Heavy is the Cock... - Part 2

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After his 31st birthday, Arthur’s mornings had become battles. Every day began with the same ritual: standing in front of the mirror after showering, towel cinched low on his hips, staring at the unmistakable outline beneath it. A year had passed since it had all started, one year into the growth, and his cock was twenty inches soft, reaching about 32 inches when hard, with balls the size of ripe melons. And there was no sign of slowing.

He inhaled slowly, bracing himself to face the daily challenges. Then, as if hoping to wake up from the longest dream—or nightmare, he dropped the towel. The mirror reflected his reality in merciless clarity. His hairy chest was still broad and slightly softened, but it looked different from the compensating posture as his shoulders pulled back to carry the extra weight at the front. His abdomen had the dadbod-type slight curvature but was now tense as his core muscles worked overtime to keep him upright.

His thighs had grown subtly thicker from the constant straddle, and his calves were tight from the altered gait. And between his legs, he saw the inescapable burden: a cock that lay like a living weight along his thigh even when soft, the broad head resting well past mid‑leg, and its heft making the skin of his inner thigh yield around it. Beneath hung his heavy, hairy balls, each the size and firmness of a melon, tugging forward under their own mass with an insistent pull he felt in the pit of his abdomen. His groin looked like a fantasy from a kinky story, but it was real.

The skin over both shaft and sac was warm to the touch and faintly flushed from constant blood flow. Over the surface, veins stood out in a branching map that throbbed with each heartbeat. Every subtle shift of Arthur’s hips sent a faint sway and drag, reminding him of the pressure and the heat radiating from the overworked tissue. It wasn’t obscene in the way a photo on a screen might be; it was a dense, living burden, undeniably part of him. It was a crown of flesh and weight that no one else had ever worn.

The door suddenly opened; Arthur looked up and saw his wife, Maddy, frozen in the frame. Her eyes flicked down before she caught herself. She’d seen it before—she’d helped him through countless adjustments—but at this size, seeing it in the stark morning light, unhidden, seemed to strip her of language. Arthur’s cheeks warmed. Without a word, she turned and left, and the faint click of the door felt louder than it should’ve been. He exhaled, already feeling the tension coil in his chest. The marriage was stumbling. It had only been a matter of time.

Arthur tossed the towel aside and faced another challenge: clothes. Every day was a wardrobe triage, and every step made him acutely aware of the weight and heat between his legs. First, he had to put on double underwear. He eased into a snug, supportive jock that cradled his balls, and each lift made him groan quietly as the firm cup settled their heavy sway. Over that, he pulled on tight boxer briefs to corral his cock, lining the thick, sensitive shaft carefully down one leg. The head nudged along the fabric with a slow slide, and he had to pause twice to breathe through the tingling pulse that rose at each brush. Even so, it was like trying to fit a thick rope through a narrow tube, as every inch reacted in his hands.

Next came the jeans, custom cut, oversized in the legs to disguise the outline but trimmer at the waist. He stepped in, carefully balancing the extra weight at the front, and tugged the denim up until he hit resistance—leaning, wriggling, and shifting his hips to accommodate the curve. He tried to convince himself this was still normal, that he could still pass as just another guy heading to work.

The fabric strained and seams groaned in protest as the slow roll of his balls settling lower into the jock punctuated each creak of thread. Zipping was a teeth-gritting process as the teeth of the zipper scraped perilously close as he drew it up over taut fabric. When the button finally caught, the relief was mixed with the dull throb of his cock adjusting to the confinement, and it felt like winning a minor war—one he’d have to fight again tomorrow. Lastly, he put on his button-down shirt, untucked, as the hem fell barely low enough to disguise his bulge a bit more.

He studied his reflection, taking a deep breath. “Smile, Arthur. You can do this,” he said, smiling. Part of him was still thrilled at the idea of having such a huge cock and balls. The male ego of it gave him the strength to keep going proudly. But it wasn’t that easy sometimes. The weight was more than flesh; it was constant awareness, a pull that made everything harder.

