FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The first thing Chris noticed when he woke up was a terrible burning sensation across his manhood, like someone had poured a vat of bleach on it and left it to simmer. Once he came to his senses and recollected yesterday's traumas, he realized that it wasn't too far from the truth. Splayed across the bed on his back, he craned his head up to look down at himself. Beyond a red-hairy range of chest and belly he saw his penis flopped over on its side across his pelvis, shriveled back into his foreskin. His scrotum was shrunken, forming a texture like a brain. The skin was red and puffy, blanketed by a thin crust of dried precum and semen. More of it was dotted on his stomach and chest, clumping several of his hairs together into twisted clots. A perfectly shaped region of inflamed skin marked where those cursed tighty whities had clung to his waist, forbidding him from cumming and trapping almost every drop of precum that he had bled throughout the day. They were currently pulled down around his thighs, having turned a sickly yellow color.

His pale freckled face contorted with a sob. He slumped his head back down to the bed and covered his eyes with his hands. The torture of having his bodily autonomy robbed from him plagued his psyche. The laughter, curses, and chides echoed freely. His final snapping and descent into psychosis was a humiliation he couldn't bear, even if no one else witnessed it. Worst of it all was how many people had seen his nudity. Images of him jogging through the park with his ogrish erection pressed into his soggy underwear and his forced confession of how big his cock was on live TV was circulating everywhere. Who knew how many people saw and shared the image of his cock when he posted it online. Everyone knew it, both across the city and on the internet: Chris was a sex freak.

What could he do about it? For now all he could do was weep for several more minutes, staining the sheets next to his head with the tears flowing from his eyes. There was absolutely no shame in it, but lying there and crying forever wasn't going to help anything. He had to get the word out that he had truly lost his mind and that nothing he had done or said was within his control. Surely some people would believe him. He wiped the tears from his eyes and sniffled. He got up from the bed and took off the cursed underwear, deciding that he would burn it on the end of a stick that night. A long, hot shower got rid of most of the filth accumulated across his crotch. A liberal amount of lotion was applied to his entire pelvis region, dying down a great deal of the inflammation, though not ridding it entirely.

Now he had to check how bad the damage was online. His phone was discarded on the bedroom floor where he had left it last night. Taking a deep breath, he drew the phone from the pocket and clicked it on. Unsurprisingly, he was flooded with messages. +99 new notifications, it said. It was evenly divided between those from his text messages, email, and Twitter. This was gonna suck. He swiped his phone open and went to the text messages first. His mother's chat was at the top, the last one pleading him to call her back. He opened it and scrolled to the first message he got from her yesterday.

Mom: Chris! I thought i saw you on the news! You looked naked! Are you ok? Call me.

Mom: Call me

Mom: Sweety r u ok? Please call me.

More of the same after that. Then came 11 o'clock, when Chris made his announcement about how huge his cock was.

Mom: OH MY GOD CHRIS WHAT DID YOU DO? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND

Mom: Chris please baby call your mother your father is very upset were not mad just worried call your mother please we love you.

Chris' heart plummeted with each following text, each one a plea for his response. He hit the call button. She answered before the first ring was even done. “Chris! Oh my God, sweety!" He could hear the tears in her voice. “What happened?"

With a crackling voice, Chris tried to explain. He knew talking about the witch would just make him sound crazier than he already seemed, so he just told her that he thought a woman drugged him and made him lose his mind. He assured her that he was OK, and that he would alert the authorities to the woman, if they weren't after her already. He sorely doubted that they were, not to mention that he figured the police were after him given the amount of notoriety he'd stacked on himself. He told her he loved her, and she told him the same. He talked to his dad and relayed the story to him too. His dad told him to be safe and to tell the police everything. Chris said he would, knowing damn well that if he did he would be thrown into an asylum.

Once he hung up he checked his emails. They were from friends and coworkers asking what the hell was wrong with him and what had happened. Reactions were mixed between dire concern and venomous admonishment. He couldn't respond to them all, so he sent a mass email to those expressing support to confirm that he was out of the funk and doing OK. Lastly he checked social media. Predictably, it was an absolute shitshow. His face was everywhere. Memes were sprouting. He was being compared to Jason Russel. It was too much. He shut his phone off and set it aside. His face fell in his hands so that he could contemplate all of it and formulate a course of action. He could go to the police, but what would they do? Lock him up and throw away the key? He wouldn't last a day in jail, especially after what he had done. Go and try to get his job back? No station in the country would want him showing his face. Defend himself on social media? He knew how rabid folk could be. There wasn't a damn thing he could do to make himself look better.

