Story by GayPornAficionado, illustrated by LongLevy, both anonymously commissioned
Arnold was a terrible name for an abra, and Arnold was irritated about it, in that sort of subdued way in which Arnold was irritated about most everything in life. However, it was not currently the foremost of his irritations, as that position was held by the oldest and most widespread irritation of all, known by males the world over: the fact that he wasn't getting any.
He would've slumped back, if it weren't for the fact that he was already fully reclined and partially sunken into the cushions of his delightfully overstuffed down feather chaise. Instead, Arnold squirmed and shifted a little as alternate means of expressing his disgruntlement.
Above Arnold, ensconced in a pocket of scintillating octarine energy, was his phone. He stared up at it with as disdainful a look as he could muster, which at once came readily to him and didn't much differ from his face at rest, but the intent was there regardless.
The situation was untenable. Nobody Arnold knew wanted to fuck, because all of them had thin skins and the inverse for skulls. They were a bunch of pansies who went into a tizzy the moment you made one off-handed comment because they couldn't appreciate the art of banter.
Which left Arnold where he was now: swiping endlessly through the chaff provided to him by the hookup app he'd downloaded. That app being the one for male pokémon exclusively. Arnold, as a matter of pride, was a raging faggot and—being one himself—was an avid connoisseur of huge dicks.
Which was why it was unbearably annoying that he was being matched with an endless horde of small, cute pokémon. A riolu, swipe left. Shinx, left. Sprigatito, left. There was even a nidorina. A nidorina! He couldn't swipe left fast enough. The gall of some pokémon.
It was agony. Unendurable, unbearable, an utterly untenable situation. He didn't even look at the profiles most of the time, because it was all the same, either pokémon playing up their cuteness to a saccharine degree in hope of getting dick or, Arceus forbid, pretending to be some sort of cocky, swaggering top when they were all of two and a half feet tall.
Arnold wanted to be fucked by a big dick, not a short chode. Yet even after having been forced to the Internet in search of such a thing, the world was still intent on fucking him over in a distinctly non-sexy way.
Arnold writhed and squirmed in the depths of leisurely discontentment. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed on the phone, which continued to hover in a softly glowing psychic hold as Arnold dismissed each and every potential partner that crossed his screen.
Up until, that was, a pokémon that stood more than a head taller than him finally graced his screen—and quite a bit more, at that. Arnold, being an abra, stood just under three feet tall, not counting hover height. The photo on his screen was of a goodra. Even assuming an estimate on the lower end of the gauge, that meant he had to be at least six feet. Imagine the size of the cock.
But he was more than tall. Judging by the mirror selfie in what appeared to be his unkempt bathroom, a towel quite readily visible lying strewn across the floor, and the less suave and more rictus sort of grin carved across his face, he was also a fucking idiot. However, given odds were still distinctly in favour of him having a huge dick, Arnold scrolled down to his bio.
WESLEY, 21 0.47km away
Hi! My name is Wesley. I like anime and western cartoons, craft soda, video games (especially crpgs) and meeting new people! I'm looking to make new friends and, hopefully, a boyfriend! Be sure to swipe right if your interested!
Arnold read it and almost dropped his phone onto his face from the sheer insidious energy contained in those words. Dark energy. The man was such a massive fucking geek that it made Arnold's brain prickle with psychic potential, begging to be released and materialized in the form of an atomic wedgie.
However. This was the first large pokémon that Arnold had encountered in the entirety of his time on the app. And he probably had a pretty fucking massive dick.
Arnold swiped right. It took about one minute and fifteen seconds—or, about as long as it took Arnold to left swipe his way through another two dozen pokémon—before a notification buzzed its way to his attention.
It was Wesley. Maybe he'd just happened to have been on the app at the same time as Arnold. Or maybe he was a massively desperate dorkus maximus who had been monitoring his phone 24/7 for the first sign of interest.
Arnold clicked the notification and into the corresponding chat window. As soon as it loaded, he could already see the little bouncing dots indicating Wesley was busily typing away. The message came seconds after.
It certainly was Wesley. His name was displayed in big letters at the top of the screen, along with that disconcerting grin of his in the corner. Thank goodness he clarified. Arnold decided to go for an equally insightful reply.
Wesley started typing, and immediately stopped. Then again, this time for a few seconds, before stopping. On the third attempt, he managed to get the message out.
This was Arnold's strategy: cut right to the heart of the matter. It would probably be more successful if all of the people he had the misfortune of trying to fuck weren't a bunch of handwringing pussies. But Arnold fancied his odds this time.
Typing. Typing. Typing. Pause. Seven seconds. Typing.
If the question wasn't about his asshole, Arnold was going to be disappointed.
Arnold was not disappointed.
He did know Atlas Apartments. He used to fool around with a grumpig there—an alpha one, real big—before a poor reaction to a joke comparing his dick to a spoink soured things.
The bouncing dots indicated that there was even more to that particular line of thought, but Arnold clicked his phone off before he was subjected to any of the no doubt multitudinous complexities of whatever show it was Wesley was talking about. He floated his phone over to the nearby table and set it down. Then, with some reluctance, he refocused those same psychic powers onto himself, lifting his whole body up from his couch and out of his position of decadently comfortable reclining. Instead, he shifted into the still comfortable but not quite as decadent position of mid-air psychic hovering.
A massive force of will, a grand sacrifice, but a necessary one. If he was going to be taking that goodra's massive dick tonight, then there was cleaning to be done. Deep cleaning.
Hours had passed. Two of them, as a matter of fact. That wasn't a whole lot for most pokémon, but when you were an abra and spent eighteen of your hours asleep every day, you had to make awake time count.
Admittedly, Arnold had spent half of those hours asleep anyway. Cleaning was routine and mindlessly physical enough that he didn't really need to be conscious for it. Abra were masters of parasomniac efficiency. Which was good; he needed to maximize the amount of time he was gonna spend getting railed by this goodra.
The goodra whose apartment he was in front of that very moment. The number 217 was mounted on the door, in brass digits which still looked moderately shiny. Atlas Apartments was alright. Not the slummiest place Arnold had ever gotten fucked in, certainly.
Arnold knocked. Not using anything as gauche as his hands, obviously, but a quick triple burst of psychic energy. He would've just walked right in, given he was expected and on time, but it was better for both of them that Wesley opened the door. After all, some people were positively wedded to social custom.
Thankfully, Wesley seemed to be just as punctual as Arnold. It only took a second after the knock before the door swung inward, and Arnold got to get a real good look at Wesley for the first time, unfiltered by any sort of camera lens or phone screen.
Wesley was big. Even floating as he was, Arnold still only came up to around his chest. The goodra had to crane his head down to look at Arnold through the doorway. Just under seven feet, Arnold estimated.
And he was slimy, and purple, and all of the other sorts of things that goodra tended to be—which unfortunately included a genital slit, so that Arnold couldn't get a good look at what he was packing. But in regards to his more individual qualities, the way he was gripping the door knob like he was about to tear it out of the wood, the copious amounts of pseudoperspiratory slime oozing down his forehead, and the paper-thin smile he was sporting all indicated a hint of nervousness.
That was fine. Arnold was sure that all that anxiety would melt away the moment Wesley got a good look at what was under his tail. Though, given the way they were both staring at each other silently, Arnold expectantly and Wesley with that sense of poorly disguised panic, that moment didn't seem to be materializing.
Arnold was almost inclined to turn around and bring it about himself when Wesley spoke up. "Yy- heyyyyyy."
It was about as confident and smooth an intro as Arnold could've expected.
"Hey yourself," Arnold said in his default tone, that being mild conceit and subdued disdain. "Can I come in?"
"Oh!" Wesley said, as if being informed that Arnold would want to come inside the apartment was some sort of surprise. "Yes, sure, come on in."