But the struggles weren’t limited to finding something to wear. Working wasn’t easy, and even the slightest accidental shift or touch could make things worse.

**

About a month after his birthday, Arthur attended the site’s coordination meeting like every Monday morning. The boss was outlining the week’s schedule. Arthur stood among the crew, with his hands in his pockets, trying to fade into the background. The joking started harmlessly enough, only a banter to keep the mood light. Then a coworker gave a playful pat to Arthur’s bulge—the kind of thing guys did to say, “Relax, we’re with you.”

Arthur flinched hard, and a sharp breath hissed between his teeth. The casual pat landed like a live wire on Arthur’s cock, sending a sudden, electric jolt up his spine. He sucked in air, and his eyes widened as heat surged low in his belly. He immediately knew something big was about to happen. His cock thickened and lifted with startling speed, redistributing the weight forward so abruptly that his hips rocked back. He groaned softly, more from the helpless rush of blood than from pleasure, feeling each heavy throb like a small earthquake as the huge cock swelled against the unyielding cage of fabric.

The confined mass strained outward, tightening the fabric, pushing and shifting the bulge with an unstoppable pulse that made Arthur pant a bit. Seams creaked like ropes under tension, and each heartbeat made them groan louder. He could feel his balls drawing upward against the jock’s cradle as the fullness made them sway less and press more heavily into his thighs. The sensation was overwhelming—heat, pressure, tightness—until the shaft was no longer just pressing but forcing space where there was none.

Thirty-two inches of rich cock filled every available inch inside the jeans as the tip wedged high, forcing the waistband forward. The inevitable then happened. Arthur gasped, hearing a sharp metallic snap from the zipper giving way, followed by the desperate rip of denim under too much load. In the same breath, his cock burst free into the open air, swinging forward with a dense, undeniable heft that made the air itself seem to shift around it. Within a second, Arthur’s cock and balls were on full display before his stunned coworkers.

The room fell silent; the laughter died. Faces shifted from amusement to stunned disbelief. Arthur’s hands went instinctively to cover himself, but there was no hiding it. He’d need at least four pairs of hands only to cover his cock, and probably another four to hide his balls. And even then, the shape would be too obvious.

The boss was the first to move, ushering Arthur toward his office with a low and calm voice. Arthur’s skin burned, and his hands were slick, feeling humiliated despite the admiration instead of disgust in the crew’s faces. His breathing was unsteady as he walked into the office because the motion stimulated his cock and balls in ways he would’ve preferred to avoid. The boss shut the door and handed him a jacket. Arthur draped it over his front, but the outline remained like a ridge under a tent.

The boss sighed, leaning back in his chair, flicking his eyes once—unavoidably—toward the massive shape under the jacket. “Arthur… I’m not gonna lie, this is a lot. For you, for the crew. No one’s mad, but you saw their faces. That wasn’t just shock—it was… well, a combination of many things. And yeah, safety’s part of it, but so is making sure you’re not put in a position for this to happen again.”

Arthur shifted, feeling the shaft swaying even under the jacket, tenting and collapsing the fabric tent with each slight movement. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” the boss interrupted gently. “You can’t help it. But right now, your… You know… It’s the elephant in the room, and it’s not going anywhere. I’ve got to think about ladders, about gear, about people not keeping their eyes where they need to be.” He exhaled through his nose. “So, for safety—and to keep you from more scenes like that—I’m moving you to paperwork chores. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

Arthur nodded, feeling his throat tightening. They looked at each other in silence, unaware of what would follow because the huge shaft was still hard and tall between them. Arthur knew he couldn’t go soft without cumming. He hesitated, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Boss, I… I need to use the bathroom before I can…” His voice trailed, but the meaning was clear. “I need to handle it…”

The boss’s eyes widened slightly, then softened with understanding. “Right. Go. Take your time. No one’s gonna rush you,” he said, but there was an evident strain in his voice.

