Chris was a man who dearly enjoyed his job and put his heart and soul into it every day. He was the face of Channel 8 News, the self proclaimed “most reliable news network in the city”. Every evening people saw his round, cherubic face on their televisions, listening to whatever it was he had to report. He was tall and built with an impressive bulk. The suits he wore stretched across his wide shoulders and hips. Though his frame could be intimidating, he had a friendly demeanor and face people felt comfortable to see on TV or in person. His skin was pale and smooth. A thin layer of ginger hair sat on his scalp. His eyes were a piercing blue that caught the gaze of anyone watching him.

More than just being a significant presence, Chris was an adept reporter. His voice was easy on the ears thanks to a smooth speaking tone. He could shift anyone’s mood based on how he spoke which was always appropriate to whatever he was reporting on. If it was a fun and cheery event like a parade or fundraiser, his voice was kind and cheery. If it was a dark and unfortunate event like a bad car accident, his voice was low and somber. People hung on his every word. When Chris spoke, people listened.

The personas he put on for the camera hardly reflected his true personality. He was more of an introverted man than people thought, but by no means was he a recluse. When he wasn’t at home catching up on TV, he was going on jogs through the city or at the gym, two habits he had picked up to get in shape. He didn’t like to admit it, but he wasn’t perfect. Motivation was hard to come by, which is why he considered hiring a trainer. Regardless of his shaky consistency, he had made progress since he started. The pounds were shaving off one by one, and jogging was getting easier.

He received an assignment one day to report on a mystery that had been vexing the city recently. On the outskirts of the suburbs where the landscape faded back into the forest, a house had appeared. It was a small, one story brick house that didn’t seem exceptional from anything else seen in the suburbs. It wasn’t connected to any road or neighborhood, it was far away from any other home, and nobody had ever seen anybody walk in or out of it. Most perplexingly, it seemed to have just appeared out of absolute nowhere. People who had lived in the nearest neighborhoods for decades had never seen it before They swore to have been to that spot in the past. The house looked relatively new, yet nobody had ever seen any construction going on in that area. It had no address to speak of, nor any owner. Rumors and theories abounded, but not a single person had any idea what it was, how it got there, and who lived in it.

It became Chris’s job to find out. He went out by himself with nothing more than a camera and the clothes on his back. He didn’t know what to think of the whole affair. Maybe it was some trick by a company to garner some publicity. There was probably nothing in the house. It might not have even been real. Chris figured that he would get there, find out the place was fake, and then break the hearts of every theorist by reporting the truth. Bland as that all sounded, the news for the past week had been painfully slow, which is why he accepted the task. He wasn’t a journalist or investigator, but he figured it couldn’t be that hard to just go up to the house and snap some photos. Whoever lived there, if there was anyone, couldn’t have been that ornery, he hoped.

He parked his car in a nearby lot and trekked his way into the woods. He was wearing gym shorts and a white t-shirt which bloated around his broad paunch. He had big black boots fit for hiking and a backpack that held his camera. He wore a black fedora with a white band, one that didn’t quite match the rest of his outfit, but made his scalp feel naked when it was absent. He had a GPS with the house’s coordinates logged into it. It was about a 20 minute hike before he would get there. He walked into the huddle of the trees where the hustle and constant thrum of the nearby city grew dull. The honk of cars faded out into the tweet of birds and snap of twigs beneath his feet. The colors around him were a welcome respite from the dull, concrete facades of the city and the strictly uniform suburbs. He wasn’t an outdoorsman, but within the sanctuary of trees hung so carefully with leaves of green he felt safe and welcome.

He trekked the forest for almost half an hour, holding on to his GPS and making sure that he was headed into the right direction. He made sure the battery was close to full, in case he got lost. Even if he did, he had a compass to help him get back to the city. Soon the edge of the GPS’s screen gave birth to the black dot which indicated the location of the house. He smiled at the screen, happy to finally be close. He picked up the pace, kicking out his long white legs with each step. He kept his eyes forward, ready to spot the first sign of the mystery house. He got it once he noticed sunlight pouring through gaps in the trees which lead into a clearing. It’s got to be there! he thought excitedly. He rushed into the clearing, and finally found what he was looking for.

The clearing in the trees wasn’t very big, but it was large enough for someone to build a house and have a yard. There, at the very edge of the woods, was a small, one story home. It had a brick facade and a steep, shingled roof. A single door painted green was at the very center of its face, flanked by two small windows covered on the inside by white drapes. Beneath each one was a flower box with red roses. A brick chimney was attached to the side, rising several feet above the roof. A pointed metal cap sat on top of it. A short white picket fence ran a box around the house. From its gate to the front door was a cobblestone walkway. There was no mailbox.

