"Your package has been delivered."
Louis stares at his phone, his lips quivering. He quickly looks over his shoulder and swipes to his email. There, nestled on his front porch, is a box not unlike any other package he had ordered in the past. 
A buzz heralded the coming of a text.
Mom: I'm going to be at work late.
That means no one will be home.
That means he'll be alone.
The rest of the time at work was a blur of worry and delight for the 30-year-old virgin, stuck in a life of social solitude and living the life of a reserved and cautious young man. He was his mother's perfect little gentleman, but if only she knew the truth.
The clock was not quite 5:00 PM when he got up from his desk, power walking down the halls of his job and to his car. He must have driven home this way nearly a thousand times, but this was one of those days where he went over the speed limit, within reason, of course.
The trip home was agonizingly slow and a blur, quickly forgotten as he lumbered up to the door, carrying all too many things at once to avoid a repeat trip to the car. But, he manages to get all his bags inside: lunch box, gym bag, and backpack, all things he would need to work the next day.
He could do his regular routine—get his lunch ready for tomorrow, organize his gym clothes for tomorrow morning's run on the treadmill, and maybe even start a load of laundry. But that could wait. He had few precious moments to himself and would use those moments the best he could.
Quickly and with little looking, he rips the packages open, dumping their contents into a gym bag, and rushes down to the bathroom across the hall. Along the way, his precious cat mewled, expecting a pet or acknowledgment. Unfortunately, he is focused, determined, and unable to concentrate on anything else—anything else other than the tingling sensation in his pants.
He locks the door behind him, his ears totally and entirely on alert. His mother may be back home. Perhaps his sister was secretly home, despite her car not being here?
He shudders, glancing upward at the mirror. His glasses are askew, his hair is messy, and his chin exhibits five o’clock shadow.
Scoffing, he turns away. He doesn't want to look. No, this isn't about look—this is about feel.
Taking a deep breath, he lifts his shirt over his head, then runs his hand over his slightly pudgy body. The year at the gym had done him some good, but the hair everywhere was so… ech."
Louis glances back over to the mirror, stepping up to the sink. He runs a hand down his chest, letting the hair run through his fingers.
Sighing, he shakes his head and returns to the bag. "You're not so bad looking… you're just not how you want to be," he says to himself, pulling out the first of the many contents of his package. It's a shaving kit.
Turning the new razor on, he presses the thing to his chest and slowly drags it down over his chest. It's a long and arduous process, but he can't stop once he's started. He strokes the electric razor down, taking out clump after clump of thick black hair over his body—curse his genes. Mom says he gets it from his father.
He wouldn't really know about that.
Eventually, his hair is much more manageable, and he steps back, watching those short, straight lines that dot his body as opposed to the wild black carpet he once had. He runs his fingers over the newly groomed body and nods, a composed frown on his face.
"Not… bad," he says, reaching for the manual razer. It's nice, a single blade, replaceable, real old-school. He only knows as much about this as he had listened to online, peering over his shoulder with the volume turned down.
He rubs shaving cream all over his chest. It's so much, so he'll have to buy more sooner rather than later. He presses the blade to his chest and slides upward once, twice, and three times. He gulps when he pulls the blade away and sees that smooth, pale skin patch underneath.
It's possible. It's really possible.
He speeds up the process, going all over his body, watching as every hair is removed, biting his lip, squirming in place as he pulls the blade all over his chest and stomach. After what feels like forever, he's ready to repeat this process, lifting one arm over his head, buzzing off his armpit hair, first on one side and then the other.
A quick work on his face, and he's soon standing there as bare as he would have ever wanted.
"Can I pull it off?" he says, pressing a finger to his chest. He winces slightly—it's rough there, sensitive. Very, very sensitive.
The next thing to go is his pants, and he rests his foot on the toilet. He'll have to worry about the pedicure stuff in a moment. Those nails are long. He'll have to trim them and make them look nice, but he takes the blade and runs it along his leg for now.
He's smiling when he's done with it, slapping his thigh, giggling and giddy.
He stands in front of the mirror now, biting his lip, looking at himself with a smile, a soft smirk, saying, "Who's sexy… you are."
And with that, he hooks his thumbs under the bands of his boxer briefs. "Just one more place to go," he says.
He pulls down his last garment and out pops his cock, hidden under a thick bush… but not for long!

Louis takes a few deep breaths, staring at himself. How long had he taken to care for all that hair? An hour? Maybe longer? But there he was, with that same wild, curly black hair, a bit thinner than it was ten years ago but still so thick and curly, but not a single hair remained from beneath his eyebrows.
And he is red and sore.
And hungry.
He glances at his phone. There's no way that his mom will be home any time soon. So, he finds his boxer briefs and lifts them back up from the ground and back where they belong, ending their journey with a SNAP.
He yelps—all that shaving has him quite sensitive. But he must persevere. So, he squats down and pulls out the following package—socks. Nice and long and striped. He tears into him with freshly clipped nails, ripping apart the final barrier. He unravels the first of the sets, lifting it up and watching it unfold before him. His eyes sparkle at the bright colors, and she bites his lips, hopping onto the toilet. He lifts one leg, gasping. Even that little bit of movement has his razor-touched skin feeling it. But he puts the fabric to his toes and pulls it up, winching and watching as the sock goes up along his body, snapping it into place on his thigh.
He quickly does the same for the other one and hops up, staring at the mirror.
He places a hand on his chest, his other hand gripping the sink as he looks at the thigh-high-clad lad before him. Not the dull old scholar he had always made himself out to be, but a flirty-looking femboy, much like he had imagined himself in fantasies. He runs through his hair, pulling his glasses away and leaning in.