So what now?

His hands fell from his face as he sighed. As he recalled yesterday's events, he remembered who was the cause of all this misery. That witch and her damned house in the middle of the forest. If he hadn't gotten that assignment to investigate then none of this would've ever happened. He had to go see her again and make her set things right. While everyone was mocking and laughing at him, there wasn't a chance for him to live a normal life again. That witch had to be the one to put a stop to it. With revenge simmering in his chest he shot up from his bed and got dressed. He wore a cap over his head and shaved his face to help conceal his identity better. Getting locked up before being able to set things right wasn't a good idea.

He marched out of his house to his car, hands in his pocket and his head slung low. He got in and drove to the outskirts of town by the forest where he had begun his trek to the witch's house. He didn't hesitate. Getting out of his car, he slammed the door behind him and marched straight into the wilderness, not bothering to admire the sunny landscape around him. He was on a mission: find that bitch and get her to fix everything. A half hour of arduous hiking and Chris finally broke into the clearing where the Witch's house waited for him. It stood there right where he had left it, just as out of place and serene, belying the terrible evil it harbored inside of it.

Gathering his courage, Chris charged forward to the front picket gate and burst through. He stomped up the porch, grabbed the handle, and flew it open. Like last time, there was nobody there, nothing but an oddly still replica of a home straight out of the 13th century. The air was dry, stale, devoid of the faintest breezes. Amidst a beam of golden light pouring through the window there wasn't so much as a single dust mote. The place looked dead.

Chris knew better. He stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him. Double-checking that there was nobody around, he spoke. “Hello. I know you're here." His voice did not echo. It sounded like the atmosphere gobbled it right where it left his mouth. It compounded that queer feeling of being in a void, a place completely without sense or stimulation. “I wanna talk. It's me, the guy you cursed with that underwear." He waited for a response or a sudden gust of air like he had felt when he forced the clock to start. That's what reminded him. He looked to his right at the fireplace. On it were some familiar knick knacks. The clock was there, arms frozen like he had found it last time. He figured that it was best to leave it alone.

“Hellooooooooooooooo." He walked further inside. “Come on. I know you're here watching me. I don't wanna fight. Just talk, I swear." His eyes darted around. He looked at the staircase on his left, hoping for a glimpse of the witch's face peeking from the top floor. He saw nothing. “You cursed me pretty good, made me humiliate myself on TV. I edged about a million times. Now everyone knows how big my dick is." If that came off as a boast, it certainly wasn't. “I gotta say, I learned my lesson. I won't break anymore of your stuff. I just wanna talk and see if you can help me now."

Nobody showed up. The house remained quiet. There was no resumption of the wind or breath of life, just continued deprivation of the senses via pure quiet and fetid atmosphere. It pissed him off. His fists clenched next to his thighs hard enough to shake. “Come on. Please. Just help me out." He remained alone. His pale, freckled face turned red. “Alright. OK. Alright." Breath escalating, teeth gritting, he started to fume. “Don't wanna help me? That's fine. OK." He turned his head and saw the shelf full of knick knacks. He remembered what summoned her last time and charged over. His fist closed around the wooden clock and ripped it off the shelf. With his promise never to break her stuff again still lingering on his breath, he cocked his hand by his head, aimed at the hardwood floor, and chucked it as hard as he could.

[i]CLANG![/i]

The clock struck the floor on its side, bouncing off like a rubber tire rolled down a steep hill. It twirled across the room and bashed into the wall, ringing its bell even after it fell to the floor and clattered to a stop. He braced for the witch's return, breath snorting, heart pounding. She didn't come. He grabbed another item and dashed it against the floor. He grabbed another and destroyed it. Fragments of metal, glass, and porcelain blew out in every direction across the floor, each time to a devastatingly loud [i]BANG![/i] or [i]KRASH![/i] He picked up what looked like a small brass lockbox and launched it into the floor. It dented a floor board with a shrill ringing sound. The lid flew open and its contents came spilling out. Gears and pulverized glass were strewn out where it landed. Among the detritus was a lone figurine, dainty and pure. Chris squinted his eyes at it. It was a small dancer made of porcelain. It was broken in half at the waist, one part more than a foot away from the other. The top half was on its back, looking up at the ceiling and maintaining its pose. The legs were kicked apart mid-leap. It was a young girl wearing a pink tutu and dance shoes. With the scattered gears and broken platform inside of the box, Chris realized that he had just destroyed a music box.