Chris slung his backpack off of one shoulder and quickly unzipped it. He reached inside and pulled out his camera, a small digital one. He turned it on quickly as if the house would suddenly grow wings and fly away like a startled pigeon. The screen blinked on, and he aimed down the viewfinder. He snapped a few pictures and looked at the results. They were hardly impressive. The house looked like something out of a quaint painting. The pictures were something he would’ve seen in a real estate magazine. He got closer. He noticed a small white sign that hung from a nail on the fence’s front gate. Printed on it were bold letters:

STAY OUT

Chris didn’t quite know what to think about it. The place looked abandoned, in spite of the pristine condition. There was no car to be seen, nor any signs of occupancy. It had a liminal feel to it all. A building so immaculate and cute should at least have a sign that someone lived there, yet he couldn’t see one. What was so worth guarding that it required a sign? He walked up to the gate. Looking at the bricks it was made of, he realized that they all looked too perfect to be a part of any normal house. The corners were as sharp as a knife with no signs of erosion. Nobody could make a house this orderly if they tried. This isn’t a house, he concluded. This is some sort of trick. He looked over the gate at its inside. There was no lock. He pulled it, and it opened without any resistance. The warning sign on the front swung out of his view. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, it seemed to say.

Unbothered, he stepped inside and closed the gate behind him. He snapped some more photos before walking up to the door. Everything looked real to him, including the flowers which were currently attracting a pair of honey bees. He touched the wall and felt dense, genuine brick. The door was metal, the knob was shiny brass. The more he looked, the more real everything seemed. Still, he could not shake that feeling of emptiness and eerie perfection. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He listened a few moments for any activity. Hearing none, he knocked again. Same result. He took a deep, impatient breath. There’s no way anybody lives here.

He saw the window to his right and leaned over to see if he could get a glimpse inside. The white curtains covered it pretty thoroughly, preventing even the smallest peek. He knocked again. Nothing. Having firmly decided that this “house” was a sham, he grabbed the knob and turned it. The door clicked open, much to his surprise. He cursed under his breath, and looked around. There was nobody to be seen, much to his relief. He opened the door a smidge and put his mouth to the crack. “Hello? Is anyone home? Don’t shoot, OK?” He heard nothing, not so much a creak or stir. Guess I’m into it now. He opened the door and got his first look inside.

The house’s interior was a total 180 from the outside. The facade was a semi-modern look, if a tad rustic thanks to its plain design and architecture. The inside was a throwback by several centuries. The place was entirely wooden, down to the floorboards and up to the ceiling. It reminded Chris of the inside of a shed. Nothing was modern or recent. There were no lights or switches. He looked inside of what appeared to be the living room, but that was merely conjecture. The only furniture was a single dining room table surrounded by four rotten looking chairs. The place reeked of mold and dry rot, making his nose crinkle. The air was tepid and chilly, much unlike the warm sunlit atmosphere just behind him. He had to lean back and take another look at the house’s facade again to confirm that it was the same building.

He called out again. “Hello? Is anyone home?” Nothing. He thought he would see a rat or a cockroach scurry across the floor, but there wasn’t so much as a soul in that house. He stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him. The living room led into the kitchen ahead of him where there was a cast iron oven. To the right, in front of an unoccupied rocking chair, was the fireplace. It was made of stone, not brick. A trio of neatly cut, unburnt logs sat on a cast iron stand. More of them were in a tall stack nearby along with some pokers. On the small ledge above the fireplace was an antique clock. It wasn’t ticking. The time read noon.

Chris felt the stagnant air cling to his skin like a wet blanket. He expected a chilly breeze to rush across his ankles and make his hair stand on ends, but the place was utterly dead. Common sense screamed at him to turn around and get back to the station. Tell everyone what he saw, and be done with it. But Chris was bigger than that, or so he convinced himself. He was sent there to investigate, and investigate he would. No reporter worth his weight in shit would just turn around and run. He walked in deeper. He snapped a picture of the fireplace. He looked at the photos on the wall. There weren’t any pictures of people, but a few landscapes and a small sketch of a tree. He snapped photos of them too.

He stepped into the kitchen. The oven was black cast iron, like the ones he saw in cartoons and in museums. He opened it up and found it empty other than a few racks and logs of wood. It looked totally clean. He closed it and moved on. He took pictures of everything: the cabinets, the decorations, the floor, the ceiling, and the doors to other rooms. The place was fascinating, if barren of anything super interesting. Who made this place? Why? What purpose did it serve? There wasn’t a single sign of it ever being lived in. Who would make a place that looked like this and just leave it empty?