"Golly," he breathes, "I think I'm actually pulling this off," he gasps.
A hand moves off the sink and to his boxers, gripping the elastic. He takes a deep breath and pulls the elastic down just enough for his dick to pop out. There it is, clean-cut and poking up. He wraps his hand around it, squeezing it. "Oh wow… I… hmm… that's so different." He muses.
Soon, he's on his knees, legs going in either direction. He slides his hand up along his shaft, letting his thumb swirl around the head. "A… already?" he gasps. "Sh-should I?"
He glances at the gym bag, a hand moving up to his heart. It soon finds a way downward, off to the side, two fingers at his nipple, swirling around, stiffening the thing. "Oh gods," he gasps. Letting go of his dick, letting it bounce hard in front of him. He practically dives into his gym bag, rummaging through various items and new purchases, until he pulls out two things. The first is a clear bottle.
The second is a silicone onahole, packaged with all its marketing from the website: cubic shapes on the inside with a rubber swirling pattern. He rips open the box and removes the cocksleeve from its outer case.
The thing is bouncy and cold, springing around in his hold. He shakes it a few times, giggling a little at the thing.
"Oh, hell yeah…" he says, putting his thumb into the small opening at its base. "This is gonna be wild.”
The lubricant, meanwhile, is a simple order. Something about "heat" and "sensitivity" in the marketing, but he hadn't read much about it. He sits back, spreading his legs, leaning back. He pops the top of the lube and pours it, letting it anoint his cock as if this is some rite of passage.
So many years spent jerking off into toilet paper, so rough and course, being deathly afraid of the consequences of someone finding his stash, and now his cock twitches in anticipation of having the chance to actually start masturbating, truly masturbating, for the first time in his life.
He lowers the hole against his dick, pressing the moist head against the thing, but as he pushes his hips up, his cock slips away from it.
He shakes his head, flipping the tube and pouring some slick lubricant into it. He positions himself above it and pushes forward, holding his cock in one hand, his head pressed against the wall.
Soon, his dick slips through.
"Oh, fuck, it's cold," he gasps, but just a moment later, the silicon twists, wrapping around his cock.
"Oh… oh!" He groans, falling back onto his butt again. He curls his toes, so nice against the fabric of the socks, stretching and wriggling them, freeing them from the confines of his orthopedic footwear. He pushes his hips forward, his dick slipping up. He falls back, his head hitting the tiled floor, but he doesn't mind. He bridges, burying his heels against the ground, his toes spreading. Now, he takes two hands, grasping the hole firmly. He's pumping it so quickly, his eyes actually honest-to-god rolling back. His breath quickens, his voice getting higher and higher. All the while, the tube around his cock squelches and sucks, rolling around his features, letting him get deep into it, poking against the end of the thing.
"Fu-fuck," he asks, lifting his head, admiring himself from tit to dick. "I-is my cock that big? R-really?"
Years of training to be quick and to hide his excursions have done one thing for him and his masturbation habits, and it comes back to bite him. He groans, thrusting up one last time, holding on as dearly as he can, but it is of no use. He fires off, spurting into the fuckhole, shooting his pearly protein into it like so many tissues before, before he collapses, huffing, puffing, and cursing himself.
"Fuck.. I wanted… to last… longer."

Unlike the protagonists of his favorite erotic stories, Louis Dellid is not an endless fountain of sexual energy. After the expulsion of his goopy mess, his mind all-too-quickly floods back with the unreasoning that comes with any rational man. He breathes deeply through his nose, pulling the filled toy out of his cock with a long, sucky slurp coming from that silicone sleeve. His dick flops off to the side, dripping the last remnants of his spill out onto his waist.
"F… fuck…" is the only word he can let out, but his mind spins at incredible speeds. After all, now that he has messed up the bathroom with hair, lube, and other milkier fluids, he's left with the daunting task of cleaning up.
First is himself. He lifts one leg, trying to pull the thigh-high off, but it's tight and long, and he worries about ruining it as he removes it. With sweat building up on them, he'll have to wash them—another prospect he'll have to consider in cleaning. It shouldn't be much of a problem as long as he makes sure his mom doesn't come into his room to do his laundry for him.
And the trash! He'll have to take out the garbage. There's tons of hair there, and since he shaves every day and gets his hair done by a stylist, he needs to make sure that he takes out the trash every time he does this self-indulgence.
But would it be too much? Would it be something his mom would notice? What would she say when she discovers that he is purchasing sex toys and fucking himself in her house?
He groans and rolls into the shower, slamming the door behind him, spraying himself down, and letting the water wash away his concerns. Those are problems all for the future, Louis. For now, he should just relax and enjoy a warm shower.
But he takes showers in the morning after he goes to the gym. There will be an increase in water usage in the house. There will also be an increase of towels in the wash. How much would he have to change his routine so that mom didn't notice? Would she confront him about it? Leave him ashamed every time he felt about taking care of himself?
Oh, if only he could get his own place. Then, he wouldn't have to worry about all this. He could just take care of himself whenever he wanted or invite someone over for a one-night stand, a beautiful woman, or a cute younger guy or something!
Of course, there's that hurdle as well, the whole "Hey, ma, I'm Bisexual' bombshell that will have to be dropped sooner or later.
He stands up, letting the water wash over him so he can stop worrying about everything. Just enjoy the stuff running through his hair, down his face, slipping over his nice and sensitive smooth skin, and down, down, down.
"Ow ow oww!"
Louis slams the water shut, grabbing his cock and doubling over. He huffs and puffs, but that member throbs with an odd sensitivity, even as he holds it, stinging, burning, and hurting when the hot water hits it.
