Ed 1

It's the same dream, as always. I come in the side door by the garage. The power's off, and the scene is lit by many candles. There are nine guys there plus Shelia, my wife. Everybody's naked and sweaty. She's on the pool table, and five of the guys are fucking her. One pounds into her, while she jacks off two, and she does oral sex with two more. Despite the grunting and groaning, and having her mouth full of cock, I hear her laughing and talking with the other naked men surrounding the table. She and they are planning my torture and eventual murder. Somehow, nobody sees me. I look at the guys gang-banging my beautiful wife. She has jism on her face and on her boobs. There is a pool of jism under her pussy. The men have cum on her and in her, before I arrived. The man inside her, and both of the guys in her red lipsticked mouth cum, and their sperm jets out, adding to the mess on her body. The guys standing around, waiting their turn, begin to yawn and then slump down. Then the men on the table start to fall asleep, drooping over her now comatose body. The new guy in her jerks once, shoots his load on her face, and falls across her body. Now nobody is moving. There's no groaning. The sleeping turns to death. I walk around the side of the pool table, stepping over the dead naked bodies, and look at the softly glowing wood stove. I hear a noise off to my left, and slowly turn. Somehow, my formerly beautiful wife has managed to face me. I can see the ropes of adulterous sperm on her face and in her hair, and her mouth drools with yet more spent liquid manhood. She says, softly, "you bastard, you killed me."

Then I snap awake.

* * * * * * *

My name is David Yeason. That's pronounced 'Dah-VEED.' I'm fairly tall, medium build, not real athletic, sandy hair and green eyes. I have a M.S. in cryogenic physics (that means real cold stuff, like in liquid oxygen). I'm nothing special, just a guy, with a technical degree, a pretty and younger wife, a house and a good job (I thought).

I even had the usual hobbies. I owned a house, and the mortgage was fully paid off. I put in a game room, with a pool table as a centerpiece. I installed a wood-burning stove, running the flue into the disused chimney from the bricked-up fireplace. I played some guitar, and rode a motorcycle.

However, both my father's grandfather and my mother's mom had diabetes. When I was 42, last year, I was diagnosed with Type 2 adult onset diabetes. With just a little care for my diet, and some more effort devoted to getting some exercise, and a couple of well-known drugs, I had my blood sugar under control. With one exception, the side effects were minimal. I could still work, as a cryogenics materials analyst.

There was just one problem, which surfaced right after my birthday. Fairly quickly, over about six months before the diagnosis, I started to become impotent. Yeah, I know, we're all supposed to say 'Erectile Dysfunction.' Can it! I had more and more trouble getting it up, and keeping it up. Limp-noodle syndrome.

First I tried soft porn. Then XXX porn. Then the little blue pill. Then two pills. Then the yellow pill. Then a cock ring. More gonzo porn. Then the pump (horrible contraption). Nothing worked.

I could still jerk off, although with a pretty limp pecker, so, with a lot of effort, I could still cum.

Finally, floppy doodle went to town, riding as a cuckold.

This last was the hardest to bear. Sheila, my wife—tanned, blonde, and beautiful to my eyes, with the nicest set of hard-nippled breasts I'd ever seen—was never one to give up much sex to me, but as I declined in performance, she started to get the 'itch.' As I couldn't do it more and more, she started to wear less and less in the house, demanding more and more penetrative sex, teasing me about my droopy organ, and dropping broad hints about taking on a younger lover 'who could get it up.'

That drove me crazy, of course, which is what she wanted. The few times I'd get it up, she let me use my cock on her, but she started demanding longer and longer foreplay and longer penetrative-thrusting, and then I'd 'run out of steam,' which left her unfulfilled (she said), and also led to more taunting.

Then, suddenly, my boss at work started finding excuses for him and his two jock sons to get me out of town: conferences, demonstrations of our super-cold specialty manufacturing of exotic-metal super-conductors. Maybe I'm a little slow, but it took me about a dozen trips away from home, before I came back one morning, and saw/smelled a little puddle of spilled semen the 'clean-up crew' had missed.

So I confronted Sheila, and she laughed in my face. She stripped off the sheer panties (all she usually wore around the house, lately), and held open her pussy lips. I saw a thick, grey material oozing out, and the odor was of spilled jism.