Then the house came alive.

Air brushed his burning face. The dust floated into the light like a swarm of tiny bees. He heard the clock he had thrown start to tick all the way from where it sat on the floor face down. He looked up from the floor. There was the witch at the foot of the stairs, wearing that same white nightgown he had seen her in before. Her jet black hair did not placidly hang down her shoulders, but whipped around the back of her head like the tentacles of a sea monster. Her expression was of pure rage.

Chris wasn't afraid. He knew what to expect. He held his arms out. “Bring it. Do your fucking worst."

She didn't respond. She lifted that bony hand of hers and snapped her finger. Chris's eyes fluttered. He nodded only once before he fell to his knees and passed out cold.

[center]***[/center]

He woke up from his sleep with a sudden snap of the eyes. A gasp swirled into his lungs, inflating his chest and making him sit up. He was in his room, just like last time. A rapid pat down of his torso revealed that he was unhurt, but also that he had some added clothes courtesy of the witch. Strung around his waist and blooming out like the frill of a sunflower was a gay pink tutu. It was ruffled and translucent with a radius of about two feet. He pulled at it by the rim. As he expected, it only moved a few inches before the skin sticking to it held it in place. He lurched his head back and groaned. “Fuck. Now what is this thing going to make me do?"

He saw a watch around his wrist, different from the one he wore yesterday, or rather two days ago. It said that it was 7:50, as did the alarm clock on his nightstand. He looked out the window and saw bright morning light slanting down and glowing off the white window sill. This was around the same time he had woken up last time. Great. He slid off of the bed and stood to get a better look at the tutu. It looked cheap, more like a little girl would wear as a costume rather than a professional dancer. He gave it another tug and saw the skin of his waist rise with it. There was no point in trying harder. He knew the thing was stuck like glue.

Then his nose caught something in the air. He sniffed twice. It was musty and acrid like bleach. He recognized it immediately. He lifted the tutu in front of him and saw a matching pink pair of briefs slung around his waist, bulging with his penis. From one hip to the other it was absolutely soaked in precum. The fabric was see through, letting him see the faint color of his glans and foreskin. His enormous shaft was fully erect, slung over to the right and tenting his briefs to the fullest. It burned and chafed where it was stuck to his skin. He flexed his cock and saw a fat glob of precum ooze from his slit, further staining his overburdened underwear and adding to the horrific smell.

He was oddly numb to such an appalling sight. He was willing to bet his house that it too was completely glued to his skin. He checked his watch again. 7:53. If today was going to be anything like the other one, he was going to be jerking himself like crazy until he teetered on the absolute edge of climax. Hopefully that was everything he would be forced to do, but given the great destruction he had administered on the witch's house, he doubted this time would be so merciful. The tutu around his waist was a bad sign enough.

Until 8 rolled around, he could at least try and trim the tutu down. He rushed to his kitchen and pulled out a pair of meat scissors from a drawer. Pinching the rim of the tutu, he opened the blades around the fuzzy pink and closed it. Not so much as a single thread broke, instead sliding perfectly between the two closing blades. He cursed under his breath. “[i]Come on![/i]" He chewed the scissors a few more times with the same results. A glance at the watch showed that it was 7:55. He threw the scissors on the counter, clattering them off of the wall. He drew a steak knife from its block and very carefully tried stabbing it into the frill. Holding the edge of the tutu with the knife pointing down from the pommel of his fist he stabbed it. The fabric sunk beneath the razor tip, but once it went taut it stayed completely firm. “[i]Fuck![/i]" He pressed harder and harder until his fist shook, but the fabric would not break. Before he hurt himself he jammed the knife back into the block. He didn't think any of that would work, but it was worth a shot.

The time was 7:56. He went back to his bedroom. Pacing back and forth across the floor with his arms crossed in front of his chest, he mentally prepared himself for the hour to end. The colon on his alarm clock flashed on and off with each second. The 6 turned into a 7, the 7 an 8, the 8 a 9. He stopped his pacing and kept his eyes locked on those glowing red digits. All three digits flickered away into a new trio, 8, 0, and 0. Chris's alarm clock was a radio that was programmed to a classic rock station. It went off with to an Aerosmith song, Dream On. While that band had some bangers, everyone would agree, they never quite made anything that was dance material. That didn't matter to Chris or his tutu.