"E… extended sensitivity… heated lubricant," he sighs. "Fuck me, that is sensitive."
He lathers up his washcloth and wraps it around his junk, stroking it furiously. "I must be clean, I must be clean," he would chant to himself if he felt his words would actually do anything.
He steps out into the bathroom, the room's cold returning to him. He shivers, pulling out his undergarments and long, warm pajamas, both pants and a top. Every inch of the wooly outfit itches. He wraps his arms around himself, shuddering. "Oooh, dang, this is… this is gonna take some getting used to."
As Louis pads his way out of the bathroom, he notices a small light in the corner of his vision. It's the light to his sister's room, close to the bathroom. A space that should have been empty because she should have been at work as late as mom was.
His heartbeat quickens, and he tiptoes toward his room, only for the door to open and his sister to step out, hardly looking at him as she passes.
"H-hi!" Louis springs out.
"Mmngh, hi." She says, passing him and slamming the door to the bathroom.
He's frozen in the hallway, his hand darting immediately into his gym bag, ruffling through in the dark, feeling for every item he possesses.
Let's see… there's the box for the socks, the trash bag, the masturbator.
But no lube.
He rushes to the door and knocks on it.
"What?"
Pausing, Louis furrows his brow. "Uh… never mind."
There's a pause on her end before she grunts in response.
Louis returns to his room, collapsing on his bed, covering his head with a pillow, and burying his face.
Oh fuck, if my sister finds out, she's gonna know I'm a total freak. Oh, fucking fuck!
He lays there, unable to calm down before he can be absolutely, positively sure he was screwed or not. When she finally leaves the bathroom, he rushes back in, resulting in her giving him another wayward glance.
Inside, he scrounges around but can't find the bottle. He clutches his chest, breathing heavily, nearly hyperventilating before he catches the purple cap of the bottle.
It's nestled in the shower. Right where he left it and out of casual eyesight.
He swipes it up and marches out of the room, stomping back to his bedroom and into the shame of his own mind.
The stress was enough to kill his joy, even if she didn't see.

Louis is having a hard time sleeping that night. The man who had been so repressed in his childhood and even young adulthood now lay in his bed, sweating in the house's heat. His room has always been warmer than he would have liked, but he's so tired and stressed that he can't bring himself to grab his fan out of the closet.
He rolls back and forth, imagining the disgust on his sister's face when she discovers the bottle of lube he left in the bathroom. He groans in despair as he imagines the next family dinner. Will she tell others? Their mother? People in the neighborhood? His friends?
They all think he's a depraved freak! A monster! A coomer degenerate of the lowest order.
The worst part is that as he tosses and turns, his sensitive skin, made so by the fresh shaving, rubs against his pajamas, irritating and reminding him of his shame.
In a fit of confusion and frustration, he sits up and grabs his shirt, tossing it off and throwing it aside.
He sits up for a few moments, blinking through the blurry darkness. He then brings his fingers to his collar, sliding along his upper chest.
The sweat that clings to his chest cools him down, and there's a soft breeze he hasn't noticed before.
All his life, he had dressed up so much while sleeping, so sick of seeing his gross, hairy body and being told by his loved ones that he was a shy and modest boy.
Shy…
Modest…
Was he really those things? Or is that what polite society tells him that he is?
Everyone's asleep. They probably had been for hours. He slips out of the bed, padding along the floor and pressing his door closed, his heart rate increasing as he turns the lock. With its final click, he wonders who would have noticed. What would they think? What are they doing?
There's nothing but silence.
He wraps his arms around his chest, sliding palms down his sides, a soft smile forming. As he touches himself and explores himself, he can't help but notice the tightening in his pants.
Louis's hands slide downward, over his sides and stomach. He pulls his tummy in, tapping himself and feeling happy at how much weight he's lost over the past few years. He's gone a long way since he was a depressed and fat guy. He runs his hand through his hair and slips his fingers under his pants.
There, he pulls them down, letting them drop to his ankles.
Naked, in his room, for no other reason than to be naked!
So many people talk about sleeping in the nude. He could never do it. He was always so worried, so scared.
What if he had a wet dream in the middle of the night? What if he wet the bed? At least in those situations, the clothes would absorb most of the stuff.
How long had it been since he'd done that?
Decades.
Damn, he's old.
He turns to his closet, opens it up, and leans in, wrapping his arms around the tower fan. When he lifts it up from its spot in that cluttered old space, the cold plastic presses against him, his nipples perking up, his dick smacking against the grating.
He laughs nervously at that but soon sets up the fan, putting it on full blast. He stands in front of it, arms wide, head tilted up, letting the cold blast of air hit his uncovered skin.
Perhaps it was necessary to be so wooly for his ancestors to have natural heating? It didn't matter to him. He had a chance to have his body be how he wanted it or at least try a different means of expressing himself.
It's one reason he had let his hair out for the past few years. That receding hairline was already starting to worry him. Still, when his hair grew out, it would go into so many curls, uncontrolled and unrestrained. All the ladies who pointed it out were jealous. He weaved his fingers through his hair, playing with it, twirling some locks through his fingers, all while he was fully exposed to the air blast before him.
Can he even go to sleep now? Well, he'd undoubtedly have to try. He slips back onto the bed, reveling as the goosebumps form over his skin as he contacts the cool sheets. He wraps himself up in the lightest layer, gasping and curling up, completely tucking himself in.
There's nothing as comfy as this has ever been! He had been missing out on the security and delight of skin-to-blanket contact his entire life.
The skin was dangerous, and it was private.