He shuffled to the side, tail slapping loudly against the wall and leaving a smear of slime where it‘d struck, but it was completely ignored as Wesley jerked an arm to bid Arnold a stiff welcome into the apartment. Arnold floated in, hearing the door softly shut behind him, seconds before Wesley's tail banged into the wall opposite the one before.
His home was a sight. Maybe not in terms of architecture, that was just the same as he‘d expect of any apartment in Atlas. The decorating, however. The decorating.
Immediately upon entering, Arnold was greeted to the sight of a floor-length fabric poster depicting a catgirl in a toque blanche, posing triumphantly amidst an explosion of stars, sparkles, assorted pastries, and vibrant rainbow hues. This was, apparently, the best decoration Wesley had, seeing as how it was front and centre. Meaning things would only get worse as they moved further into the depths of his lair.
"Oh, do you like my wall scroll?" Wesley said, voice still sounding strained, but apparently the excitement of getting to talk about his anime paraphernalia gave him the necessary confidence for complete sentences. "It's of, uh, Cini-chan, from Nyaa Nyaa Neko Baking Bliss. Have you ever heard of it? It's about Cini-chan—the Cini is short for Cinnamon—and she wants to become a pastry chef and open her own bakery, but—"
"No," Arnold said.
"That's fair," Wesley mumbled. "It is kind of obscure, I guess. Maybe we could watch it later."
Arnold was about to speak up making clear not only his opinion on whatever anime shlock it was Wesley was talking about, but also what he would much rather be doing at that particular instant, but Welsey cut him off by bringing his hands together with a rather slimy sounding clap.
"Right! Drinks!" Wesley said, moving around Arnold so that he could hurry his way down the hallway with somewhat more urgency than beverages ought to have merited. "Uh, go grab a seat over there and I'll get us something."
He paired that last sentence with a vague gesture towards the far end of the hallway before slipping to the side through a doorway and out of sight, into what was presumably the kitchen. Arnold was in agreement with that line of thought, a bit of booze would certainly ease things along. So, hopeful that liquor was on the horizon, Arnold did as he'd been instructed and moved down the hallway.
It led into the living room. It was… unfortunate. Meticulously cleaned, all well organized, and incredibly unfortunate.
A matching loveseat and recliner sat along one side of the room, a coffee table between them, all facing a large flat screen television. Flanking the television on the opposite side of the room was a shelf, containing what had to be at least two dozen small statues of vibrantly—albeit scantily—dressed anime women, huge-eyed stuffed creatures of fantastical designs, and a rack containing a staggering number of DVD cases with Japanese strewn across their spines.
Arnold felt nauseous. If he weren't floating, he would've staggered to the recliner, but instead managed to float his way over to it before dropping down to it with somewhat more suddenness than was comfortable. He needed liquor if he was going to exist in this room.
Thankfully, it seemed he wouldn't need to wait long for that. It hadn't been a minute before Arnold could hear the thumping of Wesley making his way down the hallway towards him, heavy plodding of slimy feet heralding the arrival of booze.
Arnold looked towards the doorway with desperate hope. Wesley's head and prodigious neck poked through, his eyes meeting Arnold's with equal amounts of the same sort of emotion, different in aim as it might've been. The rest of his body came through shortly afterwards, two cans clutched in his hands, glistening with perspiration.
"I didn't know what you'd like, so I grabbed something most people've enjoyed," Wesley said, giving a smile that could've been described as sheepish if one had only met particularly panicked ovines, before offering one of the cans to Arnold.
The abra snatched it up. His fingers flew to the top and yanked open the pull tab with a crack and a hiss. He'd almost thrown it to his lips and downed half the thing right there before the smell hit him.
It smelled like grapes. It didn't smell like wine. It did smell like spices. It didn't smell like alcohol. Dread welling up in his gut, Arnold looked down at the label.
The Three Monkeys Artisanal Soda Company. Wild Grape and Ginger.
"What is this?" Arnold said, with the same sort of total, eerie calm that'd be exhibited by, say, a man coming home from a bad day at work at a job he hates only to discover his wife in bed with his own boss.
"It's from this local craft soda place over in Murkrow County," Wesley said. "They have, like, twenty-four flavours. Try it, it's really good!"
Arnold had said many things to many people in the past. Often the wrong things. That was the reason why he'd had to go on a hookup app in the first place. At that moment, there were many things that he wanted to say to Wesley.
Yet he didn't. Instead, either out of some uncharacteristic sense of tact, Wesley's say-so, or simply because part of his brain was still pursuing the impossible hope that it was alcoholic, Arnold brought the can to his lips and took a sip.
It was… a far better soda than Arnold had ever tasted up to that point. Arnold had drunk grape soda before, though he didn't drink a whole lot of it, and this was probably why: that store brand stuff tasted like grape-flavoured syrup, whereas this tasted like grapes. A powerful, tangy flavour that couldn't have been from anything but real fruit—with a subtle note of ginger to complement it, not overpowering the grape, but supporting it, making it pop.
The words that had been budding on Arnold's tongue well away in the midst of a flood of carbonation and intricately crafted flavours. It didn't overturn all his opinions about Wesley and the apartment's decorating, or send him into a state of craft soda nirvana, but it was good enough that Arnold did think, in spite of the lack of alcohol, that it was a pretty good drink.
Wesley had set himself down in the loveseat, though he was twisted to the side in order to face Arnold as much as possible. His own soda sat on the coffee table in front of him, untouched, his hands clasped between his thighs as he leered at Arnold with keen eyes. "Do you like it?"
Arnold lowered the soda from his lips and thought. On the one hand, he was definitely not going to be able to last the evening enduring Wesley's august tastes, interests, hobbies, and above all, decorating without the aid of alcohol. On the other, it was a pretty good drink, and Wesley presumably had a pretty good dick.
With the intense, calculating intellect characteristic of his species, it didn't take Arnold long to come to a decision. If he wouldn't last the whole evening, then the solution was accelerationism.
"Absolutely," Arnold said. The word had hardly left his mouth before, setting the can down onto the coffee table as he went, he levitated himself up off the recliner and over to the loveseat, setting himself down in the spot next to Wesley. It was something of a squeeze, the far larger goodra taking up most of the space, but Arnold wedged himself in.
"Oh," Wesley said, trying his best to shuffle over and cram himself into the non-existent space on the other side of the loveseat. "Do you want the loveseat? I can go over to the recliner. I mean, it's a little small for me, but you're the guest, so—"
"No," Arnold said, squiggling across the sofa a few inches, pressing himself up against Wesley's side and wrapping his arm around the goodra's side for good measure. As good a job as he could do of wrapping with the size difference, anyway; his hand rested more on the dragon's back than anything. "You oughta stay right there."
Wesley stiffened. His eyes widened as he stared at the abra clinging to his side. His face flushed a peculiar shade of mauve. "Uh. Should I at least turn on the TV? I've got SUTAA NEKO all queued up and—"
"No." Arnold couldn't get the word out fast enough, it practically ripped its way out of him like a living thing in its own right. "I've got something better in mind for us to do."
Wesley was sweating—or rather, sliming profusely. "Uh, listen, Arnold, this is all moving kinda fast for me."
Arnold looked up at Wesley with a cock-eyed look. "You got on the app for sex, right?"
"Nnno?"
Arnold actually recoiled a little bit. "What do you mean, ‘no'? It's a hookup app. You find people to fuck on it."
"It says it's for dating! I was looking for people to date!"
Reaching a hand up to his face—the one not still pressed against Wesley's body, that was—Arnold pinched the bridge of his snout. "Alright. Well. We're definitely fucking, so, you probably ought to change your expectations for how the night's going to go."
Wesley was now looking nervous for an entirely different reason, and had somehow managed to become even more frenetic in the process. "What? No! I just said that I'm looking to date, not f— not for some cheap fling!"
Arnold threw his hand away from his brow and into the air in exasperation. "Well, why's the fucking gotta come after the dating? You were gonna wanna fuck eventually if the date went well, so how about we just fuck first and then do the date after? It's not like you'll miss anything that way."