I turned and left the house, swearing divorce. When I got to work, to hand in my resignation, my boss and his two hulking sons met me. Both of the young men were holding me down on the floor, laughing and making bets as to how long 'it' would take. Their father dripped liquid nitrogen on my left calf, freezing the skin and muscle down to the bone. Then they took up a hammer and hit the frozen flesh, shattering it into little pieces. They held up the Dewar flask containing the rest of the liquid gas, positioning it over my face and groin.

The message was clear. No divorce. No public fuss. No separation. My quiet cuckoldry, going on forever. My injury was written off as a 'lab accident.' And my wife's willing pussy available to them, and whoever men they and she wanted to bring in to the party. "It" only took about two minutes. Ever since that moment, I've walked with a limp, because the muscle, nerve, and ligaments never regenerated. I had to sell the motorcycle, because I couldn't shift or hold the bike upright with that leg.

Sheila's parties got more and more intense, adding a man or so every month, and getting increasingly kinky. She started to love anal sex, which I never had from her. Then bondage. Then a little pain. Finally she started threatening the major humiliation, making me serve her on my knees, enforced by her toughs with stun-guns, in front of all her lovers, as they humped her.

I thought about murder, revenge and suicide. I thought about my boss, his two thug sons, and about the accountant and company lawyer that I discovered were among the fucking crew.

I thought about my position as their sole laboratory exotic materials analyst. I thought about being left alone with a lot of specialty materials and metals. I thought about it a lot.

Then, skimming the internet, doing cryogenic exotic-metals research, I started following personal leads and surfing. I came across a men's group, and cybered with other guys who had the same ED problem. I got referred to a men's sex clinic on the East Coast, in New Jersey, near Philadelphia. I called them, and made an appointment.

I generated some kind of excuse. A 'conference,' I think. It really didn't make much difference, because the more I was away, the more Sheila and her now-nine guys could play. Nine horny men ... three times each ... that's at least 27 loads of spurting manhood dumped into the cum-slut I was chained to, every couple of nights.

I charged up the wood-burning stove with charcoal, grease-sticks and kindling for an easy lighting and long, slow burn, just like I always did, in case the power went out in a storm, as it often did and pulled her bathrobe off the damper lever, where she always left it. I left the house in the morning, and then after a couple of local errands, I caught my flight out in the late afternoon.

It was early in 2006. From Mansfield, Ohio to Columbus, and then to Philadelphia, PA, by air. I kept the receipts, just like I always did, for submission to the company accountant. I was greeted by nippy winter weather, and a weather prediction that promised a major storm to hit the mid-west. A cab into town, and another cab out to New Jersey, To a motel that the physician had recommended, right across from the office building where the clinic was. Some deliveries and more receipts.

I did the usual, eating and watching TV, and trying to sleep. Plus imagining what was happening inside my house, as nine strong young men repeatedly emptied their bulging sperm sacks over, on and up inside her, plus sucking cocks and a lot of screaming, near-continuous orgasms. I could even imagine what they were saying to each other, during the 'breaks' when she went to bathe and clean up, before being mounted again ... and again ... and again.

The next morning, I had my first appointment. The usual medical history and some rushed lab work. I had an encounter with a 'doppler machine,' whatever that was, which was supposed to measure my penile blood flow.

But when the technician (a guy) suddenly grabbed my dick, and I heard a 'SNAP,' that took me off guard. I was told to lay there. After a time, he came back, and re-measured my 'doppler blood flow.'

I left the office in a state of semi shock, with instructions to return the next morning, with a half-erected cock (more than I usually had, but not enough to do anything with). Also with a bad case of 'dick ache,' which I told the physician about, that thankfully went away in a few hours.

I picked up a delivery at the hotel—several dozen heavy plastic bottles filled with high-purity metallic granules, sent by FedEx Overnight—and dealt with them.

I spent another night in the motel, alternating between dozing and thoughts of revenge and murder.

The weather channel said that there was a major winter storm over central Ohio, where I lived, and that the roads and airports were closing or had already closed.

I was back in the clinic by 10:00 AM the next morning. I detailed my 'dick ache,' and the doctor just nodded. Then he grinned, saying, "it looks like you're going to be joining The Bi-Mix Club."

The 'Club' turned out to be men who used penis injection to get an erection. The doctor even chuckled as he told me of a song one of his other patients had made up, about the experience.

A song? Injection? About having a stainless-steel spike driven into my tender manhood?

