, Martina!"

"W-What is that?" questioned a shy, feminine voice.

"I think it's coming from that room," answered a stronger, honeyed tone.

Two women poked their heads inside, their faces wrinkling upon seeing the stark-naked and cum-coated Alasdair Myers tied to the bed. His cock twitched upon noticing the full-breasted, curvaceous women's attention on him and his manhood. His entire body flushed, but attempting to bely his nudity proved both unsuccessful and hollow.

The women entered the room, speaking amongst one another, meanwhile skulking from Alasdair's sight behind a larger piece of furniture. His enormous body sparked sharp jitters, his dick twitching once more at the thought of two voyeurs watching him. His heart pounded at his chest as he listened to them.

"Oh my god, he's big," spoke the shy woman. "He's even bigger than Kevin."

"I would hope so. The slob doesn’t look like he packs an inchworm," spoke the snickering honeyed voice.

"Stop it—" almost shouted the shy woman, before clearing her throat. Honeyed snickered even more, though her jocularity wavered with a sudden thump, coupled with the harsh rubbing at one's skin.

"Stop," she continued; softer. "I meant his body size, not his…ugh…not that he's small."

"Oh please. Most newborns have willies bigger than Spartacus over there. You should tell Arnold that hope might be lost."

Great…

While he tried reminding himself this was just a simulation, another play at his mental state, the women's remarks struck him. He was in his mid-thirties, yet his penis compared more to an infant than an adult, still his mere nub had seen better days. Stinging pain discharged his back, arms and thighs, his anxiety returning. Though that was not all. Despite his anger. Despite his frustration, their demeaning words tautened his balls and shaft. He groaned, his cock twitching again with his flared carnal craving. Sweat perspired from his temple, knowing his rampant hormones will allow the inevitable. Though he did not have time to ponder that circumstance, his body jerking to attention after hearing three rapid clicks of a camera.

"Please leave my brother out of this," spoke the shy woman. "Also delete those pictures!"

"Nope!" responded the honeyed voice. There was pause before she fell into laughter. "Look how hard he's getting. You think he's turned on?"

His erection returned, the brisk flow of blood expanding his cock upwards onto his chest. While not hard like before, his manhood darkened in similar fashion, so soon back to work. Pre-cum pooled at the tip of his swollen glans, the initial contractions of his hard-on now subtle quavers that drummed down his thighs and up his abdomen. Alasdair clinched his toes and fingers, a heaviness weighing at his trunk with each inward laugh by Honeyed.

"Hey little guy. Are you enjoying this?!"

The shy woman groaned.

"Aww little guy. Are you shy? We won't bite. I mean, there's not much to bite anyway—Ow!"

"Stop it! There's no reason to talk like that. Besides, he's not small."

"You are such a liar! You just called him small."

"Yes…but that was because he was soft…I mean…"

There was a pause, making Honeyed giggle.

"Just admit it, even now that he is rock hard this is the smallest you've seen."

Shy maintained her silence, worsening the conflating quavers throughout Alasdair. While he feared for her answer, a part of him kindled from anticipation. That part, despite his better judgement, desired it. While not "rock hard" per Honeyed's words, each pester from her to Shy inched him closer towards that state. Tears welled in his eyes amid Shy's gasps when after several pesters, his granite shaft poised for scrutiny.

"C'mon. Are you saying that Kevin's dick is smaller? Or teenage Arnold?"

"Kevin and Arnold are not huge, but they are not…"

Honeyed laughed.

"What are you trying to say?"

Torridity overfilled his core, rising to his neck. He shrunk into the mattress, the sounds around him fading into silence. He only sought her next words. How did the young, kind woman feel about his raging hard-on?

"Okay!" Shy yelled, no longer caring to uphold their secrecy.

Her voice was strained and shaking, fragments escaping her until she realised she only made herself seem foolish. She groaned aloud.

"H-He is the smallest I've ever seen! Are you happy?!"

And there it was. Her honest answer. The one he both expected and regretted. Shame stabbed at him, but his bubbling desire overflowed. The stranger that spoke on behalf of him, defended him from her friend, hid the same sentiments society held.

"I wouldn't say that," answered Honeyed. "But I'm surprised Ms Goody-Two Shoes cares about size."

Shy grunted, marching out the room. Honeyed laughed, taking one last photo before chasing after her friend.

"You heard it for yourself little guy. Even good girls don't want short-dick men."

Her giggles rattled his mind, long after she locked the door and turned off the lights, leaving Alasdair in the darkened room.

She was right. Women yearned for a man that could give them pleasure. That could make them climax. They say size doesn't matter. That how you use it is more important than what you have, yet such talk only pacified self-doubting voices. When it comes down to it, would a woman truly accept a guy whose cock could not afford them ecstasy? How small is too small?

Before a dick lacked purpose.

Before it turned into a pointless asset.

What is a man without a mighty shaft that commemorated his masculinity?

He sighed, giving attention to his deep introspections during which his vacant stares traced the darkness.

Was he truly a man?