"Wh— that's only half the problem!" Wesley shouted, eyes bulging. "You're a third my height, and I'm— you're..."
Wesley's face turned a deeper shade of purple as he searched for the appropriate words to convey his thoughts, yet found that said words were quite inappropriate themselves. "You're too small, is the point! It wouldn't work!"
"Oh, it'll work," Arnold said, a wry grin spreading across his face. "I know it'll work. I've made it work with pokémon just as big as you."
That comment did not much help the state of Wesley's blush. As if to hide it, he buried his face in his hands, his voice coming out muffled from beneath them. "Why does it always gotta be sex with everyone all the time? I just wanted to date and watch anime."
"Part of you seems to disagree on that."
Wesley peeked out from between his fingers at that comment, and found Arnold's eyes were no longer fixed on his own. He followed the path of the abra's gaze, right down to…
A noise not at all befitting a seven foot tall dragon escaped Wesley, and his hands flew away from his face and down to his crotch, clamping down protectively over the budding pink tip that was just beginning to emerge from his slit. "W-well, of course that's gonna happen when you keep talking about stuff like that!"
"Right," Arnold said, his tone of voice belying a less than total confidence in the goodra's words. "Well, then let me help you with that, and then we can go ahead and watch anime or whatever thing it is you wanted to do. You don't have to make a big deal out of it."
"It is a big deal!" Wesley said, voice sounding caught somewhere between indignant and petulant.
"It isn't."
"Is!" Wesley insisted. "Your first is supposed to be special, not someone you just met that evening!"
There are certain things that, when you discover them, seem so obvious that you feel downright slow for not having guessed them right at the outset. Arnold was not familiar with that sensation, because it was impossible for him to see himself in anything but the highest possible light. Though he did feel somewhat surprised at not having realised the goodra's virginity the moment he laid eyes on the dedicated anime shelf.
Surprised, but not caught flat-footed. "How are you gonna make your first ‘special' if you don't know what you're doing?" Arnold said. "Listen, I'm doing you a favour. When you find that special someone, you're gonna blow ‘em away, instead of fumbling around and lasting all of five seconds because you don't know what you're doing. All because of me riding that fat dick of yours."
Wesley had sort of half-turned and almost met Arnold's gaze, up until his last sentence, where the goodra jerked his face quite sharply to the side as an even deeper blush enveloped his features—while below, a different sort of slime than his usual was trickling out from between his fingers as he struggled to keep himself contained.
"Come on," Arnold said, pressing himself against Wesley's side insistently. "Am I right or am I right?"
Wesley mumbled something inaudible in response. Arnold decided to hammer home his point by reaching out with his mind, past the blockade of the goodra's hands. There, he grabbed a hold of the slimy pink flesh he found there with a psychic grip, and gave it a good squeeze.
The reaction was immediate. Wesley let out a yelp and threw himself out of the loveseat and onto his feet, wrenching himself away from Arnold, staggering forward a few steps from the suddenness of the motion.
This resulted in him slamming his shin into the coffee table, eliciting a second yelp. The drinks jostled dangerously, but were still full enough to keep themselves planted, though the sound of them shifting did put Wesley on high alert. In the wake of the pain and his attempt to avoid making a mess by upending the table and spilling the drinks, Wesley threw himself to the side and off his balance entirely, tumbling onto the floor with arms flailing in an attempt to catch himself and keep the floor from inverting his snout. Instead, he turned and slammed into his side, tumbling into a heap on the shag carpet.
That stood as ironclad evidence to Arnold's enormous sense of tact, in contradiction to everyone who had ever said otherwise. There was no other explanation as to how he could've managed to avoid bursting into a fit of side-splitting laughter at the sight of Wesley lying groaning on the floor after having, to put it bluntly, eaten shit.
Though admittedly, the dragon's dick having slid out a couple more inches did offer some pleasant visuals to distract Arnold from the sheer comedy of the situation. Just enough pink flesh, all shiny and dripping with slime, was poking out from Wesley's crotch for Arnold to wrap his hand around.
Not to say that he did. Though he did think about it, and being a psychic, did have to suppress those thoughts from actualizing themselves into telekinesis—another point in favour of his immense amount of restraint.
"Are you alright?" Arnold said, leaning over to look down at Wesley from his comfortable position on the loveseat.
"Yeah," Wesley groaned, writhing a bit on the ground as he rubbed at his side where he'd winged himself on the edge of the table on the way down. Thankfully not enough to spill the drinks. "You shouldn't just do that to someone without asking first."
"I thought the consent was implied."
"What?" Wesley said, a word that ought to have merited being spat with indignation, rather being spoken with the genuine confusion that it was.
"Well, it looked like you were agreeing with everything I was saying," Arnold said. "You mean you still don't wanna fuck? Why?"
Wesley craned his head up to look at Arnold while trying not to move the rest of his aching body too much, a feat made much easier by dint of his lengthy neck. He was greeted to the sight of Arnold having shuffled to the edge of the couch, slouched forward to bear his crotch and ass for presentation. Both were being tended to by a hand, one probing around his slit and rubbing at the inch or so of visible shaft that had slid free, the other two digits and two knuckles deep into his ass.
The goodra's eyes widened. His face, having already been moving steadily across all the options a violet colour swath would have to offer, was now approaching a pleasant shade of sangria.
"I— wh—" Wesley spluttered, apparently unable to conjure up a response to such blatant lewdity. Unable to conjure up a verbal response, at any rate: the way his cock throbbed and oozed over itself as it slid out another few inches said plenty without a single word being spoken. It had already reached half a foot in size, and seemed like it had plenty of room left to grow.
"C'mon," Arnold said, moving the hand working his slit down to join the other in his ass, both of them hooking around the sides of his hole and working in concert to stretch it wide, giving Wesley a view of his insides. "Just say yes, dump a load in me, and then I promise we can watch anime or whatever it is you wanted to do. It'll be like a date in reverse."
"I'm not comfortable with this," Wesley mumbled, though the words were inaudible, incoherent, and most of all, ignored by Arnold. Rather, the abra decided that Wesley required additional convincing, and smoothly floated his way over to the goodra before setting himself down on the floor between his legs.
"I'll just go ahead and keep going until you tell me to stop."
"Stoooooah!"
That word-turned-moan was the result of Arnold. At a glance, it only looked as if he'd wrapped his hands around either side of Wesley's cock, rolling the head of it around in his palms and allowing the slime coating the goodra's shaft to coat every inch of his hands.
The deeper truth was invisible to the eye: Arnold was using the physical contact to better focus his mental powers. Every surface of Wesley's dick, exposed to the air or buried in his slit, was being worked over by a fine psychic field, softly buzzing and squeezing and rubbing with a level of sensation that was at once omnipresent and stimulating in a way incomparable to anything else, save maybe the refined touch of a very skilled and careful electric type, yet not overpowering. Enough to coax him to full hardness, not enough to provide any real progress towards orgasm.
As was the intent. It was detail work that was a touch too taxing on Arnold's mind to keep up for long, but he didn't need to; combined with the abra's roaming, squeezing fingers, it had Wesley practically leaping out of his slit.
More kept coming out, more and more, flopping forward under its own weight to rest against Arnold's body as it unsheathed itself. Arnold moved his hands to the middle of Wesley's shaft, squeezing and stroking there, allowing it to slide up along the surface of his chest on a layer of slit slime until the head of it bumped up against the underside of his jaw.
That was about the point at which it throbbed in his grip and, instead of getting longer, it got harder, thicker, pulsing in his hands in indication that it had finally reached its full potential as to length. Now, Arnold had a picture as to exactly how well endowed the goodra was. Arnold was a hair under three feet tall. It was damn near the size of his chest, maybe even a bit bigger. So that was, what, a bit below two feet?
"It's too big."
Those words were whispered, a note of fear behind them. They didn't come from Arnold's lips, but rather, Wesley's. Arnold's response was mumbled, preoccupied. "I'll be the judge of that."
