S.A.C. Phatbuldge 2 - Connections

 Andrew's laptop balanced on his thighs, the heat from the processor radiating through his jeans and warming the heavy swell of his testicles beneath. The contraction he had felt in his apartment had never quite gone away, and his sack felt tight and constricted around his nuts. The company van rumbled north on the 101, the suspension groaning under the combined weight of five men and their equipment, and Andrew typed with methodical precision while the others filled the cab with the kind of filthy banter that you'd expect to see in a League of Legends public lobby. Josh was mid-story, something about a Tinder date who'd tried to photograph his cock for an art project, and the van swayed with the resulting laughter.

"-and I'm like, 'Lady, that ain't a selfie stick,'" Josh finished, slapping his massive thigh with a hearty THWACK. Alvin wheezed from where he was wedged between Josh and the window, his muscular frame compressed into the narrow space like expensive luggage.

"Man, why would you let her even take a picture of a piss-ass dick like that," Duke drawled, a half smirk hidden behind the bulge of chew stuffed behind his lower lip. "If you weren't primping and preening so much, you might actually, I dunno, get off once in a while."

Brock's caramel-brown arms flexed as he navigated a turn, the muscles in his forearms standing out in sharp relief against his smooth skin.

"Speaking of which," Brock said, his voice carrying that particular pitch of someone trying to sound casual while discussing something intensely personal, "you caught me at the perfect time, Mr. Andrew. Like, literally perfect. My girlfriend was just about to end my three-week hiatus." He glanced over, his dark eyes gleaming with something between relief and regret. "Had candles and everything ready."

Andrew's fingers paused over the keyboard. "Three weeks?" he repeated, keeping his voice neutral while his mind immediately began calculating. Three weeks of backed-up testosterone and sperm production in Brock's impressively oversized Filipino balls. He'd seen Brock's equipment in his application submission. The man's testicles were genuinely disproportionate to his compact frame, hanging heavy and pendulous in a way that would make the most seasoned size queens take a double take. 

"Three weeks, two days," Brock confirmed, a hint of pride creeping into his tone. "I've been edging twice a day, too. My OnlyFans subscribers are going fucking insane waiting for the finale video."

From the back, Alvin let out a long, sympathetic sigh that somehow managed to sound both exhausted and aroused as he stared out the window. "Man, I feel you," he rumbled, his deep voice vibrating through the truck's cabin. "I was literally about to bust my first nut in two weeks when Andrew called. Had this sweet college kid ready to go, ass up, hole slicked, and I was ten inches deep." He shifted in his seat, and Andrew heard a soft grunt Alvin rearranged himself. "Blue-balled myself right into three thousand bucks."

Andrew typed quickly, noting the information in his mission log under a section he'd quietly titled Asset Potency Assessment. Two weeks for Alvin. The escort's self-control was legendary, Andrew had once watched him edge a client for forty-five minutes without losing composure, but two weeks of complete abstinence meant Alvin's big black nuts would be absolutely brimming. 

"Y'all are amateurs," Duke cut in, and Andrew glanced back to see the bearded man grinning around his dip, a dark trickle of tobacco juice caught in his whiskers. "Had a whole weekend planned. Was gonna drive up to the cabin, crack a bottle of bourbon, and just... purge the pipes, you know? Been at least a month since I had any proper relief."

The truck went briefly silent except for the rumble of tires on asphalt. Andrew's fingers hovered over the keys. A month. Duke's balls were already enormous, the kind that made other men instinctively protective of their own equipment, and a month of abstinence would make them bloated, tender, aching with the kind of pressure that made a man stupid with need.

"Four weeks," Josh suddenly announced, his voice booming with unmistakable pride. "Four. Fucking. Weeks. Four weeks and four days, if you're keeping count," he said, elbowing Duke teasingly. "My trainer has me doing this new edging and jelqing technique he found on this weird corner of Reddit. Bro, the results are phenomenal. My balls feel like they're gonna explode if I even think about sex too hard."

Andrew closed his eyes briefly, his own cock thickening against the laptop's edge. Almost five weeks. Josh's testicles were already the size of bull's balls, obscenely large even by the standards of their well-endowed team, and four weeks of edging would make them hypersensitive, swollen, practically glowing with stored sexual energy.

