E1R2 was particularly virulent, striking its victims without any warning and spreading through communities faster than a wildfire. On a positive note, the influenza had no mortality rate whatsoever, even as the numbers of infected grew from year-to-year. At worst it was cripplingly incapacitating, making sure that those struck down with the bug were unable to interact with anyone for the better part of a month.

On a fine Spring morning, just as light broke over the horizon, Kiba stirred underneath his blanket. The incoming daylight pounded upon his masked face, forcing the raccoon to slowly emerge from his pleasant dream. Yet another night of dalliances with latex goods and transformative creatures etched a smile across his rugged raccoon muzzle, licking his chops at the prospective end of one of his fantasies. These dreams always got him going in the morning, so to speak, and today was like any other day. He could feel himself almost rising to attention, the blood pooling amongst his groin as his muscle fattened out in the throngs of desire.

It was only when Kiba reached down under the covers to grip along what would likely be the hardiest morning wood he had contracted in ages did he realize that there was nothing in particular to grip. No matter, he first thought, he would get there eventually with a bit of additional stimulation. His mind was already in the mood and a bit of coaxing never hurt.

Contrary to his belief, though, when his fingertips danced along his fuzzy gray sheath in their typical fashion, it didn’t help his shaft spring out at all. Rather than burst forth like spring-loaded snakes in a mischievous can of fake nuts, he could faintly make out the fact that he was practically standing at attention, only within the depth of his sheath. The young raccoon cried out into the air and jumped upward with a start, throwing his comforter off of him as he examined the situation. For all intents and purposes he was as hard as a rock, but all he could see was his puffier-than-usual sheath, drooling out precum at a particularly alarming rate. In fact, it was nearly seeping out, trickling down the sides of his protective covering along a dozen different readily-flowing streams as it coated his balls in a glistening sheen.

Daring to touch his cover once more for inspection’s sake, the ringtail nearly doubled-over in bliss. Any impression he made upon his sheath, even if it was the lightest of touches, was as if he was plunging his thick meat into the tightest of holes, along with exceptional suction to match. Further, every inch of his trapped cock within his sheath was being massaged to no end. It was as if the insides of his cover had grown microscopic ridges, studiously rubbing along his equine schlong its prominent medial ring, and majestic flare. Before long his entire body was tensing up as he laid back down to jut his spine into his soft mattress. His slate-colored hips thrust in to the air in exasperation, trying to prevent what was sure to be a massive flood of cum all over his bed.

Sadly, his efforts were for naught. Five minutes of fruitless heaving and tossing about still resulted in a gusher of an orgasm. Strangely, his dick still had yet to emerge in the slightest, yet the view was spectacular. His cream shot upwards out of his sheath like Old Faithful, spraying nearly three feet into the air and landing anywhere it damned well please along himself and the rest of his bed. His balls strained at the copious amounts he was firing off, as if they were being sucked dry as the monumental gusher kept rushing around the room. His seed splattered all along the headboard behind him, the window across the room, and absolutely caked his partially-open dresser, ruining the freshly laundered clothes he had put away just last night. By the time he could open his eyes from his post-coital bliss, his ordinarily pristine room look as if a child had attempted a hammer throw with an open can of gloppy white paint, leaving the room in Pollack-esque sexual splendor.

And yet, rather than relief, the euphoric afterglow which enveloped Kiba gave way to another new sensation. Rather than his sheath feeling as if its innards were lined with ribs like a comfortable onahole, now it felt as if he was pole-deep in the softest latex in his life. Only when it began to tug and suck along his length like the maw of a talented prostitute did he realize his plight.

Kiba was not only infected with E1R2, but he was at a pivotal stage in some of the key symptoms. If he was lucky enough, depending upon the strain, he could at least lessen the effects he would have throughout the flu’s duration. He would have to act fast, and while he still had control of his own mind he rushed his fingers around the tip of his sheath, praying he could pry it apart enough so he could free his staff.

As his fingers gripped around the vice-tight grip of his opening, he could have sworn he saw fireworks explode in his vision. Just brushing along his sheath before was utterly orgasmic; by now it was almost on a transcendent level, as if he was having an out-of-body experience while every single nerve in his body was awash in sheer ejaculatory heaven. Still, he couldn’t give up, and his black-furred paws held on for dear life as his sheath started to fatten up. 

Its width grew every minute, adding on an impressive quarter of an inch in girth to its diameter. If this kept up not only would his dick be trapped within his own sheath, acting not only like a silicone sex tube but akin to a dozen different toys for the better part of the next four weeks, but it would only get bigger, wider, and more pronounced. At that point he would be driven to sheer and utter lust, doing anything he felt would drive him to cum near-constantly,, a thrall of his own hefty erection.

With a gigantic gasp, Kiba flung his sheath’s hole wide open as his onyx-furred fingers graced the tip of his flare. His entire lithe frame was shot backward as if he was in a car crash, his back leaving a massive crack as a reminder of this orgasm, which could practically be picked up on the Richter scale. The raccoon’s entire body convulsed as the seed shot in a continuous, ropey stream across the room, shattering the base of his chair and soaking his desk in so much seed that it would be a miracle if his TV or game consoles would ever work properly again. 

In the moment, however, Kiba couldn’t care less about other entertainment. As desperately as he wanted to cum less, preferably not at all at this point, it was already too late. With his wall-pounding orgasm still shooting across the room, it wound up freeing his cock from his own comfy enclosure. Rather than being the usual foot-and-a-half-long spire of glittery equine girth, it was now nearly five-feet long, one foot-wide and flopped onto the bed and carpet in front of him. It sagged his mattress down towards the floor something fierce, and its heft easily kept him pinned in place against the back of his bed, practically up to the wall. His balls beneath this leviathan of cocktacular proportions remained the same tangerine size they always were, but they churned as if they housed a tempest in each nut, all storm and fury just waiting to be unleashed.

For all his luck, Kiba had landed on the exceedingly rare cusp between cases of E1R2, at least in terms of severity. He was just shy of being late in freeing himself from his sheath, so he would potentially have the worst symptoms of all (or, in some nymphomaniac’s cases, the best time of their lives). Tears started to well up in his eyes as he realized his predicament.

The next three to five weeks would involve his dick remaining in its engorged state. All of his other biological needs would be unnecessary as it temporarily adjusts to surviving off of its never-ending protein production and eruption, nearly every minute without fail. He would be infectious beyond belief for the first week and a half, causing the virus to incubate in others for about a day or so before they come down with the very same symptoms themselves, practically forcing him to be nothing more than a massive raccoon spooge machine all on his lonesome. 

Further, every single nerve and receptor along his tumescent rod would have its sensitivity dialed up to eleven. Kiba’s own cream splashing against it would feel as if his schlong was sponge-bathed by a thousand doting hands at once, gently grinding away into his sensitive flesh. Rubbing along his bed would feel as good as being plunged into the slickest, most plush hole he had ever felt in his entire life. Every sensation would only continue to grow until it would slowly fade away, possibly over the course of the last several hundred milky blasts he would fire off within his last few days.

With all of that in mind, and with Kiba slowly giving into the fact that he was just a plaything to the microscopic cells that infected him in the first place, the raccoon slid into complacency. It didn’t matter how strong he was whatsoever at this point. His body was practically on loan, and at least he was going to be repaid, quite literally, tens of thousands of times over for his effort for the better part of a month.  His slowly shut his eyes right before his third orgasm, not even seeing the tidal wave proportions of his own blazing seed as it splashed back from across the room, ricocheting off of the walls and careening back in his direction.

Maybe the month wouldn’t be so bad after all.