The process in the bathroom took longer than Arthur liked. At this size, it wasn’t just about desire; it was an exercise in logistics, mechanics, and stubborn endurance. The cramped stall became a workbench for improvisation; he had to angle himself, brace one hand on the wall for leverage, and work with slow motions to avoid overwhelming himself too fast. Every movement made the massive shaft sway and bump against something, sending jolts of sensation through him. His balls hung like pendulums, so heavy he had to shift his stance to keep them from slapping against his thighs too hard.

He found himself groaning low and desperately. His breathing came in uneven pulls as he tried to focus on a rhythm that would bring him to climax without straining his back or arms. More than once, he had to adjust his grip, sliding his hand further along the thick length to reach the most sensitive spots. When it finally hit, it was with an involuntary moan and a heavy, pulsing release that seemed to go on and on as thick ropes splashed against the stall wall and pooled on the floor despite his best aim.

By the time it ended, he was flushed, his chest heaved, and his legs trembled from the effort. But at least his cock deflated slowly, leaving him spent but having to handle the mess. Cleaning up was its own chore—paper towels, wet wipes, and a careful check to make sure no telltale mess would betray what had just happened. Only then did he tuck himself back in, with the cock noticeably eased but still formidable, and step out with the jacket clutched in his hand. The shame clung like sweat, heavier in its own way than what he carried physically.

**

Weeks passed. The on-site office work was less physically dangerous than climbing scaffolds, but it did nothing to control the sensitivity that now defined his every hour. His cock and balls were heavier and larger than before and reacted to the smallest provocation: a shift in his chair would make the shaft sway and drag across his thigh, sending an unbidden tremor up his spine; the brush of denim felt like an insistent stroke; even the low vibration of a passing truck through the floor seemed to travel straight into him, sending a swelling heat in his groin before he could react.

Driving between errands was its own gauntlet. Seatbelts cut diagonally across him, forcing constant adjustments to keep from pressing painfully into the bulge, while every bump in the road rolled his balls in their supportive pouch and made him bite down a quiet groan.

Showers became full-blown trials. The weight alone meant he had to brace one leg up on the lip of the tub to reach comfortably because the shaft was too long and heavy to maneuver without using both hands at times. Even with slow motions, the first glide of soap-slick fingers along his length sent a flush into his cheeks as the texture and warmth of his own skin was almost too much to bear. He would grit his teeth and try to focus on the task, but the involuntary swelling, the deep throb in his balls, and the constant reminder of how sensitive every inch had become left him panting by the time he finished.

Rinsing took longer. It required lifting, shifting, and angling the heavy mass so water could run clean over every fold and contour while his balls swung forward with each move, pulling at the cords in his lower belly. By the end, he would stand there, breath fogging the glass, chest rising hard, hands braced on the wall, waiting for the overstimulation to ease enough to step out and towel off without shivering from the lingering aftershocks.

The strain in his marriage deepened. One night, Arthur lay in bed shifting restlessly, trying to find a position that didn’t leave his cock and balls aching under their own weight. He would ease onto his side, but the length would press awkwardly against the mattress, forcing him to roll onto his back, which in turn let the mass spill heavily down his thigh and pull at his hips. He tried bracing a pillow between his legs, lifting himself slightly to ease the tug, but every adjustment made the bed creak and his breathing quicken with the subtle jolts of sensation.

Beside him, Maddy stayed silent at first, trying to convince herself that the issue didn’t bother her. However, with a small sigh, she slid quietly from their bed. Arthur stirred fully, feeling the mattress lighten, and heard her soft footsteps across the room, followed by the faint click of the guest room door closing. The clock read 1:13 AM.