It wasn't meant for people to see or experience.
Going shirtless in public wasn't for him. He was modest and fat and hairy and awkward.
But this is private.
This is the safety of his room.
The privacy to do what he wants is here.
He has this, and no one can take it from him.
If someone were to barge in on him, that would be their fault and problem.
"Just gotta be more careful where I leave the lube," he sighs. "The bathroom isn't private…"
He yawns and rolls over, twirling his toes and squirming in delight.
"And I need to make sure to look up how best to clean cum stains off the floor… or the bed." He says, feeling his dick poking against some of the covers.
As he tried to drift to sleep, that throbbing erection was the main thing keeping him from focusing.
He tosses.
He turns.
He shifts.
He groans.
And he throws off the cover, looking down over his body, seeing his body in the adjusted vision.
And that towering pole poking up to the sky, wanting more.

"Something the matter, dear?"
Louis sits in front of his mason jar of overnight oats, grumbling and with heavy bags under his eyes.
"Mmngrh…"
"Is there anything I can do?"
His mother's words bore into his head like a drill to a dam. If she dug too deep, then the whole thing could break.
"Just stuff…"
"Like what?"
"Stuff."
His mother frowned, patting his head. "Well, you get some rest today. I'm going to be working late again."
Rushing down the stairs is Louis's sister, who grabs her keys and flips on her jacket. "I'm heading out!"
"To where, dear?" their mom asks.
"Just out," she responds, closing the door behind her.
They would both be gone. He would well and truly be alone.
"Well, you seem better already," his mom says, heading off.
Once she closes the door, Louis is left with thoughts and a slight throbbing in his head.
That whole night, he lay there, naked, sweaty, fighting the urge to beat his meat under the covers. This led to a restless night.
When did he go to sleep?
Did he go to sleep?
And the dream he had…?
Oh, hell, the dream.
It was all a swirl, mostly of emotions. His heart races, still thinking about everything that went on during and after that roller coaster of emotion. Try as he might, the menagerie of the random nonsense that led to the conclusion was gone. All that was left was that moment when he and that girl were in the bathroom, or was it the bedroom, and she sat on top of him, and she rode him,
Oh, so rough.
Oh, so good.
But way too quick.
It was like heaven for those scant seconds he felt her body. However, he could hardly explain the sensation as it was quickly superseded by the explosive rush of climax!
It was a climax that shocked him to realize he was in bed in the dark night.
It was a climax that kept going and going, shooting up, releasing more and more cum than he thought he'd ever had welled up inside him.
It was a climax, leaving him panting and scrambling to get out of bed.
A climax that got all over his sheets and his blankets and his body.
He would lay there even longer, spread out, panting. He placed his hand on his chest and slid down. The glisten of sweat was soon replaced with the warm sliminess of his smeared jizz.
"Oh fuck…"
What followed was an uncomfortable switching sides on his bed and trying to avoid stained sheets. Just what he had feared had come to pass, and he felt so sick lying in bed.
But now that he's alone, he can wash his clothes and sheets.
Now that he's alone, he doesn't have to bother with how he dresses as he cleans them.
Louis stomps down the stairs, all of his sheets in a basket. He carries it pressed against his naked stomach, the cold basket drawing warmth from his smooth body. He wears his glasses, of course, but also his long striped stockings and matching arm warmers, another item he had delivered, but had not the chance to wear until now.
Even after that rough night and even with how tired he is, the very fact that he can dress up like this, just doing normal everyday things while in such a kinky display, means so much to him.
It's private.
It's not hurting anyone.
He's not some kind of degenerate or freak.
He's just a person who wants to try new things and loves the new things that he tries.
So, Louis does some chores, humming to himself as he fills the washer. Once done, he sits on top of the thing, pulling out his phone and swapping through some of his daily apps.
He stops swiping, his thumb hovering over the icon of a calculator app. The second one is on his phone. It's an app he had installed, deleted, and reinstalled years ago, but he had yet to do much with it.
Gulping, he presses the button.
But it's not numbers that fill the screen. Instead, it is the profiles of many men in his area, or rather mostly the bodies of the men, with a few smiling faces.
"Am I that desperate?" He says, looking down over himself to his bare, bald, and slightly sticky tummy. He rubs his poking-out cock with his thigh, hiding it tucked between his legs. He then raises his phone, fumbles through his often-unused phone app, and aims.
It must be an art form for people to get just the right images for their profiles online, as it takes him multiple shots from different angles to get things right. But once he's done, he has an idea where one gloved hand strokes over his collar, his thigh-highs peek through, his feet just barely in the frame, and most of the identifying features of his laundry room are out of the way. Biting his lip so hard he could almost taste the iron, Louis inputs the picture to his profile.
He sits there momentarily, lamenting how difficult the search feature is for the whole app, and closes it, going on his way. After all, he must kill time waiting for the laundry to go.
As he heads over to plop on the recliner, he lounges on it, one leg over an arm and his back pressed against the back. He feels like a king on his throne, even though he's just watching videos online.
But as he loads up the latest meme compilation, he gets a notification.
And another one.
And another one.
And another…

Louis stands in the middle of the living room, naked except for his thigh-high stockings and his arm warmers. His hand trembles as he looks at the many notifications from guys, his phone nearly unstoppable in all the buzzing.
"Holy fuck, you're sexy."
"I wanna pound your bussy."
"Give me that cock."
"I'm so jealous."
And, of course, dick pic after dick pick. His thumb can hardly keep up with all the solicitations, his legs trembling, his knees coming together. He bites his lips, a sinking feeling falling into the pit of his stomach, and he lowers himself to the floor. "O… oh fuck…" he whispers. "Is this all… for me?"