He spotted the clock above the fireplace. He walked up to get a closer look. It was a wooden antique with a glass covered face. The rim was gold or brass. The hands were black and the numbers were roman numerals. It stayed at noon or midnight. I guess it’s right twice a day, Chris thought. He unlocked the clasp holding the glass cover closed and opened it. It creaked loudly, tearing the silence apart and making his spine shiver. He touched the minute hand, still stuck at XII. It was cold to the touch. He tried pushing it, but it wouldn’t budge. “Hmm…” he pondered. He picked the clock up. It was nice and heavy; the wood it was made out of was firm and smooth. He looked around every corner, failing to find any opening or latch. He came back to the face and scowled thoughtfully. How the hell does this thing work? He tried pushing the minute hand again. It stayed there stubbornly. He tried negotiating with the hour hand. It refused to abandon its sibling. Chris sighed and grabbed the minute hand with two fingers. He pulled, pulled, and pulled. It wasn’t going anywhere. “Come on man,” he whispered. He double checked for a latch or opening but still couldn’t find anything. He tried moving the hands one more time. He pushed so hard that his hands shook. His lips curled into a snarl. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” Criiiiick! In one sharp jerk, the minute hand squealed over several degrees, landing at the 12 minute mark. 

Any satisfaction he may have felt over this minor accomplishment died the moment he heard the front door slam.

He jumped about a mile. His heart nearly burst while frothy ice water bled down into his feet. He saw the closed front door. He heard it lock. Instantly following it was a sweeping chill that blew across the living room like an AC being turned on. The house came alive. The dust on the floor swept around his boots. The curtains on the windows shimmered. The fetid cold was replaced by a hospitable warmth. The clock in his hand started ticking as if it had never been turned off.

He felt an electric shiver start around his lower back and crawl up his spine like a horde of spiders headed for his shoulders. The air trapped in his lungs. His heart plummeted like an elevator cut from its cable. He turned around slowly, and finally met the owner of that household. She was a woman, standing not far away, looking at him with the faintest of smiles. She wore a long white gown that spread across the floor around her feet. Her skin was pale, free of any blemishes or wrinkles. The eyes she stared at Chris with were devoid of color, harboring nothing but flat black disks where her irises should’ve been. Her hair was black and long, hanging all the way down to her waist. She was totally motionless. Only the gown she wore moved as the air breezed around it.

Chris’s mouth was dry. The muscles in his jaw and throat felt paralyzed. He felt like a zebra being stared down by a lion, locking him in place with every avenue to escape, but completely unable to. His lip twitched, ready to deliver an apology, or to beg for mercy, but all that came out was a pathetic whimper.

She spoke for him. “You shouldn’t have done that.” She lifted her arm out at him. Her hand was thin and bony, webbed by thick, blue veins. Her nails were long and cracked. On the roots of her fingers were several shiny, bedazzling rings. She snapped her finger once. Just like that, Chris felt his entire body go heavy. His eyelids fluttered. The room grew fuzzy. He nodded once, twice, then saw the floor rocket up towards him just before everything turned black.

*	*	*

Chris woke up with a sharp gasp. Consciousness fell back on him like an anvil, tearing him from the void. He shot upright and looked down at himself. He was naked except for a pair of sweaty tighty-whities around his waist. He patted his belly and legs frantically. He wiggled his toes and clenched his hands into fists. Looked at his palm, then frantically touched it across his face and head. Everything was there. There were no cuts or bruises. He was alive and unhurt.

He was in his own bed back at home. He looked around to see if everything was normal. There was his TV, his nightstand, the door to his bathroom, and his computer on its desk. Everything was in order and nothing was missing. That was a relief, but the panic did not settle in his heart. How did I get back here? Did she teleport me here? He looked out the window and saw how dim it was outside. He looked at his alarm clock. It was 7:01AM. He had woken up exactly when he normally did. That couldn’t have been a coincidence.

He scooted to the edge of the bed and hung his head in his hand. He took some deep breaths and tried to relax. You’re alive. You’re alive. Everything’s OK. Who was that woman? How did she get there? What was that house? How did she knock him out like that? How did she get him back? Why the hell did she take his clothes off and put him in a pair of briefs he had never worn before? So many questions toiled through his mind. Each one went unanswered. As his forehead rested on his palm, he noticed something on his wrist. He took his hand off of his face and saw a black watch on it. It was a cheap digital one, the kind someone could get at Wal-Mart for less than ten bucks. Much like the briefs, he’d never seen it before in his life.