He typed rapidly on the Asset Potency Assessment:

**POTENCY RANKING (By Days Since Last Ejaculation):**

- Josh Markel: 28 days (edging daily)

- Duke Mason: ~30 days 

- Brock Santos: 23 days (edging 2x daily)

- Alvin Hardwick: 14 days

- Andrew Clarke-Samuel: 19 days

Andrew stared at his own entry, feeling the weight of his nuts straining against the seam of his jeans. Had it really been nineteen days since he'd last come? He hadn't even realized at the time, but now he could feel how every single one of those days  had built pressure in his scrotum like a hydraulic press slowly tightening. He'd been edging intermittently, unable to resist touching himself while reviewing case files, and now his nuts felt heavy, tender, almost bruised with the volume of seed they'd produced.

Steve Zolware's warning echoed in his mind: The entity feeds on sexual energy.

They were driving into what might be a supernatural trap with five sets of massively swollen, hypersensitive testicles, each pair loaded with weeks of pent-up ejaculate. If Chris's ghost fed on sexual energy, they were essentially delivering themselves as an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Andrew's cock pulsed again, harder this time, and he shifted uncomfortably. The danger should have terrified him. Instead, it made him achingly, shamefully hard.

The truck crested a hill, and suddenly Phatbuldge Manor loomed into view.

Andrew's breath caught. The structure rose from the hillside like a monument to masculine excess, its Victorian façade crumbling but still imposing. What immediately drew his eye, what *demanded* his attention, was the stonework. Phallic columns flanked the entrance, their proportions unmistakable, and the decorative cornices had eroded into shapes that resembled glans and foreskin with disturbing accuracy. Above the main entrance, a stone fountain featured what might have once been a cherub but now looked like an obscene celebration of male anatomy, the angel's proportions distorted by time and water damage into something aggressively sexual.

"Jesus Christ," Brock breathed, slowing the truck as they approached the weed-choked driveway. "Is that fountain depicting what I think it's depicting?"

"Yep," Duke confirmed. "That's a cock. That's definitely a stone cock pissing into a bowl."

Andrew felt his pulse quicken, the familiar tingle of his supernatural intuition crawling up his spine like cold fingers. The building practically *radiated* sexual energy, even from this distance. He could feel it pressing against his consciousness, a presence that was simultaneously inviting and threatening, aroused and violently angry.

Brock pulled the truck to a stop in what had once been a circular driveway, now overtaken by weeds and cracked concrete. They sat for a moment in silence, five men staring at the decaying monument to gay sexuality and masculine excess.

Andrew cleared his throat, closed his laptop, and opened the door. "Let's unload."

"Man, if only," Josh teased.

The air outside was thick, humid despite the early hour, and it carried a scent that Andrew couldn't quite identify, something like chlorine and musk and decay all mixed together. His testicles felt heavier immediately, as if the atmosphere itself was pressing down on them.

They worked in practiced silence, hauling equipment cases and duffel bags from the truck bed. Josh hefted three cases at once, his massive frame making the heavy loads look like children's toys. Alvin moved with lazy efficiency, his movements economical despite his muscular bulk. Duke and Brock formed a chain, passing equipment hand-to-hand.

Andrew led them through the main entrance, the double doors hanging crooked on rusted hinges. The interior reception area opened up before them, a once-grand space now filled with water-damaged furniture and the acrid smell of mildew. A battered folding table sat in the center, left behind by previous investigators or vagrants.

They began setting up: laptops, monitors, body cameras, radio equipment, EMF detectors. The familiar ritual steadied Andrew's nerves, his hands moving through practiced motions even as he remembered Steve's demands. Remember, capture everything. The entity feeds on sexual energy!

Andrew looked around at his team. Every single man was sporting a visible bulge, their weeks of abstinence creating obscene swells in their pants. Josh's mesh shorts did nothing to conceal the heavy hang of his swollen bull nuts. Alvin's gray sweats were stretched around the weighted bulk of Alvin's blue-balling huevos. Duke's worn blue jeans were stretched taut across his massive package. Brock's overalls had a damp spot where his cock was already leaking pre-cum from excitement.

Andrew made a decision. He couldn't let them walk into the mansion without at least warning them, first.

