Benjamin was the sort to keep to himself while in the office. His expertise was with numbers—spotting patterns, crunching data—and he shied away from navigating social spaces. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to partake in the idle chatter in the break room, but all cues pointed to him being largely unwelcome.

Ben was used to conversation drying up when he entered the room, shifting to hushed whispers until he ducked back out with his mug full of stale coffee, twice microwaved. It stung to hear them resume, to know that his presence was met with such muted interest.

There was a bright spot in his day—Zoey Hollis.

Zoey was sweetness personified, all radiant smiles and warm attention. She did not shun him the way that others did, did not dampen herself around him. She engaged with him, let him talk about the shows he enjoyed, and the art he made. She was everything that could melt his heart, and all he could think about.

Ben liked to watch Zoey, liked to know her schedule and study her habits. He liked to imagine himself with her, next to her as she laughed, sharing in it.

And at night, with his cock in his fist, Ben liked to picture her.

How could it be wrong to wish to be a part of her pleasure? Why did the ache burn so hot in his chest? Why did his desire feel like it should sting his lips as it spilled forth?

“I wish I could get in her pants,” he breathed as his hand jerked, and his body tightened up. He was so close, lifting into a shaking arc, his core working as he tried to tip himself over the edge.

But before he knew the sweet taste of relief, darkness clouded his head. He seemed to fall backwards, down through his sweat-sodden sheets, his gut lurching upward to meet his heart. He grabbed at the bed, finding only air beneath his hands, and before he could process the change, gravity claimed him.

Ben plummeted, air rushing past as he flailed. He couldn’t see anything, between the dark and the winds that whipped against his face. His screams were incoherent, his mind unable to summon anything more than bellowed wails of untethered terror. Blind fear, sick and twisting inside him, stirred up by his lengthy fall.

And then he smacked heavily into the wet surface, his lungs emptying sharply on impact, his body screaming with the sting of his landing. His skin was on fire, but that didn’t compare to heaving in a throat full of thick salty slime. He reared up, whimpering with the effort as he hacked his lungs clear, spitting thick strings of the stuff from his mouth.

There was no easy way to orient himself, his legs kicking instinctively, swishing through the viscous tide around him. He had no way of knowing where he was, which way to paddle his already aching arms, or how deep the ocean sank beneath him. And all the while, he was trying to rid his face and neck of the clinging substance, his hair soaked and plastered to his forehead.

Ben’s thoughts were frantic in their confusion, lost and flailing, more darkness meeting him everywhere he looked. There was a dull thunder that pulsed around him, a steady, unwavering beat that pressed in from all sides, rhythmically inviting waves to ripple towards him.

With nothing to guide his choice, Ben swam blindly, slogging his way through a sea that resisted his every effort. Everything he touched stayed on his skin, his fingers and arms thoroughly coated. He dragged his body through it, all while his heart rose into a panic. The air was thick and salted, his sweat overpowered by the fetid wastes that surrounded him.

Abruptly a wall rose before Ben, sloped gently enough that he could rest against it. It was a spongy kind of flesh, warm and pulsing, and it made him sick to think what it might be. His mind avoided the answer, wished for whatever dream he had landed himself within to end.

Ben did not get to rest for long. The once-still prison jarred sharply, tossing him back into the lake of slime. The cavern began to sway, pitching him from side to side, waves lapping over his head.

It took every effort and all he could muster to keep his head above the hungry tide, as it tugged at him, and threatened to drag him down into the pit of it. He gasped at every chance, clawed for every inch of ground, and still he stood no chance.

Something thundered up from below. A reverberation. The quake of some distant, incomprehensible impact, far, far beneath his prison. And yet he felt it. The shudder of flesh and the agitation of the thick fluid.

Ben was shaken along with the slime, and his composure crumbled. He sobbed as his limbs fumbled and his lungs heaved, and half of what he swallowed caked his insides—his throat, his lungs, and his stomach—in strings of the harsh slurry.

The world shifted between his desperate breaths and gravity seemed to lose its hold, everything rushing upward for a brief gut-turning plummet, before crashing down into place. On his back, Ben floated through the ringing stupor, stunned by the crushing weight of semen on all sides.

Ben’s mind had finally supplied the word.

Semen.

It made no sense, not at the scale he was estimating, and yet, he was running out of will to deny it. A hacking cough forced his throat clear when he finally broke the surface once more, but the taste remained. Globs dangled from him, and he was almost glad there was no light for him to see it.

