Seminal_kit.txt | Creepypasta (Not really)

The night had been building for a while now. The great gooning session. Ben had finished the long document - seventy-nine pages of the most extreme things he could write about a futanari Kit - and the three of you had agreed Alan’s birthday would be the night to finally use it. All types of drugs were already thick in everyone’s blood, stretching time and sensation until the edges of the room felt fuzzy. As you fingered that twink, he suggested for things to get even freakier. The rope was Alan’s idea. He wanted the pressure, the controlled loss of air while you worked him open.

Now you are behind him. Alan is on his knees on the damp sheets, blindfolded, wrists loosely bound in front of him so he can still brace himself. The rope around his neck is looped twice, the end held firmly in your hand like a damn leash. You keep the tension precise, tight enough that every breath is a conscious effort, loose enough that he can still speak when he needs to. You don’t want any real tragedies now. Your right hand and forearm are buried deep inside him, fingers curled against his prostate, working in steady, ruthless circles. The heat and slickness around your wrist are extreme; every time you push deeper his body clenches and a low, wet sound escapes him.

"Más… más fuerte…" ("More… fuck, harder")

You give the rope a short upward pull at the same time you press harder against that swollen gland. Alan’s back arches sharply. A thick strand of precome drips from his cock onto the sheets. His voice comes out strained and broken. "Ahí… justo ahí, no pares…" ("There… right there, don’t stop."). Ben sits in the chair a few feet away, laptop open on his thighs, cock in his fist as he spat on it to act as lubricant. He is reading aloud from the document in a flat, dry tone. The descriptions were graphic: Kit’s heavy cock hanging between her thighs, the thick layer of yellowish-white smegma gathered under the foreskin, the way her ass opened while she came, the volume of the load she produced. Ben’s hand never stops moving as he fondled himself. He is fully hard, the head of his cock already glossy.

You adjust your stance and push your arm deeper. Alan’s hole stretches around your forearm with a wet, obscene sound. You keep the rope taut. His breathing is a series of short, desperate pulls of air. The smell in the room is dense - sweat, sex, the sharp edge of the substances, and the musky scent coming off Ben’s cock as he strokes himself to the text.

"Ben… lee la parte de nuevo." ("Ben… read that part again.") Alan’s voice was thin. Ben doesn’t look up. He simply scrolls back a few paragraphs and continues, describing in detail how Kit’s cock twitched and then erupted, the way the semen mixed with the smegma until it turned grayish, the wet sounds her body made. Every time he pushes back onto your arm the friction sends a jolt through you. That's when the first footstep sounds. It is soft, but it does not belong to any of the three of you. You glance toward the darker side of the room, yet nothing moved.

Ben keeps reading without pause. Alan is too far gone to notice; his entire focus is on the dual pressure of your arm inside him and the rope limiting his air. You give the rope another controlled pull and feel his prostate throb hard against your fingers. A fresh gush of fluid spills down your wrist. Another footstep. This time even closer. The laptop screen is angled just enough that you can see it from where you kneel. For a moment, the image of Kit on the document looks normal. Then it doesn’t. The eyes are too detailed, too wet, too present. The smile is wider than it should be. You tell yourself it is the substances. You tell yourself the footsteps are Daniel or one of the others checking the cameras. You keep working Alan’s prostate in tight, demanding circles while the rope stays firm in your hand.

"Me voy a correr… no pares, por favor…!" ("I’m going to come… don’t stop, please…!") Alan’s voice is barely coherent now. His cock jerks untouched, spilling another thick string of precome. Ben’s voice continues, describing Kit’s body with the same flat intensity, but you notice his eyes flick once toward the screen and then away, as if he refuses to acknowledge what he saw. The footsteps come again, then again, and again. warm trickle runs from your left nostril. And soon, you felt a small drop of blood coming out.

You ease the rope for two full breaths, then tighten it again at the same moment you press hard and deep against his prostate. Alan convulses and comes with a choked, wet sound, cock pulsing hard, with his cum streaking the sheets. You don’t stop. You keep the pressure on his oversensitive gland while he shakes, the rope still limiting his air in careful, cruel intervals.

Ben is still reading. The words are starting to blur together. Whether it’s Kit’s cock, the smegma, the orgasm that seemed to go on too long, but his hand is moving faster now. The footsteps have stopped right behind you. You can feel the weight of attention on the back of your neck. When you risk another glance at the laptop, the image of Kit is no longer static. The mouth is moving in small, silent increments, over and over again. The eyes are fixed on you.

Alan is trembling beneath you, overstimulated, still blindfolded, still breathing in the short rationed pulls you allow him. The rope is still in your hand. The smell of sex and sweat and blood from your nosebleed fills the space between the three of you. Somewhere in the darker part of the room something shifts its weight again. Ben turns another page and continues reading without looking up. And the face on the screen keeps moving its mouth in perfect, soundless silence. Do what you will now.

Alan had been gone for months by now. The searches had slowed to almost nothing. Ben was… complicated. Safe to say, your friendship with him was over. Your own life had continued, thought still left unnerved. Some days felt almost normal. Most nights did not. Tonight, you came back to the apartment already restless, the kind of low, stubborn heat that had been building all evening with nowhere to go. The place was quiet in that particular late-night way. Ominously so. You dropped your things, left the lights low, opened your laptop, and got to searching.

Most of what came up was useless. Either soft, careful writing that pulled away right when it should have pushed harder. Polished, empty scenes that never went far enough. The frustration only made the ache in your gut sharper, the need more pointed. You kept scrolling, half-annoyed, half-desperate for something that actually matched the uglier shape of what you wanted. Then a single unmarked link on an old, half-dead forum. No real title, no author that meant anything, just a block of text that looked familiar when the page loaded. You rubbed your chin and started reading.