"Alright, listen up," he said, and the four men turned toward him. "Here's the history: Christopher Splinter turned this place into an exclusive gay bathhouse in the eighties. High-end clientele, absolute discretion, and a reputation for being..." he paused, searching for the right word, "adventurous. The murder happened in '97. Some thugs broke in, apparently they forced him to service them, then castrated and killed him. His ghost has been targeting well-endowed men ever since."

He paused, letting that sink in. The men looked non-plussed, each one swimming in a stupor of their own hormones most likely. Andrew continued.

"Duke, Josh, why don't you take the east wing, with the kitchen, bar, restaurant and storage. Alvin, north wing, there's a glory hole corridor that might give us readings. The most encounters have happened there, and please be careful. People who have been attacked there are very reluctant to share what exactly happened. Brock, you can..."

Brock looked at him, bright eyed and bushy tailed, his overalls tented. He had already decided to send Brock to the spa area, which was probably the safest part of the estate. "Brock, you're going to the west wing, to document the spa and locker rooms. I'll finish setup here and then check the master suite." He met each man's eyes in turn. "Body cams on at all times. Radio check every fifteen minutes. And remember, this thing feeds on sexual energy. It's probably already feeding on us right now. It's going to be attracted to-"

"Our giant fucking balls?" Josh interrupted, grinning.

Andrew felt heat rise in his cheeks, but he nodded. "Exactly. Witnesses say Chris fixates on men who are... significantly endowed.  Not necessarily big nuts, as much as big dicks. He was on the small side, and he he had a thing about worshipping guys who had bigger dicks than he did."

"Oh, I guess you don't have anything to worry about, then," Duke said, winking at Andrew knowingly. 

Andrew blushed. "He was small, dude. I'm just average. And the rest of you, well, you're all-"

"Hung like prize bulls at a county fair?" Alvin offered, his voice amused.

Something shifted in the air. Andrew felt it, a change in pressure that made his ears crackle. There was a sensation like when a plane finds a thermal pocket and shifts slightly, the plane of normal tilting enough to make you aware but not quite visible. And then, without anyone quite deciding to do it, Duke was unbuttoning his jeans.

"Fuck it," Duke said, his Southern drawl thick with challenge. "Let's see what we're working with."

He shoved his jeans down over his hips, and reached down into it to pull his cock and balls out in one smooth motion. His cock was thick, veiny, uncircumcised, and long. Andrew knew that Duke was packing a fat hog, but it looked small compared to Duke's fucking bull nuts. They never failed to draw every eye, massive, heavy orbs that hung low in their golden-furred sack, each one larger than a baseball, and now Duke's scrotum was stretched taut around them because they were swollen with a month's worth of backed-up seed.

Josh laughed, a booming sound, and immediately followed suit. His mesh shorts hit the floor, and his equipment emerged like something from a fantasy, a long, thick cock with prominent purple veins and a huge rounded glans, but overshadowed entirely by testicles that defied anatomy. They were genuinely the size of bull's balls, like Kent mangoes, fat and heavy and covered in dark curly hair, hanging obscenely low and swaying with his movement. His dick looked almost inflamed, puffy from four weeks of constant edging, and his nuts looked slightly purple, as if the balls themselves were bruised from the pressure inside them under his loose scrotum.

"Damn, Moose," Alvin breathed, staring at Josh's massive tackle. His sweatpants were already pooling around his ankles, as he scratched at his thick, dark pubes. His balls stole the show - just like everyone else's, of course - the huge grapefruits hanging down past the tip of his pudgy dark brown dick. They were perfectly smooth, the dark skin gleaming slightly with sweat. The tip of his shaft nestled peacefully between them, and Andrew had to admit, it looked... delicious. It was the perfect length and width to fit in any hole, a dick that really demanded to be sucked or fucked. 

Brock hesitated only a moment before joining them, unbuttoning the front of his overalls and pulling it apart to reveal his impressively thick cock and his, frankly, disproportionately huge testicles, each one the size of a large orange, the tan skin of his sack contrasting beautifully with the darker skin of his thighs.

That left Andrew. He unbuttoned his slacks, and pushed them down, hooking his underwear under and behind his nuts. Andrew's dick was still quite erect from the thoughts he had had in the van, and now it jutted upwards, all thick four inches of creamy white shaft and angry, cherry red cockhead. 

