An unexpected discomfort in the midst of a fantastic orgasm. As if someone flicked the tip with an extra long acrylic fingernail. It was a break in rhythm, made him skip a beat. Finished expressing, he rolled off and pitter-pattered his way across the worn carpet stained with booze, sex and other bodily fluids commonly found in a pay-by-the-hour establishment. In the bathroom, he stood up on his tip toes to get a good look at his cock—gripped in one hand—reflected in the nicotine stained mirror. A pinhead droplet of crimson stood out against his pink flesh. Must have gone a little too hard. After all, he was the man.
A quick scrub down with a bar of soap intended to wash a staggering two thousand body parts and he made his way back out. She was gone. Nothing left but sheets in disarray.
Next morning, he stared down at a dime size blister filled with a caseous fluid. Excruciatingly painful to the touch, he walked crouched over so the zipper wouldn’t rub against it.
Too proud (also embarrassed) to seek medical attention.
End of the week, a fetus the size of a goldfish wriggled and twisted beneath the infected tissue. He tried to lance it with a needle held under a flame, but his own skin was impenetrable. There was no doctor alive that could help him now.
He gave birth the next day. Paralyzed with pain, all he could do was grip down on either side of the toilet seat and ride the waves. Each heave of the fetus tore his skin slightly. By now it weighed as much as a human newborn. His skin had stretched considerably and the womb dangled to his knees. One last push and it broke free, slapping down on the cold tile. It was followed by a flood of afterbirth.
Things resembled a shredded garden hose down there. He tried to put pieces back together, but passed out from all the lost blood.
When he awoke, a creature with an infantile face stared back at him. Two hands with impossibly long fingers cupped his chin.
“Thank you, my son.” It sang in a heavenly voice.