Kota trudged back up the stairs, each step sending fresh jolts of agony through his groin like someone had replaced his balls with two red-hot coals wrapped in barbed wire. The pain wasn't even from the fucking anymore that had faded hours ago into a dull, background throb. No, this was something worse, something deeper, something that made his stomach twist and his vision blur at the edges.
His balls were already full again.
So full it felt like they were going to burst through the skin. The production rate was superfast, not normal at all, like his body had flipped a switch and turned his sack into a nonstop cum factory that didn't care about rest, recovery, or the fact that he had already drained himself dry twenty times in the last six hours.
Every heartbeat sent another surge of pressure down there, the heavy orbs swelling tighter, hotter, the skin stretched shiny and taut like overfilled water balloons ready to pop. Sweat poured down his back, soaking the black hoodie until it clung to his spine like a second, suffocating layer. His cargo pants felt too tight in the crotch, the fabric rubbing against the sensitive, swollen sac with every miserable step, chafing the already-raw skin until he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from whimpering out loud in the empty stairwell.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed louder than usual, or maybe it was just the blood pounding in his ears.
He reached the apartment door, fumbled with the key, and practically fell inside, the cool air of the living room hitting his flushed face like a slap. He didn't even make it to his room.
The bathroom was closer. He staggered through the doorway, slamming the door shut behind him with his shoulder, and yanked his pants down in one frantic motion. His cock sprang free, already half-hard again despite everything, the thick length bobbing heavily as his balls swung low and full, visibly pulsing with the unnatural pressure building inside them.
He wrapped both hands around the shaft, the new girth making his fingers barely meet — and started stroking rapidly, desperately, the dry friction burning at first until pre-cum leaked out in thick, steady beads to slick the way.
Schlick-schlick-schlick.
The wet sounds filled the small tiled space immediately, echoing off the mirror and the shower curtain as he pumped faster, hips jerking forward into his own fist. He came hard within thirty seconds, thick ropes splattering the sink and the mirror in messy white arcs, but the relief lasted less than ten heartbeats. The ache roared back stronger, the balls already refilling, swelling tighter, hotter, heavier.
"Fuck—fuck—fuckkkkkkkkkk," he gasped, voice cracking as he kept stroking, faster now, the second orgasm ripping through him with a choked moan that fogged the mirror even more. Cum sprayed again, this time hitting the faucet and dripping down the porcelain in long, pearly strings, but the pain didn't stop.
It only grew.
He came again, and again, each load weaker in volume but no less desperate, his knees buckling as he braced one hand on the sink counter to stay upright.
The bathroom smelled like musk and bleach and fresh cum, the floor tiles growing slippery under his sneakers from the overflow that missed the sink entirely.
He needed to cum NOW. Like NOWWWWWW.
If he didn't, he felt like he would die without cumming, the pressure building into something sharp and terrifying that made his vision tunnel and his breath come in short, panicked gasps. His hand flew over his cock in a blur, the wet schlick-schlick-schlick turning into a frantic rhythm that made his wrist ache, but the orgasms kept coming without truly emptying him.
Six hours later, Kota was curled up in a ball on the cold bathroom floor, the tiles pressing icy lines into his bare skin where his pants and boxers lay discarded in a crumpled heap. He had come almost twenty times in that endless loop, each one leaving him gasping and twitching, but the aching wouldn't stop.
His balls felt so empty it sounded like a joke, but it wasn't, it was pure agony, the sac hanging loose and sore yet still producing more, the skin stretched and shiny, every tiny movement sending electric jolts of pain straight up his spine.
Tears streamed down his face, hot and silent at first, then turning into full, broken sobs that echoed off the walls as he rocked himself on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins like he could physically hold himself together.
The front door opened somewhere in the apartment, the familiar jingle of Khalil's keys cutting through the quiet. Heavy boots thudded down the hallway, then paused outside the bathroom door. "Kota? You in there?" Khalil's voice was gruff but concerned, the knob turning before Kota could answer. The door swung open and Khalil stepped in, freezing mid-step at the sight of his son curled naked on the floor, face wet with tears, body shaking with silent sobs
. "Dad… MY BALLLLLLLLLS," Kota whimpered, voice cracking into another sob as he rocked harder, the words spilling out in a broken, desperate wail.
Khalil's face went pale, then tight with worry. He dropped to one knee instantly, big hand hovering before gently resting on Kota's shoulder. "What the hell happened? Talk to me, son."
(Dramatic zoom to Kota's face)
Fast forward to the hospital.
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in that endless, headache-inducing hum that made every second feel longer.
Kota sat on the stiff plastic chair, fully clothed now in the same baggy cargo pants and black hoodie, but the fabric still felt too tight against his groin, the constant ache radiating outward like a bruise that refused to heal.
Khalil sat beside him, one big hand resting on Kota's knee, thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles even though his jaw was clenched tight with unspoken worry.
The doctor finally called them in, the examination room small and brightly lit, the paper sheet on the table crinkling as Kota sat down.
The doctor was, like always, a hot big-assed femboy.
He had a beauty mark right on top of his lips, wore thin wire-frame glasses that sat perfectly on his nose, and had a green bob cut that framed his sharp jawline and made his dark eyes pop behind the lenses. His white coat hung open over a tight button-up that strained across his chest, the fabric pulling taut over the dramatic flare of his hips and the massive, shelf-like ass that swayed with every step he took across the room. He clicked his pen once, twice, the sound sharp in the quiet space as he wrote something down on the clipboard, then set the book aside and sat across from Kota and Khalil, legs crossing in a way that made his ass spread noticeably against the chair.
"Kota has the worst case of sporadic hypersperma I've ever seen," the doctor said calmly, voice smooth and clinical, though his eyes flicked briefly to the front of Kota's pants with a flicker of professional curiosity. "Essentially, his body uses most of the energy that is usually reserved for storing fat and redirects it entirely toward building cum. There won't be any cure other than… castration."
Kota's jaw dropped and his heart sank.