Topic: The Engineer - by Galpha567
Source: http://metabods.com/mbxx/php/fetch_stor … ry_ref=295
tags (highlight to reveal): M/M, dicknipples, cocktongue
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The Engineer
By Galpha567
Slowly, my eyes drift open. I’m staring up at a plain white ceiling crisscrossed by pipes, electrical wiring, and fluorescent lights. I try to sit up, but I’m unable to. My entire body feels relaxed—like it’s still half-asleep. I try to turn my head to one side, but I can’t do that, either. All I can do is move my eyes. All I can see is the ceiling.
I start to panic. Why can’t I move? What happened? Did I have an accident? Was I hit by a car while out on my jog? Am I in a hospital? No—hospital ceilings don’t look so… industrial. And they don’t smell musty like this. Where am I?
“Ah, you’re awake. Good.” The voice that says this is somewhere to my right, just out of my eyesight. I hear footsteps approach, and, soon enough, a man appears. He looks to be in his mid-forties, with weathered good looks and dark brown hair cropped short. He’s in dark jeans and a black tank top which shows off two very nice-looking arms. My eyes linger on them briefly before I remember myself. I look up to find him grinning at me, and my face flushes. I go back to staring at the ceiling and decide he’s not a doctor.
He moves closer to me. He seems to be studying my torso intently. He raises a gloved hand and prods me gently in the stomach. I can’t see his touch, but I can feel it on my bare skin.
Someone must have taken off my shirt.
He looks into my eyes, and the grin is back. “Have you nothing to say?” he asks.
Up until this point I hadn’t even thought about speaking. I try to ask him where I am, but I can’t move my lips.
His expression softens. “Of course—how stupid of me. The paralysis hasn’t worn off yet.” He looks from my face up to the ceiling. “Perhaps you’d like a better view.” He strides quickly along the table, past my head, somewhere out of my limited field of vision. I hear a few beeps, and my torso begins to rise upward. Apparently I’m on some kind of mechanical lounge chair. As I’m raised up, I can see more and more of the room. It doesn’t get any better than the ceiling. Everything is bare white walls, wires, and pipes. There’s a large machine in the corner, whirring away. It looks like it popped out of a 1960’s sci-fi movie. A series of tubes and wires lead from it to my table, where—once again—they pass outside of my sight. There’s nothing else on this side of the room that I can see. No doors, no windows, nothing.
I shift my focus to myself. Someone took off my shoes and socks. My feet lie helplessly on the end of whatever I’m on. It looks like a stainless-steel table. I examine my legs. They’re as nicely shaped as ever. (I try to stay fit—and am successful, if I may say so. I was attracted to the man’s arms, not envious.) I can’t see any signs of injury, but I also can’t see anything more than a couple inches above my knees.
“My, but you are beautiful,” the man says, moving back into the picture. Shocked, I stare at him. He smiles at me. “I’ve been admiring you for a while, you know. You run past my house at six almost every day, just like clockwork.” His eyes drift, tracing every muscle of my body. He licks his lips. I would tense up, but I’m still paralyzed. I need to get out of here. I try, desperately, to move some part of my body—to make some noise—anything!
But I fail.
As if sensing my panic, possibly from the rapid movement of my eyes, the man takes a step closer. He leans forward and regards me with affection. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t hurt you. In fact, I’m sure there are some who would kill to be in your exact position right now.” I can only stare at him in response. Unfazed, he continues. “You see, I’m a genetic engineer. More specifically, I’m an expert in regenerative science—that is, how bodies regrow lost limbs and things like that.”
“Wuh.”
He’s almost as shocked as I am at this small vocalization. “Marvelous,” he says. “Your body is recovering much faster than I ever could have expected. Unfortunately, this means some adjustments must be made.” He turns back to the invisible control panel and presses another button. Two metal restraints slide out of the table to either side of my ankles and noiselessly slip around them. I feel similar sensations around my wrists, wherever they are. I am now pinned to the table.