Two feet of cock. Two feet of slippery, slime-gushing meat that Arnold was going to pack inside himself—every last inch. But not before he got to enjoy it while it was outside of him.
Arnold floated up a few inches, making use of the new position to wrap his whole body around Wesley's cock, hips wrapped around the lower half while his arms hugged the top close to his chest. He could feel the slime coated across every inch of it rubbing against him, particularly against his crotch. Warm, slippery goo smeared across Arnold's cock, providing lubrication for him to hump and grind against the goodra's far larger member.
Not to say that was the current focus of Arnold's attention. The rolling of his hips to frot his dick against Wesley's was an automatic, almost unconscious response. What his attention was really focused on was the head of the goodra's cock, and the stream of thick, clear fluid that was dribbling from its tip. And with the huge size of the thing, Arnold didn't even need to break his hug or shift position, but just lean his head down to take the tip of Wesley's dick into his mouth.
"You're gonna hurt your jaw," Wesley whined.
Arnold didn't bother responding to that. Rather, he squeezed down with his thighs and gripped his arms around Wesley's shaft in a wringing hug, and was rewarded for his efforts with a fresh moan from the goodra and a thick gush of pre that splattered against the roof of his mouth.
He couldn't resist the urge to swallow it down immediately, and once he did, Arnold was instantly reminded of exactly why he loved going for bigger pokémon. With just that single spurt, deliciously slimy pre coated every surface of his mouth, assaulting his tongue with the flavour of unbridled masculinity. It soaked into his taste buds and worked its way into his sinuses, a spicy musk that was at once well familiar to Arnold, yet no less utterly irresistible.
It provoked a desire in Arnold that was just as familiar, one which refused to be satisfied by mere oral pleasure, nor by grinding himself against Wesley's slimy cock. He let the dragon's tip pop out of his mouth, a thick strand of fluid connecting it to Arnold's face and the rest of the stuff smeared across it for a moment before it snapped.
"Alright, let's move things along a bit," Arnold said, slackening his full-body grip around Wesley's dick so that he could levitate himself higher. The goodra's slick cock smeared a trail across his body as he did so, grinding against Arnold's own, far smaller shaft every inch of the way.
"I'd thought we were moving plenty fast already," Wesley said, something which might have come off as a snide remark if delivered in the right tone. That tone was not Wesley's particular brand of bewildered and more-than-mildly nervous mumblemouthing.
"Your dick isn't even inside me yet," Arnold said. "We're going at a snail's pace, and I'm gonna speed it up."
That sort of gastropodery must've been Wesley's natural, comfortable pace, for obvious reasons, but as he'd promised, Arnold wouldn't tolerate it. He'd floated himself high enough that the goodra's shaft had finally slid across his body entirely, tip slipping off the base of the abra's shaft and falling back towards Wesley's stomach—before Arnold caught it in a second psychic grip, arresting its momentum and bringing it back up into a standing position. Then began the work of trying to align it with his tailhole without quite being able to see what he was doing.
It prodded around Arnold's asscheeks, each time smearing them with slime as Wesley's cock poked against them and slid off. It gave a good, promising poke to the base of Arnold's tail, before again slipping and sliding off to the side instead of into the clear bullseye a mere inch or so away. Things would've been so much easier if Arnold could see what he was doing, but unfortunately, Miracle Eye was not among his abilities. He let out a low growl of frustration.
"Umm." Wesley cleared his throat, in a fantastic bid at trying to get Arnold's attention without having to be even the slightest bit assertive. "Do you, uh… want me to help with that?"
Arnold's eyes suddenly whirled on Wesley's face with a frustrated glare, as if it was somehow Wesley's fault that he was unable to blindly wrangle the goodra's cock into his butt. "Alright, you're gonna have to do a bit better than that."
"What?" Wesley said, looking a fair bit bewildered. "What do you mean, what did I do?"
"You're a big pokémon, with a big, fat dick!" Arnold shouted, hands whipping back and forth like he was trying to whip the words out of himself. "I know that you're…"
Arnold considered for a moment the plethora of ways he could continue that sentence. Again, his tact was to be praised.
"...You, but can't you be a bit more assertive?"
"Um, I'll try?" Wesley said and didn't ask, in spite of what his tone of voice might've indicated. After a second's hesitation, he reached out, hands moving towards Arnold and setting down onto his thighs with all the trepidation of someone touching a hot stove. With their guidance, Arnold was able to finally guide Wesley's cock home, the tip of it nestling into the divot of his tailhole and christening it with a spurt of slime.
Then, once they'd reached that long awaited point, both of them did nothing. Arnold expended just enough effort to keep himself suspended above the Wesley's shaft, looking down at the goodra expectantly, and found his gaze met with something falling just short of abject fear.
"Well?" Arnold asked.
"Well… what?"
Arnold's eyes bulged—as much as an abra was capable of such a thing, anyway. "Well, come on! Take charge, do something, skewer me on your massive cock!"
"But, uh…" Wesley's eyes were averted firmly to the side, and it looked like he'd rather sink into the floor and disappear rather than speak, yet managed to force more words out nonetheless. "You're so small. I don't wanna, you know, hurt you."
Arnold buried his face in his hands, his voice coming muffled from beneath them. "You are insufferable. Fine. Whatever. If you aren't gonna fuck me proper, I'll wring you dry myself."
The abra flexed his mind. Instantly, the psychic force that had been keeping him just barely aloft and balanced on the tip of Wesley's cock inverted itself and tripled in intensity. Handling his whole body like nothing more than a sleeve, Arnold drove himself downward, driving a good four inches of the goodra's shaft into him at once.
For a larger pokémon than him, that would've been a respectable size to take so quickly. For an abra, not even three feet tall, it was immense—even without accounting for the fact that he was shoving all of it into himself without a moment's pause or hesitation.
Not to say Arnold wasn't well trained for such large insertions. After all, rather than immediately screaming and flinging himself back off of Wesley after the initial penetration, he merely clenched his jaw and sucked in a breath through gritted teeth, soaking in the sensation of his ass being suddenly stretched wide around the goodra's girth.
Not even the full measure of his girth, either. The slight taper of Wesley's cock meant that Arnold was starting off light. That gut-stretching, seemingly impossibly large fit, enough to make his toes curl and his fingers dig into his palms from the sheer intensity of it, was only the beginning.
Which was exactly how Arnold wanted it. Or no, no quite—rather, he wanted even more.
"I really don't think you should do that!" Wesley cried, voice having an understandable quaver to it, given his dick was, however partially, stuffed inside another person.
Arnold's eyes, having unfocused from the effort of taking Wesley, immediately lasered in on the goodra's flustered and concerned face. Wesley, of course, didn't understand Arnold's wants and needs. Wesley had made it abundantly clear that he didn't understand anything, because he was a blithering moron and galling weeaboo slimeheap, and it was only by measure of his measurements that Arnold could endure his company.
"No!" Arnold snapped. "Shut up! I came here—"
Even as he spoke, perhaps stirred by the frustration swelling up within him, Arnold gave his whole body another psychic shove and sank himself another couple inches down Wesley's cock. The feeling of it, of insides being stretched wide and of those same insides clinging to the goodra's shaft in a tight, warm embrace, moved both of them to suck in air through mutually gritted teeth.
Though Arnold, more intense as his part in things might've been, still bounced back first, launching once more into his tirade. "I came here to get stuffed! Pounded! I told you that, but you still aren't doing it!"
Arnold's psychic force had swapped from bursts of sudden strength to a constant pressure, keeping him moving down Wesley's shaft at a steady pace. It was an impressive display from both of them, both how Arnold could fit so much inside himself, and how Wesley could manage to maintain such a cowed and fearful look while having another pokémon actively riding his cock.
"So if you aren't opening your mouth to tell me how much you want to fffhnn—" A shudder ran through Arnold's body as Wesley ground past some particular spot inside of him. "—hhffffuck me, then kindly keep it shut!"
