The Fappening
by time_to_occur
For Bound_Up_Boy, who asked for a story featuring gooning and dicknotization, with my sincere admiration and congratulations on the you-know-what.
This story takes place in the same universe as Ferula Drudeana, between the first and second parts. (Yes, there is a second part of Ferula Drudeana on the way!)
Content Note: Please note that Agent Hardwick is a transgender man who uses the word 'clit' for his initial anatomy. There are three brief mentions of this in-story.
THE FAPPENING
"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
[...]
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."
-- Excerpt from The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats
---
The supernatural was part of Special Agent Finn Hardwick's every day. He lived it, breathed it, contained it. That was his calling.
So, when the reports from a tiny airport near Seattle in Paine Field reached his bureau and they dispatched him to check it out, the first thing that Agent Hardwick called for was a media blackout. The more people came to gawk, the stronger this thing would get. The next thing that his bureau did was close the airspace around the airport so that no more planes landed to feed the phenomenon.
There was no tactful way to say it. Dozens, maybe hundreds of people with dicks were stroking them in unison at the airport: men, women, people who were neither, both, or other genders entirely. Nobody was quite sure how it began, and nobody knew where everyone else who didn't have a cock had gone. And there didn't seem to be any end to it -- more and more people were getting caught up.
Hardwick had the usual bureau-issued personal protective gear, but he had an additional reason to think that he was pretty safe. See, Finn Hardwick had a clit where most guys had dicks. He could masturbate, sure, but he had no shaft to stroke. So, he felt fairly secure as he drove up through the Seattle traffic and listened to the calls that had come in about the situation to gather information.
"Oh, god, the cocks are everywhere...can't look away...My flight just disembarked, coming in from Newark...what the fuck is going on?!"
"Gotta...touch...No, no, I want to go home...no, I have to...touch...Help, please, send, mmmhmmm..."
"I can't find my husband. I came off the plane. I was just two people behind him and he was already gone...They look like zombies...but...they're happy...I bet it would feel so fuckin' good to stroke my cock right now."
Call after call, Agent Hardwick listened to people succumb. What they all seemed to have in common was their cocks. That confirmed that he would be well-equipped to resist. Despite the traffic, he soon found himself in the short-term parking lot at the airport.
Hardwick ran down a quick checklist to make sure that he wasn't forgetting any gear. His protective amulet was nestled between his pecs, under his shirt. His tactical pants hugged his ass and made sure that he wouldn't get snagged on anything. He had spell components in pouches on his utility belt, including the basics like salt for protective circles and mace for aggressive assholes. His holsters, including two guns and a charmed hunting knife, were slung low on his hips, though he didn't love to use them if he could avoid it. His half-face gas mask was strapped to the outside of his pack in a protective case, just in case it was needed in a hurry. Collecting his equipment, Hardwick shouldered his bag and put on his protective sunglasses, designed to resist visual attacks and spells.
Walking toward the terminal entrance, Hardwick missed having his usual partner at his side, but with the bureau's budget not keeping up with inflation, the equipment would have to do. It was always easier to find the money for stuff than it was to pay people. Theirs was a small organization and in high, if secret, demand of late. That meant they were spread thin.
With a deep breath, Special Agent Finn Hardwick pushed open the terminal door.
The first thing he saw was a man in a flight attendant's uniform kneeling on the ground, his gaze fixed on someone nearby as he stroked himself in a steady rhythm, moaning. Following his sightline, Hardwick turned to see a pilot from the same airline beating himself off just as zealously. It was like a masturbation metronome.
schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick
The sound echoed through the large space. This close to the door, the number of mindless strokers was limited, but Hardwick could see that they were part of a widening gyre expanding in a spiral from a distant center.
Suddenly, a moan and an unintelligible set of sounds passed through all the gathered strokers. As it rumbled toward Hardwick, he was able to make out words.
"Love cock! Stroke penis. Love penis! Stroke cock."
Then, they all fell silent again except for the moaning and the slick noises of their fervent masturbation. Frowning, Hardwick decided to continue walking toward the center. He felt certain that was where he would find his answers. There had to be a way to trace how this all began.
As he kept on, it soon became clear that the vocalizations came in waves, spreading between the poor souls trapped in the terminal. They seemed to have lost all sense of identity to their dicks. They were agents of cock. They belonged to their penis. Hardwick began to imagine every word that he knew for dick as he walked between them. If they were hyperfixated, he was trying not to think of pink elephants, which only made it worse. Elephant's trunk. There was a novel term.
"Serve cock. Be cock. Penis pawn. Spunk spawn."
He stopped looking at the individual faces and started looking at the cocks. They were inescapable — also obviously altered by whatever was happening here. Nearer to the exit, the cocks had been different to one another. Different sizes, different shapes and bends, cut, uncut. The closer that Hardwick got to what surely must be the epicenter, the more the cocks began to resemble each other.
They were each at least a foot long, though Agent Hardwick didn't stop to measure. Each had a generous foreskin descending over their head, with hefty, orange-sized balls churning out more and more precum. He had yet to see anyone cum.