“Wuh…t,” I say. God, I sound like I’ve been drinking novocaine!
“Yes?”
“What… are… you… going to do… to me?” Each word is a struggle and slightly slurred, but I make myself understood.
He laughs. The humor of the situation escapes me. He slides both of his gloves off, one at a time. His eyes shimmer. “I’m going to pleasure you like you’ve never been pleasured before.”
As the man moves towards the end of the metal table, I feel both fear and arousal. A part of me wants the police to burst through the door I know must be behind me immediately, but another part of me wants them to wait another thirty minutes or so. Regardless of my feelings, though, I can do nothing but watch.
The man walks down to my feet. He gently lays his hands upon them and begins to massage them. His hands are warm and slightly calloused. They feel nice—strong, but gentle. I catch a soft moan before it escapes my lips and silently curse myself. I know I should be more freaked out by this man’s actions! I blame my mild arousal on the drugs floating around in my system, then I settle back into the wonderful massage I’m receiving.
He suddenly crouches down and presses his face against my soles, rubbing them against his stubble. This time I do moan. The man moans, too. “You have no idea what’s coming,” he says, still cradling my feet against his face. “I’m so excited.” He kisses each foot lovingly, then he stands back up and takes a step around the table to my left. He runs his hands along my left leg, pausing briefly at my thigh, massaging the muscle there. He leans down and kisses it. Then he runs his tongue along the each groove from my knee to my waist, caressing my inner and outer thigh with his hands as he does so. (This alerts me to the fact that my running shorts have been removed as well.)
At this point I expect him to reach over and touch my penis, but he doesn’t even get close. Instead, he continues with his tongue along my abs, licking the groove between each as if it were filled with honey. His hands work the area just below my pecs and to either side, tracing the outlines of each muscle. He then runs his hands up across my armpits and along my biceps (my arms must be extended above my head) and settles his face in the groove between my pecs. He inhales deeply and rubs his stubble gently up and down. I can smell cedar in his hair. His calloused palms continue to knead my arms like warm dough.
Through all of this, I’m barely keeping control of myself. I’ve long since lost the will or the means to prevent an erection. I can feel all eight inches of myself standing proud somewhere beyond the man’s body, begging—throbbing—for attention. I focus all of my will on keeping my mouth shut. I refuse to moan again. I’m successful, too—barely—although his hands against the underside and sides of my pecs felt especially good.
He lifts his face and looks into my eyes. “Here we go,” he whispers.
I have just enough time to wonder whether he’ll go for my cock now when he rises slightly and returns his hands to the undersides of my pecs. He slowly rubs the spaces there, where each firm muscle meets the rib cage. Back and forth, his fingertips glide. Back and forth. Each slow stroke sends shivers through me, electrifying my chest with an expectancy I’ve never felt before. I don’t know what it means.
He moves his electrifying touch to the outer edges of my pecs, repeating the same number of strokes before bringing his fingers around to my upper chest. He then gently caresses my upper chest in circles with his fingertips, just below my collarbone, brushing my skin so gently that it almost feels like feathers. The circles he traces gradually move downward, leaving nothing but desire in their wake.
I close my eyes, relishing the sensation. I’ve had my fair share of experience with sex, but I’ve never felt anything like this before. Slowly the man’s fingers inch closer to my nipples, and each newly-traced circle brings with it some new sensation of pleasure—of impatience. My nipples are hard—I didn’t even know my nipples could get hard. Before now I had always thought of them as nothing but small, pink disruptions in the otherwise uniformly-colored expanse of my chest.
But now they feel different. They call out for attention. They need his touch. I need his touch. I need him to rub them and pinch them. I need it bad.
He stops. I open my eyes and look up at him more eagerly than I’d like to admit. If possible, his expression is almost as needy as my own. He’s staring at my chest intently, breathing quickly. His fingertips are still pressed into the muscle there.
“Wh—” I begin.
“Shh,” he interrupts, never moving his gaze from my pecs. “Focus on the feelings in your chest. Can you feel it? Close your eyes and feel it.”