At least his balls were fucking massive. He didn't want to contrast himself with the grapefruits, baseballs, mangoes and oranges of his compatriots, but he was definitely in the same range of them. He stroked the underside of his scrotum, which was still tightly contracted around his nuts, his skin tight and snug around the bulk of them.

They stood in a rough circle, five men with their massive genitals on display, comparing in the way men had compared since the dawn of time.

"Jesus, Josh," Duke said, reaching out to actually weigh one of the younger man's testicles in his palm. "These things are fucking solid. How do you walk?"

Josh flexed, making his balls bounce. "Very carefully," he said, grinning.

Alvin leaned in, stroking his dark palm up under the puffy, swollen quality of Josh's scrotum around his other nut. "That edging technique is no joke. Your balls look like they're about to burst."

"They feel like it too," Josh admitted, his voice dropping to something more serious. "It's like... constant pressure. Kinda hurts, but in a good way, you know? Keeps me focused."

Brock and Duke high-fived suddenly, laughing. "Bull balls buddies!" Brock announced. "Look at these fuckers." He cupped his own massive testicles, lifting them slightly. "Three weeks of edging and they feel like water balloons."

"Mine are bigger," Josh said, going for a high five, but Duke shook his head.

"Bull balls are better." He lifted his up, showing how his nuts were roughly egg shaped, like Brock's. "More mass inside them, means we make the biggest loads. We hang the most visibly as well. Your balls might be bigger, but they're not bull balls, compadre."

Andrew watched as Alvin and Duke casually handled Josh's nuts, his own cock painfully throbbing, his testicles aching with sympathetic pressure. He saw Duke's massive hairy bull balls, Brock's bloated tan orbs, Alvin's low-hanging meaty sack, and Josh's obscenely swollen jock nuts, and felt his supernatural intuition flare with sick certainty.

They really were perfect prey. They were going to need to be careful.

"Alright," Andrew said, his voice rougher than he intended. "Pack it up. Let's split up and start the investigation."

The men tucked themselves away, though "away" was generous given the size of their equipment, and gathered their gear. Duke and Josh headed east, their heavy footsteps echoing. Alvin slipped north, moving like a shadow. Brock went west, already turning on his camera.

Andrew stood alone in the reception area, surrounded by blinking monitors and the oppressive weight of sexual energy, and felt Chris's presence for the first time, a cold touch against the back of his neck, a phantom hand reaching for his balls.

He shivered, checked his own body camera, and headed for the stairs.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The ghost of the man who had been named Chris Splinter drifted through the walls of Phatbuldge Manor like smoke through a screen, his spectral form tasting the residual energy of five impossibly potent males as they spread through his domain. Chris had watched them enter his domain like bulls parading into a slaughterhouse, each one radiating the kind of sexual potency that made his spectral form shiver with hunger and rage. Chris inhaled, not breath, but essence, and tasted the thick musk of their collective arousal. It coated his spectral tongue like honey laced with gasoline, sweet and volatile. The tall one, Josh, led the pack, his massive frame casting shadows that seemed to absorb the dim emergency lighting, his gym shorts straining against the obscene bulge of his genitals with every step. His energy crackled with reckless virility, the kind that came from never knowing defeat. Behind him came the others, a procession of masculine excess that made Chris's translucent fingers curl into fists: the dark-skinned escort with balls that swung like pendulums, his sexual vim a darker, more complex flavor, seasoned with years of flesh-on-flesh transactions. After him came the burly ginger Southerner whose confidence reeked of testosterone, and then the Filipino with his camera equipment and a delicious nervous energy that stuttered with anxiety masked by bravado, and finally the leader, "Andrew", whose sharp eyes scanned the dilapidated bathhouse with the kind of hunger that Chris recognized in himself. Andrew's essence was the most intoxicating, sharp and calculating, tinged with a darkness that mirrored Chris's own. Curious. 