Bi-Mix No. 9

I went to the clinic, to score blue pills,

You know, that men's sex clinic, up in Cherry Hill.

They've got a practice that serves guys really fine,

And seven little bottles of ... Bi-Mix No. 9.

I told 'em that I had a floppy dick.

It started 'way back in 1996.

Doc looked at my Johnson and he made the 'OK' sign.

He said, "What you need is ... Bi-Mix No. 9."

Doc bent down, turned around, and gave it a flick.

He said, "I'll inject it right here in your prick."

He's gonna what? – in my what what!

I felt the stab; I felt the push; I got firm dick!

My shaft got so hard it felt like steel,

I finally had an iron rod that felt so real,

But when I made my girl squeal,

Four hours at a time,

She broke my little bottle of ... Bi-Mix No. 9

Something about bi-mix. What's that?

Doc said, "Here's the definition: Bi-mix: (BYE-mix) When two drugs are mixed for injection into the penis, to produce an erection. It usually refers to a mixture of papaverine and phentolamine."

"Injected," I screamed faintly?

"Well, don't panic," the doc said, "it's not as bad as it sounds. You'll use a really small needle, about the size of a hair. The skin along the side of the penis is a lot less sensitive than up at the head. You'll use only about a small drop of bi-mix, each time."

"What happens then," I quivered.

"Why, you'll get an erection. It takes a little time—about 10 to 15 minutes—so you'll have to plan out your sex. No more quickies, I'm afraid. You have to give up spontaneous sex, so you'll have to plan ahead. Over time, you'll figure out how much to use on a given occasion, but it's a lot less than 1 milliliter, which is a pretty small amount to inject."

"You mean I have to stick a needle into my own dick?" I asked, eyes bulging out, and feeling sick.

The doctor smiled, and said, "well, yes and no. Yes, you'll have to get the drug mixture under the skin of your penis, but, no, you don't have to stick it 'way in, or push the plunger yourself." He held up a plastic thing, a whole lot like a really big blue plastic marker for making bold lines on paper.

"This is an auto-injector. You load the syringe into it like this," as he showed me how. "Then you cock back this spring, and press the blunt end to your penis, along the side. I've drawn up a trial dose, probably larger than you'll usually use."

"Ok, now, touch this button."

I reached out, and, SNAP.

He pulled the plastic gadget away, showing me the hair-like little needle protruding from the end.

Doc said, "You just injected yourself with bi-mix. Any pain?"

I shook my head 'no,'

"Well, that's about it. Dispose of the used syringe and needle safely, into this red container. You've probably got 40-60 injections in this little vial bottle, and that'll cost $100 each. That's 40-60 erections!"

He went on a bit, teaching me about injection site sterility, and the use of alcohol pads, and alternating sides of my penis, and the location of the injection points.

Then he grinned, and said, "look down."

I had a HUGE ERECTION. The biggest ever I've had, since I was 20 years old. I felt like I could hammer a nail into a piece of hardwood with that erection. I had a boner of steel.

In something of a daze, I paid my bill, gathered up my sack of supplies—syringes, bottle of bi-mix, alcohol pads, the auto-injector, and written instructions—and headed for the clinic's door.

Doc called after me, still grinning, saying, "oh, yeah, by the way, better pick up some kind of decongestant. I gave you a few, but you'll need more, cause you're gonna be erect for four to six hours, no matter what you do, or who you do it with. It won't matter how often you cum, you're going to be completely erect for quite a while. If it starts to ache, take two to four of the decongestants, and that'll bring it down ... eventually. But, remember, you're 'up' for the next four hours at least."

He added, as the door closed, "have fun."

I looked down at my trousers. Despite the cold weather, I had on lightweight pants, because my winter coat was long, and the hotel was just across the street. But now I had a 'tent' in my pants, and no matter how I tried to arrange things, it poked out.

Back when I was a functioning guy, I never was small. I once measured my cock, from the pubic bone along to the tip, when I was erect and really excited, and I measured out at 8½". Now, I probably had that again, and with an organ that felt like it could have held up two damp towels, or that I could have rammed through a door.

The elevator in the building was achingly slow, but finally the doors opened, and I got on ... to discover to my embarrassed horror that there was another passenger already there. The enclosure was small, and so was the door opening. I had to turn sideways to get me, my sack of sex gear and my massive dong into the space.