Obediently, I close my eyes again and focus on my pecs. They feel warm and big—like I’m experiencing the best pump of my life. I can feel his fingertips pressing against the muscle gently, and I imagine sexual energy moving from those fingers into my chest, invigorating the muscles beneath. My nipples especially feel this energy, seemingly growing even harder. I feel the man remove his fingers from my chest, but the energy continues to increase. My mouth opens slightly, and my breathing speeds up. I furrow my brow. What is this sensation? It feels like something inside me is building up—getting ready to…
“Yes. That’s it. Try to flex now. That may help.”
Immediately I try to flex my pecs. They’re still mostly paralyzed, but the attempt does appear to do something. The warmth inside my pecs increases, faster now, focusing more towards my hardened nipples, swirling there. Each small pink nub is the center of a hurricane. “Please,” I moan, all willpower lost, “I need you to touch them.”
“No. Keep flexing. Trust me.”
I do as he says, too lost now in growing pleasure to even remember that he’s holding me captive, latched to a table in some unknown room. I flex, harder and harder. Each flex seems to decrease the paralysis slightly. Each flex feels a little better—a little warmer—a little more concentrated on my nipples. My nipples themselves are practically screaming for attention now. They feel harder than I ever could have imagined. And bigger. The growing pleasure emanating from them makes them feel enormous—long and bulging—pulsing—seemingly pulling on the rest of my chest with their heavy weight.
I flex. I flex and I flex over and over again until I no longer know where I am or who I am. All I know is this need to be touched. If someone asks me to trade my soul for one brief brush of a finger against each nipple, I will agree instantly—if I can even understand language in this frenzied state.
Finally, I can feel some kind of peak approaching. Grunting, I flex my pecs harder than I ever have before. My elbows rise off the table. My wrists strain against their restraints. My abs contract into a street of smooth cobblestones. My biceps bulge; my thighs bulge. Everything bulges. I feel as if I’m trying to bench press a million pounds.
I hold the flex for what seems like an eternity before all of the energy in my chest seems to draw in on itself at once, running through my nipples like an electric bolt of the most complete pleasure I’ve ever felt.
I grunt and collapse back against the metal table, gasping for air, utterly spent. My nipples still feel enormous and hard—still beg for attention—and my chest still feels warm, but I can’t flex any more, and I instinctively know doing so would accomplish nothing.
I open my eyes and look up at the man. “Please,” I cry, “I can’t anymore. Please touch them.”
The man cannot remove his gaze from my chest. “I will in a moment, my dear boy. First, though, just let me look at them.” His eyes hold a look of awe and wonder.
Confused, helpless, I try to look at my chest. I’m almost too exhausted to lift my head, but the paralysis has eased off substantially, and I manage to do so.
What I see shocks me almost as much as it thrills me to my very core. My nipples have grown—if they can even be called nipples any more. Each small pink nub has somehow elongated and thickened incredibly. Each now appears to be at least eight inches long and six inches around at their widest. They are thicker near the base, then taper slightly before flaring out again. Each is also capped in something which looks like it could have once been the nipple itself—a sort of mushroom cap with flared edges perched on top of the nipple shaft.
It takes me only a moment to realize each of my nipples now looks exactly like my penis.
“Do you like them?” the man asks, obviously in awe of them himself.
I am at a loss for words. The realization that the man could see them—that they weren’t some lucid fantasy—that they were real—brings me to a new level of excitement. I try to reach down and grab them—to feel their pulsing reality—but my arms are still restrained. I look desperately up at the man, but he is still enraptured.
I am about to beg for him to release me when he moves. Slowly, he raises his right hand, his arm trembling with excitement. My breathing quickens as his hand approaches what used to be my left nipple. As it eases closer, my breath comes shallower. Eagerly, I strain to pivot myself, trying to bring my nipple closer to his grasp. It begs to be touched. It begs for release. They both do.
I can’t even imagine what fulfilling these needs will entail.
