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The cyclist was racing along the top of the Mississippi levee, anxious to get
back into Natchez before the rains hit. Sweating profusely in the humidity and
under the blazing sun, he had stripped his jersey off and wrapped it around the
handlebars of the bike. It was almost dusk now, however, and the storm clouds
were rumbling in. He felt chilled and tried to free the jersey from the
handlebars while still pumping away down the levee. The wheels of the cycle
skidded on a rock, and the cyclist and bike slid down the side of the levee to
the verge of the road below. The cyclist screamed in pain, as a spoke from the
bike broke free and ran up under the skin along his abs.
He felt woozy, but he managed to stand, and, when he felt strength returning and
his hands had stopped shaking, he pulled the spoke out. The wound began to bleed
copiously. He grabbed for his jersey, pulled it free, and stanched his bleeding
side with it.
A big black limousine glided up beside him and stopped. The door to the backseat
opened, and a pleasant, calming voice asked if he needed a ride to somewhere
where he could get first aid help. The cyclist hesitated a moment, but he knew
he needed the help, he felt faint, and it was beginning to rain in large
droplets. So, he left his bicycle where it had landed and entered the car.
The man in the far corner of the car introduced himself as Philippe. He was
wrapped in a black cape, and about all the cyclist could see of him was a
once-handsome, but now craggy face and his eyes. The eyes were a beautiful shade
of violet and were mesmerizing. The cyclist settled back into the opposite
corner and stared into those violet eyes as he drifted off into a faint.
When he halfway regained consciousness, he found that his jersey was no longer
covering his wound, but was lying on the floor, no longer drenched in blood. He
would have wondered more about this, but he had become halfway aware that
Philippe was no longer in the opposite corner of the car. The cyclist was
covered up to his neck by the black cape, and someone was under the cape sucking
on the wound in his side, cleaning the wound of his blood.
The cyclist was growing more woozy and drowsy rather than recovering from his
faint, and his limbs felt like lead. His senses were acute, but he felt like his
body couldn’t respond to what was happening to him. He just lay back in the seat
and watched the black silk cape rustle across his body.
The bleeding along the cyclist’s abs having stopped, Philippe sat up and tossed
his cap off his shoulders and behind him. The cyclist gasped and tried to emit a
scream, but couldn’t manage to do so. He was getting drowsier and drowsier.
Philippe was naked to the waist and, although he was wearing black leather
pants, they were open at the crotch. He had the largest cock and balls the
cyclist had ever seen on a man. Not yet engorged, he must already have been
almost a foot long and nearly three inches thick.
While the cyclist helplessly watched, Philippe produced a hand with grotesquely
long, sharp fingernails and used one to slowly slit the cyclist’s latex biking
shorts down from the waistband along the thigh and to the bottom hem. Then he
just opened the front the shorts like a book. He stripped the cyclist’s jock
off. When he’d slit the shorts, he’d also slashed the skin of the biker’s thigh.
He moved his mouth to this cut and licked the thigh clean. He then stroked the
cyclist’s cock, getting it hard, while he brought his mouth to the cyclist’s
lips and went into a lingering kiss. Philippe’s eyes held the eyes of the
cyclist, and the cyclist felt that he was losing control—but that somehow he
didn’t care. That he was drowning in those violet eyes, but that it was a very
pleasant experience. Philippe bit the cyclist’s lip during the kiss, and sucked
on it contentedly while he stroked the cyclist’s cock.
Philippe came out of the lip lock and kissed and nibbled down the cyclist’s arm,
and the cyclist felt a slight pain in the hollow of his arm. He looked down and
saw that Philippe was sucking on him there. Looking beyond that, though, he also
watched Philippe’s cock harden and lengthen and thicken further.
Philippe tongued and kissed down the cyclist’s bare torso, and the cyclist felt
another little stab of distant pain near his navel, but shortly Philippe had
arrived at his cock, just as he was about to explode under the attention of
Philippe’s hand, and Philippe went down on the cock with his mouth and literally
sucked all of the cyclist’s cum as fast as he spewed it out.