He could sense them, no, more than sense, he could taste them on the air itself, their weeks of sexual abstinence creating pressure waves in the ether that his ghostly senses read like braille. Each heartbeat sent pulses of testosterone and frustrated arousal radiating outward, and Chris followed these waves with the patient hunger of a predator who had learned to savor anticipation. Chris knew he was too weak to take what he wanted from the men, yet. He would need to feed first, to drain one of them until his spectral form solidified enough to claim the prizes he craved. His translucent gaze swept across their bodies, lingering on the weight between each man's legs, cataloging which testicles would rupture most satisfyingly under pressure.

He settled on his first target and began to work. Brock. Chris tasted the name from the residual thoughts left in the air, the way a snake might taste fear. This one was nervous, excited, already half-hard from the earlier display and the oppressive sexual atmosphere of the manor.

~*~*~*~*~

Brock was adjusting his GoPro when he heard it, a soft creak from somewhere deeper in the bathhouse, followed by a metallic groan that resonated in a frequency that made his balls tighten against his body. He paused, camera halfway to his chest mount, and cocked his head toward the sound.

Another creak. Deliberate. Inviting.

"You guys hear that?" he called over his shoulder, but the others were already spreading out, Duke barking something about checking the perimeter while Josh poked at a rusted pipe with his boot.

Chris moved ahead of him, drifting through the moldy drywall into the locker room. The space was a disaster, wooden lockers listing at dangerous angles, their doors hanging loose on rusted hinges, the benches rotted through and sagging. But Chris remembered when it had been pristine, when men had stripped here with eager anticipation, their cocks already hardening as they prepared to enter the baths beyond. He found a stray piece of wood and tapped it, causing it to fall over.

The sound came again, and this time Brock's feet moved before his brain caught up. He followed the noise down a corridor lined with peeling wallpaper that had once depicted muscular men in various states of undress, now reduced to water-stained torsos and phantom erections. The air grew thicker as he walked, humid and oddly warm, and he realized he was sweating through his overalls.

The locker room materialized before him like a revelation. Massive wooden lockers leaned at precarious angles, their doors hanging open to reveal darkness within. Emergency lights flickered overhead, casting the space in stuttering amber that made everything look diseased. But Brock barely noticed the decay. His attention locked onto a spot near the back corner where three lockers formed a natural alcove, the perfect vantage point for- 

The thought hit him with the force of a revelation: That's the perfect spot for a stream.

His cock throbbed in his overalls, the mental image already forming: him, shirtless, the camera angled low to catch the play of light across his abs while his hand worked his shaft, the chat exploding with tips and emojis as his massive balls swung into frame. He could almost hear the notifications, feel the validation washing over him in waves.

He was already moving toward the alcove, camera bag bouncing against his hip, when another thought flickered through his mind, 'how did I know that was the perfect spot?', but it dissolved under the weight of his arousal. The stud adjusted his substantial bulge through his overalls, his thick cock already leaking enough pre-cum to create a visible wet spot as he set up the first camera, his breath coming faster, the humid air pressing against his skin like invisible hands.

Behind him, unseen, Chris smiled. Yes. This one would be easy. This one was already thinking about exposing himself, about doing something dangerous and taboo, about pulling out his heavy testicles and his thick cock and stroking them for an audience that existed only in his fantasy.

Chris left him there, contemplating, and drifted north through the building's skeleton.

The escort, Alvin, had wandered away from the group, drawn by instinct toward the back rooms where the real action had always happened in places like this. He'd performed in enough underground sex clubs to recognize the layout: the public areas for socializing, the private rooms for negotiation, and then the rooms, the ones with glory holes and slings and surfaces that could be hosed down.

He found them past a rotted door that swung open at his touch, revealing a narrow corridor lined with stalls. The glory holes were obvious even in the dim light, circular voids cut into warped plywood partitions, each one framed by graffiti that had faded to ghostly suggestions of cocks and phone numbers.

 Chris recognized the other's energy immediately. Alvin had shared his essence with countless others, his sexual aura a beautiful prismatic aura of all kinds of colors. Chris could manifest more easily around him, could draw on the man's natural essence. He didn't want to reveal himself, but there was no reason he couldn't help Alvin relax his inhibitions. He focused on the crumbling masonry around him, on the glory holes that dotted every three feet of the hallway on either side. The glory holes themselves were disaster zones, the wooden partitions splintered and rotting, the actual holes edged with rust and protruding nails. But Chris reached out with his limited power and manipulated Alvin's perception, layering memory over reality.

