No, thank you.

Marcus awakes abruptly. He's still at his desk; papers are spread out around him. Everything is hazy. He remembers having some really crazy dreams last night, but the more he tries to remember the details the fuzzier they get. His open laptop is sitting on the desk next to him; there's a bit of drool by the keyboard from where he fell asleep on it. He's still logged in to his bank's website. A big fat zero sits to the right of the words "Account Balance," and Marcus feels his stomach drop.

That has to be mistake, he thinks. As he wonders whether he should call the bank to find out what's going on, he runs his hand over his smooth, bare torso. His fingers graze his side and the feeling sends shivers down his spine. His cock throbs, boned to the max with what seems to be a worse than usual case of morning wood. He notices a big spot of pre soaking through the crotch of his pajama pants and he rubs his engorged dong softly through the fabric.

Okay, call the bank later. He's too horny to focus right now. He leans back in his chair and pulls down his pants. His cock swings free immediately and slaps up against his slim torso. As he sits, idly rubbing his cock, he thinks to himself that it seems a little bigger than usual. Like, a full inch bigger. Weird.

And hot.

He strokes himself faster and plays with his sensitive nipples, imagining his cock continuing to grow. More precum oozes out, spurting even. Soon his whole hand is coated in slippery clear goo--the perfect lube.

It doesn't take long until orgasm takes over, and Marcus's swollen, red cock swells even bigger shooting a thick rope of cum up and painting his face.

"Oh, fuck yes!" He moans as another squirt sprays over his chest and abs. There's so much it runs down his skin and drips to the floor. The rhythmic spasming of his cock doesn't stop there, though, and with every lurch of his turgid member another stream of cum shoots up. A few ropes fly up into his hair and over his shoulders. More paint his face. Marcus shoots for another full minute, the pleasure of every new wave of orgasm exceeding the last. By the end of it, Marcus lays panting on the floor. The wall behind him is coated with spunk, and some even drips from the ceiling overhead.

He marvels at the amount of thick spooge he's produced. It's at least a half gallon's worth--maybe even more.

What's going on? He wonders.