TIME TO DANCE!

Chris' right leg shot upwards to the side, forming a right angle with his left. His arm threw itself out in front of him, forming a slight curve at the elbow and wrist, facing his palm inwards at him. His other arm did the same over his head, forming a large C. None of that was under his control. His eyes went wide. He looked down at himself and saw his perfect pose. While Steven Tyler belted those famous lyrics, Chris began to pivot on the very apex of his big toe, swinging out his hairy leg into a twirl. The room spun around him slowly. The arm above his head fell down and touched tips with the other one. After two whole rotations the leg he stood on bent at the knee and launched him towards the bedroom door.

He hissed through his teeth, expecting to crash into the doorframe or break his ankle upon landing. Instead his outstretched leg swung forward and landed on the carpet floor. Without so much a bend of the ankle he came to a stop, applying every bit of his 220 pound weight onto one toe. Steven Tyler screamed. “[i]Dream until your dreams cooooooome true![/i]"

As he stood upright to strike another dancer's pose, he felt his underwear scrape across his penis. His teeth gritted as a heavy jolt of delight stabbed up his shaft and echoed throughout his loins. More precum seeped out. His two feet came to the floor and began tip-toeing rapidly. His body jiggled with each dainty step, including his swollen manhood. His face turned red as more chafes and jostles filled his cock with a pleasure like he was having sex. Pressure fell on his balls. A moan burst out of his mouth. “[i]Huhhhh! Fuck! Goddammit![/i]"

The song hit its climax. “[i]Dream ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-![/i]" Chris' dancing matched Tyler's pitch. He was flung down the hallway into his living room with an effeminate grace most unusual for a big, hairy man such as himself. His legs would split into a perfectly straight line with each leap. He stuck every landing perfectly with an added flourish of the arms. He twirled, spun, jumped, and kicked his way across the living room, all without fouling up a single move or bumping into a single piece of furniture.

For Chris it was agony. “[i]Hyuuuuhhhh! Oh God! Fuck! Dammit![/i]" he would grunt through teeth clamped shut. His penis bobbed and shook inside of his underwear. It jutted from his crotch proudly, as much a part of his garish presentation as the tutu was. He wasn't sure, but he thought this was the level of pleasure a woman felt when her clitoris was stimulated. He certainly acted that way, letting loose a delighted sigh or moan while delivering a performance even the harshest dance judge would rate a 10. And it was all without cumming once, not that he expected he ever would so long as that wretched pink tutu was slung around his waist. The song came to an end.

STOP!

In the middle of a perfectly balanced stance he stumbled and corrected himself by standing on both feet normally. Just like that, his dance skills were gone. From his bedroom he heard the cheery voice of the DJ wishing everyone who just woke up a goodmorning. Chris charged his way in there and slammed his hand on the radio to flip the on switch off. It went silent, leaving Chris' agonized pants and whimpers. He stood upright and groaned. Sweat dripped down his skin. His face was red like blood. More precum bled from his aching cock, seeping its way through the underwear fabric and staining the air. Chris lifted the tutu and looked down at his penis despondently. Such a proud pillar of masculinity, locked away by a girlish cage of slimy softness. [i]God, where did it go wrong?[/i]

All he could do now was wait for midnight. With no job to go to, he didn't think it would force him to go anywhere. There was his morning jog he always did, of course. If it was going to force him out into public like last time, he had to be ready for it. He staggered to his dresser, keeled over and wincing with the residual pleasure burning across his nutsack. Every step was a pulse of added arousal. No doubt if he moved enough it would force him to the edge only to make him stop so that he wouldn't cum. He tore open the pants drawer, drew a pair of jeans and whipped them open to put them on. He drew them up each leg, then stuffed the tutu down around his pelvis. The fly and button were able to close around it but not without a bulge that made it look like he was wearing about a dozen pairs of underwear. From there he picked up a plain white t-shirt and slid it over his torso. A trip to the bathroom revealed a man somewhat prepared for a journey outside. A thin sheen of sweat was dotted across his brow and wetting his pits, but given he had- he checked his watch -43 minutes until the start of the next hour, showering was pointless.

