Obsessed

You couldn’t stop. The Algorithm had won. Every notification, every idle scroll, every quiet moment at your desk funneled straight back to him—@xxxdickpants. His xHamster profile was your homepage now. You had it bookmarked on every device, incognito tabs stacked like dirty secrets. His videos played on loop while you worked, the volume low enough that only you could hear the soft slap of heavy meat against thigh, the low chuckle in his voice as he adjusted that monstrous bulge. Your own pathetic little nub twitched in sympathy, already leaking into your underwear at the mere thought of his latest upload.

That night you went deeper than ever. After another ice-water shrinkage session—your balls pulled up tight like frightened marbles, your four-inch hard-on reduced to a trembling button—you opened his notifications page on xHamster. The comments from other fans stared back at you, raw worship that made your stomach flip with envy and lust.

One read: “What a gorgeous thing! Holy God! I cannot stop gazing at this beautiful beautiful thing!!!”

Another: “This man certainly is an ALPHA!!! Holy fuckin' Jesus Christ!”

And the blunt one: “Nice dick fuck my wife.”

Your fingers hovered. Then you typed, heart hammering, cock leaking steadily as you hit send on your first direct message to him.

Your message:

“@xxxdickpants Sir… Holy fucking God. That new JOI video has me ruined. Your cock is a masterpiece. So thick, so heavy, swinging like it owns the room. I’m just a pathetic little-dicked loser staring at it for hours. I iced my worthless shrimp down to nothing just watching you. Please keep posting, King. I’m your devoted fan forever.”

You came the second you sent it, a weak spurt that barely reached your belly. The shame only made you harder for round two.

The Algorithm noticed. Your feed flooded with more of him—new pants shots, fresh videos, teasing close-ups of that fat, veiny monster stretching fabric to its limits. You refreshed his page obsessively, refreshing comments, liking everything. Every time a new video dropped, you dropped to your knees in front of the mirror, pants around your ankles, filming your own tiny contrast for your burner account while whispering praises to him.

Days blurred into a cock-worshipping haze. You bought tighter pants, the kind that clung mercilessly to your flat crotch, and recreated his signature shots—only yours highlighted absence. While he posted “Morning bulge check,” you posted “Morning shrinkage check – tried to match the King and failed spectacularly.” The comments on your burner fed the fire, but nothing compared to the rush of messaging him directly.

Another video from him: “Bouncy Dick” – that thick shaft bouncing heavily in slow motion, soft but already longer and fatter than you could ever dream of being hard. You typed immediately, fingers shaking:

Your message:

“Jesus Christ, Sir! That bouncy dick is perfection. The way it moves… so powerful, so alpha. I’ve watched it 50 times already. My tiny nub is leaking like a faucet just staring at it. You’re a God among men. I’d give anything to kneel in front of that beautiful cock and worship it properly. Please, more content. I’m addicted.”

You edged for hours afterward, denying yourself until you were a whimpering mess, only cumming when you imagined his heavy balls slapping your face while he laughed at your shrunken package.

Work became torture. You sat at your desk with one earbud in, playing his voice low—giving JOI commands you followed to the letter. “Stroke it slow… worship a real cock…” Your hand barely wrapped around your narrow shaft as you pretended it was his. During lunch you snuck to the bathroom, pulled up his latest xHamster upload on your phone, and jerked frantically while typing another message:

Your message:

“Alpha King @xxxdickpants – that new compilation has me on my knees. Your dick is so superior. Thick, veiny, perfect head flaring out like it was made to stretch holes. My pathetic little four-incher looks like a sad little boy’s next to it. I’m such a slut for you now. The Algorithm showed me true perfection and I can’t go back. Fuck my wife? Hell, I’d hold her legs open for you while you ruin her with that monster and make me clean up every drop. I’m yours.”

The replies from other fans only amplified it. You studied them like scripture, copying the energy, the desperation, the total surrender. Every comment you left on his videos was pure slutty devotion:

“Gorgeous thing! Holy God I cannot stop staring at this beautiful cock!!”

“This man is THE ALPHA!!! Holy fuckin’ Jesus Christ what a dick!!”

“Nice dick Sir – please fuck anything you want, I’m just happy to witness it.”

Your burner account’s shrinking contrast series exploded. Followers begged for more ice play, more fruit comparisons (baby carrot for your hard length, grape for your post-ice nub), more narration where you admitted how @xxxdickpants had broken you. But the real thrill was the private messages you sent him after every video.

One night you went full ritual. You filled the bathtub with cold water and ice packs, submerged your entire lower half until your package was microscopic, then set up your phone to record. While his latest video played on the TV—“Dick Pants Original Compilation”—you stroked your frozen shrimp and moaned his name.

After you came (a pathetic dribble that mixed with the icy water), you typed the longest message yet:

Your message:

“@xxxdickpants Master, I’m completely obsessed. Ever since the Algorithm pushed your profile onto my screen I’ve been a changed man. Your cock is everything I’m not—huge, confident, dominant, beautiful. I spend hours every day worshipping it. I shrink my tiny useless dick in ice water while watching you swing that fat pipe. I compare it to fruits and rulers and my hand and always lose. I’m such a slut for you. I’d do anything. Comment on your posts like the desperate fan I am, film my humiliations, send you tribute videos of me leaking in pants that can’t even pretend to have a bulge. Please notice me, King. Let me be your smallest, most pathetic admirer. Holy God your dick is perfect. I cannot stop gazing at it. You are the ultimate Alpha.”

You attached a short clip: your shrunken package next to a printed screenshot of his soft cock for scale. The difference was laughable. Humiliating. Perfect.

The Algorithm kept feeding you. More chapters in your life opened—work pants that you wore while secretly edging to his photos, gym sessions where you wore loose shorts and hoped someone would notice how flat you were compared to the memory of him. Evenings were for deep dives into his entire catalog, pausing on every frame of that heavy, low-hanging sack and thick shaft, jerking yourself raw while whispering fresh praises.

You started replying to his every upload within minutes, copying the energy of his other fans but making it personal, more desperate, more broken:

“Sir that new pants shot… the fabric is fighting for its life around your massive dick. I’m so hard (or as hard as my little thing gets) just looking. You’re a fucking God.”

“Alpha energy off the charts!!! I’d let you slap my face with that beautiful cock while my wife watches and laughs at how small I am.”

Your own content evolved too. You posted daily “DickPants Tribute” videos—ice shrinks, ruler comparisons (always showing how his soft measurements destroyed your best efforts), voice notes of you moaning his handle while cumming. The comments on your burner called you hopeless, addicted, ruined. You loved it.

Weeks in, the obsession consumed your identity. Your apartment was littered with printed screenshots of his cock. Your search history was 90% his name. Every pair of pants reminded you of him. Every notification ping made your tiny balls tighten with anticipation. You were no longer trying to emulate him—you were his shadow, his opposite, his eager little-dicked worshipper broadcasting your descent for anyone who wanted to watch.

One quiet evening, another new video dropped. You dropped everything, pants already around your ankles, ice bowl ready. As his thick cock filled the screen again, you typed with one hand, the other frantically stroking your leaking nub:

Your message:

“Master @xxxdickpants… another masterpiece. That cock owns me. I’m your slut now, completely. The Algorithm knew exactly what I needed. Thank you for being so superior, so alpha, so fucking perfect. I’ll keep shrinking, keep worshipping, keep leaking for you every single day. Holy God I love your big beautiful dick. Use me however you want.”

You hit send, then came harder than you had in weeks, whispering his name like a prayer while the Algorithm smiled in the background, pushing you even deeper down the rabbit hole.

The frenzy had no end in sight. And you didn’t want it to.