"Sperm slut. Cock captive."
The odours were growing stronger. Underfoot, there was an increasing slickness as the captive cock—victims, as the captive victims who had been there the longest produced more and more pre-ejaculate and it spilled down their shafts, tracing a line down the underside of those beautiful dicks, running in rivulets down their ball sacks to drip drip drip onto the linoleum.
Walking between the rows of stroke-slaves, it wasn't long before Hardwick found ground zero. The pre-cum lay in puddles on the floor. It splashed up the sides of his boots and stayed there, viscous and plentiful.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?"
Instinctively, Hardwick spun toward the sound of the voice. With his heavy bag and the slickness on the floor, he overbalanced and fell. With no chance of recovery, he threw his arms out and smacked the ground to break his fall. His sunglasses fell somewhere underneath him with a final crunch. His gaze came to rest on the ur-cock that had started all this and the man it was attached to.
Hardwick quickly averted his eyes. Off in the distance, he saw someone holding a bouquet of flowers and a sign, probably with their sweetheart's name on it. "HEY! Get out of here! You don't want to be here! Get the fuck out before you get caught up in this!"
But it was too late. Already, the flowers were falling limply from their grasp, the sign fluttering to the floor. They knelt, gaping, in front of the airline pilot that Hardwick had seen on his way in. "Damn it."
The special agent found his gaze sliding back toward that beautiful, firm cock. It was his job to investigate the phenomenon. How could he do that if he didn't look? If he didn't touch? He felt a throbbing in his crotch.
The special agent found his gaze sliding back toward that beautiful, firm cock. It was his job to investigate the phenomenon. How could he do that if he didn't look? If he didn't touch? He felt a throbbing in his crotch.
"Oooh, penis...!" moaned Hardwick before clapping a hand to his mouth. But that hand had been resting in the prodigious amount of pre on the floor, some of which was now in his mouth and flung across his cheeks and upper lip. Oh, fuck.
Resisting the urge to lick it up, Hardwick spat out as much of it as he could, but the taste stuck with him. Without his sunglasses to protect him, the hundreds of cocks around Finn Hardwick were looking very fucking appetizing. He wanted to stroke his own penis alongside them, wanted to be one of them.
But Special Agent Finn Hardwick had no such thing and he had no intention of abandoning his duties. He had to save as many of these people as he could. He had to find a way to turn off whatever had been turned on in addition to all of these horny cock-strokers.
A sudden sense of growing tightness in Hardwick's pants distracted him from that thought. His heart was beating in his ears as he imagined what it could mean. What he hoped it meant. The only thing for it was to pull down his pants and make sure that everything was all right.
His hands were slick with pre-cum and he had trouble working the button and zipper. He dried his hands on his hips as best he could and kept at it with newfound urgency. Every now and again, he couldn't stop his gaze from sliding over to that perfect penis that he had been staring at before. He hadn't even yet seen the face of the person that belonged to it. Oh yes, these men belonged to their dicks, and not the other way around.
"Ohh, fucking finally," muttered Hardwick as he managed to get his pants down over his ass and pulled his underwear away to look inside the pouch. His clit was pulsating and growing. Already, it pressed up against the confines of his underwear, standing proud and firm. His lower lip trembled. He watched it expand and pulsate. He held his breath as it emerged from its hood like a snail from its shell.
Special Agent Finn Hardwick had grown a cock. That thought bounced around in his skull as he thought about how much he would have given for exactly this to happen. A fully-functioning cock, pain-free, with no expensive surgeries or downtime, and no choosing between sensation and the ability to penetrate a partner. It was magical.
It was exactly that knowledge that pulled Hardwick out of his trance. This was magic. It was his job to figure it out and end this, or failing that, at least not get his ass caught in the trap, too. He pulled his pants up decisively and got to his feet.
He was in very real fucking danger right now. His own senses were working against him. A part of him wanted to look back at the cock that had apparently started it all. It was convincing. After all, if Hardwick looked, he might find out something useful. Special Agent Finn Hardwick was no coward, that part of him said. Finn Hardwick could handle one quick look for assessment purposes before he left, it purred.
But, despite the delicious smell that made his nostrils flare even now, despite the firm, leaking cock that was now shoved into his too-small underwear, despite the slickness on his fingertips, despite that cajoling voice, Hardwick didn't look at the cock again.
Not until it spoke to him.
"Love cock. See cock. Touch cock. Need cock. Become cock."
Hardwick wasn't sure whether the Penis was speaking to him telepathically or if the human it was attached to still had a voice. The effect was the same. Special Agent Hardwick looked upon the magnificent Dong and was lost. Around him, the voices of other people who belonged to their cocks rumbled out, repeating the words of the Penis.
Hardwick put down his heavy burden, his bag sliding off his slumped shoulders onto the damp floor. He pulled down his pants and underwear in one go, freeing his special, never-before-touched cock for the first time. He knelt beside the Penis and let the sight of it penetrate his mind.