Alvin approached the first hole and paused, his head tilting as something shifted in his vision. The wood looked... fresher. The edges smooth and clean, as if someone had just sanded them down and applied a coat of varnish that gleamed wetly under the flickering lights. The graffiti pulsed with color, neon pink, electric blue, and the scent in the air changed from mildew into the ghost of old lubricant and masculine sweat, scents that Alvin's professional instincts responded to immediately.

"Huh," Alvin murmured, reaching out to touch the edge of the hole. In reality, he was tracing his fingers over splintered wood. In his perception, the surface was smooth and still slick from previous use. "I can't believe this place is in such good condition." He pulled back, recognition flickering through his mind. This was manipulation. This was need.

Chris moved closer, feeding more energy into the illusion. It was easy; Alvin was brimming with it as much as anyone else, and Chris could siphon energy directly from the sex worker into the glory holes themselves. The holes darkened, swirling with promise, as Alvin's own fantasies began to take shape behind them. Chris needed this one curious, not afraid. Alvin's sexuality was a tool Chris could leverage, the escort's openness to new experiences, his genuine fascination with the paranormal aspects of sex. 

"You been blue-balling, buddy?" Alvin whispered to the empty room, his voice carrying the kind of gentle teasing he'd used on a thousand nervous clients as he traced his fingers over a slime-coated glory hole, his voice soft and conversational, as if speaking to a friend. "I can feel it. You're... horny. Desperate, even. Been a long time since you got any relief, hasn't it?"

Chris felt a jolt of something he hadn't experienced in years, surprise. This one could sense him, really sense him, beyond the illusions and the manipulations. The escort's professional empathy extended into the supernatural realm, allowing him to read the emotional resonance Chris projected.

In response, Chris reached out and manifested more fully, creating a phantom hand that closed around Alvin's scrotum through his pants. The escort gasped, his entire body going rigid as cold, translucent fingers tightened around the neck of his scrotum, squeezing just enough to make the weight and vulnerability of his balls apparent. The sensation was cold and intimate, fingers that weren't there pressing into the sensitive flesh, testing the weight and give of his precious masculinity.

"Fuck," Alvin breathed, but he didn't pull away. His cock hardened immediately, creating a solid, visible ridge along his sweatpants, his body responding even as his mind cataloged the danger. The ghost was starving, sexually, spiritually, whatever the fuck ghosts starved for. And it wanted him."Yeah, you really do need it bad, don't you?" 

"Easy," Alvin breathed, his hand moving to cup his own balls protectively even though the spectral grip remained. "I get it. You're hungry."

Chris held the grip for a moment longer, savoring the taste of Alvin's arousal mixed with his cautious fear, then released him and drifted away. This one understood. This one might even consent, if properly seduced. That made him dangerous in a different way, harder to trap, but potentially more satisfying when the moment came.

East wing. The kitchen and dining halls. Chris flowed through the walls and found the two largest males examining the industrial refrigerators and the ancient serving line. Duke and Josh, both radiating aggressive masculinity and an easy camaraderie born from shared experience. Duke spat into his Solo cup and gestured toward a rusted sink with the hand holding his flashlight. "Bet that's where it happened. Where they found the nuts."

Josh followed his gaze, then snorted. "Man, imagine dying because your balls ended up in a garbage disposal. That's some Final Destination shit."

"Better than some ways to go," Duke replied, his voice carrying the flat certainty of someone who'd seen death up close. "Quick, at least." He paused, then added with a grin, "Though I'd need a bigger filter, obviously. My boys are heavy enough to clog a storm drain."

Josh laughed, the sound booming in the enclosed space. "Bro, you seen mine? I gotta use a full towel when I bust. Sometimes two. My girlfriend stopped doing laundry after the third time I bleached a load into her good sheets."

Duke's grin widened. "That's cute. I need a beach towel. And I still end up with jizz on the headboard," he said, his thick hands gesturing as he spoke. "Like, one of those big bath sheets. Otherwise it's just everywhere. On the walls, the ceiling, one time I hit the fucking smoke detector."