So for that time he paced his house, once again watching the minute hand edge towards the 12 with growing anticipation. He couldn't move much without having his cock grind into his increasingly slimy underwear, so eventually he sat down and watched TV. The morning news was on, something he would've liked to ignore. He put on another channel where they were broadcasting a game of golf. Maybe that would calm his nerves for the time being. It certainly did, but only for a limited time. His watch hit 9. It began beeping a cheery little tune.

TIME TO DANCE!

Chris sprung up from his couch onto his tippy toes. His arms flew up above his head, touching the tips together and forming a pyramid. Teeth gritting, his beefy right leg sprung out to his side and pivoted him counterclockwise, throwing him into a smooth pirouette. He turned to face his front door, then leapt himself towards it off of his toe. [i]Dammit. This is it.[/i] He landed just in front of it, then opened it with a smooth turn of the knob. With a level of strength and speed he didn't know he had, he flew out of his house and landed on the walkway well ahead of his front porch. He landed nimbly, and continued his way towards the street in front of his house, leaping, kicking, and spinning like the seed of a sycamore.

His grace belied his agony. The compression of his tutu within his jeans only compounded the contact on his cock. Grunts and wheezes puffed through his lips, not from the effort of his dancing but from the building pleasure, something he knew would not come to fruition as an orgasm. He made it to the sidewalk, then twirled his way towards downtown. The watch continued to bleep a gay little tune. [i]Dee-dee-deeeee dee-dee-deeeeee dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dooo![/i] It sounded to him like some cheap ringtone from the 90's, but to the curse subjugating him it was a Tschaikovskian masterpiece worthy of the most majestic choreography. Passing drivers spotted and recognized him, either as their friend Chris or the guy who was on the news talking about how big his dick was. Through his vision being blurred by every sharp twirl he saw them gawk and laugh. Phones were once again drawn from their pockets to snap photos and capture video. He blushed hard. He hoped that instead of a phone, someone would pull a gun on him and shoot.

He was getting close to downtown. More people walked past him, bewildered and impressed by his bizarre dancing. The few people who didn't know about his previous incidents clapped and complimented. He would smile as best he could at them, trying to hide the ever growing misery of having his cock scraped towards the edge of cumming. Terror seized him when he started approaching a nearby street lined with popular restaurants and bars. It was down a hill, already populated with people out to get their morning coffee and breakfast. He was spotted coming down the sidewalk. Without recognizing him quite yet, a few folk pointed him out to their friends.

“Who is that?"

“What's he doing?"

“That's pretty cool, actually."

“Street performer, I guess."

Chris could only watch the strip of buildings come closer and closer. Cars whizzed past him, honking either to applaud his skills or mock him. The stab of humiliation and dread only amplified his arousal, catalyzing an even greater flow of precum which was beginning to darken the crotch of his jeans. His face scrunched. A whimpered moan escaped him. “Huhhhh~ God! Fuck!" He was about to cum buckets, but not a drop would leave him. It was on the very cusp of a ball-draining climax that the watch went silent, silencing the curse for the time being.

STOP!

He was in the air, mid-twirl, arms crossed over his chest. All grace abandoned him, and he landed on his feet like a sack of potatoes. His knees crumpled beneath him, plummeting his ass to the hard concrete below. “[i]Oof![/i]" His spine jolted. The red mop of hair on his head shook as his back flattened down onto the sidewalk. He was in a daze and his tailbone hurt, but he was OK.

The people watching down the street held a collective gasp. One woman ran up to meet him, abandoning her group of friends at the patio where she was eating. She caught up to Chris as he was sitting up, groaning through the pain. She knelt behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are you OK?"

Absolutely not, but there was nothing she or anyone else could do for him. “Yeah… I'm fine… Ah… Just a little-" [i]horny. Please kill me.[/i] “-banged up."

“I saw that. You were dancing your ass off, no pun intended."

He chuckled, something he needed to do badly after the past few days. “Thanks." She helped him to his feet. He brushed himself off as best he could. While he patted the bottom of his jeans the woman frowned. [i]Isn't this the guy who's all over Facebook?[/i] He looked at her and nodded. “Thanks a whole lot. I gotta get going, now." She recoiled in mild shock. It was him. What the hell made him do all of that stuff, then and now? She couldn't say anything. A light whiff of the air revealed that he smelled like… well, she didn't want to think about it. Judging by the dark spots clouding the crotch of his jeans, her sickening guess was true. He saw the disgust twist her face. It was about time he excused himself. “Anyway, thanks again. I'll, uh… get going now." From there he started to hobble away, leaving her to make a hasty retreat back to her friends, grimacing like she had just seen a human corpse.

