Chapter 7: The Call of the Deep
He woke with his cum scattered as always.
The first thing Leon registered was the crust. A map of dried, stiffened seed smeared across his thighs, his belly, the liner beneath him. The second thing was the weight. His stomach—that obscene, rounded dome that had been with him since the night before—still sat heavy and full, a sloshing reservoir pressing against his organs. He groaned, pushing himself up on trembling arms, and the liquid inside him shifted, a nauseating internal tide.
The jungle light filtered through the shack's gaps, pale and indifferent.
He looked down at himself. His body was a stranger's. The lean, athletic frame he'd prepared for months was now distorted, his abdomen jutting out in a smooth, taut curve. His cock lay soft against his thigh, still slick with residue, hair matted into dark tangles. He touched his stomach, fingers probing the firm, swollen flesh. It didn't hurt. That was the worst part. It felt almost... natural.
He couldn't fit his jeans anymore. That much was clear from the first attempt. The waistband dug into the underside of his distended belly, leaving red angry lines before he gave up and ripped them off. His shorts, loose cotton with an elastic band, barely managed to sit below the heavy curve, riding low on his hips. He left them on—not out of modesty, but because carrying his cock bare against the rough jungle undergrowth was a punishment he didn't need. Not that the shorts helped much. Every step, his soft, thick length swung free, poking out from the side of the leg opening, slapping wetly against his inner thigh. He didn't care anymore. There was no one to see.
The jungle swallowed him whole.
Walking was a new experience. The weight in his belly threw off his balance, forcing him to lean back slightly, waddling like some pregnant beast. Each step sent a dull, heavy jolt through his gut, the fluid inside churning and sloshing. His cock, freed from any restraint, bounced and swayed with every movement, leaving a glistening trail of pre-cum along his leg. It was leaking constantly now, a thick, viscous ooze that never seemed to stop. Pearls of it beaded at his slit, dripping down his shaft, matting the coarse hair at his base. He couldn't control it. He'd stopped trying.
The four-hour cycle came and went without ceremony.
He was mid-stride, stepping over a rotting log, when the familiar pressure built at the base of his spine. His balls tightened, drawing up, and his cock stiffened—not to full erection, just enough to spray. He didn't stop walking. He grunted, kept moving, and felt the thick ropes of cum arc out from his bobbing cock, painting the leaves and ferns beside the trail. A few shots hit the dirt. Most landed on the foliage. He watched it stream from him with dull, disinterested eyes, his hips giving an involuntary little thrust with each pulse. The orgasm rolled through him like a distant wave, barely registering as pleasure. When it was done, his cock softened again, still dripping, still leaking. He wiped the last drops on his thigh and kept walking.
No one would see.
By noon, his asshole had begun to ache.
It was a deep, persistent throb, like a muscle being slowly, relentlessly stretched. He'd felt the opening before—after the wasp, after the self-filling, his hole had become loose, gaping, a slack ring of flesh that barely closed. But this was different. This was a gradual, inexorable dilation. He could feel it happening, his sphincter softening, widening, as if something was pushing from inside.
By late afternoon, walking became difficult.
The ache had become a pressure. A fullness low in his gut, separate from the sloshing reservoir in his belly. It was deeper, closer to his spine, pushing downward. He stopped, bent over, hands on his knees, and let out a low, animal groan. His hole twitched, spasmed, tried to open wider. Something was coming. Something was going to come out.
He found a clearing, collapsed onto a bed of soft moss, and lay there panting.
The jungle hummed around him, louder now, a chorus of approval.
His knees drew up involuntarily. Then his legs began to spread. He tried to clamp them shut, to fight it, but the muscles refused to obey. His thighs fell open, exposing his hairy ass to the humid air. The opening between his cheeks felt enormous, a wet, gaping maw. He could feel the cool air against the slick inside of his hole, something he'd never felt before—like his ass was a cave with its mouth hanging open.
"Fuck," he whispered, the word barely audible.
He reached down, fingers trembling, and touched himself there.
His fingers met resistance—not the familiar give of his stretched muscle, but something hard. Something solid, lodged in his rectum, just past the entrance. He pushed a finger inside, then two, and felt it: a smooth, firm object, bulbous and slick, sitting in his guts like a polished stone. It was hard, but with a slight, rubbery give—like silicone. Like a toy. Like something that had been growing inside him.
"What the fuck is that?" His voice cracked.
He tried to push it out. He clenched, bore down, his breath hissing through his teeth. The thing shifted, inching lower, and a bolt of searing pain shot through his ass. He gasped, body seizing, and the object slid back up, deeper, settling against his insides. It was too big. He could feel its dimensions now—a sphere, perhaps the size of a fist, dense and unyielding. It had no give at the edges. It was lodged, wedged in the curve of his rectum, demanding to be birthed.
He tried again.
And again.