Finally, after an eternity of expectation, the man’s index finger comes into contact with my nipple just under the head. The pleasure is so intense my eyes roll back into my head and I groan. The man groans, too, and brushes his lone finger along what is normally the frenulum of a penis. Instinctively I flex my left pectoral hard and rub myself up against his fingertip. The contact brings even more pleasure.
Panting now, and almost delirious with lust and excitement, I beg him to do more—to use his entire hand—both hands—his mouth—anything.
In reply, he brings his left hand up and draws it slowly nearer to my right nipple. I watch as it approaches, groaning and whining, lost to all but the expectation.
His left index finger makes contact.
It feels even better the second time, if that’s possible. My body is positively awash in pleasure. Perhaps my nipples are linked somehow, creating more sensation when touched together than either can alone.
The man simultaneously rubs each frenulum in a circular motion. My eyes roll back into my head, and I gasp.
Gently—ever so gently—the man eases each of his hands entirely around its respective nipple. He closes them, and I am lost in waves and waves of intense eroticism. The pleasure is unbearable—more than I’ve ever experienced, whether because my nipples are closer to my brain than my cock, or because there are two of them, or because the man amplified the sensation in my nipples along with their size.
The man slides his hands down, pulling my nipples’ foreskins down, stretching them out. Oh my God, they have foreskins. I’ve always wanted a foreskin, and now I have two! The man slides his hands back up, bringing along with my new foreskins so much pleasure and heat and sexual energy that I almost explode.
He repeats the stroke a second time—a third time—and still I can see no end in sight. Still, with all this pleasure, I feel no closer to release—to some kind of end. I shudder when I think of what the end will be. In desperation, I begin flexing my pecs again, but this only seems to increase the pleasure without end.
This is impossible. My nipples are penises. My nipples have foreskins. I have three penises. I am getting a double hand job, and my dick, hard and dripping down below, isn’t even involved!
I am sweating profusely. I feel my back slipping on the metal table beneath me. I feel precum dripping down my cock, coating my stomach and balls.
I feel precum coming out of my nipples, now, too. The man makes sure to catch it all with his hands, rubbing it into my nipples with each loving stroke—up, slowly, from the base of the nipple protruding from my pec… up to the head… then down, slowly, to the base again. My God, precum. What else can my nipples do now? Can they…? I writhe against my restraints, desperate for freedom so that I can help the man with his ministrations.
“Easy,” he says softly between his own pants. “The end is approaching. Can’t you feel it?” He continues to stroke my nipples slowly. Too slowly. It’s unbearable.
And now I can feel it. Somewhere, amidst the endless cascades of pleasure and desire, an itch is growing. It rises in my groin and each pec simultaneously, working its way up my dick from base to tip, and working its way through my quivering pectorals in the same spiral motion as before, centering on my pulsing nipples, rising up through them as through my throbbing penis.
With each second, the itch increases. I know what’s coming, and I can’t fathom it. How could I possibly feel more pleasure than I already am?
“I’m—” I pant, flexing my chest with every stroke of the man’s slightly-calloused hands.
“That’s it,” he encourages, picking up his pace now.
I gasp at this increase in tempo. My entire body is on fire with ecstasy. The itch in my cock has nearly peaked, as has the itch in each of my nipples. I moan and I whimper. I writhe with joy. I cannot control myself. “I’m—!” I gasp, barely audible.
“Yes!” he cries, stroking up and down, up and down, faster and faster.
“I’m coming!” I cry. The pleasure builds in one final massive crescendo before peaking at an impossible level. The sensation is too incredible. No human mind has ever conceived of such pleasure. I cannot describe it with words. The pressure—the pleasure—rises quickly through my cock and my nipples, one enormous three-part orgasm.
And then I’m screaming as cum is blasting out of my cock, all over my abs. I’m screaming as cum is blasting out of my nipples, splattering all over my torso and face—all over the man—all over everything.
I’m screaming with the most intense pleasure any man has ever experienced.
And then I pass out.