Philippe’s cock had grown to a good fourteen inches long and over three inches
in girth now, but, although the cyclist was fascinated by this rapid and
impossible growth, he didn’t feel alarmed. He was able to think in his
drowsiness that he probably should feel alarmed, but he just couldn’t muster the
strength to care. A light buzzing was beginning to sound in his ears. Philippe
was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear what Philippe was saying.
Philippe was gently pulling him out of his corner. Philippe opened and moved to
the jump seat closely facing the backseat and sat down. His telephone pole of a
cock was waving around in front of what had developed over the past few minutes
into a massively muscled chest tapering down to a well-defined set of abs and
flat belly and a thin waist. The cyclist hadn’t remembered Philippe as being
this well cut when he first got sight of that torso. He seemed years younger
now.
Philippe pulled the cyclist over onto his lap, facing him. The cyclist’s
respectably sized cock ran up next to Philippe’s inhumanly huge cock and was
dwarfed. Philippe had wedged a big pillow behind the cyclist’s back on the seat,
and the cyclist was reclined back against that, able to view all the way down
his torso to the docked penises and than all the way up Philippe’s now-young and
cut torso to those mesmerizing violet eyes.
Philippe wrapped both of his hands around the two cocks as well as he was able
and pumped them until the cyclist was ready to cum again. Then Philippe just
raised the cyclist’s hips up, like he was bringing a cup to his mouth, swallowed
the cock, and drank in the cyclist’s semen for a second time. When the cyclist’s
hips were lowered again, he could see that Philippe’s cock had grown at least
another inch. He also noticed, however, that the age lines in Philippe’s face
were disappearing and his biceps were bulging.
Philippe raised the cyclist’s torso to him, supporting it with one arm around
the back, and he buried his teeth and mouth into the artery running up one of
the cyclist’s arm pits. The cyclist just dangled there, feeling only the
pleasure of the sucking sensation, none of the pain. One arm sort of waved over
Philippe’s buried face and his other arm dangled behind him. He lolled his head
back and tried to focus on the intricate pattern on the ceiling of the limo,
trying to figure out what the design represented, halfway wondering if there
wasn’t something else he was supposed to be worrying about.
Philippe brought a hand, with its long, sharp fingernails up to one of the
cyclist’s nipples and dug in with his fingernails around the rim of the aureole
encircling the nipple. The cyclist felt something there, but it didn’t feel like
pain. The slits there started to bleed, and Philippe swirled the blood around on
the cyclist’s nipple and breast while he waited for the artery in the arm pit to
collapse. After it had, he licked the blood off his fingers and then off the
cyclist’s chest and buried his teeth around the rim of the aureole and sucked it
for several minutes like a hungry newborn.
Finished there, Philippe let the cyclist fall back on the cushion and watch the
finale with increasingly glazed-over eyes. Philippe’s cock was a good foot and a
half long now. He raised both of his legs onto the seat under the cyclist’s
buttocks and pushed the cyclist’s body out more than a foot and a half, so that
he could lower his cock head to the cyclist’s asshole. Philippe lifted the
cyclist’s right leg and wedged his foot into the door strap above the window.
The left leg he pushed out as far to the left as he could and let the foot rest
on the floor. Then he just firmly took the cyclist by his hips and slowly
brought the cyclist’s pelvis into his, skewering the young man’s ass on the huge
cock.
The cyclist watched it all as long as he could. Not feeling particularly
involved, slowly going to sleep. He looked down his torso to what appeared to be
a baseball bat between Philippe’s legs slowly disappearing into him. He could
feel himself being stretched and torn inside, but he was beyond pain. Twelve
inches in and the cyclist could still see half as many inches again awaiting
entry. At fourteen inches entrenched, something serious ruptured inside him, and
Philippe got all excited and started to moan loudly, as blood bathed his cock
and balls and bubbled out of the cyclist’s ass. Philippe’s face began to look
years younger, and his violet eyes blazed; his chest muscles bulged out and his
nipples hardened. Philippe’s cock grew larger and pushed harder, and the cyclist
blacked out.
The next morning, the body of the cyclist, inexplicably drained of blood, was
found not far from New Orleans on the side of the road running along the
Mississippi levee a good sixty miles from his broken and battered bicycle.
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