It had been an swap poker evening with the guys. I wake in the morning in a panic, convinced there’s a snake under the sheets draped over my leg. I grin in recollection as I see the thick, long cock hanging down to my knees, recalling the events of last night when my friends had gambled their manhoods against my straight flush. My body is like a greek statue, the pooled masculinity of five men in one. I’d always been weedy but now I look as though somebody inflated me with a bicycle pump overnight, powerful swollen muscles bunching and bulging under the tight skin with each movement. I flex a bicep and run a hand over the chiseled abdominals half-buried under a luxurious mat of chest hair.

The other side of the bed is still warm. Drunken fragments of memories drift back. I recall ravaging a moaning female form into the early hours, licking whisky off her tits, though her face eludes me.

I step into the kitchen, python-cock swinging freely like a pendulum between my legs. The guys are making coffee. The hangovers have hit their dainty little forms hard. I study them in turn, trying to determine which of them shared my bed last night, though they’re all avoiding my gaze intently. It doesn’t matter. What happens at poker night, stays at poker night.

“Good night,” I say in satisfaction. The swap poker is still laid out on the table, a mound of chips at my end of the table. “One of you cuties make me a coffee.”

“Actually we were thinking you’d give us back our dicks so we can get home to our girlfriends,” says Simon.

“I don’t remember much but I remember we were playing for keeps.”

“That’s low, dude,” Simon hisses.

“I’ll do you an offer. We play again. If one of you beats me, I’ll return all your manhoods.”

“Cocky much?” Simon replies.

“You should know, it’s your cock. But if you lose, you do everything I tell you to for a week.”

Once I knock Mark out, I have him come sit on my knee. The monster cock is too large to avoid, especially as it starts to throb and swell in response to the pressure of his full ass. It is soon erect and pressing eagerly against him.

A few more hands and Paul loses his last chip, and joins his brother on my knee. I place my cards down for a second to caress their asses, commanding them to kiss. As they begrudgingly trade saliva, I stare my opponents down. The sight of the two trophies perched on my knee and the thought of what awaits them if they lose is enough to throw the guys off their game.

Another hand claims Nathan. I have him on his knees, his warm, wet mouth pleasuring as much of the cock as he can choke down his throat. I relish watching Simon’s concentration falter, the look of rising panic every time the wet, gagging noises can be heard beneath the table.

"Worried?" I smirk.

"Nice try, dude. My poker face doesn't break that easy."

I sit back, one hand drifting below the table to coax Natalie's head deeper. "Nathan was confident too. Now his poker face looks great around my cock. So will yours. You'll break alright. Or you can always fold. Give in. Become my slave,” I croon. I feel the wet arousal of the girls against my legs. Strip poker has hoovered every last testosterone molecule out of them and into me - utterly feminized, they can't help but be magnetically drawn to the deep, hypermasculine rumble. I know Simon is feeling it too. He shudders and lays out his cards with a look of righteous victory.

“Full house, asshole” he gloats.

I lay out my cards. His look of victory turns to horror. “Four queens. Four of a kind. Looks like I’ve got the set.”