So many men are getting hard for him. So many men are lusting over him. But he's not some cute 20-something twink. No, he's got thinning hair and a potbelly, and his chest and stomach hair is starting to come back in even after a night's rest.
He fumbles through the settings on his phone and hastily turns off the notifications.
He can't have that many people after him. Hell, he can't even imagine one guy wanting him.
He sits back, resting his butt on his heels, leaning back, and taking a few deep breaths.
It's all so overwhelming, but on top of that, he caused himself another big problem.
His cock is rock hard, throbbing, and wanting to be stimulated.
But he's not thinking of it. His ass puckers as he imagines. What could it be? What could it mean?
It's time to break out that device.
He carries all his tools back into the bathroom and pulls a new device from his collection of delights. It is a phallic thing, but smaller than he had expected. It flares out in the middle to make a bulb shape, lined with bumps and lines. The flared base at the bottom stuck out in one direction, and at the end of that direction was a silicone ring.
He sits on the bathtub's rim, frowning, sliding his thumb over the device. He then lifts up the accompanying remote. Just a simple thing with only a few buttons.
He places it aside and pulls out another device. This one is a tiny little hose. He gulps when he looks it over, shrugs, and gets the lube. "Well, might as well be clean about it," he admits.
Filled with water, the douche bulb rests in his hand. He lathers up and ends up with tons of lube, and he gets on his hands and knees.
He bites his lip as he slides the thing along his crack, tracing down along the length until he finds a point of ingress. He pushes forward, deep, deeper, and deeper still.
His cock stiffens a bit as it gets past a certain point, but he wants to make sure it's up in there. There are horror stories that he reads, and he wants to avoid all of them.
He squeezes the bulb, and the water shoots up from different openings in the tube, spraying him down. He gasps, his toes curling. He falls further down, his head upon his towel. His breath quickens as he holds onto the thing, squeezing as hard as he can until the last of the water is done.
He pushes his glasses back up on his eyes and reads over the instructions. "Okay…" he gulps. "Now… just… get rid of it."
—-
The toilet flushes, and Louis takes a deep breath, puffing out his chest. He's never felt so clean before. Never seemed so empty. What a magical cure-all this would be. Now, he looks to the item he wants to put into himself, that ridged and bulbous thing. It is time. He sits on the edge of the tub, confident that his butt is nice and clean for the first time in his life, and he pours a copious amount of lubrication over the toy. He slathers it up with the palm of his head, leaving the device glistening and ready to be inserted.
Sure, he had toyed around with having his finger up inside himself before. Still, as he lays himself on the ground, staring up at the ceiling, he can't help but wonder what a dedicated toy would be like. He presses the thing to his hole, but it doesn't push forward. He grunts, going deep, but it doesn't penetrate. Glancing at his glistening finger, he shudders and reaches down, searching for his hole.
He finds it, slipping the lubed-up thing in, swirling around, and pulling out.
He inspects his finger, ready to be grossed out, but it is clean.
"Damn…" he says. "That stuff actually works!"
Pleased with himself, he lifts his legs in the air, spreading them out, reaching down to spread a cheek, and then pressing the head of his device up against his butt. He can push it up into himself this time by rolling and coaxing.
"A… aaaah!?" he gasps, actually moans! "Hofuck…" he huffs, panting heavily. "I… is this what it is…?" He asks, pushing deeper and deeper until the widest part of the dildo pushes through him, and the thinner bit slips right in!
"Gah…. Ha… haha…” The flared base is the only thing keeping it from going further into himself. He's as far as it would go, and the pressure he feels there… feels rather nice.
He slips his finger through the ring's loop, stretching the silicone out. He coaxes his rock-hard cock to fall into that ring and slides the thing fully around his base.
As soon as he does, he can admire the tightness, the reddening of his cock, and the way his veins are more pronounced.
He strokes up by the head and winces. "AgAah…" it's so fucking sensitive. Unlike any other time, he had done anything like this.
But that wasn't the finale of this experiment.
No, he finds himself lifting the remote up, looking the thing straight in the eye, licking his slip, and parting them, huffing out a breath.
"And here… we… go!"

The first setting is a low, sustained humming. It buzzes, reverberating through its rubbery silicone casing and stimulating the warm flesh surrounding it. It is a simple process that had been perfected early on in the development of motors, as simple as the flick of a switch to turn on a lightbulb.
But as simple and ubiquitous as it is, this is man's first truly enlightening moment of technology.
Louis falls to his knees and elbows, gritting his teeth, his glasses falling down onto his nose. "H… ha.. aah…” Those soft breaths escape his throat, parting gently from his lips. The man who considered himself an academic, a man of science, was not experiencing some aspects of biology he had only ever dreamed about.
There is the feeling of having something shoved up his ass, and then there is the sensation of the sustained buzzing. His cock is harder than he had ever thought it could be, and he reaches down, stroking around the head, so spongy, so engorged, so sensitive.
"O… oh boy…!" he groans, his hand upon the remote. There are so many more settings. Could their control of the bulbous and ribbed thing be any more incredible than his current feeling coursing through him? Had he hit his prostate with something buried into him?
He presses the button.
The second setting is quite similar to the first but more intense this time. It makes the first one seem like nothing. It thrums deeper into him, sending a sustained buzz of delight throughout his lower body. It's different than what he would have expected. Admittedly, such things he had only experienced vicariously through the consumption of hentai and pornography, but to feel it here and now within him, it is more personal, more sustained, like a massage he enjoys getting with his haircuts.
What if he went further?