It was an ocean of thick seed. He could not fathom its depths, just as he could not imagine how there was so much in the first place. Who would collect so much?

It was fresh. Hot against his skin. But Ben didn’t have time to ponder it. Stillness was short lived.

Pressure mounted from all around, just before the ocean began to keel from side to side, rolling with an almost gentle laziness. It didn’t last. There was some sort of movement above, something vast and incomprehensible, and it was accompanied by the building of the beat that had become ever-present.

Suddenly the whole chamber Ben was inside was tossed upward, before crashing back down. Only it did not stop there. It was constant. His world violently careening towards the sky, only to whip itself about. Over and over. The semen almost remained suspended in the cavern as it jostled up and down, the rapid shift in direction leaving little room for gravity to enforce itself.

Ben could not hope to overcome the currents that shunted him about. His body was twisted in the relentless currents, the force as inescapable as it was cruel. He was battered against spongy walls, having fully lost the sense of what was up and what was down. His stomach tried to empty, but instead there was a rush of semen that poured into him. And all the while his ribs were beginning to give, unable to contend against the welling tide and its rising hunger.

Ben’s head was filled with the blaring incoherence of panic, and yet there was a sound that overwhelmed even that. A held note that pitched higher, buzzed with elation before it was pinched by tension. And again. Not quite an echo, but with the same raw undercurrent. Moans. A song of pleasure. Ecstasy swelling in the air, belted with the boldness of a grand climax.

It was the last thing Ben heard before his eardrums burst. The music was drowned out by agony. Searing, blinding agony. The frothing wrath devoured him and his body was mangled by its appetite.

And still the song built towards crescendo, the moan an announcement of raw delight, while all he heard was the deadened thrash of churning waves, sloshing in its fury. His screams died before they reached his throat, swallowed by the tide of semen. His pleas never reached his lips. He was helpless to protest.

Completely and utterly helpless.

There was no bracing for his abuse. Ben couldn’t fight against the currents enough to curl in on himself, couldn’t shield himself. His body was whipped about, pulled in every direction. At some point, in the incompressible chaos, he felt a sickening crunch, followed by searing pain blooming beneath his skull.

It made little difference. He couldn’t process the onslaught of pain and panic and inevitability of his expiration. His lungs squeezed weakly, fried for lack of breath, his mind fogging and deteriorating. There was so little left of him, and he didn’t yet have a concept of how truly insignificant he was.

Time was marked by the staccato of impact, up and down, crashing into the cavern walls. As Ben was beginning to fade, the tempo became frenzied, a fever even more oppressive than he’d come to expect.

A crushing pressure closed in around Ben and suddenly he was being tugged along with a torrent of semen. He was stunned by the glare of illumination just before he was splattered against a smooth, rubbery wall, more cum following behind, the ocean filling back in around him.

The geyser slowed to a sputter, and then the last dribbles were squeezed into the bloated well Ben found himself in. Even in the relative calm, he could not make his limbs move, their refusal a terror all its own. He was at the mercy of the currents, waiting for them to point him at the beast beared down on him—the winking slit of a cockhead so large it didn’t fit in his field of vision.

And beyond it, distorted by the waxy sheen of his condom prison, a hand jerked lazily up the obscured shaft. It was a cosmic entity, a presence that was inescapable, and yet he was left alone to wrap his tiny mind around its existence.

It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real. And yet he floated there in the dangling release of a cock. Just a speck. Irrelevant to the pleasure enjoyed. Unnoticed. And doomed to remain so. Too insignificant to even hope. Any prayer for salvation long dead.

Delirium set in just as Ben came to face the tipped back head of his assailant. But when it lifted to look down towards him, there was no amount of distortion that would prevent him from recognizing that smile, even if he had never seen it softened by such a blissful, rosy glow.

Zoey—his beloved Zoey—had ejactulated him into a condom for her own pleasure. He had been pulped by the furious jarring of her balls, as she had jerked herself off.

Ben didn’t even see her hand move, just felt the tremors of movement reverberating through his prison. He only recognized what was happening when her face got momentarily larger before her semen shook him up too much. She had removed the condom and tied it off, and by the blur of the world and the upheaval of his guts, he realized she had tossed it away.

Ben died in that cooling cum. Discarded by Zoey without a moment’s pause. His last moments spent deflating under the weight of her semen and the knowledge that her nut had spelled his end.