Another half-inch since last time. It's still growing. Stupid fucking cock. I don't even remember what "only" six inches feels like anymore. That's the smallest I ever measured, before puberty -- a really late puberty -- went into overdrive. I started getting horny more often, really horny... so much that I couldn't always concentrate on class, or on homework, or even on games. Instead I paid a lot more attention to my cock. And when you spend so much time looking at something, touching something, you pick up on small... developments. I remember thinking something was off, and reaching for a ruler -- a ruler which has since earned a permanent spot by the bedside.
Six and a half inches. If I flexed really hard, I could almost reach seven. I figured I must have been really pent-up. After all, I was producing a lot more than ever before; the messes were getting really annoying to clean. That night was no exception. But the next morning, I measured again, and it was still six and a half. Maybe even a little bit more. At the time, I welcomed the extra length, being really horny and all -- in fact, I jerked right off again. In hindsight, a half-inch was a pitifully small amount to get so excited about, but I didn't think my growth spurt had anything left in it.
Every day since then, I'd wake up to really intense morning wood; I started setting my alarm 30 minutes early to give me time to jack off and recover from the afterglow. Sometimes, "recover" just meant "pass out for a while", and I was late to school embarrassingly often. My parents, in their innocent concern, were looking into insomnia medication for me, and it was torture trying to explain to them that I didn't think I needed any, without outright saying "It's because I cum too hard." That's when I started to feel bad about my condition, but at the time, I blamed myself, since this happens to all boys, and I was just handling it really irresponsibly, right?
The next problem I noticed was being hard all the time. Morning wood is one thing, but then I'd get on the bus, and every little bump in the road roused my cock. I started sitting in the very back to give me time to soften up before I had to alight. Daydreaming was dangerous for me; it's like "the game", don't think about it. Don't think about sex. Don't think about cum. Don't think about tits. Well, you can't help it; my mind would drift to those things occasionally, whether I liked it or not, and then bam, I was chubbing again. More than once I had to feign rifling through my backpack instead of getting up at the bell, until my dick went back down. I stopped looking people in the eye, especially if they were cute, because I was scared of putting myself in an awkward situation.
I don't know exactly how long it took, but in a couple weeks, I measured up to seven inches, without even trying anymore. An inch of growth in, like, a month doesn't sound too horrible, especially if it were to stop right there, but I suddenly felt ashamed and insecure of my "package"; a decent chunk of my life revolved around hiding it in public, and stroking it in private. I certainly didn't want to be any bigger.
I remember the first time I broke down in school and scurried to the restroom to masturbate. I'd thought about doing it several times that month, and each time I told myself that was a line I didn't want to cross. But as you can see, it didn't take long for me to give in. My brain was especially foggy, and I spent four periods thinking more about ejaculation than about class, so, in a haze, I excused myself to the restroom. Everyone was gracious enough not to comment on my weird hunchback-penguin walk out of the classroom, and I didn't hear an explosion of laughter or anything once I closed the door, but I still felt the weight of thirty pairs of eyes on my shoulders.
The thought of those eyes being fixed to my crotch was... mortifying. But my crotch liked the idea, and flexed with all its might against my pants, until I fell to my knees in discomfort, cupping it with both hands. After wincing on the ground for several seconds, I got to my feet and flew into the nearest men's restroom.
Empty. Okay. I picked the farthest stall and got as comfortable as I could after making sure the door was securely locked. I unzipped, then unbuttoned my jeans, and pulled down the band of my underwear... I had to pull it really far before my cock impatiently sprang out. It throbbed repeatedly, like it was gasping for air... but it really wanted to be choked. I didn't have time to play around, so I gripped it firmly until the reddening flesh started to balloon out, and I aggressively shoved my hands up and down. It wasn't sexy. But it was working. And it was gonna get messy. It was rapidly bubbling up inside me, so I glanced over towards the toilet paper...
There was none. Fuck!
I could go in the can, but... but... it was too late. Precum was already seeping out, like a pot of water boiling over. I flexed once, and triggered my biggest orgasm yet, as a massive rope flew across the stall, striking the door across from me with an audible "splat". And then, whatever control I had over my body was gone in that moment; I tensed up again, and threw another rope, just as the previous one began rolling towards the ground, and dripping off the edge of the door. My body kept tensing involuntarily, causing more white fluid to dribble down in front of me.
And then the bell rang. I could hear students immediately taking control of the hallways once more, with some surely approaching the restrooms. I was stuck. I was still a mess, there was no way for me to dry myself enough to throw my clothes back on, and run out of the restroom before people walked in. I'd have to wait, and be late for my next class, and awkwardly retrieve my backpack from the other room...
Footsteps began to crawl in. A not-insignificant number of people visibly stopped in front of my stall, surely to gawk at the puddles just under the door, and still forming. Some laughed. Others voiced disgust. A couple called their friends over to snicker about it. One person's voice rang out in my head, "Don't step over there." I kinda wanted to crawl in a hole and die.