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the heaviness of the darkness and loneliness above him. Thoughts turned over and over: how his cock and balls had become a wall between them, how he couldn’t ignore the constant weight on his groin, and how Maddy’s leaving felt less like a choice in the moment and more like a slow inevitability. The ceiling didn’t answer, only held his gaze, witnessing the growing distance he didn’t know how to close.

The only thing that hadn’t changed dramatically was his relationship with his sons. 13-year-old Asher had some rebellious bursts like any teen, but knowing something was happening to his dad made the boy protective toward him, even when his mom was mad at Arthur. 11-year-old Aaron had noticed his dad’s issues and the strain in the marriage, but focused on being a good kid instead of asking too many questions. And 9-year-old Adrian was the brightest light in his dad’s life, often telling Maddy that she shouldn’t be mad at Arthur because he loved her. Adrian always spoke in such a cute way that the woman could only smile, nod, and change her attitude.

These comments from the kids helped Arthur convince her to attend marital therapy, hoping for a bridge to recovery. But when they went to the appointment, the moment Arthur sat down, he could see the therapist’s eyes falter. Arthur’s soft cock was 25 inches long now, his balls bigger than before, full and heavy in the supportive pouch beneath his jeans, and even seated, their size created an unmistakable mound that pushed the fabric forward in a way no amount of careful clothing could disguise. The hem of his shirt barely softened the outline; the broad curve of the shaft sloped down one leg, and the rounded swell of his balls sat like a second weight above the seat edge.

As the session began, Arthur saw the therapist’s gaze drifting again and again, unfocused, fixed on the impossible-to-hide bulge as if pulled by gravity. Maddy noticed, and her jaw tightened, words clipped, and eyes flicked between Arthur and the man in the chair. Arthur could feel the heat rising in his own cheeks as the awareness of every subtle shift of weight in his lap made the fabric stretch and ease in small pulses.

Finally, Maddy burst. “I can’t stand that thing taking everything away from us. It scares me.” She gestured sharply at his lap, slicing her hand through the air.

Arthur stared at her, then down at himself, then back. He reached for her hand. “I’m sorry. And I’m scared too,” he said slowly.

She pulled away. The space left behind felt like a door closing. And for the first time, Arthur knew: if no doctor could stop the growth soon, he might lose her entirely. So, after the tension at home and the strain of daily life, Arthur agreed to another round of specialist visits. His condition was unlike anything documented, and the hope—faint though it was—was that someone might offer more than a shrug and a polite “remarkable case.”

Endocrinology came first. The reasoning was obvious: if hormones were driving this growth, perhaps a blood panel would reveal the culprit. The endocrinologist ordered a barrage of tests—testosterone, DHT, estradiol, growth hormone, IGF-1, and prolactin—collected in a room where Arthur sat awkwardly as his bulge made the standard phlebotomy chair feel child-sized. The results came back maddeningly normal, each number was in the healthy range.

“No systemic endocrine driver detected,” the doctor said as his eyes flicked down involuntarily. The clinical language felt sterile, stripping away the lived reality of hauling twenty-plus pounds of sensitive flesh everywhere Arthur went.

Vascular medicine was next. A senior vascular surgeon wanted to rule out abnormal blood flow by locating unusual circulation patterns that might be driving the growth. Given his size, they had to bring him into a larger procedure room usually reserved for bariatric cases. Arthur lay back on an extended exam table, his cock and balls so large they had to be arranged on a folded sheet for support before the work began. Two technicians worked together, one applying warmed gel along the length of his shaft and around the heavy curve of his scrotum. The gel spread with a slick sound, and even this simple contact made him exhale sharply as his hips tensed when the sensitivity flared.

They used a high-frequency Doppler probe with an oversized head, guiding it slowly from base to tip, pausing at each segment to record flow. The device glided over the flushed skin, sending faint tremors through him and making him grunt softly a few times despite trying to stay still. On the monitor, rivers of color-coded blood flow—red and blue—surged in real time, painting an almost abstract map of perfect vascular health.