The time on it changed to 7:02. Shit. I gotta get ready for work. Normally he would be getting ready for his morning jog, but yesterday’s (if all of that had even happened the day before. He could’ve been asleep for a whole week for all he knew) excitement didn’t have him in the mood. He stood up and felt a tug on his crotch. He looked down and saw his penis was erect, jutting angrily against the thin fabric of his underwear. He realized how tight they were on him, hugging his waist and manhood like a latex glove. They were soaked with what he thought was sweat, rendering them translucent. He could see the veins running through his penis as well as the pink helmet of his glans.

Chris was a bashful man, but his reproductive organs were anything but. His cock swelled his underwear to an enviable degree, looking ready to tear through the fabric at any moment. Fat and arrogant, it was a great source of pride as well as a terrible nuisance whenever it was erect, which it was to an uncomfortable degree at the moment. Just as ludicrous were his balls which hung at the hilt of his giant cock like a pair of ripe, juicy fruit. All of it felt terribly heavy and burdensome. This wasn’t just morning wood, but a severe horniness that was like an ache. It wasn’t his usual routine, but he had to take care of it fast before he got ready.

He grabbed the waistband of his underwear to pull them down. He stopped once his fingers touched the warm, wet fabric. He frowned and pulled his hands up. Whatever they were wet with, it wasn’t sweat. He lifted his fingers to his nose and gave a small whiff. Oh God… That’s not sweat. That’s… He took a closer look at where the underwear was wet and see-through. It was that way across the entire front side, around where his cock was. It stopped around the side of his hip. His butt was totally dry. He recognized that acrid, coppery smell. Leaking from the head of his cock and permeating through the white fabric was a thickish slosh of precum. He cringed with disgust. How long has this been on me like this?

He reached down and stuck his thumbs into his waistband. Or at least he tried to. His thumbnails slid past it down into the fabric like there was no gap whatsoever. He tried again, only to slip his thumb past it. He frowned. He tried pinching the band and peeling it off. He only succeeded in pinching some of his own flesh along the way. It wasn’t coming off. He tried sliding his finger into the bottom of the underwear where it was wrapped around his thigh. Again, it remained plastered there as though it were just a part of him as his skin. “What the fuck?” he hissed. The first echoes of panic were settling in. He pinched at every spot that he could reach. He tried both sides, where it was drenched in precum and where it was dry. It held fast. It was like trying to peel the inside of a vacuum sealed sandwich bag apart.

“No. No, no, no, no, no!” He scraped his fingernails up his thighs in desperation. He grabbed, shifted, pulled, and tore  every which way. Nothing was working. They were there for good. The thought of cutting them off with some scissors or a knife passed his mind, but the proximity of his jewels quickly wrote that off. He gave up eventually, wondering with a severe level of anxiety if he would be trapped in them for eternity. It was no mystery that this was the witch’s work. He could still feel his cock throb and pulse within that soggy prison, begging for his attention. An invisible vice had clamped down around his scrotum. “Fuck…” He couldn’t go outside like this. He had to do something about it.

He grabbed his penis which spat out another glob of precum. He could feel the beat of his heart inside of it, as well as in his balls. He ran his palm across its length, earning a small bite of pleasure. It was going to be awkward, but it would work. He rubbed his hand across his shaft, huffing and puffing while a sweat broke out across his forehead. The impending release was fast coming, building up like an ill-attended boiler. More and more of his fluids came bleeding out of his dick, draining down his hip and across his sack. He closed his eyes. His mouth hung open into an O. “Ah…” He was about to cum. He stroked faster and harder, ready to blow off some steam. The boiler, orange hot, was ready to open its whistle and relinquish the pressure. He breathed harder. His hand squeezed hard on his cock, just under the glans. The pleasure built, and built, and built. “Huhhh… Huhhhh… Huhh-!”

STOP!

Chris’s eyes flew open. His hand swung up into the air over his head like a student ready to give the teacher his answer. Just as he was on the final push towards that glorious summit, a shock went through his mind and pulled his arm away, sending him tumbling back down the slope. His cock throbbed angrily. His balls became lead. The boiler inside of him hissed and screeched, rivets popping at the seams. He looked down at his swollen package, then up at his hand, still high above his head. “Wha..?”