Chris felt like one, for sure. The radiating pain in his buttocks and pecker was a kind of discomfort he could've lived without, but the day wasn't even half done with. He checked the watch. 9:23, 37 minutes. That was enough time to limp his way home, but what would the watch make him do once he got there? Dance his way right back out, probably. The curse wouldn't be done with him until he had suffered to the utmost, be it through edging alone, humiliating himself in front of everyone again, or both. He was at the crest of the hill leading down into the street when a single car drove past him. They didn't honk or slow down, but they were blaring very loud music through an open window. Chris didn't recognize it, but the curse sure did.

TIME TO DANCE!

His hunched back snapped into a line. He slid his foot up the side of his leg, heel to his crotch, jutting his knee out. His hands went above his head again. His bent leg shot out, swung itself so that he faced down the hill again, then threw his body forward. “Goddammit! No!" He flew down the street like a tumbler, accelerated by gravity and an imposed desire to perform. The woman who had helped him was buzzing amongst everyone on the patio, telling them that he was the man who was on TV and social media showing everyone his penis.

She was in the middle of swearing that she was telling the truth when someone stood up from their table, pointed, and shouted “Here he comes!" Everyone looked. There was Chris, bounding down the hill, headed right for them. Some people laughed, others blanched, but a great majority of them pulled their phones from their pockets to document his acrobatic approach. Flying through the air between jumps, legs and arms outstretched, he whimpered and hissed. He saw the platoon of shiny rectangles aimed at him. There was a drumroll of camera shutters. Snickers abounded. Once he was in front of the patio he jumped onto his toes and began spinning in place. People from surrounding buildings filed out for a closer look. Cars slowed down to rubberneck. The people behind them would honk to get the line moving, only to take their turn gawking at the pervert who danced like a champion.

Insults were hurled at him. “The fuck is wrong with you?"

“Go the fuck back home, pervert!"

“Nobody cares about your dancing or your dick!"

“Oh for fuck sake… Someone call the police on this asshole!"

But nobody did, not when it would interrupt such a fantastic display of athleticism. Few of them recognized the distress on Chris' face. Among the excited chatter and jeers only the closest could hear his soft sobbing. With his eccentric twirls, bows, and vertical leaps, there was very little time to get a good look at his face and recognize the extreme pain he was in. People begged him to stop, both out of derision and fear for his health. Some feared a repeat of the dancing plague, others were sick and tired of seeing this guy's face everywhere. However badly they wanted him to quit, nobody had the nerve to call the police or force him to stop. The real solution was beyond them. If they would just cut off the radios playing from inside of the shops then he would've stopped. But they didn't. Chris continued to spin, jump, and kick on that single panel of sidewalk, possessing every bit of athletic charm his immediate audience had ever seen, pleasing himself to a degree that would only approach an orgasm as an asymptote.

Things only got worse once a familiar voice rang out from the crowd. “Hey! Chris!" Dread punched Chris in the gut. He could only catch glimpses of the newcomer's face, but he knew very well who it was. It was the asshole who had commanded him to tell the city about his cock on the news, then show it to everyone on the internet. “Whatcha doin' here, buddy? I thought you were done with this shit!"

“[i]Oh God… Please…[/i]" Chris begged, still dancing.

“Nice moves, dude! Didn't think you could move like that with a dick as big as yours!" he snickered. The rest of the audience didn't think it was so funny. More of them were identifying Chris' pain. They started putting their phones away out of respect. The heckler was not so scrupulous. “Why don't you show everyone again? Take those clothes off and show everyone that fat hog?"

Chris never had a chance.

TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF AND SHOW EVERYONE YOUR FAT HOG!

Chris' spinning came to an abrupt halt. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head, exposing his hairy trunk. Most onlookers recognized what was happening. With a disgusted groan they turned and ran. Others were too shocked to look away even for an instant. Chris kicked his shoes off, undid his fly, then shoved his jeans right down to the ankles. His pink tutu poofed right on out, proudly and verbosely. Laughter was on the throats of those still watching. That was until they noticed Chris' huge pecker jammed up into the fabric of his pink briefs, currently soggy with his precum. That was the turning point for nearly everyone. They all peeled away, unable to handle it any longer. 9/11 was finally called.

