His Corporation Pop

Porn star Pulsa thought he'd got the disease. The bad one. The fatal lethal deadly one. 

The new damn sick, the acid bastard pain. He just hoped it kept away from his gorgeous wife and two infant sons.

There was no known cure you see. No going back. No return to how it was. There was nothing he could do except to pray his industrious cock didn't wither and wilt. It was his golden goose and his films had made him famous. Benny Balls and his Jizz Men had just wrapped.

Rampant sex hadn't done it though. His sickness came on quickly after a violent shit down the centralised lavs, the only ones in the dreadful city, where everyone went to drop their gurgling guts at least once a day, each bog a bubbling geyser of spurting crap.

He'd tried so hard to guard his magnificent sceptre from flying slop and the insidious bug, but it got him in the end, sneaking up his piss pipe like a rat.

Everything, like those shit-caked lavs, were centralised since the thing, the thing that tipped the scales, the low point, the tide mark, the crusty rim in a brimming cesspit.

The bastard piggin' mega bomb.

It was meant to bring us all back from the stink: the hedonistic bestial corrupting world-wide butt-fuck storm of drugs and meds and more fucked-up potions sold to us by none other than the Corporation. 

They'd made billions and the corpulent Chairman just got richer and fatter than a bayou bullfrog on his fart-stained throne.

It was all out of control for sure. No-one worked. No-one conceived. No-one did anything. No-one gave a shit.

The apathy had set in. The ennui. The impotence. The dead end.

The Corporation panicked. The Chairman threw a fit.

He was bricking it. Oh yeah! He was losing money hand over fist. Product wasn't moving. He soon wouldn't be able to afford the good goddamn rich fat luxuriant beluga butter he'd rubbed on his barren bollocks for years in the hope he'd generate more viable spunk for his insatiably broody  mistress.

He'd had loads of daughters with his wives but then he'd run completely dry. 

He had to do something. His dickhead shareholders insisted too. He thumped the table and demanded action from his goons, his cigar and ash tray spiralling into the air like an ignited warhead.

"Whip me up a belter!" He'd roared at his techies.

So the Corporation dropped a mega bomb to wake us all up. To smell the coffee. To shake our brains. To reactivate our privates. To bring us to our senses, get us fucking again and send us reeling for more of their corporate drugs.

It didn't work.

It made everything worse.

The Chairman did get excited but didn't produce any spunk. Or more money. No-one did.

Now us grunts could enjoy a stinking nuclear midden of filth and vomit and rancid crack and fallout and toxic uppers and puss and acid pain and mouldy poppers and fuck fuck fuck.

The bomb screwed us over good and proper.

And in the shit for dust came the fucking disease like a morning sunrise of meltdown puke.

It was a brutal twat of a sickness too.

Could cut you down like a shuriken swarm:  it was a sinister trenchcoat of gama waves and sulphuric fevers and blood gouts and twisting fits and melting skin and Jesus fucking Christ.

Millions died in the bomb blast. Many more millions got the sick. It took anyone, but it really loved the young. The wanna doers. The creators. The avid wankers. The dry shaggers. The former baby makers. The one-time future.

It did. The new sick loved them tender. The old reaper in a sweet shop. God, how they screamed when their lives ran straight out their arses into the sewer like an enema. 

It was contagious too. Virulent. Like wildfire. An R-10!

No more young. No more old. No more people. Simple.

The leftovers got old and stank to high heaven in the sun. Aging meat. Wrinkled. Addled. Shuffling geriatric chimps staggering through the running becks of shite. 

Too old to work. To farm. To do naff all. And as their dentures chewed and chewed and chewed up the pantries, pretty quickly the food ran out too. 

The Corporation hunkered down. It wanted to wait it out. The civil servants and their families in classy underground bunkers.

But they didn't matter.

Only one family mattered.

The Chairman, his wives, his mistresses and his bevvy of daughters.

So the old Corporation's nefarious Chair; ravaged, senile, desperate and doddery but functioning, just, had another brilliantly malicious idea. 

He'd kidnap the most virile, super high sperm-rich testes out there to sire the heated wombs of his fecund daughters, their entitled labia pouting for some world class fry.

And the most virile man on the planet was ...

Pulsa! 

Everybody knew him from the movies; smutty flicks like All that Jizz, The Cock of the Class and Members Private Entrances.

But he was sick! He'd heard he was really sick! 

The Chairman cursed. 

But what about his zygotes? How were they?

That was the question taxing the Chairman's loathsome bonce, wringing his hands together, dreaming of Pulsa's pearly cargo fruiting his princesses and securing his family's gilded futures and total domination of the globe.