In blatant disrespect of Arnold's request, Wesley's mouth opened and closed, though it at least did its work silently. At least, up until the third or so time it flapped open, at which point a moan spilled out of him, drawn out by Arnold squeezing down around his cock with what had to be just about his entire body. Only half of Wesley's shaft had been crammed into Arnold's ass, his pelvis crying out in more firm displeasure than his evidently far more elastic insides. It put forth a solid argument: it didn't seem like there was any physical way that any more could be fit inside.
That was what the cowardly and inexperienced would think, anyway, but Arnold was brave and proficient in the art of insertion. More importantly, he was incredibly, incomparably horny, both situationally and as a rule. That trifecta drove him to drive himself down with another forceful push of psychic energy, powerful enough to blow past reasonable limits of what he ought to have been able to take. Those limits would expand to meet his desires; the flat plane of his belly bulged with the outline of the head of Wesley's cock, pressing out from inside, as Arnold forced himself to make room for it.
"That shouldn't happen," Wesley whimpered, even as his whole body tensed with pleasure, fingers gripping tight at fistfuls of carpet.
Objectively, Wesley was correct. Arnold's body wasn't meant to stretch and distend around a cock that was big enough to make the entirety of his organs quake in fear. His pelvis wasn't meant to accommodate the presence of a goodra's maleness, so massive that it made said bone feel as if it were creaking. His hips were in active protest; if it weren't for them being so naturally wide, as was typical for abra, they probably would've displaced already.
However, Arnold did not listen to Wesley, and he ignored the complaints of those lesser parts of his body in favour of the singing pleasure coming from the rest of himself, the joy of being fucked by someone whose cock was nearly as big as he was. The abra set his hands down on his middle, rubbing at the indent of the cock pressing through. It would certainly seem as if he were packed as full as he could physically stand, and that going any further would be foolhardy, dangerous, simply absurd.
That was the way it seemed. Part of being a pokémon as smart as an abra, however, was understanding that you couldn't always judge by appearance.
Arnold's psychic power burned steady, slowly sinking him further down Wesley's shaft, his belly bulging out in equal proportion to every inch of cock that was packed past inside his guts. There was no way for him to express his genius joyousness at having successfully turned himself into a cockholster for a far larger pokémon, other than by laughing maniacally.
The display earned a concerned look from Wesley—which was to say, concerned even relative to the ever-present concern he exhibited for the pokémon who seemed intent on being speared through on his manhood. However, that look quickly evaporated in the face of a wringing squeeze from Arnold's insides as the abra claimed a little bit more of Wesley's dick for himself.
Then a little bit more, and a little bit more, always a little bit at a time. But not for much longer. A few moments later, Arnold had taken enough of the goodra that his belly was big enough to bump against his chin if he looked down too far, and he found he couldn't take even a fraction of an inch more.
Not from any failing on his part. Far from it: the reason Arnold couldn't take any more was because he'd felt Wesley's crotch press flush against his ass. He looked down at Wesley with an expression that was a mix of prideful satisfaction and the pained pleasure of having his whole body stretched so completely around the girth of the goodra's cock. As much as he could look down at Wesley, anyway; the way his own bulging abdomen was getting in the way meant the look was more straining his eyes than tilting his head.
Wesley looked stunned, or perhaps dazed, in the same way that he would've been if he'd been struck particularly hard in the side of the head with a blunt object. Arnold supposed that was just the way first times tended to go.
"I didn't think you could do it," Wesley half whispered, half mumbled.
"Well, now you know better," Arnold said, before clenching down around Wesley's cock, even squeezing his hands around the bulge in his belly for good measure. Feeling what seemed like his whole body gripping the goodra's dick was enough to make Arnold shudder, but it drew an even greater response out of Wesley, who threw his head back against the carpet as he let out a moan.
It had been a long, arduous process for Arnold to get that whole thing inside him. Clearly, the reasonable course of action would be to take some time to just sit there and adjust to its immense size. Or rather, it was the second most reasonable course of action: the best choice would've been not to stuff it inside himself in the first place, as his delightfully sore insides and wearily protesting hips informed him, the thick base of Wesley's cock pressing against them from inside his pelvis hard enough to make them ache.
But it didn't really matter what the clear choices were, because just as clear was the fact that, given established trends, Arnold was absolutely not going to do that.
A surprising amount of effort was needed for Arnold to pull himself back up. His insides were gripping tight to Wesley's cock, his asshole tugging out obscenely as he lifted himself higher, as if pleading not to let the goodra's dick out of its embrace for even a second.
Though other parts of him were responding more eagerly. Arnold's cock jutted out in front of him, twitching and throbbing as Wesley's dick slid its way through his tight guts, the dragon's shaft just able to overcome the friction by coasting along on a layer of the slime it was continually gushing. Thicken runnels of the stuff oozed out from Arnold's protruding asshole.
That drippiness was a quality that the abra's own member mirrored, albeit to a far lesser degree. A steady drip of precum oozed from his tip and ran down towards the base of his cock, milked out of him by the continual pressure that Wesley was applying to his prostate—just as much as the goodra was pressing against just about every other organ in his body, a commanding presence bludgeoning its way inside him.
If only the pokémon it was attached to was even half as commanding. Arnold had made his way high enough on Wesley's cock that only the head of it remained inside him, even just the tip being thick enough to have him spread impressively wide by the metric of any normal pokémon. From atop his throne, Arnold looked down at Wesley, and thought.
He'd realised a certain pressure had been lifted from his insides. Obviously, there was the goodra's shaft no longer packing his guts full, but something else besides that. Copious amounts of thick, slimy precum were gushing out of him the moment Wesley's cock was no longer in place to plug it up.
Arnold could see it rolling down the length of Wesley's dick, running in thick streams over his crotch, belly, and thighs, with plenty having been smeared along Arnold's ass and legs as well. There had to be pints of the stuff. It got everywhere and over everything, coating it all in a layer of sticky, sex-smelling slime. The carpeting was not spared, wicking up whatever pre failed to smear itself across their bodies.
Though the carpet was the least of either of their concerns, Wesley being entirely too occupied to spare a single thought towards such a thing, and Arnold entirely unconcerned with the matter. No, he was more occupied with the fact that every drop of the stuff had, when it was all inside him, contributed to the loveliest feeling of total, gut-saturating fullness, which had gone wholly ignored in the shadow of the more intense feeling of the goodra's cock spearing its way into his guts.
Now that it was gone, Arnold was woefully aware of the absence of that particular kind of fullness, having been put into the perfect position to truly appreciate it. The abra gave a parting squeeze to the head of Wesley's dick, wringing it with whatever muscles inside him still responded after such a thorough stretching, coaxing out yet another spurt of pre that splattered against his achingly vacant bowels.
Absence made the heart grow fonder, but now that he knew what he was missing, Arnold felt he'd had just about enough of Wesley's dick and his endlessly leaking slime being absent from his ass. That squirt of slime would serve as ideal lubrication for stuffing himself full once again. Arnold began pushing himself down, feeling his insides give way all too readily after the stretching they'd received but moments ago.
Wesley groaned at the feeling of the abra's hole once again wrapped his cock in a warm grip that was still impossibly tight, a quality which endured in spite of the thorough stretching the abra had undergone, a testament to his partner's elasticity. Though Wesley did manage to get a few words out amidst the sorts of pleasured, animalistic sounds spilling out of him. "H-how do you even fit it all?"
"All you ever do is doubt me," Arnold replied, eyes unfocused and somewhat distracted, as those of people taking a cock half the size of their body tend to be. "I'm always right. You're such a fucking idiot. It's a good thing you've at least got a fat dick."
After a few seconds and a few inches had passed, Arnold's brain caught up and realised what it was he'd said, and after blinking once or twice, he looked down and saw Wesley looking up at him with an expression of hurt that was enough to shine through even the pleasure provided by the abra wrapped around his cock.