Before the police could arrive, Chris just twirled away, leaping from concrete panel to concrete panel, even going into the middle of the street where the cars were all at a stop to bear witness. The tears ran down his face freely. His toes were scraped raw against the asphalt. He was not merely pushed to the edge of cumming, but teetered on it with his entire body dangling over the abyss below. “[i]Hnnnnnnnnngggghhhhhhhh~![/i]"

STOP!

His cock muscle throbbed, but it did not blow. In the middle of a perfect spin his balance left him, sending him careening down the asphalt, stumbling on both feet to stay upright. He fell on his knees and one hand. His red and puffy face was facing the mottled asphalt below. Sputum drooled from his gaping lips. His eyes were bloodshot. Just beyond the hum of blood in his ears he could hear laughter. The police were on their way. With his last amount of self control he wobbled to his feet and ran up the hill from where he came. The tutu bounced around his hips like a wing; precum permeated down the bottom bell of his briefs, shining his upper thigh. Every impact of his feet onto the asphalt was both a jolt of pain and a burst of delight. The curse dragged him to a halt after only a few paces, forbidding any forward progress lest he cum. He stood in place, knees knocked, legs quivering, tears flowing, waiting for that God awful ecstasy to wane so that he could continue his escape. It did eventually, but he still could not run. It was 10 o'clock. [i]Dee-dee-deeeee dee-dee-deeeeee dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dooo![/i]

TIME TO DANCE!

Chris struck his signature pose and pranced the rest of his way to his house. By the time the police made it to the patio he was already gone.

[center]***[/center]

His journey was as tortuous as everything else had been, entailing more catcalls, photos, honks, and curses. Thrice he was forced to stop and recuperate into some level of homeostasis in his pants. The only mercy was that after the first stop he was no longer forced to dance. He jogged as far as he could, stopping when his cock would throb in agony and add to the deluge of masculine mucus now saturating his entire groin. It was soaking into the inner ring of his tutu. Entire droplets of it were streaking down his thigh. The smell was atrocious, making his nostrils cringe with every inhale. It just wouldn't stop. The aching in his testes was like carrying an anvil in his underwear. This wasn't blue balls, this was a shade of color unfathomable to the human mind, one simultaneously darker than vanta and brighter than light itself.

He arrived at his front door a sobbing, throbbing mess. It was still open since he had left it. Such a breach in home defense would've been worrisome in most situations, but this was not most situations. He mustered a burst of energy to sprint up the porch steps and through the door. He slammed it behind him, charged into his living room for just a few steps, then collapsed face first into his sofa. Sleep embraced him, but only for a short amount of time. 11 o'clock. The watch beeped.

TIME TO DANCE!

He was torn from a dreamless sleep by an abrupt push-off from the couch cushion. He sprung onto one foot and swerved his limbs behind him, bending his back and neck into a fluid arc. By the time he realized what was happening he was already tip-toeing his way across the living room and around the house. More moans, more pleasure, more whimpers, no orgasm. He didn't bother trying to stand up when his dance came to an end, instead falling right to his knees and crumpling into the fetal position. More tears, more precum. With what nebulous web of willpower he still had he rose to his feet and forced himself to the couch where he sat down. It was pointless to try and sleep, so he turned on the TV.

It was beyond any doubt that he was on the news again, but morbid curiosity drove him to flick the channels to the local news station where he worked. The face of his co-worker showed up, a middle-aged woman who was front and center to his breakdown just two days ago. “-continues as he was seen dancing in what appeared to be a tutu on Cary Street! Multiple witnesses say he came to the street wearing casual clothing, then stripped down to just the tutu and his underwear when prompted by the crowd! We have footage of the event. We have to warn you that the following images may be disturbing to some viewers."

Chris' finger was on the channel button on his remote, yet it remained still. He just sat there in silence, jaw slack while his image popped up on the screen. There he was on the sidewalk, dancing his poor little heart out, wearing nothing but that damn tutu and briefs. His crotch was blurred out, but he knew that this same video had to have been online, completely unhindered for everyone to ogle his cock. He was forced to listen to his heckler's laughter again. People were dispersing while others continued to stare. The footage was only on the screen for 7 seconds, but it felt so much longer than that. His coworker's face reappeared. She wore a severely depressed expression. “We can only hope that whatever's wrong with him gets fixed and that he gets some help." The report ended with her summoning an abrupt smile to carry on to the next, much cheerier subject. “In other news, the local ASPCA has some new puppies up for adoption! Here-" It was at that time Chris changed the channel.