So a ruse began to form. A fictitious cure would be offered to Pulsa, for which he had to pay. A lot. After all, the Corporation wasn't cheap to run and the Chairman had expensive taste. That caviar wouldn't spread itself, now would it! 

There'd be a mess too. A big mess. Lots of tech and blades and slop and goo. That's a lot of cleaning. It all cost money.

Which Pulsa had in spades from his glorious gonads!

That's what the Chair really wanted, his incalculably high sperm burden just bursting to seed his girls.

Somehow, deep in his family shelter, he would have to keep Pulsa's bollocks in gloriously rude health for just enough time to harvest their crop, what the Chair delightedly called his Corporation Pop!

His resident scientist came up with the answer. Inject the porn star's testicles directly with masses of pure healthy blood and guts of the same type and they'll feel brand wanking new and ready to rumble!

The Chair spoke to the ailing porner.

"We will jab your nads with fresh healthy matter Pulsa. Then everywhere else. You'll be right as rain after that. But first we need to liquefy your family ...."

"Assets?" Finished Pulsa.

"Yes, assets. Of course!" Agreed the excited Chair, already glad he'd asked his daughters to dress lightly for the lab that morning.

Delirious, Pulsa was wheeled into the operating theatre, where he was forced to sign a contract.

That done, they began.

Sedated, his burgeoning bollocks were inspected by the nurse. 

They had to be in the shippest of shape before his dream topping could be farmed, his Corporation Pop.

Pulsa was strapped down tightly.

The massive foot-wide syringe contained a disgusting thick red gloop, which surged against the needle and struggled to inject.

But the burly nurse held Pulsa's sack like a bag of diamonds and pushed the plunger down hard with her thumb.

The Scarlet serum chugged into Pulsa's ample scrotum, which wobbled and throbbed as they flooded and swelled and grew as big as enormous turnips.

Suitably engorged and with a wink from the Chair, the nurse began to vigorously wank the porn star. 

Aroused by this hugely diligent hand job, Pulsa's turgid cock lengthened to a crowd-stopping size and unable to contain itself any longer, dramatically disgorged it's morass of steaming creamed bullion into a huge bucket strapped to it's pulsating bell-end.

Even in his sedated and sickly state, Pulsa sat up as he experienced an ejaculation like none other he'd ever enjoyed. It was a Tunguska-sized blast from his humongous smelters and he moaned like a lunatic as the nurse grunted like a pig milking his eye-watering load completely dry.

He fell back onto the steel gurney and lay like a depleted sack.

The grinning Chairman clutched the bucket of viscous gold and spoke gently to it.

"Oh! My Corporation Pop! My Chairman Pow! How my daughters will devour every last scrumptious pearly drop!"

Pulsa woke the next day to face the Chairman and the smiling nurse once more. At the side of the lab he noticed a row of excited women with their legs up high and a midwife, the turkey baster, standing by.

"Morning sleepyhead. Time for the next shot my boy! The Nurse will get you ready and I'll just liquify your Dad."

"What did you say?"

"Ah, yes, well, you signed a contract young man. I said I'd try to save you from the sickness but, well, I lied. I'm actually just saving your bollocks. To do that I had to liquefy your family!"

"You fuckin' what!" Cursed Pulsa heaving against his restraints.

" Yesterday we blended your Mum and all freshly squeezed, we pumped her directly into your marvellous testicles. The result was showstopping and so today we'll blend your Dad and get him nicely inside you for another magnificent gusher! OK?"

The Chair turned to his scientist in the corner and gave the thumbs up.

To his horror, Pulsa saw his Dad trapped in a massive glass cylinder. He was standing on a huge set of metal blades and banging on the sides frantically.

"Let me out Chairman! Pulsa, for God's sake get me out of here!"

"Don't do this, I beg you!" Pleaded Pulsa.

"I'm sorry, needs must and besides, look at my desperate daughters lead on their backs starving for your Michelin-rated baby gravy. You wouldn't want to disappoint them, now would you porn-king Pulsa?"

The prone ladies wriggled with excitement and yelled "Come, Come, Come!" Across the lab.

The Chair nodded.

The blender fired up.

His Dad was blitzed.

"Nooooooooooooooooooo!" Shrieked Pulsa.

"Don't worry, it'll soon be over, but rest assured that your nutritious pop will secure my daughters' futures, a glow-cheeked and world-straddling horizon of fertile quims spread open wide as far as your jizz can seed .......

So, yes, after your parents are done, the rest of the week it's your three brothers going in the blitzer and finally, Pulsa, just before we kill you, we'll pop you off with a nice family cock-tail of your  ...... 

gorgeous wife and beautiful infant sons!"