The surgeon bent toward a resident, whispering in awe, “First case… healthy vessels, just hypertrophy at its max. Very impressive.”

Arthur grinned wryly, adjusting slightly as the sheet shifted under the weight. “This is a crown I never asked to wear.” The room chuckled, but their eyes widened with the awareness of how unprecedented the scale truly was.

Genetics followed. A clinical geneticist examined him head to toe, then ordered a full genome sequencing to look for rare mutations. The cheek swab and skin biopsy were routine, but the measurements were far from it. The tape measure stretched across the table, and still Arthur had to shift his stance so they could capture the full length without the tip dipping over the edge. One assistant held the base gently but firmly in place while the geneticist guided the tape slowly along the shaft, calling out each inch to a second assistant recording in neat columns.

Arthur couldn’t help but give a crooked grin when the tape brushed him, and the pressure made him hum low in his throat. When they moved on to the circumference, they had to loop the tape carefully, avoiding pinching the flushed skin, and Arthur quipped, “You sure you’ve got enough tape for this?” earning a laugh from the note-taker as the geneticist blushed.

Measuring his balls required a second tape and two sets of hands. Each orb was about the size of a regulation volleyball, round, heavy, and resting against the edge of the table like weights waiting to roll. They documented width, height, and even the way they hung in the supportive pouch.

The geneticist finally leaned back. “I’m impressed. I had never seen something like this,” he whispered to an assistant almost reverently before returning to the chart.

Arthur couldn’t help but smirk at the comments. Despite the concerns and the risks his condition brought, a part of him couldn’t help but be proud of having the largest cock and balls ever recorded. It didn’t make sense to feel that way since his life was slowly falling apart, but wearing such a crown helped him walk tall despite how awkward it would be. 

Imaging was its own challenge. MRI techs had to adjust the gantry opening to its widest setting, and Arthur still had to position himself carefully to fit. CT scan tables required extra padding so his mass wouldn’t press painfully into the surface. Each time, technicians’ faces flickered between professionalism and disbelief. The reports were always the same: normal tissue composition, healthy vasculature, and abnormal localized growth. No pathology. No fix. He longed for answers but only received stares and too many touches that often resulted in accidental hard-ons that required him to jerk off in the clinic’s bathroom for it to soften.

**

More weeks passed. Arthur’s body adapted, but the weight and sensitivity remained unrelenting. At work in the site office, he shifted constantly, conscious of how his bulge rearranged itself with each move. At home, showers were still drawn-out ordeals; each soaping and rinsing was a balancing act between cleaning thoroughly and not overstimulating himself into hours of unwanted stimulation. The need for cum grew with him—no longer optional, but maintenance, like eating or sleeping.

His marriage was at its worst; Maddy barely looked at him and had permanently moved into the guest room. Being a dad was his favorite part of being home, but even that was harder with each passing day. He couldn’t play soccer or football with his boys, or enter playful wrestling matches with them like he used to do. However, at least his sons supported him through bad days. Deep down, he knew things were only getting worse, but somehow he managed to smile.

One night, about five months into the second year of growth, Arthur stood naked before the full-length mirror. Twenty-eight inches of heavy, soft flesh hung from him, balls round and firm, pulling forward with their own gravity. He studied himself, tracing the lines of his body that had changed to bear the load—thicker thighs, a stronger core, and the slight sway in his stance. It was too much, but something new and primal stirred within that day.

He was the proud owner of the largest cock and balls in history, and it was perfectly functional. A smirk tugged at his lips as pride outweighed burden. “This is a crown I never asked to wear,” he whispered, “but damn, I wear it well.” He felt the first stirring, the familiar heaviness beginning to lift as his cock slowly hardened until it reached 42 inches long, hard and heavy as steel, thicker than his thighs. “That doctor was right. Heavy is the cock that wears the crown, literally,” he said, grinning and stroking the shaft with both hands.

...

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