Arnold supposed that might have been a failing of his up-to-now formidable sense of tact. In an attempt to remedy the situation, Arnold apologized the best way he knew how, which was by employing a surge of psychic energy to shove himself all the way down to the base of Wesley's cock.
That had the intended effect. Wesley's eyes went from that unpleasant expression to glossy and lidded as a moan escaped his lips. All around, Arnold felt the reaction was worth the few seconds of gasping, jerking paralysis as his body attempted to cope with being so suddenly crammed full of cock to the point of belly-bulging obscenity. Particularly when it caused his own dick to jump and throb violently in response, gushing a spurt of pre that was so voluminous that it looked like an orgasm in its own right.
It wasn't, of course; Arnold wouldn't dare finish before he'd had a chance to experience Wesley's finish, and cum while getting packed full of the goodra's seed. So in pursuit of that goal, along with him not wanting to risk any more words out of fear of another faux pas, Arnold spent only the minimum amount of time hilted on Wesley's cock—long enough to regain control of his body, that was—before once again using his psychic powers to wrench himself upward.
More slime gushed out from Arnold's tailhole, the lubrication it provided along with the thorough stretching he'd been given providing just the combination he needed to start accelerating. That was the benefit of being a psychic; even though he was certain his legs wouldn't be able to support his own weight in the face of such a thorough reaming, let alone provide the strength needed to sustain it, that had no effect on his mental powers.
Meaning he was free to keep working his whole body up and down Wesley's shaft like a fucksleeve designed for the purpose, slime gushing out alongside a cacophony of lewd, wet noises with every stroke. Grunts and moans added to the soundscape, from pleasure and exertion at once—with, admittedly, more of the latter coming from Arnold than Wesley.
It felt as if it had taken a very long time to reach where they were at. Trying to mate with someone twice your size in obliviation of any and all physical limits has a tendency to make time drag on. Really, though, it had only been a few minutes, and it seemed like it wouldn't last for many more. First timers like Wesley weren't renowned for their stamina, and Arnold had set quite a rapid pace besides. Not quite fever pitch, given he could only stretch so much so quickly, but more than enough to be called fast.
Wesley whined, hands gripping at the carpet, his whole body shaking with the intensity of the sensations he was experiencing. "Arnold, I-I can't…"
"Go ahead, then," Wesley said, voice surprisingly steady, considering he was working his whole body up and down the goodra's shaft like a sextoy. "Fill me up, nerd."
Every time Arnold brought himself down all the way to Wesley's crotch, there was a loud, wet slap as their bodies came together, both of them now thoroughly soaked with the slime exuding from Wesley's every pore. During those brief moments of hilting, Arnold's stomach would look so packed, so ridiculously bulging with cock, that the sight ought to have moved both of them to marvel that he was even capable of fitting it all.
But neither of them paused for even a second. Wesley was barely capable of processing the sight, and Arnold was too fixated on getting more to stop and ponder what he'd already gotten. He'd only stay pressed to the goodra's crotch for a second or two at most before bringing himself up again, that huge cock letting out a wet schlorp as it was dragged out of his ass along a thick layer of slime until there were only a few inches left inside of Arnold—and then, the abra would drive himself down, shoving it all back inside him yet again.
Each time, Arnold could feel Wesley's cock throb and another thick spurt of goo shoot into his guts, adding to what was already there and contributing to the paunch that was quickly beginning to form on his middle, forming a jiggly layer over the bulge of the cock inside him.
That would've been enough for most any pokémon Arnold's size, but Arnold was not any pokémon. All it served to do was whet his appetite for more. His own, far smaller shaft dribbled and throbbed, slapping against his belly with every motion, eagerly awaiting the satisfaction that would only come with being pumped full by a pokémon much larger than he was.
So Arnold threw himself into things with even more gusto in pursuit of that goal he knew was ever so close. His head throbbed from sustaining his psychic powers at so high an intensity, but he didn't care. All he cared about was the stretch in his ass and the way the goodra's cock felt as it rearranged his guts, the wet slaps as their bodies met again and again.
Arnold could feel Wesley tense up beneath him, could see the goodra's face scrunch up and his hands curl up into fists, his whole body going stiff as an iron bar. It would've been hard to better telegraph his finish if he'd tried. And sure, Arnold could have just waited and allowed it to happen, but he had an idea. It was an idea borne of the peculiar combination of strains, the physical strain of using his whole body like a tool purpose built to wring the goodra's cock, the mental strain of making such intense use of his abilities—and perhaps a different sort of mental strain, owing to an obsessive need to be packed full by this goodra, gnawing ceaselessly at his brain.
Which was to say, it wasn't a very good idea. But it was a very creative idea. Arnold split his mental focus, diverting a modicum of psychic energy from moving his own body to send a feeler into Wesley's, a sensing tendril. It had to be a minimal amount of energy by the nature of what it was; trying to root around directly inside of another pokémon like he was doing was delicate work, and it was testament to Arnold's finesse that he was able to do so while being actively reamed.
Thankfully, what he was looking for wasn't too far away and wasn't overly small. Just a few inches deep and a few inches away from Arnold's own body, thanks to their positioning: a fat gland, already swelling and bulging with the force of Wesley's impending orgasm. The dragon's prostate, the source of all that wonderful seed that Arnold ached to be filled with.
He wrapped tendrils of psychic energy around it, ensconcing it in a mental grip, Arnold's mind working at headache-inducing intensity as he raced to finish his work before Wesley popped. Time seemed to slow down. If he'd been able to exert such psychic intensity and control when he wasn't getting pounded, Arnold would probably be a very powerful ‘mon, not to mention far more productive.
But such a thought didn't even cross Arnold's mind, such was his level of concentration and focus. Once he had wrapped Wesley's prostate in a complete grip, his energies shifted. All of the power that had been working towards keeping him moving up and down the goodra's cock dissipated, leaving him sitting with his ass flush against Wesley's crotch, all of his shaft packed deep inside Arnold's guts. That left more than enough strength available to give the goodra's prostate a good, omnidirectional squeeze, invisible force pressing down on it from all sides as Arnold tried to wring it for every drop of fluid the big gooey dragon had to give.
Wesley's eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open, without any sound but the hiss of air escaping his clenched throat. Arnold was awash in the pleasure of being packed so full, the anticipation of becoming even fuller, and the mental strain as he continued squeezing to ensure that ‘fuller' became ‘fullest'—and complete, blitheful ignorance of what was about to happen.
Now, there were plenty aspects of the situation that Arnold was already familiar with. He was well acquainted with the feel of the goodra's slime; he'd gotten it smeared across just about every surface of his body as they ground against each other, and there was plenty more of it that had been shot inside of him over the course of their fucking. A far larger pokémon cumming inside him wasn't anything new either, to say the least.
However, for all of those things that Arnold had already experienced, he hadn't ever done it with a goodra specifically. It had to be said that, for all the partners he'd had, none had ever been as productive as Wesley was. They certainly seemed that way, relative to Arnold's far smaller size, but the abra had never been subject to, say, a water type's torrential finish.
Wesley wasn't a water type, of course, but he could give one a run for its money, a fact Arnold discovered when he felt the first jet of warm, thick slime shoot deep into his bowels with such intensity it felt like getting punched in the gut from the inside. The pressure of the fluid added itself to the bulge in his middle for the briefest moment before splattering apart, adding another centimetre or so of circumference to the round of his belly.
Arnold's eyes bulged. Releasing the little psychic grip he'd established would probably have been wise, but he couldn't—such fine energies wound inside another pokémon had to be carefully untangled, not mindlessly yanked free. Care which he wasn't able to allot while his intestines were being utterly saturated with slimy dragon cum.
Wesley's prostate continued to be squeezed and milked for everything it had as Arnold's mind worked to stop doing so. Another obstacle in the path of that goal came when the goodra's cock pulsed again, sending another spurt of slime pounding against the inside of his belly. There was even more of it this time, his protruding gut pushing out and growing fat with liquid weight by matter of inches, palpably swelling with the volume of Wesley's payload. It spilled out across the goodra's own generous belly, matching it in roundness, threatening to surpass it.