"Serve penis. Stroke dong. Cock, cock, cock..." said the Penis.
"Cock, cock, cock," chanted Hardwick, almost sing-song, and took his shaft in hand. "Fuck, fuck, fuck...!"
It was so sensitive! The nerve endings all over his new organ were even more sensitive than his clit and there was way more to touch. He groaned, and his groan echoed through the cock-struck men around him. Hardwick let out a deep, shuddering breath and aligned his movements with the cock flock without even thinking about it. It just happened.
The more Hardwick stroked, the more everything else fell away as his consciousness seemed to move into his dick, his sense of self moving into the part of his body that was experiencing all the stimulation. He gave a small "oh" of surprise when his new cockhead leaked pre-cum for the first time. Gathering it up, Hardwick gave his fingers a lick and his eyes rolled back into his head. Cock was so good.
"Cock good," Special Agent Finn Hardwick muttered.
"Cock good," repeated Penis Patient Zero beside him. "Be cock. Be cocked."
Hardwick's lips moved to form the words before he even tried to understand them, and from the sound of it, so did the cocks around him. He stopped thinking about the words before he finished saying them. In fact, he didn't think about anything at all except masturbating. He wanted to keep going forever. Nothing had ever felt better, more peaceful, more pleasurable.
There soon came a time when Hardwick could no longer tell how long he had been gooning. Every time he approached orgasm, he slowed long enough to keep edging, then continued at a steady pace. When the Penis spoke, Hardwick repeated. Sometimes, the brain that had once been Finn Hardwick's and now belonged to Penis would make a random connection in its neurons and the mouth would speak. Sometimes, others would take up what the mouth said.
"No cum. Stroked dumb. Never stop. Stroke cock."
It felt good to say the words, to help guide everyone toward the right mindset. Occasionally, Hardwick was dimly aware of loud noises and exclamations coming from the entrances of the terminal, but he didn't really understand them anymore.
Cock good.
---
Finn Hardwick woke up thirsty. The fluorescent lights above him made his head ache. He groaned and threw up his dominant arm over his eyes, hissing at the soreness in his overused forearm. He glanced around from his supine position in the bed, noting the IV bag of saline solution draining into his other arm, the antiseptic smells of bleach and floor cleaner, and his hospital gown, which was tented over his new dick.
He had a dick now. He remembered that happening. He had been...at the airport. He was trying to investigate...cock. No, that wasn't quite right. There were a lot of penises stuck at the airport. Well, yes, but no...No, he had been there to try and understand why people were masturbating at the airport and he had become stuck there, too. He had no idea how long he was stuck or how he had become unstuck. It felt like he had been there forever.
As he tried to think back, Hardwick began to relive snatches of memories. Jumbled as they were, the brief images, sounds, and thought fragments overwhelmed him at first. He took a few combat breaths to steady himself and turned his mind to them again.
A loud quavering sound tore from the bag on the ground beside the mindlessly masturbating man. His hands shot from his cock and covered his ears. Suddenly, he was Special Agent Finn Hardwick again. He could feel his mind drifting again already...
...He was alert long enough to latch onto a single thought. Gooners were gooners because they edged without cumming. As his eyes found the center of the gyre that he was now a part of, he focused on the Penis. The Penis must cum.
Lunging at it, Hardwick opened his mouth as wide as he could and plunged his wet, cock-serving mouth down onto it. His lips stretched around it with almost uncomfortable tightness. This was Penis. This was the perfect penis....
...Hardwick felt his throat constricting around the dong that was shoved halfway down it. Just as he was about to pull off for air, he heard an urgent moan and a pair of hands settled on the back of his head, keeping him in place...
Hardwick blinked and looked around the room again. His mouth still tasted of cum. What had he been thinking? Scrunching up his face, he pressed the call button. Maybe the nurse could give him some water to wash the taste away.
He gave his hard-on a friendly little over-the-gown pat. There was no telling what would happen if he touched it skin to skin right now. At least he had survived, somehow.
---
"Jesus fucking Christ, what a mess," said Special Agent Gale Cooper, poking at a dried stain on the airport floor as around them, the supernatural forensics team gathered evidence.
"...Eventually, one of Hardwick's contingency charms triggered and woke him long enough for him to realize that the point of gooning is not to, er, finish. So with all the fucking ingenuity and tenacity that he's known for, my man Hardwick deepthroated the penis next to him and uh, fellated it 'til the guy it was attached to...achieved orgasm. Lucky for him, it was the guy who started it all, and it triggered everyone to ejaculate. Then they just kinda...woke up," explained Special Agent Logan Tate, referring to his notes on a small black pad.
"Damn," said Cooper. "Any injuries?"
"All these people had to be brought over to the hospital to be treated for dehydration, Hardwick included. Some repetitive strain injuries, too. When I first got here, there was basically a pond in the middle of this place. A lake of, well, cum," said Tate, shaking his head disbelievingly. "Lotta weird activity going on lately. Pure chaos."
"Pure chaos," agreed Cooper. "Pure fucking chaos."
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