A little chemical help
Surely, black-market drugs are not so bad?
Kinktober Day 2: Coming Untouched
A little chemical help
Surely, black-market drugs are not so bad?
Kinktober Day 2 – Kink: Coming Untouched
“You better not mess with me.”
“Why would I? I’m setting up a regular clientele.”
“Tsk. Take your credits and get out. I don’t want to see you again.”
“A pleasure doing business with you.”
The twitchy, red-skinned Salarian stepped out of the office with a controlled gait. There was no doubt to that guy he’d return. And that kind of cockiness was getting on Dranoch’s nerves. The old Krogan huffed, checking the one-use injector filled with that green goo.
All around the block, people were talking about how that drug was great: improving fertility, boosting your immune system, fixing up hearts troubles, boosting the quads, increased libido, all and all.
The liquid glowed when Dranoch shook it, watching the green volutes swirl and coalesce before the murky color returned. The Krogan huffed. He was a scientist, or so he’d gotten a diploma, so he had enough in his skull to doubt everything that was said.
But when even his coworkers were praising the drug like it could give them a quint or the Asari’s biotics or some other shit, it made him curious.
Not everyone could be wrong, no?
“Shit. Here we go,” mumbled Dranoch as he slipped down his pants and sat in his office chair. The blinds were down, the door was locked, and the light was dim. The air was stale with hints of cigars, the brand he loved to smoke.
The cabinets and desk were pristine and orderly, well-maintained. The sole shadow was the Krogan, his pants down, and looking at his genitals.
Quad balls in a unique scrotum, the leathery gray perfectly fitting with the almost dull color that was Dranoch’s armor. The skin was sweaty after he’d been wearing pants the whole day. And his cock? Fuck, his big mace of a cock was at rest, flopping around with each movement. He was not hard; he was not like those pups strutting around with their wild libidos and smelling like they’d be cumming in a sec.
No, Dranoch was a wise Krog’ who knew better than to do stupid shit and get C-Sec on his back. Or so, he thought as he had the injector pointed to his groin.
“Shit. Here we go. Aralakh might fuck me,” growled Dranoch when he pressed the injector against his lower belly.
The needle popped up, pierced his scales, and the Krogan huffed. The product was going in, running inside his groin like cold, icy water. It ran along his veins, into his guts, around his bladder, his kidneys… But more so along his prostate and testicles, eliciting him to huff and drop in his chair.
“Five to ten minutes, huh,” said the old Krogan, eyeing the now-empty injector. He could throw it, but he spun it between his fingers as he eyed the ceiling above. What led him to do that? It couldn’t do anything. It was stupid to do that shit for an old Krogan like him. It had to be a scam.
“Yeah, thought so,” he mumbled when he checked his omnitool and saw the ten-minute mark had passed. Nothing, not feeling much better, not feeling like his arthritis was fixed, nothing but-
“Kruban!”
Dranoch’s body twitched. His fingers, busy spinning the injector, tensed. The plastic tube dropped and rolled on the floor. The Krogan’s eyes started to unfocus as he felt what could be described as a shock going through his genitals.
Even then, that was but the first stage for the old Krogan, who was already losing his bearing, groaning, and huffing. One hand managed to land on his armchair and clench onto it.
But even the plastic broke when the second shot was fired inside his twinned nervous systems.
Usually, he’d be in pain or pleased from one sole nervous system, allowing him to keep control of himself and his body.
However, this time, it was twinned. Two sorts of feedback at once and no way to shut one down. Both parts were raging on, unleashing a torrent of hormones and nervous signals into his brain.
He gargled, he mumbled, he gasped. And he craned his neck, only to drop still on his chair that creaked and bore his heavy weight.
But it was… The beginning.
His legs twitched weakly, forced to spread as something happened to his genitals. His cock, soft and limp, had gotten stiff in a matter of seconds. But despite how much it leaked precum all over that bulbous cocktip, that pulled down foreskin, that wrinkled skin, Dranoch was not cumming.