Neither of them were in any state to say anything. Wesley was overwhelmed by the feeling of his first time, of finally getting to cum inside a partner, to say nothing of the prostate squeeze which had kicked things up another few notches still. Arnold's state was self-explanatory: trapped there at the base of Wesley's cock, middle bulging obscenely with the goodra's presence inside him while thick spurts of cumslime saturated his guts and grew his belly larger by leaps and bounds with every pulse, all while his brain worked doubletime to avert psychic disaster. It was a wonder Arnold was even conscious.
Though there was one thing to be said for him: having long since been enveloped by the gurgling mass of his cum gut, Arnold's own cock remained stiff as ever, drooling a non-stop trickle of seed which thickened with the swelling of Wesley's own shaft. A signifier of some base physical pleasure which it was questionable if Arnold was even still aware of, but which remained nonetheless.
More spears of wet warmth shot deep inside Arnold, each pushing the reaches of his belly out further, growing to a size such that he could only just wrap his arms around its bulk—and then beyond. It lost the definition it had from being stretched around Wesley's cock, filled with such an excess of the goodra's seed that it instead hung down off of him, heavy and sloshing with fluid. Arnold was beyond rational thought. His mind had degraded to such a state as matched his body, a near-mindless but nonetheless eminently effective cumdump. His logic centres fired not from higher thought, but from hijacking by his survival instincts, desperately working them in an effort to unweave the psychic threads he'd woven.
Though as incomparably powerful as Wesley's orgasm had proven to be, it was far from endless. In fact, viewed from an outside perspective and not the endlessly dragging seconds experienced by a pokémon caught in the throes of orgasm, it was actually rather short. Longer than most orgasms, sure, but still only a few moments, where were filled by the almost ludicrous ballooning of Arnold's belly with slime. Then, the gradual tapering, less fluid accompanying each pulse of Wesley's shaft, until the very last drops of the stuff oozed their way out of him and into Arnold's egregiously overpacked guts.
But the pressure on his prostate never ceased, squeezing, milking, demanding more. Wesley's cock gave a pulse accompanied by no fluid, completely dry. With his insides no longer being flooded, Arnold actually had the focus necessary to properly draw his mind back into itself.
Another throb, still dry, but still palpable throughout the abra's guts. It didn't matter; it was nothing that Arnold hadn't felt a hundred times before, nothing he couldn't push through. A second more, and…
His connection to the grip inside the goodra's body dissipated. Without Arnold's energies fuelling it, the squeezing on Wesley's prostate would dissipate in seconds. He'd managed to avoid frying either of them from psychic backlash and, more importantly, didn't need to worry about being turned into any more of a cum balloon than he already was.
Or such was the hope. Instead, that ambiguous length of ‘seconds' was enough for a jolt to run through Wesley, along with a gasp which was just as surprised as the one drawn out of Arnold when the abra felt yet another thick spurt of slime saturate his insides. This one was different from the others—everything that had come before was thick just like every drop of slime that was on or in the goodra was thick, but this stuff was thick like sludge. Like a wad of treacle had been shot into his guts, which he could feel not trickling through his bowels to join the rest of the liquid weight sitting in his belly, but slowly rolling through him with a mass all its own.
At least, it seemed that way for a moment, before that rolling slowed as the stuff collected together in one particular spot inside Arnold, hardly any deeper than where it had been pumped inside him to begin with. It was as if the stuff didn't want to move at all. But that lack of motion felt fitting, the capstone on what had proven to be an exhausting experience for both of them, allowing the emergence of a well-deserved, calm afterglow.
Though exhausting didn't mean unenjoyable. As higher thought began its slow trickle back into Arnold's brain, he started realising just how nauseatingly full, stretched, sore, and tired he felt. Like he'd just run a marathon, before… well, he struggled to think of a sufficient analogy for having a belly full of what had to be gallons of goodra cum. There was a word that was apt enough, though: satisfying.
"Nuh," Arnold said. It wasn't quite a word, more of a syllable. His body hadn't quite gotten back to the point of coherent language. He get it another shot. "Not bad f-for your first time, huh?"
Wesley was laid out flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, every muscle in his body having gone completely slack apart from those working to suck in desperate mouthfuls of air. The ugly process of recovering from pushing out what seemed like at least a quarter of his bodily fluids and a third of his soul through his cock. He did, however, muster enough air in between gasps to get out one quick word, breathless and quiet. "Sugoi."
Arnold didn't hear it, or didn't listen to it, or his brain refused to process it either for lack of energy or for the continued pleasure of his post-coitus state. It didn't matter which, the result was the same: the otakuism passed by unnoticed, and what little conversation had sprung up died off, leaving them both to lie there against one another and try to recoup themselves.
Gradually, both of them recovered. Breathing slowed. Real logical thought returned. Wesley's back rather ached from lying on the floor. Arnold was so heavy and bloated from his cum-filled belly that he probably couldn't stand up under his own power.
"Alright, get your cock out of me," Arnold said. "Before I gotta start charging rent."
"Uh," Wesley said, head snapping to attention as his thoughts were pulled from wherever they'd gone and back to the reality of the gravid abra slotted onto his shaft. "I. Don't think that's… a good idea."
Arnold squinted. It was hard to tell when an abra did such a thing, so he crossed his arms for good measure. They rested atop the shelf of his bloated stomach. "Listen, round two will have to wait, unless you're looking to see me burst. Gimme a break, here."
"No, I mean…" Wesley floundered for the right words, before deciding to simply gesture towards Arnold's distended belly with both hands. "You'll make a mess. If I pull out."
Arnold glanced down at himself. He was met by the sight of stretched yellow skin, containing enough jizz to soak and ruin any carpeted living room beyond any and all hope of repair, besides complete reflooring. "Okay. Well. Take me to the bathroom. I hope you got a tub."
"Yeah," Wesley said, beginning the careful and arduous process of pushing himself to his feet while using his hands to keep Arnold pressed flush against his crotch, trying to let as little fluid drip onto the carpet below as possible, besides what had already soaked in. Perhaps the damage was still recoverable. "Well, uh. It's a shower tub. It's one of those tubs that has the shower in it."
"I don't care," Arnold said, legs dangling limp below himself and swaying with the goodra's movements. "I'm gonna unload a whole bunch of cum in it."
"I hope the plumbing can handle it," Wesley murmured.
"Yeah, like I believe you've never yanked it in the shower."
Wesley had no comment.
Arnold laid back in the tub, partially sat up against one end of it so that he wasn't crushed against the size and weight of his own enormous belly.
Wesley was there, too. He stood to the side near the sink, enduring some of the most intense awkwardness he'd perhaps ever felt in his life. He would've stepped outside, but he'd barely even gotten the abra into the tub before the grunting and pushing had started up, so it felt like they were already past the point of courtesy.
As for Arnold, he didn't feel awkward about the situation so much as he felt a whole other swath of emotions. Because, for as boldly and brashly as he'd dealt with everything up to that point, things had started becoming unpredictable and complicated.
He'd been pushing. Things weren't coming. Not a trickle, not a drop, in spite of him not being able to move under the weight of the stuffing he'd received. Which led to one of the assorted emotions: frustration.
"S'not fuckin' working," Arnold grumbled between attempts to expel. "Don't know how you pump a water cooler's worth of cum into someone and none of it comes out."
"Uh." Wesley shifted for a moment like he was about to say something. Then, he crossed his arms and looked to the side—somehow, miraculously, ascending to an even higher level of discomfort.
"No," Arnold said, briefly pausing his efforts to push to twist his body to the side, struggling against the weight of his own gravid middle to do so. He grabbed a hold of the edge of the tub to serve as an anchor, keeping himself facing Wesley while he stared the goodra down. "No, no, please, Wesley. What were you gonna say? Please. I'm all ears. I'm hanging off your every word."