13 hours. 13 more hours of pacing, grunting, shouting, and dancing. His entire body ached. His balls felt like orbs of lead, ready to collapse into a pair of miniature black holes. The watch would beep and Chris would prance. The agony was resigned to his house, but within the repetitive confines of those familiar walls, time stretched very thin. The hands on his watch slowed down. Dancing periods became hours unto themselves, even if they were growing shorter thanks to his skyrocketing sensitivity. By 4 o'clock he was paralyzed between dances, stuck on the limit of cumming. He was in his kitchen, twitching and leaking precum. His buttocks were clenched and his toes pointed inwards at each other. Looking down at the tile floor, he watched glassy beads of his torment fall from the summit of his cock bulge. The skin was irritated and burning. His arousal settled down, allowing him to take a few steps towards the couch where he was previously headed. That was too bad, because now it was 5 o'clock.

TIME TO DANCE!

“No, God…"

6 o'clock.

TIME TO DANCE!

“[i]Pleeeaaase…[/i]"

7 o'clock.

TIME TO DANCE!

“[i]Fuck… Please, no…[/i]"

8 o'clock.

TIME TO DANCE!

“[i]OH DEAR GOD WON'T IT STOP??[/i]"

It wouldn't.

Nothing but his besieged cock and balls existed anymore by the ninth time he circled his house in what was now like a religious dance ritual. His burning soles, aching muscles, and heated face were nothing compared to the physical anguish extorted from his manhood. Such a handsome package of staff and purse, one enviable in its stature, sloshing in a pool of its own slime while its owner was forced to prance around like a little sissy girl. Chris' moans faded into squeaks, then giggles, then maniacal laughter. It was kind of funny when he thought about it. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all. Delirium had taken its grip finally, plunging him into a fit of wailing hysterics so shrill that it nearly wasn't human. He was dancing when he didn't have to, flailing those big hairy limbs wildly. He grew deaf to the watch's beeping, listening only to the erratic beat of his feet hitting the hardwood. He embraced the edge. Why fight it? It was inevitable. Every command to dance was met with open arms and gleeful resignation. This was his life now. This was what he had become.

It was midnight, and Chris was still dancing. He hopped like a rabbit, swinging his erect cock around like the proud scepter it was. Only when his vision began to fade did he start to slow. The thump of his feet ebbed and eventually stopped. His eyelids were turning heavy. The swing of his arms was sluggish. As his right arm came up, he felt a brush of cold air across his wrist, one he hadn't felt since the day had begun. He finally slowed to a complete halt and looked at his wrist. The watch wasn't there. There was nothing but a band of pale flesh outlined by the shape of a watch. He dumbly looked at the floor. It wasn't at his feet like last time, but in the center of the doorway behind him, limp and discarded.

It took him a moment. Learned helplessness told him to go pick it up and put it back on. He had a dance to perform. The rest of him, no matter how hard he tried, could fully piece together what it meant. He looked down at the tutu. Swaying on his heels like a drunk man, he grabbed the front rim and pulled. His skin did not rise with the waistband, but stayed right where it was. Dense precum squelched as it separated like a condiment spread between a slice of bread and some meat. It revealed his crotch lathered in a coating of precum so thick that it looked like he had came about a dozen times. He just stared at it, not knowing what to do. He just kept pulling on the tutu until the velcro holding it together at his back snapped. The broken ring of pink hung from his hands like a fish, already dead from exposure to the surface air. It fell to the carpet when he let go.

At last he pulled down his underwear. The feeling of cool AC kissing his soaked genitals was like a dozen razors scraping down his skin, but it was a beautiful sensation all the same. His penis sprung forward, unbowed and unbeaten. It let slip one last glob of precum, ready to finally blow his load. He grabbed his shaft, and that was it. White hot ecstasy exploded through his loins like a hydrogen bomb, blinding him from all other worldy senses. The resulting spurt of cum was not a rope but a geyser, flying through the air and marking the wall several feet in front of him. His eyes rolled into his head. His open mouth formed an idiotic smile. Bliss like the coolest water on a hot day or the smoothest lotion on a scaly rash rippled through his muscles, jiggling his buttocks and thighs. “[i]Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh~[/i]" he squealed softly.

Chris's knees crumpled beneath him. His head slumped backwards and thumped against the soft carpet below. He didn't feel a thing. He was already asleep.

[center][b]THE END[/b][/center]