No. Veins appeared and bulged on his cock, each throb shaking the whole penis as it seemed to get bigger. Already Dranoch could be considered at the upper end of Kroganhood. But at that moment, his cock was a mast: massive, threatening, and downright awe-inspiring.
With each throb, it was like the organ itself was getting bigger, width-wise and length-wise. It was like the cock was unfolding as more blood rushed inside, guided by the rush of pleasure and hormones the old Krogan experienced.
“B-Bastard,” huffed Dranoch, managing to utter a word between his huffs and groans.
But cussing the Salarian out did not affect the sheer pleasure that invaded him. Nor the fact that those veins, bulging and getting bigger alongside the heartbeat, were spreading down. On his testicles, the four of them, and the protective organ that surrounded them. The pouch of flesh that fed and nourished those nuts was getting bigger, the veins evident under the leathery scrotum.
But the orbs themselves were getting bigger, and… Soon, the Krogan’s legs spread further.
His tongue lolled out as he could sense the rush of hormones pumped right from his squad coming to his brain. Bloodlust, or an equivalent. Any old Krogan should notice it and be able to push back against it.
Not at that moment, not when Dranoch’s quivers steadily turned into humpings.
He humped the air. He humped nothing. He humped in frustration.
His cocktip burned like a fire, an infernal blaze that was all over the sensitive flesh and spreading down. Even the mere breeze from the ventilation made the Krogan feel his cock was afire. And he wanted… To cum.
But his hands? One hand was clutching the chair’s side, another the crushed armchair.
His mouth? He was no human with removed ribs; he couldn’t do that, even with a modified frontal plate.
Remained then the faint pleasure he could squeeze… by squeezing his thighs on his oversized testicles. Oh, it felt good. Extremely so. The mere squeeze sent Dranoch spiraling into an apathetic pleasure, his eyes rolling and his mouth opening.
Hot steam escaped his lips, his tongue even lolled out after he’d tried to lick said lips.
His cock was practically a third bigger than it was before, making it almost obscene to peer at. No clothes could contain it anymore, and the sheer erection made Dranoch feel light-headed.
But the old Krogan remained smiling while he sensed the pulse, the shocks, the waves of hormones, growing bigger. Did he brace himself? No. Did he fight against the sensation? No.
Did he try to lessen the hit?
Not at all.
One instant, the Krogan felt his thighs squeeze on their own. And less than a microsecond later, he sensed that orgasm finally hit him.
He saw in the corner of his eye the massive shot, white and steamy and sticky, ascend through the air like a geyser. He saw how the fluid, as dense as it was, was pushed with enough pressure that it hit the fake ceiling and splashed on it.
He observed how the shot was, but the first and another, similar, followed when his legs squeezed on his oversized nuts once more.
He was entirely aware of it, as much as he was lost to the sudden and brutal pleasure that crushed his mind and thoughts. He was no longer experiencing pleasure; he was that pleasure. He’d been swallowed, devoured, gulped whole.
And then, spit back.
Minutes? Yes. Ten minutes later. That’s what he looked at when he checked his omnitool.
It felt like something had swallowed him, tried to chew him, and then spat him back.
His body was sore, from the tip of the toes to the top of his crest.
But he felt… great.
His cock was still shooting, though the shots were weak and closer to little spurts. His nuts were still weakly clenched by the protective folds. But… Himself, his whole office, was painted in white. That cum was everywhere, sticking to the folders, to the ceiling, to his crest, to his face, brows, lips, chin. Even on his clothes, he’d recently gotten from the pressing.
He was painted, dirty, covered with musk.
But his hand darted down, checking his enormous cock he got staying stiff and needy. He grazed his balls that had swollen from the cum now stored inside.
He checked his omnitool, ready to send one message: “got more?”
That damn Salarian was right, he had another regular.