This choice: Pick up a fish from nearby and say flip over • Go Back...Chapter #5Pick up a fish from nearby and say flip over by: Kurama   John lingered by the edge of the orca pen, the cool night air wrapping around him like a damp shroud, carrying the sharp tang of saltwater and the faint, earthy musk rising from the water’s surface. His notebook lay abandoned on the concrete, pages fluttering slightly in the breeze, as his focus narrowed entirely on Kael’s exposed underbelly. The thrill of the moment had evolved, no longer just a desperate bid for academic salvation but a deep, intoxicating pull toward the unknown. He felt alive in a way that transcended the fear of expulsion or the weight of his crumbling future—here, straddling the line between science and recklessness, he discovered a part of himself that craved this raw connection.
The feeding cart stood nearby, its buckets brimming with silvery fish that gleamed under the dim security lights like forgotten treasures. John reached in, his fingers closing around a cold, slick mackerel, its scales rough and iridescent against his skin, the faint twitch of life still pulsing through its body. He held it aloft, the weight of it grounding him as he whispered into the night, “Flip over.” With a gentle flick of his wrist, he released the fish, watching it arc through the air and plop onto the water’s surface, sending concentric ripples outward like whispers across the pool.
Beneath the surface, the response was immediate yet unhurried—a subtle disturbance building from the depths, bubbles trailing upward in lazy spirals. Kael’s massive form ascended slowly, his body twisting with deliberate grace as he rolled onto his side, then fully belly-up. Water sluiced off his hide in shimmering cascades, revealing the vast, pale underbelly that stretched out like a living canvas, smooth and taut over layers of blubber and muscle. The long genital slit came into view gradually, a narrow seam about two feet in length, its edges slightly parted from the motion, framed by the orca’s streamlined contours. Faint veins traced subtle patterns beneath the skin, and droplets clung to the folds, refracting the light like tiny prisms. Kael floated there, serene and motionless, his blowhole exhaling soft puffs of mist that hung in the air, while his mouth parted just enough to reveal the pinkish interior and the gleam of teeth—inviting, patient, trained for such interactions.
John’s pulse quickened, a mix of awe and daring surging through him. He glanced around the empty enclosure—no signs of intrusion detection, just the steady hum of distant pumps—and swung his legs over the barrier, lowering himself onto the orca’s back. Kael’s skin was warm and yielding beneath him, a firm resilience like stepping onto a sun-warmed raft, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing lifting John’s body in gentle waves. Crawling forward with care, his hands splayed across the slick surface, feeling the faint vibrations of the orca’s heartbeat thrumming through the blubber like a distant drum.
Reaching the underbelly, John paused, his hand hovering inches from the slit. The air felt thicker here, charged with the scent of sea and something more primal. Slowly, he extended his fingers, tracing the outer edge—soft, pliable, with a texture like wet rubber giving way under his touch. He pressed deeper, the inner warmth enveloping his fingertips, moist and muscular, the walls contracting faintly in response. A low, resonant hum vibrated through Kael’s body, and then the slit widened further, the big rod beginning to extrude inch by deliberate inch. It emerged pink and glistening, thick at the base and tapering toward the tip, veined with subtle ridges that pulsed with emerging life. The surface was slick, warm to the eye, expanding to its full length of nearly three feet, a marvel of biology that made John’s breath catch in his throat.
But Kael shifted ever so slightly, his open mouth turning toward John with an expectant tilt, a soft, clicking vocalization echoing from his throat like a polite reminder. The orca craved his reward. John nodded, almost instinctively, and tossed the remnants of the first fish into the waiting maw—it vanished with a swift snap, swallowed whole. Quickly, he leaned back toward the cart, snagging another mackerel, its cold slipperiness grounding him as he returned his focus to the rod.
Now, with the orca placated, John admired it fully, his scientific curiosity blending with an unexpected reverence. He reached out, fingers wrapping around the base where it was thickest, feeling the girth fill his palm—firm yet pliant, the surface hot and throbbing with a steady pulse that matched Kael’s breaths. He stroked upward slowly, his hand gliding along the length, tracing the ridges that ran like subtle waves, each one yielding slightly under pressure. The texture was mesmerizing: smooth in places, textured in others, with a natural lubrication that made his movements effortless. Down he went, then up again, the rod responding with faint twitches, the veins bulging subtly beneath the skin like rivers swelling after rain.
In his absorption, John’s grip loosened just a fraction, his hand sliding too far toward the tapered tip where a small opening dilated invitingly. Before he could retract, a gentle contraction pulled at his fingers—the tip enveloping them like a warm, insistent embrace, the inner walls soft and undulating, drawing him in with rhythmic precision. “Oh—wait,” he murmured, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but the pull was inexorable, slow and methodical. Inch by inch, his hand slipped deeper, the rod’s muscles contracting in waves that created visible bulges along its length—first around his knuckles, the skin stretching taut and then relaxing, a rolling swell that traveled downward like a peristaltic wave.
The feeling was intense: the interior was tight yet accommodating, a velvety heat pressing from all sides, slick fluids easing the way as his wrist followed, the bulge now more pronounced, distending the rod’s midsection outward in a smooth, elongated lump. John’s arm vanished up to the elbow, the contractions slowing even further, each one a deliberate squeeze that sent tingles through his nerves—warm, enveloping pressure that built and released, the rod’s inner texture rippling against his skin like countless tiny fingers guiding him along. He could feel the bulges forming around him, the outer surface of the rod ballooning slightly with each advance, the veins standing out more prominently as the structure accommodated the intrusion.
Deeper still, past the curve where the rod met the base, his shoulder pressing against the slit as the pull intensified just enough to draw him in. The bulges grew more dramatic now, the rod’s length undulating visibly, swells traveling from tip to root like slow-motion ripples on a pond, each one marking his progress. The sensation deepened: a building heat, the walls pulsing with Kael’s heartbeat, the fluids thicker and more viscous, coating him in a protective sheath. His head followed next, the world narrowing to muffled echoes and darkness, the rod’s interior expanding around him with each contraction—bulge after bulge forming along the shaft, the skin stretching and smoothing out in hypnotic rhythm.
The descent dragged on, deliberate and unhurried, his torso sliding in with a series of gentle tugs, the bulges now encompassing larger sections of the rod, distending it outward in elongated ovals that pulsed with life. He felt every detail—the slick glide, the warm compression, the faint vibrations of the orca’s contentment rumbling through the walls. Legs followed last, the final contractions sealing him in, the bulges subsiding as he reached the internal chambers—the spacious, fluid-filled balls, buoyant and warm, the membranous walls cradling him like a living hammock. Suspended there, amid the gentle sway and the distant thrum of Kael’s pulse, John realized this immersion, this profound in-depth exploration, was precisely what he’d sought. Not just for the essay, but for the sheer, transformative rush of it all.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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