Each attempt sent waves of agony through his lower body, his hole clenching uselessly around the object's hard surface. He could feel his cock responding to the strain, fattening, rising, a sick parody of arousal. Pre-cum flowed freely, pooling in the moss beneath him. He pushed and strained and grunted, his belly clenching, his legs wide, his body drenched in sweat. The sun sank. The jungle grew darker. Still he fought.
By nightfall, he was spent.
He lay in the clearing, a wreck of heaving breath and trembling limbs, his asshole throbbing around the stuck thing, his legs forced apart by the pressure. He couldn't close them. The object had descended further with each failed attempt, now crowning—he could feel it with his fingers, the smooth, round curve pressing against his ragged sphincter, a dark, obscene silhouette bulging in the moonlight.
His cock stood rigid, leaking, buried in the moss beneath him.
"Last try," he panted. "Please. Please, get out."
He braced his hands on his knees, took a shuddering breath, and pushed with everything he had left.
His muscles screamed. His hole stretched to an impossible degree, a ring of fire around the object's widest point. He bore down, his eyes bulging, his veins standing out on his neck. He felt it move—sliding, grinding, descending through the final inch. His cock, still leaking, began to spray thick, white cum in a violent, involuntary orgasm, ropes of it painting his chest, his belly, the moss beneath him.
He thrust his hips forward with the push, his body working in two directions at once, and with a wet, sucking release, the object popped free.
It landed in the moss with a heavy, damp thud.
Leon collapsed, gasping, his hole gaping, his cock still spurting the last of its load into the dirt. He lay there for a long moment, savoring the absence of pressure, the hollow, empty relief in his gut. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look.
It lay in the moss, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
A sphere. Perfectly round, about the size of his fist. Its surface was smooth, translucent, slick with his own juices. And inside it—suspended in the pale, gelatinous mass like a fly in amber—were swirls of white, viscous liquid. His cum. Crystallized, hardened, fused into something solid. The shape of it was unmistakable. It was a ball of his own seed, compressed and petrified by the same internal chemistry that filled his belly.
"What the fuck," he whispered.
The jungle hummed louder. The chorus swelled.
He stared at the object, his mind blank with shock, his body still trembling from the effort. His cock, still soft and dripping between his legs. His hole, still open and slick. His belly, still heavy and full.
The crystal ball seemed to pulse with a light of its own.
His vision blurred. The hum became a roar. The world tilted, spun, and went dark. He hit the moss face-first and knew nothing more.
He hit the moss face-first and knew nothing more.
Consciousness returned at the end of a rope.
The first sensation was the coarse, braided vine biting into his wrists where they were lashed behind his back. The second was the ground—mud and rotting leaves scraping across his bare chest, his belly, his cock as he was dragged through the underbrush face-down. His eyes snapped open, and he spat a mouthful of dirt.
"What the—get off me!"
He bucked, twisted, tried to get his feet under him. A hard yank on the rope drove his chin into the mud. Voices chattered above him—not Portuguese, not Spanish, something older, guttural, full of clicks and harsh vowels. He craned his neck, saw bare feet, brown legs, the sway of woven grass skirts.
There were four of them. He caught glimpses of painted faces, dark eyes that slid over him like he was meat. Their bodies glistened with oil. Their cocks were barely contained by thin strips of hide, but he had no time to study them. Another yank, and he was sliding again, the rough ground scraping a raw line down his chest.
"Let me go! I said let me GO!"
They didn't stop. They didn't even look back. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a spiraling tattoo across his chest—jerked the rope again, a sharp, commanding gesture. Leon's shoulders screamed as his arms were wrenched upward. He scrabbled at the mud with his bare feet, tried to find purchase, to stand.
A spear butt slammed into his thigh.
The pain was electric, a white-hot bolt that numbed his whole leg. He collapsed, gasping, and the tribesmen resumed their pace, dragging him like a dead deer. The ground tore at his skin. He felt his belly scrape over a root, the heavy, swollen weight of it jolting painfully. His cock, caught between his legs, dragged too, the sensitive head scraping over grit and stone.
"Fuck—please, I'll walk, I'll walk!"
He managed to get his knees under him, staggering half-upright. The rope slackened slightly. He shuffled along, wrists still bound, body bent forward by the strain. They emerged from the dense undergrowth onto a game trail, and the dragging stopped. The tattooed man turned, studied him with flat, dispassionate eyes, then resumed walking. Leon stumbled after him, his bare feet slapping in the mud, his heavy belly jouncing with every step.
His stomach was on fire.
The roiling, liquid fullness had shifted inside him during the ordeal. He could feel it churning, pressing against his bladder, his guts. The four-hour cycle was coming. It was early—he could feel the pressure building, his balls drawing up, a familiar, urgent signal that sent ice through his veins. No. Not here. Not now.
"Hey—hey, stop. Stop! I need to—I need to relieve myself."
The tribesmen kept walking.
"Listen to me, you fucking savages! I'm going to—I can't hold it!"