His arm lowered itself down, albeit without his control. He was afraid that, at any moment, it would strike out at him, either at his face or down at his nuts. Instead it placidly came down next to him, returning to his command. What happened? He had been on the edge of an orgasm that was sure to knock him out. He was pulled away from it like a calf ready to be hogtied. “No… Oh God, no…” The underwear wasn’t the only part of the curse, it seemed. As long as it was on him, he was going to be too horny too bare, and there wasn’t a thing that he could do about it.

He caught his breath. OK, calm down. There’s got to be someone I can talk to. But who? He lived alone, and there were hardly any friends he could’ve trusted with this kind of information. For now he could just take a shower and hope most of the precum washed off. That way he could-

TIME TO RUN!

Chris jumped up from the edge of the bed and onto his feet. He felt his legs pump beneath him and carry him out of the bedroom and into the living room. He was headed straight for the front door. Raw terror crushed his sternum like a hatchet. “No! N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no!” He watched powerlessly as his own arm reached for the knob and opened it. He stepped out into the freshly lit morning and closed the door behind him. He hopped down the front porch steps as casually as he would any morning. Meanwhile, a look of confusion and anguish was written on his face. Am I going on my morning run? That became apparent once his legs kicked him into a slow jog. His arms pumped along too, bringing him into a steady pace. Up the driveway he went, barefooted and barechested, his giant cock thrusted up against his underwear for anyone to see. He went left down the neighborhood road on the left side, passing by his neighbors’ houses. It was still early. Mostly everyone was still asleep. That wouldn’t help him once he hit the park, where all of the joggers and fitness junkies gathered to do their morning workouts. He cursed and wept to himself along the way. It was like an out of body experience in the most literal sense, except he could feel everything clearly. The asphalt scraped on his bare soles. He could feel his leg muscles strain to move him forward. The air cooled against his wet, slimy cock, still erect as ever. 

A car drove up behind him. He looked over to see a woman with her face pressed up against the window, smiling with her phone aimed at him. He blushed hard and looked away, feeling the first wrench of shame grab at his heart. The woman recorded or snapped photos for only a moment or two before she noticed his penis thrusted out against his translucent underwear. Her smile crumpled into a disgusted sneer and she zoomed off. Chris knew that was only the beginning. More cars drove by. He saw people laugh, he saw people  blanch, and he saw people try to ignore him. On one occasion he was honked at, followed by a mocking “Yeeeeaaaaaah! Show it off, buddy!” from out the window. He tried to keep his blood-red face hidden as best he could.

He rounded a corner and saw the park. Oh God. Please don’t be too busy. He came closer and got a better view through the trees surrounding it. It wasn’t packed, but neither was it empty. A few dozen people were running there, their headphone cords bouncing with them. A small squad of college football players were warming up in the center, ready to run some drills. What they were doing up so early was beyond Chris, but he cursed them for it.

He turned into the park and ran along one of its paths. He was noticed instantly. It wasn’t abnormal to see a runner in only his shorts, but tighty whities was a whole different monster. When he passed some of them they would keep their distance, grimacing as they eyed his raging boner. Some would snort and laugh, then quickly run the other direction once they saw him coming his way. The look of humiliation on his face resembled agony. He wished someone would just shoot him right then and there. 

The football players were all watching him, having totally forgotten about their drills. They nudged and chuckled to each other, cracking jokes about the poor guy. Though none of them would admit it, they were all jealous of his endowment. So were many of the men fortunate/unfortunate enough to be out that morning. Chris crossed over into a pathway that ran right by the players. “Oh shit, here he comes!” one of them said.

“Shh,” hushed one of them. He was grinning mischievously. He walked up to the edge of the pathway where he would only be a few feet away from Chris and his enormous dick. Chris saw him and his smile, and braced for whatever he was about to do or say. “Hey, nice clothes, asshole. Why don’t you do a report on how fucking perverted you are?” That got a few cackles out of his buddies. Chris kept silent and just kept jogging. He knew that nothing he could’ve said would’ve made himself look better.

By the merciful grace of God, he jogged out of the park and back towards his house. It was some small grace that Chris had only recently begun jogging, thus his run distance was brief. Then again, if he had never started at all, this wouldn’t have happened. More cars passed him. More looks of derision, shock, and humor came with them. His house never looked more beautiful before the moment he saw it breach over the side of his neighbor’s. For a terrifying moment he thought he would simply run past his driveway and do it all again. Fortunately he turned right past his mailbox and jogged up to the front door. Not once had he stopped to take a break and catch his breath. All things considered, it was a pretty good run, but at what cost?