After next period started, the restroom was empty once more, and it was safe for me to run out, but not before grabbing some paper towels and shoving them down my pants. I had to make haste in case the custodian was alerted. I felt bad for him, having to clean up such a disgusting mess; then I just felt bad at myself. I really wanted to swear off fapping altogether.
I did it again as soon as I got home. And again before bed. That day, I realized, this is not what most boys go through.
Not much later that semester, I unceremoniously crossed the seven-and-a-half-inch mark. Around then, I started to measure on a daily basis -- what I used to do out of morbid curiosity became a routine to document my condition. If it weren't for that, it would actually be pretty hard to know day-to-day whether I had stopped growing or not; the change was slight enough, over time, that I would wake up and see what I saw the day before. I didn't bother measuring my loads -- it's not like I wanted to start cumming in beakers -- but I could tell they were consistently getting more plentiful. I went from two-and-some ropes per session, to three, even four, and each rope was longer. I also masturbated more often, going from once a day to three or four times, sometimes even five. I kept waking up early for my morning session, and sometimes I did it again in the shower, since the water peppering my cock always got me riled up, and I didn't ever want to leave the house that way. I tried not to use the school restroom anymore... but I can't say I never did it again. I pledged to clean up after myself, though. I for-sure did it again when I got home, every day, and again before sleeping. It was a sick dependency -- I couldn't sleep unless it was by a powerful cum laying me out.
It was becoming even harder to maintain a low profile at school. Plenty of days were uneventful, and even though my grades were dropping because I couldn't pay attention, I was grateful for those days -- nothing embarrassing happened. But my libido got stronger and my hair-trigger only got worse. One morning, the bus seemingly sought out every chuck & pothole in the road, which had me absolutely stewing. I sat on edge, my fingers were digging into the upholstery, and my penis was pinning my jeans to the back of the seat in front of me.
And then it happened. We hit a massive bump at a careless speed. Most of the passengers got a little airtime, myself included, which caused my crotch to mash against the seat back, itself violently shaking from the impact.
I came. No hesitation. A white bead at the edge of my pants quickly expanded into a wad of slime, forced straight through the denim. While everyone else was whooping and hollering, and the bus driver yelling at everyone to sit down, I was doubled over, cusping my crotch and feeling very raw.
Once the bus came to a stop, I slowly pulled my hands away... fuck. There was a huge damp spot, not to mention some residue left on the seat. Ever since the bathroom incident, I had tissues packed with me to wipe down the surfaces, but how was I gonna get through the day without looking like I pissed myself? Instead of wearing my backpack on my back, I spent the day carrying it in front of me, looking like the resident Dick-in-a-Box Guy. Dick-in-a-Bag. Whatever.
That night, I noticed I'd already edged out past eight inches, a little. It was kinda bruised and swollen for a while, which certainly didn't help, but still. It finally sunk in that this problem was literally only going to get bigger. I know it's stupid, but I was too afraid to tell my parents or see a doctor. I wasn't ready to own up to my depraved behavior, even if they were understanding about it. I didn't expect any sympathy. Unfortunately, that meant I just kept doing it, kept fucking up...
Jeans, khakis, tight pants became impossible to wear. I was holding out as long as I could stand, thinking that they would bind my cock down to look less obscene, but over winter, I crept up to, and then past, the eight-and-a-half mark, and it hurt too much. Of course, my dong wasn't 8.5 inches while soft, but I could never make it a full day soft. It was sweatpants only for me. I got a sweatshirt to go with it, since it was cold out anyway, and I ended up making a very helpful discovery: You know how zip-up jackets, coats, and so on can kinda "bulge" while you're sitting down, making it look like you've got an erection? I started wearing my sweatshirt over my crotch, and felt instant relief. It was baggy enough that no one would suspect anything, and it gave my stupid cock room to breathe. It was a foolproof solution... at least until the weather got hot again, and until my dick... grew bigger...
... Was it really never gonna stop? I couldn't overcome my anxiety about becoming unsustainably large. I had a lot of years left, at roughly four to six inches a year... the prognosis seemed really miserable. I decided I'd have to get surgery one day, but I'd have to save up the money first, or get a job with good insurance. But how would I ever find a job without dressing up for interviews? I couldn't wear dress pants with a foot of cockmeat; I already couldn't wear most pants and it wasn't even that long yet. I'd probably be able to file for disability, but that would be the most pitiful government application ever...
I bought myself some time with the sweatshirt before I'd have to answer those questions. If I was lucky, I would actually stop growing before then.
Well, I didn't get any luckier before the holiday break, that's for sure. My sister came back from university for a couple weeks around Christmas. Our parents were both cheery and hugged her at the front door; I couldn't even face her, let alone get up and greet her. I think they genuinely worried that I didn't love her anymore, or that I was just being an angsty little brat, or something. I just didn't want to have an incident in front of her. I wanted nothing more than for her to come and go without incident; that way, if shit did hit the fan later, it'd be while she was out of town again; otherwise, how would she even be able to look at me the same way again? Or I her?