Turning to face my riding partner of the moment, I said ...

Damn, what can you say to a younger-than-you African-American girl in a business suit and skirt, braids around her head, standing nearly face-to-face, in an elevator and sporting a monster boner?

So I stuttered and gulped. The doors closed, and the elevator started. Up! Ah, damnit, I hadn't looked to see if it was going down. Certainly I wasn't going down, anytime soon. As the car slowly went up toward the top floor, I felt her giving me a disdainful eye, up and down, as I tried to say the usual, "hi, howyadoin'?"

Her gaze stopped when it reached my 'tent,' and I saw her eyes widen just slightly. She said nothing.

The elevator stopped at the 8th floor, and the doors slowly creaked open, to reveal an un-occupied space. No heat, even. She hit the 'stop' button, to hold us at that floor.

My elevator partner stooped to pick up what I suddenly saw was a carton. My 'damsel-in-distress' thing kicked in, and I said, "Miss, can I give you a hand with that stuff?"

I got another long, considering look ... and then a smile and a nod. I bent to pick up the box, to discover that it was someone's collection of cement collectables. I could only grunt it into a long arm position, with my hands grasping the box handles. The top of the box was just below my bulging erection, and my length rested on the surface, making it even more obvious that I had a 'protrusion problem.'

She gestured, and I staggered the box about twenty feet, to a pile of other boxes. When I came back, she was struggling with a second box, and going nowhere. When I hefted this box into position, I would have sworn that there was a dark female fingertip that momentarily pressed into the top of my tented trousers, I really couldn't tell.

A dozen of the boxes later, and the job was done. Between lifting trips, I looked over at her. Very dark skin, almost blue-black, like folks from Senegal have. Dark black hair, in a long braid, coiled around her head. Lightly made up. Full breasts (I hoped), but concealed under a woman's business suit and blouse. Dark grey wool skirt. Dark stockings or pantyhose. Dark shoes, with modest heels. Earrings, a necklace of thin gold, but no wedding ring.

After the last box was placed, I went up to her, and she didn't shy away.

"I'm David. That's two syllables," I said.

"Shayla. Two syllables," she replied, and then, after a several seconds pause, she added, "and, thanks to your help, I'm doin' fine."

Then, a long, slow grin came over her face, as she pointed to my tented trousers and said, "doesn't that hurt?"

A thousand lines crossed my mind in a second or two, but I settle on the exact truth. "No. It feels wonderful. The best I've had in a lot of years."

I added, very carefully, "Shayla, you're safe. Please don't worry."

She continued grinning, and said, "I stopped being concerned about the third box you carried for me," adding, as if it were the most natural thing, "you came from the sex clinic, down on the fourth floor?"

"Yeah," I stuttered, not wanting this encounter to end, and not knowing how to keep it going.

She solved it for me, releasing the elevator from the 'stop' position. Grasping my arm and guiding me around the pile of boxes to a point just out of sight of the slowly closing elevator doors.

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to kiss her. To put my hands on her breasts. To reach under her skirt and find her pussy. To cum in my pants.

So I did nothing, fluttering my hands, and probably looking like a fool.

"Look at me," she said.

I looked. She held up her hands, and my gaze fixed on them. She slowly dropped her fingers down to my pants, and pulled down my zipper. The cool fingertips found their way past the waistband of my skivvies, and onto the hot shaft of my erected penis.

Suddenly, it was out in the cool air.

"Look at me," she said again, as she dropped her eyes to my throbbing, jerking manhood. She made an 'O' of her forefinger and thumb, and draw her hand down the shaft. A drop of pre-cum was forming on the penis tip, and she caught it on her fingertip, then licked it off with a quick tongue flick. I don't think I've ever seen anything more erotic to that moment, as she whispered, "that's the most beautiful erect penis I've ever seen."

She added, "I've never dated a white boy."

"I've never dated a black girl," I quivered, "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do."

Shayla smiled up at me, and said, "David, two syllables, you're doing just fine. We're going to be good friends."

Still holding to my rigid, sex-crazed manhood, she raised up on tiptoe and kissed me, long and slow, with lots of tongue. Slow and not hurried at all. When that broke, for breath, she gracefully kneeled and kissed my erected penis. Not a blow job. Not a hand-job. This was an equally long, slow kiss, covering the knob head, with a little vacuum, and a lot of tongue.