Wesley did not look any more at ease for the encouragement. His eyes remained wandering across the floor, the walls, the towel rack, just about any and every surface and object that was not Arnold's face. "Um. Well. Uh. I didn't think of, or, about this before, but, I think I might have figured out why this… is a thing that happened."
Arnold felt venomous. Regardless of actual mobility, he felt as if his whole being was spring-loaded under immense tension, and at any second he would unleash himself onto Wesley in a lightning storm of fury. But it remained in check, and he spoke with an icy, farcical calm. "Which is?"
Slime was streaking down Wesley's brow. He wrung his hands over and over as he spoke. "Goodra have this thing, and it usually only happens when we breed… like, with a female, I mean. It's called a mating plug? And it, uh. Plugs. Everything inside. To make them pregnant."
Wesley's fingers were gripping the side of the tub hard enough that, were it not for the chitinous plating covering his hands and fingers, his knuckles would've been turning white. "I'm not a female, Wesley."
"I know, but I think when you did that weird…" Wesley, still not looking Arnold in the eye, raised his hands up and clenched his hands into fists. "Squeezing thing, it, uh, made it… happen. Anyway."
Those last words out of Wesley's mouth had grown quieter than the rest, each more than the last, as if tapering off into the silence that then grew to dominate the room.
Arnold didn't stop staring at Wesley. He tried pushing again, this time paying close attention to just what he was feeling inside himself. Arnold could feel the pressure of all the fluid inside him straining to escape—up to some point deep in his guts, some bend or bulwark it pushed against but found no passage through.
Which seemed to be about the same point, Arnold recalled, where he'd felt Wesley shoot that thick sludge inside him, right after it seemed like he'd given all he had to give.
"How long?" Arnold asked.
Wesley scrunched his eyes shut. His hands gripped one another for dear life. It looked like he was in physical pain.
"How long does a mating plug last, Wesley." It wasn't spoken like a question; Arnold spoke with the voice of an officer ordering someone to their death.
A few more seconds passed before Wesley spoke up in a squeaking, almost inaudible whisper. "Nine... teen hours."
Silence. A few seconds passed. Arnold looked to the side, and laid eyes on a soap dish. With a flash of octarine, it violently exploded, sending shards of ceramic shrapnel ricocheting off the walls of the bathtub. The bar of soap that had been resting on it went flying, bouncing off the ceiling and skittering across the floor, coming to a rest behind the toilet.
Wesley reeled back with a squeal, arms shooting up to protect his face from the spray of shards—unnecessarily, as what wasn't stopped by the walls of the tub was caught by the shower curtain, only half-closed, but positioned just right and of a sufficiently thick material to shield him from the debris.
While the goodra cowered, Arnold began struggling to pull himself up and over the side of the tub. "I'm leaving."
"What?" Wesley peeked out from behind his hands. Once he was sure the threat of imminent bodily harm had passed, he straightened up to face Arnold. "No, but, I'm sorry! I didn't know this would happen, I— You can't go out like this, you can barely stand up…"
Wesley moved towards Arnold, arms reaching out to offer some sort of assistance. He didn't get within a foot of the abra's body before his head snapped up and the shouting started. "Don't fucking touch me."
Wesley reeled back. Arnold continued his efforts, though while he'd managed to roll over so that his belly was no longer pinning his legs to the floor of the tub, he'd encountered a new problem: his feet couldn't touch the ground for the sheer size of his gut. And, needless to say, his arms weren't up to the task of pulling his body weight plus however-many extra pounds of goodra slime over the tub wall.
He tried using his psychic powers to lift himself up into the air, to float out of the tub as was his usual mode of transport. He lasted about five seconds, managing to hover just as many centimetres above the floor, before the mental strain was too much and he was forced to dump himself back into the tub with a gasp, his belly jiggling for the effort.
"Can I at least help you out of the tub?" Wesley pleaded.
"No." Arnold's response was whip-quick and as indignant as if the goodra had asked for a round two. He'd leave the apartment or he'd sit in the bathtub for the next nineteen hours, but he was not going to let the goodra touch him with those slimy hands of his out of pity.
Arnold tried a different approach. Rather than trying to lift his entire body into the air, he focused his psychic energy solely on lifting his belly off of the ground, trying to neutralize its weight. Even that much was difficult. His mind ached with fatigue from the non-stop psychic exercise and intricate detailwork of a few minutes ago. The fact that both of which were the reason he was in this mix to begin with didn't escape him.
Though he managed it regardless. Rather than spilling out over the bottom of the tub, his stomach hovered an inch or so above, floating along on a cradle of invisible force. Without it dragging him down, Arnold was able to use the rest of his body to clamber up and over the edge, making use of arms and legs that were just as exhausted as his psychic powers. His whole being, physical and mental, was completely and utterly fucked.
Yet, with herculean effort, Arnold managed the arduous task of mantling the tub wall. Using his psychic powers more to roll than lift his belly, he fenangled it over the edge, straddling and sidestepping over it at the same time to bring his whole body out of the tub and onto the floor. He stood there, successful, mind straining and legs quaking as he put every ounce of mental and physical strength towards keeping himself standing.
"You could stay here until the plug's gone…" Wesley said, quiet, almost whimpering, evoking the energy of a whipped dog—or the fear of becoming one, a punishment for the imposition of offering an alternative to Arnold having to walk home more cum than ‘mon.
Arnold whirled on him, or at least turned at a speed as close to whirling as his physique would permit, eyes shooting daggers. "If I ever see you again, you're gonna be the one with a plug in you, and I'm gonna shove it right down your throat so I won't have to hear you gibber about anime or soda or whatever the fuck. But for now, I'll settle for not having to lay eyes on you anymore, or your godawful decor. So get out of the way of the door before that becomes insufficient for me."
Wesley, in spite of his size, looked increasingly like a very small thing as Arnold went on, shrinking into himself and looking almost on the verge of tears by the time the abra had finished. Him blocking the door hadn't even been intentional so much as a result of him being a big pokémon in a small bathroom, but once the order to do so had left Arnold's lips, Wesley shuffled to the side and squeezed himself as tight to the wall as he was able, trying to give Arnold as wide a berth as was physically possible.
Arnold waddled through his newly afforded walkway with as stern a disposition as he could muster. His arms clung to the sides of his jiggling gut, trying to steady it and relieve some slight pressure off his psychic abilities, though he didn't much succeed at either. There was too much cum inside him for it to do anything but slosh around with his every movement. Wesley slipped into step behind him, following as silently as possible, needing to take tiny, slow steps to match the bloated abra's speed.
They came to the front door. It was closed. Arnold stared up at it, at the handle which, were he hovering as usual or had he the psychic focus to spare for its operation, would pose him absolutely no problem at all.
"Get the door," Arnold grunted, trying to keep the strain out of his voice without much success.
"You can't—"
"Get the door."
To his credit, Wesley hesitated. For a moment, it almost seemed like he was going to make some sort of real protest against Arnold walking home with a belly full of cum that had to weigh almost as much as the rest of him. But after a few seconds, with a sad little sigh, he reached over Arnold and grabbed the handle, swinging the door open.
Arnold didn't give Wesley a parting word or a parting glance. He walked out the doorway, turned the corner, and started down the hallway towards the exit. He turned into the stairwell and started down the steps.
Then, as soon as he was past the first flight of stairs and was sure he was out of sight of Wesley's apartment, he staggered over to the wall and dropped to the ground. He dropped his psychic hold on himself, flopping forward against the mass of his distended belly spilling out over the ground, using it as a cushion.
He'd made it less than fifty metres. There was still half a kilometre back to his house. There was still almost twenty hours left of being cripplingly seeded with thick goodra cum.
It was going to be a long day.
Tags: abra, anonymous commissioner, anus, belly, big belly, commission, cum, cum inflation, dubious consent, goodra, large sub, nsfw, penis, pokemon, power bottom, sequence, sketch, small dom, story