Josh laughed, the sound booming in the empty kitchen. "Yup. That's the way it be sometimes. You know, I actually got my load tested at this specialty clinic in Koreatown. Dude told me I had more protein per milliliter than any sample they'd ever processed. Said I could probably donate to a sperm bank and single-handedly solve their supply issues."

Chris drifted closer, his spectral mouth watering, or what passed for watering when one no longer possessed physical saliva glands. He could see the way their testicles hung in their pants, Duke's massive bull nuts pulling the fabric of his jeans tight, Josh's hairy orbs creating an obscene bulge in his mesh shorts. He could sense that it had been... a fortnite since either had ejaculated. Their bodies had become factories, churning out sperm and seminal fluid with nowhere for it to go, building pressure that made their balls swell with painful fullness.

Chris felt ectoplasm drip from his translucent jaw, the ghostly substance spattering on the floor before evaporating into mist. He was drooling. Actually drooling at the sight of such ripe, full testicles, at the promise of the sexual energy contained within them.

He reached out with his consciousness, pulling from the deep well of memory and trauma, and projected a vision directly into both men's minds.

They saw: A man in trashy punk gear, screaming as phantom hands tore at his groin. The guy, a college kid with a can of spraypaint still clutched in one hand, watching his massive dick being stroked hard and firm by invisible hands. A hairy scrotum with a piercing in the bottom of it stretched out of his groin, before the testicles were crushed in a spectral grip, the flesh bruising purple-black before rupturing, before being torn free. Blood and thicker fluids spraying. The victim's cock standing rigid and useless as his balls were harvested, his body pumping out one final, reflexive ejaculation as his manhood was destroyed.

The vision lasted only a second, but both Duke and Josh staggered, their hands instinctively moving to protect their own vulnerable equipment.

"Jesus fuck," Duke gasped, his face pale beneath his beard. "Did you-"

"Yeah," Josh said, his voice shaky. "I saw it too."

Duke spat again, this time missing the cup entirely. "Yeah."

Chris withdrew, leaving them with residual terror and the phantom sensation of crushing pressure on their testicles. Let them be afraid. Fear made the energy sweeter when he finally fed.

He drifted back through the manor, drawn by the steady pulse of analytical thought from the reception area. Andrew Clarke-Samuel, the leader, the one who had assembled this collection of well-hung specimens and delivered them directly into Chris's domain.

The man sat at the folding table, monitors flickering around him, his laptop open and his sharp eyes scanning data feeds. But Chris could feel the weight between Andrew's legs, could sense the baseball-sized testicles that were crammed painfully in the man's tailored jeans. Nineteen days of abstinence. Not as long as the others, but still significant. Still delicious.

Chris manifested more fully, pulling energy from the building itself, and reached out to claim his prize. His ghostly hand passed through fabric and skin, closing directly around Andrew's scrotum, 

The monitors sparked and flickered, their screens strobing between camera feeds and static. Andrew looked up sharply, his gray-green eyes scanning the room even as his hand moved instinctively to his crotch.

Chris squeezed.

He poured energy into the phantom grip, trying to compress those heavy testicles, to feel them flatten and distort under the pressure, to make the human male scream as his manhood was crushed beyond repair, 

Nothing.

Chris squeezed harder, desperation flavoring his effort. He could feel the testicles in his grip, could sense their weight and heat, but no matter how much force he applied, they wouldn't compress. It was like trying to squeeze a steel ball bearing, his ghostly fingers simply slipped around the surface without gaining purchase.

Andrew shifted in his seat, adjusting himself, his brow furrowing. He clearly felt something, but not enough to alarm him. Just enough to make him uncomfortable.

Chris released his grip and recoiled, his spectral form flickering with frustration and hunger. He was too weak. Decades of minimal feeding, of small intruders and occasional vandals, had left him powerful enough to create illusions and move small objects, but not powerful enough to do what he truly craved, to tear away the manhood of these impossibly well-endowed males and consume the sexual energy released in their castration.

He needed to feed. Properly feed. Not just snack on ambient arousal and fear, but feast on the moment of ultimate violation, when a man's testicles were destroyed and the sexual energy they'd been storing for weeks was released in one explosive burst.

Chris turned his attention back to the west wing, to the Filipino with his compact body and his disproportionately huge testicles, currently climbing up onto an unstable locker for the perfect camera angle.

He would start there.