He presses the button.
The buzz is much more intense, going off at a sustained pace, but it is so loud that he can't help but worry that others will hear him. His breaths come out in loud huffs, sweat beading on his brow. "Ha… ha… ho fuck…" he smiles, licking his lips. It's good, but it's so samey.
There has to be more to it, right? If only he could emulate that in-and-out motion of actual, honest-to-goodness sex. What is the secret of that delight that generations have enjoyed? He touches his cock, but pulls away. If he indulges too much in that ring-choked dick, he knows that the time that he has to enjoy himself will be at an end.
Best to continue to explore the anal possibilities. There are so many other settings for this device.
He presses the button.
Instead of the actual natural motions of a cock slamming into his busy, the device now pulses, a strong buzz followed by low intensity. HUMhumHUMhumHUMhum constantly inside him.
His forehead presses to the towel on the floor, his mouth open, his breath quick, matching the pace. "Ah... Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah.!
He rocks his hips, imagining now the sensations of what it would be like to be under someone so relentless, buzzing at his p-spot for sure. But no one possessing a penis would have such a textured length. No one would be able to keep up with the mechanical movement.
How the hell did humanity not die out to the robot revolution already? It's only a matter of time, and he realizes it here and now.
No, they won't destroy humanity—they will trap them in a cycle of their own delight until every human finds themselves overstimulated and given their every single want and need to be met, and only when their final breath comes will they finally go extinct!
He presses the button.
This time, it's a long and low hum, followed by the pounding sensation of before, seemingly random, though there must be a motion to it.
This is the one he wants to stay on.
He rolls onto his back, arms resting on his tummy, legs lifted, spread wide. The buzz goes, and then the hum, the buzz, and the hum.
Maybe humanity is still a viable option for delight? This mechanical action is only part of the situation. There's something that requires a human touch as well. He slides his fingers down along his pelvis, over that freshly shaved mound, and slips to that cock ring.
After all, it was he who put himself into this contraption.
He slips his fingers up along his shaft.
It was he who pressed the button to get the stimulation going.
He grips the pole firmly in his hand.
And it is he who decides to follow the pace of his device.
He follows the pace of the device.
Up, down, up, down, hold. Up, down, up, down, hold.
He lifts his hips, closing his eyes, letting go of the remote, and swirling his fingers over his nipples.
He keeps up the action, little delightful gasps escaping his chest, his lips becoming higher in pitch, sounding more girly, more submissive. More breedable.
Oh, if only he could have someone without the repercussions of life. If he could meet someone in some unknown hotel room. Open his ass to them, allow his cock to penetrate them as well if they were into that.
His mind flashes momentarily to the application and those who contacted him. All those strangers who wanted to fuck him.
“A… aaaangh…!”
He's cum plenty of times before. Many of them just these past few days. But the warm explosion of jizz that shoots up and lands on his stomach, forming a tremendous pearly pool on his pelvis, is the greatest glob of orgasm he's ever had. And it's so powerful that his ass clenches and unclenches, losing all control, until his vibrator pops out, holding onto him only by the cock ring. He falls flat onto the ground as the thing continues to buzz, the only thing moving in the post-orgasmic glow.

Louis Dellid is full of energy. It's not the energy he would typically have, but a glow of post-release clarity, coupled with the weight of burden falling off his shoulders. Before his release at the magic touch of his vibrator, Louis had only ever done quick wanks, jerking off into some toilet paper or tissue and then flushing away the evidence. It doesn't matter that he had to take the extra time afterward to wipe the bathroom down—he had to clean anyway. What matters is that he's happy and he's content.
But there's a bit to it he's not quite able to shake off. He is wearing long sweatpants, and a heavy hoodie overtop the femmy stockings and arm warmers. He has to share the living space with his mother and sister, leaving his hood over his head when he passes them. Especially when his mother stops him and says. "You're chipper today."
"Who me? No, I'm not doing anything different! I'm fine, really!"
She nods and leaves him be, but he knows she suspects something. He knows that his dark and terrible shame will come out in the open sometime and that it is only a matter of when instead of if.
Was he happy? Was he beaming?
Not really anymore.
Can he tell his family about this? Probably not. Shouldn't. How would he handle this situation—tell them he's shaved himself in some gender-affirming or autogynephiliac delight?
"I'm not a woman. I'm not a manly man. I'm not a saint," he would say to himself, locked in his room, yanking off his top. He runs his fingers over his chest, wincing at the faint stubble that had reclaimed its territory from his attempts to remain smooth. He curses at it and runs his fingers through his hair. It's long and curly, but as he pulls his fingers back over his head, he notices the forehead and the fifth head.
Groaning, he falls onto the bed, sprawled out, letting the warmth of the heated room brush over his not-so-smooth skin. He's in his thirties now. In his whole twenties, he had been hiding from himself, keeping himself from being able to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. And why would he do that? Guilt? Because other people had preconceived notions of what a good boy he was?
Because he thought that was what they thought?
"I'm such a slut," he groans to himself, running his fingers down over his tummy and underneath those sweatpants. He grips at that cock, already stiff, despite the whole ordeal. The way the fabric rubbed against his uncovered dick was so exciting and so taboo. Yes, he wasn't wearing underwear. Yes, it was because he wanted to feel what being commando in sweatpants was like.
Fuck, is he messed up? How could he know for sure as he ran his hand casually up and down the shaft? He takes his phone out and presses the microphone on it.
"I have a problem," he admits. "I don't know what it is," he lies, "but I must take care of it.
And so, Louis Dellid called his old therapist's office just to see if he could schedule an appointment.