As you skimmed through it, it was almost like Ben’s. Not entirely identical to Ben’s document, but the bones were the same. The same relentless focus, same heavy, exhaustive attention to Kit’s body - the weight of her cock, the thick yellowish gather of smegma under the foreskin, the way her thighs trembled, the wet sounds, the sheer volume when she finally came - and allat. Paragraph after paragraph of it, written with that same flat, obsessive detail. How the file had ended up here, on this forgotten corner, was impossible to know. You didn’t close it, however. Very intrigued now.

Arousal came slowly at first, then all at once. Heat pooled low and heavy. Your cock thickened against your thigh, then grew fully hard with every new line. You were tempted to just take it out already. The text kept going, more description, more excess, more of the exact things that had lived in your head since that night, and your fist matched its pace, twisting over the head on every upstroke, spreading the growing slickness down the shaft. Your porn addiction/odd fetishes were a hard habit to kill completely. Even after everything, your body still answered when the right words appeared.

You leaned back in the chair, legs spreading wider, and preparing to fondle yourself. The laptop screen painted pale light across your stomach and the moving fist. Your breathing had already changed. You were fully hard, the kind of aching hardness that demanded more pressure, more friction, and you gave it willingly, chasing the heat while the text described Kit’s cock in the same merciless detail Ben once had.

The air behind the chair changed. It wasn’t a sound at first. Just a sudden cold pressure, like the temperature in the room had dropped only in the space directly behind you. Then solid heat replaced it, the unmistakable weight of a thick, heavy cock pressing against the curve of your lower back, half-hard and already warm through the fabric of your shirt. A body stood close enough that you could feel the soft give of her stomach and the underside of her tits against your shoulders. Warm, uneven breath touched the side of your neck. A hand slid around your waist from behind, palm broad and firm, and pressed flat against your lower abdomen, fingers spreading until they almost reached the base of your erection. She only held you there, pinning you lightly to the chair while you got harder.

Her voice came low and rough against your ear, the first words she had ever given you.

"Bien… pájate. ¿O necesitas ayuda?" ("Good… stroke yourself. Or do you need help?")

The hand on your abdomen pressed harder, encouraging the rhythm. Her cock shifted against your back, dragging slowly upward, the sheer size and heat of it impossible to mistake for anything else. She was breathing heavier now, the sound close and unsteady, like even this contact affected her. You could feel the thick shape of her growing fuller against your spine, the weight of it unmistakable. She didn’t speak again.

[Non-Futa]

Alan had been gone for months by now. The searches had slowed to almost nothing. Ben was… complicated. Safe to say, your friendship with him was over. Your own life had continued, thought still left unnerved. Some days felt almost normal. Most nights did not. Tonight, you came back to the apartment already restless, the kind of low, stubborn heat that had been building all evening with nowhere to go. The place was quiet in that particular late-night way. Ominously so. You dropped your things, left the lights low, opened your laptop, and got to searching.

Most of what came up was useless. Either soft, careful writing that pulled away right when it should have pushed harder. Polished, empty scenes that never went far enough. The frustration only made the ache in your gut sharper, the need more pointed. You kept scrolling, half-annoyed, half-desperate for something that actually matched the uglier shape of what you wanted. Then a single unmarked link on an old, half-dead forum. No real title, no author that meant anything, just a block of text that looked familiar when the page loaded. You rubbed your chin and started reading.

As you skimmed through it, it was almost like Ben’s. Not entirely identical to Ben’s document, but the bones were the same. The same relentless focus, same heavy, exhaustive attention to Kit’s body - the weight of her cock, the thick yellowish gather of smegma under the foreskin, the way her thighs trembled, the wet sounds, the sheer volume when she finally came - and allat. Paragraph after paragraph of it, written with that same flat, obsessive detail. How the file had ended up here, on this forgotten corner, was impossible to know. You didn’t close it, however. Very intrigued now.

Arousal came slowly at first, then all at once. Heat pooled low and heavy. Your cock thickened against your thigh, then grew fully hard with every new line. You were tempted to just take it out already. The text kept going, more description, more excess, more of the exact things that had lived in your head since that night, and your fist matched its pace, twisting over the head on every upstroke, spreading the growing slickness down the shaft. Your porn addiction/odd fetishes were a hard habit to kill completely. Even after everything, your body still answered when the right words appeared.

You leaned back in the chair, legs spreading wider, and preparing to fondle yourself. The laptop screen painted pale light across your stomach and the moving fist. Your breathing had already changed. You were fully hard, the kind of aching hardness that demanded more pressure, more friction, and you gave it willingly, chasing the heat while the text described Kit’s cock in the same merciless detail Ben once had.

That was when the space under the desk you set your laptop on top of shifted. A soft, solid warmth pressed up between your thighs. You looked down. She was there, kneeling in the dark space beneath the desk, the familiar red hair and yellow accents visible even in the low light. Her expression was the same fixed, wide grin at first, eyes locked upward on your face. Her large, soft breasts were pressed firmly against your groin, the warm give of them cradling the base of your cock and the tight pull of your fist.

Every slow stroke made the head of your sealed cock brush along the upper curve of her tits. She was close enough that you could feel the heat of her breath against your lower stomach. Her face tilted slightly. The mouth that had been almost frozen began to move in small, progressive increments, as if forming words. When her voice finally came it was low and rough, right beneath you.

"Bien… pájate. ¿O necesitas ayuda?" ("Good… stroke yourself. Or do you need help?")

She didn’t pull away. She only pressed her breasts more firmly against you, the soft weight of them shifting with every stroke you took, her eyes never leaving your face. The text still glowed on the screen above her head. The apartment remained otherwise silent except for the wet sound of your fist and the quiet, uneven sound of her breathing between your thighs.

Create your own scenario.