Chapter 1
The alarm clock screamed at 6:03 AM.
Ben groaned, slapping it off with sleep-crusty eyes. Sunlight sliced through the blinds like a guilty conscience.
He stretched—arms over head—and that’s when it happened.
A jolt. Low in his stomach. Not quite pleasure, not quite panic—but something deep and sudden, like a muscle waking up on its own.
Then came the warmth spreading through him… followed by an unmistakable pulse.
His breath hitched mid-yawn as he looked down—
And saw it: A thick bead of cum welling at the tip of his half-hard penis... then another... and another...
No trigger.
No fantasy.
No reason for this sudden release…
Just pure biological betrayal.
Ben didn’t move.
Frozen in his rumpled pajama pants, heart thumping too loud in his quiet apartment.
Cum kept oozing—slow at first, then faster. A steady trickle that refused to stop. His body hadn’t even tensed for arousal… yet here it was: spontaneous release, warm and slick against the fabric of his pants.
He reached down instinctively—not to fix it (what could he fix?), but to touch himself through the thin cotton…
And that’s when another pulse hit—stronger this time—and more cum shot out with surprising force.
A gasp tore from Ben’s throat.
The second pulse wasn’t just cum leaking—it was a shoot. A pressurized jet of warm fluid that soaked through his pants and hit the mattress beneath him with a soft splat.
He stared. Heart pounding. Mouth dry.
This wasn't arousal.
This wasn't sex.
This was… malfunction?
His body had decided: Cum production is now autonomous.
No desire required.
No thought needed.
Just constant output—like a faucet turned on forever, impossible to shut off.
Silence.
Ben sits on the edge of his bed, hands limp in his lap. His pants are damp. The room smells faintly of salt and skin.
The first real surge has passed—but it didn’t stop.
A thin, steady stream now trickles from him… slow but relentless… pooling slightly in the fabric where it won't be absorbed anymore.
No hard-on.
No tension.
Just a quiet biological machine running on overdrive—pumping out cum with no end in sight.
Ben swallowed hard.
This wasn’t something he could handle alone.
Dolly—their loud, flamboyant roommate who lived next door—was always the one to fix things. Flat tire? Dolly fixed it with glitter and duct tape. Emotional crisis? Dolly brought wine and drama.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, fingers shaky.
Pressed call.
One ring.
Two…
Then—
"BENJI?" came a voice like honey dipped in malice through the speakerphone.
The door swung open before Ben could even say hello.
Dolly stood there—tall, curvy, wearing silk pajamas and a crown of braided extensions. Their face lit up like they’d just been summoned for royal business.
"BENJI BOO! What's crackin'? You never talk to me this early!"
They bounced into the room without waiting—kicking off fuzzy slippers—and plopped down on Ben's bed beside him… right next to his very damp pants.
Dolly didn’t notice the stain.
Not yet.
They leaned over, poking Ben's cheek like a mom checking for fever.
"You look pale! Are you dying? Did you eat expired yogurt again?"
Then—without warning—they grabbed his shoulders and shook him gently, their huge chest bouncing slightly with each movement… right as another tiny pulse happened below…
A soft plip of cum escaped through the fabric.
Dolly didn’t notice the stain.
Not yet.
Dolly felt it.
Not saw it—felt it. Warm. Thick. On their skin.
They stopped shaking Ben instantly.
Slowly… so slowly… they looked down at the damp spot blooming on their expensive fabric—a pearl of cum sitting like a foreign artifact on delicate pink silk.
Dolly froze.
Not angry. Not disgusted.
Just… processing.
Their dark eyes flicked from the stain on their sleeve… to Ben’s face… then back down at the slow, quiet drip-drip still coming from his pants like a leaky faucet in hell.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Ben opened his mouth—probably to stammer an apology—but no words came out.
Dolly finally moved—but not with anger. They lifted their stained sleeve, examining the cum like a scientist discovering a new element.
Then… they sniffed it.
Once.
Twice.
Ben’s stomach dropped. Oh no. Was that—? Did Dolly just—?
A second passed…
And then—
"Oh."
That single syllable carried everything: surprise, curiosity… and zero judgment.
Ryder leans in, fascinated—Dolly isn't reacting like a normal person. They're not yelling. Not screaming about germs or boundaries.
Instead…
Dolly wiped the cum on their pajama pants (ruining them further) and then—without warning—they grabbed Ben’s wrist.
"Benji…" they said, voice suddenly soft but intense. "Are you leaking?"
No sarcasm.
No teasing.
Just pure, focused concern—as if this were a medical emergency.
Dolly isn’t pulling away. They’re leaning in, eyes sharp with concern, like Ben just confessed to spontaneous combustion.
They didn’t let go of his wrist.
Instead, Dolly gently pushed him back onto the bed—with surprising strength for someone so glamorous—and crouched beside him, studying his face like a doctor.
"Benji," they said again, lower this time. "You're not okay. Your body is… doing something."
Then—without hesitation—they reached down and pressed two fingers lightly against Ben's damp pants… right over where the leaking was still happening.
Dolly isn’t shy. They’re assessing, probing like a healer on a mission. The room feels charged with tension and weird intimacy.
Ben flinched at the touch.
Dolly didn’t flinch back.
Their fingers pressed slightly—testing pressure, maybe—but also feeling. Warmth. Moisture. The constant trickle beneath fabric that refused to stop.
A fresh bead of cum seeped through… right onto Dolly's fingertips.
Dolly stared at their fingers.
Cum glistened on them—warm, slightly sticky. They didn’t pull away. Didn’t make a face.
Instead, they lifted their hand slowly… and held it up in the light like they were inspecting something rare.
Ben watched, heart pounding. He expected disgust.
Or worse—laughter.
But Dolly just… studied it.
Then they looked back at Ben—not with pity or horror—but curiosity.
Dolly tilted their head, eyes narrowing slightly—not in judgment, but like a puzzle was clicking into place.
"Benji…" they said slowly. "Is it… coming out all the time? Like… nonstop?"
They didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, they pressed their palm flat against his lower stomach—firm but careful—and rubbed gently.
As if trying to feel where the source of this endless cumming might be.
Then another question slipped out—soft and curious:
"Could I maybe... get it all out?"