That was one of many places he called, of course. He needed to get a physical examination by his physician. It had been nearly a year since his last yearly check-up.
He double-checked his schedule for his dentist and optometrists. After all, his teeth were aching, and his vision was just a bit blurry.
And when he was done with making all those calls, he fell back on the bed, hooking his fingers under his pants and rolling them down, springing his dick free.
"Fuck, I'm a freak," he huffs. 
"No… I'm not. I'm a person." He says, wrapping his fingers around that shaft. He beats his meat, squirming on the bed. "I am… a man. Who really, really wants to get laid!"
That's when his mind flashed back to the app. He swipes at it, scrolling, bit after bit, page after page of all the people, desperate, horny like him. He furrows his brow, holding onto his dick as he examines each one until he stops on one account on there.
Such a well-sculpted chest, with an image, cropped out enough to hide all but the most baseline perception of a dick. The distance tracker said he wasn't too far, and his profile… sounds perfect.
"I've been curious for a long time, but I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring."
But he had not only liked Louis's post but also sent him a DM.
Man: I don't know how to do this.
It wasn't too long ago.
Louis bites his lip and lets go of his dick, typing in response. 
Louis: Do what?
Almost immediately, the ellipses of conversation hit the text.
Man: Hook up with a cutie like you.
Louis's heart beats faster. 
Man: You wanna go for a coffee or something first?
Louis: Maybe. But I want to have sex.
Man: Sorry, I'm bad at this.
Man: I just get so horny sometimes. I don't even know why I'm on this site.
Louis sighs, takes a breath, and responds. 
Louis: I need some help right now. You want a dick pic?
The response was quick.
Man: Yes
And with that, Louis turns his camera onto his penis, so throbbing and hard, and he snaps an image.
Louis: This is your fault.
It’s partially true.
Man: Oh wow…
Louis: Can we meet?
Man: Yeah! When?
Louis clutches his phone close to his heart. Fuck all the worries of life. He needs to do something exciting!

The date was set. This leaves Louis lingering with his emotions, concerns, and excitement. That means he's tossing and turning in his sleep, imagining everything that could happen in his little rendezvous with the stranger on the Hookup app. Laying naked in his bed, covered up by layers of blankets, he's a ball of sweat and worries and of dreams of the most vivid sorts. This is to be expected, of course, to a man of his life experience.
Man…
What is a man?
He isn't a woman. Doesn't want to be.
He rejects his manhood as well, shaving his body and growing out his hair—what hair there is left.
Neither is he a femboy. That ship had sailed far before the trend took off, far before he knew it was an option.
The thoughts and the worries, no, anxieties, buzz about in his brain, keeping him awake for who knows how many hours, leaving him to fitfully fall asleep and awaken, fall asleep, and awaken.
It is often like this for him—overthinking, overanalyzing, overworrying. He knows he has anxiety, but he knows that won't matter in the wee hours of the morning.
So he pops a melatonin, grabs his phone, and tells his boss that he's not feeling well and won't make it to work tomorrow.
Of course, even that assurance isn't enough for him to have a fully rested night's sleep.
—
The following day begins with a blur of motion, running through the day's events on autopilot. He grabs his coffee. He eats the overnight oats he prepared the night before and crashes into his office seat, laying back and staring at the ceiling.
An injection of caffeine should be enough for him. After that, he should be good to tackle this day, stained with the fog of his tiredness.
There isn't much to do except sit back, take care of himself, and ensure he's happy. So, he pulls up his chat clients and looks to keep track of his friends. But as he loads things up, he notices the friend request on his favorite application.
Date: Hey, thanks for letting me know your contacts. Can we talk on here?
It's him. That potential date/hookup/fling.
And he's online.
Biting his lip, Louis clicks "accept" and responds.
Louis: How are you?
Date: Oh, hey! Doing fine.
Louis: I gave you my socials?
Date: Yeah. Last night.
Louis frowned and whipped out his phone, scrolling through that secret hookup application. There, he sees it, plain as day.
Louis: Wow, I don't remember that. Must have been really tired.
Date: And, really…
Date: Horny?
Louis bites his lip, squirming in his seat.
Louis: Yeah, I was. And you?
Date: I still am.
Date: Sorry if that's weird.
Louis: It is a little weird, to be sure. But we're both odd, aren't we?"
Date: Oh? How are you weird?
Louis: Well, I'm skipping work today. Couldn't get sleep.
There's a pause for a bit.
Louis fights the urge to tab over to something else—to get started on his day, listening to newsfeeds and doomscrolling on his socials.
A blip brings him back to the conversation.
Date: So you're free today?
Date: I'm free, too.
Louis's whole body goes cold. Then, just as suddenly, it gets very, very warm. He leans in, his glasses reflecting the screen's light, his fingers typing at the keyboard with a mad passion.
Louis: Yes!
Louis: Oh fuck!
Louis: Where can I meet you?
There's another silence. Louis rocks back and forth in his chair, swirling about what to do. What he should wear. Would he have time to shower? Would he be able to get rid of the bags in his eyes? Would any of that matter?
Date: I can't host today.
The heartbeat thumps louder and louder in Louis's chest. The calculations in his mind go wild. His sister is out, indeed, for most of the day. Mother is at the lab. That would mean he has hours, nay, nearly an entire day, to meet and clean up before everyone knows he had brought someone home.
Someone home to fuck.
Date: Sorry I didn't mention that.
Louis: You're lucky.
Date:?
Louis: I'm alone for the day.
Louis: I'll see you in an hour?
Date: Oh, fuck yes.