His cock was stiffening despite everything, rising between his legs as he shuffled. A rope of pre-cum swung from the tip, glistening in the morning light. He could feel his entire lower body tensing, the pressure immense, his sphincter clenching uselessly around nothing. The first spasm hit him like a punch to the gut.
"No—wait—!"
His hips bucked forward involuntarily, and the first thick, white rope exploded from his cock. It arced through the air, splattering across the mud inches from the tattooed man's heel. Leon groaned, a sound of shame and helpless relief, as the second spurt followed, painting the ferns beside the trail. He couldn't stop it. His body was a firehose with no shut-off valve.
The tribesmen paused.
They turned, watching him with unreadable expressions as he came in great, blasting waves, his body rocking with each pulse. His cock was engorged, dark with blood, the veins standing out in vivid relief. The seed kept coming, thick and endless, pouring from him like a broken faucet. He clenched his jaw, shut his eyes, and waited for it to end.
It took a minute. When it was done, he hung limp in the ropes, chest heaving, cock still dripping.
The tattooed man said something to the others. They laughed—a low, knowing sound. Then they resumed walking, dragging Leon after them.
They made it another hundred yards before the second wave hit.
"Fuck—not again—!"
He stumbled, fell to his knees, and the next load burst from him with a violence that left him gasping. He felt it splatter across his thighs, his belly, soaking into the mud beneath him. The tribesmen didn't even turn this time. They just kept walking, talking among themselves, as he knelt in the trail and emptied himself.
By the time they reached the village, he had come three times.
He was hollow, weak, gone to nothing. His thighs were streaked with drying seed. His cock hung soft and dripping between his legs, still oozing in thick, slow pearls. His belly, despite the empty feeling, still held its heavy, swollen curve. The tribesmen cut the rope at his wrists, and he collapsed onto his hands and knees in the center of the village, panting.
The village was a clearing ringed by palm-thatched huts.
Dozens of men. All of them watching him.
They emerged from doorways, from the shade of trees, from the smoke of cookfires. They were all shapes and sizes, young and old, but every single one of them was male. They wore thin strips of hide around their waists, coconuts shells and woven grass covering their cocks—barely. Their eyes were fixed on him, a predator's focus, a hungry silence.
Leon tried to stand. His legs buckled. He crawled forward a foot before a spear butt pressed against his shoulder, driving him back down.
"Let me—I need to—"
The press of bodies closed in. He looked up at a wall of painted faces, oiled skin, the thick, pendulous forms of half-erect cocks swaying behind the grass skirts. They circled him slowly, studying him like a specimen. One of them knelt, reached out, and touched his belly. Leon flinched. The man didn't stop. He pressed his palm against the swollen curve, feeling the hard, full weight of it, and said something in the guttural tongue.
The others murmured in approval.
Leon looked past them, desperate, searching for a way out. And he saw him.
A man emerged from the largest hut, walking with a slow, deliberate grace. He carried something in his hands—a woven basket, covered with leaves. He was older than the others, his face lined with deep grooves, his chest scarred with ritual patterns. He set the basket down in the center of the circle, close to Leon, and lifted the leaves.
Leon's blood turned to ice.
Inside the basket, nestled on a bed of rotting wood, was a wasp. It wasn't like any wasp he'd seen. It was massive, the size of his hand, its abdomen banded with iridescent green and black, its stinger a long, curved needle gleaming with venom.
"No," Leon whispered. "No, not that wasp. Not again."
The old man lifted the wasp from the basket with bare, calloused hands. It didn't sting him. It seemed to recognize him, to crawl willingly onto his palm. He held it out toward Leon, and the crowd of men drew closer, the circle tightening.
"Please—please, don't—I'll do anything, just don't—"
The old man knelt beside him. He said three words in that alien tongue, his voice low and calm. The tattooed man grabbed Leon's cock, yanked it upward, held it exposed and trembling in the open air. The old man brought the wasp closer.
Leon screamed.
The stinger plunged into the head of his cock, just below the slit, a white-hot needle of pure agony. His vision went red. He felt the venom flood into him, burning, searing, racing up the shaft and into his balls, deeper, into the core of him. The wasp pulled free, and the old man stepped back, and Leon collapsed onto the ground, writhing, his cock on fire.
He screamed until his throat gave out.
The pain didn't stop. It faded, slowly, but it didn't stop. He lay in the dirt, curling into a fetal position, his cock clutched in both hands, his body wracked with tremors. He could feel something happening. The swelling that had been there since the first sting—the angry, flushed engorgement along his shaft—was subsiding. The skin smoothed. The veins that had been hidden beneath the inflammation rose to the surface, thick and blue, pulsing visibly along the length.
He looked down.
His cock was the same size. The same impossible length, the same heavy, veined girth. But the swelling was gone. It looked like it did before—before the wasp, before the jungle, before everything. Just a cock. Just his cock.
He felt lighter.