Louis gets off his seat, practically tripping over himself as he bounds from his office and up to his bedroom. There, he would quickly shed every last stitch of his thrown-together morning look (planned to make it look like he slept in it and not in the buff.
The room needs to be fixed. The whole house is a mess, but he can't worry about that now. He grabs his long socks and hops around, trying to get one on and then the other. He slips on his gloves and then haphazardly falls his bed back into shape.
Running his hands through his hair and kicking assorted notes and papers he had strewn about his room under his bed, he spins and looks at himself in the mirror.
His face is a mess. Pale and sullen and with a bit of stubble.
It's a comedy and a tragedy as he runs back and forth, dressed in boy socks and boy sleeves, stumbling and slipping about between room and wash closet. He can shave, and he does. He can clean a bit, which he does, but there's one thing he can only do with what he has in his room.
He tugs at the bags under his eyes and groans. This has got to be the riskiest move he's ever done this whole experiment, but he has to do it.
So, he goes to his sister's door. He takes a big breath and enters.
Hopefully, she doesn't care about some missing makeup.

Louis steps into his sister's room, hunching his shoulders forward and feeling shame. But he pushes onward, closing the door and locking it for good measure.
It feels so odd to be in here, in someone else's space, dressed as he is. It's almost like he's publicly dressed only in stockings and gloves.
Could being in public like this work?
He has face masks. He's seen others parade around in special events, allowed to be as slutty as they wanted without any sort of intervention from the moral police.
He shakes himself out of it and steps through the carefully laid path around his sister's room. It's a place where she has everything in its place, and everything exists. From years of living here at this home, it has become a refuge and a prison.
On the far end of the hoard of treasures is her vanity, the one place where she can be pretty. The one place, perhaps, he can be cute.
The man lowers himself, ready to sit on the squishy seat, but stands up, his heart thumping. He can't just go bare-cheeked on there. No, that wouldn't do at all.
He pulls open one drawer and then another until he finds what he wants.
He holds up the pair of delicates up high. Underwear—women's underwear. His sister's. He gulps and lowers it down, spreading the elastic out, stepping daintily one foot and the other into it.
It's beyond the point of no return when he slips the pair on. He takes a moment to close his eyes and feel it out.
This is the sort of lewd behavior he'd always read about in his eroticas and the hentai magazines. He's seen this plot so many times before. Two siblings who look so much alike that no one notices that the one they're with is the male one until it's too late.
Too late.
It's not too late. He hastily undoes the garment and stumbles his way out of the room.
He's dizzy, sick, falling forward against the wall.
He pants heavily, his mind reeling from the thoughts and the unsettling of his stomach.
"W… what the hell… am I doing?" he asks.
"I can't do this… it's not right. It's so weird."
That's the logical, rational part of him speaking now. It's come back after all the horny, like a whip to his face.
Everything's moving way too fast. He throws the door open and stumbles over to his room, falling onto his bed. He grabs his phone and types hastily into the messenger.
Louis: I'm sorry. I'm feeling really sick right now. I can't do this.
With those words, he seals his fate. Even if he wanted to do this again. Even if he wanted to have an encounter with a stranger, it can't be with this one. He'll think he's a freak. He'll hate Louis for what he did, for teasing and manipulating him.
Louis rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling, clutching his chest, his phone right up against his body.
That's when the phone buzzes in response.
He takes a moment, swallowing the lump in his throat, before he brings the screen again to see what damage has been done. Had the date called him a whore or a liar or something else that's terrible? Had he just blocked Louis entirely? Or worse, doxxed him to the entirety of the internet?
Oh fuck, what would his boss say? What would his family say?
Date: Sorry to hear that. Hope you feel better.
That's not entirely what he expected.
Date: I'm feeling kinda worried too. Actually, I think I may have gone a bit fast.
Louis blinks and sits up, sitting cross-legged, furrowing his brow. What's happening here?
There's only one way to find out.
Louis: Me too, actually. I'm super nervous. It's driving me crazy.
There's a pause. Oh, by the gods, the uncertainty! Why must it vex him so?
A buzz.
Date: Same, actually.
Date: Maybe we should just stick to our original day and time, but go someplace neutral. Coffee?
Date: Honestly…
Date: I just wanted to impress someone as confident and sexy as you are.
Date: But like…
Date: I think I might be demisexual?
Louis: What's that?
Date: It means I need to know someone before I can be attracted to them… or rather do anything with them. I dunno. I'm still figuring things out. Made some dumb mistakes.
Louis smiles softly.
Louis: This doesn't have to be one of those mistakes.
Date: Yeah.
Date: That's why I want to know for sure first.
Date: We could go somewhere out-of-town so no one can see if you wish.
Louis flops back onto the bed, sighing, feeling the weight rise off of him.
Louis: You know what? Why don't we go somewhere nearby?
Louis: iI you want, we could discuss something we both like.
Louis: I noticed the dice on the table behind your pic.
Date: Oh, those? Yeah, those are for a game I'm in.
Louis: Tell me all about it.
—
"Someone seems to be in a good mood today," Louis's mom says, bringing home takeout for the three of them. "Something happened?"
"Just a little… figuring things out," Louis says, taking his plastic bowl and utensils.
His sister sips her drink, narrowing her gaze at him.
Louis looks at her, his eyes like a deer in headlights.
He grips his bowl tight, takes a deep breath, and blurts, "I've been shaving and wearing long socks and gloves! I like how they feel, and I'm going on a date with a guy I met online!"
His sister choked, pounding her chest.
His mother pauses a moment and places a hand on his head.
"Oh, my baby, that's wonderful."
And for the time being, that was that.
All-in-all. It was a rather nice day of self-loving.